Monday, August 26, 2013
Please join Marsha Casper Cook on August 27 at PM PST 7PM MT 8PM CST 9 PM EST for a very special show when she welcomes the InDivas. The InDivas are a group of wonderful writers who believe in sharing and helping other authors market their work. They are hard working and very good authors.
Join in and have fun with Kelly Abelle, Mary Ting, Margaret Taylor, Jennifer Miller, Laura Hidalgo, Alexandrea Weis, Angela Corbett and M.r. Polish. It's going to be a great show. Melissa Keir will open up the chat room and help as a live chat goes on # world of ink network chat.
We will take calls 714-242 -5259
We will be having a special segment on Marketing by Rick Polson. he will be on at the beginning of the show. Making A Superstar Company - Rick Polson
for more info
Please join Marsha Casper Cook on August 27 at PM PST 7PM MT 8PM CST 9 PM EST for a very special show when she welcomes the InDivas. The InDivas are a group of wonderful writers who believe in sharing and helping other authors market their work. They are hard working and very good authors. Join in and have fun with Kelly Abelle, Mary Ting, Margaret Taylor, Jennifer Miller, Laura Hidalgo, Alexandrea Weis, Angela Corbett and M.r. Polish It's going to be a great show. Melissa Keir will open up the chat room and help as a live chat goes on # world of ink network chat. We will take calls 714-242 -5259 We will be having a special segment on Marketing by Rick Polson. he will be on at the beginning of the show. Making A Superstar Company - Rick Polson for more info http://www.worldofinknetwork.com http://www/michiganavenuemedia.com
By E. A. Black
Lara and her brother Nate are clearing out their father's house following his death. The house is a Victorian eyesore that backs up to Strangeman's Swamp, a five-mile pit of reeking desolation on the island of Caleb's Woe, just off the northeast coast of Massachusetts. The Oily is the wettest, most desolate marsh in Strangeman's Swamp. Animals wandered in there and were never seen again. A child name Scotty Shaw had gone missing and presumably ended up in the Oily. Lara had been babysitting him when he wandered off. She was wracked with guilt over his disappearance, which brings us to this scene. Lara goes to the second floor of her father's house to gather furniture to take home.
Lara climbed the steep staircase until she reached the second floor. Four bedrooms stood on the right side of a narrow hallway. The tapping of her shoes echoed on the wooden floor. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and the second floor as quickly as possible. Clear out that dresser, roll up the rug, and get the hell downstairs as fast as you can.
As she passed her old bedroom, she thought she heard a sigh from behind the closed door.
She stopped dead in her tracks, listening, her heart thumping so hard it hurt.
She heard nothing.
She turned the doorknob and opened the door. The hinges creaked so loudly she jumped as she stepped into the room. Stop being so skittish! There’s nothing to be afraid of.
Believe that if you wish, Lara. You know you have good reason to be afraid.
Dirty lace curtains that had once been white hung from the windows like loose flesh. Sunlight illuminated clouds of dust motes floating about the room. Stale air hung around her, a dirty blanket covering a quaking child. Memories lurked in the shadows, on the walls, and in the floorboards; painful snippets of times past.
Storm clouds roiled in the distance, casting shadows on Strangeman’s Swamp. Wind blew strong and hard, tossing the tree branches that danced a frenzied tango. Gnarled branch arms reached into the afternoon sky, grasping at ravens that steered clear in fear. As the sun hid behind cloud skirts, shadows lurked in the underbrush, off in The Oily. Lara raised the window to let out the stale air and a gush of marsh wind blew into the room, rustling the dirty curtains. Dust billowed around her, making her sneeze.
She leaned against the windowsill and stared out into the dank afternoon, watching Strangeman’s Swamp, as if demons lurked in the bramble far below.
No demons lived in Strangeman’s Swamp, though. No ghosts, either. Only creatures born of rock and wood, sticker bushes, vines choking the life out of trees, mud, water and wild flowering shrubs. Nothing human lived in Strangeman’s Swamp, or The Oily. Whatever lurked there felt nothing for humanity, and only wanted to end mankind’s encroachment in its territory.
Lights flashed in the distance. What were cars doing on the road so close to the swamp? Especially during a thunderstorm?
Then she remembered that no road ran along the swamp’s edge.
Lights blinked on and off like fireflies, but she'd never seen fireflies on Caleb’s Woe. She watched the glowing pinpricks and wondered what they were. Will o’ the wisp? Saint Elmo’s fire? Swamp gas? Phosphorescence?
They migrated from the edges of the swamp to meet in the center, circling each other like ravens fighting over a carcass. They danced and twirled, some only inches above the muddy waters and others high in the trees. They met in the center of the swamp. Once they reached The Oily they stopped moving.
Then they began to creep towards the house.
Lara stood riveted to the window, unable to move. Dread coiled at the base of her spine, whispering to her in a voice harsh with terror. She could only watch the spectacle taking place below, wondering what intelligence moved those lights in en mass like a swarm of angry bees.
The lights floated on the breeze until they disappeared beneath the covered porch. Lara waited until the glow from below crept up the screen. Heart thumping and mouth dry with fear, she froze to her spot, unable to lower the window despite her desperate urge to slam it down. Knowing something horrible was about to happen, eyes wide and unblinking, she stared out the window at the growing glow, waiting. Fetid air hung around her, smelling of low tide and dead fish. The stink clung to her skin, was absorbed into her pores. In disgust, she scratched her arms to scrape it off, but its grip only tightened.
The wizened hand that crept up the screen shriveled in a dirty, tattered sleeve. Fingers crawled along the screen like a gnarled pale spider, seeking entrance. Mesmerized, Lara could only watch as the hand felt along the edges of the window, long ragged nails picking at the wood to break through.
Below the arm was a small body, capped with a head full of matted brown hair. Mud clung to the tresses and caked on the shoulders. The body of the boy gripped the side of the house, clinging like a spider on a wall. Spiders terrified Lara. Those hairy limbs and those eyes…
The boy lifted his head. When Lara saw the face she recoiled in horror, backing up enough so that if it reached that arm through the screen it wouldn't touch her. Scotty Shaw’s skin was shrunken against his skull. A hole gaped where the nose should have been. His mouth was contorted into a gruesome frown devoid of tongue and teeth, a gaping maw of cracked, blue lips. The anguish in that battered face tore at her heart.
‘'m sorry… I’m so sorry I left you alone up here when I was busy downstairs making out with my boyfriend…
Worst of all were his eyes. Where Scotty Shaw’s blue eyes should have been there were only two gaping sockets, seeing nothing yet watching her intently, blaming her for not catching him sneaking out the window on the night he disappeared. Mud tears poured from those sockets, to fall down high jutting cheekbones.
Lara fled from her room, not once looking back as Scotty Shaw picked his way past the window frame and into the room. She ran outside through the hot afternoon haze, not knowing her brother stood in the cellar beneath the house, battling his own nightmare.
To Purchase Book
By Charles Day
THE LATE NIGHT DRIVE
Rain hammered the mountainous regions of the Northern Adirondacks. Howling wind caught many of the crisp leaves which fell from thousands of trees, their naked branches reaching up to the dark sky like extended arms with hundreds of small fingers, a sign that autumn’s sweep through the forest was in full force. This dangerous combination of wind, rain, and wet leaves set the stage for treacherous road conditions just waiting to wreak havoc on unsuspecting drivers. That didn’t stop the dark blue BMW from racing up the mountainous roads to the Moose Hill Psychiatric Hospital. A young and anxious Dr. Steve Evan’s white knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel. The Child Psychiatrist knew he needed to be ever so careful not to go into a spin and wind up in a ditch ten feet below.
He slowed the car, not only in hopes he’d reach his destination alive, that was a given, but to personally extend his gratitude to his college friend and fellow psychiatrist for waking him before the birds had a chance to open their eyes and start chirping. Why the hell did he prefer not to discuss his situation on the phone? Instead, Dr. Marty Johnson needed him to come to the hospital and physically see the patient in question right away.
“Something has gone terribly wrong.” Dr. Johnson yelled into the phone. “I need you to spend some time with this patient, you know, get into his head. You’re the only one I trust. I’d rather not discuss this over the phone. Can you come up later this morning?” Tension streamed from his friend’s voice, a clear indicator that perhaps there was some truth to this urgency. “I know it takes a bit to get up here and all, that’s why I’m calling you so early.”
Although annoyed by the disruption of a normal late night routine, sleep, Steve agreed to go. Of course he would much rather roll over in bed and catch a few more hours of counting sheep. Nevertheless, it was his college buddy on the other end of the line, the same friend who helped Steve out of a few close calls during their college years together, those last minute study sessions before final exams, and the date Marty set up for him when he thought he’d be going to the college dance solo. Of course it did sound like Marty was in some kind of trouble, so out he ventured into the pouring rain, disgruntled, a bit wet, but willing nonetheless. Why had Marty used all the dramatics over the phone for this patient though? There had to be something else, something beyond the scope of this patient’s mental illness.
Steve’s thoughts continued to wander while pressing the button on the radio, all the while hoping to get a station with an updated storm warning for the Adirondack region. After a few attempts, it finally hit a frequency that wasn’t playing hillbilly country tunes. The weatherman cut in, informing all listeners to watch out for heavy winds and torrential downpours. Steve imagined he’d see Noah and his boat floating by soon, steering his Ark, gathering two of every creature, for Gods’ wrath is upon us once again - Steve started to laugh until his cell phone began to ring.
He’d set the ringer to the 1969 classic Spiderman cartoon song , a true fan since childhood, “Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a Spidey can, spins a web any size….”
“Hello, hello …Marty? It’s hard to hear you, you’re breaking up.” Steve continued to hold the cell to his ear and tried to catch a word or two through all the noise, while trying to concentrate on the road ahead. The call then dropped. He hit redial.
Much of the roads up in the Adirondacks were constructed like the shape of a slithering snake, forcing Steve to turn the wheel left and then right. He didn’t want a tire to catch hold of the edge. A rock filled ravine that caught rain water as it drained off the pavement, sending it trickling down the mountain into a passing stream.
Steve concentrated on the road and knew if he ventured off the side and down the mountain, he’d be screaming Hail Mary, Full of Grace as his car hit those huge trees along the way, bouncing off each one like a ball in a pinball machine.
His knuckles turned white while squeezing the steering wheel. He could visualize himself screaming and pounding on the side door as his car continued down some dark, black emptiness.
He still heard the crackling coming from his cell but at least it was ringing. This phone couldn’t get a clear signal tonight if I were holding on to its signal tower at the highest point with one hand, and waved my freaking cell phone in the other.
Suddenly, Steve stomped hard on the brakes as a tree limb crossed his path. His immediate reaction was to swerve out of the way, but the large branches made contact with the side of the car as he tried to do so, scraping against its gloss blue paint. A loud piercing noise, like the sound of fingernails scratching a chalkboard, shot straight up his spine. He tugged at the steering wheel, the tires gripping the road best they could before bringing the car back into a straight and forward position. Glass shattered to his left. From the corner of his eye, he caught the broken side view mirror. One of the larger branches had smacked it hard.
Now agitated by the sudden shock, Steve felt ready to lose his patience. When he looked at his cell, the call had ended. Cell phones never work when you want them to. It’s just unfu…
Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever…“Steve, it’s me, Marty,” a mumbling voice now getting clearer, more pronounced.
“Can you hear me now? Hello!”
“Yes, much clearer this time. Maybe one of the cell phone towers up here in the mountains received a direct hit by lightning in this crazy storm. You think?” He’d hoped his sarcasm gave Marty the impression he was pissed about venturing out this late and in a storm.
There was a pause for just a second before his friend replied. “Yeah okay… sure. Are you close enough to the facility, so I can meet you by the gate? I’ll wait in the Security booth. I don’t want to get soaked in this storm, you know?”
Go on ahead and wait at the gate. I hope you forgot your umbrella, because you deserve a good soaking for making me come out tonight. He held this thought and instead responded to Marty more civilized, “Yeah, give me another ten minutes. I’m almost there.”
HIDDEN THOUGHTS PRESS
(719) 209-8704 (Mon-Fri 9AM-11AM MST)
46 Gull Dip Road
Ridge, New York 11961
(719) 209-8704 (Mon-Fri 9AM-11AM MST)
46 Gull Dip Road
Ridge, New York 11961