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We’ll post news there, as well as here, as our plans progress.

Until then, on behalf of all the officers, volunteers and regulars,

Good luck with your writing, publishing & reading!

-Tina Jens

chairman of the board

You are a well respected author and have quite a following, does it get harder or easier to come up with ideas for your books?

Sharon: It’s not the coming up with ideas that’s the hard part, it’s the sitting down and actually writing the stories. I always say the best part of any novel-writing experience is the excitement you feel when the story really starts to come together in your head. But the writing can sometimes feel like drudgery…and THAT part never seems to get any easier, which I still find astonishing.

Does attending conventions like Capri-con give you any insight intro what the fans want or where you should your characters next?

Sharon: Mmmm, I wouldn’t say that meeting with fans gives me a clear idea of what to write next…I usually have so many ideas I’m considering at any one time that I don’t much look for input for an upcoming project. It DOES help me get a sense of what’s worked in the past and what hasn’t, which is one of the reasons I followed the same group of characters through the first four books of the Twelve Houses series. A lot of fans didn’t like the fact that different people were the stars of each of the Samaria books. So with the new series, I invented a storyline that could be stretched over multiple books and feature the same characters.
But, mostly, what meeting fans does for me is convince me I’m not alone, writing in the darkness. Someone has read the books and liked them. That’s a huge relief.

Any hints about what you’ll be reading for us? Once the word gets out that you’ll be doing a reading for us, your fans may want a preview.

Sharon: I keep trying to decide! So I’m bringing a selection and I’ll see if anyone in the audience has a preference. I’m thinking about either one long short story that’s very traditional but can be read in a little less than an hour. Or two shorter stories that have more modern settings and aren’t quite typical for me. Together they take a little over an hour to read, which might be too long. All three of those have been published in some format or another. I might also bring excerpts from upcoming novellas that have NOT been published yet…but they’re not self-contained and can’t be finished in an hour. So if anyone reading this has any strong preferences, speak up when I arrive at the tavern!

When wandering the local bookstore, what books do you find yourself being attracted to? Chain store, independent, or both?

Sharon: I’m usually wandering the sf/f aisles or the romance aisles, though sometimes I read mysteries and sometimes I read contemporary fiction. I tend to be at chain stores more often, because those are the ones in my immediate vicinity. For years I collected used-book stores…every time I was in a new city, particularly on a work trip that I didn’t want to be on, I would find a used-book store and browse. There’s just something marvelous about the smell and feel of old books. Now, since I know so many authors personally, I try to buy my books new to support them! But I’m never offended when people tell me they bought MY books used, because I’ve always enjoyed that experience so much myself.

Any advice you’ve ever been given that was so great or so wrong you’d like to share (no names necessary)?

Sharon: Ellen Kushner once gave me the best advice ever when I confessed I was really nervous about doing a reading. She said, first, imagine that when you do a reading, you’re inviting someone into your home. You want them to be comfortable and at ease…if you’re nervous, they’re nervous for you. Second, imagine that you’re — well, she specified a well-known, charismatic sf writer but I guess I won’t name names! But imagine you’re him, and every word you’ve ever written is pure gold. I must say, both of these bits of advice really worked well for me, and I pass them on whenever I get a chance.

Finally, anything else you’d like to tell us before your featured reading?

Sharon: Can’t think of anything else! Looking forward to being there next week.

We hope you’ll join us on Monday February 16th at Mystic Celt (3443 N. Southport) to hear Sharon’s fiction and perhaps more discussion!

The Christmas Tree
by Wally Cwik

The fifteen foot white pine, a silver star at its tip, stood untouched amidst the total destruction of the building — ceiling blown away, walls toppled outward like the petals of a macabre flower. Smells of smoldering wood mixed with a pine scent rose with wisps of smoke from the debris.
Firemen of the seventy-second battalion poked at the wreckage with their axes. The chief removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. “That tree is coming home with me. If it can survive such destruction, it’ll survive my four kids.”
#
Ten years ago a pine cone dropped on a loose mound of soil. The seed took root. Tendrils reached deep into the earth, downward toward the decaying corpse of a man — a murderer. Gnarled stems wrapped around the body soaking up its nutrients along with its soul.
#
The bluish-green of the white pine glowed in the hard light of the December afternoon sun. Connie raced up the small knoll, the crackle of dried leaves marked each footfall.
“C’mon, Andy. This is the one.”
Before he trudged up the hill, Andy inhaled the piney fragrance and exhaled a pleasurable ahhh. “It’s about time. We’ve been walking for three hours. Hope we’re not lost.”
“Quit your griping. Don’t you think this is the most perfect Christmas tree you ever laid eyes on?”
“If you say so.”
“You old stick-in-the-mud,” she said and pulled him down to the ground. They rolled in the carpet of leaves that clung to their knit sweaters like Velcro.
Andy cradled Connie at his side, her reddish-brown hair fanned out across his chest.
“I wish this day would never end.”
He squeezed her. “Me too. But. If we don’t get this tree cut down, we may be here forever.” He skootched under the over-hanging limb and started to saw the trunk close to the ground level.
“It’s weird how the oak and maple trees around this pine have been knocked down. Must’ve been lightning.” She playfully tugged at his leg.
“What‘d you say?”
“Never mind. Wasn’t important.”
“Here she comes,” he yelled as the ten foot tree fell to the ground.
They wrapped brown twine around the tree to protect its branches and started the trek home.
#
Canopied by the surrounding maples and oaks, the pine grew slowly in the first five years. At a height of three feet it was a pigmy surrounded by deciduous giants.
During a thunder storm, the pine realized its potential. The branches discharged energy from needle to needle like the nerve impulses shooting the synapses of a brain. A streak of lightning shot at a near-by tree. With a crack..crack, crack, crack the neighboring maples and oaks crumpled in a heap. When the smoke cleared, the symmetrical beauty of the solitary pine stood aglow against the night sky.

#
Andy dragged the tree across the slate tiled patio while Connie slid open the glass doors. In the family room, opposite the red brick fireplace, Andy attached a stand to the tree trunk.
“Alright, you push from one side while I pull from the other.”
The pine rose erect, teetered back and forth, coming to rest with its tip four feet over Andy’s head. He cut the twine, and the branches sprung outward forming a perfect cone.
“Owww,” screeched Andy. “I swear that branch struck out at me.”
“You poor baby,” she said leading him to the bathroom, while the pine greedily absorbed the blood beaded on its needles.
Later in the evening, ornament boxes lay strewn around the room. Connie hummed Hark the Herald Angels Sing along with the carol filling the room from the stereo speakers.
“Andy, move that red ball more to the right. You did a great job stringing the lights. Now the crowning touch.”
From the stepstool she reached to the top of the tree to position the silver star. As she stretched to adjust it, the top branch raked the back of her arm. “I’m as clumsy as you. Help me put a bandage on this arm. It hurts like hell.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” he mocked. The white pine digested the droplets of blood.
#
At five years the dwarf white pine snared its first squirrel in its trap-like branches. Pine needles pierced the rodent’s body. Blood trickled along the needles that ingested the sticky fluid. The tree branch bowed and discarded the drained carcass.
Over the years unwary birds, rabbits and raccoons fell prey to the tenaciousness of the white pine. With each casualty the pine grew stronger.
#
Connie and Andy heard a pop…pop, pop, pop echoing through the family room. They hurried back from the bathroom to see Christmas ornaments and lights explode in a machine gun staccato.
“What the hell is happening?”
“Unplug the tree lights, Andy?”
“They’re not plugged in.”
The couple inched toward the tree through shards of ornaments that littered the floor like the dried leaves of the forest.
Andy reached out and touched the tree limb. A spark of static electricity surged from the needles to his finger. He jerked back his hand, putting his finger in his mouth.
“What was that?”
“Don’t know. The tree must be grounded to an electrical outlet.”
“But it’s not near a wall or anything. Be careful.”
“Not to worry.”
Andy’s feet tangled in the unplugged light cord. He tripped and fell head first into the center of the branches. Pine needles punctured his face and arms; zapping static combined with shouts of pain; blood oozed from pin-prick wounds; steam rose from the vaporizing crimson drops.
Connie, at first paralyzed by the flailing body and metallic stench of burning blood, raced to him. She tried to grab his swinging feet, but could not get hold of his legs. His arm struck her nose dousing the evergreen with more blood.
She stumbled. Her legs entwined with Andy’s, and she crashed into the lethal branches. Her arms and face stung from the stabbing needles.
The two bodies thrashed in a demonic dance as the tree drained their life fluids. The wild gyrations eased to a stop, and the lifeless corpses catapulted to the far side of the room.
#
The star-topped tip of the white pine pushed at the ceiling. A green phosphorescent glow pulsated from every needle with an ever-growing intensity until the room exploded, and its freedom won again.

MIDNIGHT CAPPUCCINO
by Michael Penkas
Wendy Williams flinched as the cappuccino burned her lip. She closed her eyes and let the tears come. She always cried a little when she burned her lip. Every day, she got a cup of vanilla cappuccino from the machine at the end of the hallway and every day it was too hot. But the routine was comforting.
She drank some more and then rested the paper cup on the window sill of her son’s room. Outside, it had begun to snow.
Wiping the tears away, she looked at the clock beside her son’s bed. It was 12:08. “Merry Christmas, Jack,” she whispered.
Her son didn’t answer, but she didn’t mind. The steady rise and fall of his chest was enough. His condition over the last seven months had stabilized nicely, the monitors around him showing that heart, lung and brain activity matched that of a man sleeping. Besides the slim feeding tube stretching from his nostril, there were no other machines to support him.
Wendy closed her eyes. She heard the patter of footfalls and the buzz of distant telephones down the hall. She felt the heating vent she sat against rumble to life. She smelled the vanilla cappuccino fill the room, nearly overpowering the scent of ammonia, floor polish and fresh bread.
Her eyes shot open. The smell of fresh bread was new to the hospital room.
She considered her son more closely. He was twenty-nine last month, his handsome features turned gaunt over the past half-year. His skin was pale because the room didn’t get enough light. But his hair was neatly trimmed and his face smoothly shaved. Wendy made sure that her boy was at least well-groomed.
There was a deep sigh that, for only a moment, she thought had come from her son. A face, paler than her son’s, flickered in and out of view. Wendy began to stand up, then the face flickered back and she sat down again.
In the chair on the other side of her son’s bed was a man in his late fifties, heavy-set but still handsome, with gray hair and thin lips. He smiled weakly. “Merry Christmas, Wendy.” Those thin lips didn’t move as he spoke.
Wendy sat across from the pale man, taking in the smell of bread that had given him away before she’d even seen him. “Norman.”
He seemed to nod, but the gesture didn’t translate properly. One moment, he was facing her, the next moment, his head was bowed and the moment after that, he was facing her again. It looked like a flip book with pages torn out, an imperfect illusion of movement.
Her husband had died four years ago in a car crash, similar to the one that had left their son in a coma. Norman had run a bakery and every day he would come home from work smelling like fresh bread, a smell that had always comforted her.
Wendy was surprised at how happy she felt to see her dead husband once again and said nothing for a while, just staring at his flickering image beside their sleeping son. And it was almost like they were a family again. She closed her eyes and let herself cry just a little more. Not so much that she’d lose control of herself. Just enough so that it would be real to her.
When she opened her eyes again, her husband was still there, one hand still resting on their son’s bed, but his eyes fixed on her.
“How?” she asked, without really caring. It didn’t matter. She just wanted to hear him talk.
Again, there was a flicker as Norman’s head suddenly shifted down to their son, then back up to her. Again, his lips didn’t move as he spoke. “Jack. His accident … brought him closer to me.”
Wendy didn’t think too much on the answer, but smiled. It would be Jack, of course. Despite her differences with Norman, they both loved their son very much. It was one of the things that had kept them together over the years. Sadly, by the end, there had been little else besides Jack, but she didn’t want to think about that now. “I’m sure he knows … that you’re here.”
Again, his face flickered from Jack to Wendy, his expression static. “I’m here for him.”
She smiled. “So am I.”
“No.”
She shook her head without thinking. “Yes. I am. You know I love him as much as you did. Do. As much as you do.” She stood up.
His voice dropped to a whisper and his whole body seemed to dim. His side of the hospital room dimmed. “Wendy, our son is dead.”
“No.” She moved towards her son, placing a hand on his chest, but not touching her husband. “He’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s dreaming.”
“Wendy.”
“Shut up, Norman!” She closed her eyes, drawing strength from the steady rise and fall of her son’s chest. “You think you’re the first to come at me with this Right to Die shit?” The doctors, her sister and Jack’s fiancee (ex-fiancee) had all said the same thing. That her son had died that night on the road. He hadn’t been wearing a seat-belt and been thrown through the windshield and onto the street. When the ambulance arrived, his skull had cracked open and parts of his brain had already dissolved on the blacktop. The doctors had frankly been amazed that they had been able to stabilize him.
“A miracle! Were you there when they were operating? Did you hear what the doctor said? He said it was a miracle that our son had survived.”
“Only the body.”
“He’s dreaming.” She pointed to the monitor. “He’s dreaming right now.”
Another flickering nod from her husband. “Death is dreaming, Wendy. Let him go and he’ll be at peace.”
“He’s at peace now! He’s comfortable. He’s not afraid. I read to him every day and he’s safe here. Why isn’t that good enough?”
“It’s not right.”
“He won’t let go. I’m not holding him here. There’s nothing holding him here. He’s still alive because a part of him still wants to be alive. He’s still fighting and I won’t give up on him. I will never give up on him.”
“The feeding tube –“
“So what? Half the people here are on feeding tubes and most of them will be walking out.”
“Take it out. Let him move on, Wendy. Please.”
She almost reached for Norman, but held herself back. He was barely visible now, looking like an overdeveloped photograph in his dark half of the room. “You want me to sit here and watch him starve to death?” She laughed, couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re some piece of work, Norman. After the way you abandoned us, to come back now and ask that. As if I’d ever –“
“I couldn’t help it.”
She stared into the darkness, caught her husband’s eyes and stared him down. She stared into the ghost’s eyes until his face flickered and he looked away from her. “Jack could have said the same thing, but he’s still here. Remember when the doctors gave me six months? Remember that? That was six years ago, Norman. You can live if you really want to.”
“I was decapitated. I couldn’t –“
“I mean before that. You were gone from us long before the accident.” Shortly after Wendy had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, Norman had begun drinking.
“I’m sorry.”
“I forgave you a long time ago. But I’m not letting my son die. You’re wrong about him.”
“Wendy.”
“Only you would come back from the dead just to ruin another Christmas, Norman. Why don’t you leave?”
“I couldn’t stand to see you suffer, Wendy. It was all too much for me to –“
“Yeah, I had a hard time with it too. Puking radioactive blood after every treatment, watching my hair fall out and my skin go yellow. It might have been easier for me if you’d been there, but you were always out … not dealing with it.”
“I thought –“
“You thought I was going to die anyway, so why bother wasting any more emotion on a lost cause.”
He said nothing, didn’t move.
“It was for you and Jack that I fought to stay alive. If it was just me … I wouldn’t have bothered.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you quit? When you saw I was getting better, why didn’t you just quit drinking and come back to us? I would have … I would have understood.”
“I couldn’t. I knew I’d abandoned you. Every time I looked at you, I knew I didn’t … deserve …” Again, he flickered, looked to Jack, then looked away from them both. The shadows seemed to blur the edges around him.
“Was it an accident?”
He grew more distinct, looking at her again. “What?”
“The car crash. Was it an accident? Did you do it on purpose?” She couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud. She’d always wondered, but had never voiced her suspicion to anyone.
There was a flicker and a nod. “I was drunk. A deer ran in front of my car. I turned to avoid it and … yes, it was an accident.”
“You’ve never lied to me, Norman.”
“No. There’s … there’s no point to lies. When you die, you see that truth … always comes out. Eventually.”
“Do you know the future? Is that something you can see?”
There was a pause, then, “No.”
“You don’t know that Jack will never wake up.”
“His brain was –“
“You don’t know!”
“No.”
“So he could come back. He could wake up.”
“I know what parts of his brain were lost, Wendy. If he did wake up … let him go.”
“What?”
“Let him go.”
“No. What. If he did wake up … what?”
“The part … the part of his brain that would remember you, us, is gone. He wouldn’t know how to speak. He would never be able to understand any words. You couldn’t even teach him. It’s lost. Every night, when you read him the newspaper, if he hears at all, it’s just sound to him. Whatever his dreams are, they’re not of you.”
“You don’t know, Norman.”
“I know what part of him is already dead, Wendy. I know that he’s closer to where I am than where you are.”
“No! I mean you don’t know about me. About living. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember me. It doesn’t matter if he can talk to me. He’s my son. Whatever survived that accident is my son and I will not let him go.”
“Wendy, please.”
“Just leave, Norman.” She took her hand off her son’s chest and walked back to her chair by the window. She sat back down and closed her eyes. “If you’d lived, if you hadn’t given up on me, maybe you’d have the right to decide. But you gave up on both of us and now it doesn’t matter. It’s my decision to make and it will always be the same. I will never give up.”
She opened her eyes to find the other side of the room was empty and properly lit once again. She reached for the cup of coffee, still on the window sill, and sipped it. The cappuccino had gone cold from sitting near the window for so long, but she drank it anyway.
Even cold coffee was better than an empty cup.

Let’s start with the basics, what’s your story called and what (briefly) is it about?

Joe: The selection for the reading is again from “The D’Medici Syndrome”. It’s the third part of the continuing story of the Pontevecchio family - wealthy, politically influential, religiously active - and problems that creep into their lives. The narrative is laid out through the eyes of 7-year old Pico Pontevecchio.

Mike: I’m editing two things right now to prepare for the reading, I’m not sure which one will be read but it will either be “Teddy Was Five”, or something from my “Bar Crowd” Series. Teddy, is about a woman who lives with consequences of her choices in life, and what may be a real situation or an alcohol induced hallucination.

What inspired this story or what inspires you to write in general?

Joe: I read “The House of Medici” last winter: it’s a great piece of non-fiction. I was awed by the historical D’Medici family’s passion for the arts, philosophy, history, religion and politics in 14th & 15th century Florence and thought it was a cool idea to transpose some of that experience into a 21st century Italian-American family.

I’ve always enjoyed writing and history - a history major with a teaching background - but it was only in the last two and a half years that I saw my writing fiction as a goal for my life. I find most of my spark for writing centers around social issues that haven’t seemed to go away: the drive of a culture away from the balanced use of reason toward illogic and emotionalism; the ongoing ghetto-ization and negative stereotyping of homosexuals; and the unbridled quest for success through the accumumation of “stuff”.

Mike: Both of these stories were inspired by what most of my stories are; the reality of life after death, at least the way I see it. Inspiration in general comes from all kinds of places for me, urban legends, music, and columns like “News of the Weird” and stupid crook stories. You’d be surprised how much of the story set-ups I write about are inspired by the lack of sense exhibited by humans.

What kinds of books draw your attention when you prowl the aisles at book stores?

Joe: In bookstores, I love roaming the history section - leafing through ancient Rome and Greece. I like to pass through the general fiction, too. I read a lot of classics.

Mike: Well, have you got a day or two for me to list them? I tend to hang out in the mystery and mysterious horror sections. Those stories always seem to have dead guys in them. But is just as likely I’ll get an idea from a real life episode in a biography, or magazine. Then there’s always the local news. If you can’t imagine a dead guy or horror story after watching the local Fox affiliate, I’ll want to check and see if you’re still breathing. If you aren’t, its likely I’ll be writing a riff about why you aren’t any more.

Have you ever been given advice as a writer that has really helped or that made you wonder?

Joe: The most helpful advice so far has been from articles by published writers who have prodded me to write everyday and to keep sending things out in spite of the rejection letters on my refrigerator. I have a couple of writer friends who have been very supportive, too.

Mike: The best advice I ever got was, “Write, and keep writing. Never stop and learn to ignore editors who want to steal the soul of your work to make it marketable for themselves.” The trick I’m still trying to learn is, when the editor wants to make my work better, and when I’m about to give up my soul just to get published.

What has coming to Twilight Tales and sharing your work taught you about your own writing?

Joe: I’ve enjoyed coming to Twilight Tales. The horror/fantasy/mystery genres are areas I don’t travel in much and have loved trapsing in on Monday evenings. I’ve gotten a lot of positive support about my writing, but also I’ve been exposed to a creativity that is horrorfyingly[sic], fantastically, and mysteriously refreshing.

Mike: That I wasn’t as bad of a writer as I once thought I was. And, that encouragement and honest critique by other authors makes you more willing to take chances and get messy with the words you put on the page. Positive support from other authors is a far better way to improve then only ever typing alone at the PC. Oh, and reading what you wrote, keeps Eric off your back about writing in general.

Finally, is there anything else you’d like to tell us about your work(s) in progress, or things on the horizon you’d like to share?

Joe: My works in progress are a few: my first completed manuscript is in fourth draft and has survived four rejections this spring/summer and is currently being considered (50 pages is anyway) by an indie publisher here in Chicago. I’ve picked back up a third manuscript after a several-month break (to finish Pico’s story). I gave myself Thanksgiving-ish to finish the first draft. There are two others in various stages of first drafts and a collection of short stories that’s crawling together, one iota at a time.

Mike: I’m not sure what (if anything) will get accepted but I have a few things out, so we’ll have to see. Then there’s always the scheduling I do for Twilight Tales. There is a lot of fun stuff coming up, but to enjoy it, you actually have to come to the Celt and read something you’ve written.

We hope you’ll join us on Monday November 10th at Mystic Celt (3443 N. Southport) to hear Joe’s and Mike’s fiction, and perhaps more discussion!

1. This week we celebrate Twilight Tale’s fifteenth anniversary. In your own words tell us how Twilight Tales has grown and changed while you have been involved.

Eric: I walked into Twilight Tales for the first time in April 2002, just as the organization was hosting the World Horror Convention. I threw in as a convention volunteer, then starting coming early every Monday for the show. What’s changed? We were at the Red Lion for most of the years that I’ve been aboard, but now we’re at the Mystic Celt. We were a greater or lesser part of many conventions and bookfairs, we published anthologies and short story collections, and our website took on more dynamic properties.
We’ve been an unofficial, all-volunteer operation. We’ve incorporated, earned not-for-profit status, and we’ve continued thriving due to the efforts of our volunteers. The core crew has changed over time. When I walked in the door, Larry Santoro handled staging, Lisa Rogers-Lowrance did things with books and inventory, Andrea Dubnick managed scheduling and emceeing, and Tina Jens worked with everybody on all manner of things. Tina is on the Board of Directors, and the rest of the core crew is wholly different.

2. What is the biggest accomplishment the group has made?

Eric: There’s no secret that I’m focused on writing production. The biggest accomplishment we’ve made is the standing network of authors who are forever working their butts off to turn out better fiction. How many of the writers who started off writing in a closet are now out and published? More than a couple. How many once thought that a novel was an impossible dream, and are now novelists? I can think of at least four who’ve recently finished their first drafts.

3. What one thing in the group’s history makes you proud or pleased to have been a part of?

Eric: I’m going to side with my above answer: I’m most proud of our authors’ successes. They did all the hard work, certainly, but Twilight Tales — embodied in its regulars — has been a part of their path. There is no higher achievement, in my not-quite-humble opinion.

4. What changes have you seen that make you confident the group will continue to be successful over the years to come?

Eric: It’s the passing of the baton that makes me most confident. I named some of the core crew from back when I first walked in, but that was by no means the end of the crew list. When an all-volunteer meeting came together, twenty people would show up. We’d draw in an easy dozen now, and a goodly number of those weren’t on the roll call in 2002. And how many of the regulars from 2003 or 2004, how many of that volunteer crew, came and went in that time? Plenty.
Yet the show has gone on weekly for all this time. We incorporated, and the show went on. We increased and decreased our convention involvement, our publishing schedules, and even experimented with a suburban presence. And whatever else went on, every Monday night there was a show (unless some #@$%^! holiday got in the way, of course).
There’s a vibrant and active crew now, and they do an amazing job. And when the time comes for a crew shift, they’ll hand the baton along. That’s how it’s always been, and I’m never in doubt it’ll continue.

5. What direction do you hope Twilight Tales takes in the years to come?

Eric: One of my favorite answers to that now is: “That’s not my job.” I’ve been a hanger-on, a volunteer from the fringe to the core, a member of the Board, and CEO. Now, I’m merely a fringe volunteer: I emcee.
What I hope is that the core crew of volunteers does what the core crew has always done: exactly what it thinks would be fun. History suggests the weekly show will continue to be fun, but even the content and shape of that show is mutable.

6. Finally, what one event or incident sticks out in your mind as something everyone should know about Twilight Tales and why its a great place for authors and reader to gather and exchange ideas?

Eric: The open mic is one event that everyone should know about Twilight Tales, and it’s why we’re a great place for authors and readers to gather.
Yes, it’s not one event, unless there’s a cosmic sort of open mic (not unlike Terry Pratchett’s L-Space, but with more noise and alcohol, and fewer bananas). But it’s what I call the front lines of fiction. It’s where the best of what we have and do comes out.

We hope you’ll join us on Monday November 3rd at Mystic Celt (3443 N. Southport) for our 15th anniversary party…with free appetizers, the usual cash bar, and plenty more discussion!

Let’s start with the basics, what’s your story called? If you can, please tell us briefly about it.
Martel: The story I’ll be reading, “Desperate Times Call For Cunning Linguists,” is a transgendered love story involving Frankenstein.

What inspired your story, or what inspires you to write?
Martel: I wrote this particular story for an anthology that was looking for gay/lesbian/transgendered horror stories. After a softball game last spring, I was telling my teammates that I needed to come up with a story idea. A few bottles of beer later, I had the seed I needed and wrote the first draft after returning home. I sent it off to Brian Salgado and Mark Wegren (two of my teammates who helped in the brainstorming process) for some feedback. Many thanks to Brian and Mark for their help and willingness to listen to me natter on about various story ideas over the years. They’ve both actually been characters in other stories I’ve written but that’s a story for Red Light Night

Each week in October features a specific genre, tell us what draws you to the genre featured your particular week (Oct. 27; Monster Bash).
Martel: I grew up on monster stories. As a kid, I watched all of the horror classics (Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, Bela Lugosi.) I grew up on Svengoolie and thought Berwyn was some magical place where monsters lived. Talk about a let down.

What sorts of books do you find yourself seeking out when walking the aisles of bookstores and libraries?
Martel: I probably read more crime fiction than anything else these days. I read a lot of true crime and other non-fiction related to law enforcement. I like to read case studies that analyze criminal motivations and behaviors. Maybe I’ve been picking the wrong books, but it seems that the crime fiction I’ve been reading is scarier than the horror fiction has been. I feel a bit jaded toward horror these days. Maybe it’s a phase…I hope so.

Any advice you’ve been given as a writer that’s either very good, or very out there that you would like to share with us?
Martel: A ruthless editor is a writer’s best friend. I wrote a poem recently and shared it with a writer friend. He told me that the meat of the poem was the last stanza and that if I cut everything else that came before it, the poem might have more impact. After re-reading the piece, I hated to admit he was right because that meant throwing away more than 3/4 of the original poem. Learning to “kill your children” is hard, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do.

Anything else you’d like to share about your writing or upcoming publications/events?
Martel: My story, “Better Left Unsaid,” will be coming out shortly in the TRAPS! anthology (edited by Scott Goudsward) from DarkHart Press. I am a contributing editor at Dark Scribe Magazine and have lots of book reviews, articles and interviews available to read for free at www.darkscribemagazine.com; I’ll be workshopping a novel at the Borderlands Press Novel Bootcamp in January and will share more about that experience at some future TT event. Oh yeah, I almost forgot…I’m happy to report that I’m headed for merry old England in 2010. I’m going to be hosting/coordinating the reading series at the World Horror Convention 2010 which will be held in Brighton. I’m stoked about that for sure!

We hope you’ll join us on Monday October 27th at Mystic Celt (3443 N. Southport) to hear Martel’s fiction (along with open mic fiction in a Monster Bash theme), and perhaps more discussion!

Following are Jay’s answers to our interview questions.

Let’s start with the basics, what’s your story called? If you can, please tell us briefly about it.
Jay: “STEAGAL’S BARBER SHOP AND SMOKE EMPORIUM,” which is an anti-war tale I wrote a couple years ago in the tradition of Rod Serling and Paddy Chayevski, first published in the February 2005 issue of AMAZING STORIES. I am so jacked up about what the current regime has done to our country, I cannot resist reading this again (I think I might have read it in public a couple of times).
Go Obama!!!

What inspired your story, or what inspires you to write?
Jay: I have always been attracted to the “socio-political fantasy” of Harlan Ellison, Rod Serling, George Clayton Johnson, Ambrose Bierce, Richard Matheson, and H.G. Wells. I have always attempted to tell surreal, weird, funny horror stories that have a deep and angry subtext about something real and relevant. I hope this story has that to some degree.

Each week in October features a specific genre, tell us what draws you to the genre featured your particular week (Oct. 20; Ghosts, Goblins, and Dead Guys).
Jay: Ghosts stories are all — to some extent — about one thing: GUILT. They were invented in the Victorian era when everybody was riddled with guilt. I — being a lapsed Catholic — understand guilt. I guess that’s why I LOVE ghost stories.

What sorts of books do you find yourself seeking out when walking the aisles of bookstores and libraries?
Jay: Since the horror genre is all but dead — no pun intended — I currently seek out dark and comedic stuff. I guess this is due to the fact that our world is currently a dark and comedic place.

Any advice you’ve been given as a writer that’s either very good, or very out there that you would like to share with us?
Jay: Don’t use adverbs or adjectives. This is one of the great myths among geeks who have bought that old Hemingway crapola about all great writing being lean and minimal and…yawn…boring. I say give me extra mayo on that sandwich, and while you’re at it, throw some brown mustard on it, and then deep fry it in seasoned batter!!!!

Anything else you’d like to share about your writing or upcoming publications/events?
Jay: Please, everyone, go out and order or purchase my new book, PERFECT VICTIM (Pinnacle 2008), which comes out in December, so that my children can get their dental work and text books and medicine. And also so we can put a gallon of gas in the tank.

We hope you’ll join us on Monday October 20th at Mystic Celt (3443 N. Southport) to hear Jay’s fiction (along with open mic offerings in a Ghosts, Goblins, and Dead Guys theme), and perhaps more discussion!

Following are Richard’s answers to our interview questions.

Let’s start with the basics, what’s your story called? If you can, please tell us briefly about it.
Richard: I’m frantically working to complete a piece called “The Man Who Put the Bomp.” It is a saur story. I don’t know what it’s “about,” a good story always being about the “something else” that the story contains. What happens in the story is that the saurs meet their “maker” — a man who contributed the significant pieces of the genetic sequence that made the saurs possible. And Axel’s first question to him when he arrives, not knowing who he is or what he’s done, is, “Are you a bad guy or a good guy?”

What inspired your story, or what inspires you to write?
Richard: What inspires me at this moment is raw panic and desperation to meet the deadline — and an overwhelming desire not to disappoint the audience.

Each week in October features a specific genre, tell us what draws you to the genre featured your particular week (Oct. 13, Science Fiction and Fantasy).
Richard: Fantasy stories affect me most when characters discover the world as something greater than they first conceived — when they find the door that leads to another world, or look at the street and for the first time see that there’s a whole other world hiding within the quotidian. There are more parts than the sum of the whole. I think that’s what drives my interest in any literature: anything and anyone that suggests that there’s more to the picture than the picture.
For science fiction, I tend to look for the stories that focus not upon what “the future” will bring, but how we will live with it. Perhaps all literature takes on the topic, directly or indirectly, of what makes us human, but recent science fiction takes a unique approach of posing that question by expanding our technology, our territory and our knowledge, seeing if we can still recognize human beings in the milieu. If one can summarize (at great risk) the work of a Samuel Beckett by saying that he keeps taking things away from humanity to see what remains recognizably human there, science fiction has been adding things to a character while looking for what humanity persists. And of course I’m fascinated by the questions of what makes us human as reflected by beings other than humans.

What sorts of books do you find yourself seeking out when walking the aisles of bookstores and libraries?
Richard: All sorts of books — new and used. Right now I’m waiting for 7 Stories Press to finally (finally!) get out their reprint of two Nelson Algren books in one: “Who Lost an American?” and “Notes From a Sea Diary.” I’ve been an eclectic reader since before I knew how to spell eclectic. It’s very difficult for me to pin down what I’m looking for. I’m looking for the books that reveal the secret threads that hold the universe together. One book brings me to another, which leads to another, and another.

Any advice you’ve been given as a writer that’s either very good, or very out there that you would like to share with us?
Richard: 1. (from me) Never work for a newspaper. 2. (from City News Bureau) Never do a bad job well. 3. (from Ray Bradbury) Don’t think — write. 4. (from Jeff Ford) Just tell the f—ing story! 5. (from me) Trust the story. Stories are smarter than their authors — listen and follow.

Anything else you’d like to share about your writing or upcoming publications/events?
Richard: I’ve been frustratingly unproductive of recent. So much to write and the time shrinks away. Keep poking me with sticks and keep sending that guy with scythe over to knock on my door and I’ll finish some of this stuff. Recent stories are listed on my Web page http://www.sfwa.org/members/chwedyk/” I hope to be updating it soon.

We hope you’ll join us on Monday October 13th at Mystic Celt (3443 N. Southport) to hear Richard’s fiction (along with open mic fiction in a Science Fiction and Fantasy theme), and perhaps more discussion!

Following are John’s answers to our interview questions.

Let’s start with the basics, what’s your story called? If you can, please tell us briefly about it.
John: Covenant is about a reporter who “runs away” to a small coastal town to escape his dark past… and gets embroiled in the dark past of the small town, where a series of suicides have been occuring from the cliff outside of town. Nobody wants to talk to the reporter about the deaths, and as he digs deeper, he finds that there has been a death from the cliff on the same date every year for one hundred years…

What inspired your story, or what inspires you to write?
John: Covenant was inspired by a newspaper clipping that someone once handed me that talked about a bar at the top of a cliff in England. Apparently, this was the biggest suicide spot in the country: people would go to the bar, have a last drink and then walk a few yards away and jump.
As for what inspires me to write — inspiration sparks from anywhere. I’ve always written stories and poems and lyrics and I love the way words can take you to a place in a heartbeat that is so far from where you sit now… just by opening a door in your imagination. Writers opened those doors for me as a reader and I want to do the same for others…

Each week in October features a specific genre, tell us what draws you to the genre featured your particular week (Oct. 6, Horror and the Dark Arts).
John: I love the sense of the “unexplored” and “unexplained” and “otherworldly” in horror and dark fantasy; there’s a sort of “anything can happen” feeling that I relish. As a reader, I picked up books because I always wanted to escape into another world — to be transported into a place that was unfamiliar. So growing up, I read a lot about alien worlds because they were exotic and offered wild opportunity and often featured characters with powers and experiences very different from anything we could ever come in contact with. I loved the sense of wonder that those wildly imaginative novels brought. That’s why I don’t have any particular interest in writing horror that deals with real-world problems like a psychological study of a serial killer. I can see that in the newspapers and as a reader I want to escape the troubled realities of this world, not explore them deeper. So virtually all of my horror truly has a dark fantasy element to it - something about my fictional worlds is generally outside the realm of our existence, unless you fully believe in ghosts, or erotic creatures who can suck away memory, or taxidermists who embalm people in a way that immobilizes them yet keeps them conscious forever or boys who perform the unspeakable and in doing so create an all-consuming pumpkin queen.

What sorts of books do you find yourself seeking out when walking the aisles of bookstores and libraries?
John: Fun, fast, can’t-put-’em-down ones. At least, I used to. I haven’t “sought” a book in a store or library in years at this point. I run a small press, Dark Arts Books (www.darkartsbooks.com) and proof books for other small presses (Necro Publications and Cemetery Dance). So manuscripts are always turning up on my door — I don’t go looking for them because I have no free time to read beyond what is already sent to me!

Any advice you’ve been given as a writer that’s either very good, or very out there that you would like to share with us?
John: Getting up at the mic at Twilight Tales is a very useful way to test your fiction — it allows you to listen with fresh ears to what you’ve written in a way that you’ll never be able to repeat sitting at your computer at home. By watching the audience’s reaction, and hearing how easy or difficult the phrases are to read out loud, you’ll know where the “soft” spots are in your prose, and conversely, where to “tight” bits are that should be left alone when you go back to edit.

Anything else you’d like to share about your writing or upcoming publications/events?
John: Covenant is, of course, out now and for the next few weeks I’m dedicating all my free time to a book tour to promote it. Sacrifice, the sequel, will be out from Leisure in June of 2009. This summer I finished a new unrelated novel called The 13th, which I’ll be turning in to Leisure this month (I’m doing some final proofing and edits now). That will be out in 2010, I would imagine. I’ve also got some short fiction due out any day — I just finished co-writing a Halloween tale for Doorways Magazine with Gary Braunbeck and JF Gonzalez, which will be out in October. My novelette “In Memoryum” should be out in the next few weeks in the Dark Hart anthology Fearful Symmetry, Deadly Beauty. And another novelette, “Fish Bait,” which [I] wrote after a visit to some of my old CyberPsycho’s Magazine friends in Denver a couple years ago, will be out soon in Cutting Block Press’s Horror Library Vol. 3 anthology.
Anyone who wants to check in about my projects, read some free fiction or check out some of my horror-related art and music can visit www.johneverson.com where you can also read my blog and signup for my monthly e-newsletter. Thanks for interviewing me about my “Dark Arts”!

We hope you’ll join us on Monday October 6th at Mystic Celt (3443 N. Southport) to hear John’s fiction (along with open mic fiction in a Horror and Dark Arts theme), and perhaps more discussion!