Issue 30

By C. Sterling

What Just Happened starring Robert De Niro had the audience asking aloud, “What just happened?” Aside from the first scene where a sweet, innocent, loving dog who comes to his master’s aid (played by Sean Penn,) and gets his head blown off sending blood and guts splattering onto the screen in exchange for his loyalty, the rest of the move was just another Hollywood exercise in masturbation. But, before we move to that topic, back to the dog for a moment. As if that wasn’t enough to watch a dog get a bullet to the head, we had to suffer through watching the pooch’s body lay twitching on the ground beside Penn as he was being pumped full of lead. At least one good thing came out of the scene…Penn was put out of his misery.

But the audience wasn’t put out of theirs. As a reviewer for WritersNewWeekly.com I felt obligated to watch as Hollywood once again played with its self, knowing all along what the ending would be. What Just Happened is a story about, surprise…surprise, a Hollywood producer (De Niro) with two ex-wives, who is desperate to make his movie, aptly titled “Fiercely” a success. Why? He has to pay alimony. And this is supposed to endear him to the audience? Anyway, “Fiercely” (the movie within a movie) has a really bad ending (dog guts on the screen) and the director, (Michael Wincott,) who is a recovering drug addict with a foreign accent, refuses to re-cut the ending. Studio chief (Catherine Keener) threatens to pull the film from the Cannes Film Festival. She knows she's going to lose money on the film, but if the ending changes, she will lose less money. As she puts it, it’s better to lose 15 million dollars then 25 million. Now that I agree with. After being fed drugs by the producer, the director decides to do a kinder, gentler cut.

But, De Niro’s woos aren’t over. He has to deal with an over-indulgent, self-important actor named Bruce Willis with an overgrown beard, who mislabels his super-ego for creative expression and thinks his acting is what attracts audiences. Wait a minute, that was Bruce Willis—that wasn’t an actor. The beard, unbelievably, is his “creative” expression, but the big, bad studio wants him to shave it off. Bruce wants to keep it. Oh my, what a huge crisis. How can America sleep at night? There was a brief moment where I almost smiled when Bruce was acting, and I use the word lightly, out of his indignation over being told to shave the fur. But, being a consistent movie, it was one gigantic stereotype and quickly ceased to be funny. Masturbation. Stereotypical, and did I mention, predictable?

At the beginning of the film, after that horrendous doggie disaster, I told the women next to me that I didn’t want to ruin the ending for her but that the director would not make the cut and we would have to suffer the same gut-wrenching scene, only this time we would be at Cannes. She said, “They wouldn’t dare.” Oh, they dared all-right. And I wasn’t wrong about Bruce and the beard, either, when I told her how that problem would be solved. Would he or wouldn’t he shave? I know that had me on the edge of my seat. Yeah, right. Now think about this for a moment: Bruce being Bruce faced with the dilemma of to shave or not to shave, what do you think he would do?

A. Shave
B. Don’t Shave
C. All of the above.

For those of you that aren’t Bruce Willis fans this could be tough. However, because I don’t want you to waste your time or money to watch Hollywood’s failure to launch, I’ll give you the answer:
He shaved half his face. Wow! What a surprise. Didn’t see that one coming, did ya?

The Actors

De Niro is a great actor. Even when he’s the bad guy, you somehow find yourself rooting for him because he’s De Niro. But in this film, he’s not good or bad. He’s just tired. I understand why he choose this film. It could have been edgy, it could have been artistic, it could have made a statement but it did none of these things.

Sean Penn is a great actor. Even when he’s the bad guy, you somehow find yourself rooting for him because he’s Penn. But if you’re expecting a wonderful exchange of witty dialogue between these two great actors, you won’t find it in this movie. Penn is not much more than a cameo. Laying beside a dead dog for shock value would have been something that I thought was so beyond Penn, but sadly it wasn’t.

Bruce Willis: He didn’t act. He was just being himself

Catherine Keener: Good acting. Bad choice of movie.

Michael Wincott: Good acting. Bad choice of movie.

Dog: I love Dog. Even when he’s the bad guy, you somehow find yourself rooting for him because he’s Dog. Dog wins the best actor award. That is unless they really shot him. Nah, we have laws against those kinds of things. But again, this is Hollywood and they just played with their privates on the big screen. Someone, please…tell me the dog is still alive. Please.

The rest of the cast: They tried. It’s just hard to forgive the bad choice they made. Discernment—I wonder if any of them know the meaning of that word.

Barry Levinson: I used to love Levinson, but after this film, not so much anymore. He simply doesn’t have what it takes to be a true artist…and only a true artist would be able to kill our canine friend, smear our faces in its blood and get away with in. The thing is this: A true artist would not be so self-absorbed, conceited and removed from his art to think that he could pull off the dead dog thing. Yes, true art often offends, confronts and confuses. Levinson tried to lessen the assault by using stupid, contrite dialogue and overdone scenes (Penn rolling, and rolling and rolling down the hill) but the fact remains, HE KILLED THE DOG! One good thing, though, this movie will lose money and Levinson will be standing near the outside of the big P in producer.

So to answer the question: What just happened? Hollywood committed the biggest sin it could commit. No, not masturbating in public. Hollywood is so in love with itself and so lost in its own self-importance that it forgot about you and me, the moviegoer. Unless you enjoy watching the family pet get murdered or enjoy watching the big hand of Hollywood going up and down on itself, stay home. Rent a movie. Watch Hitchcock. Now that was someone who knew how to choose a script and make a great film. De Niro may wish to stick with acting.

I give this movie two thumbs down and two middle fingers up.

The views expressed in this editorial are not necessarily the views of the WritersNewsWeekly staff, its advertisers, columnists or SterlingHouse Publisher. If you have any questions or would like to submit a rebuttal, please email editor@writersnewsweekly.com. Submitted editorials and queries will automatically become the property of WritersNewsWeekly and may be used in any future publications.

Robin Hathaway is the author of two mystery series. When the “Agatha Award” winner isn't writing, she is a free lance editor, teaches mystery writing and lectures on the mystery novel at schools and libraries. Her short stories have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Death Knell.

Q: You didn’t begin writing until you were fifty. What was the impetus that got you started? What can would-be writers take from your experience as a late bloomer?

A: I was ten when I decided I wanted to be a writer. I was reading an Agatha Christie book and wanted to write just like her. In college, I took every writing course offered and wrote oodles of depressing short stories that were never published. Time passed. I married, had two daughters and operated a graphic arts business called “Barnhouse Press.” (There was a press in the barn and one in the house.) On my fiftieth birthday, my husband said, “You always wanted to write a novel. Don’t you think it’s time you started?”

I wrote three novels in three years, featuring Dr. Andrew Fenimore, a cardiologist patterned after my husband. I was enjoying myself thoroughly until my husband spoiled it all by saying, “Don’t you think it’s time you sent them out?” Thus began the rejection years. By the time I was sixty, I was ready to give up. But someone suggested I enter a contest sponsored by St. Martin’s Press. "The Malice Domestic Contest for Best Traditional Mystery" (The name is almost a novel in itself!) Miraculously, I won! The prize was the publication of my novel, “The Doctor Digs A Grave.” The next year (1998) this same novel won “The Agatha Award.” My dream had come true!

Q: It took you ten years to get the eye of a publisher. How important is perseverance when it comes to finding a publisher? What should a writer do while waiting for an acceptance?

A: Perseverance is half the battle. Hang in there! And while you’re waiting to be published, keep writing. Also, be sure to join some writers' organizations. I joined Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, where I met other writers, agents and editors and I heard experts speak on everything from forensics to drug dealing, crime scenes to marketing your book. Two things to remember: 1. It’s never too late to start. 2. Never give up!

Q: Mystery novels are one of the most popular genres in today’s marketplace. Why do you think this is so?

A: I think the mystery is popular because it usually ends with a satisfying solution. In real life, so many problems don’t get solved, we crave to escape to a more orderly world where problems are answered and there are fewer loose ends.

Q: Why are your books set in the Philadelphia area?

A: I write about Philadelphia because I grew up there and I know it well. The city is so rich in historic lore and has so many unique characters to draw on. I decided to set my Jo Bank’s series in south Jersey because it is beautiful and has a fascinating history. Lenni Lenape artifacts may still be found there and some of the inhabitants are direct descendants of the original settlers from the early 1700s. Also, it is the home of the Jersey Devil, who I saw once. Honest!

Carlotta Holton is the author of Salem Pact and Touching The Dead, and is a member of the National Federation of Press Women and an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association.

Carlotta Holton has just received her second award for Touching the Dead from the National Federation of Press Women Communications Contest. Click here to purchase the book.

Mention the word “schedule” and it’s fight or flight for a lot of writers. Structuring life to make room for writing is often perceived as contrary to the creative spirit, but most writers will tell you they’re happier and more productive when they stick to a plan.

Whether you work full-time and juggle a family or have wide open days with no obligations, a schedule can channel your energy, focus your creativity and keep you sane when life gets crazy. Here are some tips for making one that works:

Anchor obligatory events: If you walk your dog every morning, barista in the afternoons and teach Thursday nights, anchor these events in your schedule. Now you have a basic structure to work from, and can position other activities, like writing, feng shui and Tango lessons, inside it.

Channel your energy: Position activities for the greatest benefit. Maybe this means writing before the work day starts and jogging in the evening to refresh your mind. Follow your natural rhythms insofar as the obligatory events on your schedule allow. Experiment until you find the configuration that works best.

Stay on task: Know what you’re supposed to be doing at any given time, and do it. A schedule trains your body and mind to perform on demand, and helps focus your creativity. Once you’re in rhythm, you’ll automatically click into whatever mode you’re supposed to be in without waffling, worrying or wasting time.

Make writing inviolable: Once you’ve determined your best writing time and have it anchored in your schedule, stick to it and eliminate distractions. Turn off the TV, don’t answer the phone or surf the Internet, and allow no interruptions.

Be flexible A good schedule bends and adjust as things come up, and so should you. If life demands that you miss a day of writing, or your weekly drum circle, that’s okay. Interruptions are inevitable. Think of your schedule as a calming, grounding force, and follow it as well as you can until the chaos settles.

Include flex time Set aside time during the week for getting random stuff done: running errands, taking naps, catching up, whatever. If you missed out on writing time because life got in the way, make up for it here.

Strive for balance A schedule isn’t an all-or-nothing proposition. Structure your writing and your life to whatever degree feels comfortable, and go stream of consciousness the rest of the time. The key is to strike a personal balance.

Creating a schedule that works is largely a matter of trial and error. Think of yours as a work in progress. Let it evolve to reflect the ebb and flow of your life, your writing and yourself. Design it to suit you, and don’t be afraid to revise. Here’s a quote from Pulitzer Prize-winning author Annie Dillard: “A schedule defends from chaos and whim.” Remember this next time you feel like baring your teeth or bolting for the woods.

To see a schedule example, go to: www.writelifecoaching.com/scheduleexample.htm.

Have a question for Doug? Click here to submit it to THE WRITE MIND.

Doug Kurtz is a published novelist, certified life coach and the owner of Write Life Coaching (www.writelifecoaching.com). He earned his MA in creative writing at the University of Colorado, where he also taught fiction writing. He currently lives in Boulder, where he’s busy coaching other writers and working on his next novel.

For seniors, it is imperative that writing is fun event, especially if you start practicing the craft late in life. Make writing a hobby - not a life or death situation. Approach writing as a hobby and you will enjoy it, and chances are you will succeed. You will look at things you have written and proudly say, "I did that."

Don't ever think that something you write is not good. If it doesn't meet the intent you had, simply start retyping it. If you look at writing as a life or death situation, then there is nothing but frustration in your future and you will soon give up. Ernest Hemingway once said that he had a basket full of rejects, but never gave up. Once he sold his first project, manuscripts that had been rejected were accepted. The lesson here is to never throw anything away: simply file it.

A few issues ago, I wrote about why I like to write and hopefully why you like to write. Much of that boils down to 'attitude.' Attitude must be positive. Writing and selling is more difficult than working in a steel mill. I know. I've done both. You will run into times when you can't think of the next word you want to use or how to improve what you have on paper. The former is called "writers block," and the only way to get around that is to pound out words.

Once you feel comfortable writing, than look for immediate sources for getting it published. For instance, each area in this country has weekly or bi-weekly publications that often times will accept work from local writers. We'll get more into these and other possibilities in a later issue. Getting a story in a local newspaper or magazine shows that you can write. That will be a positive factor when you send queries out to a publisher or agent. In my next column, I hope to offer some sources for material that you can think about for short stories or even novels.

Questions/Comments? Contact Jim at james@jamesfalk.net, or visit www.jamesfalk.net.

James Falk, as a teen-ager, used to dream of being a big-time racketeer. Fortunately, his dream didn't come true. A 10th grade dropout, he finished highschool after four years in the Marines and went on to earn a B.A. in Journalism and an M.A. in Communications.

Michael Crichton, author of Jurassic Park, The Lost World and Twister, to name a few, has passed away unexpectedly at the age of 66 after a private battle with cancer. As a novelist and creator of the TV series “ER,” Mr. Crichton has sold over 150 million books worldwide and has turned his books into hugely successful movie franchises. The literary world has lost a prolific novelist, and will be missed by many.

Michael sat up in bed slowly and cupped his hands on his face, rubbing away a headache. He had woken from a nightmare and gave a long sigh as he tried to recount its details. His memory was murky but what he could recall were only fleeting images of his girlfriend, Beth, who had died six months earlier. He had been having terrible dreams ever since, sliding him into a deeper and deeper despair. There were times where he thought that he was making progress, or at least, being successful in hiding his grief; but then there were the longer periods of gripping depression. The dreams were so real, though, and sometimes he would wake up, forgetting the whole tragedy and expecting to find Beth lying next to him. He would even wake up to the phantom scent of her perfume or the whisper of her voice. But he would only be reminded of her absence. It was enough, at times, to make him feel insane, and maybe he was. He was having these dreams every night now and the pangs of their realism were getting stronger.

He thought about this briefly and let his hands slide over his stubbly cheeks. The thought occurred to him that maybe he should see a psychiatrist, but he dismissed this theory quickly. He couldn’t tell anyone about this; it was all in his head and he knew this. If he was aware of this, then obviously he could overcome it. At least this was his reasoning. He distracted himself by deciding that he should go ahead and shave and shower. Everyday-life had become the savior of his sanity, and the anchor he looked to in order to ground himself. It was essentially a farce, but he wouldn’t dare allow himself to admit it. It was a comforting lie. Work became an obsession and he would often ask for extra hours, if only to keep busy.

As he stood up, a black Labrador retriever ran up to him excitedly, licking his hands and Michael raised his arms in annoyance. “Alright, alright!” he assured the dog. “Come on, Leo. Let’s let you outside.” Leo and his brother were the only puppies in a litter to survive the abuse of their previous owner. They had been kept under a trailer and the rest of the litter and the mother were killed by fire ants. Beth picked him out at the shelter because of his “sincere” eyes. She said that he had personality. Honestly, Michael thought the animal was a nuisance until now. The dog stomped behind him as he led the way to the back door. Michael hid behind the door from the glaring morning sun, still half asleep. He thought about cleaning up around the house as he brushed away some crumbs on the kitchen counter. His room was a mess too. Clothes were scattered everywhere, making it difficult to discern what was clean and what was dirty. Laziness, in a way, had increasingly crept into his everyday routines the past six months. After a cup of coffee, he continued with his morning routine and got dressed to go to the grocery store. He grabbed his keys and was stepping out the door before he realized that he left Leo outside. After letting him back inside, Michael crawled into his car to head to the store.

The crisp air of a cooling September chilled him from the open window, but he dealt with it until he finished his cigarette and flicked it at a parked car as he drove by. All the flowers of summer had already begun to die away and the trees were looking thinner. The grass even began to brown in some spots. The sky was getting greyer by the day and rain was becoming more frequent. It reminded Michael of life - of growing old - and he marveled at the parallel. The change of seasons fit his mood perfectly; everything seemed withered and dried out. His expectations for the world were used up and hollow. Beth used to ask him what he wanted in life and he would tell her about his goals and ambitions. But what he realized now was that she was what he wanted - what they had shared. He thought about their plans to have child - his ambition to be a father. Suddenly, all the other goals he dreamt of seemed trivial. Now, incomplete by the loss of Beth, he realized what he really wanted and what he would never have. It was a place in life he would never know, almost like a lost sanctuary. This feeling of being robbed drove him to the verge of anger. Being an atheist, he had no one to blame, if not himself. He felt a little guilty about a binge of alcoholism he went through before she had died. Beth hardly ever expressed concern, though, and accepted it. Her eternal patience was so pure and amazing to him at one point. But when he was drunk, it annoyed him to an extreme. In retrospect, he concluded that he felt, for whatever reason, that he had to test her - that when he was drunk, her passiveness made him paranoid about her devotion. It wasn’t so much that he was drunk all the time, though, just that he was getting drunk more frequently and when he did, he became violent. He would smash things and yell, but Beth would only frown and hide away in the bedroom. The next day, she would be smiling like usual and Michael would be utterly disgusted with himself. Even though he tried to stop drinking, the urge was too strong, and he would only return to the bottle. It was embarrassing beyond measure, and as a result of this self-repulsion, he drank more. He started drinking when he lost his job the year before, and the habit stuck with him, growing with sick immensity.

It was the day before she died, that Beth became upset with him. They were sitting in bed and Michael was drinking and making snide remarks to her before she stood up and yelled at him. She wanted him to stop drinking, to trust her, to remember what it was like before. Her understanding and patience had finally given out and she threatened to leave him if he wouldn’t stop drinking. She told him that she couldn’t have a future with someone so destructive. So he broke down in tears and promised her that he would stop and took her in his arms. This seemed like yesterday to him and he could still recall how her nightgown felt, the warmth of her skin and rise and fall of her breathing. He wished that her touch wasn’t just a memory.

He arrived at the grocery store, aggravated to find that the only parking spots were far away. Stepping out of his car, he noticed dark clouds swarming from the distance, showing that it was going to storm later. He shook his head at the thought that the weather was going to get colder. There was no hurry, so he walked slowly from aisle to aisle, trying to decide what he wanted. He didn’t pick anything complicated or that required strenuous preparation, but mostly TV dinners and junk food.

By the frozen foods, he noticed a couple that were friends with him and Beth - Devon and Carroll. They were like a stark contrast to the mood that began his day and the dwelling thoughts that darkened his mind. They were chatting playfully, laughing and smiling. The strangest thing was that Michael could never remember them being so happy. Their energy wanted to be infectious, Michael longing to contract it for himself, even though he knew it wouldn’t really dispel his gloom. Maybe a chat with old friends could be a comfortable distraction. No, he decided, it would be best to keep walking. He didn’t really want to talk to them anyway. It had been too long and he never completely liked them to begin with. So, to avoid the pointless, sycophantic discomfort, he ducked away in the nearest aisle and finished shopping.

He had become more detached from the people around him, especially friends. Everybody just seemed so stale and it was so much work to relate to them now. Every time he would notice this, he would shiver, trying to shrug the thought away. There was even a hint of disgust for people building up inside of him. It seemed as if everyone was so trivial. He felt like a crazy hermit thinking that way. But he knew that ultimately that was how he really felt, so dark now and misanthropic. He didn’t want to feel that way. But it grabbed hold of him like dark hands twisting his stomach. He swiftly grabbed his bags and almost jogged out of the store to his car, looking around the parking lot to keep an eye out for his false friends.

He got in his car, ready to go back into seclusion - to the safety of his home. Before he started the engine, though, he reached into one of the bags and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He hastily took the cap off and guzzled down a quick gulp and slid it back in the bag. “Well, here we are again, Mike,” he said to himself while he turned the key. He had decided to drink that night and almost felt guilty. But he didn’t have anything else to do. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could pass out and have a dreamless night’s sleep for once.

He pulled out of the parking spot and started his way down the rows of cars when a woman suddenly stepped out in front of him. Michael slammed on the brakes with a screech from the tires, but he hit her anyway, throwing her to the ground. The blood drained from his face and he froze where he sat. He didn’t move or blink for several seconds, but it felt to him like timeless eons. He thought he recognized who it was at first, but it couldn’t be who he thought she was because she was dead. The woman looked just like Beth with long, curly blond hair and a small, soft face. But what was most striking were her eyes, identical to Beth’s - dark amber but glazed over. He rubbed the goosebumps on his arms and stepped out of his car slowly. None of the other people walking through the parking lot had stopped; they merely gave him a glance and strode on. He craned his neck shyly as he crept up to his bumper. But there was only empty asphalt in front of his car. Chills ran through his body and he looked around again to see if maybe the woman had gotten up, but she was nowhere to be seen. There wasn’t even any sign of damage on his bumper. So he knelt down to look under the car, but she wasn’t there either. He stood up and ran his fingers along the back of his neck, bewildered. Before he got back in his car, he caught the faint scent of Beth’s perfume and the hair on his arms stood on end. He looked around one last time and opened the door and sat there trying to get his nerves back together. Shaking his head, he chuckled under his breath. Maybe he was going crazy.

It started raining on his way home and he luckily got inside before it started down-pouring. The shadows of the raindrops on the window slid down the carpet in front of him as he slouched in his recliner. His living room was gray in the faint light and there was only the white noise of water rushing outside. The water was gushing off of his roof and was flooding his yard with huge puddles. Leo even refused to go outside when Michael tried to let him out. He hadn’t turned the TV on yet, distracted by thoughts of that phantom woman. He really didn't want to accept that he was losing his mind. His stomach churned and knotted up, which led to him skipping dinner. The anxiety twisted there in his gut, giving him a sinking, merciless sense of dread. Was this his manic grief? A light-headed haze slipped in and out of his mind, clouding him with an odd fatigue. It felt like a migraine coming on. The idea of sleep occurred to him but he stood up and said to himself, "Fuck that" and grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the counter. Finding his place back in the recliner, he unscrewed the cap and took a large swig. The warmth travelling down into his stomach conflicted with his anxiety cramps, but he figured that he would burn through them. Grabbing the remote, he clicked on the TV, but the screen did not flicker to life. "Goddammit!" he exclaimed aloud and stood up to check the light switches; but they did not work either. So he grabbed some candles out from under the kitchen sink and lit a handful of them for his living room, bedroom and the kitchen. Slumping back in the recliner, he suddenly felt bored and gloomier than before. The bottle touched his lips with burning relief and he reveled in the solace of the oncoming buzz. He greedily chugged it now, barely setting it down before it he decided for another gulp. But he couldn't help to also feel guilty about it and the anxiety throbbed at his core.

He emptied half the bottle before his eyelids started to grow heavy. He would almost nod off but would drearily come to before his eyes could shut, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness with the world blurring in his stupor. He almost drifted completely into sleep when he heard what sounded like splashing in the distance. His eyes lazily opened and struggled to focus on the dark room around him. It took him a moment to remember the power outage and after checking the light switch, found that the electricity was still out. In his new alertness, he suddenly felt the urge to go to the bathroom, so he grabbed a candle and made his way down the pitch black hallway. His house felt suffocating like the darkness had weight to it, oppressive and crushing like the bottom of the ocean. Leo burst out from the bathroom, making Michael jump. The dog ran to the living room, whimpering with its tail between its legs. Michael stopped for a second, reflecting on how strange this was, but continued into the cavernous bathroom. He set the candle down on the sink and unzipped his pants with a faint stagger to relieve himself.

All of a sudden there was a loud splash from the bathtub next to him and he turned to see Beth sitting up in a pool of dark water. Her face was blank, so terribly lifeless and her eyes shown with the sheen of a cat's at night. Her body was covered in blood, barely red in the soft light of the candle. Flies were swarming around her in a sick hum. Michael jumped back against the sink and froze, the counter top digging into his spine. The air became dense and cold and he could see his panicked breath fluttering before him. Beth's unnatural eyes never left his gaze and for a moment she only sat there. But then she slowly extended her arms and called to him, "Michael." Her voice sounded like sandpaper and was soullessly monotonous. "You don't love me."

He was shell-shocked, but he struggled with his voice before he choked out, "Of course I do. I always have. You know that."

"Liiiiiaaar," she hissed.

He looked surprised. "No! God! Beth, honey, what is this? You're dead."

"Won't you give me a kiss?" she asked, her face never changing or giving expression.

"What?" His stomach curdled.

"Kiss me," she calmly answered.

Michael swallowed a lump in his throat and ran his shaking hand through his hair before he took a quivering step. The bathtub began to run over, blood pouring over its edge and pooling on the floor. He stopped, hesitant and in disgust. He thought that he was going to vomit. But he was hypnotized by her eyes. He took one more sliding step and stopped again for a moment. The blood crept up to his feet and felt sickeningly cold, making his stomach lurch. But he continued to step towards the bathtub. He tried to ignore the wet sound of his footsteps. Beth leaned forward, resting her hands on the tub's edge, a sudden movement that made Michael flinch. He knelt down, in front of her and leaned in slowly. There was an emanating stink of decay mixed with her perfume. The flies were buzzing in his face and their morose harmony grew monstrously loud. He brought his hands up to her face, which was as cold as the blood, and kissed her.

There was a loud screeching and howling and Michael was plummeted into complete darkness, the bathroom disappearing from around him. After a moment, he could feel a cool breeze and became aware of wetness everywhere. He opened his eyes to see that he was laying face down in the darkness of his backyard. He was very weak and had to struggle to stand. His stupor had faded away. The rain had stopped and its puddles from earlier that day still remained. The trees that lined the beach of a lake behind his yard swayed gently in the wind. All of the street lights were off and a full moon hid behind some thin strands of clouds, giving the world an ominous glow. Then he remembered what happened in the bathroom and felt a shiver crawl over his flesh. That sinking anxiety returned to his stomach. He decided that he must have gotten drunk and for whatever reason passed out in his yard.

But then he heard singing coming from inside the house. He turned around, but the windows were pitch black and there was no sign of anyone inside. The voice was steadily coming closer to the back door. The melody sounded so beautiful but eerie like ringing wine glasses. It was a woman singing what sounded like a lullaby of some sort. After a moment the door slid open and Beth stepped out into the yard. She was naked and painted in blood, carrying a young boy in her arms. Her gaze was fixed downwards, at the child, with her matted hair clumping and clinging to her face, hiding her eyes. Michael felt a surge of relief that those soulless orbs were hidden from him. The boy was sniffling and it seemed that she was singing to him. But the boy was staring at Michael, so pitiful and vulnerable. Michael thought he looked familiar, but didn’t know why. "No! Beth, stop!" he tried calling to her, but she made no sign of hearing him. Her movement looked grotesque, slightly stiff and hindered somehow. The paleness of her skin had a ghostly white glow, but looked filthy with the smears of drying blood. She walked slowly through the yard with Michael watching in awe. He wanted to do something, but he couldn't. He was frozen where he stood and every attempt to muster enough strength to simply move faltered. His throat choked when he tried to speak. So, helpless and paralyzed, he watched Beth carry the child through the trees and to the edge of the lake. She knelt down, cradling the child in her bosom and gently rocked side by side. She stopped singing and caressed the top of the boy's head until he stopped sniffling. Then she stood up and walked almost waist-deep into the water and shoved him under the surface. The boy's struggle was futile in Beth's iron, undaunted grip. His arms clawed for air and thrashed around desperately. He didn't even get a chance to scream. Still Michael hoped that someone had heard the commotion and looked to his neighbor's houses, but no lights came on and nothing stirred inside the houses.

Suddenly, the splashing stopped and Michael felt his flesh go cold, a chill he never felt before. The boy floated face down just at the water’s surface. Beth turned around and stared at Michael with her inhuman eyes. She waded back to the beach and walked into the thicket of trees. But a line of clouds passed over the moon, losing her in the shadows. It was only for a second and the clouds passed but then she was gone. Michael scanned the tree line, trying to find her, but there was nothing. Then he heard her singing right behind him and before he could turn around, he felt a hand brush his back and she walked around to stand in front of him. Her stink filled his nostrils like an offensive intruder, and the flies seemed to have gathered around her in greater numbers. She ran her palm softly from his stomach, up to his shoulder and around the back of his neck, and leaned her hips into his. He caught a whiff of her perfume and felt himself become slightly aroused, blushing with indignation. She faintly smiled and brought her face to his ear and whispered, "Why won't you let me go?" Her rotten breath consumed the wisps of her perfume.

He tried to keep his eyes closed - tried not to look towards the lake or at the thing Beth had become. He tried not to think about how this thing, which was supposed to be Beth, just murdered a child. His stomach was knotting up and he could feel himself begin to shake. "W-what?" he stammered in response. It seemed like a strange question to him.

She rested her encrusted chin in his neck and whispered almost inaudibly, "Why won't you let me go, my sweetheart?" Her breath was cold and unsettling.
"I don't know what you mean," Michael answered with a cracked voice. He tried to move again, but he was still paralyzed.

Beth dug her fingernails into the back of his neck and he whimpered, frustrated and helpless. She pressed her nails in slowly, deeper and deeper, and slid them downwards until beads of blood dripped out. She wiped the blood on her fingers and put them in her mouth, savoring the taste. "All children die," she said softly and kissed her way down to his heart and bit down viciously, blood coming down her chin. Then she slid her hands down his torso and into his pants, scratching him along the way, and dug her nails into his groin with searing pain. There was something more to the pain, though. It was more profound somehow, like stinging flames deep inside his body. It even felt like it penetrated him mind and soul - the most dynamic pain he ever felt. He was blinded and everything was a pulsating redness. He saw visions of his childhood - flashbacks of his most painful moments. Then he flashed back to when he met Beth and saw a field of wilting roses. After that, he saw himself in an open coffin at his funeral and then being lowered into his grave (disturbingly enough, he wasn't old in the coffin). Years seemed to go by before Beth let go of him and he collapsed to the ground. He curled in a semi-fetal position and struggled to breathe, spastically coughing. The mud stung the bite mark on his chest and he could feel his groin bleeding and throbbing with sharp pain.

There was a piercing headache and his vision blurred into focus, revealing that he was lying in bed with the sun intruding through the open blinds. He jumped up and felt for the bite mark on his chest, but there was nothing there - none of his wounds were there. Leo somberly strolled up to Michael, and keeping his head low, looked up at him with sad eyes. When Michael tried to pet him, Leo flinched and lazily licked his hand. The dog followed him as he went to the bathroom and flicked the light on - the electricity was back. The bath tub was empty and there was no sign of any blood. He became confused and didn’t know whether or not to be relieved. Was it a nightmare or was he going crazy? That night seemed so real; he remembered distinctly every sensation. Regardless, he thought to himself that he shouldn’t drink before bed anymore and chuckled under his breath. He went to his backyard with Leo following close behind and walked down to the lake. He scanned the water uneasily and thought about calling the cops. No, he shouldn’t do that, he thought. He had been drinking so they wouldn’t believe him. He even thought about jumping in and seeing if he could find the boy’s body, but he shrugged it off, concluding that it was a dream after all. This helped to put him back at ease, but there was a lingering, dreadful doubt. There had to have been some sort of meaning to the nightmare, but he couldn’t imagine what it was. Perhaps it meant nothing and he was just having serious problems with coping with the loss of Beth. Her words were so enigmatic, though. What had nagged him the most was the boy. He couldn’t think of where he saw him before, and wondered why Beth had him in the first place.

Something that alarmed him was that he knew he had a sick desire to see her again, like a morbid and desperate reunion, but a reunion none the less. He wanted to suppress this urge, but it bubbled inside him excitedly, disgusting and enticing him at the same time. He missed her so much for so long and that night seemed so real. The circumstances hurt him though, and he wondered if he could see her again - if only to maybe talk to her, try to find out what was going on. He would have her back. He would take her in his arms and make it better, release her from death. The cure would be his compassion and patience. If nothing else, he had to at least find out what was going on. But he chided himself for these ideas, which spontaneously flowed through his mind. It couldn't have been real. Beth was dead. But this returning conclusion only made his heart sink, sending his thoughts through the ravenous desires all over again. It was a terrible circle of rationality and passion turning so inside of him that it almost made him dizzy.

The wind picked up and Michael could hear the faint crying of a child. A shot of adrenaline hit him immediately and he stared wide-eyed at the lake, expecting to see the boy. But the crying quickly faded away and the boy was nowhere to be seen. The surface of the lake never stirred and all was calm. Michael was disoriented and didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know whether or not to trust his senses and even wondered if that night was a dream at all. “This is it,” he said to himself. “I’ve officially gone schizo.” He hurriedly walked back to his yard, glancing back every couple steps, only to find nothing new. He went inside and sat at the dining room table. Staring at the phone, he questioned whether or not he should call someone. Finally, he decided his mind was obviously cluttered and that he should stop and relax for while - give his nerves some time to mend themselves. He emptied the whiskey bottle into the sink and washed it away, deciding that it was really time to stay sober. A nap was definitely out of the question, for fear of another encounter. In spite of how tired he was, he resolved to stay awake as long as he could.

Leo was staying under his bed, refusing to emerge and even growled when Michael tried to lure him out. “Fine,” Michael said. “Be that way. Come out when you’re ready to play nice.” So, with nothing else to do, it came down to vegetating in front of the TV. He turned on the news to see if there was anything about a missing boy. But hours passed and, reassuringly, there was no mention of a missing child. “Let her come,” he said to himself. “I’ll save her and the boy too.” There had to be reason behind the nightmare. His bolstering sense of rationality made him feel bold. "Either there is a way to fix this or it's not real. Either way I know I'm sane." He imagined himself calling out to her, daring her to show herself; but when he opened his mouth, a reserved doubt stopped him. At the core, he was terrified, no matter what he tried to believe. But he was feeling a little more relieved, he switched to one of his favorite shows. In no time, without meaning to, he slipped into sleep.

Remarkably, he did not dream, but woke to the sound of a child crying. He faded into consciousness slowly before he realized what he was hearing. It was the familiar voice of the mysterious young boy. Night had come and draped the house in impenetrable shadows. The cry was coming from somewhere in the distance, but it was too dark to see. The only light was from the TV, but it was blinding, obscuring the surrounding darkness even more. When his eyes finally focused, Michael noticed that Beth was on the screen, only she was normal - restored to her living beauty. Her face was rosy with a light amount of make up and her golden hair was sleek and shiny. Her gorgeous, amber eyes were as deep as ever and shown with her soul, unlike the beastly orbs he saw the night before. She was wearing a silver necklace and matching earrings he had given her as an anniversary gift. She was talking to someone, looking off to the side, somewhere off screen; but Michael couldn't hear what she was saying. She was laughing, acting as animate and bubbly as she was in life. "Beth?" he softly asked in disbelief. "Beth!" He sat forward, becoming incensed. "Beth!" But she never answered and continued her light-hearted conversation with the unseen audience. He ran to the TV and in front of it on his knees, raising his hands to the screen. He breathed her name again, with a heavy sigh. The picture then flickered with static and she stopped talking to turn and look straight at Michael.

After a moment she spoke with a sweet voice, "You must let me go, my darling."
"I can't. You can't that of me. I love you," he answered frantically. Then the child's crying stopped and the screen turned to static and was blank, plummeting the living room in impossible blackness. Michael felt the temperature suddenly drop and began to shiver.

Violently, all the doors and cupboards in the houses began to slam open and shut. All the furniture shook and scuffled around convulsively. Michael instinctively jumped up and twirled around, assessing the racket. It wasn't long before Beth rose up from behind his thumping recliner. All of his reason left him - all of his proactive plans to communicate with her were gone. He ran to the front door, which was wildly swinging open and shut, before it slammed closed, steadfastly locked. The only clear thought in his mind was to not look into her eyes, or he would become paralyzed again. So he ran to his bedroom, blind in the dark hallway. He hit a wall at first, jabbing his toes and falling to the ground. He staggered to stand and stretched his arms out to feel his way to the room. But the door there was out of control too. He looked back to see the faint haze of Beth's ghostly pale flesh patiently stepping towards him. He screamed. All he wanted now was for the nightmare to stop, to be normal again. He wanted to live. His depression suddenly seemed so foolish. So he desperately threw himself into the doorway and fell, getting his foot stuck in the crushing force of the possessed door. He was trying to yank his foot free but the pressure was like a monstrous vice and he could even feel his ankle begin to bleed and his foot was going numb. By now Beth caught up to him and knelt down at the crack of the door. There was a faint glint of her demonic eyes and Michael threw his hands up to his face to shield himself from her Medusa-like gaze. As he did this, he jerked his leg as hard as he could and he was free of the door. It slammed shut, locking Beth out.

He struggled to stand and limped over to his bed to look at his ankle. The desk light wouldn't turn on so he pulled out his lighter and, under the flickering, orange glow, found that his ankle was gashed all the way around, bleeding profusely. Looking around he didn’t see or hear Leo. He tried to whisper to the dog, “Leo! Leo, come here!” But the canine never appeared. He grabbed a random shirt from the floor and tied it tight around the wound, wincing at the searing pain. But something caught his eye, lying where he picked the shirt up, distracting him from his injury. It was a photo and he picked it up to hold by the lighter to see. It was a family picture from when he was a kid, on some bygone, happy vacation. But chills jolted through his body when he looked at the image of himself, and finally realized where he had seen that boy from; it was him as a child. The knots returned to his stomach and he was hit with serious vertigo. He leaned forward and vomited. Shaking from the shock, he went to the master bathroom and rinsed his mouth out, dazed and weak.

There then came scratching on the bedroom door, vicious thrashing and scraping. The door frame began to shimmy and Michael panicked. He picked the desk chair up and smashed the window. The noise at the door stopped, but before he could limp through, Beth came around the corner. Her whole body was wrapped in winding razor wire, which cut deeply into her flesh, bleeding messily forth and dripping upon the ground in sick splatters. She tightly held the child version of Michael to her chest, cutting into him as well and making him cry out helplessly. She slinked into the room like something darkly eloquent, macabre and graceful. Her footsteps and posture were so stately as if she were marching in some sort of noble procession. A cloud of flies hummed around her and the boy at an alarming volume, distracting him uncomfortably. Her hypnotic gaze captured Michael and he felt himself become frozen in place once more. "You have bound me, Michaaaeel," she hissed. She stopped and stood a couple feet away from him and gave the child a powerful squeeze, making him squeal, and threw her arms open, letting him fall to the floor. Michael felt sharp pain all over his body, as if he were the one that suffered the lacerations.

"All children die," she said coldly and knelt down, over the crying boy and began to ravenously devour him. She slashed at the boy and buried her face in the seeping wounds, fresh and bright red. Michael collapsed and buried his face in his arms, feeling like he was about to vomit again, but only dry-heaved. He wept at the hideous sounds of gore before him. The child's high pitched screams gurgled away and there was only wet smacking and slicing. There was a heavy feeling at his core, like he suddenly weighed a hundred pounds more and his body throbbed and stung all over as he felt the boy’s pain. When the sounds stopped, he still refused to look.

There was an eternity of silence until he felt a caress on his shoulders. He could smell that it was Beth, but he peeked anyway. She was sitting in front of him, restored to life, as she was on the TV. The stench was replaced by her perfume. There seemed to be a warm glow permeating from her, accented by the bright sundress she was wearing. She smiled as she brought her hands to his. But he slid away, backing against the wall. "Come to me, my darling," she cooed.

But he shook his head. "I don't want to be apart of this game."
She looked confused and beckoned again, "Michael, come to me." When he didn't move, her face wrinkled in concern. "Darling, what's the matter? Don't you miss me?"
"No, I don't think. Not you. You're not Beth," he answered, unsure of what he was saying.

"I am. I'm your Beth and you still miss me. I know you do," she assured.

"Please...when will this stop? Please make it stop. I'll do anything," he begged her, breaking down into tears.

"Will you let me go?" Her face suddenly went blank and after a moment she said, "Give me one more kiss."

"Is that all? Will it be done then?" he asked uneasily.

She laughed. "Give me a kiss," she repeated. She got on her hands and knees and crawled to him and sat on his lap. Without hesitation, she embraced him and they kissed.

But when she kissed him, she bit down on his tongue and lashed bestially side to side. Michael felt razor wire slice into his skin and he groaned helplessly. She rocked him back and forth, digging the blades in deeper. He opened his eyes wide and it happened that he looked right at a mirror on the dresser. He didn't see Beth's reflection or any violence in the mirror. All he saw was himself sitting against the wall and staring back, with a blank and unaffected face.

When he saw this, all madness was released upon his mind and the deepest sense of doom fell into his gut like a sack of bricks. He felt dark realizations swarming in his thoughts and he concluded that all he wanted - all that was completely necessary - was to be free of grief again. If he woke the next day, there would only be fear to look forward to. Everyday would be an insane nightmare, something which gave him the gravest despair. He had to be delivered from limbo.

So he hugged Beth tightly and pulled his arms back repeatedly, letting the razor wire rip through his wrists. She let go and stood up weeping until she stepped backwards and faded away into the shadows. He laid back and felt the warmth leave through his arms, and the cold crept around him like a harsh womb. He became calm and his thoughts were slowing down. The pain pulsated away and there was only relief. He smiled lazily as he saw visions from his childhood, until it all blurred away and he slipped into sleep.

But when he woke the next day with no remnants of his injuries, still very alive – or barely so – he broke down. The child’s screams echoed in his head and he realized that he would never escape the nightmare. He felt abandoned and hollow with helpless vulnerability. He stood on a precipice of dark truth and there was nothing he could do, trapped in his insanity. He could only wait for the horrifying and phantasmal mirage to return. There was to be no nirvana or heaven - no peace or salvation of any kind. There was only cold and lonely emptiness in a wasteland of sorrow - a dimension in and of himself, and himself only. He would never meet Beth again, except in his woeful reminiscence. All that would ever hold him company was his desire.

Congratulations to Joshua Barnak, winner of the WNW Horror Short Story Contest! Lamia was chosen by a panel of judges for its creativity, story structure and surprise ending.

Congratulations to Joshua Barnak, winner of the WNW Horror Short Story Contest! Lamia was chosen by a panel of judges for its creativity, story structure and surprise ending. To read the winning story, click here. Joshua will receive a basket of books, courtesy of SterlingHouse Publisher.