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Sheer Horror #2
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Marie Johnstone
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Aug 21, 2003 05:41 PDT
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ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
S H E E R H O R R O R #2 SEPT 2003
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
~ Fiction to Haunt you Forever ~
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ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
By subscription only with compliments from:
Marie Johnstone
=> Contact me: mailto:marie.jo-@ntlworld.com
=> Archive http://www.topica.com/lists/sheerhorror/read
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W h a t' s i n S t o r e
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
=> Writing Tip
=> Sheer Fiction
=> List Info
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W r i t i n g T i p
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
WHAT'S THE BIG IDEA?
LOST THE PLOT? Stephen King is the master of ideas. He
just rolls 'em out like there's no tomorrow. Some
writers have that gift; other writers wait until
inspiration chooses to strike. But why wait? Especially
when ideas exist all around us.
ALL IN A NAME. Plots don't often come to us whole. They
emerge and evolve over time. Sometimes all you need is
a title. 'Out with the Old' (last month's fiction) was
a phrase that sprang to mind after a big change in my
life. It seemed fitting to use this as a title. After
playing with some ideas I came up with a haunted house
theme. Contrived? Not really, especially as it's the
new occupant who's haunting the house, stripping it
bare of past memories and attempting to make their own
mark. Look to find good titles in quotations, music,
poetry and sayings - then make it your own.
TELLING TALES. Ideas can often emerge from existing
literature. Fairy tales and nursery rhymes are
surprisingly good candidates for the basis of horror
fiction. Don't believe me? Try reading some. 'The Pied
Piper' was the inspiration for this month's fiction. I
liked the idea that music could be used to lure
children away from their parents. 'Music Maker' has
evolved from that basic idea into something uniquely
different. Judge for yourself.
UP CLOSE. Simple events can trigger ideas. A recent
holiday left me with skin problems due to the heat. It
got me thinking how not everyone enjoys sunshine. I did
some fairly extensive research on Albino skin types to
use as the basis for fiction made all the more powerful
because it was personal to me.
PERSONAL DEMONS. If all else fails, look to your own
personal demons to help. What really scares you? You
can bet that you're not alone in how you feel. Real-
life stories often explore human dramas of trauma and
tragedy that most people can relate to. Start asking
loads of 'what ifs' to alter the slant. What if that
couple paid a higher price than they bargained for to
have a child? What if that longed-for child turns into
something that comes back to haunt them? Ideas are
everywhere if you know where to look.
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ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
WANT to progress as a Horror Writer? Unearth writing
tips and fantastic, original new horror fiction with
the Sheer Horror ezine. Where horror's no longer dead!
*** Sheer Horror ~ Fiction to Haunt you Forever ***
* Join NOW: mailto:sheerhorror-@topica.com
_______________________________________________________
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
You may publish this tip in your ezine and/or website
as long as the above resource box is left intact.
_______________________________________________________
S h e e r F i c t i o n
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
Music Maker
by Marie Johnstone
Lights died fast in windows all down the road as others
prepared for sleep. When the rest of the world was
still, that was the best time, the only time, for him
to think. Dave barely noticed the moon as it sneaked
out from a thin covering of cloud to rest its bone-
white gaze over the densely-packed line of terraced
housing.
Despite the efforts of his bedside fan, little air
circulated around the room. He stretched the soles of
his feet against the artificially smooth laminate,
seeking cool patches, pacifying skin.
Movement caught his eye.
There, at the end of the street, an empty crisp
packet was snatched by a sudden gust of wind. Right
behind, emerging from the dark, swung a skateboard. Not
just any board, Dave noted in envy, but the one he'd
nagged his parents to buy him. Course, they'd just
looked at him gone out, told him he'd have to get a
part-time job if he wanted to waste money on kid stuff.
His jealous eyes travelled up slowly from the skater's
white sneakers.
Three-quarter length combats hung low on slender
hips. Slung over a long sleeved sweatshirt, a t-shirt
emblazoned with his favourite punk rock group. Flowing
chestnut hair, part plaited, streaked behind the rider.
Skidding to a halt, she kicked the rear of her board so
it flipped up into her ready hands.
He moved in close to the window, hands smearing
prints on the glass as they pressed against it as if
for some kind of reality check. For all Dave knew, he
wasn't really awake at all.
At that moment, the moment where his mind was
starting to doubt what he was seeing, she glanced up.
Her eyes, two sparkling emeralds picked out by the
orange glow of the street-lamp, seemed to penetrate
right through him before her lips parted in the
beginnings of a shy smile.
Dave swallowed, throat gone dry. Smile, you
jackass. He ended up grinning like some nutter, body
having a problem reacting to what his head commanded.
You prat, Dave. She gives you the nod and what do you
do? He could have kicked himself as she turned then,
made like she was going. Hands clenching, he bunched
them into fists against the panes of glass, knuckles
turning white, skin taut over bone. You've blown it,
just like you always do.
But she turned back, cupping her hands to her ears
and then pointing towards him, towards the closed
window, eyebrows arched expectantly.
Dave rushed to open the sash box wide, knowing
instinctively what she wanted. His fingers fumbled with
the tarnished brass catches, meant for hands slender
yet strong.
Coolness caressed his skin once the top window had
been pushed high over his head. Not trusting the
weight, his clammy arms held the rotting wood frame
firmly in place while he leant his head outside.
The street was empty of sounds - stripped bare -
nothing except a slight rustling to fill the night's
hollow spaces. The crisp packet twisted and turned a
haphazard route down the far path.
"Want to hear some music?"
Though he never saw her lips move, her voice
floated up to him, clear as anything.
Dave felt himself nod dumbly and he managed a
barely audible "uh, huh" in response. Never had he felt
like such a jerk, all fingers and thumbs, cocking
everything up.
Dropping the board, she raised her fists to her
mouth, wide eyes glinting beneath long, dark lashes.
She flexed her arms towards him, palms facing upwards.
Incandescent pinpricks formed an archway between her
hands, flickering randomly like Christmas lights. She
carefully selected one and the rest faded to darkness,
as if they had never even existed. Later on when Dave
lay in an excited state of unsleep, he did wonder at
the strangeness of it all. But for now it seemed so
right, so natural.
Visions of Alien8, the band she proudly sported
across her teenage chest, were transmitted from the
light spinning on the tip of her finger, flooding
images onto the far line of houses. In response to the
make-do projection, the sounds of an electric guitar
ripped through the stillness of the evening.
Dave struggled to keep the sash frame up as it
slipped slightly. He glanced back guiltily at the door,
sure that the disturbance would wake his parents who
punished first, listened never. His heart hammered
faster than the opening beat, and that said something
as they used at least four drummers to maintain the
speed of their tracks. But no-one came, no lights
flicked on, and no windows outside were opened in
retaliation to the noise.
Blinking in disbelief, he was unable to stop his
lips forming a wide grin as he looked back at her. If
his legs could have found the nerve, he would've run
right down there, but they stayed rooted to the floor,
unable to move for fear that it would somehow break the
spell.
He stood and watched, mesmerised, as she skated in
time to the music, doin' tricks up and down the street.
All too soon the music stopped, the images faded and
the single light flickered and dwindled. His girl waved
up at him and then free-wheeled back round from where
she came, a single teasing glance thrown his way as she
left.
He slammed his fists down on the Formica table.
Even without raising his head, Dave could feel the
piercing stare of Mrs Wilkes. He looked up and with the
practised speed of someone used to making excuses, he
mumbled a half-hearted apology - he was tired and his
hands had slipped. Eyes narrowing in scepticism, she
continued on with her lecture about some pretentious
Shakespeare crap. She turned back to the whiteboard and
he turned off.
Several nights had passed since he'd seen her.
Though he'd waited up every evening since, she'd not
returned. Maybe you did dream it all. Or maybe, his
head reasoned, she thinks you're a jerk - you sure as
hell acted like one.
The air was stuffy, hardly conducive to a lengthy
sermon, and Dave's eyelids began to droop. If he
shifted his hand up to his eyes, there was a chance
that Mrs Wilkes might not even notice. He vaguely
heard the monotone drone of her voice which meant that
she was losing it, getting carried away with the oh-so-
great works of her beloved Bill.
Something caught his eye.
All of a sudden he was wide awake and staring out
of the window where a slight wind was blowing a
scrumpled piece of paper round the concrete yard.
"Dave."
She was out there, back slumped rebelliously on
the grey breeze block wall, one foot on her board, the
other against the wall. His eyes flicked down to her
pants, hanging low enough to reveal what he imagined to
be part of a black satin g-string. Calm down buddy, he
told himself. She's toying with you - all part of the
chase-me game that girls play.
Almost without knowing, his hands pushed against
the table and he heard the scrape of his plastic chair
against the floor.
"Dave!"
Mrs Wilkes appeared right in front of him as he
half-stood, ready to leave. Her eyes were small - bead-
like and piercing - lost almost beneath such a large
and expressionless face. Leaning over his desk, she
grabbed him beneath his chin and yanked his head back.
"You look like a mess," her voice was deep and
gravelly. "Get a grip on yourself and quit
daydreaming."
After a few moments, she released her hold and
shuffled back to the front of the class. Dave
wrinkled his nose at the lingering feel of her sweaty
finger-stubs against his skin, then turned back to look
for his girl.
His eyes searched in vain; the yard was already
empty and the paper, done with playing in the wind, was
still.
The minute he walked through the door, his mother had
him cornered, blocking off the only escape route to his
room. Her face was blotchy, looked like she'd been
crying. Clearly she was pissed, whether it was from
drink or because of him, he had yet the pleasure of
discovering. Waving in her hands was a letter which she
thrust beneath his face.
"It's from the school." Her voice was broken and
shaky. "They're worried about you - all of you. Seem to
think you and your friends are all involved in some
kind of drug or glue-sniffing ring."
Dave stared at her pinched and frightened face,
tight curls bobbing on her head. All of a sudden he was
laughing out loud, couldn't help himself.
He heard the slap before the sting even registered
on his face.
Words tumbled out viciously from his mouth before
he could stop them. "Why don't you get yourself a job,
you've obviously got too much free time on your hands.
Oh I'm sorry," he said sarcastically, "I forgot. It's
pretty impossible to get employed once you've been
sacked for drink-driving, especially when it's an
ambulance carrying a couple of critical burn kids."
Pushing her roughly aside, he hardened his heart
to the sight of her crumpled face and made a quick
retreat to his room.
Once safely there, he bolted the door and allowed
it to support his weight as he caught his breath. His
hands came to rest on the short metal bar, stroking the
locking mechanism in relief. The recent handiwork at
last lent him a degree of privacy and peace.
Something inside had snapped since he'd met his
girl. No longer content to sit nodding sympathetically
as his mother poured out her many troubles, no longer
prepared to take the frustrated punches of a man who
had lost his wife to the bottom of a bottle many years
before.
His hands rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease
the tension that had been building for days. Tired and
weary though he was, he'd wait up one more night. Today
had proven that she'd not forgotten him. A thin smile
lightened his face. Between a wasted day at school and
the rantings of a screwed-up mother, she'd been there.
His jaw tightened in defiance of any doubt. And she'd
be there tonight as well.
This time Dave had the window wide open, waiting. As
soon as the street eased into silence and the comfort
of darkness, he'd sprung into action. It was time for
him to make an effort, show her just how keen he was.
As his fingers gripped the weathered frame, he
frowned in annoyance. Some of the lads at school had
been boasting about similar nights. At first he'd been
mad, almost eaten with jealousy at the thought of his
girl playing to those dumb jerks as well. And then he
realised. They'd been having him on. Must've heard him
mumbling things while he'd snoozed off in the yard.
Well stuff the lot of 'em. I know she's real - and
she's all mine.
Before the thought had even left his head, she
swept gracefully round the corner, eyes sparkling as
she smiled up at him. She leapt off the still
travelling board and raced towards his open window,
beckoning him down with her hands.
He turned to sneak out of his room.
"No, not that way."
A timid, pleading voice floated up to him and he
glanced back.
Her lips formed a warm smile as she threw her head
back to reach into his eyes with her own. Dave could
almost feel the tug of her outstretched arms, almost
taste the smooth flesh of her raised mouth. She wanted
him - and he wouldn't disappoint.
Hesitantly at first, he wedged his body half
through the open window. Silky hands of air caressed
his naked torso. Breathing in the fresh night air, he
imagined her fingertips splayed over his chest, skin
against skin.
Pj'd legs were pulled one at a time over the lower
window frame, until he stood shaking on the concrete
outer ledge, toes dangling precariously over the edge.
He paused long enough to take a deep breath and
then let go. Free at last, he sped through the air
towards her. Reaching for her outstretched arms, his
eyes locked onto the twinkling lights which danced
between her hands. So badly he wanted to touch, but was
left grasping at nothing more than air as the ground
sped up to greet him.
A tearing, wrenching feeling shot through his body
as he slammed into the road. A rush of air left his
lungs and it seemed as though his mind was racing down
an empty white corridor. The walls closed in around
him, encapsulating his body and forcing it into a
foetus position.
"Want to know where I get my music from, Dave?"
Her voice boomed out at him as he fought against the
tiny cell.
"Most people like to collect records, but I go
just that little bit further. You've got years of music
trapped in that dumb head of yours. My unusual
collection is so vast, something to suit every possible
mood and taste. So Dave, what can I get you to play for
your friends tonight?"
The cell lurched and he fought against the urge to
vomit. And then it suddenly registered where he must
be. Hundreds of white-tinted lights stretched before
his eyes, every one full. It wasn't his real body she'd
trapped, she'd taken something guaranteed to last a
whole lot longer. Dave threw his head back and screamed
as the sound of a guitar ripped through the night.
Copyright İ 2003 Marie Johnstone. All Rights Reserved
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ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
WANT to progress as a Horror Writer? Unearth writing
tips and fantastic, original new horror fiction with
the Sheer Horror ezine. Where horror's no longer dead!
*** Sheer Horror ~ Fiction to Haunt you Forever ***
* Join NOW: mailto:sheerhorror-@topica.com
_______________________________________________________
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
You may publish my fiction in your ezine and/or website
as long as the above resource box is left intact.
_______________________________________________________
L i s t I n f o
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
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Copyright İ 2003 Marie Johnstone. All Rights Reserved
PSST! PASS iT ON! If you like Sheer Horror, please
recommend it. Hit that forward button NOW.
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ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
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