The Trouble With Crowdfunding

I admit it. I am a crowdfunding failure. Failed at Kickstarter, failed at indiegogo and failed at gofundme. Not ashamed to admit it.

Oh sure, I got a few bucks from friends who would do just about anything for me and who have read my books but for all the "please would you fund me" posts I put everywhere I was pretty much ignored. Probably blocked by some too.

I ended up with very little and had to take from my own pocket to keep the promise of incentives. For those who signed up to get free autograph books with their donations, every one of them got the free books. You make a promise you keep that promise no matter what.

It's a popularity contest and I'm not popular. It is based on how many people will fund you and if you don't have the backing then it is pretty well a guarantee you will fail. However, the fact that some of the others that have been successful have turned out to be less than worth what they received. I'm not sure what made their projects more desirable to fund than mine or others that have failed.

Is there a better solution for those who can't get people to fund their projects?  Maybe it is time to find out but until then I'll just save up my money and get my projects done when I can afford them.

Things to do after you are dead

Disclaimer: This is a satire. If you are easily offended then this satire is not for you. It is not meant to belittle anyone's loss as we have all lost someone. It is merely a fact of life.

1. Be buried in a coffin or casket. Most burial these days take place in a casket. A coffin is usually a hexagonal or octagonal shaped box, while a casket is rectangular in shape. Caskets tend to be more comfy with pillows for your head. You will be displayed for your family and friends. Some will cry, some won't. Someone will remember the twenty bucks you borrowed and never paid back.

2. Be cremated. Your body will placed in a body sized cardboard box or a wooden coffin. Fancy "casket looking" cardboard boxes are available, probably at a higher cost. Your body is place in a "retort" that has refractory bricks that resist the heat. You won't care, you're dead. Feel the burn as your body is incinerated at temperatures ranging from 1400 to 2100 degrees Fahrenheit. In two hours time you will be vaporized, oxidized, and gases will be discharged through the exhaust system. You will be nothing but bone chunks by this time, and you will find yourself being whirred into a powder thanks to the "cremulator" The person doing the "cremulating" will wear protective glasses to prevent specks of you entering his eyes. There is no guarantee parts of you will not end up in his laundry.

3. Spend time as mantle piece decor. You must be cremated for this. Corpses just don't stay on mantles very well, and get rather stinky over time. To become decor you need to be placed in an attractive container. There are many choices available in the way of urns. If your financial situation is dire, or you were too cheap to leave your family members any money, a decorated coffee can will do. Your family also has the option of just throwing your remains in the basement with the rest of your junk. You could end up in a garage sale in the 25 cents or less box.

4. Leave your body to science. This is especially desirable if you have died of some weird unpronounceable disease. You will be dissected, but you won't feel a thing. Much more preferable to vivisection, which really, really hurts. Parts of you could be poked and prodded for up to two years. After they are done being scientific, you will end up being cremated and buried in a big mass grave with people you never met. Feel free to mingle.

5. Be planted in a body farm. You will not only be serving a valuable service, but this could be the most excitement you've ever had. Here are some ways you could spent your days at a body farm: In a plastic bag, the trunk of a car, buried, unburied, submerged in water, sitting in a car. Bugs will eat you, and possibly parts of you may find themselves a tasty protein diet for some small carnivorous rodent or your femur could end up buried in someone's backyard along with the other parts their dog brought home.

Why I am Called The Queen of the Grue

Here are some comments about my writing. These are from critiques I received. The Roxan is me. People like spelling it different ways-I don't know why. I don't chime my own bells with my writing. I write what I write and one can either like it or hate.

How do I come up with my ideas? Life, dreams, wishes, nightmares, and a really morbid imagination. I love horror for the way it makes the hair rise on the back of the neck. The way it makes you lift up your feet so nothing can grab them and the way it makes you think it might be better to leave a light on.

Oh Roxanne, this is particularly delicious. You've put so many warped images into head that I just wanna say...thanks!

Wow. I am very impressed, very morbid but happy at the same time. I like it!

I would not be surprised if you came out as a screenwriter. I know I've said this before but I really think you would be brilliant at it.

Great grotesque imagery! You really are the Mother of Mood.

Darkly satisfying, Roxan, anointed Queen of the Grue.

Wow! Great imagery here. I can really visualize the scenes, I must be sicker than I thought!

I've called you the successor to Barker before, but the relationships between your characters remind me of Rice now. So far as I'm concerned, you have the best of both worlds. It's crossed my mind to do a gore-fest, but I know I'd pale in comparison to the Queen

This is some of your best work, Roxann. Seriously. You've got the voice down pat, and it's a great example of erotic horror.

I think the "no holds barred" approach your taking will unsettle some folks, which makes for great horror writing. Between the visuals and the psychological dissection of the characters that accompanies their acts, I think you'll definately be sharing your nightmares with some sleepless readers.

Some Words of Advice for My Son

One day you will meet that girl and your life will change. Feel blessed that someone has come into your life and be willing to work along side of her.

If you want to be happy make sure she's happy. You don't need to lavish her with gifts or spend a lot of money. Making someone happy does not take all that much effort.

Don't brood and don't get angry in front of her. If you have to walk it off, then do it before you face her. Making her tiptoe around you is a terrible way to treat someone you claim to love.

Don't make her ask you over and over again to do something that needs to be done. Yes, sometimes things have to wait but don't expect her to wait forever and then accuse her of nagging.

Make an effort to buy her gifts that mean something. Don't just grab something.

If she asks for something she needs get it for her. If she wants you to build a clothesline for her get your butt outside and start building.

Surprise her on occasion. Maybe dinner out or bring home that whatever you know she's been admiring.

Never belittle her. Never make her feel uncomfortable in her own home.

Keep her happy because a happy woman is more likely to want you to be happy too. She is the gift that God gave to you to share your future and dreams with.

How To Clean A Hotel Room

The checkout-
Enter room. Strip the bed, remove dirty towels from bathroom, check drawers for left behinds, empty trash containers and check hotel coffee pot to make sure it is still in the room or hasn't been used to cook drugs in. Pocket any money.
Check the shower curtain for dirt by rubbing it against itself. If its dirty you'll know. Remove if it is dirty, otherwise close it.
Gather needed sheets, towels, soaps, etc. and place on dresser. Having it there ahead of time will save you needless running back and forth.

Repeat for you remaining checkouts.

When you are ready to clean the room start by making the bed. If you work for a hotel with brains there will be no fitted sheets. Most hotels these days don't have brains. I'm sorry. The easiest way to put on a pillowcase is to hold the pillow under your chin and use both hands to put the case on, a quick shake and you're done. Finish cleaning the room making sure it looks as not used as possible.

The stay over-
Try to enter room. Push hard to shove the suitcase blocking the door out of the way. Trip over pizza boxes. Navigate around more suitcases. Look at bed piled with guest's belongings. Get note that says why you are not making the bed and set in easy to see place on bed.

Enter bathroom. Stumble out choking. Take deep breath and re-enter. Flush toilet. Spray air freshener liberally and wait outside. Return to bathroom. Get on hotel phone and call front desk for maintenance.

Think about vacuuming and laugh.

Return to now working bathroom and clean. Pretend you actually cleaned the room and leave.

The next day-See the guest that was the previous day's stay over as he's checking out. Notice that he's drop dead handsome, but you know what a true stinker he really is. Smile as he walks by.

So Meaty!

My neighbor, Mrs. Benson, had been married four times. Each time the marriage lasted a total of two years and ended with the husband leaving to never been seen again. Except for the first husband who still lived in the town. The original Mr. Benson.

It was said that Mr. Benson had also been married a few times and his wives left him never to be seen again. Some in the town suspected they met the spouse of the other Benson and went together.

Mrs. Benson took the sudden departure of each husband pretty well, almost too well. She would have a party every time and invited everyone, including Mr. Benson. Mr. Benson was always happy to oblige.

“This year we're having a barbecue” Mrs. Benson announced as I opened the door. “Be there at seven sharp!”

Before that it had been meat fondue and before that some sort of stew. There would always be plenty of leftovers for everyone to take home. My own freezer was full of Mrs. Benson's party food.

At seven I showed up and found people already digging into Mrs. Benson's barbecue. She gave me a plate piled high with vegetables.

“I made this special for you.” She said. “I remembered you don't eat meat.”

“Thank you.” I graciously took the plate. “Glad you remembered.”

“Oh you're just so darling, Ian!” Mrs. Benson gushed. “If you weren't so young I'd made you number five!”

I sat next to Mr. Benson who was gnawing on a rib bone with Mrs. Benson's homemade sauce dripping off of it.

“My boy, when are you going to get married?” Mr. Benson asked with pieces of meat hanging off his teeth. “Boy handsome as you must have the girls dying to be asked out.”

“I haven't given it much thought to be honest.”

“Well boy, start giving it a thought!”

“Oh leave the boy alone, Gerald!” Mrs. Benson said, sitting next to Mr. Benson. “How's that rib?”

“Cooked nice and tender.” Mr. Benson answered. “Just like I taught you.”

“All in the way you tenderize the meat.” Mrs. Benson replied. “Just like you taught me.”

I watched them as I gnawed on my carrot sticks. They seemed the perfect couple and one would wonder why their marriage didn't last. As I finished my plate of vegetables Mrs. Benson handed me a package.

“For your dogs.” She said. “No sauce on these. Don't want to upset their tummies.”

“They'll enjoy it, thanks.” I graciously took the package.

“There's a surprise in it for you too.”

My dogs met me at the gate their tags wagging furiously, waiting for their treat.

“Down!” I said sternly.

Buster and Beulah sat, their tails still wagging.

“Good dogs.”

I opened the package to find the treats and a ring attached to one of them. A gold wedding band that looked quite a bit like the ring husband number four wore. I tossed the dogs their treat and they laid down, happily chewing the fingers from number four's hands.

Watching them enjoy the treat made me a bit hungry and I thought of Jill who made the best hamburgers. Her steaks weren't all that bad either. She was just so meaty and tender.

A High Dream-With Zombies!

In my dream I'm standing outside of a car smoking and this guy says to get in, so I do. He's driving along and I'm starting to feel a bit strange. Then it occurs to me Oh yeah I just smoked a joint! Mind you, in real life I don't (okay haven't in years).

My mind starts having all those thoughts one has when they are high. A cop is going to stop us and smell it. He's going to see my dilated pupils and know I've been smoking. I'm rolling down the window to get rid of the smoke that can't possibly be in the car because I smoked outside.

All the sudden we're heading for a fence and this teenage boy is racing toward us screaming. The driver suddenly jumps out of the car leaving me and I think “Oh great, zombies and I'm high!”

Dear Diary February 17th

They say the Lord speaks in mysterious ways. I think he speaks pretty clearly myself and he has spoken loud and clear about my chartreuse dress. He hates it.

Bernice Williams stopped by with her two year old little boy, Zeke, who promptly ran over to the chair my dress was laying on and lost his breakfast all over it. Bernice felt really bad about it but Mama said it was okay.

I have to say it was satisfying watching the flames as we burned the dress in my backyard but it also meant I was back to having nothing to wear to the dance.

Mama and I looked in her closet to see if there was anything that I could wear. There was her church dress and the one she wore to funerals. Mama said she had something different in mind. She reached way back in the closet and pulled out a big flat box. Her wedding dress and when I tried it on I realized why Grandpap had called it a shotgun wedding and why Mama had always said I was at the wedding. Mama had a past and it explained a lot of the looks she got from the church ladies.

Mama says she can fix it and no one will know it was a maternity wedding dress.

Grieving For What You'll Never Have

There are times you have to give up on something. Even something you need is not always going to be obtainable. It doesn't matter what it is the answer is just going to be no. I think it is sort of losing something precious in your life and you grieve the loss.

When you realize you aren't going to get the something you need you go through a kind of grieving process.

Shock and denial-You cannot believe that something you need is never going to happen.

Pain and guilt-That you needed something in the first place, lowered yourself to ask for help and feel guilty for asking for help.

Anger and bargaining-You're angry because you aren't getting the help you need and you would do or say just about anything to get it.

Depression-You don't think you'll ever get over not getting what you needed.

Working through the grief-You know it isn't going to happen so you just go on with life.

Acceptance-You accept things are as they are.

Of course it isn't like the loss of a loved one but I believe you still go through a type of grieving process.

Dear Diary February 16th

A couple of the ladies from the church stopped by with what they called a “modesty panel” that is to be sewn into the front of the dress so I don't accidentally show any cleavage during the dance. They looked at the material for my dress and said it wasn't on the approved color list but seeing as we already had it they would overlook it this time.

Ethel and Edna Pole were twins but you wouldn't know it looking at them, all except the matching mustaches. Mama said some hot wax would fix that and I imagined sneaking in their house to do the deed. Neither one had ever been married but Edna had a boyfriend once. They were engaged and everything until he met with an accident involving a shotgun after being caught with Milly Stiles in the back of the Five and Dime. Nobody ever found the shotgun.

Mama was real polite to them, made them tea and put out a plate of cookies. The ladies talked about how important it was for a young lady like myself not to give the wrong impression and they hoped there would not be another incident like what happened at the talent show last year. Mama assured them I would not be acting out that scene from When Harry Met Sally ever again.

When they were gone, Mama took the modesty panel and blew her nose with it.

Dear Diary February 15th

Baily Bixby Barnaby The Third (3B3) invited me to the winter festival dance. I am so excited and Mama is going to make my dress. I even convinced her to sew one of them designer tags in so people won't know it is homemade.

We went to Sew Rite fabric store in Juniper Falls. They were having a special sale on material. Twenty five cents a yard on everything on account of the fire. The bolts of chiffon were all fused together but we found this chartreuse one with satin to match. The satin had melted spots in it that Mama said she could fix it with glitter and no one would even suspect a thing. First we have to get the smoke smell out of the material.

Three washings later and it still smells like a barbecue. Mama said it would go away hanging on the line outside so we hung it out to dry. While it was drying Mama and I looked through her dress patterns to find something that looked designer like. Mama put some different patterns together and came up with a dress that we both agreed looked like something them New York folks would wear.

Outside we heard a load of crows flying over to Elmer Wyatt's farm to check out what was left of his cornfield. Evidently they needed to make room for the food. I have to give them credit for their good aim. We washed the fabric and this time we draped it over the furniture inside the house. Just in case more birds came along. The fabric now has a barbecue bird outdoorsy smell to it. Mama says she can fix that with some cologne that used to belong to Granny Johnson once she can get the cap off the bottle. She'll have to use both hands.

Warping Young Minds Since 1978

One day my oldest daughter, Mandy, called me to tell me I had totally embarrassed her and she was mortified by it. Not knowing what she was talking about and pretty sure I hadn't done anything like that, at least not that day I asked her what she was talking about.

She was singing “Winter Wonderland” with some people and they got to the part about sitting by the fire and she sang it just like I always did.

Later on we'll perspire as we sweat by the fire.
We'll face unafraid the stench that we made
Walking in a winter wonderland.

I don't think she appreciated my laughing.

Thoughts From a Self Published Writer

I never set out to become a writer. I had other things in mind but when I was told I should publish my writing it put the idea in my head.

Finished the first book, published it and was asked when the next one was coming out. So again, I wrote and published. Now I am being asked for the next book.

My decision to self publish was an easy one. I will admit I did send the first one to a possible publisher and got back a rejection that pretty much said my writing was too weird for the publishing world.

Self publishing has drawbacks. You can't get away with grammatical errors at all, even though you will see them in books of traditionally published books. You're a nobody and how dare you think you are only the same level as King, Gaiman or any other popular writer.

Every review you get is scrutinized, criticized and downright accused of being fake if it is over three stars on Amazon. Until they changed their policy on Goodreads I was on the “I will never read this author, not touching this shit, and avoid this author” lists. I had a lot of company too. We didn't do anything other than just publish what we had written.

Someone was appalled that I didn't have at least fifty novels out. “You should be publishing a book a month at least!” I'm sorry, my brain doesn't work that way. I write when the mood hits me. I know I should be more disciplined but it is what it is.

I'm one of those who thrives on feedback. The more I get the more I want to write. It isn't an ego thing but rather a motivational one. The push I need to go on to the next chapter or story.

Finding Peace as a Writer

I think that maybe I have come to peace with myself where writing is concerned. None of it is about getting people to read my books or stories, it's about doing what I like to do.

Forget the days and months I've gone without a single sale. Forget the “I can't wait to read your book” and they never do. Forget watching others succeed where I can't seem to.

Write a story because I want to no matter if anyone likes it or not. Write, not to be read but write for the simple enjoyment of it.

I wouldn't give up writing but I'm willing to give up struggling and write because it is what I do. Let whatever happens, happen.

Ringer

It's a small, flat, soft package and as I feel it I know what is inside. I have been dreading this day I knew was coming. Once you turn eighteen in the small town of Ringer you got the blue shirt. No one knows who sends them, only that you get one on your eighteen birthday and today I turn eighteen.

Mom says it's a privilege to get the blue shirt. I don't know why. Ted Garson got one and he never did anything to earn it. He was little more than a bully who picked on anyone who got near him. At least he did until he was sent to work in the south field. That's also a privilege, according to my mom although she's neither gotten the blue shirt nor been sent to work in the south field. My father had never got one either. None of the parents had, only their offspring.

Dad told me the south field was only an expression used to say they went to live outside of Ringer. I never had any thought of leaving and could not imagine going anywhere. Ringer was my home. I planned on finding a girl to marry and running the farm after my parents died.

I look at the package and I don't want to open it. I don't want to wear the blue shirt because I know what it means. The blue shirt means the end of childhood. It means growing up and it means never coming back. None of them come back from the south field.

I can smell breakfast cooking downstairs. The traditional Ringer eighteenth birthday breakfast. Every day for as long as I remember, Mom has kissed my forehead. Today she does not touch me. She only sets the plate of food in front of me and leaves me alone to eat.

A Ringer birthday breakfast is odd as it consist of one of everything. One egg, one piece of toast, one slice of meat. It is a sparse meal and no one can say when the tradition started.

Dad is gone out to the fields, I imagine. I listen for the sound of the tractor, but it is quiet except for the sound of the wind.

Mom comes back in the kitchen and drapes the blue shirt, freshly pressed on the back of Dad's chair. There is a piece of paper in the pocket. When I reach for it she shakes her head slightly and mouths “No” at me. She's nervous about something. I can tell it in her eyes.



The great feast with all my friends and any who have not yet turned eighteen starts promptly at four. Even the ones who had nothing to do with me before come. Melanie Brewer kisses my cheek and cries. I want to tell her how I feel about her but the words won't come out.

Finally, the feast begins and it has every food Mom knows that I like. Today it all tastes bland. There is no birthday cake. No singing of Happy Birthday. The girls cry and the boys give me a solemn handshake followed by a sympathetic pat on the back.

Last there is Mom who presses her lips tight and gives me the lightest of hugs. She puts her hand against the pocket with the paper in it and whispers.

“When you get to the south field.”

I know I'm going to the south field whether I want to or not. Every one I've ever known has gone who has turned eighteen. I won't be the exception.

At seven the feast ends abruptly with the arrival of John Tucson who is to take me to the south field. We go through the neighborhood I have grown up in, past the school I spent twelve years in learning what now seems pointless and past Yardley's Grocery where I had a job stocking the shelves.

Tucson never spoke or at least no one had ever heard him. It was mostly grunts and pointing so when he spoke I practically jumped out of my skin.

“When you get to the south field you stand and wait.” He said. “Someone will come to get you.”

“I didn't think you could talk.” I said, in surprise.

“Man only needs to talk when he's got something important to say.”

I couldn't imagine never having more than one important thing to say and wondered how many had heard that exact sentence or was it different for each one of us.

“Do you understand boy?” He asks.

“Yes.”


He turns on a dirt road and I think I know it. It seems so familiar as if I have been on it before, going to the same way and I know where I will end up at when we arrive. I close my eyes and the vision of stones standing in rows appear in my head. I know I have been here but I'm sure I never have seen it.

Tucson stops the car and he tells me to get out. He drives away without a word. I am left standing in an old cemetery. I can hear footsteps coming and I pull the note my Mom left in the pocket. The steps come closer as I unfold the paper and read what it says.

RUN

I can see him under the moonlight. The man who taught me to ride a bike, held my hand as we walked the farm's wheat field. My Father and he was pointing his rifle at me.

RUN

I had trusted him my entire life. I knew I was safe when he was near.

RUN

He was my protector. He would never hurt me.

RUN

I run and I feel the bullet fly close past my ear.

As I run I see the headstones with the names of those I have known. I had gone to their eighteenth birthday feast and had wished them well as they were taken to the south field. There was always a parent missing but I had never noticed, not until it was my own that wasn't there. Not there for what was supposed to be such an important date.

RUN

That one word echos in my head over and over. I cannot think of anything else. How big is this cemetery? It seems to go on forever and I expect to find the end but it is not there.

Did the others get a note in the pocket of their blue shirt? Did their mother or father give them the same warning? Was it just part of how things were done?

I have to believe it was a warning. Mom loves me, doesn't she? I thought Dad did too.

RUN

I keep running and I hear the shots from the rifle. How many now? Can I keep running until he runs out of ammunition? My legs are beginning to hurt and I'm struggling.

RUN

I can't. I'm done. Let what happens happen. What purpose is served by killing one's own child I do not know, yet I know it is going to be done. I will stand here and wait for my father.

Then I see it. The open grave and the headstone bearing my name with the date of my birth and my death. Exactly eighteen years apart. I crawl into the dark hoe and wait for him to find me. If I am to die I will die as I want. I close my eyes so I will not have to see my death.

I hear the footsteps go past and then return to my grave. A light shines on my face and I hear my father reload the gun. I am going to die.

“Why?” I ask.

“For us, son, for us.”

“Us?”

“Your Mom and I.” He says. “You die so we can live.”

“Why?” I ask again. “You owe me at least that much!”

“The blood that spills from your body will let us live on as did the blood of the many brothers who came before you.” He explains. “We have lived in Ringer over two hundred years and we've had many sons. Each one reaching eighteen years and being brought to the south field. After you are gone there will be many more. She already prepares her body to accept another.”

“You aren't supposed to live forever!” I cry. “It is not how life is meant to be.”

“It is how it is in Ringer. Do not worry son, your blood will return with me and you will become part of the new child to be born.”

I am not ready to die. I don't know how long I can keep him talking but I have to try while I think of a way out.

“And what will you do with my blood?” I ask.

“It will become the bed the new child is conceived in.”

“Then I wish to see the grave of the brother in whose blood I was conceived.”



I do not know to laugh or cry as I read the headstone. Eighteen years and nine months older this brother after who I am named. I look further and see more of them with my name. They kept the name and killed the child. Did he cry and beg for his life?

All the hugs and kisses from my parents meant nothing. The “I love yous” only empty words. I would be replaced as all the others had been just so they could keep on living. So Ringer would remain the same with the same people who will have children that when they turn eighteen John Tucson will drive them to find their end at the south field.

That one word flashes in my head again.

RUN

I do, leaving my father standing there.

RUN

The end of the south field must be somewhere. It has to be close. All I can do is run.

Noah's Mother

I can hear her calling for me while she scrapes the point of the butcher knife against the wall. Her voice sounds kind and gentle, but I know what she means to do.

“Come out, Noah.” She says “Come see what mother has for you.”

She is not my mother and my name is not Noah. My name is Kai and my real mother named me after a character on a television show she used to watch. My real mother is in the cellar of this old house and has been there for a long time.

When she fell down the stairs her neck snapped and twisted. I tried to fix it but she just laid there and stared up at the ceiling. I brought her food and water hoping it would stir her. She only stared. I kept trying until the day I opened the cellar and a horrible smell burned the inside of my nose. I never opened the door again.

I still have food to eat and there are good things to drink. The woman with the knife sets out a plate every evening hoping to entice me into opening the door. I wait until morning then I eat the meal. The food is like my grandmother made when she was still alive. Nothing came from a box like what my own mother fixed.

Once in awhile I hear giggling. I think it is Noah and I would like to play with him but he doesn't come to the room where I hide. Sometimes she finds him and I hold my hands over my ears to shut out his gurgling screams

No one ever comes and I think they have all forgotten us. I heard a knock on the door once, but she was outside of my door and I dared not open it. They went away and took all the lights with them.

When the sun is up I can leave the room. She stays away because she hates the light. I like to go exploring and find things to take to my room. There are toys but I leave them alone. They belong to Noah. I like the old bottles I find better anyway. Some are empty but there are others with strange liquids in them. I tasted one once and it made me feel funny.

The smell from the cellar is gone but my mom still hasn't gotten up. I wait for the door to open and for her to see I have been good while I waited for her.

I try to make the woman like me. Sometimes I leave gifts for her outside my door. They are never there in the morning so I know she takes them. I don't know why she doesn't like me. At least I can hide from her. Noah can't hide and she finds him.

I have a plan to get Noah to play with me. I'm going to get his toys and make trail to my room. He will follow it and I will open the door. Then we can play and his mother can't stop us.

Today I tried to go outside. My hands kept slipping off the door knob. I think Noah's mom did something to it so it won't work anymore.

I heard a baby crying. Tomorrow I'm going to find it.

Tonight I heard Noah's mother crying and calling his name. She sounded very sad and I almost thought of opening the door to let her in. It didn't last very long. Soon she was calling for him as she always did, with anger in her voice.

While The light is still out I put Noah's toys in a path to my room. I hope he follows it, then I will let him in and she won't get to him. Now I will lay down on the bed and wait.


I hear screaming. I don't know who it is. It doesn't sound like Noah or his mother. Someone slammed the front door. My window has boards over it so I can't look out to see who it is. I would wave to them if I could.

I don't know how long I was asleep before the screaming. There was still some light coming through the cracks of the door so it wasn't that long. There are more noises and I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Someone is trying to open my door but I have it locked.

Noah won't come tonight and his mother will stay away too. I will just sleep and try again tomorrow.



Jingling keys wake me up and I hear someone trying to unlock my door. There's a click and the door swings open. I sit up in my bed and he walks past me. I say “hi” and he does not even look. All he does is look around.

“Mister!” I yell at him.

All he does is rub his arms like he's cold.

The man tries to open the wardrobe but it won't open. I used to play in it when we first moved into the house. Now it frightens me. There is something in it that I don't want to see.

When the man leaves the room I go with him. I keep touching his arm to get his attention and he just scratches where I touch. He is a silly man.

There are more people I don't know walking around downstairs. I want them to talk to me. I walk around them and one lady looks right at me and smiles.

“He is here.” She says. “You must look harder.”

“I am here! I am here!” I say, jumping up and down. “Noah is here too.”

“Noah?” The lady asks.

“Kid's name is Kai.” A man answers. “Little boy, six years old I believe.”

“There are two little boys.” The woman says. “I feel them both.”

“She only had one child.”

The woman puts her hands to her face and she starts to cry. I feel really bad and softly touch her cheek.

“That's you, isn't it Kai?”

Someone knows I'm here and she knows Noah is here too.

“There is a Noah here too.” The lady says. “Something else is with them that's blocking my view. It doesn't want to be seen.”

“Upstairs is a locked wardrobe.” It was the man who came into my room talking. “I think we need to get a look inside. We looked everywhere else for the little boy.”


Now they are heading upstairs, into my room and they will open the wardrobe with that terrible thing inside.

They are trying to open the wardrobe. I have to stop them. I pick up one of Noah's toys and I throw it as hard as I can. It hits a man on the head. He stops and picks up the toy.

“I think we're definitely onto something.” He says.

I hear the creak of the wardrobe door and it opens. I don't want to look but I have to. The terrible thing in my wardrobe lies at the bottom and I remember.

Mom, she gave me the bottle and put me inside the wardrobe.

“Drink it all and then you can come out.” She promised. “Good little boys do what they are told.”

I was a good little boy so I drank the whole bottle it made me feel funny and tired. When I woke up I was on my bed, then I heard mom fall down the stairs.

I'm not scared anymore. Someone touches me and I look to see Noah standing next to me. I know him and he knows me. We are the same and our mothers are the same. One day another little boy will come here with his mother and will die like we did. He will become us too.

“Come,” Noah says. “Let's go play before it is time to die again.”

The Pickle Jar

I can hear something in the attic. It must be a bird because it's making fluttering noises. Probably a sparrow or perhaps a robin. It has been there since last night, trying to find its way out.

Now it's screeching and I can barely stand the sound. I want it to stop, just stop. Should I go up and end it? Could I shoo it out the way it got in? My cat would take care it, but the cat is old now and she stopped hunting some time ago.

Oh stop, stop screeching! I just want to go to sleep and forget. Why won't it stop screeching? It's in pain I know it is. Poor thing.

It's stopped. Must be exhausted from all the flying about. Wait. Is it...crying?

The attic door opens by way of a rod with a hooked end. The realtor said the rod went missing years ago. It did not matter at the time. I never meant to go up there. Now I had to. I had to see what was up there.

The garage! Maybe there's something in the garage. Let's see. The car. The lawnmower. Barbecue grill and that stupid trellis I never put up. Nothing. Keep looking. There. There it is between the drywall and the concrete. Stuck in the gap. I've been looking at that thing for years thinking it was part of the floor.


Hook it into the small bar on the attic door and pull. Pull. PULL! Shit! Damn stairs. The steps creak as I go up and I can hear the thing scurrying away to hide. God don't let it jump on my head.

Bigger up here than I thought it would be. Should have known, old house like this. Shelves, boxes and a big pickle jar rolling toward me. Giggling. Birds don't giggle. A child? No a child couldn't get up here without the rod and it didn't fly in. Something did though.

There it is! Huddled in the corner staring at me, smiling and it looks hungry.

Don't scare it. Get it in the open and drop the jar over it. Have a better look at it. I swear it almost looks human. How can that be? It's the light or rather lack of light has me seeing things wrong. It's just a bird or a bat. But birds don't cry and bats don't giggle. I was hearing things, I must have been.

Something to entice it out with, that's what I need. Check my pockets. Ah, the mints. Bad habit sucking on them all day long. Better than smoking. One left in the roll. On the floor with it and wait.

Come on and get your treat. Closer, closer. You know you want the sweet candy. YES! Got you.

Hands, legs, body and face. No, it can't be. They don't exist they just don't. What was it my mother used to call them? Vexers? Whenever we had moved into a new house she always cleaned even if the house was spotless. “I do it to keep the vexers out.” She has said when I asked her. “Family before always has their vexers. They don't bother them but if you don't clean the old family from the house the vexers will find you.”

It was a story to scare me, that's all. Something to get me to clean my room when I was a small boy. Yet there it was and nothing at all like the monsters I imagined as a child. It was tiny and delicate with smooth skin and white wisps of hair. Its eyes soft and gentle.

What else was it mother said about them? I know there was something.

Doesn't matter. Mom said a lot of things. Most of it nonsense.

Now what to do with you, my little friend. Shall I keep you like a captive bug in a jar? Maybe let you go so you can fly off and be with others like you? There's always the scientific community willing to pay for specimens and you are quite the specimen.

No can't do that. They'll either do tests or at the worst, dissect you. Pin you on a board and display your corpse under glass. Then after all the excitement of the find of the century died down you'd collect dust and be put in some old box.

Why are you giggling? No that's not you, is it? Damn! Something bit me. What the hell? Oh shit, I've gotta get out of here! So tired. Rest for a moment and then I'll...



What's that smell? Smells like old pickles. My throat hurts so bad. What is that? A body? Wearing my clothes? I'm dreaming. Come on wake up! Oh my god they're eating it! They're eating my body! I can see them through the glass of the pickle jar.

Damn, what was it she said? Think, think!

“Vexers are never alone, Jack, and they're always hungry.” 

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R.K. Finnell

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