Radio to Shorts

I'm often asked why I just write short fiction. Why I haven't penned a novel or two yet. And I never really have an answer that they understand. I love short fiction, and always have. There's something about reading, and writing, a story that begins, has a meaty middle, and ends all in the span of a few pages. As a reader, it's magical. As a writer, it's a challenge. But, where lies the roots for this love of mine? Well, now, there's a story I'd love to tell....

Darkness settled quickly and quietly into the woods of southern Utah, bringing with it a fragrant chill whispering in through the open windows. Frogs croaked away loudly in the creek bottom as the electric blue dusk fanned through a thin mist creeping down from the hollow across the road. It was the time of day the night things began to creep and crawl their way around, out from the depths of the woods and into my realm.

Everyone came in from what they had been doing, gathering into the small living room, everyone in their favorite places; mom and sister snuggling on the old yellow couch that probably pre-dated the hundred foot tall pines outside. Dad in his squeaky recliner next to the wood stove. It was faded pink and leaked a mysterious sawdust-like substance for as long as anyone could remember. We still have it, though it has retired from country living to desert living. And myself in an ancient tennis ball greenish yellow rocker stationed strategically adjacent to a stereotypical 1980’s ghetto blaster sitting in the window.

Because of my position, I was put in charge of finding the channel, one of countless pen and pencil marks on the horizontal dial. Once KNX-1070 from Los Angeles was tuned in, I was required to maintain the antenna just so on the metal window frame to ensure a minimal amount of static. It was a taxing assignment, but the reward was well worth it. Broadcasting from six-hundred miles away, the all familiar nine pm jingle came on…”KNX ten seventy, news radio,” followed by the crackling static announcing the start of the program. It wasn’t the static of degrading radio waves travelling from the California coast, across the Mojave Desert to the wooded hollows of the lower Wasatch. It was the lovely, soothing static of a by-gone era. The age of radio.

This wasn’t the 1940’s or even the 1950’s. This was the 1980’s, the decade of my childhood. And yet, we looked forward to this every summer weeknight. We listened faithfully, and without fail. At our mountain cabin we didn’t have television or the internet or cell phones. We had ‘The Shadow’ and ‘The Black Museum’ and ‘Box 13’ and ‘Case Closed’ and ‘Inner Sanctum’ and ‘Philip Marlow’ and ‘Sam Spade’ and ‘Suspense’. We had the voices of my grandparent’s generation.

This was our nightly entertainment that began pretty much the first summer we built the cabin in 1981, and continues to this day. We did just fine without so many conveniences the first few summers in the mountains. The first summer we didn’t have indoor plumbing or electricity, in much the same way as many of the original listeners of the radio programs we sat down to every night. As barbaric as it would surely sound to a seven year old boy today, we had Coleman lanterns and Coleman stoves and the ultimate in wilderness survival- an outdoor outhouse! Yes, my dad had lovingly constructed a crude plywood box with tarp walls and no roof outhouse in the front yard for our convenience. As a seven year old it was quite the frightful adventure venturing out there into the dark and cold of night to visit the toilet. Of course, it wasn’t half as frightening as the following summer when we got indoor plumbing installed, real toilet and all. See, we didn’t yet have interior walls, just bare studs with old thin bed sheets acting as crude privacy barriers. Inevitably, I’d be trying to do my business in peace and suddenly a tiny head would peek through the sheets, and in a giggly little girl voice my four year old sister would squeal, “I seeee you!”

Understandably, more than thirty years later I am still haunted by this memory.

Sometime after I had graduated from high school and began my career with the railroad, limiting the time I got to spend at the cabin, the only radio station I knew of still broadcasting the old time radio programs, KNX-1070, decided to stop airing them entirely. When the program was cancelled I felt as though KNX had completely and utterly ruined that whole part of my life, and in a sense, perhaps they had. It had put to an end that cherished link to my childhood and the memories of sitting around as a kid every night with my family and enjoying something together. And, that was simply lost for many years.

Then along came a nifty invention- the Ipod. And to my delight I discovered there was a very sizeable community of old time radio lovers just like myself. All the shows and characters I had loved over the years were once again available to listen to via downloads, most of them for free. It didn’t take long for me to fill my Ipod to capacity with these stories. I was once again swept up into the staticy goodness of early radio.

These programs were more than just simple entertainment for a kid in a cabin with no tv and video games. More than just an important part of my childhood that I have so lovingly carried over into my adult life. They are the lifeblood, the spark- the absolute bedrock which my love for the short story is based upon. It was these early experiences that cultivated and grew my appreciation and passion for short fiction, that still grows to this day.

Sadly, I have a difficult time convincing my own children these programs are something special. They roll their eyes at my old timey radio obsession. And with satellite television and indoor plumbing and walls and electricity, and even, to my objections, limited internet through 4G smartphone service, all available at the cabin now, it becomes even more difficult to pry them away from the new and immerse them in the static and the crackling and the magic that is classic radio drama and mystery and horror. But I keep trying.

                  

My Father's Day Present

If I had any doubts about the way I had raised my children, one of my now adult children reminded me this year that I must have done something right somewhere. She's always been a talented creative writer, so this year she wrote me this lovely, moving Father's Day short story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Father's Day

by Kaitlyn Medley

Every year on father’s day Billy and Rebecca would wake up their father and surprise him with breakfast in bed; scrambled eggs, bacon, and a toasted English muffin with butter on top. This year was no different. Both Billy and Becca woke up and tip-toed to the kitchen to start breakfast. As they passed their mom and dad’s room, they heard heavy breathing and then what sounded like something fall to the floor. They quickened their steps and hoped they hadn’t woken anyone up yet. Billy always made the scrambled eggs and English muffin while Becca expertly fried the bacon. Once it was all done, they put it on a tray and silently walked down the hall. Billy opened the door to their parent’s room while Becca stood holding the tray of food. Blood was everywhere. It was splattered on the walls, soaked the bed sheets, and a pool of it was forming underneath the lifeless form of their mom on the floor next to the bed. Their father was sitting up in bed, staring blankly at the wall. Next to him was a bloody and broken lamp. Their father turned towards the doorway where they were standing and gave them a sinister smile.

“Happy Father’s Day,” he says as he gets out of bed and grabs for the bloody lamp.

Scene Exercise

A friend and I are currently working on a joint project based on a childhood memory. Of course it wasn't as sick and twisted in real life as we plan on making the story, but we're horror writers not memoir writers.

This was just a scene exercise I did today, trying to get a feel for my main character and his relationship to the evil Alphabet People that torment him. Enjoy. Or don't, either way I'm having a beer, so it's all good here.

Josh sat alone in the warmth of the sand behind the swing set, toward the edge of the kindergarten playground, plowing through the sea of white grains with a toy bulldozer. He loved the solitude, the time to himself, where his own imagination was the only obstacle to his creativity.

As the dozer sliced neatly through an adjoining road to make a sandy intersection, a glimmer caught his eye. The dozer’s plastic blade had uncovered a treasure buried in the sand. Josh inspected his newfound relic. An old glass marble. At least he thought it was old. Perhaps long lost by some kid many years before his time here. He rolled it between his soft fingers, feeling the jagged rough edge where a slice of it was missing, cleaved off in perhaps a fierce skittles battle in the sand.

The edge of the broken marble was sharp as a razor. He looked across the playground and into the dusty window of the classroom, where Mr. G glared back at him in all of his inflatable madness. The marble threatened to slice into his palm as he clutched it, staring intensely  at the horrible little person, or letter, whatever Mr. G was. Was it sneering at him with its big white rubber teeth?

“I could cut you,” he said quietly to Mr. G. “I wonder if you’ll bleed if I slice you up with this.”

Mr. G, and all the rest of the Alphabet People, A through F, sitting upon their shelf, were watching him now. They were always watching. Always listening. Mr. G spoke in his gravelly voice, “No, I won’t bleed, Josh. But she will.”

Josh looked over to see Lisa sitting on the monkey bars playing with a doll. “She thinks you’re ugly and dumb. I bet you’d like to see her bleed,” Mr. G said through his overly huge smile.

“Who, Lisa?” Josh asked. “No, she’s real nice. She’d never say that about anyone.”

Josh stood and brushed the sand from his pants. He’d show him. He marched over to where Lisa sat, careful not to disturb his road system in the sand, and pulled up a bar next to her. “Look what I found, Lisa,” he said, opening his hand so that the sun made the marble a mini sunburst upon his palm.

He held it out to her so she could inspect it on her own. She reached for it, feeling it’s warmth and smooth roundness, probing the jagged edge of the sheared off portion.

“It’s really pretty,” she said.

BRRRRRRPPPPPP!!

The recess bell startled them both. Josh jerked his hand back and the razor sharp edge of the marble raced its way across Lisa’s soft fingers, slicing into them savagely. Lisa cried out in surprise and pain, clutching at her bleeding fingers. She looked at Josh, hurt and horror painted on her face. The tears began and she ran off in search of Miss Bettes.

“See, she bleeds real nice, Josh, real nice. Just like I said she would.”

Josh bent down to retrieve his now bloodied marble from the sand where it had fallen, his own tears peeking from the corners of his eyes now. He locked eyes with Mr. G, fury burning through his veins. Mr. G and A through F were laughing. Laughing hysterically at him and what he had done. He hated them. He hated them all so much. And he swore to himself, someday he would cut them too. But, he’d cut them all the way through and they would laugh no more.

A No Story Easter

crazy artwork by Jim Boring

Sadly I wasn't able to complete the short Easter story I wanted to post this weekend. Life and my paying job got in the way as usual. It was basically going to be a warm, fuzzy feel-good tale about a group of teens who decide to go camping one Easter weekend and are, in the middle of the night, attacked and torn to shreds by cute man-eating bunnies that pop up out of the ground.

I know what you're thinking...Guy, that doesn't sound like a story you'd write. Bunnies? Good times? Flesh ripped from bone around a warm camp fire? Well, it's the holiday I guess. Must have softened my spirit.

But, don't worry. My friend and I are working on something that will make up for it all. Something even the mentally ill will shun. So, in the meantime, have a wonderful Easter, and remember, blood-lusting bunnies are among us. There's probably one watching you right this minute!

The Humane Way

This is a short piece of flash fiction I did for a publication that decided not to pick it up for whatever reason. It gets the same reaction from everyone that reads it, which was planned when I wrote it. I like it. Maybe you will too. If nothing else you can stare at the wonderful artwork my good friend Jim Boring so graciously drew for it, until you go stark raving mad.

The Humane Way

by Guy Medley with artwork by Jim Boring

She looked at him through misting eyes, fighting back without much success the sting of tears. Poor thing. His old bones must be so tired, so full of pain and suffering, far beyond her understanding. His once vigor stature and golden sheen now reduced to a droopy sad old thing, grey and mottled and washed out by the years. His once jeweled eyes now little more than desolate orbs of pain.

But, he had far outlived his expected years. His life had been a good one.

He had been a good companion in life, for both her and the children. Always there. Always at their side. Forever loyal. But it was time they let go. Time they let him go. She knew this day would eventually rear its ugly head. They had all known.

The children will miss him terribly. They laughed at his playful clumsiness, the way he ran with them and played with them and showered his undying love upon them. Now his tired limbs lay shrouded in mourning for those glorious days of play.

She gazed lovingly down on his old twisted frame, his big doey eyes fixed on her like the loving old boy he was. He managed a soft whimper, a sign of his love. She would miss him like no other before.

She would even miss his smell, which even now smelled of the garden, his favorite place to be. Lavender and hydrangea and honeysuckle, all filled her nose and brought a smile to her face. It was like he had just come from his spot in the yard and perhaps he had.

No more, she thought. She couldn’t wait any longer or she wouldn’t be able to go through with what needed to be done.

A tear spilled down from her eye, marking a trail across her red cheek. It was time to let him go. It was time to end his long and needless suffering. She took some small comfort in knowing he’d soon be at peace, resting under the big shady elm out back, near his garden, beside all the others they had planted there over the years.

Not to worry my love, she thought, it’ll all be over soon enough.

She leaned over and kissed the top of her husband’s bald, hot head as she plunged the needle into his jugular, injecting the lethal dose of potassium chloride into his bloodstream. As his heart stopped, hers raced.

Now, off to find the children a new daddy. 

Stuff Worth Checking Out This Week

A few new things going on this week. First, a new book by Todd Keisling is set for release on April 4. It's the final book of his "Ugly Little Things" series, and in his own words, he wants this volume of tales to "End  with a bang". This series has been a great read and I'm really looking forward to reading this latest installment. I've included (hopefully with his blessing) Todd's own synopsis for 'The Harbinger' below.

Welcome to Dalton, West Virginia, home of the famous toy company, Dalton Dollworks. Founded in the late 1970s, the Dollworks has built a reputation around its quaint, lifelike dolls—and now the company is poised to go worldwide.
Meet journalist Felix Proust. He’s been invited to Dalton for an exclusive interview with Maggie Eloquence, CEO of the Dalton Dollworks. Thing is, he’s been in town for all of five minutes and he already knows something isn’t quite right. The stench of manure is everywhere, all the adults seem to be over sixty, and the children regard him with silent contempt.
Felix isn’t about to let this odd town get to him. He does have a job to do, after all. But as the day wears on, Felix learns there’s more to Dalton than meets the eye, and that some dark secrets should remain buried deep in the earth at all costs . . .
THE HARBINGER is the latest entry in Todd Keisling’s Ugly Little Things series, offering a startling new vision of unsettling horror that leaves the reader holding their breath until the very end.

Second, Anthony Rapino has started up a page on Patreon, which is a sort of Kickstarter type idea, but where donations go toward ongoing projects instead of a single project goal. I really like Anthony's horror writing, and I want him to be motivated to write more, so to me this seems like a cool idea. If you can throw a buck or two a month his way I'm sure he'll greatly appreciate it. Plus, if you donate you'll get all sorts of goodies, like access to new work all the way up to editing help. Help this deserving writer out. If nothing else maybe it'll allow him to finally afford a hair cut. (Just kidding Tony!)
Here's the link:   http://www.patreon.com/Rapino