Faith

The girl with bare feet and moonlit hair walked closer towards a mound of fresh earth. She stared for a moment and felt anticipation crawl over her skin (maybe it was just the dirt falling off of it).
“I’m here,” she said, her words flat. She waited for something, someone, and looked about her, as the wind whispered for her hair to tickle her jaw.
“You hear me? I’m here.” This time she spoke louder, her words breaking through the air. She watched the mound of earth at her feet. “Can’t…can’t you hear me?” she said, sitting, pulling her knees into her chest.
She waited a moment, expecting an answer, but one did not come. She traced her fingers across the top of the dirt, barely breaking the surface.

Hours later, she found herself strewn alongside the mound, and the waxing moon baring down upon her. She stood and sighed, flared her nostrils and as she opened her mouth to speak again, she felt the ground underneath her shift. A whimper of excitement left her lips. She fell to her knees and immediately began clawing at the earth like a furious rodent. She listened for a sound, and she felt for more movement, digging and digging anxiously.
Suddenly, a pallid, grimey hand broke through the surface, like a drowning man in an ocean coming up for air.

She smiled.

You Are A Story

What if we are the ones being read?
What if we are the stories; the horrors, the fantasies, the romances, the failings, the exultant endings?

Maybe some of us will receive 1-star reviews, and others 5, while the rest remain somewhere in the middle.
Are some of us mere quotes, powerful in our curtness, or are we full-length novels, with twists and turns, some swathed in beige cloaks while others adorn themselves in purple robes? Some of us will say more in a few words than others can in 100,000 of them.
Are we fat with adverbs, or strong and lean with simplicity?

Do we step into the light, and feel the true warmth of the sun by sharing our brokenness, our scars, our mental anguish, or do we hide in darkness, in mist, grey and cold in our fear of consequence?

Do our words sear, and scream with passion, or do we stifle the air, the imagination, the soul?

Do we fight to give this unseen reader a new message, or remind her of one that defies time itself, or do we at least offer a moment of escapism, making a smile stretch across her face and her eyes snap with joy?

Are we the antagonist, the hero, the anti-hero? Will we see the end of the story, or are we merely a life that supports the true players?

Are we to be put down, never being lifted again, or will we be read until “The End“?

Will we live past the last page, appearing in other stories…as the hero?

If we are the ones being read, are our stories worth reading?

Human Element via Robotaki Studios

Happy Halloween!

In the Spanish and Mexican culture there is a vast amount of tradition. Chiefly among them, the folklore, which are stories based in part on truth, and have been passed down from one generation to the next. Notable examples are La Llorona or The Crying Women, the myth of La Lechuza or witch/harpy bird, and of course, the legend of Chepita Rodriguez, whom many say was the first women to be executed in Texas. Wrongly accused of theft and murder, the legend says she haunts San Patricio County in South Texas to this day-with a noose around her neck.

 

The following is a similar story, albeit one lesser known. In fact, beyond that of my family and my elder’s closest friends, it may not be known at all. Today, it will be. In the late 1930’s there was a young man named Andres. Andres was a little over 13 years old. Andres was, to say the least, a very angry child. Here is the account of Andres, as it was told to my father, by his father Bruno, and how this young boy’s life was forever changed.

 

I call it,

Obedezca

Obey.

 

Socorro and Alejandro were immigrant workers in South Texas and prided themselves on a hard day’s work. They did their part during the day, toiling in the heat of the summer, and each evening when the sun would start to fall, they went home, tired but happy. Whatever food they could afford was more than enough and Socorro would always provide a decent meal for herself, her husband, and their only child, Andres. Somehow Andres, when he was actually home, found room to complain. The food was too hot or too cold, too bland or too spicy it was always never good enough. When he was younger, Socorro made excuses for him and blamed it on simple child-hood pickiness. As the years went on however, she began to believe that he truly meant to discourage her. This attitude was true for everything she did in the house. Alejandro intervened and begged Andres to listen and to show respect, after all, she was his mother. Andres cursed his father each and every time. When Alejandro went to further discipline his son, Andres would be gone in moments, prowling the neighborhood, looking for algo que hacer, something to do.

“¡Tienes que obedecer, hijo! Tu eres el unico que tenemos!” “You must obey, son! You’re the only one we have!” his mother would cry out to him as he walked away. She loved him unconditionally.

He would yell back to her, “It’s not my fault your barren!” among other curses and obscenities. He was getting worse and worse and the more they tried to discipline him, the more he resisted.

The elderly neighbor, Mariana, a close friend of the family’s, would hear every curse thrown at them by Andres. When she would visit, Socorro would appeal to her and ask her advice. Many times Mariana would console her and explain that it must be a phase and to keep disciplining him. But she knew it was not enough.

One day, while Alejandro was away, Mariana tried to intervene.  Andres threw piedras, rocks, at her and cut her cheek with one of them as he cursed at her. Fed up with how he treated his parents, she yelled at him, “¡Nino miserable! Los demonios le mostrara si no aye nadie mas puede!” Miserable child! The demons themselves will show you, if no one else can! Forget about me, obey your parents!”

He spit at the ground in front of him; a sign of disgust towards her and kept on walking.

“I pray to God for your protection but Lord knows!” she yelled at Socorro before slamming the screen door of her home.

Later that evening, Socorro paced the living as Alejandro sat on the couch. It was after midnight and Andres had not come home yet. This was rare. He would be in his room by this time, everynight, regardless. Then they heard a noice outside.

“Andres?” his father yelled out.

“¿Que te importa? Ya bete a dormir, pinche hombre viejo. Tu y tu mujer! Voy para el bano! Ya dejame!” he yelled.

“What’s it to you? Go to sleep already, you old man. You and your women. I’m going to the bathroom. Leave me be!”

In those days, an outhouse served as a bathroom for families.

Alejandro and Socorro looked at each other and their faces fell in sadness. “What do we do?” she began asking him. Not having any solutions, they stood in silence and bowed their heads.

Their voices were drowned out by Andres’ sudden screams coming from outside. His screams were so real and horrible, his parents froze for a moment, but soon Alejandro gathered himself and darted out of the door. He grabbed his machete. Socorro ran behind him. The screams became louder and ominous.

“Andres! Que te pasa, hijo?” Andres! Andres!” Alejandro shouted with terror. They reached the outhouse as it moved from side to side slightly. Loud and intense pounding of the walls filled the night as Alejandro tried desperately to break down the locked door, hacking and attempting to slice through the splintered wood. They yelled to him again and again. Andres’s cries were otherworldly. “¡Ama! Ama! Apa! Son muchos!!!” He yelled. “Mother! Mother! Father! There’s many!” The hitting and scraping of the outhouse walls and door intensified with screams of “leave me! Oh, Lord! Leave me!” Andres let out one last cry that shook his mother’s heart and caused her to fall to the ground. Then complete silence. Alejandro, out of breath, gave one final chop to the door and yelled out to his son. There was no answer. Alejandro opened the door and knees buckling, fell to the ground, making the sign of the cross over and over…and over again.

Andres lay huddle in the corner of the outhouse, one bloodied hand almost clutching the wall, the other around his knees. He was brutally beaten. His clothers were torn, tattered, and long, deep cuts crossed his chest. His fingers were bleeding and scratches covered his face. Clumps of his hair were strewn on the ground, covered in blood. As Andres stared blankly at nothing in particular, he whispered a single word, over and over:

 

Perdóname.

Perdóname.

Perdóname.

Perdóname.

 

Overtime his wounds healed, though the scars remained. His mental state was what the doctors called, “perdido“…lost. Andres was sent to an asylum.

The only word he would ever speak was “forgive me” in Spanish:

“Perdóname.”

 Alejandro and Socorro never had other children. They were never the same.

 

True story.

*This story was published in Underneath The Juniper Tree’s blog 10/2011. Here is the latest and greatest Halloween /13 ISSUU!

Word.

Text|

James Janus fiddled with the aux cord, plugging it into the port in his phone. “Alright, time for the beast,” he whispered to himself.

“Another hour of this shit and I’ll be home,” he texted a friend. James was driving back from a family gathering, but cranked the volume and texted his friends to pass the time. He wasn’t the only one who texted while behind the wheel, but he was most certainly the worst offender. His friends warned him, responding to his messages only until finding out he was driving. He shrugged them off, again and again, saying: “Please, like you all don’t do it,” or the always appreciated, “Whatever.” A friend recently suffered a near fatal crash because of the bad habit. He vowed to stop, but continued about his ways. What’s up? he sent. Anyone there? came next, followed by, Aw come on! I’m bored!

James, DRIVE! was one response. You promised Teddy! read another. He put his phone down for a second when the light and familiar tone of a new text message rang out. “About time,” he said, happy for the “company.” He picked up his phone and read the text.

My nam is James Janus… it read.

Though he didn’t recognize the number from which it had bent sent, he knew it was from a friend pranking him. Laughing, he responded:

“Ha! Nice one. That all you got?” he typed. He set his phone down and it immediately went off again.

My nam is James Janus n I have been an accident…the text read.

“Aw, man, not cool,” he murmured, then looked up at the road and jerked the steering wheel, narrowly missing some debris. “Dammit!” he shouted. Unfazed, he responded: Takes more than a lame text to scare me, nice try though. “People make such a big deal out of this, when they just need to be more careful,” he said.

He threw his phone into the cup holder at his side and rubbed his eyes. “Jerks.”

Again his phone went off, this time repeatedly. “Wt-?” he said, growing angry.

My nam is James Janus n I have been an accident…

My nam is James Janus n I have been an accident…

My nam is James Janus n I have been an accident…

My nam is James Janus n I have been an accident…

He read each text, as they continued to come through, and each one said the same thing, though now the words Help! and Anyone! preceded each repeated message.

“What the f-?” Who is this? You think this is funny?! he typed then pressed SEND. “Not cool.”

Ok, he thought, someone is really trying to mess with me over this whole texting bull. “They should know Janus don’t scare so easy.” He picked up his phone and began to unleash a torrent of texts to all of his friends.

Ha! really funny! But look! I’m texting! Text! Text! Text! When I see you all, I’m going to unleash a world of hurt, he typed but then looked away from his phone long enough to see the car headed straight for a guardrail. He frantically tried to turn the wheel in the opposite direction but it was too late. James crashed into the guardrail, as the car flew down a ravine and came to a horrific and sudden stop on it’s front end, before falling back down to the ground. He shook his head and felt a sudden warmth as the blood came down his face. Both of his legs were broken and his breathing was labored. The guardrail had smashed into the windshield and cut his face almost straight down the middle.

“Unh…” His vision was distorted but he made out the light of his phone, near his side. He picked it up, barely able to move, pieces of glass embedded in his hands, and began to text:

Help! but no one replied.

Anyone! but no one replied.

He was losing a lot of blood.

My nam is James Janus! n I have been an accident. Please, any1 that receives this I am somewhere on old hwy 33. Ned hellp. I thnk am really hurt. 

After James didn’t show for a get together the next day, one of his friends decided to take his last text seriously and called for the authorities to search for him. They found his car, or rather the crumpled mess of shredded metal and glass in the ravine. A medic was lowered to search for  James. He became sick to his stomach at the sight of James’s pale bluish skin, and the jellied blood on the floor beneath him. “You never get used to this, ” he said sadly. “Damn texting and driving,” he whispered as he saw James’s hand-clutched tightly around his phone.

A warning from his future self perhaps? Only James Janus and the mysterious texter will ever know.

The End|

A Love Of Art: “Zoinks” by the Writer

created with stock by Unknown on deviantart.

Getting Published Isn’t for Sissies by Beth Ann Masarik

 As we all know, getting published ISN’T EASY.  I’d also like to modify a quote that my late grandmother, who I call RaRa used to say. RaRa always said, “Getting old isn’t for sissies.”  Well, she’s right about that, BUT, I’d like to say this, “Getting published isn’t for sissies either.”  There are six big companies (all based in NY ironically) that are responsible for making it nearly impossible for breakthrough authors to get into the industry.

 One of the “requirements” that I’ve heard of, is that you need a literary agent in order to get a publisher. Well, that may be the case if you want to get in with the BIG SIX, such as Penguin, St. Martin’s Press, etc., BUT that is NOT always the case when it comes to small press publishers.  I am living proof of that.

With the rising of the e-publishing industry, it has been easier and easier for new, small press publishers to come out into the world.  While there are some that will only take you if you have an agent, there are PLENTY out there that will take you even if you don’t have one.  There are people like Otherworld Publications, who dedicate their time to help out new authors like me make their dreams come true.

Now, I didn’t find Otherworld Publications right away.  No.  In fact, I wrote dozens of query letters to agents, and received just as many rejection letters.  After a while, all of those rejection letters started to get to me.  I started to believe that maybe I really wasn’t good enough to be published.  BUT, I kept trying.  I networked, I read blogs, I made contacts. I started up my own literary magazine to help other authors out there that were going through the same thing.

Then FINALLY, several months later, through an ad on Facebook, I stumbled across an ad for my editor, Crystal Clear Proofing.  I checked out her page, and saw that she worked for Otherworld and another publishing company. I had never heard of either company, so did my research, and queried Otherworld.  I got to know Lynn through emails, and loved what she did with Otherworld.  After further investigation, I eventually signed with Otherworld.

Working with Lynn has had its ups and downs, but we’ve had more ups.  She has helped me every step of the way with publishing all three of my stories: Prince of Darkness, Murderous Regrets and Moon Spirit. PLUS, she has hooked me up with an AMAZING publicist named Heidi.  She is actually the one who helped me organize this lovely tour.

Anyway, the bottom line is, getting published isn’t for sissies, but if you are determined enough to put yourself out there, then go for the gold!  It takes a lot of blood, sweat and tears, and A LOT of late nights, but the rewards are great in the end!

 About The World Among Us:

In The World Among Us, Hades, the god of the Underworld, plots to take over the world, and remove Gaia, the head Deity, from power.  In order to do so, he plots against his own son, Damien, and cons him into killing his soul mate, the beautiful goddess of the moon, Selene.  Hades does so, because Gaia is his natural enemy, and Selene is her favorite grandchild.  He thinks that by killing off Gaia’s favorite grandchild, he will weaken her.  With Selene out of the way, Hades then moves in on the Creatures of the Night.  He wants to kill off their leader, Jason Aysel.  Jason is the go-between person between worlds, and another person that Gaia highly regards.  Hades manipulates and cons Jason’s best friend, Leon Greene, into murdering him, by offering him Jason’s position as his reward.  Because of these actions, a war is to take place on earth between the gods and other Creatures of the Night.  During this time, Selene is reincarnated, and kept hidden as a secret weapon to win the war against Hades.  In order to win the war of wars, the gods and some of the demons will have to fight together, and learn to co-operate with each other.  Will the Titans and Olympians be able to set aside their differences, and take back the world from Hades?  Or is the world as we know it, doomed to fall under Dark Shadows, forever?

Fiction Young Adult

Urban Fantasy

Ages 14+

About the Author:

Beth Ann has been writing since she was 15 years old, and was published in the 2002 Schreiber Times. She took creative writing classes in college, and feels that they helped her become the writer she is today. In addition to writing the sequel to The World Among Us, she participates in an international anthology project, where writers from around the world come together to share their talent.

Originally starting as a writing assignment for college, The World Among Us series has sparked up a role playing group online, and a fan base of over 1,000 followers on Facebook, and over 600 followers on Twitter.

Beth Ann lives in New York where she is a legal assistant and does a lot of volunteer work down at her church.  For more information about Beth & her books, please visit her website www.bethannmasarik.com and her blog at www.bahbammymusings.wordpress.com

THE GIVEAWAY:

I am giving away the following:

a signed paperback copy of The World Among Us: Prince of Darkness

a Fanclub t-shirt

an autographed poster

a bookmark

and a TWAU pin

To enter, please leave a comment here on Tymothy’s blog to show him some love and away that I can contact you. This contest will run through Feb. 24^th, so you will have a couple of days to enter. I will automatically add you to the rafflecopter.  OR, you can fill out the rafflecopter by going to the blog post from the 19^th, which can be found here, and fill it out J Or you can join me on Natasha’s blog tomorrow and fill it out there. Her blog is http://dreamlandteenfantasy.blogspot.com/

And now, for the scavenger hunt:

Tell me who your favorite character is in mythology and any kind of lore. It does not have to be Greek Mythology related.  Send me your entries to contests@bethannmasarik.com with the subject scavenger hunt.

Thank you all for participating, and for following my tour.  And thank you, Tymothy for hosting me today!

For those of you who have won previous contests, you will receive your prizes next month. I’d like to send them all out at once so that I get one big postage bill as opposed to a lot of little ones J

ALL of my contests are international, so please come on and enter!

Please join me tomorrow, February 22, 2012 on http://dreamlandteenfantasy.blogspot.com/

Beth Ann, this is epic. I’m glad to have hosted you and as you know, I love that cover and look forward to reading A World Among Us! Word!

Lily & Luke

A pale light streamed in through the single window, giving sight to the particles of dust in the air. Lily sat still atop a desk, looking at her feet, dangling freely. Her dark hair fell over her face, hiding her grey eyes. Across the room, Luke said nothing, and only stared blankly back at her.

“I bet you’re thinking about what I’m thinking, aren’t you?” She said still looking at Luke through narrow eyes. “Try and guess.” She lifted her head and blew her bangs back over her forehead. “No matter what you say, I won’t let you go,” she said looking straight into his eyes.

He said nothing.

“We’ve been through so much,” she continued. “I know you say I may be too controlling. Too much for you to to manage. But you know what Luke? I love you. Don’t you understand that?” Her eyes stayed on his but he still had yet to speak. He didn’t even blink.

“I’m the one that taught you to be this way. I’m the one who showed you how to be strong. I’m the one, who showed you how to stand up for yourself! When we met…you were…how can I say this? You were pretty weak.”

He glanced at her.

“A pushover. Now? Now it’s as if nothing can harm you.”

She squinted her eyes in frustration.

“What’s that look? Luke?”

She walked over to him, her arms folded.

The Winter Issue!

We continue on with lil Pemberton, the miscreant and resident human in the Forest That Screams…

Pemberton searched high. He searched low.

But he could not find his November Issue, “Oh! Where did it go?”

He has never before been so sad,

save for the day he wandered into the forest, oh, it was bad.

But since then he has found his home

among the ghouls and Gruns…and misshapen gnomes.

Something new and fresh now covered the ground

’twas white and clean and fell with no sound.

The eerie screams from the forest they cried,

“This is the day the keeper of the Forest died!”

The snow began to take shape it did seem,

and now lil Pemberton was beginning to gleam

that the form before him was that of a man!

“So this was my predecessor, the leader of the clan?”

Before they could answer, the spectre, he spoke:

“My, what a pudgy and pale little bloak*!”

Pemberton stepped up to the man, looked at his face,

“This is now my little space!”

“Very well!” the blue tinted man sneered,

in his hands it looked like a book now appeared

Pemberton forgot all about the man’s  icey stare,

for now he had the Winter Issue…for all the Forest to share.

Click the brilliant cover.

Winter Issue: arte by Crystal Ord

Word.

*thank you, E.

The Importance Of Mentors

I journeyed for what seemed like days. To a place no one knew about. At least I hoped no one knew. I left behind everything but my mind and wit. And resolve. All things intangible, yes, but each worth more than the most precious diamond. My boots were muddied as I made my way to the top of the hill where I left him standing there, alone. He was afraid. Of what? Of me not returning. See, I brought something else with me. I brought him with me. To kill him. Yes. I know. How shameful. How, how morbid, right? Well, say what you will but he had to go. I was tired of hearing his voice! His face just made me want to jab something in my own eyes. I often cupped my hands over my ears in an attempt to silence him. To no avail. That shrill piercing voice. Damn it. It nearly killed me. I was tired of being strong. I tried being reasonable. I was tired of being reasonable! He didn’t care.

Stop. Seriously.

I was hanging a picture up for my daughter, she’s five, and she started singing. She likes “Moves Like Jagger.” It’s her Maneater.*

I’ve heard her before, but maybe because everything else was quiet, I listened. My daughter can sang. I’m not just saying that because she’s my daughter. But because I’m a singer. My dad is a singer. It runs in the family.

That’s not the point.

Point is… hearing her precious little voice made me think of how very awful it would be to hear her cry. I mean, she’s cried before. She’s had her shots. She’s been upset. My wife and I have consoled her. But I mean, cry from within. I thought of how terrible it would be to have her abused. Or hurt. Emotionally. Mentally. To have her heart saddened. I know in life every one must endure some sadness and pain. We can learn and many times, grow from life’s trials and tribulations. It’s part of this whole living thing.

Without chaos, how can we know how strong we are?

Who gives a falutin kick about an Oxford comma?

The famous quote from The Wizard of Oz says:

“Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my!”

Without the Oxford comma it becomes something else…

“Lions, tigers and bears!”

A better view of the tiger and bear running from the unseen lion that the scream guy warned them about: 

I Drawed…Again.

 

There once was a girl named Elise,

who loved and laughed and spread peace.

But her joy was smashed into bits, and her laughter was halted, as she dealt with shin splits!

No longer were things to be nothing but fun!

For everyone runs…runs from the Grun.

##

Inspired by Elizabeth Rose Stanton, Rebekah Joy Plett and of course, Bree Ogden. Underneath The Juniper Tree is awesome. Look for updates, for the Winter Issue drops December 16th!

also, MAD props to my daughter Araceli who created the first draft of Elise. ❤

##

This is Episode One of A Tale From The Land of Zuzu: The Run From the Grun

Stay tuned for Episode Two…

Writers Need Outlets!

Like I told my brother-in-writing Jeff Beesler, writers need outlets! because many of us have so much going on in our heads that a one blog, Twitter account, Facebook, four Like pages, a deviantart account, ummm…in short?

It’s not enough.

So I jumped on the tumblr wagon and I must say, I like it. It’s basically an add-on to my blog but will allow me to share more at a quicker pace. Like mashing my Twitter feed with my blog. Again, I’ll be able to share my musings and such plus, music, art-BRILLIANCE!-and more of my writing, well, snippets.

Join me if you’re on tumblr and I will do the same.

P.S. It’s very new and shiny so please…remove your shoes.

TymothyLongoria.Tumblr

Yeah. I went there.

Word.

The Writer Chronicles by Tymothy Longoria, a writer.

Haters gonna hate. 

Writers are going to write.

Write on, and WORD.

Aspire No More: Part Duo

Write until your hand gives out. Then write some more.

Press ►

 

Snappin’ my fingers…and writing.

 

 

Word.