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| I live...! Been gone for a long time, but I'm popping in to say hello to anyone who wastes their time to stop by on this dead blog... For those of you with myspace, I can be found searching for the_great_american_hack Hope to hear from you. Douglas | | |
| From Myspace: First Short Story Publication in the Works!
Current mood:  ecstatic A few weeks ago, my short story, "Lights! Camera! Action!" was rejected by TABARD INN magazine. The editor (the esteemed and well-published author), John Bruni, believed--and rightly so--that his readers would find the ending too predictable. Now, the good news: John felt the story showed promise and asked if I would be willing to rewrite the ending; if so, he'd like to take another look. Well, I'd have to be soft in the cranium to turn down that possibility, so I said yes, of course, I wanted to give it a whirl. So, I came up with a way that I could make it work and pitched that idea to John. What came next was a brainstorming session that resulted in a new draft of the story, which I promptly sent in as soon as it was finished. Today, I received my SASE in the mail. Now, usually, these SASEs contain the rejected manuscript and (in my case, lately) a short note from the editor praising, but passing on it. This time, I could tell that the manuscript itself was missing, but that something was in there. My heart raced. Could it be? Had all those years of banging away at that old portable typewriter finally paid off? There were times when the keys would become sticky and I'd look down to find that I'd bled on them from the ends of tattered fingertips. Had even this been finally worth the effort? The answer to that question, ladies and gentlemen, is a resounding yes! I've made some inroads in the poetry department lately, but this will be the first short story to be published in a magazine. It's the thing I often daydreamed about as a boy, lying on my bed with my hands behind my head and staring up at that dismal ceiling. It was one of the few things that kept me going when I didn't think I could make it another day, when my neighbor was abusing me in the worst ways imaginable. Writing stories and dreaming of seeing them in print gave me hope and inspiration in a dark, dark world. My world. And the stories reflected that darkness. I want to thank John Bruni, Editor-in-Chief of TABARD INN magazine, who gave me the opportunity to see the dreams of that young boy come to fruition. He, through his honesty and rejection of the original story, coaxed out of me the kind of story I've always wanted to write. One that was brutal, chilling, and true to the horror genre I've always admired and treasured. Thanks, John! I'd also like to thank all of those people who encouraged me to write and believed in my dreams throughout my life. People like Karen Addleman, my fourth-grade teacher who taught me so much; my mother, Alice, who was my first Ideal Reader and first ardent fan; my friends and family through the years; as well as those of you online who read my stuff and let me know when I was fucking up--ha-ha! And thanks to Erin, who believed in me when I was unable to believe in myself, the girl that was waiting for me when I came down from the 4th floor roof--from which I'd seriously debated jumping--back in 1997. I took her to hell and back, and yet...still she follows. Last, but not least, I want to thank my darling daughter Bethany, who overcame so much this year, but continued to celebrate each little victory with me. You are the best thing I've ever done, and that's the truth. I know I'm rambling like an unwelcome guest at the Academy Awards again, but hey, who says I'll ever publish another word, you know? | | |
| Floyd’s Law Prologue Part 1b
Here's the second installment of the prologue to Floyd's Law. It's short, I know, but the next installment will cover much more. This seemed like the most natural place to stop. Hope you enjoy... "Hiya, gorgeous, I'm Pete." He pressed against her, brutish and oppressive, and slung a meaty arm over her bare shoulder. His acne-pitted face loomed over her like a grotesque mask. His breath was atrocious--it stank of sausage and whiskey, and boiled cabbage. "You're real pretty, you know that?"
Linda slithered out of his grasp, shuddering in disgust. "Uggh," she said sourly. "Get off of me!"
Pete's hands shot out and seized her by the arms, then yanked her back into him violently, his mouth turned down in a scowl. "Listen, bitch--" Anger flashed in his eyes, but he forced an insincere smile. "I paid a lot of money for you, the least you can do is be nice."
A hand fell upon Pete's shoulder as Eddie (her savior, her tormentor) stepped in between them. He flashed the man a sly grin and patted his shoulder. "Sorry about all this, Pete," he said solemnly. "This pretty little thing hasn't been herself lately." He turned his gaze upon Linda, that same grin burning into her like molten glass. It made her skin crawl. "Have you, darling?"
She looked away.
"Why don't you let me talk to her," Eddie said, turning back to Pete. "She'll come around, I promise."
Pete's expression softened and he let go of Linda's arms. The pale marks where his fingers had sunk into her flesh were already fading. He made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger, and clicked his tongue with a wink. "Be seeing you real soon, doll."
Eddie slipped an arm around Linda's waist and led her away gently, but as soon as they stepped into the back hallway, his mood darkened with the force of a sudden thunderstorm. The smile he'd flashed earlier returned, but behind it lay a clear and willful malice. He was furious, and that made him dangerous.
"You're not gonna be a problem, are you, baby?"
"That man is a hog, Eddie," Linda muttered under her breath.
His response came at once, a hard slap on the cheek that almost knocked her down. She sucked in a breath at the force of the blow and stumbled against the wall. A tooth gashed the inside of her mouth and she tasted the hot, copper taste of her own blood. She shrank away from him, her palm pressed against her wounded cheek.
"Now, why'd you go and make me do that, baby girl?" Eddie smiled, and this time it was genuine. The anger drained from his face like molasses and he was calm again. "You know I hate to lay my hands on you."
"I'm sorry," Linda said, her voice trembling. She suddenly felt a twinge of sexual excitement and was immediately sickened by the thought. "My period must be coming on, or something. I'll apologize to your friend, okay? We'll start over."
"That's the Linda we all know and love."
His voice was dripping with sarcasm. | | |
| Today marks my 5th month of sobriety. I feel so much better about myself and life in general. I think I've made a real improvement in all areas and am continuing to make progress with each new day. Quitting drinking was the best decision I ever made. Two of my poems, "The Ambivalent Voyeur" and "Death Waits For Me," have been accepted for publication in the November/December issue of Cause and Effect magazine. I am grateful to Ben J. Biesek, Editor-in-Chief, for believing in my work enough to publish it. I'm thrilled to be able to add another credit to my resume and to get some more work out there for others to read and enjoy. I have some other things floating around out there, so keep your fingers crossed. | | |
| Sorry I haven't been around in a while. Things have been improving for me. Therapy has been going well. I had a major breakthrough concerning the sexual abuse I suffered as a child. I've been remembering bits and pieces of that time lately. That's a good thing, despite how horrible those memories are, because in order to become free of its influence in your life, you have to confront and recall the experiences in detail. The good news is that I've also started to remember more of the good events in my life around that time. That's how it works. When something traumatic happens to you, you don't just repress the bad things; you repress all of it. In my case, there were entire years missing from my life of which I had no recollection. I just keep telling myself: I survived the worst part of it many years ago, so I can face what happened now, as an adult. The more I confront and process the horror of those experiences, the happier I become in my adult life. Of course, it's made my sex life a little bizarre. Things bother me now that didn't before I started to remember what happened to me. If people pat me on the head or try to give me a back rub, I completely freak out (things I associate with what psychologists call presexual conditioning, a tactic used by pedophiles to groom their victims for the sexual encounters they will eventually initiate). Certain activities that I may have liked before, make me sick to my stomach, et cetera...you get the gist of it. But overall, I know this will pass as I continue on this journey of discovery and acceptance. And now, another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Floyd's Law. I went back and added a prologue to explain Floyd's homicidal behavior. It will be posted in installments. Floyd’s Law -- Prologue Part 1a (excerpt)
Just why is Floyd Burke so full of homicidal rage? In this, the prologue to Floyd's Law, we finally get the answer. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you, Linda Burke, Floyd's baby sister. PROLOGUE 1 For Linda Burke, the parties were unbearable, and this one was no exception.
The music was always played too loud. The bass pounded the inside of her skull in an endless barrage and a headache throbbed there in time to songs like Give Me All Your Lovin and Photograph--testosterone driven songs that were twenty years out of date.
The men were sweaty and smelled of body odor. They wore slacks and dress shirts opened up to the second or third button, displaying a matted rug of curled chest hair and gaudy medallion necklaces or gold chains. They laughed and smoked their shitty cigars, and often spilled their drinks upon the blouses of their "dates". Real pigs, in other words, groping and pawing at the girls with impunity.
Linda glanced across the room and found Janey, the only girl she really trusted in this place, standing beside a large, potted fern. She watched as Janey brought a drink to her lips, downed it in one swallow, and then scooped another off a passing tray. Their eyes met--Janey's dull and vacant, sunk into dark circles of eye shadow that lent her the appearance of a holocaust survivor--then Janey offered a grim toast, glass held high, and belted it down with the desperate ease of someone who has lost all hope. Janey turned away then, cursing as one of the men stumbled into her in a drunken lurch.
Linda finished her sweep of the room and spied Eddie and Maria, the hosts of this horrid affair, schmoozing with some old hack she recognized from television. Jonathan something-or-other. He'd been a terrible actor, from what she could remember, and now he was just a coke addict who turned up on occasion, scoring dope and girls on his dwindling fame. He was pathetic, but it was Eddie and Maria who drew most of her scorn. They were heartless and shrewd. They had forced Janey to get an abortion so she could keep working (after beating her senseless for getting knocked up in the first place) and had only given her a week to recuperate. Until she was back up to a hundred percent, she could stick with clients who only wanted oral, but she had to earn. Eddie and Maria had made that quite clear.
And she hadn't been the only one.
A lovely Colombian girl named Camilla, who had also been lured in by the modeling scam, had gotten pregnant a few months before. She was beautiful; more so than the others. She had flowing black hair and soft, caramel features. She spoke in a tiny voice, like a bird, and all the other girls loved her. Her smile was infectious and she never lost her shine...until the abortion.
Everything changed. Her eyes lost their spark. Her beautiful black hair became an unwashed nest of tangles. When she spoke afterwards, which was rare, her voice was fragile and small, a dead thing, and her skin took on the waxen sheen of a corpse. Three days later, they found Camilla in the upstairs bathroom, her face blue and dead, with a needle hanging out of her arm.
Linda had cried for days when she heard the news, but the men didn't mind the tears. In fact, they seemed to enjoy fucking her even more when she was weeping. One of them even licked the tears from her cheeks as he came. Sick bastard. | | |
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