The Mystery of the Somerton Man and Why my OCD Slows my Writing

So April's just around the corner--hopefully with some warm weather in tow--and my next story scheduled for publication is coming along with it. The story, called TAMAM SHUD, will be published by Padwolf Publishing as part of their anthology Lucky 13.

When the editor contacted me a year ago, I was invited to write a Mystery/Noir story for them. "What, me? Mystery? But... but I write horror..." I said. To myself, of course. There was no way in freaking hell that I'd reject this opportunity, right? I mean, this was only the second time a venue asked me for a story! My short answer to them was "When do you need it for?"

And so began my struggle to find a non-paranormal story worth telling. Now, I like to have nuggets of historical facts in all of my stories. If you do it right, the combination of fact and fiction lends itself to a "Blair Witch Project effect" where the reader starts to wonder what came out of the writer's mind, and what did actually happen. And that's a lot of fun, but very hard to pull off. And time-consuming.

I jumped into two week-long, fifteen-hours-a-day internet search for just the perfect mystery that tickled my fancy. By day four I was exhausted and stressed out of my mind.

Then, when I was about to lose my faith, I found a blog about The Mystery of the Somerton Man. Angels sang in a chorus, and a ray of heavenly sun touched my screen. Considered one of the biggest mysteries of the last century, it has inspired volumes of books, blogs, and millions of house-bound sleuths. And because I know what kind of a creepy-stuff-lover you are, here are the facts to that story.

Also known as the Tamam Shud Case, it began at 6:30 in the morning of December 1st, 1948 in Somerton Beach, Australia. Police were called after the body of a man was found lying on the beach under a street lamp. The dead man was wearing a dress shirt, black suit pants, no jacket, and neither his shoes or socks had any sand on them.

Did I tell you he was found on a beach? And I don't mean on the edge of the beach where you sit to smoke a cigarette and enjoy the view, but way inside the beach where you go to work on your tan. Wearing work clothes.

But it gets better...

Police found no wallet or ID, only a used bus ticket and an unused train ticket. While the forensic team worked on the autopsy, police went to that train station and retrieved a single piece of luggage the man had left in consign. No luck finding a person to identify him.

Upon their return, police learned that all of the tags from the man's clothes had been previously cut. There were no signs of a violent death or any other apparent cause for the man to stop breathing. The only clue found was a piece of paper hidden inside a secret pocket on the man's trousers. It said TAMAM SHUD, which is Persian and means "Finished" or "Ended". Inside the suitcase they found the missing jacket, yet again with the tags removed and no means of identification.

Eventually investigators found out the piece of paper was actually from a very rare copy of an old Persian book of poems called The Rubaiyat by Omar Kahyyam. The rest of the book was found on the back seat of a car. The car owner didn't even know the book was there. He had driven around the beach area on the evening before, searching for a friends house. Inside the book, a note was scribbled. In code. No one has ever been able to decipher it.

Think you can crack it? Fame can be yours!

But what was the cause of death? Well poisoning, maybe. A half digested pastry was found on the man's stomach, but when tested for every poison known to man, the lab came back with a resounding "Heck if we know."

And now you see why this creepy and baffling mystery was the perfect inspiration for my first Mystery/Noir tale.

If like me you have to know everything there is to this case, follow the link. There's plenty more mysteries I didn't write here. Maybe later you can share with me your theories...

Based on True Stories: A Nightmare on Elm Street

People in the writing business--and movie making--often say that there is nothing new under the sun. Every story is based on another story, on a real situation, on a century-old question. Everything that you can think of, someone has done before... talk about a downer. Truth is that original ideas are very hard to come by and after 2000 years of making up stuff, the well of new is not overflowing anymore.

But there is hope still. For those of us who like to create for a living, there are two possibilities: You are either one of those amazing minds that can still coop up the next best thing ever--Hello to all the Einsteins, Steve Jobs, and the like--or you can re-tell a known tale in an extraordinary way. And here is where Wes Craven and one of his master pieces, A Nightmare on Elm Street, come in.

For ages, males of Asian origin have been dying in their sleep. And I'm not talking about babies here but full grown, perfectly healthy men. Depending on the country, there are a series of legends and demons that have been blamed for such deaths. These countries' rich folklore has accounts as old as civilization and we westerners had no idea of how deeply rooted the fear of dying in your sleep was for the other side of the world. Until the late 1970s and early 1980s that refugees running away from their war-torn countries found their way into the USA.

As reported by the New York Times on May 9, 1981, The Federal Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta conducted "... an intensive inquiry into the manner in which 18 apparently healthy Laotian refugees died mysteriously in their sleep in this country within the last four years. One possibility being explored is that they were frightened to death by nightmares."

Surprised? I know I was--and more than a bit freaked out.

In the end the deaths were attributed to the Brugada Syndrome, where an apparently healthy man's heart (it is much more common among Asian men) fibrillates during sleep, causing a fatal arrhythmia, and death. And even though today we can diagnose the disease with an ECG, not every Nightmare Death Syndrome case (or Sudden Unexplained Death Syndrome, as it is known these days) can be explained in this way.

So, there you go, another freaky place where inspiration was found. But, if you're not Asian, or male, don't feel too relieved, yet. After all, Freddy might still be lurking under your bed.



Have nice dreams. =)

Creepy Places Where Inspiration Hides

L'Inconnue de la Siene.

This is an eerie, weird, and somewhat twisted tale where reality proves once more that it can be stranger than fiction.

The story of L'Inconnue de la Siene (translated from French, "the unknown woman from the Sienna") started in the late 1880s, when the body of a young girl was found floating on the River Sienna. Her identity remained a mystery but the Parisian pathologist in charge of the body, awe-struck at her beauty, decided to make a plaster-cast death mask. And so, where the earthly life of the unknown girl finished, the bizarre, immortal existence of L'Inconnue began.

Soon, more plasters were made of her and the bust became a fashionable, morbid fixture of bohemian Paris. The beauty of L'Inconnue inspired world-renown artists and writers, such as Albert Camus and Richard LeGalliene. People wondered, based on the mask's tranquil features, what in death the girl had found and who she might've been in live. Whole generations of women shaped their images on the young girl's (dead) face, and she became the Mona Lisa of the time.

Creepy much? Wait, it gets better.

In an ironic twist the pathologist could have never foreseen, in 1958 the first CPR doll, Rescue Annie, was created using the drowning victim's cast as a model. These days L'Inconnue is also known as "the most kissed face of all time."

Books inspired by this story: The Worshiper of the Image by Richard LeGalliene, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke, The Recognitions by William Gladdis, The Drowning Girl by Caitlin R. Kiernan, and Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk, among many others.

But the question is, where will inspiration catch you?

A Real Mexican Party. The truth Behind 5 de Mayo.

Today I won't talk about character development nor reading or writing novels, I will actually use this space to reach a hand out to my roots and say: VIVA MEXICO! I'll also try to set the record straight about what really is one of the most important days in Mexico's holiday calendar.

There's no doubt about it, Catholicism is a big thing in my Country and above all, we (as a people, this is not about me) are devoted followers of the Virgin of Guadalupe, so no surprise when the number one important holiday in Mexico turns out to be December 12th, the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe. It is pure chaos because almost everyone works half-day but the city is bursting with people coming from every corner of the country in an endless procession. Some in cars, some walking, some in knees!! all trying to get to the Basilica dedicated to our Patron.

The second most important holiday would have to be September 15th, our Independence Day. Now, this is where things got twisted somehow. Don't ask me why but people in the US (including Mexican-Americans) celebrate 5 de Mayo as the great patriotic party but it isn't! Actually, in Mexico we barely remember that day and it's celebrated in no way or manner. However, September 15th is big, and when I say big I don't meant to say fireworks-big, I mean monthly-ilumination-of-every-street, decorations-hanged-from-every-public-building, fireworks, fairs, costume-party, drinking-and-eating-party-in-every-house big. You see, the one thing we mexicans know how to do is partying.

There is a very specific ritual to the celebration and it has its reasons, so I'll first give you a bit of background and then I'll share what my family, in particular, do for this date.

Back in 1810, Mexico was under Spain's boot and it was hard being anything other than spaniard. There were four classes of people: Spaniards, which represented the minority but held the best positions in public office and every social benefit; Criollos, which were born of spaniard mother and father but in the New Spain and had no access to the politic elite; Mestizos and Indios made the two lowest casts, one born from the union of locals and spaniards, the other (and the lowest in the ladder), the original inhabitants of the lands. Since most Indians had no other education but religious, the independent movement was organized by Criollos. The Father of our country, Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, had two important attributes that made him the perfect leader of the insurgency: He was a priest and a criollo.

For months the insurgency planned and rumours ran rampant but the night of September 15th the King's Forces discovered the place where the meetings were taking place and sent a group of soldiers to off the traitors. When the news reached the group, forced into action, Don Miguel Hidalgo decided to do the best he could to mount a serious resistance and kick start the War of Independence. He rang the bell of his church, convoking every member of his congregation and, uttering an inflamed speech, he armed them with clubs and whatever thing could've served as a weapon. And so it started the first of two horrible wars that brought a lot of blood and pain to my country but also gave us an identity.

These days, we try to replicate a bit the original call to action of that september of 1810. Last year was the bicentenary of our independence and I'll post here a video of the celebration in the Historic Quarters of the city, better known as El Zocalo. But first I'll share with you a few of the fondest memories of my childhood.

We are a big family on my father's side; my mother's side is even bigger but we always celebrated Independence Day with my father's. Between uncles, cousins, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and a couple of friends, we massed something like thirty people. Everyone convened in preparing one typical mexican meal (don't get me started with the food, that's a whole new entry); we gathered in my grandma's house and everyone had to be disguised in period clothing. Quite amusing for all the youngsters. We'd eat, chat and drink, and close to midnight (the hour when traditionally it is believed the original call to war was uttered) one of my uncle's would wear a wig and special clothing so he resembled Miguel Hidalgo. He'd go atop a table set for that purpose and would reenact El Grito (that's how it's called). Then he would sound a bell close to him and all of us would yell and make crazy noise. The party went on until all hours of the night but everyone in the block was doing the same thing, so no problem.

Ah, the memories... I have to tell you, to this day my skin crawls in patriotism when I see our president in turn screaming to the top of his lungs VIVA MEXICO! and all the people answering VIVA!! There's no other feeling like it and I'm never more mexican that during those brief minutes...

Feliz Dia de la Independencia!