The “Wow” Factor

The “Wow” Factor

As entertainment goes, there is a level one must ascend to reach to bring an audience. No matter the genre of the book, no matter the genre of the movie, the writer must bring something to the table that is different or fresh. This is no easy task, to say the least.

I have been given the ability to predict the outcome of any book or movie. I know I’m not the only person with this ability, and I’m sure most can predict at an earlier time, but the fact is, this ability is a curse. I want to be “wow”ed, I want to put the book down immediately to attempt to comprehend the turn of events, and I want to leave the theater saying, “Wow, I never would have guessed.”

I don’t believe this is a “born-ability”, I believe what makes this possible is that I pay attention to detail. Of course, most writers drop hints for the reader or viewer to keep them interested. This works, but there must be more ambiguity. Let me explain.

Predicting plot twists does not feed my ego. I get frustrated that I was even able to predict the outcome in the first place because I want to be “wow”ed. The plot, characters, and setting must intertwine beautifully and punch me in the gut with something so off-the-wall it leaves me saying “wow!” I wrote a post earlier about writing blind and I believe this works well with ambiguity.

If the author is writing blind, with only one or two scenes plotted out ahead of time, then the author might be surprised with the turn of events. If the author is “wow”ed, the reader will also be, without a doubt. The author needs to let go and let the characters take them wherever they please. Feeding off the characters, one might be surprised on where they proceed.

Keep in mind, plotting a book ahead of time with multiple twists may also fall victim to predictability. If the author knows how the book is mapped out, he/she won’t be interested in the journey because he/she already knows where it’s going.

As cliched as it is, writing a completely normal world, with the day to day activities normal and interactions normal, but ending it with the main character in a psychiatric ward and all of it was in his head, still works out well; if written well. The reader or viewer is immersed in the characters “normal” world with the “normal drama” tagging along with it, but then is T-boned with a plot twist only leaving them with a dropped jaw and the word “wow” slowly, methodically spilling out of their mouth.

Plot twisting “wow” factor must be handled with care. Too many twists will leave the reader confused and frustrated, too little may result in boredom. I’m not here claiming that books with twists are the only good ones, because that is not true. If and when you plan a plot twist, avoid predictability.

Joshua Ludeker

Author of Letters to a Dandelion, available at Amazon.

Book Review: ABC’s Castle, Heat Wave

ABC’s hit show Castle, starring Nathan Fillion as Richard Castle and Stana Katic as Kate Beckett, roused my interest from the pilot episode Flowers for Your Grave. Richard Castle is a murder mystery author who, by pulling strings by a poker buddy judge, gets to “ride-along” with Detective Kate Beckett for research for his upcoming novel, HEAT WAVE.

The pilot promised an interesting spin on the average police story drama. On their first day together two murders are committed and are eventually formed back to Castle, as the murderer is playing out one of his books verbatim. As a writer myself, I would be professionally flattered and morally disturbed.

Castle is now readily approaching Season 3 and has long lost the originality of a detective story. Even still, I thoroughly enjoy the series and applaud the show as they take their media to a whole new level.

HEAT WAVE is written by Richard Castle in the show, but also published and “written” by him in the real world. Here is the summary:

Mystery sensation Richard Castle, blockbuster author of the wildly best-selling Derrick Storm novels, introduces his newest character, NYPD Homicide Detective Nikki Heat. Tough, sexy, professional, Nikki Heat carries a passion for justice as she leads one of New York City’s top homicide squads. She’s hit with an unexpected challenge when the commissioner assigns superstar magazine journalist Jameson Rook to ride along with her to research an article on New York’s Finest. Pulitzer Prize-winning Rook is as much a handful as he is handsome. His wise-cracking and meddling aren’t her only problems. As she works to unravel the secrets of the murdered real estate tycoon, she must also confront the spark between them. The one called heat.

If you have seen the show, you know Castle boasts about a juicy sex scene he created due to their spark, which is hilarious on all kinds of levels I didn’t even know existed. Like I said, I applaud their effort and they are denying the real author, still giving credit to the fictional character, Richard Castle.

Overall, the book was good. I’m not a big fan of watching a movie, then reading the book. But, in this case, I knew all the characters, knew all their mannerisms and facial expressions, and actually read it that much faster. Also, if you have seen the show, the book’s outline is identical to an episode.

Here are the first ten chapters of Heat Wave, and yes it is also in bookstores.

During the summer break from the show, Richard Castle is at it again giving one chapter hooks to his next novel, NAKED HEAT.

Bravo, ABC, bravo!

My rating: 3.5 out of 5

Book Review: The Killer Inside Me

 

                                          The Killer Inside Me

Lou Ford is the deputy sheriff of a small town in Texas.  The worst thing most people can say against him is that he’s a little slow and a little boring.  But, then, most people don’t know about the sickness–the sickness that almost got Lou put away when he was younger.  The sickness that is about to surface again.
An underground classic since its publication in 1952, The Killer Inside Me is the book that made Jim Thompson’s name synonymous with the roman noir

Originally published in 1952; republished 1991.

My Take:

To come up with an original first-person prose is arguably one of the most difficult aspects at writing genre fiction. For my writing, I generally shy away from such a task due to obvious physical and one-character emotional deprivation. The author is attached to the protagonist to his current surroundings and emotional standings.

There is one way to succeed, and that is writing psychological thrillers. The title says it all. A small town deputy sheriff battles himself and his “sickness”, simmering yet not outwardly showing signs of psychosis. Brilliant.

Yet, how far and how many can I read? Not all that many, but this particular gem satisfied that specific genre. Jim Thompson beautifully portrays a believable first-person prose murderer who battles his almost sane imperfections.

When I was in the middle of this man’s warped mind, I slanted on believing him and agreed with his asinine reasoning and arguments. After I put the book down, I half wondered if I had just read something in my own mind but am arguing with myself that that is impossible.

My rating: 4 out of 5

Storyboarding vs. Writing Blind

Storyboarding vs. Writing Blind

There are many ways to write a novel and each novelist has their own way of plotting their story. The secret is testing.

Writing Blind

When I wrote LETTERS TO A DANDELION, I wrote blind. I had nothing but the next two to three future scenes plotted out in my head and my characters took the story there. Many of the greats, Stephen King for one, write in this manner. They allow their characters to pull the story along and give them free-rein.

The issue I encountered with using this method is that I hit quite a few stumbling blocks. I didn’t consider this “writers block”. I considered it as poor planning. I wanted to write the next sentence, paragraph, or chapter but I was lost. I was stuck at 30,000 words for a week, blindly stumbling along. Eventually, events formed themselves and my characters spoke to me once more.

I do not dispute this method. I actually love it. Writing blind kept me interested and intrigued for the next crisis and was anxious to see what my characters would do next. In this sense, I knew my readers would feel the same way.

Storyboarding

For my next novel, tentatively named THE KNIGHT PARADOX, I wanted to test another method; storyboarding. Storyboarding plots out the entire novel, broken up by chapter, before writing the novel itself.

Here is an example (I use Microsoft PowerPoint to storyboard).

There are many benefits to this method, namely completing the synopsis before completing the novel. As it stands, my plan is to complete the storyboard, branch a synopsis from there, and then fill out the novel.

Many novelists dispute this method, claiming the characters are “destined” for an end, rather than forming their own. I understand this point, but my counter argument is I’m really not taking anything away from the characters. I still have to creatively plot the novel from the start and my characters are already a part of that. As I write the novel, I put the characters in a tree (crisis), throw stones at them (plot complications), and then bring them down (direction). The plot points are already established, so I’m not taking anything away from the character, they will bring themselves out by emotion and reaction.

Again, there is no right way to write a novel and everyone has their own methods. I cannot argue storyboarding to be better for me yet, because I am far from completion. As it stands, I’m enjoying this method because of its structure.

Related articles:

Traditional Plot Story Layout

Fiction Writing Plot Development Storyboards

Text Message Murder

Writer’s Digest hands out writing prompts to tickle the creativity bone that lives somewhere in the body. Many are silly, but every once and awhile one comes along that I can’t resist.

Text Message Murder (750 wds or less)

You’re sitting at work one day and receive a text message from an unrecognized number. The text says, “I have the money and hid the body.” You think this is a practical joke from a friend, so you play along at first. But the more texts you receive, the more you realize that it isn’t a joke. Write the text conversation you have with this unknown texter.

“AC 371, Tower, runway 27, position and hold.”

“AC 371, position and hold.”

“Messaba 243 contact Departure.”

“Over to Departure, good day.”

“AC 371, Tower, cleared for takeoff 27.”

“Cleared for takeoff, 371.”

The day was overcast, hot, and the bank had started. During this time, I can’t so much as avert my eyes from the fifty story tower I sit, than take a breath. That day, I remember easily, I got a message. My phone vibrated on the table next to me and I glanced down. The outer readout on my phone read, “Unknown”.

“Delta 41, Tower, traffic holding short, cleared for landing, 18 center.”

“Cleared 18 center, 41.”

“Comair 421, Tower, hold in sequence.”

“421, hold in sequence.”

“AC 371 contact Departure.”

“Departure, 371.”

My arm was vibrating again, another unknown. There was a short break; I took the chance and flipped open my phone. Two messages; first, “I have the money”, and second, “The body is taken care of.”

I shot my head up, scanned the crowded tower, everyone deep in weeds, when I caught sight of a man I had only seen once. He was in training, maybe his first or second day, and I hadn’t met him yet. He was eyeballing me, paying no attention to his trainer jabbering away.

“Tower, Comair 421.”

I pounded the keys as fast as possible, “What?”

“Um, say again.”

“Tower, Comair 421, number one, are we clear?”

“Affirm, Comair 421, tower, runway 27, cleared for takeoff.”

My phone buzzed again, “I said, the situation is taken care of.” I glanced back over my shoulder to see the new guy’s head hung, slouched, holding a phone. I texted back, “Sure, bud, whatever you say.”

“Comair 412 contact Departure.”

“To Departure, good day.”

Another message; ground control was sending me another ten, maybe fifteen departures. I held back my rage and read the message. “He wants to see you, now.”

“Tower, Freedom 6124, visual 27.”

The new guy held his phone and looked up. We made eye contact, something clicked, but he looked away just as fast. I sent another text, “Who?” I watched him close, his mannerisms changed, and he opened his phone and started tapping the keys. My eyes grew wide and my face drained all its blood. He looked back at me, my phone vibrated, and it said, “Him”. With sudden confusion, I snapped my head back to the new guy to see him nod his head towards the guy sitting next to me.

“Tower, do you copy, Freedom 6124?”

Frank, a long time friend and colleague, was neck deep in traffic. Sweat beaded his forehead only to be caught by his black-haired comb-over. His thick, out-of-date glasses sat on the tip of his wart-infested nose. I looked back at the new guy only to find him gone.

“Tower, do you copy?”

“Freedom 6124, Tower, repeat.”

“Freedom 6124, visual 27 for landing.”

“Cleared for landing, Freedom 6124, runway 27.”

“Frank,” I said. He most likely couldn’t hear me, seeing as how his radio ear piece was lodged in his left ear. “Frank.”

“What? I’m a little busy here.”

“I know, I got this message saying the body was taken care of and to talk to you. What the hell?”

He continued his commands and pushed his spectacles further up his nose.

“Frank,” I said.

“Damnit, I thought we had an agreement!” He slid his chair closer to me as I held back the urge to jump out the window. He lowered his voice, “Listen, it is taken care of. We agreed to not to discuss it here. Do you know how much shit we can get into? Like the message said, it is taken care of; over, done, forget about it.”

“What? I don’t…”

“Listen to me, goddamit. I brought the new guy in so we can get it done clean, no problems. You said so yourself, you wanted this done. You said she wasn’t changing, you wanted kids and she didn’t. I tried to talk you out of it but you insisted it be done. It’s done, man; time to move on.”

“What? When did I say this?”

“Seriously? We had this discussion last night over drinks. You don’t remember?”

The memory flashed; beer bottles and tequila shots.

I jumped from my chair, threw off my headset, and said, “What the hell did you do to Susie, you prick?” My phone vibrated in my hand as I glared at Frank. I reverted my gaze to the phone.

“Susie was nice. I had some fun with her before it was over. So sad, she would have made one hell of a wife.”

I ran to the stairs on the other side of the tower, pounded the down button to the elevator, and what seemed years later I was outside. I shot my head this way and that; tears welled in my eyes and then caught sight of a car exiting the parking lot. It was the new guy. He raised his arm out of his car window and waved.

The One Line Pitch

Being a new author, or rather completing my first book, I thought the hard work was complete after finishing the writing. I thought, Man, this feels good, now all I have to do is get it published. That is a whole animal in and of itself, but what I didn’t realize is that I needed to condense it, make it marketable.

One night my wife and I had a few friends over for dinner and drinks. She had told all her friends about me completing a novel and everyone was so astounded and excited to hear about it. Then, I got the dreaded question; “What’s it about?” I cringed; I clammed up, and said, “Uh, well, it’s rather difficult to explain.” Dull! Loser! I just failed miserably at selling to people of whom I was certain would buy.

Finishing the novel was not the hardest part. Now, I have to condense my story into one sentence, a paragraph, and a two paragraph paraphrase. Kill me! The actual writing took me about a month and a half to complete. I trudged and wrote until my fingers bled, and now, I have to write a ONE sentence pitch? I’d rather jump from an airplane, thank you.

Then, when I thought all hope was lost in the wind, I came across a very helpful article by a literary agent, Nathan Bransford, who explained how important it is to condense your story to make it interesting and marketable. If only I had read it prior to my get together, I wouldn’t have this nasty scar on my wrist.

Here’s my attempt for LETTERS TO A DANDELION:

One Line Sentence Pitch: Two children witness a murder and stumble upon a box of letters written by the murderer’s wife that alter their future by truth.

One Paragraph Pitch: Marie Eckers, the wife of a murderer, was diagnosed with lung cancer. In her final days, she writes letters to log and memoir her life, when it falls into the hands of two boys after they witnessed her husband’s act. As the truth unfolds, Dax Sheppard takes on a quest to rid himself of the past and create a new by following specific instructions from those letters. His childhood friend, Chris Lonestine, embarks on a fuller future as a US Marshal in hopes to bandage a lifetime of heartache for not stopping one crime as a child when he had the chance.

Two Paragraph Pitch: Struggling from a broken childhood, Dax Sheppard and Chris Lonestine witness an act so terrible, their impending lives can never veer from. To Chris’s most demanding opposition, Dax enters the home of the murderer to confront him to where he finds letters written by a loving hand, while involving Emily Strickland, the two’s school crush.

As the two grow apart, Chris pairs up with US Marshal Melissa Easton and Dax moves about in a psychological delusion, powered by the words from the murderer’s wife. After a bank robbery, the three are forced to confront their past as their normal, present lives come crashing to a halt when they realize they are chasing the one man of who is committing those insane acts, Dax Sheppard.

This took me a week to write, no kidding, and I still don’t like it. But, if there are authors out there now with a new book idea, might I suggest starting this first. Get the idea out in one sentence, then formulate from that into one paragraph, and then two. From there, work the idea into a synopsis, or a short story, and then it will morph into a whole book. Granted, this is only one way of writing a book – everyone has their own way – but this will certainly be a test of mine for my next one.

Again, writing a pitch (for me, anyway) was harder than the actual writing, but it is very important. Good luck and keep writing!

Street (Flash Fiction)

Since the beginning of time, from Adam and his mythical first-wife-born-from-dust Lilith, to Adam and born-from-Adam’s-rib Eve, there has been a never-ending battle between Good and Evil. Each of God’s creations is faced with moral dilemmas every day, hour, and minute on which path to choose; concerning their own moral decency and pose. More often than not, evil will win; then spreads like wildfire. Evil is an ever-changing, ever-powerful virus that once created, will replicate itself so fast that there is no comprehensible way to put an end to them.

Legend has it that there is one man who is said to be the most powerful Demonologist; one man who nobody has seen or spoken to, but calls to from the depth of their own evil-infested soul, named Street.

**

The darkened room was only lit by one flickering candle, sitting atop a small nightstand, throwing shadows across the room in soothing, rhythmic beats. Street knelt on the floor in the middle of the small, somewhat comfortable room. A sheet-less cot, shoved against the battered concrete wall, a bucket filled with one can only assume to be rotting human feces and the candle-holding nightstand were the only physical presence in the room. The darkness elsewhere encompassed space like a thick fog, never breaking. He pulled a small piece of chalk from his beaten and seen-too-many-days leather satchel that was slung over his shoulder. The chalk itself had also seen too many concrete floors, walls, and ceilings in its days and Street felt a faint panic rise to his throat. Many things were hard to come by and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever find another piece of chalk if he tried.

Street pulled a self-rolled cigarette from his satchel, lit it and inhaled deeply. “One of the very demon’s curses” he muttered to himself. He then gently grasped the chalk from his satchel in one hand, careful not to pinch his fingers too hard, and started his ritual markings on the floor. The actions that followed are so deeply embedded in his mind that he’s not sure even remembering learning and quite certain cannot be taught. He lightly drew a circle, about two feet in diameter, and then drew a large X through the middle, which each stem drawn further out, north and south. Street dug through his satchel once more and found what he was searching for. He pulled a pocket-sized Bible out and placed it on the floor above the circle, in between the northbound stems of the X, then placed a silver plated Crucified Cross opposite. Street slid off his knees and into a sitting position, squinting between the smoking cigarette between his lips, and began to prepare his mind.

The flame from the candle wavered slightly, almost too slightly to notice, which woke Street from his meditation state. He stood up, knees popping the sound of a pistol crack, and slung his leather satchel that rested on the small of back. He quickly tightened his belt, which there slung two ancient revolvers waiting patiently and quietly for their number to be called, and rested the palm of both hands on the butt of each revolver. The flame wavered more violently now, then winked out. There stood Street, in the thick of the darkness fog so thick it was suffocating. The only light left now was the cherry burning on his cigarette, which he now grasped and flicked towards the middle of the circle. He sighed deeply, pulled out both ancient revolvers, and rested them at his side.

“It has begun.”

There was a rumble that came from outside the room. Street rested his chin to his chest and concentrated. This was the part he hated; this was the dirty work, and this part was what stole his sleep. The first rumbles and screeches came and went from outside his room, and Street waited. He was hoping against hope that the ever-changing demons still succumb to his own bullet concoction; another he can’t remember learning. He felt goose bumps; all hairs rose on his body, and then knelt to one knee. A rush of cold air, so cold and so fast it ruffled his hair as it blew over his head. The room was still black, but their stench follows them. Street opened fire. Each bullet that raced from the barrel cracked with deafening precision, light flashing with each powerful kick, lighting the room to catch glimpses of the retched demon. He did not need to know where he was firing, he knew where they were at all times; he could feel them, smell their disgusting stench. The intruder flew at him, just as he knelt, and got caught in the world-wind circle he had just finished drawing. Screeching came in deafening bursts that not only hurt his ears, but felt tearing at his soul. Street could see the beast with each bullet blasting, piercing him in different regions as the demon got caught in the upper corner of the room. Its flesh, if blackness can be given such a name, was tearing apart with each bullet never missing. He unloaded his clips into the howling thing as it let out one more deafening screech. It twisted and twirled, being drawn by some force not of its own. Street took a step back and watched haggard. His mind started to wobble, his vision blurred, and his leg muscles started to give out; all the while never losing eye contact with the demon. The demon was still screeching, stuck in a whirlpool of force, spinning around the room about the drawn circle. Each time it passed over where the Bible and cross lay, the screech would intensify. Spinning, circling, and with one last gnash of its black hole mouth, struck Street across the cheek, then vanished with a pop.

Street spat blood to the floor and whispered, “May God have mercy on your soul.” He holstered his still smoking ancient revolvers and stepped out the door.

Sword Fight

I have a three year old son who is on the verge of being potty trained.

One night, in our routine, we were brushing teeth, using the potty, and going to bed. I had a sudden urge to relieve myself. I head to our bedrooms bathroom, doing my deed, when my wife walks in holding our son to say our goodnights. My son immediately said, “Daddy using the big-boy potty?” “Of course buddy, you can too! We can have a sword fight!” Fairly harmless comment, right?

That moment was one of those moments that you are so mad at yourself that you don’t have a camera at the ready; the look on my wife’s face, priceless.

“You, you would have a ‘sword fight’ with our son? Have you had one of these with someone before?” I knew I didn’t say something a pedophile would say, so I thought. But I said, “Sure, I’ve never done it with anyone, but he might enjoy it.”

My wife promptly left the room with a disgusted look on her face. I only stood there bemused, until I understood why she had such a look.

“Wait, you do realize when I say ‘sword fight’ that we would not touch them, just the streams?”

She blushed, thought about it, and then said, “Ohhh”.

Facepalm.

The Unfortunate

I came across this article on CNN this morning about how a man turned in a missing girl from 1988. This man watched his father kill her, burn her, and had never said anything about it until 22 years later. This is my flash fiction interpretation of how that day may have gone.

The mosquitoes were hellashish that afternoon, Chris remembered. Hiking up that mountain of a hill, through the heat, thick brush, thorn bushes, and an occasional snake were somewhere near his vision of Hell. What his father and Chris packed was not the normal “Father/Son” picnic brunch. They brought nothing but the girl, a water bottle filled with gasoline, and a mountain of tires; which Chris was in charge of dragging into Hell.

To hide from the affects of his daily life, Chris mastered the art of “drawing-inward”. He hadn’t thought of this day in a long time, but at the same time was haunted by it every night. He remembered reading something, an article out of a newspaper he found or a discarded magazine, about mosquitoes and how they act. The author was convinced that if you smack and kill one on your skin, the army feels the death like a body feels losing an extremity. They then focus on you and attack. The only way to appease them as a whole is to just swat absentmindedly in their direction. Sounds silly, but as Chris found out that day, that was his only escape.

“Move faster, we’re almost there.”

Chris’s father had that tone, the tone of a madman masked by a civil face. He is the reason he is here, he is the reason for his pain, and he is the reason Chris cannot sleep. If he had only stopped by the local gas station for a pop, if he had only stayed at school a bit longer, he would have never came home to see what his nightmares consisted of every night, for twenty two years.

“You’ll thank me one day, son”, his father said over his shoulder, “you’ll thank your old man and what he taught you.”

Chris was doubtful, but there is one thing that he can thank his father for, only one thing; how to read people and their selfish intentions.

“Doubtful”, Chris muttered under his breathe. The tires were heavy, but he would not stop or slow down. Fear can be a body’s steroid.

“You say something, boy?” There it was, the sun creeping through the thick fog, his unrelenting anger.

Chris decided it was better not to respond. In most cases his father would immediately forget that he had said anything at all, let alone wait for an answer. There wasn’t anything in his mind that wasn’t selfish and that is where his mind stayed.

“Here we are. Leave the tires there; we’ll throw her in this ditch.” Chris’s father pointed in a swaying motion with his middle finger. He plopped down on a tree stump; his other hand went to his pocket, pulled out a Salem and lit it. He peered through the curling, swaying smoke at his son. Chris was starting to get the jitters. He padded from one foot to the other, swatting directly in front of his face at the grouped mosquitoes; scared for her, who was still alive and scared for him, for his sanity’s sake. He was mainly scared for the girl, she didn’t deserve this. His father was a fucking madman and she was the unfortunate. The girl who would be lost for years; dub her The Unfortunate, fucking sick.

 “Women are like fish, son. Have you ever thought of that? There are millions of them in the sea, all different sizes and colors, and all with the same agenda; attempting to never get caught. Well, my hobby is catching them. I find them wherever, stumble on them in the stream with their scales glistening and their tails wagging. God is great, Chris. Sometimes He just plops them right in my lap. He knows what I like and he sends them to me.” He methodically unsheathed his knife from his belt. Chris didn’t remember seeing it there; maybe dragging the tires blurred his vision, or the mosquitoes. 

“Sometimes you find one particular fish, one fish that you just can’t throw back.” He sent the side of his blade down the girl’s cheek, past the blindfold, over the rag stuffed in her mouth, and down to her chest, cutting open her bra. “Like this. Have you ever seen something so beautiful? They are so perky and full of life. I had my fill with her, been keeping her locked away, son. There is nothing than the feeling of knowing she is waiting for me, legs open, all tied up. Our time has ended now, Chris. We end her now.”

At that, Chris’s father brought the blade to her throat, with one fast impulsive moment, slit her throat. Blood gushed down from the wound and she didn’t even make a sound. In a way, she was prepared and shut her mind down. She had already died before her throat was cut open.

Chris looked away immediately. Vomit rose to his throat, tears showing at the corner of his eyes, and he swat at the ever-present mosquitoes. He sniffed, then looked back just in time to see his father give her a kiss on the cheek and dump her in the ditch.

“Chris, throw the tires on now.” Chris was reluctant, couldn’t hold back his terror and tears. His father shot out a laugh, felt compelled to comfort for a split second, then got angry. “Throw the fucking tires on!”

Chris did as he was told. He never looked at his father in the eye from that day on. His father knew he was terrified of him and that’s the way he liked it. Fear is the body’s steroid.

“This does not leave the woods, son.” Chris’s father grabbed a water bottle filled with gasoline, poured it on the tires that covered the girl’s body, and struck a match. The fireball was instant, but the tires would burn for a long time. “You will never tell another soul of what happened here today, or what you saw. This is between us; between father and son. Do you understand?”

 All Chris could do was shake his head. He wiped the tears from his face and started back towards home, knowing the instant he walked into his house he would pack his shit and bolt; end of story.

 The mosquitoes weren’t as bad on the way back, which was a gift from God. Chris mapped his way back, went over it and over it again in his head, never missing a detail of the trek back. One day, one day, he would tell the world where to find The Unfortunate.

A Brothers Love

Things happen in life that have no explanation; a sort of ambiguty that hangs in the air like stale fish. Nobody likes it. It might be that the brain cannot rest unless it has closure. We need reasons; reasons to set our minds at ease so that we can tackle other of life s problems, heartaches, or other trivial problems. I need closure. I need closure when I don t even realize it.

My brother passed away in a car accident five years ago at 27 years old. Such an early age to depart from this world. In a way, I envy him. He is home; no pain, no sadness, no stress. At the same time I am saddened that he is not here to enjoy what he has and will miss out on today, and years to come. I know, in my heart, that he drops in on us from time to time. When he passed, I had one child. Now, I have three children; all of which I see a little of him. The way their eye will sparkle, a certain way they say a certain phrase reminds me of him.

He will always be with me and with his family; always.