Monday story

It was a dark, dark night, only not silent; amongst hundreds of youngsters who had come here to express themselves it was impossible to keep it quiet. Even when the speeches had commenced and the guy had grabbed a microphone, it was hard to concentrate on the voice above the many indistinct conversations.

That's how it had started and all that previous joyful noise made the dead silence ringing in her ears right now, so threatening. A pungent odour assaulted her nose, it was the powder and something else so horrible she didn't want to think about it but it was taking all her might to keep it out of her mind. A new series of sharp distant explosions echoed through the night; she held her breath and squirmed her eyes concentrating on bringing back the memories of that evening. Thinking about it, hell had begun quite beautifully. Who would've known that the end of her world could be announced in such a way.

Through out the speeches, two guys were flanking at all times, the person who held the microphone; just there, standing and watching over all the congregation from the first floor of the building facing the square where all the students gathered. Monica was one of the students of course, and was captivated by the sense of freedom that was brought to her by the loud words reverberating through the sound system. Then something had gone wrong.

She didn't know what happened first but close to the end of the meeting, in the sky shone a mesmerizing red light, like fireworks, and she thought -Gee, this guys really know how to put a show!- 

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone taking the microphone forcibly from the speaker's hands and shove him to the floor. What was said she din't understand, but the sound of more pyrotechnics filled the air and people screaming started running in every possible direction. Monica was left confused and standing in the middle of it all, as all hell broke lose. It was then that she realized they were doomed. Surrounded by buildings, the only scape was to her back and she could see armed men on top of every building.

She turned in a hurry, just in time to see a pregnant girl fall to the ground face first when a bullet got her dead centre. Completely horrified, Monica run with all her might towards what she knew was the only exit even though she could see it was blocked. Suddenly her legs got caught in something and she fell flat; something worm and squishy cushioned her fall. The smell coming from it and what she could feel on her skin got the best of her and she shrieked. To her luck, it was deafened by shotguns intent on shutting down all similar screams.

Even more frightened now, she held her eyes shot tight as the slew of shots and screams went on.

Little by little all went back to quiet and the realization came to her that there weren't many alive people left. She opened her eyes back to reality and risked a glance up, still avoiding to look into what had stopped her short of the floor. She could see trucks. People with a white handkerchief tied to their left arm were piling the bodies into them. When Monica was about to look down, she saw a young boy, no more that 18, getting up and darting to the entrance of a building, but one of the others got him with a bayonet and punished him in a crazy rage until the bleeding body slew lifeless out of her sight.

Monica closed her eyes again and knew what she had to do. She'll play dead...

Ideas, Ideas...

Today I'm enjoying a well deserved long weekend with my husband's cousin in Jersey. The weather has been nice; humid and mild compared to cold, cold Montreal and though rain threatened to ruin our day, it was kept at bay by the good gods that protect tired student-mothers on vacations.

Right about now, my mental batteries are 'bout half way up in recharge and, by tuesday, I'll be fired up and ready to go. My trusty quality supervisor (the husband) hasn't yet been able to proof-read my previous story, Feast Day. I'm hoping he'll get to it through the week and I'll be checking mags taking in submissions as soon as I finish this update.

Next week I'll send a few mails everywhere and start to make the rounds trying to get it published. The other thing that'll keep me thoroughly busy is to start working in two different stories where I already have the generals written and it's time to get to the narrative. There are actually quite a few in the works: there's the one that involves 'end of the world' kinda stuff with a touch of biblical spices; this one is planned to be a series of short stories all intertwined by a few threads only, so, in all reality, these are a pack of five short stories. Then there's the one that deals with japanese ghost lore; and finally the one that I'm planning to write in spanish...

So, lots of ideas to chose from... not enough time. What is one to do? I don't know if I should go for the shortest ones and work up to the lengthiest or the other way around. It's a hard decision but, since I'm supposed to be back at french school by the first week of may, I'll go with the shortest and work hard to get that first draft soon; then keep going for the other first drafts. When I have them, start all over again with the seconds and so forth until I get to a satisfactory bunch of final manuscripts... in say, six to eight months?

I always blow up my schedules; I'm lousily bad organized like that. But there's no hurry, all that matters is good stories, right? And maybe a few good mags and editors interested in them.

As labours are reassumed and work advanced, I'll keep updating you and maybe even giving you a few glimpses into the stories.

Don't go too far.

Impossibilities

A few years ago, I went with my sister in law to the movies to watch "The Haunting in Connecticut". We had fun, screamed a bit  and laughed a lot since the guy next to us spent the whole movie rocking himself front to back and saying "I'm scared" while covering his eyes... now, that's what I call entertaining.

During the movie, one of the characters recites fragments of a Hughes Mearns' poem and fragments of another poem that caught my attention. After some research I came to know the second one is considered a "Lying song" that's aimed at being a moral exercise and there are other kind of 'poems' called "Nonsense Verses". The latter have become a bit of a passion of mine but it's not easy to find information about them.

Anyway, that's when I decided to try my hand at this kind of writing. I wrote poetry very early in my life, most always in spanish and not very successfully; but I was a child. As years went by, I kept writing poetry and, I have to say, there are a few that still today give me goosebumps. As you all know, I eventually transitioned to short stories and novel but my curiosity about poetry has always rested within me. Here I share with you my first attempt at a "Nonsense verse" and, though I know it's no master piece, I think you might enjoy it.

IMPOSSIBILITIES

Timmy visits me everyday,
the dark of night lights his way.
I see him walking without legs.
Please, please go away.
The dead boy lively chats
in an empty house full of life.
I ask him to leave me alone,
but he comes back even more.
He'll haunt my dead soul as I live,
how I wish him to be free.
On the day and night that become one,
the sun shines dark and
the moon rises high;
on such day he'll go home
dancing sadly without song.
Rejoicing many that he's here,
going closer without feet.
He visits me every night,
even when nobody's around
please... please, go away!
but he misses me, he says.

By Georgina Morales.

Reading and Learning

You always hear how great writers are also great readers. Well, I haven't been abiding by that law for some time. It has always been a great scape of mine to read; I actually read my way out of my worst depression ever, and before having kids I used to read as much as five books a week. Admittedly, I did little else but read; I was single, on vacation (a half-year sabbatical), and with no friends in the city... so, things have changed... a little.

In previous posts I've told you all about my present hectic schedule and I'm not THAT crazy to believe I'll be able to make even a book a week; no, my goal is much more attainable: twelve books per year.

Of course I don't start january first: ready, set, go. I take it slowly and get 'party season' out of my system first, but eventually, I make my way to it. Now, another matter that can grind the whole thing to a stop is the selection of books. I gave it a lot of thought and after reading, twice, each Twilight book last year and nibble "The Host", unsuccessfully I must add; there were no "in" books that attracted me that much. So, this year I decided to start with the classics. You see, I'm Mexican, meaning I know something about Latin-American Literature but very little about English Literature.

There, I had my road plan. I started around end february with Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice", followed by Richard Matheson's "Hell House", back to Austen's "Sense and Sensibility" and presently I turned gears to J. K. Rowling's "H.P. and the Philosopher's Stone" in french. I figured, as long as I'm reading, I might as well go ahead and make my french teachers happy.

Four books... well, three books and a half, so far... not too shabby! I have to say, though, I'm finding Austen's stories not as compelling as I imagined them to be. I don't want to upset anyone but after hearing a lot about them, I found them a little slow. Too much beating around the bushes for my taste, and in the case of "Sense and Sensibility", not rewarding enough. However, I may have chosen exactly those who cater worst for myself and to get a better sense of her style, I'll read a couple more, or maybe all of them... call me a purist.

As for Matheson's "Hell House", I liked it a lot. I might be antiquated, but I happen to love classic haunted houses and ghost stories. This one gave me a couple of restless nights and in general was VERY entertaining. Since I'm a sucker for everything paranormal, I'm more or less up to date to the latest 'science' of investigating ghostly apparitions. This might have actually hindered my enjoyment of the story. It was written in the mid 70's and relies quite heavily on medium seances and 'ectoplasmic' production. Since these methods have long ago been proven a hoax, I found its constant presence a bit of a turn off and somewhat hard to block from my mind. Anyway, I hadn't came across a book that gave me nightmares since Stephen King's "The Shining" and it's a gratifying feeling.

What's next? Well, this is my plan as of today. After Harry Potter I'll go back to the english language with "Dorian Gray's Picture", probably Matheson's "Stir of Echoes", "Harry Potter and the Chaber of Secrets" (back to french), another Austen work, "Wuthering Heights"... and I'll figure where to go from there.

There are hundreds of books to chose from, and sometimes the amount of possibilities makes it real hard to take a decision. For this reason, whatever advise you could give me would be greatly appreciated. Remember, I'm trying to get a crush course in English and American Literature but I'm not an over-educated snub and my taste might be a bit too simple: great stories, simply written and great finales... Isn't that what we're all expecting? =D

Chronic of a Predicted Death

"Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna run?
Where you gonna hide?
Nowhere
Cause there's no one... like you... left..."

Invasion of the body snatchers (1993)


It was coming, she could feel it in her skin. A tingling sensation running through her body. Her 'spidey sense' just recently acquired but fully alive telling her the end was close.

The body in front of her, half eaten; herself covered in blood. She wondered how had it come to this. Only a week ago, life was beautiful; perfect. She had been offered a full ride into one of the most prestigious universities of the country and her boyfriend of three years had finally popped the question. How could it go wrong?

The sensation became stronger, like a live wire connected to her veins telling her to run but she knew there was no escape.

Her best friend, Allison, had told her about a psychic; she begged her to go with her. In the beginning it had been fun. The woman was pleasant, chatty and good humoured. Allison had gone first. The typical questions, Who am I going to marry? Will I be successful? followed by the typical happy answers. You'll be greatly loved. Your hard work will pay off... You'll have 23 children and a house with white-picket fence... yadda, yadda.

Then it was her turn.

Will I be happy?

She had shuffled the cards and selected three. The first depicted a man laying on the floor with ten swords sunken in his back. The second, a hooded man standing in front of three overthrown cups with two more still standing behind him. The last one, that of a tower being hit by lightning, burning away with people falling from it.

Not too encouraging- She said, laughing nervously but soon fell silent when the ashen-faced lady looked at her.

I'm sorry but terrible changes are coming your way. There's nothing you can do to avoid it. Life as you know it, will cease to exist.


What- what do you mean 'cease to exist'?!- She had been surprised but most of all, upset; thinking the woman was making a cruel joke.

Don't fall pray to false starts, it'll condemn your soul-

She wondered what on earth the woman was talking about. Allison freaked out, grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the store's door.


The murderers are eating the flesh of the ones they killed-


This most definitely was too much, she turned to see the woman; in her face, two white marbles. Like clouds on a stormy day, they cleared little by little back to resemble human eyes. She turned back to Allison in panic and hurried to the door. When they were about to cross it the lady held her arm so strong it left a mark. In her normal voice she advised her, When the light comes, don't run from it. It'll set you free-


She released her arm and ran away to Allison's car as fast as her petite figure aloud her. Who would've thought how soon her words would ring true in her mind.

She looked at her hands and clothes. The blood was drying, making her skin feel flakey and uncomfortable. Her attacker casting a bright light shining in the horizon, just barely visible now but soon enough it'd reach her. Ignoring the corpse in front of her, she concentrated only in the dandelions that were to be her bed of death.

Two days after the readings she had been mugged; or at least that had been her first assumption. The thing had left her wounded but not dead and when she crawled up from under the little pedestrian bridge in Central Park where she had been robed of her life, nothing was the same. She felt different. She could feel things in a way she had never before. Her senses more alive than ever.

The moon had casted a silvery light on her and it felt so good. A late runner came in her direction, unable to see the figure standing under the night, crouching. It was a man listening to his ipod: Britney Spears. It was so loud she wondered if the man was deaf on top of lame. She had to fight the strong impulse to jump on him. She was so hungry! It had taken all her self control. From then on she had hid from human contact, sleeping through the day and walking through the night. Until last night.

She had been avoiding main highways, taking parkways where less people walked and more animals were available. Then a dumb kid lost his dog. He came out yelling its name without caring who else would hear him. He had walked past the woods and closer to her. After five days of walking and barely eating...

The sun was coming out. When the light comes, don't run from it. It'll set you free- She remembered, -It'll set you free-

Looking at the carcass in front of her she asked him for forgiveness. She closed her eyes and awaited her destiny.

By Georgina Morales

Sales Agent

A few weeks have gone by since my first novel was published. At first I had no idea of what to expect or how these things work; I was kind of expecting that adds would appear in magazines right away, there'd be critics posting its opinion in a few media and if I was really lucky, maybe doing an interview or a signing of books... you know what I mean: SELLING MY BOOK.

Well, as things work out, it is a lot slower than I thought. The adds that have been already paid are supposed to appear printed in march, a few copies will be send soon to specific targets like critics, news, magazines and small libraries; and a possible, and I repeat POSSIBLE signing of books might happen some time in august... a whole six months after the book's being available in libraries...

BTW, did I forget to tell you I live in Canada and my editor in Ohio??? Yeah, that's right. Now I'm confronted with a situation in which I have to find the time to learn how to promote a book on my own and learn the ropes not only of a writer, but as my own agent here in Montreal. All these of course, when like everybody else, the one thing I have not is TIME. Anyway, there's agencies that are dedicated to this but the other thing I don't have is money; and then, here I am looking through several newspapers trying to figure out who should I call and how should I let them know about my novel. Trust me, it'd be a daunting task for the ablest and I'm the kind of person who is unable to sell water in the desert. What more can I say but: HELP! Anyone out there that could lend me a hand or that has any ideas as to where to go or who to call, I'll be forever in your debt.

I hope little by little word of mouth will mount up as more people in the real world gets in contact with the book; and as my Publishing House grows, it will bring more exposition to the novel. With a bit of luck I'll get out of this not with a bestseller, but with a decent-seller and a lot more knowledge. Wish me luck!

Inspiration

When I tell people I'm a writer there's one question that sooner or later will get out of their mouths and that's: "Where do you get your inspiration?" This has to be the most common question a writer gets and I bet at some point it must turn pretty tiresome. Most writers have a "scripted" answer that they'll regurgitate at parties or interviews but in my case, having very few works to my name, sometimes the question really sends me into thinking for an honest answer.

Case in point, the other day a guy not only asked me the famous question but also added something to the effect of: "I guess you're always thinking of horrible things and expecting things to go bad; killing people in your mind or seeing ghost everywhere, don't you? Always surrounded by darkness"

WOW. I was flabbergasted. It's true that I write about awful things but that's not what's popping into my mind when I'm talking to a friend; it's not like I'm thinking -Wouldn't it be great if her head exploded right now?- C'mon people! So where do I get my ideas??

Well, I like to think that like most adults I ponder things and think about the worst case scenario. Kids in general, but primarily teens will decide to do things without much thinking about consequences; that things can go wrong and cause some life-altering events is not ingrained in their minds. Adults, on the other hand will always think about this, or at least they're supposed to do.

If a friend is telling me about this stupid thing she did when she was younger, I will think about those consequences and throw into the mix something that scares me. I think that what makes a story scary is the human possibilities; is thinking it can happen to us, is throwing through the window every safety net our society provides us and look for the chaos that ensues; the common things are our blanky and where they're pulled off our hands, it sends us into panic. It's for these reasons that I always develop the human aspect of a story, the characters, their motivations, what scares them; and only when that is established and the basic story is enough to give me the creeps, will I think of a supernatural turn of events and add it to the plot.

The supernatural event is the easiest part because it lurks everywhere. Who doesn't love a great ghost story? There are THOUSANDS of sites dedicated to spread the word about "real" haunted places, haunted people, ghost pictures; and if that's not enough every other person out there knows a story, personal or otherwise. I, myself, have my own experiences, most of them product of a young scary feverish mind but there are a couple that even to this day baffle me. So there you go, not at a lost for inspiration in this area but also not the easiest to find an original twist; which sends us back to what I call the "Human Aspect".

A ghost story is a ghost story and most of them are formulaic; it's very rare to find a different one. Think about "The Shining"; it's pretty much the story of a haunted hotel with ghost terrorizing the leading characters... not that we haven't seen that before. Now, think about the backstory, how the alcoholic father is fighting his personal demons of frustration (he's unable to write a new novel) and shame (for being an alcoholic and for breaking his son's arm in a fit); how the son and the mother create this little world of their own in the aftermath of surviving the abuse of a sick and cruel father and husband... it sounds a lot better, right? It's the human side of the characters and how we relate to them that drives the story and when you add ghosts you think -Gee, what other horrible thing will they have to go through!-

There it is, in a nutshell, how I conceive my stories. It is always based in what frightens me and if at least once in the process of writing it I get a nightmare, I know I'm in the right path.