La beauté et l’horreur

The beauty of writing is that the author holds the fate of all the characters in the tip of the pen. The horror of writing is that the author has no control over the fate of the work.
If that day were a story, I suppose I’d write something full of warnings, signs, and omens. I’d wake up, knowing something was off and urge myself to go back to sleep.

It was sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. A beautiful desert winter day. I’d been in the area a few weeks and had ventured into “the big city,” a tiny town called Lordsburg that was a little more than a half hour drive from my home-base.
               In my travels, I found Dimension Coffee, a coffee shop that sold books and had a friendly cat who greeted visitors. It is hard to say whether it was the cat, the books, or the coffee that drew me in, but anyone who knows me would say it was the cat. They would probably be correct.
               There was also a library in town, so like a good little indie author attempting shamelessly to promote my books to any literary venue, I packed the saddlebag with copies of my work and fired up the bike.
               Before I even made it onto the main road, my journey was halted. Perhaps it was one of those signs, omens, or warnings that I should turn around before the day got worse, but who believes in that?
               The delay was a caravan of oversized loads. Not uncommon to the area, the large turbines loaded onto trucks had a way of halting the almost non-existent traffic. Never being in a hurry, the trucks didn’t bother me, but they certainly ruffled the feathers of the true locals.
               I turned off the engine and popped the visor up on my helmet. The drivers of the pilot cars worked efficiently to guide the semis and halt traffic (me). One of the trucks had a dog co-pilot who smiled while standing tall in the seat. When has a smiling dog ever been a bad omen?
               The caravan cleared the way. I popped the visor down, started the engine, kicked it into gear, and set off to see a cat about some books.

The beauty of the desert is that there is usually no one else on the road. The horror of the desert is that there is usually no one else on the road.
               I was more than halfway into my trek when I saw a black speck in the distance. It wasn’t in the road, and it didn’t look like it was moving. There were plenty of cattle in the area, but the speck seemed too small. The desert has a way of playing tricks on one’s perception from a distance.
               As I got closer, I still couldn’t make out what I was seeing. It could always be road trash, but until I knew if it was animal, vegetable, or organic polymer, I decided slowing down was best.
               Finally, I was close enough to see that the black speck was feline in nature. I could see its green eyes watching my approach and I urged the cat to stay put. In true cat nature, it didn’t listen.
               The cat bolted out in front of me, and I swerved to change course. However, the cat quickly had the same thought and turned to head back the way it came. I swerved back and narrowly missed the cat’s tail. Unfortunately, this put me on course to hit the gravelly shoulder.
               Before I even knew what was happening, the front tire sunk into the loose gravel and I was down on the ground with the bike on top of me. I looked up to see the cat becoming a speck in the distance again.

The beauty of having a light motorcycle is that you can lift it off should you end up underneath it. The horror of having a light motorcycle is that is still hurts when it falls on you.
I quickly shut off the fuel and assessed the situation. Nothing felt broken, but I wouldn’t know for sure until I got the bike off my ankle. I lifted the bike but couldn’t free my foot. My shoe was stuck but luckily, I was able to slide my foot out of the shoe.

               My initial thoughts fell in this order:
               1. I am glad the cat is okay
               2. I hope the books are unscathed
               3. Now my mom will worry about me even more
               4. I suppose it’s good I wear a helmet
               5. Damn cat!

               I knew I had done some damage after getting the bike back upright. A few battle scars on the bike weren’t going to be a problem, but I could feel the road rash on my hand, my elbow, my knee, my ankle.
               Still, I didn’t check my wounds. I opened the saddlebag and examined my books. Just like the cat, they were safe. Surely that should be a good omen.
               Since I was closer to my destination than home, I decided it was best to carry on with the trip. There was a visitor’s center a few miles ahead and I figured they would have a first aid kit on hand.
               They didn’t.
               I threw my leg back over the bike, joints actively swelling with each move, and carried on to Dollar General to build my own first aid kit. I had taken a moment at the visitor’s center to inspect the damage. They didn’t even have paper towels at the center, but my triage guided me through the aisles to gauze, hydrogen peroxide, tape, and cold compresses.
               There, in the Dollar General parking lot, I cleaned and dressed my wounds and was grateful to have escaped with only a minor tear in my pants so that I looked presentable enough to deliver books.
               I swapped my new supplies for the books in the saddlebag, making sure I’d cleaned all the blood off my hands first.
               Did Stephen King ever hobble to a library to donate books?
               Has Margaret Atwood ever had an ice pack stuffed up her sleeve on the way to a bookshop?
               Well, at least we’re all better off than Edgar Allan Poe.

I pushed open the door of the library and threw on my best smile as I approached the counter. I’ve never examined myself in the mirror, so it is entirely possible the smile is more creepy than inviting.
               “Hello,” I said to the librarian. “I am an author and I called before to see if I could donate my books to your collection. The women I spoke with said that would be fine, so here they are.”
               I placed the stack on the counter and pulled out a business card.
               “Feel free to contact me if you are ever in need of an author for an event.”
               “Okay,” said the librarian. Almost as an afterthought she added, “thanks.”
               I waited awkwardly for something more but quickly realized the moment for what it was. I knew the books would never make it on their shelves. Where would they end up? On their “free shelf”? In the trash? Burned? I could only hope that I was wrong, but ever the pessimist, I knew their fate.
               I needed a cat to cheer me up. Good thing the next stop was Dimension Coffee. As I rounded the corner, I saw Teddy’s white and orange frame wandering the sidewalk.
               The bookshop was small and I knew from my previous visit they didn’t have space to take books on consignment, but the owners were gracious and provided delightful conversation, so I brought a copy of one of my books just for them. You did read that I wrote “shamelessly” promote earlier, right?
               I related the day’s events while sipping coffee and petting Teddy. As I did whenever telling the story over the next few weeks, I began with the preface, “the cat is okay.”

The beauty of scars is that they remind you of what you’ve overcome. The horror of scars is that they remind you of what you’ve overcome.
               This wasn’t a life-threatening accident, although with any accident, the slight variation of any factor can make it so.
               The rejection of my books was not a major life event. It’s happened before and will happen again.
               Good conversation, coffee, and cats are all parts of everyday life that may not stick indefinitely in one’s memory but should never be taken for granted.
               That day sticks in my memory though. Not because of those events, but what I saw weeks later traveling that same stretch of road.

The sun was setting behind the mountains and painting the sky a beautiful golden pink hue. I saw a black speck in the road. I knew before I even saw its flattened form what it was.

The beauty of writing is that I could change the ending of this story. The horror of writing is that I will still know the truth. We all live to die another day.

Full Circle

Time to reveal what I’ve been working on over the winter! But first, some background for those who don’t know the story.
I started working at a bookstore when I was 14. Before working in the store, I was a frequent customer and had become good friends with the owner, Karen Baker. Karen founded the bookstore in the summer of 1994, and her very first customer was her mother, Kathryn Mitz Wilson.
Fast forward a couple decades and Karen and I had become not just friends, but family. Karen lost her mother before I ever knew her, so I never had the opportunity to meet Kathryn but I did get to know her through stories shared. Karen told me that her mother had written a book and her dream once she retired from owning a bookstore was to get her mother’s book published.
Unfortunately, Karen passed before retiring and the manuscript that had helped her mother recover from an aneurysm lost its champion. Knowing how important this was to Karen, I decided that with the family’s blessing, I would take on the task of helping this work see the light of day.
Now, it will see the light of day on April 27! While books normally release on Tuesdays, I chose this day for its release because it was Karen’s birthday. So what’s it about?

The planet is dying. Botanist Ad MacMillan knows this, but he doesn’t know why. After a discovery at his family home, the mystery begins to unravel. With the help of a quirky cabbie, a hopeless romantic, and a beautifully brilliant scientist, Ad sets off on a journey that will change all of them, and alter the fate of mankind.
Perhaps it was Kathryn’s love of science fiction or just the way her brain worked, but her vision of humanity and the tragic effects of mankind on nature are what makes this tale so timely.
You can pre-order a copy at your local independent bookstore, through Bookshop.org, or from the bookstore that started it all: The Country Bookseller in Wolfeboro, NH.

Poupée enterrée

“‘The town too tough to die.’ Well, I think it’s dead.”
               “Don’t be silly, it’s just off-season.” Clancy, ever the optimist, was excited to explore the town.
               “It’s also 75˚in December and there isn’t a place to get coffee after 2pm.”
               “I always forget your midwestern bones can’t handle the heat.” Clancy motioned the universal “cue the violins” while she ambled ahead on the wooden planks.
               “Believe me, it’s not that I can’t handle the heat; I just prefer the cold.”
               “Like your heart.”
               “Exactly. You get me.”
               Our usual banter was off since the fight we had last week. I much preferred traveling to non-tourist destinations, but she won me over knowing I am a sucker for historic destinations. Still, my words from the argument hung over us.
               “You’re an idiot. You only want to go to Tombstone because you saw those loser ghost hunters on TV.”
               Sure we teased each other a lot, but the vitriol in my tone burned her worse than if I had held her heart to a flame.
               “Look, there’s ice cream.” I pointed to the sign ahead.
               “You don’t like ice cream.”
               “Yeah, but I’m hot.” Uncharacteristically, I pouted hoping to get my way.
               “Well, I strongly disagree with that,” Clancy smirked. “But I’ll never say no to ice cream.”
               We entered the tiny shop and ordered. As the woman behind the counter scooped, she asked how long we were in town.
               “Just tonight.”
               “A couple days.”
               We both answered at the same time.
               “Oh, sorry,” the woman said. “I thought you were traveling together.”
               “We are,” I replied. “I guess we just aren’t on the same page with our travel plans.”
               Clancy looked down at the floor and remained silent. I grabbed our cones and waited for Clancy to pay. When we took our seats on the bench outside, we ate our ice cream in silence.
               A stagecoach went by with a lone patron in the back. The only thing missing was a tumbleweed blowing by, but even the air was too stagnant to produce the effect.
               “We can leave in the morning. Sorry I dragged you here.” No longer the optimist, Clancy peeled the paper off her cone as the ice cream melted down her hand.
               “No, it’s okay.” I wasn’t usually one to feel bad about someone else’s feelings, but for some reason I couldn’t stand to see her this way. “We can stay. And we can do your little ghost tour.”
               “Really?” Her face lit up.
               “Yes. But on one condition.”
               “Sure! What?”
               “This afternoon, we tour the mines.”
               Dread crossed her face, but I liked seeing that emotion over sadness.
               “You know I hate small spaces.”
               “Don’t worry about it. They don’t let us go in the small spaces. Besides, if you ain’t afraid of no ghosts, you shouldn’t be afraid of no mines.”
               She thought about it for a moment before a smile returned to her face.
               “Okay. Mines this afternoon. Ghosts tonight.”

Upon arriving at the mine’s entrance, we were handed hard hats.
               “This is going to mess up my hair.”
               “And who are you trying to impress, Clancy? The ghosts of miners past?”
               “Maybe our tour guide will be a knockout?”
               As if on cue, I could see our guide coming up from the mine with the last party of two who ventured down with him.
               “You know, you’re right, Clancy. He’s a fox. A silver one at that.”
               “Age is just a number you know.” At that moment, she turned around to catch sight of the subject under discussion. “On second thought, who cares what my hair looks like.”
               For the first time in a week, I laughed.
               “Hi there, ladies.” The guide acknowledged us. “Let me finish up with these two and then we’ll head down. Take a look around.”
               “Thanks,” we said in unison.
               “Let’s go check out that pile of rubble over there.”
               “Since when are you interested in a pile of rubble? The girl who was just concerned about her hair being ruined by a hard hat.”
               “Since I thought I saw a cat meandering over there.”
               “A cat? Why didn’t you say so. Let’s go.” I grabbed her by the hand and sprinted over to the remnants of history. “I don’t know, Clancy. I don’t see a cat.”
               “I swear, he was right here. Maybe he went down in the mine.”
               “I hope not. He could get lost down there.”
               “He knows what he’s doing. Cats out in the wild west know how to handle themselves.”
               “Cat cowboys?”
               “Purr-cisely.”
               “That was bad, even for you, Clancy.”
               “I aim to impress. What’s that though?” She pointed down to the pile we so fervently ran to and then ignored.
               I looked down and saw that it looked like a teratoma. It had a little bit of everything in it, but the “that” that Clancy was referring to, was an arm. A doll arm to be exact. I reached down to pick it out of the pile.
               “Stop!” Clancy sounded panicked. “Don’t touch it.”
               “There’s no sign that says we can’t.” I’d noticed quite a few of those around the compound.
               “Still.”
               I stared at Clancy waiting for a bit more of an explanation. “Still what, Clancy?”
               “Well it’s dirty and it could be cursed. Plus, dolls are just really creepy.”
               “I agree with you there. Alright, I’ll let sleeping dolls lie.”
               “Okay, ladies.” Clancy and I both jumped at the sound the guide’s voice. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. My name’s George and I’ll be taking you down in the mine today. Just a few rules before we head down. Make sure you stay on the path, don’t touch anything but the rails, and most importantly, do not venture down any of the tunnels (or drifts as we call them).
               “I’m afraid if I catch you wandering, we’ll have to end the tour immediately for your safety. Any questions?”
               “No, sir,” I replied. Clancy remained silent and quite clearly still a little spooked. I nudged her shoulder and she snapped out of it.

As we followed the guide to the entrance of the mine, he gave us the rundown on its history. After learning about Ed Schiffelin, George let us play with the steam mule and then we were on our way down 100 feet below ground.
               “Finally, it’s cooler.” I whispered to Clancy as George led us into what he called a stope. We were in an open cavern with drifts leading off in several directions.
               “Now, I’m going to show you something neat,” George said as he lit a candle. “These candles were all the miners had down here, and they were given three each for every ten-hour shift. The candles lasted for two hours. You can see there’s a problem with the math.”
               George turned off his flashlight, leaving the only illumination to come from the lonely candle against the rock.
               “So, in order to save candlelight for when it was most needed, this is how the miners would work.” George blew out the candle, casting us into darkness. Just then, I heard a soft meow. George carried on, but I turned to Clancy,
               “Did you hear that?”
               “Shh, I’m listening to George.”
               “Clancy, that cat is down here.”
               I quickly toggled the flashlight on my phone and darted off in the direction of sound, completely ignoring the protests of Clancy and George. Also ignoring George’s previous warnings, I found myself at the entrance of a drift. I shined the light down into pitch black and right there stood a feline, eyes glowing.
               Having just learned from George that these drifts could suddenly drop off hundreds of feet, I inched my way toward the cat and calmly asked it to come to me. The cat hissed and leapt right for my face, claws extended. Before I knew it, I was down on rock with three fresh slices in my cheek.
               “Get out of there, right now,” a very stern George uttered. Up until that point, he had been very cordial, and it was quite clear just how pissed he was.
               I could feel the anger radiating off Clancy as she stood behind the guide shining her flashlight on me. I slowly rose off the hard stone but stumbled as I caught sight of a doll father down the drift. Just as quickly as I saw it, the tunnel was cast into shadow again when George and Clancy turned around, bringing the light with them. I scrambled for my phone, fallen in the battle that had ensued, and aimed it down the shaft.
               Nothing.
               The cat must have knocked more out of me than I thought.
               Upon exiting the mine, we were tossed out like drunks from a bar in true western fashion.
               “Sorry, Clancy.”
               “Don’t apologize to me. You’re the one who wanted to see the mines. As long as we aren’t blacklisted from The Bird Cage Theatre, I don’t care.” She stopped and took a moment to look at me. “What was that though?”
               “I just didn’t want the cat to get hurt down there.”
               “What cat?” The puzzlement on her face let me know she had indeed seen no cat.
               “The one that scratched me.” I pointed to my face.
               “I saw no cat, man. I am sure you scratched your face on the rocks when you fell.”
               “Okay. Whatever. Sure.” I started walking again down the old wooden sidewalk, expecting Clancy to catch up. But she didn’t. When I finally stopped, she shouted at me from the spot I left her.
               “What is wrong with you?”
               “A lot. Are you coming?” My humor worked this time as she finally started moving towards me.
               “Look, I know something is wrong. And I know you’ll talk about it when you’re ready. But you really need to stop taking it out on me.”
               I took a moment to let her words sink in. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
               “Apology accepted, ass. What now?” She acted like forgiveness was the easiest thing to give.
               “How about I clean up my bloody face before I’m mistaken for one of the gunfight reenactors?”
               “Sounds like a plan.”

We left the camper at 6 to make sure we made it to the theatre early enough to get tickets for the ghost tour. As we came to the corner of Third and Allen, my heart stopped.
               “You see that, right?”
               “The doll?” Clancy didn’t seem as concerned as I was. She also didn’t seem as creeped out as she had earlier.
               “Yes, the doll. It’s the same one from the mine.” This time, it sat on a pile of excavated material from the lot we were near.
               “Oh yeah, from that pile of rubble. They must have made a lot of them back in the day. Tombstone’s very own Barbie.”
               “More like Chucky. I saw it down in the mine too, Clancy.”
               “What? Where?”
               “Down the drift where I saw the cat.”
               “No way! Creepy, dude.” I could tell she wasn’t taking me seriously.
               “Okay, once again you’re all gung-ho for ghost tours, but you take cursed dolls with a grain of salt?”
               “I’m paranormally selective. But look, I agree it’s a little creepy. Let’s move on before it attaches itself to us.”
               I took one more glance at the object, hoping it wouldn’t start following us with its eyes and then followed Clancy toward The Bird Cage Theatre.

The tour guide here was in period attire and immediately I regretted agreeing to this. I could tell the evening would be filled with gimmicks and not ghouls. For Clancy, you’re doing this for Clancy.
               I tuned out our host and decided to give myself a tour by reading the placards on my own. I could tell by what they chose to highlight that they only wanted to talk about the debauchery of the time. One major gunfight makes the news and suddenly the town is one of ill-repute.
               After exploring for half an hour, the host had us all sit in the main room with the lights off and attempt to make contact with the spirits. I glanced over at Clancy for the first time that evening and saw pure unadulterated joy on her face. I couldn’t believe someone so smart could fall for this.
               I’d already scoped out all the objects they had rigged up to go off on demand. The flashlight sitting precariously on the board, all it would take was a step in the right spot to turn it on. The devices they claimed could channel spirits but produced nothing more than white noise. They sure put our cash to good use making it obvious that the theatre was still a place of ill-repute.
               The lights went out and immediately some of the others on the tour started berating the ”spirits” in an attempt to communicate. Believer or not, I was pretty sure you’re not supposed to rile them up.
               “This is so cool,” Clancy whispered to me.
               “If you say so,” I whispered back.
               After fifteen minutes of excruciating boredom, the host finally turned on the lights. Everyone started looking through the photos they’d taken in the dark, Clancy included.
               “Oh my!” The host jolted upright. “I’ve found a face in this one.”
               She quickly started walking around to show everyone the picture. Oohs and aahs followed as she made her way to Clancy and me. Clancy looked at the photo and feigned belief just to be nice.
               “Do you see it?” The host asked as she held the phone in front of my face.
               I looked at the image and laughed at her.
               “Lady, that’s the corner of the table that was right in front of you.”
               Stunned at my declaration, she took a step back and looked at the picture again.
               “I suppose you’re right. Silly me.” She stormed off and I was left with Clancy glaring at me.
               “Why do have to ruin everything?”
               “Me? How did I ruin this? Lady was passing furniture off for a ghost.”
               “I know that. You didn’t have to be so rude though.”
               “Well, I didn’t have to pay a lot of money to be swindled either, yet here I am.”
               “Why did you?”
               “For you!”
               “Well stop worrying about me and figure out your own shit! I’m going for a drink. Don’t follow.”
               With that, Clancy exited with the force of a hurricane and left me more haunted than The Bird Cage Theatre had.

The good thing about wooden sidewalks was that the lovely cadence of footsteps helps organize one’s thoughts. Sure, I was an asshole, but I’ve always been one and see no need to change now. It’s a badge of honor.
               Maybe Clancy thought I would be different on this trip. She did leave behind her whole life to join me. So far, I’d been grumpy about 90% of the time. Once again, she knew who I was when we started the journey. I change for no one.
               But I guess I had to accept the fact that Clancy wouldn’t change either. She was the yin to my yang. All I had to do was find a way to balance our forces again. Easier said than done. Maybe it was my own energy that was unbalanced. I chased my shadow down the street wondering how to make myself whole again.
               As I approached our camper, the light inside turned on. I guess Clancy didn’t go for that drink. I gave the door a yank and climbed up into our home on wheels, but Clancy was nowhere in sight.
               Assuming I toggled the light by accident on my phone, I slammed the door behind me and put the kettle on for some tea. I tidied up a bit until I heard a subtle meow from the cab. I leaned over the driver’s seat to look outside and was shocked to find I was not alone. There in the seat sat the doll. Eyes unmoving but locked right on me.
               The tea kettle whistled, but I’d run out of steam.

Chat Noir

To all those who wanted me to write of my travels, I’ve found a way to share my adventures in my own way. Please enjoy the first installment in The Chat Noir Chronicles. These tales are mostly, kinda, sorta true…ish.

The supermoon meant that the last few nights had been almost brighter than the day. That fact mixed with the “lazy” faire attitude I’d developed over the last month lead to me grabbing the bag of trash and heading off into the night sans flashlight.
               Luckily, my vision adjusts just enough to make out a few landmarks and the sound underfoot of rock, switching to dirt, switching back to rock provide enough of a map in my mind to find the way. The black sky, a canvas with pin-pricks reminiscent of Lite Brite stretches for miles overhead. So clear, so crisp, so dark.
               The farther I venture, away from life and towards decay, the darker it becomes. It is the kind of blackness where all the eye can see are the shadows the mind creates. My other senses dial up to eleven and make the night come alive.
               A rustle in the brush, the smell of campfire burning, the taste of coffee lingering on my tongue, smooth plastic crinkling in my hand as the trash bag sways back and forth with every step. The ground below my feet grows softer, more malleable. It still holds the last bit of moisture from a rainfall days ago. I’ve arrived at the one spot in the desert untouched by the warmth of the sun, blocked by the dumpster.
               Despite the chill in the air, the refuse still bleeds out the scents of rot and decay. Feeling my way towards the ramp, I get the strong urge to celebrate knowing I made it all this way in the dark without stumbling. I repress the urge, knowing all too well about counting chickens before they hatch.
               I take a moment to appreciate the star-speckled sky again. There is magic in the desert, in the dark, in the nothingness. What a philosophical moment as I dispose of that which I do not want or need.
               Winding up, I get ready to toss the bag and head back to warmth, and light, and tomorrow. Half-way through my swing…
               “Geez, Louise,” I say in a hushed yell.
               From the dumpster darts a black shadow, one not conjured by the mind. In one leap, the creature flies from trash to trailer and disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.
               I feel an extra beat in my chest, or maybe the lack of one. I throw away my trash and the night settles back into place.
               A rustle in the brush, the smell of a campfire burning, the taste of coffee lingering on my tongue, electricity in the air as the night envelops me.