One and Only, Chapter 2

One of my current books in progress is called ONE AND ONLY. It’s a horror story with a strong romantic element at its core. Think RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD 3 or FRANKENHOOKER. You can read the first chapter right here.

I’m posting the second chapter of ONE AND ONLY here. This afternoon on my Twitch channel, I will do a deep-dive into this chapter, breaking down my process sentence-by-sentence, and answering any questions you may have about the story, my currently available books, wrestling, or writing in general. Festivities start at 3 pm, central time.

After chatting with my friend J. David Osborne, I’ve been obsessing about the idea of early access to art (a common practice in video games, but very new in the world of fiction) and the growing interest in the meta-narrative behind creative content.

I’m a few chapters into this book. The goal is to post a new chapter each Monday morning and do a corresponding Twitch stream about each chapter in the afternoon. I hope you’ll join me.



“Wake up, Marybeth.”

The speaker had an unfamiliar voice. She’d heard those three words many times before. From her parents. From her sisters. Once from a guidance counselor who said that she lived in a fantasy world. This one came from none of these people.  She thought then that maybe it had come from Mason, but that didn’t sound quite right. No, this voice belonged to someone new. So, who was it then?

Come to think of it: where was she? Someplace cold. Someplace dark.

Everything hurt like hell. Her eyelids felt like someone had tied weights to them.

She heard footsteps. Someone was coming.

“Wake up, Marybeth.”

That voice again, though maybe, she thought, not so unfamiliar. It had a buttery quality. It was soft, yet forceful. She tried to replay it in her mind as she lay there in the dark, aching, cold, and stiff.

“Wake up, Marybeth.”

This time, she felt her lips move when the voice spoke. She was the speaker. She was commanding herself to wake, but she didn’t want to! The place where she’d been before was … it wasn’t anything. It was a dreamless sleep. It was … She was dead.

Except, she wasn’t.

It all came flooding back to her. The confession to Mason on the cliff. The attempt at a kiss. The hate that flashed across his face before he shoved her over the edge. The fall. So much pain.

Her eyes flitted open. She was still somewhere dark and cold but was unconfined.

Was she in a field? Expecting pain, she was afraid to move.

The footsteps drew nearer. Became louder. Two sets of them. Men with flashlights. They stood over her. The younger of the two looked fresh out of high school, with his boyish features and slender build. His badge said his name was Olsen. She couldn’t tell if he was naturally as pale as he was now, or if the sight of her had drained the blood from his face. The older cop chuckled, sounding like a weasel. His badge said his name was Brandt.

“Necrophile’s night out, eh?” he said and elbowed Olsen in the ribs.

Olsen’s upper lip curled in disgust.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Kid, you want to be a cop, you’re gonna have to learn to have a sense of humor. Grow a set.”

“You’re such an ass.”

Brandt gave another weaselly chuckle.

“An ass who you report to, remember.” Olsen gave an uneasy nod. Brandt cocked his head and gave Marybeth a once over. “Pretty little thing, though.”

“Get up, Marybeth.” Her lips didn’t move, but she heard herself clear as HD sound. “Get up and kill them.”

What? No, I…

“I wasn’t asking.”

She felt herself rise like the light end of a seesaw. The two cops gasped. Brandt even cried out. It sounded girlish. With a glance around, she realized she was in a cemetery. She’d been buried alive. Or she’d died and somehow come back.

Olsen raised his hands.

“Ma’am, it’s going to be okay.”

She felt herself grin so widely that she thought the corners of her mouth might split.

“Jesus Christ,” Brandt muttered.

“Okay?” she heard herself ask. “I’ve never been better.”

She lifted one hand, spread the fingers to make a choking claw. Brandt lifted off his feet and slid through the air.

“Damn it, Olsen!” he yelled. “Help me!”

He fell into her grasp and she squeezed. He writhed, kicked his legs, and tried to pry her fingers free.

“Fucking shoot her or something,” he said in a strangled voice.

Olsen fumbled with his firearm. She held out her other hand, palm out. Olsen lifted off his feet, too, but unlike his partner, he sailed backwards. He smacked a thick oak, back-first. His limbs flopped, and he grunted. Marybeth made a fist. He floated forward several feet, stirring as he tried to regain control. She opened her palm again, and he flew back against the oak. This time, he went limp. She lowered her hand, and he collapsed in a heap of dead weight.

Brandt had given up on worming free. He had his gun drawn, pointing it at her in a shaky grip. She took a deep breath in. Brandt tried to steady his hand, reaching over her arm, using both hands. Pointing the barrel right at her face while she kept inhaling. While the air rushing into her grew stronger. While his face came with it. He screamed and dropped the gun when the flesh ripped free. He put his hands to the glistening red mask he now wore, sobbing in agony and disbelief. She let him fall to the ground. He was still screaming when she left the cemetery.


Caroline put on a sweater two sizes too big, tucked her blonde hair under her bicycle helmet, and pedaled out of her parents’ garage. She rode the bike out of her suburban neighborhood onto Sugar Bottom Road, which was heavily wooded. When she reached an unmarked dirt path, she turned onto it. The grinding hiss of the gravel under her tires broke through the Juice WRLD on her headphones. The woods were dark and cool, serene. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her.

Russell sat on the stoop of his trailer, clutching a tallboy of Pabst between his knees. A fire blazed inside a circle of stones. When he saw her, he nodded once and stood. She leaned her bike against an evergreen, took off her helmet, and approached him. They embraced. She put the side of her head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was strong, like him. He slinked his fingers through her hair and guided her head so that she looked up at him. His eyes were like ash. His features sharp.

They kissed. Gently at first, then much harder. She could feel him growing against her and all the excitement and fear and need and guilt that came with their looming copulation. They pulled away from each other, holding only each other’s hands. He nodded toward the fire. He’d set up a blanket beside it. She smiled up at him and led him to it. They undressed. The fire felt warm on her naked skin as she pulled Russell on top of her.

When he entered her, she looked down between them, zeroed her focus on their perfect connection. How she made him glisten as he moved inside her. He began slowly. She lightly drew her nails down his back, stopping to squeeze his buttocks. He increased his rhythm and force. He smiled at the way she moaned, which she liked to see because she knew that meant she made him happy. She studied the veins that pulsed in his arms. The dark hair that hung in his eyes, swaying lightly. The fire hissed and crackled, its tongues curling around each log, making her warmer, making him warmer. As she watched the flames dance, she thought she might come this time. Something was building there. Something vibrant, tingly, and hot.

She rose her hips to meet him. He moaned his approval. Slid his hands under her butt. It didn’t last much longer after that. He finished a few seconds too soon, stopping her at the edge. She didn’t protest or ask him to help her along. She simply embraced him, holding him to her until he softened, imagining him melting into her, the two of them becoming one.


They disconnected, and everything felt cold. She wrapped herself in the blanket and scooted closer to the fire. He stepped into his pants and reentered his trailer to grab another PBR. When he returned, he brought over two camp chairs and sat in one of them. She saw he’d brought out two beers, too. He offered her one.

“No, I’m D.D. again tonight.”

He made a sound in his throat and smirked.

“What?” she asked.

“I wish you’d stay with me one of these nights.”

She moved from next to the fire and sat in the chair next to him, taking the blanket with her.

“One of these nights, I will,” she said and took his hand.

He took his hand away, downed half the first tallboy and grimaced. He picked up a rusty pole and stoked the fire. She watched him work, sparks and ash flying up all around him.

“You still love me?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrow cocked.

“Of course.”

“What about when I get old and gray?”

He set down the poker and knelt in front of her. He put his hands on her bare knees. They felt warm. She started to open for him again, but he applied enough pressure to hold her legs in place.

“I don’t love you because your young,” he said. “I love you because you’re real.”

She ran her fingers through his hair like she was petting a loyal dog.

“I don’t feel real sometimes.”

“You are though.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

She just laughed. There was so much about her that he didn’t know. She reached over and took the half-drunk Pabst. She tilted the can, spilling its contents over and between her thighs, giggling at the liquid’s chilly touch. He stared up at her, eyes widened.

“Don’t want your precious beer to go to waste now, do you?” she asked.

He relented his grip, allowing her to open for him. Then, he lowered his head.


“Did you have a nice ride?” Caroline’s mother asked.

“Sure did!” Caroline said, giggling to herself at the double entendre.

She began to cross the living room to march upstairs.

“Gonna be around for dinner?”

“No, I’m going out with the girls.”

“Why am I not surprised?” her mother said with a laugh. “Your leftovers will be in the fridge.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Caroline went upstairs to the bathroom. She got the water going hot and stepped under the spray to rinse off Russell, dirt, and smoke. As she washed herself, she thought she should probably tell him to stop coming inside her. Sure, she was on birth control, but there was no such thing as being too careful. The last thing she needed was a baby. Her parents would say she had too much going for her, but she didn’t know about all that. She did know that she was too young.

After her shower, she dressed in a form-fitting maroon sweater, mid-rise skinny jeans, and sneakers. She straightened her hair and sprayed herself with some Light Blue. When she tromped back downstairs, her mother stepped in front of her, holding a bowl of stew.

“Last call,” her mom said.

“No, thanks. Smells good though.”

She gave her mom a peck on the cheek and skipped through the front door toward her car. The blue Ford Fusion had been a gift from her parents upon her acceptance to ASU. She had no intention of going.


First, she picked up Amber who lived in a neighborhood with houses three times the size of the houses in Caroline’s neighborhood. Amber didn’t throw it in anyone’s face. She did the opposite, often seeming embarrassed by her parents’ affluence. She always made Caroline pick her up and drop her off at the park across from her development even though Caroline had seen her house more than once and everyone knew the area in which she lived. Caroline had once seen Amber punch a dude in the nose for suggesting her riches made her a spoiled brat.

Now, she was sitting on a park bench, staring down at her phone. Caroline gave the horn a light honk. Amber looked up and brightened, springing to her feet and running toward the car.

“Hey, girl,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Hey yourself. What’s up?”

Caroline put the car back in drive and pulled away from the well-lit park.

“Did you see this shit?” She shoved the phone in Caroline’s face. The headline practically screamed: GRAVE OF BELOVED GIRL DESECRATED. Before she could read the smaller printed details, Amber yanked the phone away. Caroline put her eyes back on the road. “Some pervert dug up Marybeth Carlyle’s grave.”

“Oh, God.”

“It was probably your creepy friend.”

“Mason’s not creepy,” she said.

“Babe, come on. He seems nice, but let’s be real. When we were all talking about that dumb Hereditary movie, he took some weird book out of his backpack, opened a page and said: ‘here’s Paimon right here.’”

Caroline giggled.

“That was three years ago. I’m sure he’s … matured a little.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

As they drove toward the Clemente twins place, they had to drive past the part of the woods where Russell lived. Caroline turned to look at the passage leading to his trailer but kept her thoughts to herself.

“Speaking of weird,” Amber said. “I can’t believe that Roderick kid just lives back there. What does he eat? Squirrels or something?”

“I’m sure he goes food shopping, Amber.”

“Still. What kind of guy just lives in the woods?”

The kind of guy that I like, she wanted to say, but she kept silent. Sometimes secrets mattered more than pride.

When they reached the house of the Clemente twins, Caroline gave the horn two taps.

“And now we wait,” Amber said. “Want to take bets on how much time passes before they come out?”

“No,” Caroline said.

“You’re no fun.”

The twins—Farrah and Felicity—came out wearing matching green hoodies and black leggings. They slid into the back seat. Caroline pulled away from their house.

“Are you guys seriously riding without music?” Farrah asked. Caroline and Amber looked at each other. “I don’t know how y’all do it. Put on something fun.”

Before Caroline could touch the radio, something screeched from next to Farrah as a death metal song blared from Felicity’s phone.

“Ugh, turn that shit off,” Farrah said.

“You said you wanted music,” Felicity said, laughing.

The twins fought over the phone, guttural growls from the lead singer providing an absurd soundtrack to the tussle.

“All right knock it off,” Amber said, swiping the phone and silencing the music.

“Hey,” Felicity whined.

“You don’t get this back until I know you two are gonna behave. If we’re going to buy that beer, we can’t just act like a bunch of little girls.”

“Oh, please,” Farrah said. “All you have to do is show Ted behind the counter a little skin and he’ll let you have the whole store.”

“For free,” Felicity added.

Amber looked at Caroline for backup. Caroline pulled the car back onto the wooded road.

“Well?” Amber asked.

“Well, what?”

Well, aren’t you gonna say something? Defend your best friend’s honor?”

Well, they do have a point,” Caroline said, barely containing her laughter.

Amber looked ahead and stuck out her lower lip stuck out in an expression of mock hurt.

“Fine,” she said. “Still not giving you bitches back your phone.”

“Hey, come on!” Felicity said. “Don’t be like that.”

Something shadowy slumped out into the road. Caroline kicked the brake pedal, pressing it all the way to the floor. The car lurched to a halt. Its headlights flooded the figure which had walked right out in front of them. It was a girl and Caroline recognized her.

“Marybeth,” she whispered, while her riding companions shouted over each other.

Marybeth turned away and staggered off to the woods on the other side of the road.

Before Caroline could even take a moment to evaluate what she hoped to do, she threw the car in park, unbuckled her seat belt and opened her door to get out.

“What are you doing?” Amber asked, her voice sharp with disapproval.

Caroline didn’t answer. She sprinted into the woods after Marybeth. After the girl that, as far as she knew, died over a week ago in a tragic fall off Sunset Cliffs.

One and Only, Chapter 1

I’m doing something a little different today. One of my current books in progress is called ONE AND ONLY. It’s a horror story with a strong romantic element at its core. Think RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD 3 or FRANKENHOOKER. My first book FLESH AND FIRE is about a guy who unintentionally brings his lover back from the dead. This project explores similar themes, but the main character’s actions are far more intentional (he’s an amateur necromancer) and they don’t yield the results he hopes for.

I’m posting the first chapter of ONE AND ONLY here. This afternoon on my Twitch channel, I will do a deep-dive into this chapter, breaking down my process sentence-by-sentence, and answering any questions you may have about the story, my currently available books, wrestling, or writing in general. Festivities start at 2 pm, central time.

After chatting with my friend J. David Osborne, I’ve been obsessing about the idea of early access to art (a common practice in video games, but very new in the world of fiction) and the growing interest in the meta-narrative behind creative content.

I’m a few chapters into this book. The goal is to post a new chapter each Monday and do a corresponding Twitch stream about each chapter. I hope you’ll join me.



“Nothing lasts forever, son,” Dad said and clapped me on the shoulder like he was imparting some great wisdom on a child, not a seventeen-year-old.

We were standing graveside. Marybeth’s casket had just been lowered into the earth. I could no longer see my reflection in its black surface. Everyone else was gone, even the preacher and the undertaker, even her parents and sisters. The sun felt warm on my back. It didn’t feel like the right day for a funeral. There should’ve been gray skies, some rain. This was the first funeral I’d gone to for someone who wasn’t an aging, ailing relative. Marybeth was my fucking girlfriend. Nature should have detected the storm inside me and taken its cue. She deserved something far more poetic than this. That is, if I didn’t know she’d be coming back on this very same night.

Nothing lasts forever, son, my dad’s words echoed in my mind.

“Yeah, we’ll just see about that,” I said.

I could feel him turning to gawk at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I said.

He kept staring at me. I could feel him trying to make sense of my words, trying to make sense of me. He never would. No one ever did. No one except for her.

I hadn’t spent the last week eating dog meat just to let her die.


“Is this seat taken?” MaryBeth asked that day at the diner.

Considering the sheer magnitude of how she would impact my life, you’d think her opening line would be something far less cliché, but what do you want? We were just kids. I looked up from my notes and steaming, black coffee and saw her standing over me. By far, the most stunning girl I’d ever seen, mainly because she was giving me attention. Girls mostly ignored me. I knew the score. Dorks like me only ever got rejected, humiliated, emasculated. Yet, here she was, all legs and golden hair and fuck-me blue eyes, asking if the seat across from me was taken.

I was at a diner called Katrina’s. I usually came here after school to study spells when I should’ve been studying trig.

When she looked down at my notes, which contained a crude sketch of the Tree of Life, I instinctively covered them.

“Why are you so afraid of letting people see who you are?”

Not what you like, who you are. I had to admit that was an even more compelling opening line and perhaps one more befitting of what we would become.

“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just … do you really want to sit with me?”

She made a funny face then. Her lips smirked, but her eyes told a different story. I thought she was sizing me up, seeing a challenge, wanting to take it on.

“Why else would I have asked?” she said.

“I dunno.”

She laughed. I laughed a little, too.

“So, can I?”

My gaze flicked to the empty booth across from me, as if some ghost were sitting there and would be offended if I let her slide in beside it. Then, I looked back up at her. She raised her eyebrows. They were the most interesting eyebrows I’d ever seen. Meticulously plucked. Darker than her hair.

“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

She smiled again, less a cool smirk this time. It was warm. It made me feel warm in my chest.


On the way home from the funeral, I looked out the window of my Dad’s Ford pickup. Most of the roads around us were densely wooded, broken only by old colonial homes and ranchers. Intersections reminded us that we didn’t really live out in the country. Strip malls and Walgreen’s pharmacies, and banks and fast-food joints awaited us at nearly every traffic light. I loathed those little glimpses of the real world. Those breaks in the landscape of my dreamland.

I fantasized about driving these roads again at night after all the shops went dark. I fantasized about forbidden magic and waking the dead.

We picked up little Sheila from the Warren place. Dad made me get out of the car with him, and I groaned but did it anyway, shuffling after him like I was much older than seventeen and suffering from a near-crippling case of arthritis.

But when the door opened, and little Sheila came running out, screaming my name and bypassing Dad to throw her arms around my waist, I felt myself smiling, felt my eyes brimming with tears that wouldn’t come during the funeral. I hugged my little sister back. Dad watched us embrace and smiled, too.

Mrs. Warren came out and he handed her a check and thanked her. I helped Sheila get buckled in her car seat, then entered the passenger door.

“I pick a card!” she yelped.

I grimaced.

“No, I’m not feeling up for it,” I said.

“Please, Mason? Please?”

Dad cocked an eyebrow at me. I sighed.

“Okay,” I said and produced my worn deck of cards from my coat pocket.

She chose a Jack of Clubs and I guessed it correctly. She beamed at me and asked how I knew. I told her I was a magician, but it wasn’t magic at all, really. Just a trick I learned from watching videos on YouTube. I’d never done any real magic, but I would. I was determined to try it that night. And it would be big and beautiful and terrible, and by the time it was all said and done, Marybeth and I would be together again.


“Have you ever tried any spells?” Marybeth asked me that day at the diner.

My cheeks got hot and I looked off to the side, out the window, into the near-empty parking lot.

“Oh, so you have?” she said. “I bet it’s something good. Tell me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

She giggled and took my hand across the table. “You can tell me.”

“I once tried astral projection.”

“And? What’s so embarrassing about that?”

“I did it so I could visit a girl I had a crush on. Like, at her house.”

She laughed, but it didn’t hurt. It didn’t seem mean.

“Tell me about her,” she said.

I told her about Caroline. A cheerleader. Way out of my league. Talked to me sometimes but only because she didn’t see me as a threat. Short, but full of huge energy. Single, but only interested in flings with guys who played on the sports teams.

“I know. So typical, right?” I said.

“If she’s hot, she’s hot. Do you still like her?”

“No. That was freshman year. It wasn’t meant to be. I made peace with that a long time ago. Besides, she’s not very smart.”

“Why not? Because she didn’t know such a nice boy like you was crushing on her?”

“No, nothing like that, but come on. Stupidity’s a big turnoff, right?”

She laughed again and it was like a classical suite played by the reincarnation of Mozart.

“Yes,” she said. “I would say that stupidity is a huge turnoff. Thankfully, you seem pretty bright.”

Her eyes twinkled like Christmas lights.

“Thankfully?” I asked.


When I got home with Dad and Sheila, I went to my room, but I could hardly sit still, let alone sleep. I took out my notes and books on magic, studying the spell I intended to cast that night. Dad knocked on the door, and I stuffed everything under my blanket, taking out my trig book and school notebook.

“Come in,” I said.

He opened the door and looked me over.

“You don’t have to study,” he said. “You’ve had a tough day.”

I fumbled for something to say.

“Want to play some video games with Sheila and me?”

“Maybe later,” I said, forcing a smile.

He sighed and looked at his shoes. When he looked at me again, he wore a grimace, like he’d just taken a pull of strong whiskey.

“You know, it’s okay to cry,” he said. “It’s not … un-manly or anything.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“If you need to … if you need anything, just let me know.”

I looked down at my trig book and all the sigils I’d drawn in the margins.

“I think I need to study,” I said. “It will help take my mind off things.”

He straightened and looked me over again. I wondered what he was looking for. Some tell I was lying? I really needed him to leave but lacked the heart to say it. He gave me a curt nod and granted my wish. I stuffed my trig book back in my backpack and took my spell book and notes from under the blanket.

I began reading again from the beginning. I could leave no margin for error.


“How do I know you didn’t use some kind of love magic on me?” Marybeth asked with a devious glint in her eyes.

We had just finished making love and were sitting on the roof outside my bedroom window. She had her head in my lap. My head was in the clouds. I was sure it was she, not I, who’d cast a spell. I’d never properly been with a girl before. In the moments it lasted, all the noise in my head—the voices who said I wasn’t good enough, the images of my mother’s wasted figure in the hospital bed in those final days, memories from times I lay in the dark and begged to leave my body and see forbidden things—fell silent. Intangible things fell into place. We moved together with the rhythm of the universe. I was sure of it.

Perhaps we’d cast spells on each other, with each stroke of my hand across parts of her flesh, each kiss, bite, scratch, and rock of our hips, we came to own each other, because it was meant to be. We were divorced parts of a whole, finally reunited.

I’d closed my eyes when I climaxed but saw so much light. When we came apart, I’d felt so cold.

On the roof, I considered her words. How do I know

I guessed she didn’t. How could she? But maybe she needed some reassurance.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I said. “I’m not even sure I’d know how.”

She sat up and stared into my eyes.

“What if I died? Would you use necromancy to bring me back?”

“Yes,” I said, and kissed her before she could say anything else.


I tried to pry the padlocked cemetery gates apart wide enough for me to climb through. Their hinges groaned, but the gates hardly budged. I cursed and went to the wall beside it. If I got a running start, I could probably scale it. I looked around to make sure the houses on the nearby street were still dark and listened to be sure no cars were coming. I threw my backpack over the wall, backed up and ran and jumped. My arms found purchase on the top of the wall, but the momentum and my weight caused my elbows to skin on the surface. I winced but did not loosen my grip. It took tremendous effort to lift myself over the wall. I had to keep reminding myself that I was doing this for Marybeth. That she was worth it. That we’d be together again before the night was over.

I climbed over the top of the wall and jumped down, landing beside my bag. I took another look around and listened to ensure I was alone. Save for some crickets, I was the only one out here. I shouldered my backpack and went on.

I was afraid a flashlight would draw unwanted attention, so I had to rely on moonlight to guide me. All the headstones looked the same: gray buoys in a dark sea. I had to get close to each one to read the engraved names. When I found hers, I knelt in the freshly turned earth and pressed my forehead to the cool stone.

“Don’t worry, my love,” I said. “We’ll be together again soon.”


“Do you ever dream about flying?” Marybeth asked.

We were holding hands and standing on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. It was sunset, and a cool breeze raised gooseflesh on my arms. Or maybe it had been her question.

“Sure,” I said. “As a kid.”

We met each other’s gaze and I kissed her, but it was brief, and I got the impression she was somewhere else despite her corporeal form standing beside me, despite her hand in mine. She stared across the sea.

“The horizon always made me sad,” she said. “Like there’s something more, something beautiful, just out of sight.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Have I ever been?”

I imagined her releasing my hand and walking over the edge of the cliff, magenta fire rising in her wake.


I started at one in the morning, digging with my hands because it needed to be intimate. I made a circle in the dirt around the grave, yanking up clumps of grass and soil.

The panic didn’t start until I took the kerosene from my backpack. I’d stolen it from Dad’s garage. He’d miss it and probably blame me, ask if I was a pyro, setting woods on fire and that kind of shit. He had no idea. After pouring the liquid into the moat I dug, I sparked a utility lighter and lowered its flame to the combustible liquid. When the fire encircled me, my panic died. My heart thudded rapidly with anticipation.

I began to dig again. This time, I use a spade.

I worked through pain. Through exhaustion and panic. Through fire I had to reignite more than once. When I exposed the coffin, the moonlight shone in such a way that I saw my reflection in its lid. I took it as a good sign.

The lid fought hard to stay shut. I used a crowbar and pried so hard that I shed tears of exertion. When the lid finally broke open, I collapsed against the dirt, regaining my breath, one ragged inhalation after another. I made myself stand, closed my eyes, and took a slow, calm breath before looking upon her.

Marybeth, my love, was still perfectly preserved. It was still so soon after her burial.

No worms would taste her flesh.

I embraced her and lifted her out of the grave, positioned her like Christ, and I began to chant for her to wake, glancing down to her closed eyes, willing them to reopen.

Someone strong grabbed me by the back of my neck. Whoever it was, they pulled me out of the grave and flung me, over the fire, to my back. I looked up to see my father glaring down at me.

“Dad, I…”

“I don’t even want to imagine what you were doing.”

“Where’s Sheila?”

“She’s in the car.” I looked behind me. His car was idling in front of the cemetery gates. Right next to mine. His was a big, luxury SUV, mine a hooptie I’d bought for less than a grand. A grand I’d gotten with his help. “And you’re lucky she’s with me, otherwise I’d make you clean this mess up, even if it took until morning.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked, fighting back tears with every ounce of willpower that I had.

You’re going to get in your car and drive home. I’m going to follow you. Once we’re on the road, I’m telling the police I saw someone messing around up there. If you pull over or try to run from me, I’m calling them back and telling them it was you.”

“But Dad…”

“Get in the car now.”

I opened my mouth to protest. I felt hot all over. I wanted to kill him right then. Smack him over the head with the spade. Decapitate him while he was down and out.

But I’d already made a big enough mess of things.

Marybeth wasn’t coming back. She wasn’t coming back, because…

Because nothing lasts forever.

“Yes, sir,” I said, getting to my feet and following Dad out of the cemetery.


“Did you fuck him?” I asked Marybeth, the last time I saw her alive.

“No,” she said, looking down at the waves, splashing the base of the cliff.

The sun was nearly all the way down.

“Well, then maybe we can still…”

She shook her head.

“Why not? I forgive you. It was just a kiss.”

“Maybe I’m not ready to forgive myself.”

“Come on, that’s stupid.”

She met my gaze.

“So, I’m stupid now?”

“No, just … you hurt me, but I’m not mad at you, so you don’t need to be mad at yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” she said.

“Sounds like you think I’m stupid.”

“I don’t. We’re just seeing things differently and I don’t know.”

I tried to make sense of what was happening. I tried to make sense of how everything that had transpired between us previously could lead to such an unceremonious end. Things made sense when I was with her. She said things made sense when she was with me. If only I hadn’t started talking to Caroline again. Yeah, we were just friends and always would be, but it bothered Marybeth for some reason. Probably because she remembered my astral projection story. Instead of listening to her, I told her she was controlling. We had a big fight. Our only fight. We hung up on each other, and now here we were. At least she had the decency to tell me to my face.

I wanted to apologize and offer to take her home. Lick my wounds and move on. I really did. Honestly, I really did.

Instead, I tried to kiss her. She’d told me my kisses made her crazy.

Maybe they could change her mind. Work some magical spell.

She turned her face away, not giving me the chance to try.

And then I pushed her. Without so much as a second thought, I pushed her.

As she screamed on the way down, I feared I’d hear that scream for the rest of my life. The silence after her fall was even worse.

I fell to my knees at the cliff’s edge, but before any tears could fall, something shifted within me. A powerful notion inside urged me not to cry. Not to mourn. This was the best thing that could have ever happened to us.

It was an accident. Yes. I hadn’t pushed her. It was an accident. And then I’d bring her back, just like I’d told her I would do. I’d bring her back, and she’d have no choice but to give herself to me forever. She would be mine once again. For the first time in the near twenty-four hours since our fight, I felt hopeful for the future. Darkness had fallen upon the isolated cliff, but I was full of light.

Resolution # 1

As promised yesterday, I’ll be dedicating these next few posts to some things I hope to accomplish in 2021. First and foremost pertains to how I hope to maintain and build an audience for my books. My time on Twitter is minimal. Facebook is even less so.

Blogging daily is something I’m more than comfortable with. It helps me collect and develop my thoughts, and people seem to enjoy it. You can expect to see these every day going forward.

The next part of this is a little more of a stretch, but I think it can be something new and fun. Plus, I think it’s important to step out of our comfort zone from time to time in order to find new habits and activities that we may actually enjoy. I promised earlier that I will do a stream on my Twitch channel every Monday, and I intend to keep that promise. I have a variety of ideas for these streams that I think you all will get a kick out of.

So, that’s it for resolution # 1. Right now, I’m reading War of Jokes and Riddles, a Batman arc from a few years ago. I started watching a movie called Zombi Child last night. It was interesting, but my meds knocked me out early, and I had to hit pause. Hopefully, I’ll finish it tonight. Or maybe, given the holiday, Black Christmas is more appropriate.


Sick with a viral infection, so I called out of work. I’m a total wuss when it comes to illness. No respiratory issues, so I don’t think it’s COVID.

COVID does have a mutated strain, so I have read. That’s frightening and also exhausting.

I tried out my Twitch channel yesterday. Had fun, but definitely need to do more writerly things on there to set myself apart from all the gamers, but also to not be too writerly as to damn myself to a niche. Hoping to do a stream every Monday, so be sure to subscribe.

This is going to be a short one today, because I feel like crap, but I’ll leave you with this clip of “Macho Man” Randy Savage wrestling the Dynamite Kid. Two great workers of decades past, putting on a clinic.

Streets of Rage

If you haven’t seen the DEMONS films, I highly recommend doing so. The first one is the best, but DEMONS 2 and THE CHURCH also have some great highlights.

What I like about them is their apparent lack of structure and notable character arcs. They simply put interesting people in frightening situations and let the action play out. It’s not a bad model if you’re a writer who finds yourself bored to tears with blueprints like The Hero’s Journey or Save the Cat.

A good example of a book that employs this free structure is KILL FOR SATAN by Bryan Smith. Ryan Harding and I took a similar approach with our new book PANDEMONIUM, letting instincts and logic drive the narrative, rather than contriving a connotational psychodrama to show what our book is really about. Sometimes you just need to have fun. Cut loose and follow a natural progression, rather than attempt to manipulate the narrative. I think it worked out well.

One of the things we did in the novel that we didn’t see much of in the films we hoped to emulate was spill the action out into the streets. I understand why the movies didn’t do it. Every scene costs money in that business. When it comes to writing a book, your budget is limitless (not so much in publishing, but that’s probably another blog). We agreed that the action should spread from the primary location because that was something we’d always wanted to see more of in those old movies.

Also, I love old beat ’em ups like Sega’s STREETS OF RAGE. The fourth entry in that franchise came out this year and was a total godsend for me, who had just gotten back into gaming. While it lacks the splatter and demonic element of our book, STREETS OF RAGE 4 (and its predecessors) have an anarchic spirit that just works. It doesn’t have much in the way of story, because it doesn’t need much in the way of story. If you’re thinking about it too hard, you’re doing it wrong! I like to think PANDEMONIUM works in much the same way.

This is my roundabout way of saying a couple things.

First, if you are a writer, and you’re struggling with finding some heavier theme or subtextual underpinnings to your plot, maybe try scrapping those ideas altogether. Just let the action play out. Follow logic and instinct. If there is something weightier underneath everything, it will shine through without you ham-fisting it and insulting your reader’s intelligence.

Second, I’m officially launching my Twitch channel today! Join me at 2:00 pm, central time. I’ll be playing STREETS OF RAGE 4 and taking your questions about books, games, wrestling, Italian horror, collaborating with another author, and a whole lot else! While I intend to do a lot more than simple gaming with the channel in the future, I want to start with what’s familiar. So, come hang out with me this afternoon. You’ll be glad you did.