Blog

Beleran and the Frozen Chair

Story by Adam Casalino

Beleran shifted in his saddle. A biting wind was pulling at the corners of the map in his hands. He would let the wind take it, all the same. He had long passed out of the king’s land. What remained of the road was a rough trail in the dirt. Only gravel and tuffs of dead grass lay beyond. The knight cleared his throat and spat as he looked at the land ahead of him. Dropping down from a cliff, were endless rows of gray hills. At the very end of his vision, he made out a sea of black trees and the faint hint of mountains.

“Oi.” He patted his horse. “How does this look to you, Atlas?”

The beast snorted and pawed the ground.

“I know,” Beleran said, patting the horse’s side. “I’d rather not be here. This land… it’s no friend to us. I cannot see a single dwelling. Not even a dirt hut.”

Atlas let out a low neigh. Beleran gave him a nudge and they descended the cliff. Great whisps of fog floated from the beast’s nostrils. Rain began to fall. The icy drops cut at Beleran’s. He pulled his hood tighter as they explored the hills. They reminded him of rising waves of water. He had only been out at sea once and it had been unwelcoming. In that moment, though, Beleran would have preferred it to the wilderness.

He cut through the tall grass, making a path toward the forest. Turning a large hill, he stopped short. Something was blocking the crossable space between the hill and a steep wall of earth. Beleran pulled back on Atlas’s reins and considered turning around. In front of them was something that resembled a human. Its form was hidden in a ragged cloak, gray like the world around it. The thing leaned on a tall, knobby staff, and on its head, masking much of its face, was a rusted helmet. Beleran noticed thick, scaly protrusions running down the stranger’s neck. It looked up at the horseman with suspicious, yellow eyes.

[Read more…]

Black Days, Chapter 3: “Uninvited Guests”

Go to: Table of Contents

Hannah was shivering by the time she got home. Six years and she still hadn’t gotten used to the New York cold. Not even the down jacket her father gave her was warm enough. Maybe her blood was too thin. Maybe she still pined for the West Coast and unconsciously refused to adapt. Either case, her fingers were blue and her teeth were chattering as she reached the corner where her apartment stood.

A door beside an old pharmacy led to her rooms on the second floor. Hannah felt claustrophobic every time she climbed the stairs to get there. Everything about her apartment was small. The doorway was narrow, the ceilings were low, and the bathroom was little more than a closet.

Looking over her kingdom, Hannah felt a pang of jealousy over Emily Lisbon’s apartment. How did a waitress afford something that size? Hannah lived in two rooms, one inside the other. The alcove that held a stove, mini-fridge, and sink didn’t count. The rest was a bedroom and tiny bath. At least she was still living in it; that’s more she could say for Emily.

There was noise coming from the apartment above her. The neighbors were of the soccer persuasion. There seemed to be games going on all day, every day. Instinctively, Hannah grabbed a broom by the door and pounded the ceiling. It was used only for this purpose. Never worked. Moaning, she closed her front door and shuffled into her bedroom.

Dropping her bag onto the bed, she rummaged for her notepad and phone. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Nine forty-five. Riding the train home ate up most of her night. Climbing over her bed, she sat down at the desk crammed into a corner. She flipped through her notes as a laptop booted up.

Hannah wasn’t a good reporter. She was still new and had yet to develop those instincts that could make her a force to be reckoned with. As a newcomer, she also lacked connections with the people who actually would buy her articles. Also, she bit her nails. But she was convinced that with this story, she would make her mark.

[Read more…]

Black Days, Chapter 2: “McClelland’s Law”

Go to: Table of Contents

It was night. Silas was in one of the outer boroughs of New York City. Squad cars were parked outside an apartment complex, their red and blue lights splashing against the facade. Police were everywhere, talking into radios or ignoring the noise that came out of them. Bystanders were, of course, watching from a safe distance. Walking over to the nearest uniform, Silas prepared to introduce himself. The cop nodded, motioning for him to enter the building.

“I didn’t know the police knew me on sight,” Silas said.

“We don’t. Detective McClelland gave me your description,” the cop said.

“Oh.”

The officer directed Silas to the fourth floor. He assumed the apartment with the smashed-in door was his destination. Silas inspected the door, which had been propped up against the wall. It was almost bent in half. He examined the point of impact. Something had pummeled it like a piston. What could have done that to a metal-reinforced apartment door?

A sharp whistle brought him to the apartment doorway. Standing on the other side of police tape was a heavy-set man in a cliché of a trench coat. He had a nose like a turnip, adorned with a thick mustache. His eyes had dark bags beneath them, but they were bright and alert, nonetheless. The detective lifted the tape to let Silas through.

“Took you long enough,” McClelland said.

“I was in Long Island,” Silas said. “And you said six o’clock.”

“It’s seven.”

“I see.”

The man jerked his head back and Silas followed him inside.

“Detective Rick McClelland. What are you doing in the Bronx?”

“They send me all over, these days,” McClelland said. “Why, you don’t like the Bronx?”

“Prefer my borough,” Silas said.

McClelland snorted. “The greatest city in the world and you’ve resigned yourself to Brooklyn.”

“We’ve all got our boundaries,” Silas said. “So, what do you have for me?”

“Missing Person,” he said. “Emily Lisbon. Twenty-seven years old. Single. Lived alone. New York native. 911 got a call from her at around eleven thirty last night. All they got was her screaming before the line cut out. That’s it. By the time our people arrived, she was gone.”

“And I’m sure none of her neighbors saw anything?” Silas said.

“Naturally.”

The detective handed Silas a plastic bag. Inside was a pink wallet and a few pictures. A New York State driver’s license showed a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair. Silas noted blue eyes, aquiline features, and a sad look on her face.

“Obviously, she was abducted,” Silas said. “Aside from the battering ram the kidnapper used to open the door, doesn’t seem too odd. Why’d you call me?”

“I think you’ll figure it out quickly enough.”

[Read more…]

Black Days, Chapter 1: “Toy Story”

Go to: Table of Contents

Silas Black was late. He was always late. Time, to a man like him, was a relative thing. A problem for someone else to worry about. Usually, the person waiting for him. He wore a watch but never used it. An observer would have noticed the watch didn’t show the correct time, so checking it would have been an exercise in futility. It also explained why, at that very moment, Silas was trying to determine the time by looking at the sun. Although it was obscured by clouds, he decided it was 9 o’clock. He was wrong.

Somewhere, not that far away, a storm was clearing its throat. Silas looked over his shoulder at the houses across the street. A thick blanket of clouds was reaching out over the rooftops. He judged the rain was about a mile and a half away. But he wasn’t good at guessing distances, either. He considered the speed of the storm, its distance from his current location, and the amount of time between now and when rain was falling on him. The last thing to come to his mind, though, was where he had left his umbrella.

He looked up at the old maple beside him. For a moment, he considered moving away from the tree, given the high likelihood of lightning. Yet, the entire street was shaded by similar, proud maples. These trees were so old that the sidewalk was punctured by their emergent roots. Silas looked at the neighborhood around him. Children probably rode bikes over the broken sidewalk. Men ambled down the road at a relaxed pace. Neighbors would smile and wave at passersby.

What a horrible way to live.

But Long Island still had a few surprises, as the detective was about to find out. An old woman was making her way across the street. She was pushing a rumpled, empty shopping cart. A plastic bag was tied around her head. As she reached Silas’s side of the street she paused. The old woman gazed at the stranger in his navy greatcoat. Silas stared back. She flipped him off. He felt more at home.

[Read more…]

Editing, Or: The Long Slog of Writer’s Hell

Many, many, years ago I wrote a manuscript entitled “Black Days.” It is an occult detective novel, a subgenre that combines paranormal/fantasy tropes with classic detective mysteries.

I poured much time and effort into this book–refining it many times. I even asked a few close friends to be beta readers for me. They offered valuable insight and criticism–which is hard to come by.

I sent out query letters to literary agents who represent authors in this genre. I even attended a writer’s conference in New York in 2017, just to pitch my book to interested agents.

But none of that resulted in my book being considered. That’s not a huge surprise. You have better luck reaching Mars with Elon than you do landing a good agent and publishing a deal.

So, what should I do with the is book? It is so worthy of publication that I should keep toiling at traditional publishing–and it never sees the light of day?

At this point, I figured it’s better to put it online, in some form, so that some people have a chance to read it. Why not? It’s just sitting in a drawer (or more accurately, sitting on a hard drive) being read by zero people.

In the coming months, my hope is to publish this manuscript as a serial book on this blog. No clever Amazon gimmicks. No e-book volumes. None of that. It’s going straight on this website, chapter by chapter, for all (or none) to read.

But before I do that, I have to return to a story I haven’t touched in years. Just because it’s going up on this site for free doesn’t mean it should be crap. I edited and re-edited it, but there are still rough edges needing to be smoothed.

I have considered hiring an editor from Reedsy, perhaps even a marketer. But, frankly, I don’t want to spend the cash. The folks on that site are worth the money, but if I am going the “nuclear route” to release this thing, then I might as well save some scratch.

So, coming soon to this website will be the first installment of Black Days. As soon as I get around to polishing up the manuscript.

“How to Write with Style,” Part 6

This post is part of a series called ‘The Writer’s Pool.’ I will be drawing from the wealth of knowledge from the world’s greatest writers to explore their advice, techniques, tools, and more.

We get to the next piece of advice from Vonnegut about writing with style, “Have guts to cut.” The author says, “Your rule might be this: If a sentence, no matter how excellent, does not illuminate your subject in some new and useful way, scratch it out.”

This is a lot harder than it sounds. And at this point, might be a crushing revelation for some writers. We’ve been trying so hard to perfect our style. We might even think our prose glitters. But now, Kurt is telling us to cut anything that doesn’t “illuminate your subject.” Even sentences we think are really great.

Why does he say this? Because, once again, we are learning that true style is about being understood. And anything that gets in our way of that goal needs to be removed.

He gives us a good standard, though. Anything that doesn’t “illuminate” what you are writing about. What does that mean?

For a story, that means any line, sentence, paragraph, etc. that doesn’t help the reader understand what is going on. In the world of fantasy and Sci-fi, this is critical. Because many novice writers think they need pages and pages of unnecessary description.

It might be fun to detail to the reader just how the walls of the castle look. Or the smell of your spaceship infested with aliens. But is it moving the story along? Does it help the reader understand what is about to happen next?

If yes, then great! Keep it. But if you are being honest and you realize you are just indulging, then it needs to do.

We are no longer living in a time when readers have never seen a castle, or a lion, or a spaceship. Chances are, even those unique alien creatures you came up with look a lot like something they’ve seen on TV.

It might be a sad realization, but movies, TV, and the Internet have robbed us of a chance to impress readers will elaborate descriptions. Only keep the descriptions that help the reader “see” (or hear, smell, etc.) what they’ve never seen before. They’ve seen a sunset before, so keep that brief.

The same can be said of any passage that goes on longer than it needs to be. When I read Enders Game, I skipped over entire pages because Card rambled on and on about the characters’ emotional states and attitudes. I get it, already. Let’s get to where the children murder an entire civilization!

That doesn’t mean you’ll end up with this short, bare story void of all personality. It just means you have more room for the stuff that matters: the actual story. That might be a challenge for you. But if your goal is a story you want others to read and enjoy, it’s something you have to do.