The Tapper

Every Monday, over the coming few weeks, I shall be posting short works of fiction here, and on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook.

Below is the second piece. Enjoy, and I'd love your feedback in the comments below, on my Facebook page, or on Twitter: @writerjbird.

The Tapper

The figurine sat before me upon my examination table, the illumination of the candles placed at either side flickering upon its face, weakly lighting that visage. The eyes of that crudely formed clay statuette contained some measure of sentient quality. That apparent consciousness beckoned to me, as though wishing to sate some primordial desire for attention that it had lacked for a great deal of time.

A tapping upon my elbow then came, disrupting the sanctity of my concentration. I brushed at that annoyance, seeking to push it away, yet was unable to contact the hand responsible for that interruption. Looking about I saw no one in the dimly lit room, the majority of which lay behind me.

Perhaps it was the maid my wife had hired. Why she felt we needed such a wench of shrewish quality was beyond the grasp of my comprehension. That slattern serving woman was always popping in and out of rooms, silent upon her feet so that none were aware of her presence. Annoyance began to grow and fester with in me as I supposed this was yet another instance of her unholy spectral movement.

My mind and attention were soon drawn back to the diminutive, earthenware figure I had been studying only moments earlier. I shifted it slightly, so that the light from my candles would succeed in dispelling the strange shadows that clung to the rest of the vaguely humanish form. Odd, as the greater portion of the little doll remained cloaked in shadow. I raised it to the nearer candle so that the glow of the flame would have no choice but to fully illuminate the figurine, yet, no improvement came. The shadows about that object in my hand retained their previous depth of darkness, causing within me an involuntary, unsettling shiver.

Once more came a tapping, this time atop my shoulder. I had heard no opening of the door at my back. Nor had I heard any footstep or other sound of motion that would have betrayed the existence of another entering my study.

The near certainty that I was alone wrestled with the insistence from my shoulder that someone had indeed tapped upon it. How both possibilities could be true was to my logical mind utter foolishness. Yet, the evidence for both existed. One had to be true and the other false, yes and no, right and wrong. It was a basic concept, soothing in its mathematical simplicity.

Repressing the building apprehension in my soul as best as I was mentally and physically able, I once again placed my eyes upon the rudimentary figure. By tilting it to varying angles, keeping it continuously in motion I was at last able to view a greater measure of its form. Though simple, the tiny clay person in my hands was a clear enough representation of a human female, anatomically correct in a crude fashion. Remains of what appeared to be an ancient silk robe, now sadly faded, resided in the more pronounced nooks and crannies of the figurine. Fragments of soil clung to those whispers of fabric, remnants of the grave from which I had excavated the doll. For the period in which I presumed it had been made, it was admirable, possibly even exquisite to any capable of seeing past its superficial imperfections.

A hard wrapping then came upon the back of my head, right at the base, where skull and spine unite. It was as though the knuckles of a child's fist had struck me in a similar fashion to how a small fist would knock upon a door. The sensation of each strike lingered in my head, slowly fading, emphasizing to me some as yet unknown point. What manner of person was this?

I turned, the shout for who could only be my wife freezing upon my lips as I surveyed the whole of the room. It was empty. Save for the usual clutter of my archeologist's collection of tools and other oddments related to my trade, there was nothing. No other person visibly occupied the room, yet the sense that I was not alone took a strong hold upon my heart. I slowly turned in a circle upon my heel, once more examining the entirety of my study chamber. Still, no other was to be seen.

What manner of entity was assaulting me? I was certain it was another person, yet the inability to catch sight of the guilty party was playing with ever growing force upon my nerves, as though it was a piano player reaching the crescendo of the piece he played.

The sound of movement came then, a soft whisper from behind me, almost a physical caress in its quality. I turned as quickly as I was able to catch the culprit before he or she could once more vanish. Again, no one was there. Not so much as a shadowed outline of a figure was present.

A breath then came from behind me. Had this fiend who plagued me been able to move so fast as to stay at my back? Clearly this one was fleet of foot if so capable of evading my eyes and mirroring my movements with such nimble ease. Once more I spun, an accusatory cry upon my lips, and once more I found my self visibly alone.

Warm breath then touched the back of my neck. A chill, inspired by that exhalation froze me in place. I was left fully unable to move, and my attempt at a whimper whined from between my lips in a most pathetic manner.

A child's ghostly words were then whispered in my ear,causing me to faint dead away as I heard them.

"Want me dolly back."

Jonathan Birdsall

A Gruesome End to a Child of Mother Nature

Warning: The following content may be disturbing to some, especially those of you who may be carnivores to show your support for the obscure yet conscientiously impassioned vegetable rights movement. Yes, actual vegetables sacrificed themselves to demonstrate the brutalities suffered by their kind around the world every day. I ask that you reflect upon the horrors suffered by plant beings deemed eatable by humanity, as you read on.

What follows is a perfect example of the thinking that I, Jonathan Birdsall, regularly experience that inspires associates to ask the question, "WTF is wrong with you?!"

Alas, poor little tomato. I'd like to express some measure of empathy for you as I too have gone under the knife. Sadly however, I am unable to do so, for you are about to meet the one who brings your doom. I am he.

You stand on the threshold of your demise, as I am poised over you, brandishing a glimmering stainless, steel blade, contemplating the best place for my first incision. Fear not however, fore you shall be followed by your tomato sibling, and your mutual friends, green pepper, onion, and the garlic clove triplets, hopefully to meld into one despicably tasty sauce.

You may dislike the addition of the garlic sisters, as they possess rather pungent personalities. However, I believe they are necessary as they have the ability to ward off evil. I fear that your tomato soul may seek to return to gain some measure of vengeance upon my earthly person, thus I require their protection.

It would be best for you to close your imaginary eyes as the serrated edge of the knife looms over your tender, red flesh. Worry not my little friend. You shall be reduced to a mass of sticky cubes momentarily. I know it seems heartless to dismember one such as you, but alas, the primordial desire harbored within my stomach and soul for pasta exceeds any and all hopes or dreams you may have once held for the future.

As the teeth of the knife part your skin, methodically sawing through your flesh, think of your descendents, little Toby, Tommy and Timmy. Though they are green to the ways of the world now, they shall some day ripen, and blush with a deep red hew, so that they too may experience the initial joys and eventual doom of the produce isle. I ask you to seek comfort in knowing that you shall not be around to witness the reduction of your offspring into mildly spiced salsa. Their silent screams shall not torment your soul as they are pulverized within the confines of the blender, as you shall presumably be gone from my freezer, if not this world entirely. Existence is so fleeting, and you best cherish it in your final dying moments whilst I separate your flesh into smaller and smaller pieces.

As the final stroke comes, I ask that you pardon me fore I am no Texas Chainsaw Tomato killer. I am merely a hungry bachelor, seeking to sate the famished belly that cries so mournfully for the silencing of its growls. Please do not think me sadistic or cruel little tomato. You are simply a means to a delicious end.

May your memory be ever celebrated by the hauntingly sadistic cry of, "Bon appetit!"

Your Thoughts:

As always you are welcome to leave your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!

The Devil is in the Dialog Details

An important part of character development is dialog. The things your characters say, and the actions they use while speaking can say a lot about their personalities.

Think of someone you know who is say rather bubbly and energetic, and how they word things, how long their sentences typically are, the gestures and other actions they use, etc. Now think of someone else you know, who's rather flat, calm, doesn't get overly excited and maybe even is fairly boring. Those speech mannerisms make those two individuals stand out as unique human beings, and in my less than humble opinion, such qualities are extremely important to portray in your stories.

Personality isn't all that matters however when it comes to the dialog of your characters. Time period, setting, age of the character, the culture from which they come, other languages they may speak and numerous other factors go into the speech mannerisms of a person in your story. All of this contributes to the overall feel and quality of your tale.

Recently, I read a book, whose title and author I shall omit, as I dislike negative reviews and believe in constructive positivity when specifically mentioning other writers' works. This particular book followed a group of World War II rebels fighting the German army in their homeland. Now, the overall quality was quite enjoyable, with a lot of action and suspense, however the dialog used was not at all suited to the characters of the book, nor their time period. That for me seriously decreased the believability of the story.

For example, the rebels would often shout things like, "Don't die man! don't die!" Or, "Hold on, help is Fing coming, just hold on!" Those lines to me sound more like something from a cheesy action flick from the 1990's rather than anything realistic to the 1940's or the region in Europe where this particular tale took place.

Further getting under my crotchety reader's skin was the main British character in the book who used stereotypical English idioms that I don't believe I've ever heard anyone from the UK say. I'm of course referring to phrases such as, "jolly chap," "eh what what," and "tally-ho old boy."

An obvious question here is, "why does this matter, especially in far fetched books like fantasy or horror?" Simple, every book and every story should have a certain amount of realism and believability. One of the ways to achieve this is through the things your characters say and do. For instance, a medieval knight would probably not use modern day curses, like the F-bomb, nor would a gang banger use words like, "thou." By carefully crafting the things your characters would do and say, you are giving the entire tale some consistency, which enhances how believable and authentic it feels.

A great example of this is a little book called, "K-PAX," by Jene Brewer. It covers a psychiatrist, Dr. Brewer, who is treating a patient in a psychiatric hospital. This patient claims to be an extra-terrestrial from a planet called K-PAX.

There are numerous scenes between these two characters, where the doctor talks in a rather dry, professional style of speech and tone. Prot, the alien man speaks with a much brighter, usually cheery manner and punctuates his words with common 1990's American idioms, as though he were indeed from another planet and was experimenting with the stereotypical slang of standard human culture.

The idea of this book sounds a bit out there. However through this careful dialog you gain a lot of insight into these two characters' personalities. The doctor is intellectual and maintaining a professional manner, while Prot is exploring the complexities and intricacies of American English. All that combined enhances the authentic feel of the book and makes it far more believable, even if the base premiss itself is unusual.

How I Construct Dialog:

Crafting fitting dialog can be tricky, but I'll give you a couple examples of ways I like to do it, which very much simplify things.

First, I look at details such as time period, personality etc. What sort of phrases and idioms may have been used in the time and place the story occurs? If I have trouble with this, I can always watch Youtube videos or old television shows relatable to my story, or do some googling to find appropriate expressions, which may not make the speech perfect, but which will definitely enhance the affect for which I am looking.

Secondly, a little exercise I learned is to imagine I'm the characters speaking to one another. It's best to only use two, conversing with each other, so as to keep things simpler. By going into brain storm mode and turning off the analytical part of my mind, I write out a conversation between these two individuals about any random topic. By focusing on the unique personalities of the characters in question I can crank out surprising amounts of natural sounding dialog. Sometimes I might even be able to take snippets of those discussions and insert them into scenes, but at the very least I can use this exorcise to develop a clearer idea of how each of those characters talk. It's actually quite an amusing yet helpful and constructive exorcise.

Your Thoughts:

Do you find dialog makes or breaks a book? I'd love to know.

You can leave a comment below, or get me on my Facebook page, Author Jonathan Birdsall Facebook, or on my twitter page, Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

The Heinous Measure is still available in this issue of Innersins Magazine, so check it out if you haven't already.

I post Mondays, my favorite day of the week, so check back Monday next for another installation of my genius. Until then my charming readers.

The Greatness of Random Inspiration

Special Announcement:

The Heinous Measure is now available for free in issue 23 of Innersins Magazine.

Description: Sometimes proving your ability as a disabled person requires acts of great evil, and you must face a grim reality in realizing that equality.

Innersins Issue 23

The Glory of Random Ideas:

The Heinous Measure is a perfect example of one of those random ideas that seemed stupid, and that popped into my head in the middle of the night a few months ago. I used to just dismiss such as I didn't see the value in them, but now I make a point of writing them down. As in my tale I promote above, they can turn out to be great ideas even though they might seem silly at first and if fleshed out can result in a nice, shiny, published piece for others to enjoy.

Where my random ideas like this come from I have no clue. I will say though there are three usual times they prefer to pop into my head. These are of course, when I wake up in the middle of the night, especially after a weird or bad dream, in the shower, or during my first cup of coffee for the day. If an idea is good enough I have been known to speed to my laptop to write it down, momentarily pushing aside what ever I was doing when inspiration touched me. Yes, that includes during the middle of toweling dry from a shower. That mental image is free, and hopefully you're welcome. It was most definitely my pleasure.

The funny thing is, these thoughts that just hit me out of no where in my opinion at least, seem to be the better ideas. I spent over a month writing another short story entitled, "Choice of Sins," which was based on a carefully formulated plan, surrounding a subject about which I'd long wanted to write a story, the urban legends of the black-eyed children. The Heinous Measure on the other hand, as I've stated was based purely off an idea that hit me one night, seemingly out of nowhere, and I combined that with a loose description of an incident that happened to me in the hospital when I was losing my sight. I assure you, the part to which I refer, that did, to some extent, kind of happen, is the paranormal part of this tale, and not the more evil part. I will not get too specific here as I abhor spoilers and would rather you discover the dark joys in my new piece for yourself.

My point is, I have yet to find a publisher for what I still feel is a great story, "Choice of Sins," while on the other hand, what was a random thought in the middle of the night when I was getting up for a drink of water, is what got published. This taught me that maybe those silly little ideas weren't so ridiculous after all and that I should at least respect them for their potential value, if not give them greater weight and appreciation.

Your Thoughts:

What do you do with those little sparks of inspiration you yourself receive? I'd love to know.

Hit me up on Facebook: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on Twitter: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird) or by leaving a comment below.

I look forward to seeing you, and expounding a further measure of my brilliance next monday. Cheers my good readers.