Hey Goners,

Dave here with this week’s missive from the Writer’s Cave.

Do you watch Game of Thrones? If you’re not watching it, I urge you to start. HBO is on Season Two now, so you definitely want to start with Season One. It’s one of the most complex, enjoyable shows I’ve seen in a long time.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of the show (and the book series it is based on, A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin) is how you get the story from so many perspectives. You find yourself identifying, loving, and hating people in different sides of the same war.

As you can tell from Yesterday’s Gone and WhiteSpace, we’re kinda big into alternating POVs.

Martin was interviewed in this week’s Rolling Stone and he was asked about his characters. He said something I loved.

I’m paraphrasing here, but essentially, he said, people have different favorites. But one of the best things is how readers write to him having very different opinions on his characters. A character hated by some is loved by others. And vice versa. And Martin said if all your letters say the same thing about the same characters, then you know you’ve written a cardboard character.

Great line. And true. And something we strive for in our own fiction — to present multifaceted characters that you love and love to hate.

Something else we’ve learned from Game of Thrones… if you want to be King, you have to go after the crown.

Sean and I have declared ourselves “Kings of the Serial.”

Like Game of Thrones, and Howard Stern (the self proclaimed “King of All Media”) taught us, nobody is gonna make you king. You have to seize the crown … or name yourself King.

Our quest for the crown began in January with the launch of Yesterday’s Gone: Season Two. That’s when we decided we’re going to release a book per week.

When we started Yesterday’s Gone last summer, there were a lot of naysayers saying that serials won’t work. Saying that people don’t like reading the format. That you can’t sell “part of a story.”

We said bullshit.

Serials have been around forever. And Stephen King proved in the 90s that there’s still an audience for serialized fiction, when he released The Green Mile.

Networks like HBO and AMC prove it week in and week out, that people LOVE the cliffhanger! Shows like Game of Thrones, The Killing, Breaking Bad, The Walking Dead, and True Blood keep me, and millions, on the edges of our seats every single weekend.

We want to the be the HBO or AMC of the Kindle Generation!

The digital revolution (and Amazon) has given us a golden opportunity to do something we never could have done with a traditional publisher. And with great power comes great responsibility… to bring you a new episode of killer content with killer cliffhangers each and every Tuesday. One review said “Tuesdays are the new black.” I love that line!

And we couldn’t do it without you, who prove to us week in and week out that we made the right decision to chase the crown.

Of course, there isn’t a real crown. And no official “King” title. It’s more about being in a position to continue writing these stories for you.

The better we do, the better our books sell, and the more positive reviews we have, the stronger our Goner Army!

So thank you for continuing to read and continuing to leave reviews.

You are awesome!

Here’s a sneak peek at WhiteSpace: Episode 3 www.amazon.com/dp/B008391S1A/

This is my favorite episode yet, where we learn more about Houser, who is becoming my favorite character.

Thank you for reading,

David Wright

www.collectiveinkwell.com

www.twitter.com/thedavidwwright

WhiteSpace: Episode Three

P.I. Brock Houser is on the hunt for a missing child, but can he outrun a past, and another missing child, that haunts him?

As Liz Heller tries to overcome the tragedy that her husband created, she begins to piece together a mystery that threatens her sanity, and perhaps the safety of her family.

As the school re-opens, is Alex Heller ready to return? Are the students ready to accept him? Or will someone seek vengeance?

As Jon Conway and Cassidy Hughes search for Emma, they set their differences aside to track down a potential lead. What happened to Emma? Will they ever see her alive again?

As Milo Anderson recovers from tragedy, a mysterious person contacts him again, with a startling declaration.

The mystery continues, and the danger increases, leading up to and unforgettable ending.

Brock Houser Part I

Ocean County, California

10 years ago…

Detective Houser knew he was staring into a set of guilty eyes the second the sleazeball peered from his side of the flimsy security chain which would pop off in an instant if Houser kicked the door in.

There is an undeniable look worn in the eyes of the guilty — a look you got to know as a cop. A look Houser had become aware of, and well-tuned to, as a child. For Houser, instinct was as accurate as any of his senses. His eyesight had failed him a few times, his instincts, at least in this area, not even once.

This was his man, sure as shit. The twisted fucker who had kidnapped six year old Cecilia Ramirez.

“Can I help you?” the man said from the shadows of his dark apartment.

“Hi, my name is Detective Houser. We’re talking to people in the neighborhood about a missing girl. I’d like to ask if you’ve seen her?”

Houser raised the photo for the man to see, fixed on his eyes the entire time.

Recognition? Yes. 

Guilt? Yes. Without a doubt.

Richard Jurgen was his man.

“Nope, haven’t seen a thing,” Richard shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

The man took a second longer glance at the photo, studying the gloss for a half-minute or so before raising his nervous eyes to meet Houser’s. “Nope, ain’t seen her.”

The monster started to close the door.

Houser slipped his boot against the bottom of the door, keeping it ajar. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask you about something one of your neighbor’s said.” Houser pretended like it was a question.

“Sure,” Jurgen said, easing his force on the door.

Houser kept his boot in place, but didn’t push on the wood.

“Someone said they saw you last Tuesday, with your hatchback backed up to the garage, late at night. They said it seemed like you were carrying something pretty heavy.”

Houser kept his eyes fixed on the monster, waiting for him to drown himself in a lie.

“I don’t remember,” he dove into the deep. “I often go out on my rounds late at night, picking up junk, looking for the furniture and stuff people leave out for trash. That’s not a crime all of a sudden is it?”

“No, Mr. Jurgen, not at all.” Houser shook his head, then looked down at his notes, flipping back a page for effect, then looked back up at the monster. “Odd thing was that your neighbor said the garage light was out, just like the light in your car.”

“So, what of it?” the man said, fear in his voice starting to smother the calm. “I can see well enough with the street lights. I can see you just fine, right?”

Bet both balls in the sack, this is our asshole. 

“OK, well then Mr. Jurgen, you won’t mind if we take a quick look around,” he said, nodding to his silent partner, Chan, who was standing to Houser’s left. “Just to save us some time, so we can get on with the search and rule you out.”

“You have a search warrant?”

Fucker.

“No, but based on what I do have, a warrant’s exactly one short phone call away. I was hoping that since you’ve nothing to hide, you wouldn’t mind if we took a quick look around so we can get out of your hair. We have to follow up on leads, if only to rule you out. I’m sure you understand.”

“I know my rights,” the monster said, his voice still even. “And I’m not letting you do anything without a warrant.”

“OK,” Houser said, pulling his boot from the doorway, then turning around and walking back to their car.

“Motherfucker,” Houser said once he and Chan were inside the cruiser. “She’s in there. I can fucking feel it.”

Chan put in a call to Judge Cleary seeking a warrant while Houser waited as patiently as he could, listening to Chan’s side of the conversation.

Come on, judge, don’t fuck this one up.

The tricky part of getting a warrant with this particular case was that the neighbor who alerted them to the suspicious activity, an old busybody named Earl Moody, had a long history of calling the cops on Jurgen for the sort of routine bullshit most neighbors handled themselves. In short, the two had bad blood, giving the judge enough cause to deny the warrant.

Chan’s voice went up an octave, letting Houser know where the conversation was headed.

Houser wanted to snatch the phone from his partner and rip Cleary a new one, but he was already on thin ice with Cleary, and was likely the reason the judge was giving Chan a hard time in the first place.

“Yes, your honor. Thank you,” Chan said, hanging up. He shook his head. “No dice.”

“Fuck!!” Houser screamed, slamming his fists into the steering wheel, then turning back to scowl at Jurgen’s house. The fucker was in his living room, peeking through his blinds at the cruiser.

Houser turned back to Chan. “You like this guy, right? It’s not just me.”

“Yeah, he’s hiding something, alright.”

“OK, we need to talk to more neighbors. See if we can find something from someone who isn’t the neighborhood douchebag, then ring Cleary back.”

Chan agreed, then suggested one of them hit the courthouse when it opened in the morning to see if they could find anything on the guy that wasn’t yet in the database. The courthouse was currently in the process — which seemed to be taking years — of moving their old records to online archives, so most of the crimes older than 10 years were still in their giant file vault.

Houser hated combing through old files slightly less than he hated sitting on his hands while Jurgen was inside his house with time to do God knows what, flushing evidence, arming himself to the teeth, raping the hell out of the girl, or whatever it was the condemned might do before the jaws of justice clamped on their ass.

Chan said, “Is that your way of saying you want me to go?”

Houser turned, with his biggest smile, “Pretty please?”

“You know I hate you, right?”

Houser laughed. “As if anyone could hate me. But one of us has to sit on this fucker in case he decides to bolt, and to be honest, I wanna be the first one through the door to knock the fucking smile from his face. And let’s face it, I’m a helluva lot faster than you if it comes to a foot chase.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But you owe me.”

“Whatever you want, man. Just name it. I got dinner for the next week. OK?”

“Week? How about two?”

“Two? Do I look rich?”

“Richer than me. You don’t have a wife, kids, daycare bills, or any of that shit.”

“Wah, wah, I’m so jealous of your sexy, single life, Houser,” Houser said, mocking Chan playfully. “Alright, two fucking weeks. But you better find something we can take to Cleary!”

**

Chan did.

At 8:15 a.m., 15 minutes after the courthouse opened, Houser’s cell rang.

Chan was practically yelling into the phone. “Seems our guy got busted peeping in some windows 11 years ago. One of the windows was of a little girl. Somehow he got off with a slap on the wrist.”

“Fuck! OK, I’ll call Cleary,” Houser said.

“Too late,” Chan said. “I already did. Warrant has been issued.”

“I love you, man. Three weeks! On me. OK, I’m going in. I’ve got another unit here and we’re going in.”

“K, I’ll be over in five,” Chan said.

“Alright, Houser called into the radio, alerting the officers camped behind Jurgen’s house, and to the side, just out of the man’s line of sight. “Let’s get this fucker!”

**

Houser burst through the freshly kicked-in door, stunned to see Jurgen standing right in the living room, naked, and aiming a .45  at Houser.

Houser fired, but not before Jurgen.

Jurgen’s shot slammed into Houser’s Kevlar vest, knocking him to the filthy carpet, and clearing the air from his body.

Houser’s shot hit the man between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Sgt. Combs kneeled next to Houser, “You OK?”

Houser took a moment, sucking in air, feeling beneath his vest to make sure there was no blood, before nodding. He would be bruised as hell, but he’d live.

Four cops, in addition to Houser, began to scour the man’s place, searching for any sign of the child. Upstairs, in an unused bedroom, Houser picked up the fresh scent of paint, and noticed that the fresh color on the wall behind a large bookcase — the same color of yellow, but brighter than the rest of the room. Drywall dusted the carpet. Houser put a finger behind the bookcase and pulled it away, yellow.

“Get up here!” he shouted, pulling the bookcase to the floor and sending volumes pouring from the shelf and into a pile.

A large wet paint spot barely concealed a bad plastering job, covering a wide hole in the wall. Houser knocked on the wall twice

“Hello?”

Houser heard a muffled cry.

Oh God.

His heart sped in his chest as the remaining officers poured into the room. Houser punched high where the wet spot started, straight through the quickly crumbling drywall, and began to tear a giant hole in the wall, throwing chunks of wet drywall to the ground.

Inside the wall, he found Cecilia, hands and feet bound, mouth gagged. Dark eyes staring up at him, barely clinging to life.

He reached into the wall and pulled her out, holding her closely. She was so tiny. And dirty, wearing the same pink, and now filthy, pajamas she’d been reported missing in.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he said laying her on the floor.

“Get the paramedics in here!” one of the other officers shouted. Paramedics were on standby downstairs.

Houser pulled the gag from the girl.

“Thank you,” her tiny voice barely said as her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

“No, no, no,” Houser said, shaking his head and hoping to God she wasn’t gonna die. Not now, just seconds after they found her.

Two paramedics rushed into the room and began to give the girl CPR.

Houser watched, helplessly from behind, as they attempted to revive her.

But they couldn’t, despite an eternity of trying.

Cecilia Ramirez was dead.

Celia’s dying eyes and whisper of voice were immediately and forever etched into Houser’s memory.

As the officers began collecting evidence, and the paramedics rolled the girl’s body from the house, Houser stood, went downstairs, then into the back yard for a moment alone.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to fucking shoot something.

But eyes were on him, cops and neighbors, and soon the media’s.

Houser had to stand quietly, holding his rage, swallowing regret, and making silent vows that he would never, ever, let anything like this happen again. A late search warrant and overcautious judge had murdered Cecilia Ramirez, just as much as Richard Jurgen.

* * * *

Read the rest right now:

WhiteSpace: Episode 3 www.amazon.com/dp/B008391S1A/

Amazon UK www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B008391S1A/

One area of this whole self-publishing, Print On Demand, e-book thing that seems to still be mired in confusion is the whole question of ISBNs. I myself am still confused about it, so let’s see if we can work it out all, shall we? I’ve mined the magical interweb for the answers to my ISBN questions, but they aren’t always presented in the most straight-forward way.

Some of the questions she answers:

• Do you need an ISBN for a Kindle or Smashwords e-book?
• Do you need one for a self-published hard copy at Createspace?
• Should you use a free ISBN or your own?
• What’s the advantage (and cost) to using your own?

And lot’s more.

Check out her post, which will clear up any ISBN-related questions you have.

But how do you know which e-book version matches which print version? If a new edition is released, it could be out of sync with the e-book.

And that’ just one of the copyright page errors that Self Publishing Review highlighted in a recent post.

So I started my study. I picked 30 ebooks and analyzed their copyright pages. Somebody must have missed the memo about what information is required and what format it should be presented in because we had a variety of formats and information, to say the least. Although 30 ebooks is not a very big sample, only one of them came close to what is needed to ID the source.

Amazon has seen the need to add the source information in their on-line product description to help. They have added a line: Page Number Source ISBN. But my ebooks didn’t have a clue to the original source.

Read the whole post here.

That’s what Craig Lancaster, a journalist and author with two books, is doing.

Lancaster’s first book, 600 Days of Edward, was borne from the NaNoWriMo challenge, after a motorcycle accident injury.

“I’m really very excited how Craig reaches out to his readers, goes into livingrooms, does his blog tour.”

Lancaster said marketing is one of the things that takes a writer away from his work. But in today’s publishing world, it’s something all authors must do.

Besides Lancaster’s active Twitter feed, blog and website, he’s taking “The Summer Son” on a “blog tour,” visiting other writers’ blogs and reaching out to a wide audience.

Read the whole article here.

As writers, too many of us settle for rejection all too easily.

The timing isn’t right. The market isn’t right. Our work isn’t right.

We get in a rut and lose faith. We settle.

While we usually like to summarize posts at Collective Inkwell, this might be a case where you’re better off just going to the post and reading for yourself.

Then I had children.

I no longer have the time, resources or stamina to keep up with sonic gems as I once did. Like many parents, my time is now restricted and my auxiliary hobbies reduced.

But I will always make time for Beck. When he comes out with something new, I buy it.

Why?

Because Beck is an exciting artist. He’s always interesting and has never let me down. His music is instantly warm, familiar, and each time not quite like anything I’ve heard before.

Isn’t that the type of author you’d like to be?

Your model doesn’t have to be Beck. He’s a good example for me because I’ve always been drawn to his music and style. I’m sure you have your own artist.

The artist you love probably shares many of these qualities.

Beck Followed His Muse

When Beck signed with Geffen for less money than other labels were offering, it was because they offered him creative control.

Good move.

Beck’s spent his career marching to the beat of his own drum and millions of fans have remained marching behind. He’s continued to make the music he wants to, enjoy his choice of collaborators, and follow his own artistic blueprint.

When it comes to your art, make sure you’re the one making the rules. Of course, you should listen to constructive criticism, but ultimately it’s your art. Bending it to make others happy will warp its individuality.

Be Persistent

Beck was living on the streets when he was signed.

I remember reading a interview in BAM!, a now-defunct but then free black and white circular that filled the music stores and littered the streets of LA back in the day. In that circular, Beck said the best thing about being signed was that he finally had his choice of breakfast cereal.

Beck kept doing what he wanted to do without changing it to suit the needs of anybody, despite the difficulty of his situation. He continued working hard because he knew that one day his hard work would pay off.

Of course that’s easier to do when you’re not even twenty and don’t have children, but we can all find the time to do what’s truly important.

Don’t Listen to the Naysayers

If Beck had been shopping for opinions in 1993 when recording his breakout hit, “Loser,” then somebody probably would’ve told him that the lyric, “My time is a piece of wax falling on a termite that’s choking on the splinters” was too incomprehensible to ever find its way to airplay.

But it launched his career and is now just one of countless loopy lines from the original Loser.

Many music critics doubted Beck would be anything more than a one-hit-wonder, relegated to the cut out bins. However, Beck continued to follow his muse, experimenting with different musical styles and found more success in 1996 with his second major label release, Odelay, which garnered him two Grammys.

Even the best authors have been told their stories weren’t good, right for the market, or were unoriginal. However, the truly good authors don’t give up on themselves or their stories. They find a way to persevere and find the right audience.

Just Do it

Beck didn’t wait to get signed, nor did he a need million-dollar studio time to generate a hit. “Loser” was recorded on a friend’s 8-track, picked up by local LA stations, then spread across the country.

Soon enough there was a bidding war. The rest is history.

You’ll have your own way of doing it, but it will never happen if you don’t get started.

Create what’s inside you, as authentically as you can, then get it in front of as many eyes as possible. With social media, artists have never had more power to find the audience that’s perfect for them.

Then, when you are successful, remember the true you and continue to nurture it.

Your audience will love you. Even more important, they will make time for your art even after their lives become crowded with too much to do and not enough time to do it.

Be your best writer and see your book to print. Subscribe to the Inkwell for free updates by RSS or Email.

I thought it was pretty exciting when Mr. Platt let me guest post over at Writer Dad on Wednesday, but the Inkwell is even better. I’m usually not even allowed to read this site because my dad said that sometimes it’s inappropriate. I tried to tell him that was really only on Fridays and not even anymore since they moved their horror story to its own thingy, but then he asked me how I even knew about the story in the first place and then I had to leave the room.

Anyway, Mr. Platt said it might be kind of fun to publish something at the Inkwell since that’s where a bunch of other authors hang out. Then I said that I wasn’t really sure if that was a good idea and that I didn’t consider myself an author. I’ve only written the one book after all, and it hasn’t even really come out yet. Besides, I’m only in sixth grade.

“Did you write a book?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then you’re an author.”

My mom gets really mad at me when I argue with grownups so I just said okay. Then I started to get excited.

I don’t want to be one of those writers who repeats themselves all the time, so I won’t talk about what the book is all about like I did at Writer Dad. Instead I’d like to talk about what I plan to do with the book since that’s probably what you’re more interested in anyway.

A couple of days ago I released my new book, Penny to a Million in a really pretty PDF and it’s available as a free download. I wrote all the words, of course, but I had Collective Inkwell do the book cover because whenever I try to draw something my sister Nicky makes fun of me. Making a book cover that a whole bunch of people are going to see would probably be like a million times worse.

I’m gonna put the book in print, probably in a couple months or so. But I’m giving the PDF to the first 1,000 people who want it. After that I’m going to charge like five bucks.

I read the thing I was supposed to read over at SmashWords, so next week I plan to get the book in a whole bunch of different formats and stuff. I hope to get it done quickly, but I’ll get in trouble if I finish it before I’m done with my science project. Our teacher gave us the prompt in September, but I haven’t even started mine, even though it’s due in March. My mom is trying not to get mad at me, but I think I’m pushing her.

Anyway, when I’m all done with SmashWords, then I’m going to do the podcast. Except I’m probably going to have Mr. Platt help me record since my voice has been a little squeaky lately.

Mr. Platt said I could come back and talk about what it was like to put the book on SmashWords and record the podcast, but he also said it was up to me. I might blog about it over at my site, but I haven’t decided. I have a lot on my plate and everything. Plus, there’s this girl I really like and I heard her tell her friend Wendy that she thought blogging was nerdy. I’m on Twitter though, if you want to follow me.

If the book does well, I’ll write another one because a LOT has happened so far in sixth grade.

If you want to be one of the people who gets to read my book for free, you can download it here.

Thanks for reading!

Be your best writer and see your book to print. Subscribe to the Inkwell for free updates by RSS or Email.

We apologize for the lack of Available Darkness updates for the past two weeks. First we had the holidays and then we’ve been getting Collective Inkwell 3.0 ready behind the scenes. And we’re VERY excited about the changes, including a brand spanking new design, which might be my favorite yet. You can check out the changes on Monday, Jan. 4th.

We look forward to seeing you then.

Thank you for reading.

Swallow enough pills and sleep eventually finds you. For Jack, it came quickly. His breathing relaxed and he found himself deep in his dreams, though he wasn’t in the bedroom of his youth. He was somewhere else.

Jack stood on a deck overlooking a pristine white shore, familiar, though only through the hazy fog of fragmented memory. He was more relaxed than he’d remembered feeling in a while. Chasing criminals has a way of owning you even when off duty. Prior to their mutual “I do’s,” Julia used to continually complain, both with words and dancing eyes, about his inability to unplug from work and just be happy.

Julia!

He remembered the shoreline; the pristine white sands of Aruba, where he and Julia spent three amazing weeks on their honeymoon. Which was, oddly enough, probably the last time he’d felt at peace. Julia had made him promise to take three weeks off from work, a luxury he’d never experienced, even though he’d probably built up a half year’s worth of vacation time. He didn’t want to. He had too much work and knew it would pile up without his constant attention.

“The world will still turn and the job will get done without you,” Julia had said.

And she was right. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he found his shoulders relaxing long enough to let him enjoy life. An epiphany, Jack returned home with renewed purpose. Life was his to create. Family first, a husband’s duty.

That vow lasted almost until the end of his first week back until Jack found himself buried alive with a case that kept him hostage to the office from early light to mocking moon. One case turned to two, then weeks to months and months to years until just like that, he found that he’d slowly surrendered his limbs to the shackles of fate without even realizing it.

Waves lapped. Jack took a sip of wine. Behind him, he heard a muffled voice from the other side of the double French doors of their honeymoon villa. Though he was deep into dream and memory, a part of him was also aware of the waking life in which his wife was long since dead. His eager heart sped in his chest.

It had been so long since she had visited his dreams. Even though he’d wake up sad, these brief moments were better than nothing. He opened the door and…

…was again a child, back in the middle of that awful night which had been blotted from his memory ever since, stepping gingerly into the darkened hallway. Downstairs, his father was still screaming at his mother. The shadow man was just ahead of him, at the landing of the stairs. He turned back and in that dissonant voice, warned Jack to wait.

And Jack did.

Moments later, he heard his father cry out, “What the fuck?”

The end of fuck was severed by a ripping sound followed by a wet thud and a splash which sent chills down Jack’s spine.

He’s dead.

While a part of him should have been happy that the man who tormented he and his mother would no longer do so, the reality of murder did not bring the relief he’d sought. Panicked tears welled inside and warm piss trickled down Jack’s leg.

His mother screamed. At first Jack assigned the sound to the horror of seeing her husband murdered. Yet the scream held an elevated fear which went far beyond the terror of a frightened witness, sharp as it was with the acid panic of self preservation.

“Hello, mother,” the man in shadows said in a voice of boots crunching atop vomit soaked gravel.

Then, the sound of ripping flesh and gurgling, followed by silence.

Jack waited, fear circling the drain of his throat.

She’s dead, you killed her!

The adult part of Jack was frozen as well. He remembered nothing of this night from his youth, these memories were not the ones of how he knew his parents to have died, yet he knew it wasn’t a dream. This was a truth he’d been hiding from, or … which had removed from his mind. Entombed memories were no less real for their burial. He urged his dream self to take a step forward, to unravel the rest of the mystery.

“Mommy!” young Jack screamed, bolting down the stairs and into the living room.

He saw the still smoldering corpse of his father, flesh still bubbling as his headless body twitched. Wherever his father’s head was, it wasn’t anywhere next to his body.

The next two things he noticed in unison.

The shadow man, now looking slightly more human in form, stood in the center of the living room with his arms outstretched, while his mother, throat slashed and blood soaking through the thin gauze of her night shirt, danced. Her arms were raised, her lifeless head rolling back and forth barely there and maybe only by a thread. Her feet hovered inches above the ground. The shadow man moved his arms wildly like a crazed marionette as Jack’s mother danced some perverse jig. The shadow man continued to vent a smog of chilling laughter during the macabre recital.

Jack screamed. The shadow man turned to him, surprised, and allowed his mother to collapse in an inanimate heap.

“Forgive me, a son should have one final dance with his mother, yes?” The trailing S, a serpent’s hiss.

Jack was confused. He longed to run at the monster, pound him, tear him apart, anything. But fear bolted his ankles to the floor.

“You don’t remember me, do you Jackie?” the monster said, drifting closer.

Jack wanted to turn and run. The adult Jack also wanted to turn away, tears streaming down his sleeping cheeks. Neither Jack could do anything but watch the mind movie that had no pause.

Finally, the child spoke.

“Why did you kill her?”

“Because!” the monster yelled, his voice sounding more boyish and human than before, “she left me. You all left me behind.”

“She’s not your mother!” Jack cried out.

“Ah, what have they done to you, brother? You really don’t remember me, do you? It’s me … Jacob.”

And just like that, the shape of the shadow man dissipated like spider webs in a tornado, and standing before Jack was a boy, not much older than he, wearing a black shirt and pants, coated in the fresh blood of Jack’s parents.

Jack was torn between confusion, anger and a sudden, incredible sadness. None of this was making any sense and his head felt as if it were going to split and spill its contents.

“She made you forget,” Jacob said, “but I,” and he pointed at his head and spread his lips in a lunatic’s smile, “I NEVER forget!”

The monster boy stepped forward and Jack took a step back, shaking.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you two. You‘re my brothers.”

Brothers? Two? Who else is he talking about? Adult Jack was puzzled, though his mind was too entrenched in the dream to work out the logic at play.

The monster headed to the front door, opened it, and disappeared into the night.

This was all too much for young Jack, what was he supposed to do now? His head hurt and more than anything, he wanted to march behind his mother right into the arms of death. Adult Jack was feeling the same feelings as he was experiencing this, in some way, for the first time. Part of him wanted to die right there in his dream. To spare him of not only this, but of living alone in this cold world without Julia.

But he couldn’t.

A tiny voice called from upstairs, “Is he gone?”

Jack glanced up at the four year old peering back between the banisters. A boy so young should not see such things.

Adult Jack was dumbstruck. I have a brother?

“Go back in your room, Johnny!” Jack shouted, tears twisting his voice into a gasp.

Confusion, shock and pain were twined like hair in a braid, but he couldn’t allow himself to shut down. Though he were just a child himself, he had to protect John. Family first, a brother’s duty.

__________

Jack snapped awake.

“John?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

I haven’t had time to write, but I did want to connect. I’ll be laying down my thoughts on Vegas soon. Dave and I have a more definitive direction planned for the Inkwell, though we’ll be sticking with the same pretty decor!

What’s Going Down at the Inkwell from Sean Platt on Vimeo.

Enjoy the video and we’ll see you soon!