I haven't posted lately. I've been suffering a bout of writer's block the last couple of months. I have four short stories that I have started, but I've been unable to finish them. I even know how each should progress, but for some reason I'm having a hard time pushing forward.
So, I had an idea. Probably not the best idea. If nothing else, it may contain a little entertainment value for you, the reader.
Below I've posted one of the four incomplete stories. It is up to you, dear reader, to give me your take on how the story should progress. Take this seriously. Or not. A snarky comment may be as valuable to dispelling my writer's block as a sincere, thought out reply. Who knows.
Here goes:
CLENCHJAW
Not many people really believe in the paranormal, right? I
never really believed or disbelieved. I just pretty much ignored the concept
altogether. I was raised to be pragmatic. I’ve never strayed from what my mind
accepted as purely logical. I see now that that has been to my detriment.
I’m not going to try and convert anyone here, but merely
attempt, as best I can, to explain my feelings on the matter. I no longer
ignore the possibility of things paranormal. Or should I say, the fact of the paranormal. I think most of
us go through life in ignorant bliss of our true surroundings; of our natural,
or as some may say, supernatural environment. But what is supernatural? If it
exists, it’s a natural phenomenon, as far as I’m concerned. Even the purest of
evil.
Look around. Truly look. Step outside of yourself. Open your
mind. Become the animal you truly are; the animal you were at birth, or even
before birth. You may see, might comprehend, that there is darkness where you
have never noticed it before. Anomalies where light and shadow cross. In the
shade of oaks. In deep waters. In your child’s thick head of hair. Believe me,
it’s there. The thing that eats at us. Terrifies us. That itch, an itch that
has tormented mankind from creation.
My son was pretty much like any other thirteen year old boy.
Loved his Mother more than me (something that I knew from day one, and was fine
with), had a best bud in Jerry Orwell, played Little League ball, hated math
and loved video games. Brady, my boy, was a good kid. It was the day he came
home and announced that he was joining the Boy Scouts that everything changed.
Forever. God help me.
His buddy Jerry had convinced Brady that being a Boy Scout
was “rad,” and that Jerry had even been allowed by his Scout Master to build
and light the campfire as well as lead the hike on their last camping trip.
Brady told his Mother and me about all the cool things Jerry and his troop did,
from swimming in the ice cold waters of Devils Lake to baking a cake in a Dutch
oven over hot coals.
Tabitha was a little underwhelmed by it all. Although she listened
politely to her Brady’s pleas, she had fallen back on the old stand-by, “We’ll
see.” The two of us later discussed it in bed, the room illuminated by one weak
lamp on my night stand.
The anemic light cast shadows that revealed more than I
could ever have imagined.
I gave my argument in that sanguine light. I’d thought hard
on the subject. Even though I’d never been a Scout, my Grandfather had been and
even became a Scout Master. I’d attended some events. I had friends that were
Scouts. It all seemed pretty innocuous to me. Even though we weren’t church
goers, it gave me some comfort that the Troop was sponsored by the nearby
Methodist Church, where most of the activities were held. They even had a
private Scout Camp on the lake. She voiced her fears of poor supervision;
exposing our son for extended periods of time to children we didn’t know, even
about being injured. It was at that point that Tabitha realized she was being
over protective, and she relented. Had she somehow seen the darkness, the blotch
that lay just beneath our reality? Then possibly shrugged it off, like
shrugging off the winter chill without a second thought while stepping into the
fire light? That’s what I think. No. That’s what I know. Now.
And so it was done. Every Thursday evening, Brady, dressed
in khaki shirt and neckerchief, would meet with Troop 649 in the Fellowship
Hall of the First United Methodist Church. I would drop him off, watching from
the warmth of our minivan until he made it inside, a quick wave back, passing
from the cold, dark November night into the bright, warm light of the church.
We were glad that we’d let Brady join. It would be good for
him. You see, although his Mother and I thought of him as normal in every way,
he did have a dark side; something…
compartmentalized, hidden in his psyche. I’m not sure that’s the right thing to
call it, ‘a dark side,’ but I can’t think of any other way to say it. He drew
dark things; ever since he could hold a pencil. They weren’t monsters, per say.
Otherwise, I could’ve gotten a handle on it, realized his motivation. I
could’ve rationalized that the images were of childhood fears; bogey men,
vampires, witches; fascinated by creatures derivative of fairy tales or
television programs. But the images were not really recognizable as such. No
fangs, claws or clichéd bug-eyed monsters. No knives, blood or viscera. But
dark, none the less.
At the age of two, black Crayon was scribbled in
concentration. It was as if Brady was trying to obliterate all light from a
certain area of the page. As he grew, his drawings became more defined. Head,
arms and legs appeared. The head, always large and white with a lantern jaw;
the body, tall, broad shouldered yet gaunt, legs and arms long and thin, filled
in, in black, as black as Brady could make it. He’d be in a near trance when he
drew these images. Once completed, he’d destroy them. Then it was over. Brady
would start another drawing, the typical child’s rendering; yellow sun, brown
tree with a green mop top of leaves, v-shaped black birds darting in a blue
flurry of sky. A dog. A friend. His Mom and Dad.
We didn’t always see him create these images, otherwise I
think we’d have been more concerned. In hindsight, I realize he must have been
obsessed with making and destroying these drawings. I do remember asking him at
the age of five who he was drawing. Brady whispered, “Clenchjaw.” Clenchjaw.
Such an odd name. It meant nothing to me.
As hard as I tried, it wasn’t long before I was drawn into
Scouting. I’m not what you’d call the outdoors type. My idea of roughing it is
the Holiday Inn. But Brady was a priority. Maybe it was guilt. Had he been a
priority up to this point? I’d given him a good home, but then I worked sixty
hours, sometimes more, a week. I worked nearly every weekend. At two he cried
when I left. At eight, he looked forlorn as I playfully messed his hair and
told him to be “good for Mommy.” At eleven, he was nowhere in sight when I
headed out to work. Neither was Tabitha. It all happened so gradually; so yes,
guilt. Regret brought me to the Fellowship Hall on July 17th. How
little I knew then about regret.
I pulled into the church parking lot, parking alongside Ted
Sanders’ big Ford pick up. Ted Sanders was the Scout Master. Small and thin,
nearly the size of the boys he supervised, Ted seemed to keep them in line with
his authoritatively stern baritone voice. A Chevy Suburban was being loaded
with camping gear by two Scouts, the oldest with rust red hair looking to be no
more than fifteen. Brady looked to me, then without a word, bolted over to the
boys, eager to help. I hesitantly walked over to Scout Master Sanders. I stood
mute, like a shy thirteen year-old boy, waiting for Sanders to acknowledge my
presence. He seemed not to realize I was standing there as he directed the boys
on loading the gear into the back of the SUV.
“Gentlemen, this is serious business. If a bedroll is
unaccounted for, there’ll be a cold, uncomfortable weekend for one of you. If
you miss a box of provisions, we’re all going to go hungry. Let’s step it up.
We’ve got a four drive ahead of us.” Sanders sounded overly brusk to me, but
the boys settled down and took to the task without question.
Sanders folded his arms across his thin chest and stepped
back, feet apart, concentrating on the boys. Now standing next to me, he spoke
without looking at me.
“Your Brady’s Dad. Glad you’re here. Don’t get too many
fathers willing to volunteer.”
“Well, I’m happy to do it. Brady…”
He cut me off.
“You’ll be driving the church club van. Just follow me, in
the Suburban. Tom, our Assistant Scout Master, will ride with me. You’ll have
the rest.”
Within the hour the remaining four Scouts arrived in various
modes of transportation.
That's it. That's as far as I've gotten. Bring it on! Bring it on like the plague!
Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:
TRAILER PARK FROM HELL
LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.
Check out my new book, TEN LITTLE TERRORS, now on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors
http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Little-Terrors-ebook/dp/B00CIITW4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366938989&sr=1-1&keywords=ten+little+terrors
