Anatomy of a novel

What does a novel on an author’s laptop look like? A lot of readers probably picture a single MS Word file with the title of the novel for its name. But here’s some screenshots from my computer showing you the contents of folders I set up specifically for my latest book, Evelyn dear Fender. Its working title was Entwined. As it turned out, however, there were close to two dozen books on Amazon with the title, Entwined, and most of them looked something like:


So… anyway…

I’m guessing that more effort goes into the building and maintaining such a physique than what went into the writing of War and Peace. Fender Spigot’s (the lover-boy in Evelyn dear Fender) body may not be cover material, but his poetic eloquence will charm the pants off any warm blooded female creature.

Look at me, going on about hand size… way off topic. Reset. I have no idea how this compares to other author’s novel projects, but here is the anatomy of one of mine. :)(:




Close encounter of the fourth kind.

A true story.

In the late fall of 1980, I was living in a little, old farm house, at the top of the only hill in the county—perhaps the only hill within a fifty-mile radius. This was farm country. Or rather mega-industrial farm country—flat as the ocean, with fields of corn and soy beans stretching on for as far as the eye can see—and no trees, to speak of, blocking the view of the never ending corn fields. But I’m talking about late fall here. The corn and soy beans are gone, plowed under, leaving only the bleak, black soil beneath the biggest sky in the world. It was huge, and the old farm house was but a tiny, remote speck below it—the perfect location for the unlikely.

I was working for Big Star Construction Company in Herscher, Illinois, ten miles away. I’d get up and ready for work well before my wife climbed out of bed. At 5:30 in the morning, there was not the first hint that the sun would ever rise again. The house was dark and quiet, except for the bright, overhead light in the center of the kitchen ceiling. This was a typical farm-house kitchen. Big. Designed for eating in, and square dancing too, I guess.

I sat down with my bowl of cereal, facing a set of stairs, which led up to the bedrooms where my wife and my baby daughter were sleeping. Off to my left: cabinets and counter-top stretched along the west wall, the kitchen sink in the middle, and above that, a large window looking out over empty, black fields—nothing was visible out there that morning, as was typical. But as I raised my spoon to my lips, I caught, in my peripheral vision, a large glowing object rising from the backyard. I swung around to my left. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, each and every one of them as freaked out as I was. I saw something, just a moment before. I saw a large, well-lit object rise up from below the window sill. But when I turned, I saw nothing, only black.

I was so completely spooked. I sat there at the table at the opposite side of the room, staring toward the window above the kitchen sink, wondering if whatever it was I saw was now on its way to Zukulia. Hoping it was.

No… I told myself, I didn’t see anything.

I went back to eating my breakfast. No more than a few moments passed when it happened again. A glowing object rose up past the window sill and then dropped below it.

All those little hairs on the back of my neck, like stiff, little, Nazi soldiers, were back on their feet, saluting the west. Of course, when I turned, nothing was there. But I knew I saw something, and everything about it defied logic.

I got up, approached the window, and stared out toward the blackness of a cold October morning.

And then it happened.

The wind caught the bottom edge of the storm window and pulled it, a few inches, away from the house. The reflection of kitchen rose, and then dropped as the window settled back into place. It was one of those old-style storm windows; the kind that hinge at the top, and fasten at the bottom with a hook and eye, which in this case had come loose.

Three months later, I went to the doctor for a routine checkup and was told I had a kidney missing. It had somehow been removed without leaving the slightest scar.

(All true—except for that last paragraph.)



English/Methanian/Barnyardian Translation (for Evelyn dear Fender)

Language is a method of communication, either spoken or written, consisting of the use of words in an agreed upon structure.

A group of scholarly Englishmen once got together and agreed that a fury little creature that wags its tail and goes “arf, arf!” is a dog. “From henceforth,” one of the esteemed Englishmen had said, “everyone must call this critter a dog.”

A group of scholarly Frenchmen wrongly agreed that a dog should be called a “chien.” Not even close! A chien, as we all know, is that bony structure below our mouths. And here England and France, while right next door to one another, could not agree on a clear and simple word such as dog.

On the planet, Bufadu, everyone happily speaks the same language, which they call “language.” There has never been but one, or so the people of Fraidland have always assumed. They also assumed they were the only people on the planet, just as the people living on the mythological continent of Methania, on the opposite side of Bufadu, believed.

Like Britain and France, two unique languages evolved on the two oblivious land masses of Bufadu. But by some outrageous chance, the two continents came up with precisely the same vocabulary, the exact same set of words. However, a group of scholarly Methanians once got together and agreed that a wooden vessel that floats upon water should be called a “town.” So, what became of the word, “boat?” Boat, as defined in the Methanian dictionary is: a greater or additional amount or degree. What we here on Earth might refer to as “more.”

When creating Fender’s language (Methanian) I swapped words based upon their length (rhythm and aesthetics), with little or no regard to their meaning. I figured the concept was already bordering on too complicated. Taking meaning into account added unnecessary complications.

I had to create a dictionary with two sets of translations, based on who is speaking. Fender sees a boat; he says, “town.” When Evelyn says the word, boat, Fender hears, “more.”

When Fender sees a face, he says, “wind.” When Evelyn uses the word, face, Fender hears “high.” Face means: of great vertical extent… or what Evelyn might refer to as “high.”

Can you see the logic behind my using two different translations for the same word? If you are one of those who require congruency and order in your gibberish, I am providing you the use of my translator. CLICK HERE: alien dictionary

Take another little piece of my heart now, baby…

All five of my completed novels are now available in eBook and print editions. Earlier this year, I published Kindle versions of The Other Mr. Bax, The Father, and Evelyn dear Fender. And just this last week (the last week of July 2016) I published the print editions of those three novels. Does it sound like I’ve been whipping them out left and right? Bang! Bang! Bang!

No, these books represent twelve solid years of work for me. I started writing The Other Mr. Bax in September of 1999, The Father was started in 2009, and Evelyn dear Fender got its opening paragraph in 2012. None were really finished until 2016. My other two (the John and Tess novels) were squeezed in during breaks (2 ½ years for The Sun, the Moon, and Maybe the Trains, and 1 ½ for All the Butterflies in the World, which was actually the last book I wrote).

So, here it is, twelve years of my life... a piece of my heart.

These three little narcissists were born to be read.

One Word

(Prologue, from the novel, The Father)

When Jack and Oliver were young, and each was struggling to understand the sudden absence of their mother, the father found himself, for the first time ever, uncertain. Oliver was not yet two. He could speak, if only enough to convey his wishes, and appeared to understand simple directions and certain basic concepts—yes, no, up, down, in, out, here, gone—but did not seem to grasp the fact that his mother no longer existed. Jack, exactly one year older, was quick to learn he was not to ask about her; he’d had it explained to him, from this angle and that, in a language so simple he could not have misunderstood. He stopped asking, but continued behaving as though he expected her to reappear, as if his mother had just stepped out for a few minutes—gone to the store, the post office, or somewhere.

Down the hall from the boys’ bedrooms, the father leaned over the edge of his prized, mahogany desk, editing a fifth-grade, social studies textbook. The annoying mutters and squawks of a childish disagreement flitted in and out of his awareness like two drunken fruit flies. He cocked his head, squinted, tried, but could not make out the gist of the argument, and was tempted to ignore it. But then Oliver appeared in the doorway mumbling and sniffling, his lower lip, which was usually tucked up under its thin upper mate, was now protruding beyond it, quivering along with his dimpled chin. He took a step back as his father’s glossy dark eyes lifted from his work and locked onto his.

The father pressed a hand to his forehead. “Why is this so…?” His chest and shoulders collapsed with a huff. Could it be, he wondered, there’s something wrong with the boys? Were they somehow infected by their mother? He closed his eyes and, as a low, nearly inaudible moan left his throat, shook his head. He had work to do, another deadline to meet. His two boys, however, were eating up nearly all his time. Oliver was excessively whiny. Jack seemed always distracted, always messing with things he shouldn’t—dangerously curious. And why, after laying it out so thoroughly and clearly, are they not getting it?

Nearing wit’s end, the father strapped the boys into their car seats and headed for the local library in search of answers. He led them to the library’s nursery, found an appropriate book for each, and then assured them they would not be there long.

“Jack, listen to me. You are not to leave this room.” He threw a glance toward the young attendant whose job was keeping watch over the children in the room. “And do not let Oliver out of your sight. When I am done here, we’ll go to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal, all right?”

Jack gripped Oliver’s hand a little tighter. He looked up at his father and nodded.

The father searched among a section of books on child psychology until he found a title that hinted at relevance: Kids and Loss by Dr. David L. Spock. He slid the book off the shelf, opened it to a random page, and read, “Openness is perhaps the single most important tool for regaining and maintaining a child’s trust in the event of—” Tools? he thought. They’re kids, not cars! He slammed the book shut and selected another, reading first what he could find about the author, skipping past several chapters, scanning a few paragraphs, concluding it was mostly worthless conjecture, then shoving it back onto the shelf—and on to the next. Rubbish, he thought, just a bunch of educated shysters with thesauruses. This is why we have lying politicians, crowded prisons, and homosexuals running amuck. He slid another book from the shelf, opened it to a page toward the middle, and read, “If you were to choose one word, a word that best sums up who you are, what would that word be?”

One word? The father rolled his eyes. Who writes this crap?

He stepped from the door of the library, carrying Oliver with one hand, holding Jack’s with the other, no books, thinking, one word, one wordNoble. And then, a little later, while standing in line at McDonald’s: One wordLoving. Loving? Compassionate. Yes, butone word

Paradoxically, during his first year of high school, Jack, when asked about his father, would sum him up this way: self-righteous, over-protective, manipulative, inflexible, and jealous. But that wasn’t all, there was something about his father he was never quite able to define. Perhaps because he was afraid to. But then this is the skewed opinion of a teenage boy. If one wanted an objective opinion—say, from an outside perspective… from Jack’s uncle, Lu?

“One word?” His uncle would likely have said, “Mysterious.”

It could certainly be said that the father, a handsome man of average height and build, was secretive—and one might add, aloof. Perhaps the most curious among his secrets was his name. “Father” is how the boys knew him. They’d nearly reached adolescence before discovering their father had a name that predated their existence. Of their mother, they knew even less. Jack and Oliver forgot about her, and eventually lost access to any and all memory of her. They of course knew they at one time had a mother. They didn’t talk about her, however, as their father clearly disapproved of the topic. They had no way of knowing if she was alive or dead, had not once seen a photo of her, and were never permitted her name. If either of the boys had a memory of their mother, it would have been Jack, being the older sibling, but he had none. The closest he could get was a memory from when he was four, and his mother wasn’t actually in it. It involved an incident which took place in the spring following the boys’ third and fourth birthday (coincidentally, both were born on the twenty-fifth of December, a year apart.) Jack remembered his father taking him and his little brother to the zoo, and he, walking alongside his father, his hand in his—Oliver, perched upon their father’s shoulders, grasping two tight fistfuls of dark brown hair.

“Look boys, over there in the shade.” Their father had pointed into a large open habitat. “What is that?”

“A horse,” Jack had responded.

“No, no, not a horse. Do you know, Oliver?”

“A pony.”

Jack would later recall the incident and remember his father laughing, but the picture in his mind seemed somehow unnatural, perhaps contrived, like one of the TV shows they would watch just before bed. His father did not laugh. “It’s a baby giraffe,” he had stated matter-of-factly. “See, it has a very long neck. That’s its mother standing over there.”

Jack said, “That’s its mother?” He surveyed the other spectators: kids being pushed in rented strollers, some, holding the hands of their parents, and others, curiously wandering about as though they belonged to no one. There were fathers, but mostly mothers—lots of mothers, which made him wonder. The question was there on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t ask. He already knew the answer. Well, not the answer, but an answer. Just behind a thin veil of uncertainty was an older memory, the reason he did not ask. In time, the veil and all that was hidden by it faded, leaving him with only a vague idea of something unpleasant. Over the years, that unpleasantness became a normal state of being like a low-level pain, which he grew used to—always there, but hardly noticeable.

No matter how hard he tried, Jack could not produce a memory of his mother. And though it wasn’t so much a fond memory, nor was it particularly unpleasant, the day at the zoo had, for whatever reason, stuck with him—it seemed to have always been there. If one were to ask him to share a fond memory, he would vacillate, searching his mind for something that might qualify. It would likely be more recent, from his teens—a make-do memory, perhaps a wee bit modified—and would probably include a certain girl. On the other hand, if one were to ask Oliver to share a memory, his fondest memory ever, he would not hesitate in replying, “The mountain of leaves.” He couldn’t say with any certainty when it was—perhaps the autumn of that same year, his third, or possibly the next—but it was the memory which most endeared his father to him.

The way Oliver told it, the father had raked up a huge pile of leaves in the back yard. He remembered it being a sunny day, though it actually wasn’t; there was a soft gray blanket of clouds stretching from one end of the sky to the other. It was flannel-shirt cool—not yet hat and glove weather. He remembered being lifted by his father, tossed high into the air, then landing with a splash of leaves flying up around him—as gentle as a mountain of down filled pillows—laughing, loving it—a smile in his father’s eyes—Jack’s turn, then his again.

Was it really that way? It’s how he remembered it.

Curiously, Jack could not recall the mountain of leaves. He could get close, however. He remembered an incident from earlier in the summer of that same year; though it would not rank among his favorites. It, like the zoo memory, was one of the few memories from his childhood that remained accessible.

As he recalled, the day was sunny—and it was. He and Oliver were in the backyard playing on the swing set their father had erected for them just a few weeks before. Jack was pumping himself higher and higher, intent on breaking a world record. Has anyone ever jumped from as high as this before? He turned to his brother as he worked himself higher yet.

“How high can you jump?”

“A hundred feet,” Oliver replied.

“No you can’t.”

“Uh huh.”

“Bet you a hundred dollars you can’t jump this high.” Jack stopped pumping, and readied himself for the right moment. He leapt from the seat of his swing, gracefully sailing through the air, his back arched; then, landing on his feet, he collapsed to his knees. He stood, brushed the grass and dirt from his knees, and looked up. His brother was still pumping. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” With an impending sense of liability, Jack watched as his little brother left the seat of his swing—his arms flaying about, like a baby robin on its first flight, then down he came, his bare heels hitting the ground, toes pointing up—thump—butt and back to the ground. A dream-like quiet enveloped the moment.

“Are you all right?” Jack said.

Two seconds later, Oliver was grimacing and moaning.

“You all right, Oliver?”

Jack’s little brother squeezed his bright, hazel eyes shut and groaned.

“Oh, you’re bleeding.”

Oliver’s eyelids flew open. He brought his fingers to his lips, pulled them away, and gazed at them as though searching for the logic behind that brilliant-red, silky liquid being where it shouldn’t. He scrambled to his feet and tore off for the backdoor of the house, working himself up from a whimper to a wail along the way.

Stunned, Jack stood there watching while searching for a connection between the facts and his possible guilt. But then, realizing his hesitation could be misperceived as a confession, he tore off after his brother.

“Wait! Wait! Wait, Oliver!” But it was too late.

“How did this happen?” His father had Oliver by the wrist, dragging him toward the bathroom.

“We were just jumping from the swings,” his youngest cried.

“Jack! Get in here! Now!”

As Jack scrambled into the bathroom, his father was dabbing at Oliver’s mouth with a white, wet, blood-dappled wash cloth. “You think I have time for this? You think I just sit around all day waiting for a chance to administer first-aid to my children?” He turned to Jack. “This reeks of competition. Did you challenge your brother?”

Uncertain of his father’s meaning, and too terrified to ask, Jack searched for a way around the question. At the moment, it seemed that denial was the safest stance to take. “No, Father.”

His father stopped what he was doing and glared at him. He then turned back to Jack’s younger brother. “Oliver, were you and Jack having a contest?”

“No, Father, he just bet me I couldn’t jump as high as him, is all.”

The father unbuckled his belt and, with a few impatient jerks, freed it from the loops surrounding his waist. “You little liar.” He folded the belt, gripping the two ends with one hand and Jack’s skinny little arm with the other. Slap! “You know better”—slap!“than to lie to me”—slap!—“ever! You don’t lie to anyone”—slap!—“especially me! You understand that?”

That night, after the father had tucked Oliver into bed, he came and sat at the edge of Jack’s bed, brushed a tuft of walnut-brown hair away from the boy’s deep-set eyes, bent down, kissed him on the forehead, and said, “You know I punish you because I care about you. I want you to be a good boy. Have I ever punished you for being good?”

Jack shook his head.

“No. You have to learn to be a good boy so you can grow up and be a good man. Otherwise you’ll end up having to go live with your Uncle Lu. It’d be too late for you to be good then. Uncle Lu would punish you regardless of whether you’re good or bad.” He gave his boy a gentle pat and a smile—“You don’t want Uncle Lu to get you”—then reached down and pulled the blankets up to his chin. “Sleep tight now, son.”

Hours later, a noise crept into his sleep and woke him. Jack lifted his head from his pillow. He stared into the dark corners of his room and listened, but there was nothing to hear. He lay back down, pulled his blankets up over his shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut.

Evelyn dear Fender

(From chapter 17 – Evelyn meets Bobo while trying to enjoy her first sunset in no-man’s land.)

The sun is low off the bow, nearly touching the sea. Behind me, Armoon is up forty-five degrees from the horizon. Opbliss, I believe, will be appearing a little later. I kick back, make myself comfortable, and watch as the sun is absorbed by the sea. As it sinks and its light begins to fade, so does the breeze. Pinks, yellows, violets and greens, dance about on the water like blobs of paint on a dark, undulating canvas.

My god, here I am! Definitely an occasion for a toast.

I go below, fling open a cabinet door, dig through a mountain of canned artichokes, find the bottle of Blue Mountain at the back corner, pour myself a healthy shot, and then return above. Stepping up to the bow, I hold my glass straight out to the west, where a fingernail of pink marks the spot I last saw the sun.

“Methania,” I shout, “behold your discoverer!”

I take a sip—a bit more than I should’ve. It burns. I hold it, waiting for the fire to die, but it only grows in intensity. My eyes water. I swallow, then choke and cough as the flames spread up and down my insides.

“Not bad,” I whisper through a scorched gasp. “Not bad at all.”

It’s not so much because I made it this far that I want to honor myself tonight. No—making it this far?—anyone with a boat of any kind could’ve done this. I’m aware I still have the option of turning back, as I was seriously tempted to do this morning. I want to honor myself because I’m now dead certain I’m not turning back.

Holding my glass out at arm’s length, I say, “To Captain Kick-butt Hatfield!” then spin around at a noise behind me—whiskey sloshes from my glass. A dark creature, like a giant spider, skitters across the transom gunwale. I freeze. The thing leaps for the aft stay, swings from there to the main boom, then scrambles up the mast. It’s up there over my head, swinging its shoulders and little black head from side to side, barking.

“A monkey! Shit! A bloody monkey!” I wave a hand about and bark back, “Git! Scram! Get off my boat!” It then occurs to me the beast has no place to scram to. The stupid thing must’ve snuck onboard while I was docked to that dead tree last night. “Jimmy Frakkin’ Crust! Now what?”

It cusses me—a threatening string of chatter and short sharp barks.

Do I capture it and dump it overboard? How am I going to accomplish that? What if it bites? What if it’s poisonous… or diseased?

“Frackin’ crapola!”

I could shoot it. Yes, with the flare pistol. But suppose I hit it and it explodes into flames—and catches the boat on fire?

The smelly little beast chatters on, senselessly.

“This is my boat, buddy! You don’t cuss me on my boat!” I shake a finger at the monkey. “And you don’t touch my crackers!”

It quiets.

I cannot kill a monkey, but I will not have it in the cabin eating my food and making a mess. I slide by, keeping an eye on it, close the cabin door, then take a seat on the stern bench. What the crump am I going to do with that thing? Return it to its home? It would cost me two days’ time and two days’ rations. No, I’m not doing that. The stupid critter made a bad decision, for which I am in no way responsible.

eighteen little heads

Omega and I crept across the dimly lit room, then stood intrigued before the AVC. Its mantel, two meters long, held eighteen smiling little heads, some with shoulders and upper torsos, others had complete bodies—heads, feet, and everything in between. Several of the heads belonged to the same people, at different ages, as we would soon discover. Toward the right end of the mantel was a group of five, seated around a tiny table scattered with dishes and food: an old, white-haired woman, slightly hunched forward, a middle-aged man, with buzzed blond hair, holding a glass out above the table, a woman with hazel green eyes and short red hair, a boy perhaps my age, eleven, and a little girl, possibly seven or eight years old. All five had their eyes turned on Omega and me, and judging from the expressions on their faces, I could only assume they were happy to see us.

Omega raised her hand toward the head on the left end of the mantel. A man, who appeared to be in the final decade of his cycle, and the woman next to him, followed her hand with their eyes. Omega swiped her hand through the two heads.

“Hello,” the first head said.

We both jumped.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” the same head, that of the old man, said. “My name is Awkley.” The man smiled, blinked, and nodded.

Omega stared slack-jawed at the head. “Is it a book?” she whispered.

“Yes,” the head said.

“No, no, no,” one of the heads to the right of it said. I didn’t catch which one.

I glance from the first head to the next, a woman, apparently an older version of the red headed woman at the table. Without turning, I said, “They’re not real.”

“Well, obviously,” Omega said.

“How are you doing?” the second head said.

I leaned in close for a better look.

“Welcome to our house,” the old woman’s head added, “My name is Ketley. And you are?”


“Now that’s a pleasant name.”

Omega and I looked at each other.

“And you are?” The old woman smiled at Omega.

I turned back to the holo head and said, “Not ‘what’ … Z. My name is Z.”


“Yes, Z, and this is Omega.”

“Oh mega,” the third head, a man with unruly gray eyebrows and slightly pointy ears, said.

“What is your name?” Omega said.

“Murse,” the head said, smiling and raising its left brow independent of its right. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, have we?”

“How do you do that?” I said.

“This?” It raised its right brow and lowered its left.

“I mean talk. I mean, how do you … I mean, like real people talk?”

Omega shoved her hand into Murse’s head. “You’re just holograms.”

“And you are not?” the head to the right of Murse said. It was the head of a beautiful woman, whose age was impossible to determine – between thirty and forty would have been my guess. She had blond hair, like Omega had back then, in her youth, so light it was nearly white. I had to look hard to see she had eyelashes and eyebrows. Her eyes were so beautiful, I found it hard to move on.

“We’re real,” Omega said, “see?” She gave me a firm nudge.

“So you are,” the pretty head said.

Clunk! “No more real than we are, Em.” The man at the tiny table had set his glass down. A little of whatever was in it splashed out onto the table top. “See?” He gave the little girl sitting next to him a nudge.


“Awkley, you don’t need to kill the children to make your point,” the younger lady at the table said.

“You’re Ketley, right?” I said.

She turned to me with a puzzled look on her tiny face. “I used to be like that,” she said, “always forgetting names, sometimes seconds after being introduced. It’s all right, you’re young, don’t worry about it, you’ll learn. Yes, Ketley, a kettle version of Awkley The Awkward.”

“You used to live here?” Omega said.

Half the little heads spoke in unison. “We still do.” The other half were shaking their heads, no.

I gave a quick study of the various faces on the mantel and realized there were three each of Ketley and Awkley, and the young woman next to the young man at the far right end bore a striking resemblance to the little girl at the table, whereas the male at that end was an older version of the boy at the table. There were five other faces, three men and two women, who had watched, smiling steadily and blinking, but had, to this point, remained silent. I said, “Omega just wants to know if you’re a book about the people who lived here?”

“No,” the second of the five silent heads, a man of maybe thirty, with a large forehead, and a receding hairline, said, “we’re just visiting. Though I suppose we visit here a lot. I’m Vosraque, and this is my little Puddin’ Pie, Tum.”

“Oh, shut up, ass wipe!” Tum said. “You’re supposed to treat me like a lady, not some cheap dessert!” She turned from her mate to Omega. “Don’t be a fool. Don’t get linked to a man who describes you in edible terms. They do that to make up for their lack of sophistication.” She then turned to me and winked. “Vos Dear, would you just look at this. Isn’t he adorable?” Her dark eyebrows did a quick series of pushups. “Oooo, bumba, bumba.”

“Sweetie Tums, you’re making Awkley’s new guests uncomfortable.”

“Oh, Honey Buns,” she mocked. “Sugar Turd …” She crossed her eyes and pretended to choke. “I am about this close to puking!”

“Muffin Dear,” Vosraque croons, “they can’t see how close you mean. They can’t see your hands.”

“Muffin Dear?”

“Come on you two,” the male head, to the left of Vosraque said. “You’re going to leave them with the wrong impression.”

“What? That my mate has no class, no backbone, and you have no sense of humor?” Tum turned to me, then Omega, and back to me. She appeared puzzled. “Speaking of no sense of humor … What is with you two?”

a stray sheep

It of course sounded unlikely, perhaps even impossible, yet the boys’ father had always lived under a stringent rule of integrity. They had never had cause to doubt him, and being they were so strictly forbidden to go beyond ‘the locked door,’ they had no way of testing his word. What choice did they have, but to have faith and fear the cellar? Hadn’t they, after all, heard on numerous past occasions the curious noises in the night? Wasn’t it likely the noises came from below? From Uncle Lu?

Regardless of the weak bits of rationale he devised in support of his father’s account, Jack suffered from something which could only be interpreted as a doubt—the very thing his father had warned him against—the weakness, the flaw which could someday land him in that terrible void beneath the house—the very thing he struggled to believe in.


The days that followed passed without incident. Approaching the middle of summer, the days became warm and dry. The boys rode their bicycles down the sidewalk to a small, city park, not far from their house. They sat in the grass under a shade tree watching a man throwing a Frisbee to his dog.

“Do you remember father talking about Uncle Lu when we were little?”

“Yeah, I think,” Judas said.

“I don’t.” Jack’s eyes drifted down to the clover near his feet. “Well, maybe. But I don’t remember what he said about him. Do you?”

“I remember him once saying that he was crazy, and mean … and he cooked one of his own kids alive.”

“You do not.”

“It was a long time ago, but I remember.”

“Well, why isn’t he in jail then? That’s murder. Or in the crazy hospital?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was something else he said, but that’s what I remember.”

“And you believe it?”

“If that’s what father said, then yeah.”

“You don’t even know. You believe something you probably just imagined.”

“I don’t know. All I know is, we have a crazy uncle locked up in the cellar. I don’t plan on ever going down there. Do you?”

“But doesn’t it seem odd … I mean, the whole thing. Does father have him chained up or something? And how does he eat? You think father takes food down to him every day?”

“When we’re at school. And at night, when we’re asleep.”

“What about the time we went up north, that funeral? We were gone for—“

“It doesn’t matter! Father says he’s down there. I know he’s down there. Father would never lie.” Judas produced an impatient huff. “We shouldn’t even be talking about him.”

“What about Pucer? What’s that?”

Judas’s eyes jerked back over his shoulder for an instant, and then turned back to his brother. “I’d be very careful saying that if I was you.”

“Pucer Holflapper.” Jack said the name loud enough for the man with the dog to hear. The kids playing on a nearby set of swings might have heard, too, were they listening.

“Sheez, Jack,” Judas whispered, “you’re going to get us both killed. I’m serious.”

“All right, all right.” He looked at his brother and crossed his eyes. “What if I just whispered it? Pucer Dwain Holflapper.”

“Stop it.”

“Shit, Judas, you think he hears every little thing we say? Maybe we’d better not even think Pucer … Oops.” He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I said the P word again. When we get home, I’ll gargle with Liquid Plumber. That should fix it, don’t you think?”

Judas pushed himself up from the ground.

“Where’re you going?”

“Home.” He hopped on his bike, and started peddling away. “I don’t want to end up in the cellar with you.”

“But he really can’t hear us here.”

His brother said nothing more, just kept on going.

A few moments later, Jack got to his feet, walked his bike over to the swings and let it fall to the ground. He plopped down in the one and only unoccupied swing, pushed off, then started pumping himself higher and higher.


He turned toward the swing next to him and only then realized it was his neighbor, Lanny.

“You’re Jack, right?”

“Hi, yeah. I didn’t … I uh …”

“Wasn’t that your brother? Jim? Jake!”


She began dragging her feet, bringing herself to a stop. “Yeah.” She glanced toward his bicycle lying in the grass, and then at Jack as he swung past. “Don’t you think it’s a bit weird that we live next to each other … and we never talk?”

Jack dug his heels into the sand beneath the swing, slowing down, bringing himself to a stop. Without looking at Lanny, he said, “It wasn’t me, you know? I don’t know why … well, I kinda do. My father didn’t like you guys.”

“You kinda do?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I guess it was all the cussing.”

“Well, fuck that shit.”

Jack turned. Lanny gave him a smile. “Yeah,” he said, “fuck that shit.”

“I remember your dad used to be kind of mean to you guys.”

He turned. “What?”

“I don’t mean, mean, but I guess … strict, you know?”

Jack swayed from side to side in his swing. “Really?”

“Stricter than most dads.”

He’d tried, in the past, comparing his father to others, but had never arrived at anything conclusive. His opinions kept shifting as his father seemed to shift. “He’s all right, as long as you aren’t bad.” He stopped swaying and kicked at the grass bordering the sand below him.

“Maybe that’s the same as any dad,” she said.

“I’ve met a few I’d gladly trade for.” His eyes became briefly entangled with hers before he managed to pull them away.

“Remember when Frank and I had to apologize for cussing … out on the front porch? Remember?”

“Ohhh … yeah.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It doesn’t matter. That was a long time ago, and it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was stupid.”

She chuckled. “It was.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my father.”

“What’s he do?”

“What’s he do?

“Yeah. What’s he do for a living?”

“I’m not exactly sure.”

She gave him a curious look. “You don’t know what your dad does?”

“Well … he writes.”



“Story books?”

“No, books, like … I don’t know what kind they are.”

“Oh.” She became quiet, thoughtful, then, “How come you don’t go to the same school as everyone else?”

He searched for a safe, acceptable answer. “I don’t know.” But he did know.

“A friend of mine told me you’re special. I told her I didn’t think so, though.”


“You’re not, are you?”


“You don’t look like it … or talk like it.”


“Well, where do you go to school?”

“Academy for the Past.”

“Oooo… that place is scary.”

“I don’t think it’s scary. My father always said that public schools are scary. This is my last year there, though. The Academy doesn’t take kids past the seventh grade. I’ll have to go to public school then.”

“Is it true, they spank you if you don’t do your homework?”

“Yeah, I guess. But everyone does their homework. They don’t do that in public school?”

“You can sue them for it.”

“Do you like it?”

She turned and gave Jack a twisted face. “Being spanked?”

“No! The school.”

She snorted—“Just kidding.”—then laughed. “It’s OK, I guess. I like some of it, but not all of it. I hate history. I hate Mr. Sadler. Ugh!”

“Well, if I go to public school, maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Maybe you’ll be in my class,” she said. “How old are you?”


“Oh, I’m thirteen.  Just had my birthday last week. That means you’ll probably be in the grade behind me.” She gave him a fake frown, followed by a quick, fake smile. “But I might still see you there, anyway. Will you say hi if you see me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah. I’ll say hi too.”

Jack looked at his watch. “Crap! I gotta go.”

The father

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I went a wee, teeny, tiny bit overboard.”


“Shh!” A figure steps from the void, its identity largely hidden by the dark. “You’re thinking, Oh, oh, poor me. It was just a little—”


“Father?” the voice mocks. “Is there someone down here other than you and me?”

I … No.

“Well, I don’t feel like a father. Do I look like one?” It steps a little closer. Jack can just make out a pair of eyes, which look very much like his father’s, but the voice—not exactly a voice, but more like a vibration in the middle of his head. It varies, as though it’s coming from a variety of empty rooms. A voice, but not really a voice. A non-voice. “I know Pucer likes telling you, and that chicken-shit sibling of yours, that I’m your Uncle Lu. Maybe. But he exaggerates. You didn’t know that about your father, I know. He does … he exaggerates.” The eyes float up toward the ceiling, each one seemingly independent of the other, like a pair of tiny balloons.

You’re not Uncle Lu? Jack speaks, but his lips do not move.

“Oh, certainly. I didn’t mean to suggest your father is a liar. An exaggerator—not a liar.  For example, he makes me sound like a prick, as if I’m some kind of a bummer. I like to have fun on occasion, just like everyone else.”  The eyes drift farther and farther away, but the non-voice is still right there in the middle of his head. “Hey. What’s this I hear about you being naughty?”

I lied.


I’m sorry I lied.

“Are you?”

I am sorry.

“Oh, perfect! You’ve discovered the magic word. You’re free!”

Jack attempts to move his arms and legs, but can’t.

“Uh … Perhaps I spoke impulsively. I so hoped …”

I took the letters from Father’s desk. I’ll never disobey him again. I swear. I promise!

“Not working. You know what I suspect the problem is? It hurts me to have to say this, but, well, it’s just … too late.” The eyes suddenly appear at his side. Jack has the impression that Uncle Lu is seated there to his right, like a parent visiting a child’s bedside. “You see, Jack, my dear nephew, you made a choice. Your father, out of his boundless love for you … Boundless love. Isn’t that poetic? Boundless love. Boundless stupidity. Boundless boundlessness.

Anyway, the point is, he gave you the power to choose. You’re aware of that, I’m sure. You’ve always had that power—a choice—free will, if you prefer. You chose to disrespect your father with lies and stealing and fornication and worship of other fathers. You little snip snap, you. You little piece of shit. You were warned. You were warned because you were so dearly loved. And now I have you … forever … eternity. Do you know eternity, Jack?” The eyes vanish.

“Eternity is not the tummy ache of a week without pizza and donuts.” The non-voice seems to come from below now. “It’s not a month or a year of pissing all over yourself. No. It’s not a hundred, or a thousand, or a million, or a google-boogle zillion such years.” A piggish snort comes from below. “Google-boogle? What?” And then a snicker. “Did I say that? Can you imagine that?  I don’t think so.” The voice drifts even lower, as though it is slowly sinking into the floor. “Oh, but don’t you worry about it. You’ll get the hang of it in time. The pain, the agony … You’ll get used to that. Perhaps in a few trillion years, you’ll become bored with it all. And then you’ll have the rest of eternity to … hang out.”

I’m so sorry. Jack listens, pushing back every thought and every worry in his head to make room for a reply. Uncle Lu?

No answer. Just the dark.


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