Posts ADDUCENT

The Benefits of Being a PLOTTER

Adducent

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November 8, 2024

Here’s a straightforward explanation of the benefits of being a Plotter (versus Pantster) and how planning and outlining a story can boost productivity and improve story quality.

Why Plotting Works:

Clear Roadmap
- Efficiency: With a detailed plan, you always know what happens next. This saves you from wasting time figuring out where your story is going.
- Focus: An outline keeps you on track, helping you avoid unnecessary detours and distractions.
Consistent Progress
- Daily Goals: A clear outline allows you to set specific, achievable writing targets. You can measure your progress and maintain steady momentum.
- Avoid Writer’s Block: Knowing your story’s direction helps you keep writing, even on tough days.
Better Time Management
- Prioritization: You can allocate your time more effectively, balancing writing, research, and character development.
- Meeting Deadlines: With a plan, you can estimate how long each part of your story will take to write, making it easier to meet deadlines.

Enhancing Story Quality

Solid Structure
- Coherent Plot: An outline ensures your story makes sense and stays consistent.
- Balanced Pacing: You can control your story’s flow, ensuring it’s neither rushed nor slow.
Rich Character Development
- Detailed Profiles: Planning lets you develop in-depth character backgrounds and arcs, making them more believable.
- Consistency: Your characters remain true to themselves, avoiding contradictions.
Thematic Depth
- Cohesive Themes: With planning, you can weave themes and symbolism throughout your story, adding depth and meaning.
- Effective Foreshadowing: You can plant hints and clues that pay off later, creating a more satisfying reading experience.
Well-Defined Conflict and Resolution
- Clear Conflicts: Planning helps create meaningful conflicts that drive the story forward.
- Satisfying Endings: An outline allows you to craft resolutions that tie up loose ends and fulfill your story’s promise.

Practical Benefits

Flexibility
- Adaptability: Even with a plan, you can still be creative and make changes as new ideas come up.
- Easier Revisions: A solid outline simplifies spotting and fixing problems in your story.
Collaboration
- Feedback: You can get better feedback on your story structure and direction before writing the entire manuscript.
- Team Projects: If you’re co-writing, an outline ensures everyone is on the same page.
Publishing and Marketing
- Effective Querying: A clear outline makes your query letters to agents or publishers more compelling.
- Targeted Marketing: Knowing your story’s key points helps you craft a stronger pitch for readers.

Being a Plotter means you’re prepared and organized, boosting your productivity and enhancing your story’s quality. It’s about having a clear path to follow, making your writing process smoother and more effective.

Do you need help with story planning and plotting? We can help.

Contact Us

READ The Best Halloween The Town Ever Had

Adducent

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November 5, 2024

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READ The Best Halloween The Town Ever Had

The howl echoed… the lament of a man lost forever to the darkness within.

Read the novelette (with the protagonist from OPERATION UNDEAD) at Dennis Lowery’s writer site.

A Quiet Town, A Haunted Past: When a young writer stumbles upon a forgotten tale of Halloween horror, she is drawn into the unsettling story of a reclusive veteran who may hold secrets too dark to share. A chilling tale of revenge and a truth that blurs the lines between myth and reality.

The Best Halloween The Town Ever Had is a suspenseful tale of secrets and a shocking truth hidden beneath the surface of a quiet town.

In October 1975, freelance writer Rita Zook arrived in Millholm, Pennsylvania, to research local Halloween folklore for a simple article. Her plans take an unexpected turn when she meets Tom, the manager of a local bookstore, who mistakenly assumes she is there to write about the 20th anniversary of the mysterious killings that took place on Halloween night in 1955.

Intrigued, Rita becomes curious when Tom tells her, “It was the best Halloween the town ever had.” Tom tells her Jack Harper, the reclusive owner of the bookstore, knows more about the killings than anyone else in town. This leads Rita to seek an interview with Jack, a veteran who leads a quiet and solitary life, carrying the weight of his past.

What begins as a straightforward interview quickly becomes unsettling as Jack’s guarded revelations slowly unfold about the events of Halloween 1955. Jack speaks of corruption, fear, and the dark justice that fell upon the town, hinting at powerful, mysterious forces at play. As Jack’s guarded revelations slowly unfold, Rita is increasingly drawn into Jack’s haunted memories, learning of his experiences during the war and the price he has paid ever since. The story builds to a chilling climax where Rita must confront the shocking truths that Jack has revealed, leaving her—and the reader—grappling with the blurred lines between myth, legend, and a terrifying reality.

UNION STATION [Short Fiction]

Dennis Lowery

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October 27, 2024

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This story—in our EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY Series—resulted from discovering the public domain photo used in the cover and including it in one of our ‘Pick a Picture Get a Story Written’ contests.

READ IT HERE (takes you to Dennis Lowery’s new writer site)

Beth lived two lives… one in the light, one in the dark. They started and ended at Union Station.

It was 1943… dark times with a world at war.

And the kind of disappearances the police don’t put more than a token effort into investigating. When a friend disappears and then other women, Beth fears they’ve been killed, and she’s next on the killer’s list. She has to take things into her own hands. Despite the risk of her secret life being revealed… she must avenge her friend and defend herself.

SOME READER COMMENTS

“Thanks, this is really interesting. Beautiful descriptive prose.” –Doug [commenting via Facebook message] Douglas Preston is the New York Times best-selling author of 26 novels and several nonfiction books on history, science, exploration, and true crime.

“Vivid and sensuous storytelling, Dennis.” –Vicki Tyley

“You are pushed forward on a ‘fated’ path… all those intricate details… Is this a movie?! You try, but you cannot untangle yourself… amazed at the turn of events… and a deeper layer shows.. which is painful… and I love it! Thank you, Michael [a reader that shared the story with her], for introducing this great writer … expanding our lives!” 🙂 –N. Azadi

“As usual, it was extremely well written. I, as I am sure was true for most readers, felt your detailed descriptions enabled me to picture a scene in my mind as if I was actually watching a movie! You very effectively kept the reader on seat’s edge in the final pages of the story, wondering how everything would play out. And the ending with – DELETED SPOILER PART OF THE COMMENT- was an absolutely brilliant touch on how to bring the whole story to closure.” –Jim Zumwalt. James G. Zumwalt is the internationally bestselling author of Bare Feet ~ Iron Will – Stories from the Other Side of Vietnam’s Battlefields, The Juche Lie | North Korea’s Kim Dynasty, and Doomsday Iran: The Clock is Ticking.

“Just finished reading Union Station, Dennis. For a short story, it packs quite a punch. The characters are well developed and believable.” –Hazel Payne

“You did an excellent job with this one, Dennis. You really carved a complete story…” –Michael Koontz

“I love this. Thank you for sharing.” –Dawn Hart Jackson

“Awesome!!! –Susan Gabriel

“Love it!” -Kim O’Brien

Codename: ‘THE FERRETS’ | SO Team R-1

Adducent

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October 23, 2024

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From a series we’re developing (more on it to come) with its roots set in World War II about the exploits of the veterans of a fictitious elite OSS unit, SO Team R-1, Codename: ‘THE FERRETS.’ The accompanying images are concepts for their unit patch. The series spans World War II (operations in Romania and throughout southeastern Europe) to the present day, as surviving team members—and their successors—adapt to new missions and evolving threats.

‘The Ferrets’ original assignment, OPERATION: RATCATCHER, was to locate secret redoubts, fortified bunkers, places where high-ranking Nazis could hide and escape routes (ratlines) they could use once Allied forces moved to re-take Europe. Then… to capture or kill those they found.

Their secondary mission—1944-45 and post-war—results from the team members’ involvement in 1943’s OPERATION: UNDEAD, a temporary deviation from RATCATCHER. OPERATION: UNDEAD and its aftermath had a far-reaching, long-lasting impact on the team. We recount its events in an upcoming story.

After the war, ‘The Ferrets’ surviving team members, some now operating solo, face a new era of covert threats and sinister adversaries. Their loyalty to each other, duty, and honor come with a grave personal cost, leaving even more visible and concealed scars as each follows their chosen path.

The name ‘The Ferrets’ was carefully selected for the story to reflect their wartime and post-war roles, symbolizing the team’s resolve, adaptability, and ability to operate in the shadows. Like the animal they’re named after, ‘The Ferrets’ are unyielding hunters, capable of breaching the darkest, most secretive locations to track down their prey. Clandestine operators focused on elusive targets to capture or kill and to find and secure deadly artifacts and dangerous intel.

Symbolism of the Codename:

Persistence and Tenacity: Ferrets uncompromisingly pursue their prey. They never give up. This mirrors the mission of an OSS team stalking Nazi leaders and searching for, sequestering and securing, Nazi-discovered relics and arcane knowledge that pose a current risk to Allied forces and an inconceivable future threat to civilians and governments globally. Neutralizing threats that persist even after the official end of the war.
The Hunt: Just as ferrets are adept trackers and hunters, the OSS unit searches for and finds hidden Nazi facilities, underground fortifications, and garrisoned repositories with equal expertise. Their ability to navigate complex, forbidding, and treacherous environments makes them uniquely capable of penetrating and assaulting them from within. Capturing or eliminating Nazi leaders, depraved men and women, and expertly uncovering and seizing secreted Nazi assets, experimental equipment, and securing lethal instruments, deadly oddments, and perilous discoveries.
Stealth: Silent and swift, ferrets slip in and out of restricted spaces, much like the OSS team, who must infiltrate enemy-controlled areas, collect intelligence and objects, strike with precision, and vanish without a trace. This makes them feared—and targeted—by those who believe they can hide… believe they’re protected… behind layers of camouflage and secrecy.
Elusiveness: Known for their cleverness, ferrets are elusive creatures, evading enemies and using their surroundings to their advantage. ‘The Ferrets’ skillfully avoid—most—enemy traps and ambushes and expect to complete their mission and escape.
Vermin Control: Historically, ferrets drove rats and other pests out of their hiding places. ‘The Ferrets’ root out Nazis hiding in hardened ‘burrows’ or on the run as the war moves steadily toward a Third Reich collapse. In the post-war world, they find evil goes by many names and labels other than ‘Nazi.’ There is ‘no pause for the wicked… so no rest for the weary.’
Psychological Warfare: ‘The Ferrets’ also serve a psychological purpose. For evil men and women hiding or operating within the dark, the idea of an elite team inexorably hunting them down creates a palpable sense of fear. ‘The Ferrets’ have a reputation for leaving no trace as they pursue their targets, a fearsome force working within the shadows that hide those they hunt.

THE CANDLE [Fiction]

Dennis Lowery

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October 14, 2024

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A Haunting Love Story of Revenge & Retribution

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” –Lao Tzu

The passion of love bursting into flame is more powerful than death, stronger than the grave.

Some reader comments:

“It was wonderful. Chilling and hauntingly beautiful… very Stephen King-esque. Right up my alley, being a huge Stephen King fan. I have goosebumps. Absolutely loved it.” –Bobbie Today

“Like your writing, it is so original and imaginative. It comes from somewhere deep inside. And you deliver your words of art so well.” –Renee M.

“Captivating.” –Mohammad Azam Khan

“Stephen King would be happy to put his name on this story! (I mean this as a compliment).” –Jyoti Dahiya

“You wrote a great story and I felt every word. Your ending, the SPOILER REMOVED was significant. Thanks so much for sharing your beautiful heart!” –Evy Hannes

“Poetic justice. Love it.” –Vicki Tyley

“Wow, I adore your writing! You pulled me in very quickly, and had me wanting more and more! Excellent story, I thank you for that amazing read. You are a very talented writer.” –Cristie Brewer

“Wow, I enjoyed reading very much.” –Irene Kimmel

“Wonderful, Dennis. Very well written!!” –Sylvia Sotuyo

“Wow… what a great story. I loved it, Mr. Lowery. Loved it!” –Jo Ann Boomer

“Love it!” –Fay Handstock

“Brilliant, Your writing always leaves me wanting more! I too saved it to re-read later. Thank you.” –Rebecca Harden-Heick

“Oh, wow… Very powerful… I felt so much compassion for the couple. And the intrigue of the supernatural, really gets you thinking. An excellent story.” –Margie Casados

“Great story!” –Susan Gabriel

The Story

The Old Market

I had seen the old woman alone at the entrance when we went through earlier. We’d worked our way to the back of the outdoor market, then through all the side rows and offshoots. Peter was one step behind me, his arms draped with loops of full bags. He didn’t like to shop but had made it through a whole day—so far—without complaint. I guess thanks to it being our honeymoon. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. The packing I’d have to do this evening would suck, but today was our last day. Back to Chicago tomorrow and then on Monday, returning to the ordinary world and daily grind. This time as newlyweds in our own apartment.

Peter had been checking his watch—a subtle ‘can we leave soon’ message—for thirty minutes, so I headed back toward the only entrance and exit.

That morning, the woman had only one item, and I thought she waited for someone else or hadn’t unpacked more to set out. There was still only one thing before her: an old chalice-shaped candlestick with the stub of a candle in the middle of her table. The woman’s eyes did not wander. She sat so still, not trying to catch people’s eye or engage them in conversation to draw them to her table, as did the other vendors. It didn’t seem to matter if she sold the candlestick or not. I slowed as we approached her.

“Amanda, come on.….” Peter’s low mutter was the first sign of impatience as he caught up to where I stopped.

The woman studied me without expression. In her eyes, the deep wrinkles framing them were such a depth of sorrow that it caught my breath. The bustling noise of the surrounding people faded into quiet just for the woman and me.

“Hello,” I smiled. The old woman nodded without speaking. “Is this all you have for sale?”

“All I offer.”

I picked up the candlestick. Surprised at its heaviness, a rough, dull metal that might be a tarnished pewter. I rubbed my thumb over the dry surface of the candle stub and pieces flaked off. But its wick seemed new, never lit, and not brittle like the wax. I turned the candlestick upside-down and checked the base. Solid, but in the center was a rectangular compartment, a cover hinged on one side, with a tiny latch. I tried to free the fastener.

“That will only open for the owner,” the woman’s smile showed the glint of bright dentures far younger than she.

“What’s inside?”

“That’s for the possessor to discover.”

“Aren’t you the owner?”

“Why do you want to know what’s inside?” Those eyes fixed on me as she continued, “Do you like this candlestick?”

“Needs a good polishing,” the woman’s grin grew at my awkward haggling. “Too bad you don’t have another to make a pair.”

“That candle was used.” The smile was gone, and some emotion shadowed her eyes, darkening them more. Something flickered in them when she looked at the candlestick in my hand, then to my face, and on to Peter’s.

“You can buy another candle. What happened to the other candlestick?”

“It did what it was created for, and all I… all we asked,” she stood, “this is all I have left.”

I didn’t follow what she meant and thought, time to leave. With frequent glances at me, Peter had been looking at the contents of the next table over an assortment of hand-carved salt and pepper shakers. I’d put him through enough for today and started to set the candlestick down. Something in its heft rooted me, and without meaning to, my grip tightened. Peter still fidgeted, moving the shopping bags from hand to hand. He loved me, and I loved him more than anything. The certainty surged through me more than during our marriage ceremony. “How old is it?”

The woman shrugged. “My husband,” the softer melancholy came back and caught at her words, “bought the set many years ago from a woman who told him a story. Stories,” she shook her head, “were always his weakness. But it was also practical. When we were young, we often dined by candlelight as much to save money as because he was such a romantic man.”

As she spoke, the old woman stroked the wedding band on her gnarled hand. Once upon a time, it must have been a better fit with the fullness and firmness of youth. With the finger shrunken with age, only a swollen arthritic knuckle kept the ring on her hand.

“How long have you been married?”

“He died suddenly,” she reached out and touched the candlestick I still held, “today is a week past. We were married for sixty-five years.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I glanced at Peter, who stood beside me with a tired smile and thought of our wedding just seven days before. For a moment, six heartbeats—I felt each one—I wondered about living with and loving him for sixty-five more years. Nothing would make me happier.

“We had a full life together… and even after.”

I didn’t follow the last part, but the woman smiled again. “Why do you want to sell such a sweet reminder of your husband?”

“He is still here,” she touched her head and her heart, leaving the hand over a now withered but once full bosom, “that’s all I need.”

“What about leaving it to your children?”

Grief dimmed her smile again. “We were not so fortunate… my daughter died at birth, and we could not have more.”

“I’m so sorry.” I set the candlestick down to open my purse, deciding a last honeymoon souvenir, this one, would be fitting.

The woman picked it up, “And this… I want to go to someone young.” Her eyes shifted from me to Peter, who stood there paying attention with bags now at his feet, “Young and in love.”

Peter had his wallet in his hand, “How much?”

“Nothing.” Cradling the candlestick in her hands, the old woman passed it to me, but her smile was for Peter.

“I have to pay you something,” I insisted.

“No,” and a sternness came into her eyes that didn’t harden the smile on her lips, “you don’t. A gift to you.”

“Thank you,” was all I could say. The old woman’s expression brushed my heart. I knew it was a grandmother-not-to-be’s tenderness for a granddaughter she never had. I handed the candlestick to Peter as the woman folded the cloth on her table.

Seeing Peter inspect the cover and latch at the base of the candle, she said, “It will open for you when love and the need are the strongest,” her eyes glistened, “as its mate did for me.” As she turned to put the folded tablecloth in a large bag on the ground beside her chair, she whispered, “And so I had him, my love, for one more hour… to say our goodbyes.”

Peter had gathered our things, putting the candlestick in one of the canvas bags. Before the woman turned away, I leaned across the empty table and touched her arm at the elbow. She glanced at me, and I asked, “You say you bought this when you were married?”

“Yes,” and with a last look into my eyes, she turned away, “on our honeymoon.” She walked into the crowd and was soon out of sight.

Chicago…

Bags were everywhere. Amanda had unpacked their clothes and luggage over the weekend, but the things they had bought were still in boxes and store bags. The one thing that had come out of the bags was the candlestick. She hadn’t even thought about the old woman in the hustle of flying back home and seeing family. But her candlestick was on the mantle over one of those artificial meant-to-look-like-the-real-thing fireplaces.

Amanda turned to Peter, who had, unlike her, had the day off, “That’s all you unpacked?”

“The only thing I was sure of where you’d want it to go.” He walked over to the window and studied the street three floors below. “I still don’t like this area.”

“I’ll be fine.” Before they took the lease, she had seen the high crime rate trending down. Still, Peter had concerns. But this location was the closest compromise of affordability and nearness to the metro and their work.

Peter turned from the window. “As soon as I can finagle a change, I’ll get off the night shift.”

But they both knew they needed the higher pay. At least until they paid off bills, which would take longer, she contemplated the bags of things they had bought on their honeymoon.

Months later…

The woman with the long legs caught the young man’s eye. She rode the subway with style, graceful like an old Hollywood movie star among everyday people. He scratched at the coarse growth of hair that covered his cheeks and throat in patches and elbowed his friend, who lifted his eyes from his phone. He cocked his head toward the woman just down from them. “Check her out… legs in the blue dress.”

Amanda was wearing the pearls Peter had given her even though she had promised never to wear them without him with her. But it was a short week and a half-day Thursday for Tom, the senior partner’s office birthday party. She was so happy and wanted to finally show them to Sue, her best friend at the office. Besides, she was headed home in the mid-afternoon. No one would bother her in broad daylight.

The two men followed her when she got off.

With the coming three-day weekend—the first long weekend since their honeymoon four months ago—on her mind, Amanda neglected to scan the area as Peter had told her to do when going to and from the station. She entered their building, bypassed the elevator, and headed for the stairs. It’s great for the legs, Amanda thought. Feeling that good burn in her calves as she went up the steps, she did not hear the rustling sound of the two men moving almost as fast to catch up. They did. Right as she opened the door to the apartment.

* * *

Peter was excited, not just because he was off—no work tonight—a pleasant surprise when he’d shown up for his shift. The promotion he hadn’t told Amanda about had come through. Starting Monday, no more night shifts and a 20% raise. Hallelujah… they’d have breathing room and could save money toward buying a proper house with a yard. Everything they’d hoped for and dreamed. He loped up the stairs to the third floor. Their apartment was just across from the landing. Keys in hand, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

* * *

“We got time,” the scraggly bearded man said, “They ain’t going to complain,” he glanced down at the dead woman and dying man. “Bitch,” rubbing his shoulder, he kicked the candlestick gripped in the woman’s hand, but it didn’t loosen. The two men split and pocketed the man and woman’s cash. The pearls were smeared with blood. He walked to the kitchen sink to wash them and didn’t see the dying man stir. Hearing a clatter, he stepped into the hallway to call out to his partner, rummaging through the apartment, “Hey, you wanna be quieter… you find anything else?”

* * *

Peter heard them, one in the kitchen and the other in the bedroom, and tasted bitter blood. He hadn’t been there to save Amanda, a worse bitterness. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t breathing. The pool of blood had expanded from under her body from where he lay. His own grew to touch hers.

God, how I love you was all Peter could think as his vision flickered. His head lay next to the fireplace. Amanda’s right hand held the candlestick she had grabbed from the mantle. Staring at the bottom of the base, he remembered the old woman’s words: ‘It will open for you when love and the need are the strongest.’

Not sure what he was doing or why… it took what strength he had left to pull himself toward Amanda. He couldn’t free the candlestick from her hand but could lift it to see the latch. It opened. Inside was a rolled-up piece of paper. Not paper… parchment. He slid it out to read the writing.

Time within the candle wax
you hold now in your hand.
Sixty minutes in the molten drops
like hourglass grains of sand.
The wick, when kindled for one you love
gives life for that single span.
Not enough to live your dreams
but enough for a moment planned.
Light it with your heart’s last flame
to bring back at your command,
a loved one from what was death.
Now filled with life’s fire fanned.

The matches from the mantle were on the floor, too. Everything was slipping away as he fumbled with the box. Getting one out, the first wouldn’t strike and snapped. A black veil came down as he got another and struck the match. He held the flame to the wick. Dropping the burnt match, he held Amanda’s hand in his left as his right wrote on the tile.

* * *

“What’s that in her hand… and on it?” The homicide detective looked down at the body and the kneeling medical examiner next to it.

“An old candlestick… melted wax and blood.” The ME stood, “She matches the identification upstairs for Amanda Mickson.”

“What’s her body doing on the street with this mook?” The detective nudged with his foot the body of a scruffy-faced man. “While her husband’s body is upstairs, his throat half slashed open, and another man dead in the bedroom with his head bashed like this guy?” He toe’d the body again.

“Here’s the thing,” the examiner removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Where’s the blood?”

“What you mean, where’s the blood? There’s blood all over that guy?” He kneeled and pointed at the mook.

“I think that’s his blood… I’m saying Amanda Mickson’s. Her jugular was cut. I checked, and she’s bone dry.”

“What?” The detective checked his wristwatch, “Been a long fuckin’ day; what are you saying?”

“I’m saying Amanda Mickson is down here and did this guy in, busted his head open. But I think all her blood–the other puddle… not the one from her husband–is upstairs. No way she comes down all this way, chasing this guy, catches and kills him.”

The detective shrugged, “Don’t know, but I think the two fuckers deserved what they got.” He had seen upstairs on the floor. Someone had written, had to be Peter Mickson, in blood: ‘Read the note from the candle. I love you, Amanda…’ and surrounded with a heart.

“I think she was dead before her husband. But I won’t know for sure until I get them on the table,” the ME said. He shook his head, unsure what to think or how he would write this up; he beckoned for the waiting men to bag her. “Why would he leave a message for his dead wife?”

“Don’t know… but seems she didn’t wait for no judge and jury,” the detective grunted as he stood. “Let’s go upstairs; I want to see the note again.”

The medical examiner turned to him, “I read that and it made me think of something. You recall your Bible?” At the detective’s puzzled expression, the ME shook his head and continued, “A line from the Old Testament in the Song of Solomon:

The passion of love

bursting into flame

is more powerful than death,

stronger than the grave.”

# # #

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY (tagline black) — Every Picture Tells A Story

The image that prompted writing the story…

THE KNOCKING DEAD | Halloween Humor

Dennis Lowery

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October 13, 2024

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Before the reclamation… the recovery of humanity, they called them Walkers. The undead zombies that spanned the land after an unknown event crashed civilization, leaving handfuls of us alive. Small pockets of society that soon reverted to the primitive roots of survival: kill or be killed.

On the run, we fought back, always seeking someplace safe. Somewhere to make a stand and to begin the climb toward the rudiment of lives and lifestyles we once took for granted. Finally, after bitter years, we did. Humanity—we—re-established our world. Maybe not entirely as it once was, but close. Perhaps an even better one for what we learned about ourselves during the dark days. But there were dangers in this new world. Still, things to be wary of for their intrusion into your life and aggravation brought to your doorstep.

We’d had close calls before, but one day, we weren’t so lucky.

It was that last remnant of daylight when the sun had gone from yellow-orange on the horizon to bands of striated orange, then orange-red, to a scarlet orb eye-level low and dipping lower that turns the sky and clouds around it shades of crimson. There was a sound at the front door, the scuff of feet on the stone pavers, then a ring and a knock. Finishing up my writing for the day, I heard and caught out of the corner of my eye my wife passing my study door to see who it was.

“We don’t mean to bother you, but we’re in your neighborhood to share some information.”

My wife is polite, and I knew she paused. That hesitation was their opening.

“Have you heard the word of…”

My wife should have lashed out—perhaps her battle-earned reflexes had been lost—to stab them through the head and end the situation. But she had reverted to the polite, civilized lady of before. I looked out my study window and saw the man in front, a cluster of others behind that moved closer, massing at our door. Scenting the kill.

I spun and grabbed my old friend, that had never let me down. A six-foot oak staff with a serrated blade embedded and secured as stoutly as a man-hating 50-year-old virgin’s loins.

I came out of my office, moving like in days long past. I felt that memory of once athletic grace flow through me, my body automatically responding. The muscle memory of survival. In the foyer, I placed one foot and my 212 pounds behind the door so it would not easily open further, and with my free hand, I swept my wife behind me, waving her further back. I needed room to work.

A quick glimpse through the doorway. I saw Sunday-Go-To-Meeting clothing: women with purses on crossed arms, hands with bundles of leaflets, men with the same tracts but sometimes holding a black or brown leather (or faux-leather) bound book with a purple ribbon placeholder peeking out that gave a slight rise and settle as an eddy of wind swirled.

Perhaps they were good men and women all. But through perverse hunger to spread their creed, they could suck the time out of your life as you tried to be courteous and hear them out. Trying to be civil, though you weren’t remotely interested in what they espoused.

In that situation, I’m no longer polite. No, not at all.

I swung the door wide and took the first man—the knocker—right through the throat. Yanked out and jabbed again, this time in the head. It fell back but remained standing. I took the next right through the forehead. It should have dropped but merely stepped back, pulling itself off my blade. Nothing worked… they kept coming… kept trying to hand me tracts and information on their belief… kept interrupting our day with their unsolicited tag-team approach. The only recourse… epic rudeness.

With a harsh sound that my daughters call the MAD DAD voice, I thundered, “NOT INTERESTED, DON’T COME BACK!” They retreated, and I slammed the door. My back to it, I saw my wife’s look… full of reproach. Thirty-five years, and it still has a measure of impact. But not this time.

“You don’t have to be so…”

“Yes… Yes, I do.”

I knew chances were in a month or two… I would have to be again. Because it seems the Knockers always come back.

Here’s the Story behind the story from Dennis Lowery: I read a brief article about a cemetery that was maintained only by donations and judging by the accompanying picture showing how dilapidated it was… is seemed funds weren’t coming in. Then I thought, “I guess the dead aren’t very good at raising money.” That led to, “What if they–the dead–went door-to-door?” And that led to thinking about the pesky/pestering folks that come around ever so often. “The Knockers…”

Only they’re not looking for money (directly)… but for souls (so to speak).

Watcher in the Window [Fiction]

Dennis Lowery

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October 11, 2024

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“We stopped checking for monsters under our bed when we realized they were inside us.”
–Charles Darwin

“Grownups are the real monsters.” ―Stephen King

Tap–Tap–Tap–Tap–Tap

I kept moving, and thinking of other things helped me take my mind off how fast the sun was setting. About what happened. Grandpa had said the push and pull friction between the Rights and Lefts split America’s heart. And about the time when that was at its worst, he said ‘we’ were at our weakest—the elections—when it happened. I mean, we don’t even know what ‘it’ was, what or the cause. But once started, it swept the country.

When they got sick, some people turned and became feeders on those around them, but most died. A few, like mom, dad, and grandpa, didn’t change. Afterward, mom and dad had me, and I was fine, so they hoped for a future if others had children too. And for a while, there’d been others in our city. Not many, but mom and dad would spot them as they scavenged while grandpa watched me. Then there were fewer… and finally none.

Tap––Tap––Tap––Tap––Tap

My grandpa, before he died, had cussed: “All went to hell in a handbasket.” I didn’t know what he meant by handbasket… maybe something like the canvas bag mom used to gather stuff in when she had foraged. Grandpa never answered questions anymore—he got that way the past year—and I didn’t ask him. Mom said his mind wandered, but sometimes his eyes would lose their muddy puddle look, and there’d be a glint, like metal, under the surface. Kind of like what I kept in my pocket to play with, using its shiny side to splash sunlight on the ground. Grandpa called it a campaign pin…, and mom remembered seeing them when she was younger. Just something I found with mom and him one day. I’d kicked a rock that had tumbled across the road and landed in a scooped-out hole that still held water from that morning’s rain. I looked in, and it was in a couple inches of water. When I took the metal disc out, and the sun was just right, I could make out the faded colors and the outline of a man’s head, soft chin with a pouch hanging under, and a swoop of hair that didn’t seem to fit the head. Beneath were letters—mom had taught me them—smudged away, and some I could barely read: M K E A M R I C G R E A A G A …N.

I had said something about it, and grandpa told me the man was probably a politician. He explained that those were supposed to be the leaders of a country like we’d once been. When I wiped the disc on my shirt, he’d held his knobby hand out to see. You’d think it was hot; he held it for just a second—I think he recognized the man—and threw it away. Grandpa cussed. Some naughty—mom says they are, and I shouldn’t use them—words. He had his eyes closed and fists clenched… he said the last, “sunavabitch… disgusting bastard,” under his breath and went inside shaking his head. I hopped fast to get the little saucer of metal. I can get around on one leg quicker than mom could with two. Not so much now, though; not getting around so good… but I’m still moving.

Tap–––Tap–––Tap–––Tap–––Tap

That made me think of how mom kept me from that place—she said had been a cabinet shop—at the corner of Caligari Street and the old graveyard road. Where I had been grabbed up when I was four. It’s been ten years, but I didn’t miss my left leg. Mom wouldn’t talk about that, but I know what they—the thing inside the shop—did with my leg. They eat and sleep until they’re hungry. My dad, the day when he got me out, and home for mom to stay and tend to me, turned back to go after it. He waited for that one the next time it came out. But didn’t expect the others—mom said they had only seen the one and thought him a loner as so many of them were—and they poured out and tore him to shreds. And I lost my dad.

Now mom’s sick, and I have to take care of her; took care of grandpa too, but he died. So I hunted alone and had to go further to find food. A couple of months ago, I spotted a giant building mom said must be ‘The Costco’ that sold all kinds of stuff. It’s a ways from home, and I have to pass that shop on Caligari Street. But that’s okay. They don’t come out in the sun anymore. Mom says they’re still changing. At night, they sure move around. In my nightmares, they’re out hunting—hungry—for the rest of me. During the day, they’re always in dark places… mostly inside. Like the one at Caligari Street—the watcher in the window—watching me every time I go by. Like that afternoon.

Tap––––Tap––––Tap––––Tap––––Tap

I had got to the Costco with plenty of time, I thought. I can climb pretty good with one leg… mostly. That metal thing—mom called them racks the one time she had come with me—was way up, three times my height. But that’s where the last of the cans of fruit was, and mom really, really liked peaches. I was up, cutting a box of them open and tossing the cans to the floor. Some got dented and would roll, but I’d gather them when I got down once I had enough to fill my bag. And my foot slipped.

At least I let go of the knife. Grandpa had fallen once with one in his hand and stabbed himself in the leg. I’d seen it. And when he fell, he had cussed and swore. When I’d asked him if he would be okay, he said, “Yes, but hurts like sin.” Well. I didn’t know what he meant. But that’s what I thought—drop the knife—before hitting the concrete. I landed on my foot, but it turned under me. I was pretty sure the pain in my ankle was that sin grandpa felt. I cried, but not much. Not like when my mom cried when dad died, her breath rattling and shoulders shaking until she saw me in the door of her room in grandpa’s house. She got in a last shudder and looked at me. “No more time for crying, Sarah. Right?” she had nodded to herself and got up. I never saw her cry again.

I lay on the floor for a second, holding my ankle. Then crawled to my crutch I’d left against the metal post and, with it under an arm, pushed up and put weight on my foot. I cried more and wobbled. But I thought of mom and grandpa… and my dad, though he was gone. They had been strong. I was too. So, I nodded, “Right. No more time for crying, mom.” I told myself, steadied, and bent to put four of the large cans in my bag, the one mom used to carry and moved toward the front. Time to go.

Tap–––––Tap–––––Tap–––––Tap–––––Tap––––––

It was a long way home. The rubber piece covering the tip of my crutch had dried, cracked, and dropped off, and the metal now tap… tap… tapped on the concrete. The increasing intervals marked my slowing pace. I didn’t cry anymore, but I chewed my lip bloody by the time I got near Caligari Street. Behind me, the sky was orange-red. The sun touched and then sank below the tops of buildings behind and surrounding me, casting long shadows over the street.

I was across from the shop and saw the watcher in the window. It quivered when it spotted me and shifted its eyes to gauge the lengthening darkness that had thickened and touched the window. As I inched along—crying again, I’m sorry, mom—the shadow climbed to cover the glass. Behind the bent-down blinds, the creature had disappeared.

I had just passed the window when it–the monster–came out of the door at the side of the building. Rushing at me, messed-up-hate-filled face and jagged teeth gnashing in the dusk. And I was so slow… too slow. I dropped my bag and pulled out the knife grandpa had given me. The thing was on me before I could think. After dad died, mom had always been ready if one came at us. I’d never faced one alone. I stabbed at the head, aimed for through an eye like my mom had taught me. But I missed and got bone, tearing a rip across its forehead. They still bleed some… grandpa had told me, but wounds hardly slow them.

My knife wasn’t big enough to chop a leg or two off; that’d serve him right. I skidded, catching myself from falling with a hand, but lost the knife. I stagger-hopped to one side, the creature missing me, which put me in the middle of the street with a single band of sunlight remaining. It—what had once been a man—slewed around and waited for me as the strip of light shrank. I took a deep breath, got my weight balanced on my leg, and brought the crutch up. Cocked like a baseball bat, like grandpa told me. I had only read about baseball, but I was going to swing as hard as I could and maybe crack its skull. Put the thing down… jump atop and finish the job because I’d never get away otherwise.

The darkness had gnawed the sunlight down to a ribbon, a sliver around me. Then the sun vanished. The thing lunged. I braced and swung my metal crutch, catching it on the head but caroming off as it reared with a gaping mouth to stab teeth at my throat. Behind me came a sharp crack, and the thing’s head exploded. Wiping brains and bits of bone from my face, I turned around. In the gloom, a man, a very big man—wearing clothes and carrying a gun, he must still have bullets—like I’d never seen, walked down the middle of the street toward me.

As he got close, he reached up to something attached to his chest, “Found a survivor… might be others, recommend full patrol to sweep the city.” he said into it. With a squelch from the little box, he let it drop back to rest high on his chest next to his left shoulder. He reached down to another box on his hip and pressed a button. It glowed and cast light over me. “It’s okay… you’re safe,” the man said.

I got my crutch under my arm and backed away from him. But grandpa thought someone surely had survived and would one day come to help. Mom—after dad died—had doubted; it’d been years, and she had nothing to believe left in her. I looked up at him, this man—the first human other than family I’d seen in years—so much bigger than dad and grandpa, “Who are you?” I asked. As he leaned forward, I saw a red and white patch on his arm near his shoulder. In the middle was a red leaf, like the ones mom said she and dad loved so much in autumn before they had come far south to grandpa’s, hoping to find a safer place than up north.

“I’m…” he paused. The thing on his chest squawked something, and he pressed it to squawk back, “copy that,” he told it and looked back up, “we’re Canadian. I’m sorry we took so long to work our way down here to help you.”

# # #

NOTE FROM DENNIS

I believe pictures can tell us stories—or are the seed of one—and I collect interesting ones from the public domain, those with a Creative Commons license, or I buy or license them for future use. One day I came across a photograph of an abandoned store. A close-up of its front door and windows with the old metal horizontal blinds bent down like when you don’t want to raise them to peek out. I thought… who’s inside looking out and added it to my collection. And one early October morning, during an election year political season, an answer to that question–the seed of this story–came to me while considering other Halloween story ideas. Over that morning’s coffee, I wrote the first two drafts. I polished it more into what you just read.

Side note: In the story, Caligari Street comes from a 1920s movie titled The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, arguably ‘the first true horror film.’ And there is other symbolism from that movie, which depicts a brutal authority manipulating people to serve their agenda and weaken the fabric of character (society), that I hint at in this story.

THE FIRST WEREWOLF [Fiction]

Dennis Lowery

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October 9, 2024

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A Satirical—Ironical—Origin Story

The Man in the Moon shone full and bright through the large bank of windows. At a long table of wood, discolored from the spills of countless nostrums and strewn with the implements of the alchemist—a dabbler in the dark—a man turned to look up at it. Its luminescence washed over his features, revealing their roundness. Other than a beard, barely a hair graced his head to break the near-perfect curve, a bit of a gleam from his pate as the rays through the glass draped him in the pale light.

The moon mocked him even more than the girls in the village. He learned to avoid them, but the moon was always there, and once each month, he felt its derision in fullness—as it was tonight.

Hating the lunar light, bitter but determined, he returned to his work. He was close.

The elixir he held—its formulation revealed in forbidden books he’d searched long for and found—would succeed where all the others had failed. He would have a luxuriant mane of hair that would draw the ladies to him. They would not resist the urge to run their hands through it and toy with his locks. The first exhibition, he was sure, would lead to fulfilling his fancies and other, darker fantasies.

Completed potion in hand, he glanced at the table at the ancient silver-framed circular *mirror found with the secret tomes. Carelessly angled, it captured the moon’s full visage through the windows. It drew his eyes to linger upon it… and he wondered at its purpose. He’d not deciphered parts of the books yet… the pages with the same glyphs as on that mirror’s frame. He’d get to that, but first… this… Shaking his head, he turned again to the window. Raising the vial—in more a challenge than a toast—he downed its contents in one swallow. The foul taste not enough to wipe the smirk off his face as he taunted the moon while standing bathed in its light.

It came on him and coursed through his veins, permeating the cells of his being. A strange tingle, almost an itch, crawled from the top of his head, blooming down to his toes. Touching his scalp where nubs of hair now grew, he could feel them lengthen beneath his palm. In another minute, he brushed his fingers through beautiful strands of hair that became fuller as they spread. They soon gave balance to his beard and proportion to his face—making him, dare he say it… “Quite handsome,” he laughed into the full-length mirror he had placed near the window.

His laughter faded at a strange tightening of his shirt and a hint of pain, like a cramp that promised to worsen. Buttons now pulled tight; he fumbled to release them. The exposed flesh was no longer smooth and white as milk nor hairless as his head had been. The skin had thickened, and dark, coarse hair sprouted. As he watched, it flourished across his stomach and into his trousers. His pants tightened, drawing up and pinching his nethers. The constriction too much; he ripped them off with furred hands and long fingers tipped with sharp nails. At the awful pain in his feet, he tore off his boots, and, now free of all binding cloth, he stood in the moonlight before the mirror.

His face distorted into an animal’s visage, teeth turned to fangs, and hairy ears twitched. He had scant time to think, “God, what have I done?” before the lust for blood and flesh triggered a flood of juices in his mouth. His ears caught the sound and nose, the scent of food—alive—in the village below.

Little did he know, as the mind of man gave way to the slavering beast, that the ladies of the town, mostly, thought him not ugly but a lout. A most unbecoming man. It was more about him than his head, they found distasteful.

With a howl that tailed from lament to a shriek of hunger, the first werewolf raced to feed.

# # #

*Author‘s Note: The Lupan Mirror appears again in two upcoming stories: OPERATION UNDEAD and The Best Halloween The Town Ever Had.

THE WASTREL | A Story for Halloween

Dennis Lowery

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October 8, 2024

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Folklore Reimagined & Retold for Halloween: How A Devil’s Agreement Became the Origin of the Jack-O-Lantern.

Centuries ago, on All Hallows’ Eve (Halloween) a wastrel, a drunkard known as ‘Stingy Jack,’ wandered between towns and villages in Ireland. Calling none of them ‘home,’ Jack was known throughout the land as a deceiver and manipulator, claimed only by other dregs of society. On a fateful night, Satan overheard tales of Jack’s evil deeds. Unconvinced any man could or would do as the stories told and perhaps slightly envious of the rumors, the devil went to find out for himself.

Typical of Jack, he was half-drunk and wandering through the countryside one October night when he came upon a figure, a shadowed man-shape, on the cobblestone path. About to warn him off, the moonlight revealed an eerie grimace on a face that could only be Satan’s. Jack realized this was his end; the devil had finally come to collect his wicked soul. Jack made a last request, “Before ye take me to Hell, let me drink me fill of ale a last time.”

Finding no reason not to let him, Satan took Jack to the local pub, and upon quenching his thirst, Jack asked Satan to pay the tab. “I’ve neither a coin in my pocket nor to my name.” Jack eyed Satan. “But ye, Sir…. Ye can work a trick… with just a flick. Turn into a silver coin, and I’ll pay.” He winked at Satan. “After, ye can change back and join me outside. Then we be off….” He paused, then slyly added, “Ye knows I can’t outrun the devil.”

Satan transmogrified with a puff-stink of brimstone, leaving a silver coin that rang and spun on the bar top. With a smile, slipping away from the counter with practiced ease, Jack put Satan in his pocket, which also contained a little-used crucifix of poor metal found years ago and not worth selling. But the cross’s presence bound the devil to remain in his form.

Jack felt the coin toss and spin as he stepped out into the waning night. “Now, now… I’ll let ye go… but afore I do, we must agree.” His pocket stilled—Satan was listening—and he continued, “Spare me, me soul, for ten years… I’ll be content with that full measure of time.” The coin twitched twice; surely, that was the devil’s consent. He removed the coin and cross and held them in his large, dirty hand. Taking the crucifix in the other, he pocketed it away from the coin. Another pall of sulfur smoke clouded him, and a voice avowed: “I’ll come for you then.”

Ten years later to the date, on All Hallows’ Eve, as Jack staggered from a pub fingering the silvers he had lifted from the drunken sod in the corner, he ran full into a dark figure that blocked the way. Satan.

“Aye, it’s time, and ye have me.” Jack looked at the devil and moved to the side of the lane. “I’m ready for Hell,” he shook his head and then looked up at Satan. “But I’d sorely like just one apple,” he jerked a thumb at the nearby heavily laden tree, “for me starving belly afore we go.” At Satan’s nod, he went to the tree and shakily attempted to climb to reach the fruit. He slid and fell to the base of the trunk. “I’m afeared I’m too drunk,” he laughed, “to climb. Could ye help me, Sir?”

The impatience for Jack’s soul so great, foolishly Satan again agreed. As he climbed, Jack surrounded the base of the tree with all the crosses —gathered after the experience the decade before— he had taken to filling his pockets with. Confining, and confounding, the devil.

The tree shook, and apples fell. “Release me!” Satan thundered.

“I shall, Sir….” Jack looked up at the devil. “Swear that ye’ll never take me soul to Hell.”

Every apple in the tree—turned brown and rotting—was now on the ground. “Agreed.”

Jack bent to pick up the crosses and stepped away back into the middle of the lane. Satan disappeared with a scream of split timber and the stench of burning brimstone.

Eventually, the drinking took its toll on Jack; he died the way he had lived. Afterward, his soul prepared to enter Heaven through the gates of St. Peter but was stopped. Jack was denied because of his sinful life of deceitfulness and predatory abuse of others. Turned away from Heaven, Jack descended to the gates of Hell and begged for entry into the underworld.

But Satan, fulfilling his obligation to Jack, could not take his soul. But the soulless are his to command and to warn others; Satan gave Jack an ember, marking him as a denizen of the Netherworld doomed to roam restlessly for eternity. Bowing to his burden… to carry it, Jack placed the burning coal in a carved-out turnip, turning it into a lantern.

For those who sighted him in his eternal wanderings, Stingy Jack became known as ‘Jack of the Lantern,’ or Jack-O’Lantern, by the late 17th century. Making lamps from potatoes and beets became part of a fall harvest celebration. People also thought such lights warded off evil spirits. By the end of the 19th century, European immigrants in America switched their autumn carving tradition to pumpkins.

# # #

The Boy Who Got Away [Hybrid Creative Nonfiction-Fiction]

Dennis Lowery

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October 8, 2024

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The Boy Who Got Away [Hybrid Creative Nonfiction-Fiction]

On Sunday mornings after chores, my two youngest daughters and I usually picked out a scary movie or maybe a science-fiction classic to watch. But for a while, it was Supernatural, a series I didn’t know but eventually ran for something like 15 seasons. Serious binge-watching bounty. On the show, Sam and Dean, the Winchester brothers, hunted and killed all kinds of ghosts, demons, and paranormal thingies. The series draws on myth and urban legend as the basis of the storylines. I enjoyed it as much as Alpha and Beta [not their actual names, my then 14-year-old twin daughters]. I worked on story notes one late October Sunday while they watched the series.

“Dad?”

I looked over at Alpha. “Yeah, honey.” It’s funny with twins. They often ask questions they seem to have reached a consensus on through some nonverbal means of communication. I looked up from my notepad to see them glance at each other and nod their heads like, ‘Go ahead, ask him.’

“What, girls?”

“Do you believe in…” Alpha used the remote control to point at the TV and pause the show, “ghosts and demons?”

I put my mechanical pencil down. [At that time, I handwrote story and scene notes with a Staedtler Graphite 771 or a Faber Castell Pearwood E-motion, now I use a reMarkable 2 eInk device.] Then set my lap desk on the ottoman by my chair. I turned to them both. “You know about what happened to me in Italy?” [Which became the basis of another story, The Ladies of Sorrows & Pain.]

Alpha nodded her head. Beta asked me, “But what about when you were a kid?”

“I can tell you about a boy and what happened to him. Want to hear?” They nodded, so I told them (improvising it as I went):

“The boy was always happiest outside and on his own. His family lived, barely above the poverty line, in the country on thirty acres of land. About two-thirds forest, the rest pasture, and a dying pond. It seemed all he did was work; there were always things to fix or repair when everything’s held together with baling wire, tape, and a prayer it lasted until money came in. When he had free time, late in the day, he would stuff a canteen of water (sometimes a can of Coke), a bag of beef jerky, a book, and a flashlight to read by once the sun started setting into a small backpack and disappear into a remote corner of the woods.

“One Halloween, he was in the farthest part where his family’s land ended and sloped toward the road leading to what he and his friends called The Point, but was Grey’s Landing on the lake.

“The sun was setting, and through clear patches, he could view the moon rising low in the sky behind the trees. Their tops rustled and moved in the crisp, chill wind that bent them away from the direction of home. He shined his light on his wristwatch. Seeing the time, he rose from the knee-high stump he’d been sitting on and headed that way along the path. As he stood, stretching and brushing off the seat of his pants, behind him came a baying. An ululation that stabbed the night [I had to stop to explain to Alpha and Beta what that word meant]. A call strong enough to beat through the wind’s gasp that flowed around tree trunks and through leaves to reach him. The beast’s lament, colder than the falling night air, sent shivers through him.

“The boy was halfway out of the woods when a second, closer howl came, accompanied by the sound of gnashing teeth and chattering of fangs. Now he ran through a dry autumn forest; sticks and branches snapped and cracked as he made his way. Ahead, a wail flowed down to him, followed by a third shriek behind him.

Whatever they were, he realized they were working together. He angled to his left off the trail, hoping to lose what hunted him, now running fast. Hitting limbs that didn’t break but snagged the hood of his sweater and tore long gashes in his face and neck, his forearms protected by long sleeves. His hands became scored and cut, trying to protect his face. Blood flowed in streaks.

“Gasping, the boy gripped a tree for a moment’s pause, hanging on to catch his breath. He ran on at the caterwaul behind him [had to stop and explain that word too] of beasts close on the scent of their prey.

“Clouds were building, and the wind picked up as he broke through onto the crest where trees ended and the pits began. Broad swaths of excavation and deep gouges made in the pasture; the source of fill dirt his father sold to local construction companies. He had to go down into and through them before climbing back up for the open stretch to his home.

“He sprinted, his lungs straining and heart pounding louder than the wind. There were no more cries as he slowed to listen. Off the upward slope that plateaued, he passed the set of gnarled pear trees atop the rise overlooking the pond. Only 1000 yards down, then up again to his home, sitting on the next hill. His thigh muscles twitched and jumped, and his gait became choppy. The impact of his feet as he planted them, a flat-footed, jarring jolt with each stride and a near-puke feeling in his throat. With leaden arms he could barely lift, he spat to the side and looked up at the house back-lit by the last blood-orange remnants of sundown. He could make it.

“Halfway there, he felt something almost on him. The snarl so close he smelled rank, rotted-meat breath. He looked over his shoulder. Its yellow eyes widened, and long teeth glinted in the moonlight as a taloned hand, thick with coarse black hair, reached for him. Claws dug into his flesh and turned him. Spun to the ground, a spray of saliva hit his face as the howl climbed to a scream. He rolled and got to his feet; his sweater and shirt ripped from his back. In his hand was the World War Two-era Oneida M1905 bayonet he had bought at a flea market and always carried into the woods. Just then, a sheet of icy rain swept over them….”

My daughters’ eyes had grown wide as I told the story. They became larger still when I stopped talking and waited.

“Dad…” they finally blinked, “what happens next? Did the boy die?”

I said nothing, leaned toward them, and pulled my t-shirt down, showing them my right shoulder and the scar that ran across it. “He got away.”

# # #

As a father, I’ve learned to keep my girls on their toes over the years. And I got away long ago… from where I was to undertake a transformative journey that led to love and the family I have today.

Give a listen to the following music video, a centuries-old song about transformation… and love.