2015081502550944607 - Horror Author's Real World
This narrative was too new for some publishers to take but they had given me some good feedback on this one; well I thought I would make this as a free read so some of you can get a feel for the writing style of this one. This one speaks of Eric W. Wright the other murderer in The Cabbie Homicide story. I wrote this in way where I was looking at the train station deck as I did in 2002 but as it was written in 2015 but thinking from the perspective of 2010. This carries a word count of 2,901 words, the rejection letter I got was a positive reaction and told me to send them something else. On my birthday I had an interesting exchange with a King James Onlyist as this one was militant; this story well he might be pissed about because of the dark subject matter where I share a kinship with urban fiction writers.
Horror Author's Real WorldAs Written By Nick Pacione
"You believe that there is one God; you do well. The demons also believe and tremble."
-- James 2:19 (MEV)
How do you imagine a horror author’s real world? When you are in the climate of a classmate who had murdered someone and then calls it a ‘bogus bio’ as the one of the co-murderer’s mother calls him ‘bad news.’ One as in I am speaking right to you have to imagine the climate of Glendale Heights and Addison, Illinois, within the 1990s. This what I became; it wasn’t quite the plans I laid in high school -- though I was a writer back then as I chronicled in the pages of An Eye In Shadows.
“Wait you lived in the area as the Cabbie Murderers?”
“He was in my homeroom, hard to believe. And what you read of him now -- he admits he believes in God.”
The world we realize -- it wasn’t always our plans or even God’s plans either. You can’t always blame it on the Devil like the character on Saturday Night Live would pull. You know the Saturday Night Live character that Dana Carvey played; as I had known someone like this when I had gone to Faith World Outreach.I would loved to imagine her reading Ghosts in the Tornado or Passenger; I had someone who never read Gothic Horror in their life liking Gothic Horror.
I know I wouldn’t buy into the fucking dog and pony acts; as the semantics are the things we’ve been hung up on. It’s just a word when you realize they’re the ones who preach that your pet has no soul. Though the hell that we realize is not the real madness; a horror author’s real world. That faith in God we question at times when the moments in our world and history as we observe demanding for Him to tell us the reasons why. The madness we realize becomes what the Book of Revelation chronicled, “In those days people will seek death but will not find it. They will long to die, but death will flee from them!”
I am sure the King James Onlyists will not recognize that being from the Book of Revelation, Chapter 9, the 6th verse -- I guess that’s why there are horror writers. We know this all to well when we’ve seen our friends pass away at ages under forty. This nightmare I had chronicled over the years are never the plans I had laid; as I had not planned to write The Pattern of Diagnosis when I started writing this. Though as an 18 year old I almost didn’t write short stories all together or they would become preachy poems but more as I kept the journal at 18-19 years old. That was not me. What I am writing now -- does it seem like me?
The ideas within my mind; as I had stared reality right in the eyes looking the world right in the eyes for years. Love not the world right; but sometimes one has to get pissed at man. When you’re raised a wop kid from Chicago, and realizations that classmates you knew are buried and possibly hanging out with the rest of haunted history within the city of Elgin. So the question remains, how do you imagine a horror author in a real world? Someone who writes about supernatural subject matter set in real world areas. Not a Castle Rock, Maine or a Thrall, New Jersey, but a place like Glendale Heights, Illinois, or Roselle, Illinois, the places where I grew up and came of age; the world of The Rising is not my world. The older I get the more I see, as Kerry King of Slayer said it. The more fucked up the things you realize things are.
“What you wrote is a bogus bio!?!”
How did he know about The Cabbhie Homicide? I am not going to portray someone who killed as a hero but a tragic figure is more accurate, as a horror writer’s real world someone had killed. A realization the near ten years ago when I became sick beyond anything one’s nightmares can imagine as one who grew up where I did -- vampire role playing games is something I never engaged in. The horror writer’s real world can’t exactly be fathomed because this is not always the plans we laid. Such ideas lay within the night, awake as we remain. The ghosts we realize that we’ll all become eventually in time as some stand before God and others have their hearts weighed against a feather.
The horror we are as some pray to die but death will elude them; knowing that what they had woken to is a world gone to shit before them. I sit there watching through that window then report what I see but with the world wide web I just open another window and look at the screen. That screen glows, staring back at me. The thoughts within my head dwell within the shadows of an October, as there had been 25 Octobers had passed.
A world we’ve all known at some point while our imagination wandered among urban ruins of a modern era. The 20th century ruins from the 1980s as we saw what was Blockbuster and a neighborhood video store; though the documentation that gather within this narrative. Horror imitates life as one often relates; something as Charles Dickens had penned in his time. The best of times and worst of times as the novel starts; as some expectations as you seen with someone who lifted a novel featuring a vampire named Edward turned it into a porn book.
Someone’s joy in some cases is our misery; the realization that someone told me, “You will never prosper from writing this raw food. The fact being you produce fruitful works of darkness and I will live to destroy what you create.”
I am just trying to make the bills pal. The real world some would not be so forgiving and when one sees the bodies upon the concrete knowing who was there as innocence bled to death. That draws from a horror writer’s real world knowing; something they can’t prevent but chronicle a horror when it takes place. I have to imagine the realization that fucking Fabulist when he realized I trudged his delusional garden. Tell me Glass; have you even researched half the bullshit you’ve conceived as you claim to blend fiction and nonfiction -- where I pass fact after fact off as fiction. As the life I escort you through is the nightmares you wish you never had; as the world you’ve seen with The New Republic. I am that realization that plagues you.
“I am sorry for stealing,” I can see him bitch.
“You’re sorry for living pal!”
“You have no soul...”
“Like you -- would you even D.A.R.E?”
Yeah the semantics one thinks about; the word is what I had been told. Listening to sermons day in and day out for several years and shunned for going to a junior college.
“How can someone shun someone of sincere faith for going to a secular college?”
That is the thing that sits in the back in my mind; within a horror author’s real world as the scars I carry are known for years. The thing with the fantasy that was Stephen Glass fabricating his goddamned sources; he’s putting me out of work but I don’t fabricate sources for my material. How can I fabricate real life? When you have seen the flashing of street gang signs up close and personal; then social network admins becoming an asshole or two.
Accusing me of being a ‘psycho’ when I had offered them truth.
The truth when reality remains as some hide to keep their inner demons at bay.
Steal the masses, then lie to become a goddamn lawyer!
Welcome to the horror author’s real world; I hope you enjoy your stint within the land of poverty.
As I am sure Clay Akin gets mad when someone calls him a frocio; well that world political correctness is nonexistent to me. I am sure someone will be asking what that means... This world I have seen and the news I had read over the years; walking the same 8 miles for six years of my life observing the nightmare unfolding before everyone and scandals that become. That world left me unnerved some but writing of the way it is seeing gangs emerged among the shadows where the supernatural dark tone draws into there the question begins. Will you come to me when you have blood upon your hands?
“Am I the Lord of this World? The fact being that they came to me with their greed and pride; but they turn away from me when it’s their turn to go...”
In my head I can picture the subjects of the Chicago Tribune articles saying, “Give me your motherfucking money now!”
“Give me your money, motherfucker!”
“Please I have a family at home!”
“Fuck your damned family!”
The mental picture from the reality from that mid-era of the 1990s is as dark as the chapter of Mason City, Iowa’s history that came to be a little more than a year later.
I am looking at the articles and asking again, “What have you done? What the hell have you....”
What truly frightened me more with Eric Wright’s victim as Wright claimed on the stand he valued human life. He (the murder victim) was the age I was when I finally wrote The Cabbie Homicide. In every fucking way that haunts me; that dark revealing true crime work. I could never distance myself from writing this even if I wanted to; that would been the first book I’ve done.
“Tell me something Glass, have you ever got in the head of someone who took someone’s life?”
The realization I fabricated nothing of my sources and what I read that they were a week earlier with the deed. Madmen -- what clearly do they really know, as Edgar Allan Poe wrote they know jack shit. As in Madmen knew nothing; when looking into the real world and making direct eye contact with the heart of darkness. Within the horror writer’s real world as I grew up; when writing fiction it always mirrored a reality that was in our back yards. There is a sense of horror a corruption gathered among my then classmates; the ones who claim to be all these squeaky clean spirit filled types. The forces of darkness claim to have no effect on them but they are the darkest souls to exist.
As Daniel Willow wrote in the beginning of his testimony five years ago in 2010, if you were to meet your fate where would you awaken? What kind of black soul would scare the fuck out of someone into the hands of a loving God as I am wondering about that. The world where Stephen Glass lied to everyone passing fiction off as truth; writing and being an editor for a magazine where truth is a key thing. Fiction after fiction passed off as truth as Shattered Glass related; as he kept saying he was “sorry” -- sorry is what he says, well sorry he was born. Someone who had died by the law as someone who tried for his bar examine as I read the article that mentioned his new career path is haunted by his old one.
This black world -- does the mirrors when they look at them, see The King in Yellow as chronicled by Robert W. Chambers. The realization that the King may have taken his life as Chambers gone under the knife; have I gone mad from the revelation of what happened those years ago? When this is a horror author’s real world and realizations what we’ve known; there are things I will say only God will know why. The realizations what we are they are not the plans we laid as sometimes it falls upon our lap and gone halfway across the world or spent three weeks alone in another country.
Those realizations and knowing such things we wish we didn’t know -- does it develop our character as my pastor spoke about back in 1994-1995? The world of semantics as that realization it’s just a word meaning in language and logic. Joel Olsteen will remind you how ‘everything is fine and you will be okay’ when the world had gone to fuck. One side of the coin as the King James Only types would had told us our family pet had no soul. On uncertain wings we had seen from the bleeding out from circumstances that will not be ours when the plans we laid had gone array.
Sweltered from our remains as the real world we see as charred remains. What madness we see and corruption within our generations born as one who was murdered would been born in 1968 -- as he would been the age of my then room mate. The real world one sees as disgraced rock stars picking on the little people as well who are across the sea; someone who you met up close and personal seemed so distant. The world one realizes born among those our generation gathering are the forever illiterate; illiterate and incarcerated is what some are damned to become. Welcome to the real world through the eyes of a horror author; where the world had turned black as the road to hell you laid is being paved. The crimes above reproach; the case with Stephen Glass -- how come he never was arrested for the fraud he did? Welcome to the world of the fabulist as Stephen Glass might be hired to be Rachel Dolezal’s biographer. The woeful desk of the fabulist becomes the real world of a horror author staring in the windows of their commute then reporting exactly what they see as Stephen King related.
Is one above semantics?
The reasoning some lack.
Looking into the real world as some would see the nightmare they’ve became; when classmates left their sad world open for scandal as this is the real world for them. Their adult years well I hate to really admit the bubble had bursted for around them -- that comfort zone I had forever disturbed. Brutal truths are something they don’t like to discuss begging Brutal truth to leave them be though the realizations become the shadows of one too many television tropes some may not realize. What does one come in mind when someone claimed, “Drugs made me do it!” or “The Devil made me do it.”
The horror authors real world as we eventually sealed inside with bricks as we’re another brick in this -- when someone is that, a brick in the wall. Education is what we need, and dark sarcasm was given in the classroom as this world we live in is real. The world where dropouts get honorary doctorates; in a world so bleak and grim the question being can they show me some hope? The ministry of hypocrites becomes the shadow of the mind; compassion is lost in semantics. Wandering of the mire of human trash and fecal matter with lungs, the thought of them is not their personality or much to keep as one is told to be kind.
As the saying goes, “There goes the fucking neighborhood.”
When you sit down and have a coffee with me; reading something as this -- the world is yes this is rather bizarre. Still yet; I am leaving it up to the reader to come to the conclusion if I am making this up or not. The world we realize as it is now; I can never accept it as I am not of it though I exist in it -- nothingmore as I do see how God gets mad at man sometimes.
“What the hell have you....”
What the fuck have you done? That’s the nightmarish question one sometimes asks when they had woken up screaming from a horror they had been tormented by for years. The horror from the revelation that drove them mad. The realization that my state produced Stephen Glass; someone needs to repeatedly take hin through that dark chapter in publishing time and again. Being in truth I will admit, as that’s the horror author’s real world to chronicle the dark side no matter how fucked up and bizarre it gets. The first days of the last become an evident thing when one wanders within the bleak realities born within a real world; where elves are nonexistent. As one would look outside from the Joliet train station waiting for the commute to come in or just look over the balcony of that Gothic looking structure. The intense and abject horror remains as this would be the gruesome cargo I still bear as damnation observed. Within this horror author’s real world; as the confessions of my revelations become too shocking to bare.
Like I said, “There goes the motherfucking neighborhood, judge lest ye be judged. When one seeks out the monsters one ends up becoming them if they’re not careful.”
When you see the world I see and observe from that balcony at the train station; from time to time for many years -- chronicled ones own nightmares for years. Facing one’s own demons; that real world one sees and gets afraid of. Belongs to me; and belongs to God.