Teaser Tuesday Excerpt (extreme language)

The latest rewritten opening to A Birthday Suicide. See what you think.

A Birthday Suicide
By Steven Michael Sarber

Part One
Choosing a Path
“I am a man who walks alone, and when I'm walking a dark road, at night, or strolling through the park...” -Iron Maiden; “Fear of the Dark”

ONE

So where do I begin? At the beginning, I guess. I was pretty much an average teenage boy. I had the usual interests, I had good friends, I had no money. Nothing in my life was exactly remarkable, yet nothing unremarkable, either. My friends and I didn't run in any particular social circles at school, we just hung out with anybody who wanted to hang out with us. At least until my junior year in high school.

That was the year I met Willis Jefferson.

Willis became my mentor, my boss, and my friend. To put it mildly, he changed the course of my life.

I was sixteen years old the summer of 1995. St. Louis summers are, simply put, hot and humid. One August afternoon I was playing guitar in a band at my friend Danny Johns' house, sweating so badly I could barely hold the pick in my hand. It was a sweltering ninety-eight degrees, and probably a hundred twenty in the garage where we were practicing. We didn't really care, just hanging out and jamming made us feel like we were on top of the world.

Danny's parents had a refrigerator in the garage stocked with Busch beer, and they didn't mind if we helped ourselves to a few cold brews on a hot day. At least they never seemed to notice any missing. So when we finished our practice we popped the top on a few beers, toasted ourselves, and began discussing ways to get some money.

I was splayed out on the well-worn love seat against the far wall of the garage and Danny was in a lawn chair tossing darts at the dartboard on the wall about four feet to the left of my head.

“You could miss and put out my eye,” I said. “Then I could sue your parents. I'll split the money with you.”

“Yeah,” he answered, aiming up his next throw. “But my parents don't have anything. Plus, you wouldn't like being called 'Patchy.'”

“How do you know? I could be like that dude on that soap opera. That patch gets him laid.”

“But you'd have no depth perception with only one eye. How would you be able to jerk off? You wouldn't be able to locate your tiny pecker!”

That sent us laughing hysterically, even at my expense. That's what was great about Danny, he could bust my chops and it never mattered.

Before long we got serious. “I've been dealing for a guy,” Danny said. “I'm pulling in some good money, man; I'll be buying a Monte Carlo tomorrow. I'm sure I can get you in on the gig.”

“But I don't even do drugs,” I said.

“That's what makes it perfect for you,” Danny punctuated this point with a bulls-eye. “If you don't use you get more profit.”

That made sense. “Fuck-a-duck... all right, set it up. I'll meet with the guy. “But what are we talking here?”

“Coke or pot. He doesn't deal in heroin. Occasionally a little Ecstasy.”

“So where's the best money?” I asked.

“Pot's pretty cheap, but everybody has it. So coke is the way to go. I can help you get set up, and we can partner up to keep from stepping on each other's toes.”

Mike Burne and Pete Van Allen, our drummer and singer, had been smoking a joint, giggling at our exchange. Mike stood and walked over to me, holding the roach pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Here, Dex. Get yourself some firsthand job experience.”

The skin on my fingers was calloused from holding down my guitar strings, so I didn't feel the sting as I inhaled from the roach, but I heard the skin sizzle as it singed. Two more drags and there was nothing left but a bit of charred paper.

I didn't feel anything. Not high, not goofy or giggly, nothing except a scratchy, dry throat. I started sucking down beer but it didn't help. The more I drank the thirstier I became.

“Hey, take it easy there, you fucking lush,” said Danny.

It wasn't even funny, but I just couldn't help myself. I laughed so hard I got a stitch in my side, and that just made it all the funnier.

I imagine that's how it begins for a lot of people... a little discomfort, a little laughter, and suddenly drugs are a part of your life. I didn't really care for pot, though. After smoking the roach I spent the rest of that afternoon searching to put coherent thoughts together, and felt as if I couldn't make complete sentences. I still can't figure out why anybody would want to intentionally make themselves stupid. But I won't preach. As you read my story you'll see I have no right to.

So who knew that Hugh Laurie (tv's "House") is also an author? In 1996 he released The Gun Seller, a comedy/crime thriller, and appearantly is coming out with Paper Soldiers. I'm actually interested to read one of his books. He is a brilliant man. And, for any enquiring minds, he really is playing the guitar and piano on the tv show. As a guitarist it has always bothered me to see someone "play" on tv and in movies when they have no idea what they are doing. I mean, it wouldn't be that hard to fake it properly. And these people get paid a lot of money to act well, so they should learn to mimic the proper guitar technique. So kudos to Hugh Laurie for being multi-talented, and damn good at it.

So Many Ideas, So Little Time

I have so many ideas floating through my head right now it's not even funny. Problem--they're distracting me from finishing the two novels I have going. The good point is that I want to keep writing the short stories so I can try to get some more publishing credits under my belt. Right now the only story I have published was an autobiographical essay titled The Path was Rocky, but Worth It, in "Voices of Alcoholism." I have submitted a short story to nine markets, with one rejection, eight still pending. It's a good story, so I'm very hopeful it will be in print soon.

Then I have a horror story with a new take on werewolves about 2/3 of the way finished. But I wonder if horror is really my niche at all. I mean, the first novel I wrote is more of crime drama, and the story I have submitted is a mainstream story chronicling the last moments of an elderly woman's life through her memories. I lean towards horror because it what I've always read, most movies I watch are horror, so I guess it's my comfort zone.

But does it being a main area of interest mean it is the best genre for me to write in? Probably not, but it's still where I feel comfortable. I just have problems with being too mean. I want to make my characters deep and likeable, so sometimes it's hard to do outrageous things to them.

Oh, well... I'll figure it out.

Ultra-Flash Fiction

I wrote this a couple of years ago as an assignment. The requirement was to write a story in exactly one-hundred words. This was what I came up with.

The Chase

Donald ran, pausing only once to look over his shoulder. Mordecai was ten yards back, huffing and puffing. Donald turned back ahead, and saw that the perp had gained some distance. He holstered his service pistol and tucked his head down. He closed in on the perp quickly, and tackled him like a linebacker. Both of them tumbled across the vacant gravel lot in front of the now empty bait shop. Donald's arms were cut and bleeding, but the perp looked much worse for the wear. Mordecai caught up, panting, and wheezing. "All this over a stolen pack of gum?"

Just Rambling

Well, my birthday was yesterday. Thirty-three years old now. But I don't feel a day over sixty. Anyone who has combed through the rest of this blog understands why I say that. For the benifit of any new readers, In 2007 I had a thoracotomy to remove scar tissue from my right lung. I crashed and spent three weeks in a coma. I had to have a surgical wound put in my back to promote good tissue growth, the cut a couple inches out of three ribs--right next to where I broke my back in '95. I also broke my neck in that accident. I have osteoperosis, severe asthma, eczema, chronic sinusitis, I've broken close to forty bones, ripped the tip off my right middle finger--in short, I'm falling apart.

But I'm a recovering alcoholic with three years, six months and nine days of sobriety. And compaired to all my ailments, that makes me a very joyful person.

That may be hard to believe, since I write horror, and suspense/thriller type stuff generally. But I'm really a nice guy, and moderately laid-back. I haven't killed anybody in over a week *wink*. Truth be told, I'm still learning to have patience. It doesn't come naturally for me, but for the most part I'm doing good. I lack patience with my son and his friends when they're being noisy and hyper, but I'm tryin, Ringo. I'm tryin real hard to be the shepherd. (Sorry, channeling Jules from Pulp Fiction there.)

Back when I was drinking I had no patience-- I was the ultimate asshole. It reminds me of a line from Robin Williams 1986 Live at the Metropolitan Opera House cassette I used to have: "I realized when I quit drinking, I'm the same asshole, I just have fewer dents in my car."

So here's to fewer dents in my car, and better relationships with my family and friends.

This Game is Tough!

The writing game is no game, really. Many of us, I'm sure, when we were younger, reading a good book, said; I can do this! It has to be the easiest job in the world! And for a precious few, it very well may be easy. But not for the majority of us. A friend just reminded me of a Hawthorne quote: Easy reading is damn hard writing. No arguments here.

You create this work from your mind, then you have to go and tear it apart and rewrite it, and rewrite it, and rewrite it, until it might not even resemble what you ever imagined it to be in the first place. I have started out with an idea for a horror story that ended up a drama piece, and with suspense that wound up more comedy.

I've learned that you have to be a receptacle for what the story wants to tell you, the writer. I'm learning to be open to suggestion from collegues. Now that's a tough one for me. I'm used to being able to stand on my own, with little outside help. Writing doesn't work that way. Not if you want to be successful. So take what you need from every story you read, from conversations you listen to while in line at the supermarket. Be a sponge for the advice of your friends and writers, because this is a tough game, and we need all the help we can get.

The Copse

The Copse

I look into this thicket of trees

I see squirrels, chipmunks, pine cones and bees

This whole little universe, in such a small space

And it was all put there by God's loving grace

Lush green grass, growing up down below

Then covered in leaves, then covered in snow

On warm sunny days the jackrabbits bounce

The sqirrels play, the chipmunks trounce

The butterflies flutter, the honeysuckle smells sweet

An old hollow log is a raccoon's retreat

As I watch this happen before my very eys

I realize it's our world, wears a disguise

They say men are animals, and that's a disgrace

The animals aren't uncivilized- only the human race.