Yesterday I found out I won 3rd place in "The Cult of Me" short fiction writing contest.  The instructions were to write a story in under 500 words using this prompt.  My winning entry is below.  I hope you enjoy it!  Go here to read 1st and 2nd place. 

The Damned Thing

I bound the damned thing tightly; hopefully for the last time, though I could not rid my room of it and, there was the matter of “just in case.”  A plethora of perfumes emitted from each page even with it shut, flooding my mind with an extraordinary lust for more.  During these episodes, when I would finally get a hold of myself, I often found my eyes rolled backward; overtaken by an unexplainable ecstasy.  Because the words elude me, I will end the attempt to describe it here.  

My collection of their perfume-scented clothing is harmless.  My voyeuristic viewing from afar would be perceived as a perversion by most but would keep me from imprisonment as long as I was careful.  It was the book of names and addresses that could ultimately cause the death of the whores were I to open it again.  The book has become cumbersome, and I fear I can no longer keep the pages together.  

Marked in red, my favorites reside in the district of Whitechapel.  In blue I marked routine police routes.  Getting caught is not an option.  I would take every precaution necessary, though if I were to give in to my desires I would surely participate in taunting the district police.  Perhaps I’ll even send them pages from the very book I struggle to keep closed.  Ha!  If only I could watch them as they struggle to find me.  

As I write, the attraction grows.  Perhaps tonight I will give in to my urges.  I’ve prepared the jars for trophies.  Through my studies, I've become somewhat obsessed with human anatomy.  Perhaps closer examination of their internal organs would give me a greater understanding of life, of medicine...of women.  This next statement to be said without pun, but perhaps stopping the whores from their infestation, while furthering my invaluable research, would kill two birds with but a single stone.  Do I manipulate myself into the slaughtering of the broads using my scientific examinations as justification?  Am I feeding science or a demon of murderous lust?  If I begin will I be able to stop?  

My written entry this evening has stirred within me a temptation I can no longer resist.  I will open the pages of the damned thing and hunt for the first name penned in red.  The cobblestone streets will collect the blood spilled tonight, and though they will pursue after me, they will find me not, for Jack is nimble and Jack is quick, and the throat of the dresses my razor will nick.

Yes, it's been nearly two weeks since I've written an entry.  For those that linger around here hanging on every word typed at Write-Brained Leftovers, my apologies.  I have several reasons for my lack of posts and that brings me to this entry, but first a forewarning.  This particular entry is no lesson in writing and is virtually void of any wit.  Read past entries or future ones for appropriate doses of wit.  This is me pimping and boasting...poasting, if you will (okay, a little wit).

I've been entering contests, trying to meet more deadlines, reading a book for review, and then writing said review.  Throw the wife in there, mix in some of the usual procrastination, typing for marbley-mouthed doctors, and turning my youngest on to his first episodes of Twilight Zone (he loves them and gets every twist; nothing needs to be explained to him.  I'm a very proud father.) and that's been my schedule for the past 10 to 14 days. 

Also, an old hobby of mine is trying to come back to add to any suspected writer's ADD.  Recently, someone who'd never seen my paintings before saw them and made me feel like I was Michelangelo.  I've toyed with the idea of doing a painting or two since, and once I get this story done for Grinning Skull Press (who so graciously has given me more time to turn it in), I'm thinking I may just wet the brushes this weekend.  I have a subject or two in mind.

After buying the Regal Beagle, I thought for sure I'd be doing nothing but writing, but that hasn't been the case as of late.  I have so many ideas for stories and even novels that I almost wonder if it hasn't slowed me down a bit; a different type of writer's block for sure, but not necessarily a bad problem to have.  I think I'm having the most fun entering flash fiction contests.  There's something about being given a prompt and having only a certain number of words and/or amount of time to create the greatest story you can that is both challenging and satisfactory for me.

On to the pimping and the boasting:

Concerning the story I co-wrote with Ian Bush, this week I found out that Dark Moon Press will be formatting the book, Brains III, this weekend and they hope to have it out in two weeks.  I'm excited about this one.  It'll be the first book I'm in where every author is sharing the same theme and genre.

I wrote my first review for Horror Novel Reviews this week for Dan Padavona's book, Storberry.  You can read the review here.  This is Dan's first book.  His father was the late, incredibly great Ronnie James Dio, and if you know anything about me you know I grew up an enormous fan of Ronnie's voice; be it Rainbow, Elf, Sabbath, or solo career, so it's a bit ironic that Dan and I have become good writing friends, swapping literary work, advice, and encouragement.  If you are a fan of Stephen King (in particular Salem's Lot) I encourage you to read Dan's book which is available at the link below as an e-book.  Dan has also just released a two-story collection also available as an e-book called "The Island" that you can purchase (again available below).  I have only read half of the first story (one for all the arachnophobes), and let's just say I kept thinking something was crawling on me as I read it in bed last night.

One other note on what I'm up to.  I am now a proofreader for Crystal Lake Publishing out of South Africa.  There's a few reasons I decided to do this.  One is I like what Crystal Lake is doing.  They're only a few years old but their anthologies are packed full of well-established/famous authors and they have fresh ideas with the books that step outside the normal horror publishing company.  For example  the book "Horror 101:  The Way Forward," which is basically a huge compilation of articles written specifically to give insight on writing horror.  The book presents features written by the likes of Jack Ketchum, Graham Masterton, Ramsey Campbell, Blaze McRob, and many, many more.  Crystal Lake Publishing book covers are awesome.  I hope to be squeezed between the pages one day, and finally, the owner/operator, Joe Mynhardt is a very kind, standup guy in my experience thus far.  Why wouldn't I want to be a part of it all?

Speaking of Crystal Lake Publishing, I will be featured in their "Beneath the Lake:  On Writing Horror" in the very near future.  You'll have to either keep checking back there or give me a like on my author page and keep up to date.

One last bit of news, I have submitted a handful of stories to Black Bed Sheet Books with the hopes of having my own anthology.  This is something I'd like to accomplish before having a novel out (which I will be writing in November for NaNoWriMo/National Novel Writing Month).  I like the passion Black Bed Sheet Books has and am hoping they like mine as well.  We'll see.  And like Crystal Lake, they are also doing some very innovative things. 

Thank you for allowing me to do nothing but fill you with news in this entry and point you in the direction of some things in the literary world that I believe in.

Don't forget, my newest story, "Self-Immolation", is now available in Shadows & Light #4 (both in print and for your Kindle-friendly device).

Recently I stumbled across a magazine called Shock Totem.  They hold some interesting contests for writers.  The contests seem to be developed to challenge you, construct feedback for others, and consider feedback from others with each entry, rather than focus on who actually wins a prize, as there is no prize given.  Last night I entered my first contest through Shock Totem.  This particular contest is held bi-weekly.  At exactly 8:00 p.m a prompt is posted on their website forums, and you are given one hour to construct a story that is less than 1,000 words based on the prompt given (last night it was the picture below).  You then post your story within that hour.  Afterward, you read and comment on everyone's story providing praise and constructive criticism.  Each contestant ranks each story at first, second, and third places as well as an honorable mention.  Points are tallied and the winner announced.  I didn't win, but I'd love to share with you the story I came up with and posted in that stressful hour.  I hope you enjoy it!  

I type for a living.  No, not writing...at least not yet.  That's the goal though.  I work all day typing in my home office transcribing for doctors who can't pronounce medicines, who make up new adjectival forms of medical sounding words, and can't tell the difference between a metatarsophalangeal joint and metacarpophalangeal one.  It doesn't exactly give me the ambition to stay in said office and keep typing away during my free time in the same surroundings that I just spent hours making a doctor appear smarter than he is.  When it's time to write, I normally head for anywhere but my office.  A chair in the corner of the room, outside under the sun in a lawn chair, or even in bed.    

Recently the wife and I decided to buy a camper with the hopes of fixing it up (glamping, if you will).  As a bonus, I decided to use it for all my writing.  We went for a retro look and it screams the 70s.  A decade I think everyone seems to enjoy better than the current one.  An era most of us can really draw some great nostalgia from, those of us who were blessed enough to have lived through it.

It feels good to be out here in the Regal Beagle (I told you..we went full 70s).  It's a very solitary place.  Though I love my children with every part of me, it's difficult to give life to an idea while they cast their virtual spells in World of Warcraft, bring down the enemy via gunfire on the X-Box, argue, scream, ask a plethora of questions, and even laugh, which normally is the sweetest music to this writer's ears.  Out here I've found my sanctuary, my haven...and hopefully my muse.  With a bathroom, heat, AC, fridge, electricity, Wi-Fi, a place to nap, and even a telephone, who needs anything else?  The irony of it all is that when my kids are out here with me that's when it's the most fun.  I digress.

Looking around this retro haven of mine, I wonder what Poe would have written had he been sitting here.  I mean, the guy wrote some seriously dark stuff, but when you look at his writing area can you blame him?  If stories are a product of your surroundings, will my future writings all include bra-less roommates, buggy eyed landlords, and hairy, womanizing friends with the dialogue overflowing with innuendo where the kisses are hers, and hers, and his?

I doubt it.  Facebook offers enough gloom and doom in itself to keep one's imagination going. 

Announcement:  You can read my tear jerking tragedy of a story "Self-Immolation" in the new Shadows & Light #4 out right now, available in both Kindle and print.  Get that baby right here.

Last month I entered a contest out of the UK put on by The Cult of Me.  The contest involved writing a story in 500 words or less using the picture below (artwork by Tom Long).  I didn't win, but I felt better about losing when I read the first place story which is pretty awesome, and you can read it here.  I thought I'd share my entry with you.

                                                                         
                                                                        A Hand With the Harvest

I quickly grabbed my rifle as I headed out the door.  The screams of the captured thief were certainly music to these aging ears.  It had been weeks of waiting to finally capture one of the Nardell brothers.  For the past few years, the entire village grew tired of the Nardells and their thievery.  We worked hard in our gardens to produce for our families, and the weasels came along weekly to dip their hands into what wasn't theirs, picking at the crops, too lazy to work themselves.  Let the bear trap be an example of what will happen now when you mess with Old Fred's crops. 

I left the lantern behind.  On a night such as this, there would be no need for it.  Void of clouds, the sky filled with the bright glow of a full moon providing adequate light.  My legs moved slower than they once did, but I could hear one of them boys wailing something horrible.  The screams grew louder as I made my way up the hill, until at last they just stopped.  It wasn't until I got on top of the garden hill that I saw the Nardell boy.  It was Joseph, writhing on the ground with his leg in the trap.  I could tell by the white cap he always wore.  As I grew closer, it looked like perhaps a couple of the brothers were there; one struggling to help the other, no doubt. 

“How’d ya like that boys?”  I yelled. 

I anticipated a mouthful of curses but they were at a loss for words.  I crept closer; gun aimed at them.  The other brother looked as though he was wrestling frantically with the trap, and my old eyes told me he was even using his teeth to do it.  I drew closer.  He was using his teeth but not on the trap.  He tore at something with a wild ferocity.

“Put down whatever crop you got there, boy!” 

The eating stopped.  It was no Nardell brother but some demonic creature.  It turned its head and faced me.  Its gray, balding head gleamed in the moon.  I lost all motor skills and dropped my rifle as its pale, beady eyes penetrated my very soul.  Other than the lapping of blood around its lipless mouth, it made no sound.  I jumped backward as it snapped its teeth at me.  Large, bat-like wings sprung from its back as it grabbed Joseph by the throat and ascended into the night. 

I stood stunned, watching it as it darted like a bat.  I lost sight of it until it abruptly landed in front of me.  With one hand holding the Nardell boy by the neck, it laid the bear trap at my feet, looked me in the eyes, and ascended once more. 

Somehow I knew exactly what it wanted; to be fed again.  I would be more than happy to accommodate him.  Perhaps our garden problems would soon be gone… for good.