This is a collection of my older stories that I never assembled in a single place before.
I will add new ones from time to time, and each will be re-edited to improve readability but will be kept the same in terms of story and action. I will also b...
Back in 2012 when I started writing again, I mostly wrote fragments. I'd put down whatever scene I was inspired to write for whatever story I felt like adding to. Then I had a dream about finding a record. It was incredibly vivid. I held the battered cardboard jacket in my hands and looked over the cover with the winding drawing of filmstock and scenes from an animated movie in each frame. (The record in the dream was almost exactly as it appears in this story.) When I woke, I knew I would be writing something about it.
What emerged was this flawed story.
I say flawed because it is seriously anti-climactic, which can be understandably frustrating for readers. It also doesn't help that this is done in a literary style, putting characters in front of action. And once I become known for horror and speculative fiction, readers pick up on the classic horror trope that kicks this tale off: a mysterious and possibly haunted object being found. It was no wonder they were disappointed when it didn't become anything more than a vinyl record.
But the anti-climax at the end is there for a reason. And even if it doesn't resonate with all readers, it has great meaning for me.
From the age of fifteen to thirty, I had a dream of being an author. I wrote a pile of short stories and even several not-quite-complete novels (often with just the last chapter or two missing). Then, I gave it up and took a long break. Completing Kayla felt as though I'd broken a slump. Change the tides that had afflicted me for a decade and a half. I'd finished something!
But also, in that flawed, anticlimactic ending, I gave myself permission to leave my past behind. To leave those unfinished novels unfinished and forgotten. It gave me permission to start forging something new. As the character realized at the end, stories are forgotten about every day.
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Diane spotted the table as they drove by the yard sale. They'd been looking for an antique end table ever since they moved to the new house, and she was sure the one sitting on the lawn was perfect. Unfortunately, the rural route was thick with other weekenders, and Tom was forced to drive another half-mile to a gas station before he could turn around and head back.
As he was parking the car, Tom thought with amusement, great. Now we're antiquing.
Two years ago, he would never dream of playing house, taking drives in the country, and searching out antique furniture. But then he and Diane weren't just playing house.
Whatever their relationship was, it resonated with maturity and permanence.
It had moved quickly, and in only four months, Tom left his apartment to live with Diane at her condo. At the time, it seemed to be a decision based more on economy than on commitment. Although looking back, perhaps he hadn't wanted to admit how deep his feelings were.
