New Home, New Job, Same Old Stories

 

Florida!

No, I don't shout the names of random states now. The Coffman family has moved out of dusty old Kansas to sunny Florida. I have reconnected with some of my family down here and made this our home.

What does this mean for my writing? Nothing, so far. Between the move and getting settled in, as well as a new job, I have been a little bit busy. Editing for my next book is still on hold (yes, I know it's been over a year; I hate editing that much).

I woke up this morning with a renewed sense of purpose. It's time to get back to writing. First step is updating my blog. So, here we are...

*crickets*

Okay, so I don't really know what to talk about this time. I don't have any new short stories or poems at the moment. But, you know, purpose. I have also decided to rededicate my other social media ventures, specifically Tumblr and Twitter, to my author profile. You know, instead of just re-blogging funny cat pictures.

To any author friends who might be following this blog, I'm sure you understand those periods of zero productivity. At least, I'm hoping you do. Or, is it just me? Well, regardless of others, I'm back in the game. I have a ton of stories I want to tell. My only hope is that someone out there wants to read them

Thanks for the support,

Daniel P. Coffman, author.

Addy's Big Day

I got the idea for this story from a documentary. My mind wanders when I'm doing menial tasks (washing dishes, laundry, mowing), and sometimes often it goes to strange places. This is a very sad and dark story, so consider yourself warned.

Addy's Big Day

  Addison Barton spun in a pirouette, her frilly skirt cascading around her. Everyone clapped, and it made her smile. Today was her big day!

  She was up on stage, doing her part in the talent show. She looked out in the audience for Daddy, but there were so many people!  For a moment, Addy felt a little scared; all these people were watching her! But, she promised Daddy that she would make him proud.

  The announcer said her name again. The music started up, her cue to take a little bow, and begin to dance. Daddy said it was okay if she tripped or stumbled. She was only five years old, after all.

  She danced for the crowd, her eyes closed and listening to the tune playing over the speakers. She heard them murmuring, sounding pleased, enjoying the show. She opened her eyes once, to see if she could find her Daddy. He promised he would be there, probably in the back, but it was too hard to look with those bright lights in here eyes.

  Finally, feeling tired, Addy finished her dance and the music faded away. She was almost panting, face flushed, cheeks rosy with exertion. She was the last one to perform tonight. The announcer said her name a third time -it was such a thrill- then started saying a bunch of gibberish Addy didn't understand.

  Addy stood and waited for her score. Would she win the talent show? It didn't really matter, as long as she made Daddy proud. The score kept going up and up. None of the other kids in the show had gotten such high numbers!

  "1400!" the announcer cried out, pointing to someone in the audience. "Going once, going twice... 1400 to number," he squinted, "number 127."

  Everyone clapped, and Addy gave another bow. The nice lady from backstage came out and took her by the hand. Then, a friendly older man -he looked like someone's cheery uncle- came forward and took her other hand. She smiled up at him as he led her from the auditorium. She wondered what her prize for winning was going to be.

 

Dumped: a short horror tale

While laid up sick in bed last week, I found myself perusing short horror stories posted to Tumblr, as well as a few short films on YouTube. Most of them were far scarier than what I've found in mainstream books and films. Most of them were linked by a Tumblr user named sixpenceee.

These brilliant pieces inspired me to write my own. I rarely write anything less than 10,000 words. Short stories are not my strong suit. But, I felt like giving it a try. Here is Dumped. Let me know what you think:

Dumped

“Are you STILL obsessing over her?”

Erik jumped. Jordan, his roommate, was looking over his shoulder. He closed off the tab displaying Amelia’s Facebook page, but not fast enough. “I am not obsessing over her. I was just curious.”

“About what? She hasn’t updated her page in, what, seven weeks?” Jordan grinned. “Ever since you dumped her.”

Erik re-opened the lab report for Bio class. “Yeah, yeah. I’m not obsessing, though.”

“Whatever.” Jordan gravitated to his bed, grabbing his Political Science textbook from the shared nightstand. He sat against the headboard, flipping through pages. “Dictatorship… dictatorship… Ah!” He stopped around the middle of the book and scrunched up his eyes in concentration.

That sat like this, in silence, for at least an hour. Each working on assignments for school. It was the Saturday of a three-day weekend. Monday was to be a “faculty day”, whatever that meant. Jordan claimed that all of the professors went off and got drunk at a party.

Bio lab done, Erik peeked over his shoulder. Jordan was now deeply engrossed in his Poli-Sci book, making notes on a legal pad. He returned to Facebook, put Amelia Grossman into Search, and started sifting through her pictures.

“I thought you weren’t obsessed?”

Erik slammed the laptop shut. “Goddamnit! Can’t a guy have a little privacy?”

Jordan held up his hands as if in surrender. “Hey, chillax. Just making an observation.” In contrast to his words, he closed the thick book and slid off the bed. “All I’m saying is: it ain’t healthy looking at old pictures of chicks you’ve done. She wasn’t your first, or your last.” He knelt down beside his roommate. “Hell, you been through two girls since her, ain’t you?”

Erik sighed. “Yeah…”

“Well, what’s so special about her? You two weren’t together THAT long.”

Erik reopened the laptop and immediately closed off the browser. “Nothing. She was just… pretty, is all.”

Jordan waggled his eyebrows. “They’re all pretty, dude. Once you get up inside, it’s all the same.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “Geez, dude! That’s crude, even for you.”

Jordan stood up. He was tall, lean, and muscular. A soccer star in high school, he was gliding through college on a hefty scholarship. He was everything Erik wished he could be. “Whatever, dude. You’re no saint. You’ve been through your fair share of chicks.”

“Yeah, but I have at least a little respect for them.”

“Respect, shmee- Uh, schm- Fuck it.” He strolled back to his bed, gathered up the books, and dumped them into his backpack. “Actually, I gotta run to the library.” Erik started to speak, but Jordan cut him off. “I know, I know. The campus library is closed. I meant the one on Third St.” He waved the backpack back and forth like a pendulum. “I need one more source for this report. Feel like coming?”

Erik shut off the laptop and stood up as well. “Yeah. I’m actually all caught up with my work. But, I could use something to read.”

Jordan scoffed. “Nerd.” He grinned, letting his roommate know it was a joke. Despite the academic scholarship, Jordan was a good student, maintaining a B+ average.

Once outside, enjoying the sunny day, Erik felt the tension lift. His work was done. (Well, the essay for Lit needed one more edit, but that was nothing.) He had the next two days off, not including today, which was only half over.

“So,” Jordan said as they crossed the intersection two blocks from Third St., “planning on creeping through Amy’s Facebook on the library’s computers?”

“Jesus! What the fuck, dude? I told you, I’m NOT obsessed!”

Jordan looked around. Quite a few people were out enjoying the warm weekend. “Dude, keep it down. I’m just saying.”

“Well,” Erik replied in a lower tone of voice, “how about you quit just saying.” They came to the next intersection. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“True,” his roommate replied. “I’m just watching your back. What you’re doing is stalking.”

“What? No. No it isn’t.”

The light turned green; they crossed to the block where the library was located. “Yes. Yes, it is. Cyberstalking, or some shit. They can trace that kind of stuff.”

“Ah, you said it yourself. She hasn’t updated that page in forever.”

Jordan grumbled. “Look, stupid. She might not be on there, but her family could be. And if they see someone creeping on their daughter’s pictures, especially some guy, you could get in trouble.”

They entered through the big double doors of the library, forcing them to speak in low whispers. “Really?” Erik asked.

“Yeah. So I’d knock it off if I were you.” They found an empty table in a dim corner. Jordan dropped his pack on it, wincing when the thump echoed down the stacks. “Shit,” he whispered.

Erik grinned. “I’ll be back. Just gonna check out the new releases.”

He returned a few minutes later with two books and three DVDs.

“Dude, you can torrent any movie you want for free. Why rent discs?”

Erik shrugged. “It’s free. Why not?” He sat down across from Jordan and opened one of the books. “Wait. Weren’t you just warning me about screwing around online? What do you call pirating movies?”

“Not the same.” He had picked up a thick atlas for a reference while Erik was pleasure shopping. After taking a few notes, he closed it and slid it off to the side. His brow wrinkled again, this time at a disturbing thought. “Hey, you haven’t been stalking any of the other chicks, have you?”

“What?” Erik was so engrossed in the novel that he had to backtrack to understand his friend. “No. Hell no!” He whispered as loud as he dared.

“Good. But that makes me wonder: what was so special about Amy that you can’t stop looking her up? I mean, there was Rachel after her, right? AND Beth?”

“Amelia,” he corrected.

“I’m soooo sorry. Ah-mee-lee-aah.”

“Don’t be a smartass. And I don’t keep looking her up online. That was just today.” He gathered up his picks into a neat stack. “Find what you need? Then let’s go back. I think they close soon.”

Back in their little apartment –really just a bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette- Erik made a beeline for his laptop while Jordan set aside the Poli-Sci work for an overdue World Literature report. “God, I hate this shit. Why can’t these guys write in plain English?” He looked up, trying to catch Erik on Amelia’s page again.

Instead, his roomie was looking up the author of the book he had open on the table. Nerd. Suddenly, something Erik had said earlier struck him as funny. “Dude. Dude?” No answer. Jordan tossed a pillow at the back of his head. “DUDE!”

“What?”

“You said you didn’t keep looking up Amelia online. You haven’t been to SEE her, have you?” Erik pretended not to hear. “Dude? Dude, make me feel better. Tell me you haven’t been to her place.”

“Well…”

“DUDE! You are NOT serious with this!”

“Look, I just wanted to see her-”

Jordan stood up, towering over Erik. “Man, are you nuts? Cyberstalking is one thing. But, going to her place? That’s beyond crazy!”

“I know! I know! It was just the one time.”

The taller man closed the laptop. “Look at me. Say that again.”

“It was just one ti-”

“Bullshit. How many times have you gone digging around her place?” He grew deathly serious. “How many?”

Erik took a deep breath. “Three. Just three times! It was always a week apart!”

“Dude! You’re out of your goddamned mind! What IS it about her that has you peeping in on her? That’s some serious shit you’re messing with, man!” He started pacing the room. “At least tell me you haven’t been talking to her?”

“No!” he insisted, then withered under the other man’s scrutiny. “Well, this last time-”

“For Christ’s sake, man!”

Erik hung his head. “Fine! I don’t know what it is. She… stuck with me, you know? Got in my head. I keep thinking about the night dumped her.”

“That’s the whole point, dude! That’s why we do it! We see them for a little while, have some fun, and cut them loose. Shit, that’s the best part!” He grabbed playfully at his roommate’s shoulders. “You gotta let her go, man. Say your goodbyes and move along to the next chick! That’s how the game works.”

Erik patted Jordan’s hand. “You’re right. No, really,” he added, seeing the other man’s suspicious face. “There was this one girl I’ve been eyeing up…”

“That’s the way! Move on to the next chick. Get that what’s-her-name out of your head. Replace her. They’re just chicks, man! Don’t let them get to meaning too much. You’re a sophomore in college! You gotta focus on your grades. Chicks are a… diversion.”

Erik grinned. “You’re right!” He stood up and checked his cell. “In fact, I think I’m going to see if I can hook up with Celine tonight.”

Jordan spread his arms as if giving a fiery sermon. “That’s the spirit! Hallelujah!”

Erik did, indeed, seek out the girl from the doughnut shop. He sat and watched Celine work behind the counter while he finished off a small pack of doughnut holes and two hot coffees. When nearly two hours had passed without uttering a word to her, he decided to leave, lest she get the creeps.

He had to see Amelia, just one last time.

He and Jordan shared a car, mainly for picking up girls. And dumping them. Erik took it for a jaunt out of the town proper. The college and surrounding village were surrounded by farmland and forest.

Erik learned everything he knew about picking up chicks from his roommate. The man was a machine when it came to the ladies. Jordan took him under his wing freshman year when they ended up dorming together. By mid-terms, they decided to share an off-campus apartment. It was a lot cheaper and convenient. The taller, more worldly man had taught him everything about hooking up with and dumping chicks. “Stress relief,” he called it.

Erik kept driving until he came to a little wooded area about ten miles out of town. There was only one house in view, so he knew this was where he could find Amelia. He had to see her just one more time before letting go.

He cut the engine and got out. The house was abandoned, so nobody saw Erik take a mud-stained shovel out of the trunk. “Thirty paces from the road, then right another twenty,” he chanted. It was the same with all the girls. Thirty paces, then twenty.

He had to see her, just one more time…

What My Eyes See

 The fuck did I just read?

Poetry is not my forte. I won't mince words about that. I went through the "angsty teen" stage where I wrote poetry (for lack of a better word). It was childish, poorly constructed, and full of bad mixed metaphors. My friends said it was good. My (soon-to-be) wife loved them. Me? I've never been happy about the works from that period of my life.

In truth, the little book with my attempts at poetry have been in the bottom of a box for years, only seeing the light of day when we packed to move. The LAST thing I want to do is open one of those and relive the acute embarrassment they cause, like the memory of that time in fifth grade when I sneezed while laughing in the lunchroom and blew long, stringy ropes of mucus into my cupped hands.

Which is a story for another day.

All of that poetry rhymed, at first. I knew then that poems came in all forms: free-verse, haikus (*shudder*), limericks, sonnets, couplets, triplets, en passant, Capulets, monoliths, etc. (I may have confused some of these.) But, in my mind, poetry rhymed. I branched out, and later entries were more free-verse.

What I'm trying to say is, my poetry sucks.

I haven't even attempted to write a poem for years, possibly a decade. Even when it fit the personality of a character in one of my stories. Hell, lets be honest, most times I just don't GET poetry. I can visualize through prose. Most poems leave me lost. There are exceptions, such as Robert Frost, Longfellow, and Sylvia Plath. But their verse seems more straightforward to me. In a Creative Writing class in college, our instructor told us that the best poetry was simply prose broken up in irregular segments to emphasize key elements.

All that having been said, I felt a poem forming in my head earlier tonight. I just finished The Bell Jar, one of many wonderful books I picked up for a song at the Colby Library's book sale this Summer. It was my first introduction to Plath. After the story's end, there was a biography that included several of her poems. These drove me to look up more of her work online. (I love the internet!)

Now I suffer from that bane of the writer: an idea that won't shut the fuck up. So, here's my first attempt at poetry since Clinton left office. If you survived my self-indulgent rant above, this might be the thing that causes your aneurysm. Don't say you haven't been warned...



Only see what my eyes see
no matter what lies before
those things life intends for me
Only see what my eyes see.

Birds, bees, autumn leaves
disappear in a stiff breeze
and the sky opens up to breathe
Only see what my eyes see.

Gathered wisdom of learned men
so many words bound by pen.
Only see what my eyes see
despite the world around me.

Am I blind, devoid of sense,
bitter rage or innocence,
the whites are black, the iris bleached.
Only see what my eyes see.


Daniel P. Coffman

The "L" Word

I finally have a new laptop! (cue Theme From Rocky)

That may not seem like a big deal to most people. But, to an author, that can mean the difference between 500 words a day and 5,000. Especially when the "L" key doesn't work.

At first, this gave me no end of amusement, laughing at the words and phrases that appeared in my writing: "She ooked at him with ove in her eyes." Funny as hell. Unfortunately, I am the type who cannot ignore a misspelling or grammar mistake if I see it. Which means I was constantly eying up that irritating red squiggle, trying to continue the narrative, then giving up and going back to punch the "L" hard enough to leave a mark. It was like working on a faulty typewriter.

(Note to people born in 1990 or after: A "typewriter" was an ancient device people used for writing before word processors and computers.)

(Additional note to those born in 1995 or later: A "word processor" was an electronic typewriter.)

(Note to those born after the year 2000: The word "electronic" refers to... never mind.)

Anyhoo...  By the time I was getting to the end of my rope with that, the "N" key was malfunctioning intermittently. Also, the old laptop refused to stay online. There was a "WiFi" button on the front that had to be physically held to the right to stay on the internet. Eventually, even that didn't work, so I had to plug an old LAN card into the USB to stay on, but that had terrible connectivity, which made researching topics for my book, or advertising my previous work a nightmare.

Now, I'm averaging about 2,000 - 5,000 words a day.  I'm far less distracted while writing because there are almost no squiggly red lines to draw my eye. (Except for the occasional typo, that is.) The only downside is the EXTRA "L's" that come from the habit of hitting the key twice because I assume it didn't take the first time. That can get realllly annoying.

 I finished writing my newest book on the old laptop. Considering that it ended up being over 130,000 words, I don't feel bad about how long it took. My next book, which is in the works, will be a collection of short stories. The first story, a haunted house-type tale, is almost done. The next three (or four; I haven't decided) should not take too long.

I'm waiting on my initial editor, my wife Brenda, to read the epic and give me her much-needed feedback before making my edits and sending it out to be reviewed. So, don't expect that book, an end-of-the-world story, until Spring of 2015.

(Obligatory self-promotion to follow)

While you wait, why not give my first book, Four From Below, a read? It's available in paperback and ebook through Amazon, and also in paperback through Createspace.

Thanks, as always, for reading!

Daniel P. Coffman

HOW Many Words?

So, because of a faulty laptop, I ended up handwriting my book. Anyone who knows me understands that I hate handwriting ANYTHING, especially stories. There are three reasons for this:

-I type faster than I write
-editing is a nightmare
-my handwriting is awful

Seriously, it's terrible. If I do not reread what I've written within a couple of weeks, I won't be able to decipher what it says. So, I'm currently typing the handwritten pages into the computer, and it is taking forever. For. Ev. ER! At my last estimation, this thing is clocking in at approximately 125,000 words.

Did I mention that the laptop I am using is a oaner, and that the letter "L" only works half of the time. (By the way, I left that typo in as an example of my "L" problem.) Part of the problem is that I write better when I am not at home. We used to go to town twice a week, for shopping and doctor appointments. Brenda and I would always stop somewhere for a bite to eat, take out our notebooks (I actually used loose-leaf paper on a clipboard), and write for an hour or so.

Now that BOTH of our vehicles are not working properly (electrical problem with the truck and a blown strut on the car), I am always at home, surrounded by distractions. I planned on having this latest book done and published by July of this year, one year after publishing Four From Below. But this thing is eating me alive. It's grown from a nightmare I had a few years ago, to a short story idea, to a book idea, to (apparently) my magnum fucking opus.

Seriously, 125k? What the hell happened?

And I still feel like I didn't tell the whole story. It nags at me. Which is why I'm ADDING content as I type, instead of editing things out. Not good. Hopefully, I'll have it finished and published by the end of this year, but even that seems ambitious at this point. After it's typed up, Brenda will get first crack at editing, then I go over her notes and do my own. Then a third party edits this draft, and so on, and so on.

I just hope it lives up to all this hype and pressure. And a few missing "L's".

Daniel P. Coffman

What's In a Name?

This is the first post on my “author blog”. Just typing that seems… odd. Weird. With only one book published, and another on the way, I find it hard to use the “author” moniker in reference to myself.

While thinking up a title for this little act of self-indulgence, I decided to utilize the title of my first book, and the first story contained within. Four From Below is a collection of horror stories, a novella and three short stories, the first of which is titled “Help From Below”. You’ll have to read it to find out why. I suppose it makes more sense to name this the “Author Daniel P. Coffman Official Blog” or something equally pretentious. But I can’t bring myself to do that.

So, when I have several books published, this blog will seem strange. “Why did he name it after one book that isn’t part of a series or even have a sequel?” I imagine my hordes of fans will cry out in consternation.

Or not.

The short answer is: I like the title. The first story in the collection was always going to be called “Help From Below”. The name occurred to me at the same time as the concept. When my wife and I decided to make it part of a collection, the title of such seemed… obvious. Four horror stories. Four tales of things that are not as thy seem. Our nightmares from the depths of one’s psyche. Four… from below.

So there you have : the origin of Words From Below. Let me know when it starts to sound really wrong. Not that I’ll change it. I like making people feel weird. Read my book and you’ll find that out for yourself.

Daniel P. Coffman