Short Update of Things

     Thursday night I finished up chapter ten. It's always a great feeling to end a chapter and an equally intimidating feeling to start the next. Each time I think I've planned out the story it seems to get longer. I noticed I've been writing seriously for just about a year now. This last year has also been the first time in a long while that I've lived in the same place for the duration. It's nice to have at least some sense of home. Did a bit more writing this after noon, both for the book and comic book series. Trying hard to think of a title for the book as well, looking forward to referring to it by a title once I do.

   Hector Laureano

A Writer's Tale

      Its been a while since I have shared anything. Its been quite a busy summer. I'm nine chapters into what I though was going be a ten chapter book, I have at least five more chapters planned as of now. I must have written this story about a five or six weeks ago. I finally typed it up(I hate typing) yesterday. It's an odd little story, and I'm not really sure where it came from.

A Writer's Tale

     It is the most peculiar thing. There was nothing special about that day, it was a Friday to be exact. My usual routine, a nine to five shift at the office, a few quick beers down the block, and then it was off to this cramped, humid apartment. I grabbed my pen and began, putting ink to paper, to tell my fantasies and fictions. You see, my dream has and will always be to be a published and well respected writer. The works of Bradbury,Gaiman and Hemingway burn deep within my soul. But living in the modern world has made this task all the more difficult, and has also limited time for practice. I have instead reserved myself to selling those who are well off, little cottages and condos that my yearly wages could not even place a downpayment on. So there I sat, writing, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat from my brow or to take a gulp of spiked iced tea.

     I wrote of a man, and wife so poor they not even enough money to feed both of themselves and their children. Night after night the father would stare at the satiated children in disgust and contempt; but he always maintained his fatherly duties and feed the children and his wife nonetheless.

Well, a man can can only take so much hunger before he turns. One night, awakened by the rumbling of his empty belly,he found himself hovering above the shared bed of two of his boys. Knife in one hand, fork in the other he slits his youngest child’s throat from ear to ear, bleeds him out like a hog. A feast fit for a madman. I know. It is a morbid tale, but this is the way my minds works, I cannot help it. I myself could never hurt another living creature but have always found myself fascinated by those who could.

     So that was Friday, after work, and a few drinks, so roughly around nine thirty I'd say. The next day, being a Saturday, I'd slept enough to make up for the weeks grueling schedule. I awoke to the Saturday edition of The Robbin Times sitting at the bottom most part of my stoop. I descended the stairs, careful not to trip on my robe, and tucked the paper neatly beneath my arm and returned inside. It wasn't until after I had poured myself a cup of coffee that I bothered to look at the small town's daily news. The headline was as simple as ever, nothing special, “Dry, Hot Summer Causing Problems for Local Farmers”. The funnies were quite dreadful that week as well. No, nothing special in this edition at all.

     Except for one tiny corner panel piece stashed neatly away on the last page. The story was painfully short but all of the details were there. The previous evening in Ohio, between the hours of nine and ten, a call had been placed by a distressed wife for domestic abuse, at least that's what the dispatcher understood. She had locked herself in the closet, briefly forgetting about her children. When the police finally arrived they found the husband hunched over his six year old son's bed. He had simply eaten his face off. The stained oval tops of the child's teeth and one empty eye socket stared back at the horrified officers.

     Well, obviously they are not the only ones terrified; it just couldn't be! My story, of course the most gruesome I had written to date, had come to life! No. A coincidence, that was the only explanation. I must admit though that for a few uneasy following weeks I did not set pen to paper, unless of course it was to sell a condo or two. A week or three had passed since I conjured the nerve to write my fiction once more. I had however confided in several close friends what had happened only weeks prior. The general consensus was that of an amazing coincidence. Most were still in awe at the idea though, what an unlikely process of events. Possibly nothing like this has ever happened, or ever will again! They all agreed on one thing profoundly, that my idea of cause and effect was foolish to say the least.

     When next I picked up the pen it was to express the story of one Thomas Hawthorne. Mr. Hawthorne was not well off but he could afford the basics; rent, food, sometimes even a beer or two. He was as many described, a nasty soul; always wanting more, trying to cheat and lie his way through life.

     It was on the D-train that he met Mr. Cook. At first he had suspected the train's window to be playing a trick upon his eyes. For Mr. Cook did not look like Thomas. No, he looked exactly like Thomas. Right down to the signature freckles upon his left cheek. They, having noticed the uncanny resemblance, began to chat. Mr.Cook was a lawyer in the popular downtown firm. The firm, as he described to an eagerly listening Thomas, was soon to be his, and his alone. Or at least the assets. His Father in law had tragically recently passed away and, having acquired the firm in his own name, Mr.Cook had decided to sell it to the highest bidder. It sold quickly, for an amount undisclosed to the general public. Mr.Cook did however confide in Thomas and tell him the good news. He had made enough money on the deal that he need never work a day in his life ever again.

     Mr.Cook being a jolly fellow invited his new friend over for a shot or two of the best whiskey that money could buy. Victory shots. Thomas accepted.

     He had never seen such a beautiful house. It's large wooden riveted doors reminded him of an old victorian castle. In all honestly he would have expected to find Vlad the Impaler here, not Mr.Cook. Once inside Thomas was given what was promised, the most wonderful whiskey that had ever passed his lips. The burning sensation left in his throat and belly by the alcohol was extremely satisfying.

Hazy eyed and stumbling he returned home, via a barren D-train. It wasn't until much later, three am or so, that he returned to Mr.Cook's house. He placed the knife accurately above the heart, allowed it to hover hauntingly and then, slowly but persistently began pushing downward.

     The clean up went as smoothly as he could have hoped. Thomas spent the next week assuming the life of Mr.Cook, patiently awaiting the finalization of the sale, and the check.

     It wasn't until the actual Mr.Cook's lawyer came over to hand deliver the check that Thomas' cover was blown. It was the freckles that had sold him out; firmly planted on the right side of his face. Poor Thomas never could quite grasp his left from his right, a fatal mistake that day seeing Mr. Cooks reflection on that D-train window.

     Thomas was found not guilty by reason of insanity. He spent the rest of his days in an off white padded cell. He never did ever again admit to being Thomas Hawthorne. He simply only answered to Mr.Cook.

     The next day I found myself weak as I opened the paper, my hands shaking. It was in Oregon this time. A man had murdered his found doppelganger and assumed his place for several hours. It wasn't until his mother came to visit that he too was discovered to be less than genuine. He, however, had not done it for monetary gain. The only reason he ever gave was that he grew tired to being himself.

At this point it was a year, possibly more before I dared write another tale. But this time when I resumed doing so I wrote not of death and despair but of hope and joy. Long lost relatives finally found and reunited, the poorest of poor striking it rich on a found lottery ticket. I wrote of wonders and fantasies, trials and triumph. What I once feared I now loved and accepted. I learned, with much trial and error, over the next year or so, how to affect a specific target with my words. I obviously would never cause any harm, I find it not to be in my nature. But I, like every other man, woman, or child have wants and desires. Over the past few months alone I wrote my once divorced parents back into a full thriving, loving relationship; extended my terminal grandfathers life, and once even got myself a nice free cold beer.

     All I write now I do so in the name of good. Do not get me wrong, I love to give to others, to see that look of gratitude upon their smiling faces. But I believe it is now time to take care of myself. I wish not for fame or fortune. No, my wish is much more tame. I wish to possess the love of another. How shall I win another's heart? I have pondered that much myself. I could simply write a sentence or two. A name, date, a beautiful description and be done with it all in a single night.

But no self respecting writer would ever allow him or herself to do such a dreadful thing. I shall win the hand of my love with a grand gesture, bold enough to win a princess herself. So, let us begin.

 It was a Friday afternoon, same as any other Friday. Samuel went about his usual Friday ritual. At about four o'clock he cut work early and headed for the nearest pub for a beer or two. Afterwords he had plans to return home to begin writing his next great adventure. Deciding to use the extra time carefully he found himself respectfully asking for a third beer. The hot blistering weather and humidity made it an easy choice. The third went down much easier than its predecessors. A quick glance at his watch indicated that it was time to head for home.

     He made his way to the nearest bus stop, then it all began. He first noticed her hair, blonde, natural of course. It was not picturesque, it flew in tangles and ringlets here and there. For you see she, having tripped and fell, was preparing to welcome the pavement with her perfect flushed face. Pavement that was clearly marked as a bus only zone. And on top of everything else the texting bus driver, who would later claim to have been sneezing, was paying precisely no attention. 

     So, being the nice young man that his mother had raised he found himself stepping down from the curb and reaching for the young ladies arm. Having a firm grasp on her limb he pushed at her with all his might, and returned her to safety upon the curb. As he himself turned to return to the curb he noticed time begin to slow and heard a low rumbling being to rise within his ears. It took him a moment, but he recognized that sound from somewhere. Ah yes! That sound, it belonged to a large automobile, a bus. The bus! He turned to see it growing larger in his gaze. Pushing down on one foot he began the jump to safety...

     Oh dear, I suppose I should have made sure I had enough paper when I began this little love story. Never the less, I shall acquire some tomorrow night after work and enjoy my weekend writing.  

Changing of Seasons

       I seemed to have slowed down this summer. Since April I have filled one notebook with about half of a book I'm writing. I originally planned to be done with it by now and have it be roughly twenty-five thousand words. It's looking like it's going to be a bit longer than that. I have written one short story that has been sitting on my computer for a few weeks, just tidying it up a bit before posting. I'm working on another as I type. Good vs. evil sort of stuff. Writing a handful of characters for such a long period of time can become a bit difficult, I find it's best and refreshing to take a break from them once in awhile.
     With winter coming up I'm hoping to get a bit more done. It's always easier when you're snowed in. Once all is said and done with the book I'm hoping to self publish a few copies, we shall see once we get there. Until next time(hopefully sooner than later).

  Hector

A chapter to prove that I'm not slacking

I feel a little like I have been neglecting this page. I have been really, but for a good reason. This is the first unedited chapter of a novella I'm working on. I'm hoping to have it all finished in October, and to get a kick-starter going to self publish. So long story short, I'm not being lazy.

     The centuries had come and gone, many had lived and died. Some more than others. Lawyers,bankers strippers, all walks of life all stemming from the same family tree. The Brownshires. Throughout the years two things had always remained a constant for the Brownshires. One, they were always the most well liked and respected family in their respective neighborhoods(especially the strippers). And two, when it came time for them to pass, be it heart attack, stroke, whatever it was that was going to do them in, they always returned home. Whether they came from Germany,Nepal, Britain, or anywhere in between, each and every Brownshire for as long back as one can remember returned to that ramshackle hut deep in the Minnesota wilderness. Some in fact never even left it to begin with.

     The hut was nothing special, it had remained for the most part the same throughout it's existence. It sat on land surrounded by trees and long babbling brooks. To the naked eye it seemed to sit at a slight angle, sinking into the mud. Walking into the establishment only confirmed any suspicions. Weather and time had been cruel to the now dull creaky wooden frame. The fact that it still stood would have broken any odd makers bank time and time again. The shutters jutted out at awkward, uncomfortable angles and had refused to actually shut for the duration of the past three occupants. Any passer by would simply assume that its once beautiful mass structure was now used by any bum or would be gypsies brave enough to enter it. But in all reality the hut was far from unoccupied.

     The land on which it now stood had not always been in the Brownshire family however. It had been won, long since passed, in a simple game of cards. What game specifically now lost to time and the wind. And ever since that fateful flip of the card every Brownshire ever born and died did so with great honor within the confines of the land.

     Far back deep in the surrounding woods lay the family plot. Now overtaken with thick brown crackling vines, all tangling up the memories of the now rotted Brownshires that lay beneath. The plot had grown over the years. Charles, who was the first to occupy the plot, now played host to over forty dead and dusty realatives.

     Over the centuries and years and days many had tried to reclaim the land as their own. Some tried to take it by force, amassing small armies to rise up as one against the one or two occupants of the tiny hut. Others tried using wit and smarts, forging a fake will here or a botched deed there. All failed and did so fantastically. Great great great great(how many greats unknown) grandfather put it down to brute force and cleverness. But as every Brownshire knows, a little magic never hurt.

     The family did their best to keep their magics under wraps, using it only when absolutely necessary(such as saving a drowning child, or getting the bar to stay open past two). Throughout the years it had grown to be less of a choice to keep their abilities hidden and became rather more of a necessity. Be it a swing from a rope, the needles poke or the firing squad blokes, it was all very good motivation to keep the magic to a minimum.

     Back when magic was common it wasn't uncommon to see some pretty strange happenings going on in the streets. It became a way for some to make a living. But just like every other positive that mankind has gotten his hands on it eventually spolied. Slowly decade by decade family by family it was dwindled out. Magic slowly began to get blamed for most of the problems that were arising(most of the time that was just the case). It was being abused by those who knew how to use it too well, and used irresponsibly by those who did not.

     Maggie Brownshire was the last of the kin to be executed due to her rather clumsy nature. She had run away from home well before she had fully learned how to control herself. She was hanged at the age of thirteen after a sneezing fit had caused her to accidentally set fire to a neighboring girls hair. There was no mercy for the accused, even for those as young as Maggie. The law was the law and above that was the law of the Lord, break either of those and it was most likely not going to end well for you.

     The old myth of burning a witch at the stake is just that – a myth. Sure, she would scream and writhe in pain before being reduced to a pile of ashes. But given enough time, and just the right amount of sunshine and rain, and those ashes will begin to sprout a whole new kind of evil. This time with proper horns and the like. It didn't take long for the people of olde to figure out this little fluke, and once it was noticed they took all the precautions necessary to prevent it. Glass jars were quite possibly the best agent when it came to making sure a dead witch stayed dead.

     The Hollorans were like a shadow, the gum stuck to the sole of your favorite pair of shoes. Where ever and when ever the Brownshires were the Hollorans were never far behind. Unlike the Brownshire family however the Hollorans were often very unpopular with the native folks. Their nasty attitude and equally nasty grooming habits played a large role in this. They may have had a bad relationship with the general public, but once hidden behind doors with their own kind they were quite pleasant.

But they did have one thing in common with the Brownshires. Just like their counterparts their family also contained powers uncommon to modern times. And also just like the Brownshires their ancestry also once held land on a quaint little plot in the Minnesota wilderness. They had been brought up on the stories of old, stories about fish that once filled the surrounding rivers and streams, and eventually the bellies of the Hollornas of past. The land was all that they required, all they ever wished for. It was to be passed down from generation to generation, Holloran to Holloran until time was no more.

     No ink ever need touch paper for this. No deeds were ever drawn up or wills signed for these actions to take place. They were simply done. In the Holloran family blood respected blood and and did what was told of them. They believed in the old traditions in a new world. Fifteen generations had passed, and with each a new occupant(or occupants) took residency of the land. It was taken care of and loved by all who inhabitable the place. It was, by the end of the century, the only real thing that the family had to pass on to each other.

     Bartholomew Holloran was the last of the family to dwell within the house and land. He had lived their for nearly fifty years before he lost it in a game of cards.

     To say that the Hollorans and Brownshires didn't like eachother is an understatement is, in fact in itself, an understatement. The Hollorans held their grudge for obvious reasons. They suspected, and still do, that cheating may have played a hand in their families surprise eviction. And why wouldn't they? When your great great great(again, how many greats is anybodies guess) uncle loses a simple card game to an aging, leathery, old man after he has successfully cheated out the rest of the state at the same game, wouldn't you have some suspicions?

     The two families loathing for each other had only grown worse over the centuries. Time, as it proves all too well, does not heal anything. Every Brownshire since has spent the majority of their life trying to escape the suspicious eyes of the Hollornas. Picking the next safe town. A comfortable, Holloran free state, or in some of the more delightful dreams a Holloran free country. But no matter where they decided to go, cross continents and seas, they were followed. Like a silent stalking breeze.

     So here, at this small little town, brewed one of histories most amazing hatreds. No books of history could ever contain its stories and complexities. It was know only to the two side involved. Even if someone bystander were to hear a whisper of it it would remain just that, a whisper, unheard by simple mortal ears. The hate grew through the centuries until it had reached a boiling point. And then, just when the world could contain it no more it happened. Nothingness consumed the feud in a new discomforting way. It was as if the two side had simply shook hands and walked away from the other. There was never an explanation offered up, it all just simply stopped one day. Cut and dry.

     The rain fell at a hypnotizing, peaceful and even rate. Nathan never regretted the money spent replacing the old rotting roof with fresh tin sheeting, no matter how dilapidated the rest of the hut looked.

     When it came to the Brownshire bloodline Nate was a first. He was raised, as every member of the family before him. Taught from an early age where his ancestors had come from and what abilities had been passed down the pipeline from generations past. But as Nate would prove as he grew older, he had no time for what he assumed to be family fairy tales.

     Nathan Emanuel Brownshire was born on July eighteenth nineteen eighty three in Prior Lake Minnesota. He took after the rest of the males in his family when it came to build. He was a tall stocky young man. Not fat by any stretch of the imagination but certainly not slim. He was the result of his mothers first and only one night stand. She had died only hours after giving birth to her son. She managed to hold on just long enough to give him his name and place him in the proper care. He spent the majority of his childhood being raised by a miserable beast known as Aunt Janny. Aunt Janny had done her best to bring up little Nathan as well mannered and well magiced as herself. But try as she might she could never get the little tike to take any of her lessons seriously.

     He was never much able to make friends as a child. After all he and his Aunt were the but of many a jokes. As has always been the case children can often times the cruelest creatures around. In his late teens he began acting out in ways his Aunt could not handle. He dove deep into the world of drugs and alcohol for quite a few years. It took quite a few more for him to did his way back. And even through all of that, there by his side she sat. Aunt Janny never gave up on him, never blamed him. Times were changing, she was well aware of that.

     On the somber day of her funeral Nathan, as the only surviving member of the family, gave a boring eulogy to an empty church. He was drunk. Not the kind of drunk you use to hide behind your feelings with. No, this was party drunk. As far as Nathan was concerned, it was all over. At least he had what he had wanted all along, the only reason he had stuck around as long as he did. The hut. And the land.

As far as Nate was concerned he had two options when it came to his upbringing. He could follow the instructions and tutelage of his Aunt, and grow and flourish in the way of magic. Going with this route meant one thing for sure. Therapists, and lots of them. Or he could do what he did. Try and distance himself as best he could from the last remaining relative. Try and get on with a normal life. An easy choice if you don't know the facts of magic.

     He often times found himself thinking about the days gone by. About the time he spent as a child with his Aunt. He still felt a slight twinge of guilt when ever she occupied his mind. Now, looking back he realized that he never actually didn't like the old bat. He wished it could have been different, that the bedlam saw herself as something other that exactly that.

    Nate sat writing at his desk, listening to the rain, struggling against his now heavy eyelids. He had, like his ancestors before him, decided not to tamper with the arraignments of items within the hut. The most recent addition to the cottage was a large tarnished phonograph. The old record player was his favorite part of the hut. Each night before he sat to write he would place his favorite records on and pour himself a nice hot cup of tea.

    The old oak desk he sat at was large even by todays standards. It's dark knotted tones were flawless in every was, except for one. He ran his fingers carelessly across the deep gouges. He had read them so many times now, the only thing they made him feel nowadays was numb. The names and dates of ancestors past ran down the length of the desk from the top corner. All perfectly etched in beautiful perfect copperplate, the kind of craftsmanship no longer seen in todays society. All the names as far back as the mid eighteenth century. At first Nate felt a deep guilt for not caring what those names read or what they represented. To him they were just a list of those long dead and gone. His guilt had long since passed, now he was just glad that they had done the same and left him the hut. The earliest date etching was dated May 4^th, 1732.

E.A Brownshire May 4th 1732

T.H Brownshire August 24^th 1784

B.R Brownshire November 18^th 1802

and so on and so fourth.

     The rain fell harder now. The loud, little pellets growing in numbers. On most nights he would find himself lying in bed, staring angrily at the faintly red glowing numbers of his alarm clock, waiting impatiently for sleep. On nights like these it was all he could do to write the next installment in his journal. He was never quite sure why he had chosen to keep the book in the first place. Most entries where anywhere from ten to twenty five words long. He sat for as long as he could, staring at the blank lined page in front of him. His tea growing colder he wrote the only thing that would come to mind.

“I'm going to see her tomorrow.”

     And with that he stood, flicked out the lights and headed for the bedroom. Tomorrow he would head in to town at the first sight of light.

The Impossible Visit

I'm sitting on a bus trying not to fall asleep listing to the rain. I  trying to be productive and write something I have been working on for a while now. This bus is very hot. All of these strange small towns for some reason or another are making me feel homesic(even though I'm heading there) I took a small break to jot something down to relax my mind. Here it is. Any typos in this post can be blamed on the fact that trying to post on a phone. I can hardly do this on a computer most of the time. Maybe I will try to fix it once I have a computer handy, but probably not.


                        The Impossible Visit

                         One mile, two miles,
                            three miles past.
           The wheels they roll, the towns pass by.

      Places I have never seen make me feel homesick.
           Places I know well are now all too strange.

                    I'm closer to home now,
                          my real home.
   Where I was born. Where I will be covered in dirt.
                             I am  close.

                I will be there soon, or so I'm told.
                          I will be there soon.
                               Will you?

The Final Page

The Final Page

One last page to sum up a life,

to drink up my ink.

One last page to leave to the world,

to express what I think.

Life flashes by in a series of blinks.

Yesterday my face was bright,

my skin was tight.

Today here I sit,

waiting out my last night.

I've said my goodbyes,

though there were few.

For I know I'll be gone by the sun and the dew.

I leave no regrets,

no worries or debts.

It's now time for me leave,

don't fear it's for the best.

Now please excuse me,

I don't mean to be rude,

but it is time for my final rest.

The Dance

A few days ago I went and visited the Body Worlds Vital exhibit at Faneuil Hall. Aside from all of the amazing pieces on display it gave me quite a few ideas for writings; heres one of them.

The Dance

The sun has dropped,

and the moonlight shone.

Out they come to by the light,

to dance a dance they call their own.

The goblins and ghouls,

the misses and fools.

All come out to dance up their ruse.

On their graves they prance the most merry dance.

They lure and they call.

I follow and fall.

And now here I lay,

both night and day.

But now when they moon shines,

I dance a dance I call mine.