Links 'N Stuff - It's Friday!

Welcome back everyone!  Today I'm gonna show you some fun stuff on the Internet I've found in the past few weeks.  First, however, I have some thoughts and ideas I wanted to share with you all.

So in case you were living under a rock this week, Mr. Ray Bradbury passed away.  One of the greatest authors of our time.  I won't reiterate what almost every news article and website even remotely associated with writing have said, but he left a great legacy for future generations to explore and enjoy as much as we all did.

This week I hit my first real wall of writer's block.  Safe to say, I panicked quite a bit.  For two days I felt like I couldn't do any writing or editing, and I barely read my book.  So on the third day I pushed on through and started doing research on current markets open for short stories and novellas, and I could feel that wake my muse up a bit.  She started whispering to me, and soon I was back to writing my normal amount.  I learned something very valuable about writer's block.  I know a lot of sites and advice columns will tell you to work through it, continue doing it, but it's actually very true.  People can't be inspired 100% of the time.  That's ridiculous.  I also noted that this lack of inspiration started when I quit smoking this week.  I had a solid schedule set up where I would write in a flurry, smoke a cigarette and think about what I wrote, then make edits.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  Now that I don't have that key part, I've had to adjust my routine, but I think its better now.  A lot less interruption and pausing so I can just plow through and worry about editing later.

So, enough about me, and on to some new road markers on your map of the Internet!

First up, in honor of Mr. Bradbury, I have a link to twelve writing tips from the man himself.  Originally tweeted by Derek Blass (@derekblass), this is straight from Mr. Blass's blog. Any tips from a successful and influential writer are always welcome to me, and Bradbury's advice is slightly different from anything I've read or heard.  Definitely check it out, you won't regret it.

Next up, a fun comic strip I found out about from Felicia Day's Flog.  Before I get into the comic, I have to say this:  If you haven't checked out The Flog, you are missing out!  It's full of fun nerdiness and interesting stuff straight from Ms. Day herself.  Anyways, on one of her episodes she highlights a comic, Manly Men Doing Manly Things.  It's a hilarious take on what all the heroes from video games would do when they have to readjust to the real world.  It centers around Commander Badass, the guy who runs the "halfway house" and all the adventures.  A new strip is posted every Monday, and I'm totally addicted.

And last but not least is an online t-shirt company called Ript Apparel.  I found them via Pinterest.  These guys have a new t-shirt design every day for purchase in all normal sizes, as well as for kids and babies.  The only downside to this website is the shirt designs are only available for one day, but that means even more cool designs to buy!  They have some of the coolest and nerdiest t-shirts I've ever seen, and I'm eagerly waiting for this Sunday's release so I can get a cool Doctor Who t-shirt.  Definitely give them a look, and if you want to try your luck, they have a grab bag where you have a chance to win an old design they didn't sell out of when it was available.

Well, that's it for me today.  Hope you guys are enjoying the stories and links I post here, and I look forward to later next week when I do a new writing exercise!  Until then, godspeed everyone, and have a great weekend!!!

A Ballad for John

Hey again, and welcome back!  I haven't been too good about posting some new writing material, so I thought I would show you a piece I have been holding onto for some time.  It's urban fantasy, involving a string of suicides and a karaoke bar.  It's really old, being one of the first pieces I had done when I got serious about writing in college.  As always, comments and suggestions are always welcome, and I hope you enjoy!

-----

A Ballad for John

            "Thank you for that wonderful performance!  Everyone give a round of applause for Dean!"

            A scattering of claps and cheers echo in the nearly empty bar, the haze of cigarette smoke making shades of the patrons.  The bright, showy lights for the acapella group slowly dim to a more intimate level, deepening the shadows as the applause fades and conversations continue.

            "Next up, our regulars may remember Miss Joanne Sharp!" the portly DJ says with forced enthusiasm.  "Taking a break from her usual 80's ballads, Miss Sharp is debuting an original song just for us tonight.  Put your hands together for Miss Sharp!"

            Onto the dingy and faded stage an ethereal woman glides to the worn stool.  Wearing a white dress that looks out of place in the bar, she slowly sits down.  Her doe eyes glance around the room as she pushes a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes.

            "Thank you, Mike."  Her words drip from her mouth like honey, deliberate and soothing to the ear.  The smattering of conversations slowly die off, and all eyes are on Joanne.  "I'm tentatively calling this song 'Ballad for John.'"  She glances at Mike, signaling him to start playing the track she had recorded in her apartment earlier that day.

            A soft piano begins to play, the melody both beautiful and haunting.  Joanne remains stoic, breathing deeply.  When her mouth opens to sing, any action taking place stops, all eyes and ears focused on her.  The lyrics are heartfelt, telling the tale of a love lost long ago.  The words and music slide through the bar, touching the patrons and wrapping around them like a warm blanket.  As the song continues to the climax, many eyes water as drinks and bar food lie forgotten.  Even the bartenders, long ago desensitized to the normal karaoke singers, stop what they are doing to listen to Joanne and slowly begin to weep.  As the piano slows down into silence, Joanne closes her eyes once again and breathes deep.

            The bar erupts into a frenzy of cheers and applause, like nothing The White Room Bar has ever seen before.  Many get up to hug or shake Joanne's hand, her face a deep crimson from the unusual attention her song has brought upon her.

            "Thank you very much everyone, this really means a lot to me," Joanne says quietly.

            "Encore!" a frazzled business man with circles under his eyes declares.

            "Yes, another song!" a young man with ruffled hair and a dirty plaid shirt declares.

            "That is the only song I have written," Joanne says, looking away as if in embarrassment.

            "We don't care, sing it again!" DJ Mike says to a round of applause and cheering.

            "O-Okay," Joanne says as she takes her seat once again on the stage.

            As the song plays again, a lone and worn elderly man, tears rolling down his cheeks, abruptly gets up from his seat, goes into the bathroom and slowly hangs himself from the ceiling, all the while thinking what a beautiful song it was and how he wishes it would never stop.

-----------------

            Three days later, Detective John Rickmon is circling The White Room Bar, asking the various customers about a string of mysterious suicides, all beginning with a Mr. Clive Studebaker and his suicide in the bathroom.  This was followed by four other men in various circumstances, with nothing to tie them together except for a Saturday night out.

            A fit man in his mid-thirties, he was recently promoted to Detective after six years as one of the regulars.  This is John's first major case.  After a string of simple robberies and domestic disputes, the powers that be had wanted him to try something more challenging.  A strange case, he gladly took it to show that he is deserving of his rank and raise over some of the more veteran cops who were passed over.

            "Mrs. Jackson, can you please tell me what happened this past Saturday at this bar," John inquired smoothly.

            "Please Detective, call me Judy," the woman said, her eyes glazed over from a few too many beers.

            "I'm sorry, Judy, please tell me what you know about the events of Saturday night please."

            Judy pauses and sighs quietly.  "There was this woman, Joanne. Joanne Sharp, I believe.  She's always here.  Crooning about the place with cheesy rock ballads or modern love songs and no one really gives a crap.  She has a great voice though. Shame she has to waste it working at the mall."

John could tell he was losing her to the details.  "What about this Joanne woman connects her to Saturday night?" John interrupted briskly.

            "Ah, yes, I'm sorry Detective.  She sang the most beautiful song.  One she wrote herself.  Who knew she had that kind of talent?  I’ll admit I teared up a bit.  But the men seemed to go crazy for her.  All they wanted to hear from her was that damn song.  After the fifth time I closed my tab and left.  I didn't know a guy had killed himself till one of my girlfriends told me the next day."  Judy paused to take a gulp of beer and light a cigarette.  "Poor Clive had a wife at home and two kids in college."

            "Thank you Mrs. Jackson, you've been a big help."

            John walked towards the bar, curious to get the take on what had happened from the hardened bartenders on duty when his phone began buzzing.

            "Rickmon."  There was a pause.  "Another suicide?  Let me guess, connected to this bar?  Damn, alright.  I think I have a lead.  Can you get me the address for a Miss Joanne Sharp?"

-------------------

            The next day, John Rickmon finds himself on the second-floor of a rundown apartment complex a few miles from The White Room Bar.  Once a proud building standing in the heart of Touchstone, now it stands in the slums of the city, home to drug addicts and struggling citizens alike.

            Knocking sure and steady on the faded wood door of

apartment 13-

B, John steeled himself for a druggie or prostitute, but was shocked to discover a young woman barely out of her college years.

            "C-Can I help you sir?" the young woman stammered.  John was floored by her beauty.  Simple features in a heart-shaped face, framed by auburn hair with just the right amount of curls cascading to a sundress that seemed to show off and hide exactly what the person wearing it would want.

            "Yes ma'am, I'm Detective John Rickmon.  I have a few questions for you regarding the death of a Mr. Clive Studebaker.  May I come in?"
            "Clive?  You can't mean that nice man from The White Room Bar."  Joanne looks genuinely shocked, her delicate hand poised in front of her mouth.

            "One and the same, ma'am."

            "Well of course I'd love to help you Detective.  Please, come in.  And excuse the mess.  I've been busy at work the past few days."

            Her apartment is immaculate.  The furniture is a hodgepodge of items that could be found at the Goodwill was laid out in an appealing way, with various posters of famous composers and abstract paintings along the walls.

            "Would you like something to drink?" Joanne asked as she shows John to the couch.

            "No thank you Mrs. Sharp, I'll just ask my questions and be out of your hair." John waits for Joanne to take her seat on the sofa before he sits on a recliner with a faded floral pattern.           "So you knew Mr. Studebaker?"

            "Of course.  He was always there for karaoke nights, and if I sang one of his favorite songs he would buy me a drink." Joanne absently twirled her hair, gracing John with a quick glance before looking elsewhere.

            "Did he ever come on to you?"

            "Oh gosh no!" Joanne blushed slightly.  "He would always gush about his wife and how they would travel to places by throwing darts at a map, and how proud he was of his son and daughter."

            "Did you know Mr. Matt Fitzgerald?  He was a younger man, red hair, couldn't have been long over the age of twenty-one." John hated using his tactics on this sweet girl, but he had to get some information.  After getting the call, he asked a few more patrons and the bartenders, and all signs point to the song she had sung numerous times.

            "I do know Matt.  Is he in trouble?"

            "No ma'am, he's actually dead as well."  John inwardly cringed at the sight of her shock and the single tear that formed in her deep blue eyes.

            "Oh dear...We actually had a date this Friday..."

            "I'm sorry to be the one to deliver the new Miss Sharp."

            Joanne opens her mouth to speak, then pauses.  Finally she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and says, "How did he die?"

            John looks away from her, gathering the courage to tell this young woman the truth.  "He shot himself in the head."

            Joanne whimpers and gets up.  Faintly John can hear her blowing her nose in the bathroom.

            "Forgive me for that Detective.  I’m not usually so emotional," Joanne almost whispers, sniffling discreetly.

            "No apologies ma'am.  Are you okay to continue?" John is having a hard time keeping his tough cop facade in place with such a beautiful young woman in pain in front of him.  "I can come back at a later time."

            "That would be preferable.  I'm sorry I'm getting so emotional."  Joanne crosses her legs, showing enough skin to get John's attention.

            "I'm sorry I upset you Miss Sharp.  Here's my card," John hands her a typical business card, "and call me anytime you feel ready to talk.  Thank you for your cooperation."  John stands and makes for the door.

            Joanne follows him to the door.  "Thank you for your services Detective, and please, call me Joanne."  She flashes him a toothy smile as he steps out.

            John's heart doesn't stop fluttering until he's at home in his shower.

-------------------------

            Two weeks later, John sits at his desk at the precinct, alone and poring over all of the data he has compiled, his eyes are slightly blood-shot from lack of sleep and stress.  His meeting with a team of psychologists from Touchstone University that morning left him feeling as confused as ever.  There was no way a song could cause suicidal tendencies.  Joanne Sharp's file was checking out clean.  John felt he was at the end of the road, and a possible demotion.

            His cell phone rings loudly in the cavernous silence.

            John sighs audibly before answering. "Detective Rickmon speaking."

            "Detective?  This is Joanne Sharp.  You talked with me a few weeks ago about the suicides?"  John remembers the conversation like it was still happening.  The sweet smell of her apartment, the otherworldly beauty of Joanne and the lingering feelings he was developing for the young woman.  "I think I may have some information for you."

            "Good evening Miss Sharp.  I mean, Joanne.  When would be a good time for me to stop by?" John tries to contain the eagerness in his voice but feels he is failing miserably.

            "I just got home from work.  You're welcome to stop by tonight."  Joanne purrs into the phone, or was that John's imagination?

-------------------------

            An hour later, John knocks on Joanne's door, his heart racing.  He barely registers the deep bass emanating from the apartment across the hall or the sounds of sex coming from the floor above.

            Joanne opens the door and it takes all of John's will not to kiss her on the spot.  Wearing a stringy camisole and boy shorts, John's mind begins going to places he shouldn't.

            "Detective Rickmon, thank you for coming by on such short notice," Joanne says, her eyes blazing with an emotion John thinks is lust.

            "Of course, any aid to solving this case is welcome at any hour."  John steps into the apartment and notices how dark and sensual the space appears at night.  A side table lamp is dulled by purple fabric, giving an air of intimacy to the place.

            "Would you care for a drink Detective?" Joanne saunters to the kitchen and pours two glasses before he can respond.  "I just made sweet tea this morning.  I hope you like it."

            John clears his throat and takes the glass, unsure why his throat is so dry all of a sudden.  "Thank you," and takes a sip.

            "So you had questions for me Detective?"

            "Please, call me John."

            Joanne smiles. "Okay, John, where would you like me to start?"

            John feels his limbs become lighter, his fatigue fading into a haze of calm and comfort tinted with lust for the woman sitting across from him.  "Ah, yes...Do you have any idea what caused these men to kill themselves?"

            Joanne's smile falters as she looks down, and then looks up with a gaze of pure lust.  "I think I do."

            John finishes his glass before he realizes his legs feel too wobbly to move, but he doesn't mind.  His head is full of the intoxicating smell of Joanne.  He shakes his head slowly to try and clear the fog.  "Then, uh, then what do you think caused it?"

            Joanne smiles wickedly and her features subtly shift.  Her heart shaped face becomes more angular, the jaw elongating and the teeth becoming sharp spikes.  Her cheekbones hollow and her eyes sink, becoming glowing red embers in pits of darkness.  Her hair, once lustrous, becomes wiry and dull.  Her form-fitting clothes become loose as her frame elongates until her her skin looks like it is stretched too tight over a skeleton.  Joanne's hands and feet become claws, the fingernails long and sharp.

            "I did, John."

            A small part of John's mind tries to panic, but whatever he had drunk has numbed him completely.

            Joanne's once graceful and elegant movements are now quick and gangly as she stands up to hover over John.  "I'm what you people call a 'siren', John.  I lure men to their deaths."  Joanne's once sweet voice is now gravelly, like glass being slowly ground to dust.  "You got too close, John, and I'm sorry for this, but I'm so awfully hungry..."