Author: kjkovacs29

Writer of horror/fantasy and generally weird fiction: short stories, novels or poems. Sometimes writes about self awareness and/or real life issues in hopes that it will help someone, somewhere in this crazy, mixed-up world.

A Writer’s Pathway

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After over a year of planning the plots and ladders of The History of Ruth (H.o.R.) as an anthology, it has come to my attention that it needs expansion into a novel to do it justice. The idea for this particular story has been floating around my mind since 1999 when I was walking through the quad at U.M.B.C. in Baltimore, Maryland. That was when Ruth made herself known to me, and she’s been a naggy little bitch in the back of my psyche for decades now. Seems like a lifetime ago, and, in a way, it was. Back then, I was a different person, unable to articulate all of these things going through my head in a way that would make sense to anyone else. Unable or unwilling to share due to countless excuses. In those subsequent years, the story has been built and broken down more times than I can count. 

Back then, I thought that there needed to be a special alignment of time, space and energy that would propel this (awesome!) idea onto paper like some magical cosmic vomit in a series of epiphanies. After all, if it was not an interesting concept, it would not have haunted me all these years. As you can see from my lack of publication (except this blog space and my weirdo short fiction), that alchemy has not occurred yet. Instead, I was left molding a marble statue all this time, chipping away at it with a teensy chisel as time permits. 

*insert hand motions of tapping a chisel and a chink-chink-chink sound effect* 

That is the reality of writing–not the magic cosmic spew. Sure, some writers get struck by lightning and churn out a draft, then polish it and dispense for mass consumption with (what seems like) little effort. But, the reality is that, to master something, one needs to practice, practice, practice. Yup, bo-ring. Nose to the grindstone and butt in chair, day after day will win the prize. What is the saying? Ten thousand hours to mastery? Wonder where I am in that. By giving up the illusion that I am special freed me to write more and better and to be able to share it with others. Sure, I am still self conscious about it. But I am no longer scared that it isn’t perfect–whatever that means. 

I am a believer that there is a greater reason for the delay. It must mean that something did not feel right. Coming up with the ideas is never the issue. The fight is getting it translated from mind to the page. If I just wrote the first thing that came to mind, which I have done a thousand times, then pushed that out in the world, then it would probably fall flat and seem ingenuine. By accepting that it will be a pain in the ass and just getting it done bit by bit, it removes the emotions and taboos I built around writing that make it seem mystic. There is still emotion around writing, but I learned to channel that into the story, instead. 

A few weeks ago, I signed up to have my writing critiqued by others that actually write. This was the first time that I have asked for formal critique of my work, except for academic writing. Before, I would just have people read the self-edited stories and get general feedback. For the upcoming critique, I took the wrap-around story for my anthology that I had been stewing for over a year (above) and pulled it, coming up with a new wrap-around story just a week before the critique. I spent the day before and the hours preceding the video call restless and nervous. What if I am a terrible writer? What if it doesn’t make sense? What if they tear me apart? Did I do wrong to nix the other wrap-around and, instead, present something that was constructed in a flash? Don’t I need massive preparation to make something of worth? All of these concerns swirled around my jittery brain. 

The critique came and went. I survived. The group had a ton of helpful comments that let me tighten up my story, making it much better. I thought afterward, “See! You always freak out, but then everything ends up okay in the long run.” The new story was actually a much better fit for the anthology and gave me a whole new angle that I did not consider before. I thought about going back to my blog/website and changing my introduction and a few posts regarding H.o.R. being the anthology wrap-around. Instead, I am leaving it to (hopefully) inspire others who want to write to show the evolution of ideas/work and that it is a process that varies between people and has no defined speed. If you want to write, then write. Because that is what makes you a writer. 

The whole process is definitely taking longer than I would like, but, honestly, I don’t want to let it go until the story and characters absolutely ring true and I get it in the best shape I can prior to professional editing and/or publishing. Besides, I decided that I will do illustrations, which is taking some time. I want this, and every project, to be something that makes me feel happy, angry, scared, energized–everything, the same way I feel when I read works by talented authors. I want to emulate that phenomenon and share it with the world. I want to laugh out loud at the funny parts and exclaim, “Wha???” aloud at the plot twists while reading a book. You know what I mean…when your partner gives you the side eye because you seem to be talking to your book at the intense parts. There is no greater joy than being in the moment, taking a person out of their reality for a while, getting sucked into a story, eliciting goosebumps, chills or nausea right at the moment at which it was intended. 

There are no shortcuts through the tough stuff. Keep at it! Scenario drawing of another long-brewing story called The Narew Project. Eventually, this one will be released along with the other story podlings.

Snow Drift

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It was the third day of the search when they stopped looking for us. Gail and I are wedged together chest to chest, underneath a wall of stone and caved-in ice. The force of our fall was stopped by jagged pieces of ice catching on our clothes and gear, pinning us tight to each other, unable to maneuver in any direction to release us from the crevice. We yell awhile at first, then take turns struggling or talking each other down from panic attacks that seem to come in waves. As hours creep by, it is clear that nobody is coming. Our sniffles echo off the dark as the cold circles its fingers around our limbs. I thought we were already frozen together, already gone. She cried for hours before letting her urine go. Then she apologized for at least another half hour. The warmth was welcome at first, but now we are fused together by yellow ice. If we could break apart, it would surely rip fabric and flesh alike. 

I didn’t want it to get worse. She has been a purple blue for some time now. I close my eyes and think about happy times. I try to visualize the warm sun on my skin. I try to translate that burning sensation to one of heat instead of cold. Visions of a cobalt sky after rain and the teal Bahamian waters gives me a moment of rest inside my thoughts. I can even see the brown flecks of coral beneath the waters.

She whimpers now and then, most likely the hallucinations have fully taken her away now. Sleep well, my beautiful queen. I will miss you and your sense of humor. Her blond hair that stuck out beyond her beanie hat broke off in ragged chunks where her sweat had frozen. When her mind started to go, her struggling broke the pieces of hair clean off in vertical chunks, still frozen upright to the shoulder of my jacket with the adhesive of her sweat and tears.

She hasn’t whimpered for awhile now. I push inside my mind. If I pay too close attention to the physical, I would panic, and that wouldn’t be good for either of us. Somewhere between dreams and dying, I imagine the sound of an electric guitar with just enough distortion wafting through the caves. I believe the sound’s originator calmly picks the notes wherever he is waiting…one-two, one-two-three-four…one-two, one-two-three-four…

But, who knows which pathway would lead me to the player if I could move? I relax into the sound of picked ringing strings, coming in succinct waves with its limp wrist like that Deftones song. I think of the line, “There’s still blood in your hair,” and think back to what happened to us and that bleeding would have been easier. 

It was inevitable that we would be abandoned. The storm had come upon us like a bullet train. If there were animals or trees in this desolate place, they would have been flattened by the force of the winds. Instead, I saw the ghosts of flurries coming in funnel-shaped waves across the flat lands where the snow never fully melts all year. Way up there. We had to go. Way up here. And then we fell. And now we stay, down here, nestled together, forever.

Van Cortlandt Bronx, NY, froze over, December 2019

Happy Halloween, All! It’s been a weird year. I’ve been under a rock, restructuring. Hope to rejoin the real world with some updates soon…

Deftones–Mascara; SuperDeftoner YouTube

Day in the Life

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Let me start this by clearly stating that I appreciate all of the hard-working delivery folks. Thank you–especially in this time of need when many people cannot (or should not) be out shopping! I went to the post office today to pick up a package. This is a grueling affair on a normal day in the Bronx, NYC. Today, it is in the 80’s, humid as a jungle between rain showers and in the middle of a pandemic. 

Let me show you an example of social distance in the regular world: 

I_ I _ I _ I _ I _. 

Then, there is social distancing in the Bronx:

LLLLL. 

In addition to the sweaty reality of standing in line inside the balmy, recycled air of a government office, a drunk schizophrenic stands leaning on the counter near the front of the line. He mumbles gibberish, carrying on a conversation with an unseen person. That would be absolutely fine, usually–this is the inner city and homelessness and mental health are historically abominable. The thing that makes me nervous is the guy has a sudden crescendo in his garbled speech, stands upright (albeit in a light sway from the empty 40 oz. he left at the door) and reaches down to his right belt loop to his knife holster. He pulls the knife out, fisted in a hand that bounces up and down in the air, threatening his unseen acquaintance. That invisible asshole must have said something mean. 

I am at the front of the line and stand still, watching for signs if he will come at us. The line of folks behind me flattens against the wall. Dumbasses–don’t make sudden movements in front of a mad dog! Knife-guy has crazy eyes behind his blade when he looks in our direction, but I realize that he may not really register any of us standing there. The post office workers raise a tired eye at him behind their thick plexiglass and carry on their business. I stay still and observe, deciding that, if he lunges, I am gonna drop to a crouch and either punch him in the nards or do a badass low roundhouse kick and take his feet out from under him then tie him up with my headphone wires. The first would be better as I am out of shape and would most likely pull my back out attempting a spin kick, land on my face and get stabbed in my spine. 

Crazy eyes put the knife away again, continuing his unintelligible conversation. Then, he wobbles toward the end of the line with 8 pairs of eyes crawling on his movement. He uses his hands to drum an arrhythmic beat on the wall as he heads to the back corner of the room behind the last person. He puts an elbow on the back wall and leans against it, palm against the side of his face, still muttering away. 

Meanwhile, I approach the register to retrieve the package that they refuse to deliver to my doorstep (the whole point of home delivery). I appreciate it that they don’t want my stuff to be stolen if left outside the apartment building, but I have consented for them to leave my packages at the door and accept the risk. I have told them this multiple times and they promise that the delivery guy won’t do it again. Mmm-hmm. I know for a fact that they don’t even ring the bell as I am waiting for the package at home ALL DAY. I got the alert that it was “delivered” but the doorbell never buzzes. Then, magically, a “missed delivery, come get your shit” sticky note somehow appears on the entrance door of the apartment. It is coffee and vitamins, for goodness sake, hardly the Hope Diamond. I should make a complaint again, but I hate doing that. If I do, I now have the proper fodder: Post office trips not only eat my time and soul, but apparently put me at risk of being stabbed.

It could happen anywhere! Real-life nursing school homework from a colleague, 2020.

Duplicitous Gemini

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July 2020 NYC, Still Don’t Believe in The Plague?

The shadows have found us, but we can enjoy the shade a bit. Once thought impenetrable, the castle has fallen and all of them scatter to the winds. Each person is a silo of themselves. Especially now. It is all an illusion. We will wake from this. 

Lizards, limes and dollar coins with Sacagawea each point towards evidence that predicted this. But where did you go? I see you in the corner chatting with those poor people, trying to avert the eyes from the center of the room. Gandhi walks in like a breeze, pulls up his robes and sits cross-legged and bare-assed on the black marble floor, him smiling with the little shock of the cool floor against his junk.   

One steadfast person with an unwavering ability to spin opinion confessed anxiety to me. Sure, I watch horror and like some creepy things. But, that loss of faith from a place that is not expected knocked me to the floor, blindsided. 

So, there we were–my face and Gandhi’s balls–atop that cold black marble, considering our predicament. Realizing that he is anxious gave me the chills. If this strong man can be affected with the mind fuck that is going on these days, then there are trillions of other less fortunate ones that must have busted seams with their floof poking out. We are all dried and used, waiting for the next step. Low energy mode is what I call this. 

“Can you get the door?”

I sit.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

I wait. 

Footsteps are heading this way now. 

His face peeps around the corner. 

“Hey!” He waves his hands sideways at me. “I am talking to you!”

“I know.”

“Well, why aren’t you answering me? Can you go get the door?”

I am lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. He is in the bedroom putting clothes away and tinkering with things all around me, full of energy. 

“You are already up.”

He stares at me. 

I stare back. 

He walks 20 more feet and gets the door. 

See? Low power state. Low energy mode. No need to expend anything extra. Whatever will get me through the night without the night terrors wrapping me in sweat. There must be some incantation to whisk these memories away. But, for now, there is again a mantra: Don’t freak out ‘til you know what’s up. I can’t control the past or the future so I need to focus on this moment and just hang on for the ride. We should dive deeply into whatever is the next task, solving problems bit by bit until one day we look up and realize we finally made it through.

Perhaps a COVID-19 flower will make you stay indoors.
Kid Cudi-Pursuit of Happiness ft. MGMT

Marinating

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Bronx, June 2020. Still stuck in it.

I awoke early this Saturday morning to what sounds like the soundtrack for The Omen. Why are dreadful, frightening opera/chorus pieces being blasted through someone’s stereo at this time of day? I look to the light clinging to the walls around my curtain to guesstimate what time it is. The sunlight seems far after dawn, its hands creeping through the window, waiting to gain purchase and pull itself inside. It seems grey today, flat, without warmth.  

That is where bitter lies. Between the sheets and blankets, sweating on itself into the morning hours. Turning over for a fresh spot without calm, always in motion, even in dreams. It is exhausting, causing strange headaches and pressure in the sinuses from the altitude. Too dry up there. Should have hydrated better before we died for the night. Instead, like the Grey House, I wait in mummy form. I don’t mind, until it chases away those who are watching and waiting. Oh, don’t test me. I will outlast them all, lying here. There are many things that we have learned to allow around us instead of interacting and attempting to affect everything. Too much to stick a finger in, so I let it flex inward instead. As the tissues dry, each finger curls in invitation to lie down and be calm, patient. Ten soldiers at rest, pointing at me. 

Between the headaches and waves of nausea, two eyes peer steadfast out of the other hole in the blankets. The swinging of the fan blades creates wind tsunamis with its movement back and forth. I see two white dots in a field of black, the reflections appearing there, moving in tandem to follow any new focus. The slight air current makes them blink out of existence for a millisecond, making me wonder if I am seeing them floating there at all. 

Emergence from blankets reveals a face around those eyes with their specks of reflections. The tiny worlds in her hair get blown about in annoyance by the air, so she ties it back, even though it’s short. Now, if she moves her head in an abrupt way, the tiny ponytail wiggles like raw chicken pulled apart and hanging by a tendon–like the articulations in a leg or a wing with the quivering fat and skin following in the breeze behind the mass. 

Or, was it a him? They are all the same. All in one, those that hide. Either way, don’t press on its belly or else it will spew back up the snot it’s swallowed all this time. It is rather unfortunate to taste it once, let alone twice. Let it pass past the sphincters and let it be done.

Down Below

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I am so far not liking the supernatural elements of Penny Dreadful: City of Angels (CoA). Are they supposed to represent spirits, demons, good/evil and/or to mirror division of the races and the fear that gripped LA at that time period? All of it is mostly about people drama. The first Penny Dreadful series was straight up fun with monsters and evil. We all already know that people are evil. The new series does have cool costumes, though. Guess I need to continue to watch to find out how it will evolve. Oh wait….

I can’t! I needed to cancel my premium subscriptions because my greedy provider decided to significantly increase my monthly bill without explanation. Price gouging is not any urban legend here in New York. I get it, we are all under duress. Personally, I really need the TV (and/or streaming services) to take my addled mind off of the crapball situation that the world is persevering at the moment. The stories on my screen or in pages are some of the only things that make me feel better–or, at least, let me forget everything for a while. This is one of the reasons that I write–to gift that little slice of forgetfulness of the world to myself and others.  

Back to the CoA commentary, though. The soundtrack is quite good from what I can hear so far, sort of reminds me of the vibe of an Universal Hall Pass song, “Katrinah Josephina” (below). I will most likely seek out the CoA soundtrack for background listening while writing once it presents itself. 

The next item of commentary is on one of the killings that occur in the series that was quite realistic and exceptionally graphic (spoiler alert-ish, so beware). First of all, I must say that it is quite difficult to gross me out. Loving the Horror Genre as I do, there are only a handful of scenes over years of material I’ve enjoyed that have made me wince or get a little nauseous. Besides, after years of healthcare in both Baltimore and New York, plus working in Emergency Departments, you can imagine I see things that are horrible on moral, spiritual and physical levels in real-life, too. 

The scene that made me pleasantly disgusted was the killing of a member of one faction of the other by slitting his throat with a switchblade, which was wielded by an inexperienced youth. Generally, when throats are slit on movies/TV, it is a straight and unwavering sort of cut–deep and final. Those actors usually grasp their neck across a wound that resembles a choker-necklace made of blood as they make gurgly noises. More often than not, there is an open expression of surprise on their face as blood seeps through their fingers before they fall to the ground to die (and the bad guy inserts a witty comment right there). To be fair to the actors, I suppose I would also be surprised if that happened to me.

The one from CoA is different than the norm above, which is exactly why I liked it. This is what I would imagine it would really be like; needing several cuts and sawing through the sinew of the neck to ensure the vessels were caught. There was no mercy in it, just frantic sawing and stabbing, like a brutal butchering of an animal to make sure that it was dead, or else it may turn around its accusing eyes on its assailant. For the CoA scene, they may have well used a spoon with all that effort it seemed to take to cut through this guy’s neck. I’m thinking someone needs their switch blade sharpened. Well done, whoever thought of that one–I am glad that there are still creative ways to gross us out. 

As taken from ZeraFang’s YouTube post

Ruins

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Thank you aYia for beautiful inspiration.

The reeds cut our bare feet running for the boats. There had been no time for shoes as we followed mother in our bedclothes. I was only ten years old, and my little brother was five. His small legs shuffled to keep up with mom pulling his little hand behind her after she extracted us from our hiding spots into a full run towards the river. In the distance, there were shouts and gunfire, fires being started. Hopefully, that would be enough distraction to allow us to get to the boats. Mother plopped each of us into the small row boat with her wild eyes darting around for threats, covering us with a coarse blanket smelling of hay and horse sweat. 

Mother said, “I love you both, always. Never forget. Now, row. Row hard and fast and get as far away as you can. Stay down. You know where to go. They will meet you at the Ruins.” She kissed our foreheads and heaved the boat with all of her might from where it was wedged, docked in the mud. My brother and I looked back at her shrinking figure on the shore, her hand clasped over her mouth as she shifted her weight one leg to the other, wanting to dive in after us, skirt clinging to her calves from the mud, awaiting her fate. Neither of us cried. 

As we withdrew from the shoreline, my brother said, “It smells like they are cooking pork!” I stared ahead, alternately rowing left and right with as much force as my muscles could bear to get away from that smell and all of the pain we’ve endured in hiding these last weeks. I clenched my jaw, not turning my head. I said to him, “That is what people smell like when they burn.” His face went white and he clutched the tattered cloth rabbit that mother had sewn for him tighter to his chest.  I saw he was shaking, but there was no time for consolation if we wanted to escape. 

After days of travel, aching muscles and rumbling bellies, the port of the Ruins came into view. We were filthy with the berry juice we used to dye our hair and our skin was burnt or peeling in various patterns from exposure to the uneven Spring sun as we stepped onto land. Still in our nightclothes from our night of escape, we entered the path descending to the center of the Ruins, both huddled together in the horse blanket with leaves and sticks from the riverbank tied to protect our feet. 

An eldery woman stood in the center by the old altar with a fire nearby, cooking something that made my stomach grumble more. She had apparently been expecting us. The lines of her face–crow’s feet and welcoming dimples–deepened with each step we took closer. She leaned on a walking stick in front of her that was carved of a twisted dark and polished wood, with a wolf’s head carved on the top. She had two bowls of bone broth and a loaf of bread waiting by the fire with blankets lying nearby for us to gather for a meal. My heart relaxed for the first moment in days, and I felt a sting of guilt over where my mother must be now. Those thoughts were fleeting, as the old woman was insistent, beckoning to sit and partake, which we did without hesitation. 

I tried to focus on the meal, and to keep hold of that feeling of safety. We had gotten away this time, most likely at great cost to our mother. I wondered how much more we will need to give up considering that we still need to run. I lean over to give my brother another piece of bread. Our eyes meet only for a moment, but I don’t see their childhood glimmer gazing back at me anymore. I wonder if I ever will again.

It Will Get Better (orignal post April 29, 2020)

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It generally takes some filtering to decide what goes up on the blog. Out of goofy rants and stories, there is also an undertone of genuine curiosity for life with its dangling thread of darkness wafting in irregular spurts in the breeze that my hand attempts to grasp along its voyage. That thread is tied tight to that poofy balloon of All That Goes On In The World Up There, which threatens to, one day, lift us away above it all. Until it does, it floats on across the landscape–at a critical mass going no lower or higher–just, moving forward. Curiosity does not always communicate into correctness. It is part of something innocent and wide-eyed. There remain posts when the mind is cut clean and blah-blah-bleeds to the page like the top of the head coming off of Canadian South Park Characters when they talk. 

Then, there are the timid that come vigilant to the spot where they think the thread will travel with best guesses and lots of calculations and numbers. They lie down and wait for it’s tail to wisp over the face. If it does, then there is instant understanding of where to go to get the next clue. The chase commences when the wind blows alternative directions. We cannot all run around grasping. Nor can all of us lie down to be the backs upon which the saved shall tread. Most of us are just moving forward just like that balloon, day to day, patching a path in front of us one step at a time without realizing from what material of the path is made.

An old colleague died by suicide and it made me pause. In this world, and in healthcare, we seem to just go from one task to the other, doing the best we can with often no thanks and often many criticisms. We act tough, but are only human ourselves. We need to remember that, though our job is to help people, that we need help from each other, too. There is help out there. If you need it, don’t be selfish–reach out for it–to family, friends or even strangers. You can get through it.

UPDATE March 31, 2023: Now the U.S. Suicide & Crisis Lifeline https://988lifeline.org made it easy to connect by allowing emergency access by dialing 9-8-8 instead of dialing the full number! Click the links above or below to access help or call 9-8-8 to get connected with services.

Home
Someone is ALWAYS there to listen!

Upward

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Casey looked upward as the drone of electricity grew louder and clouds moved toward themselves. Yellow-grey occluded fronts swirled together in front of her vision. This is the end. But, she smiled. She reached up and gently pressed the push-to-talk button on her transmitter, while her eyes remained locked on the skies seething in front of her. 

“Hey, guys. I’m gonna turn off my transmitter now in case I scream like a little bitch when I die. I love you all.” She then removed the earplugs so she couldn’t hear them protest that last statement. That would only make it harder to stand here and wait for the end. She focused on where the air currents met and was amazed at the destructive beauty unfolding around her, watercolor seams of doom and nothing but that strange peace in her heart. All that could be done had been done. 

She grasped the amulet in her hand, burning red ruby encased in bronze. Awaiting the impact coming any moment was surreal. She reviewed her life, deciding it was a good one. The earth vibrated at higher intensity beneath her feet, threatening to give way. She closed her eyes and grasped the amulet tighter, started to pray. To whom, it was unsure. But, to any that would listen for this plan to work. Shaking hands opposed her resolve. She inhaled the earthy smell that turned acrid on the wind preceding the blast.

The next few moments were confused hums in the ears. The violence of converging air jerked the body side-to-side while standing, momentarily lifting it off the ground before being thrashed and spun about in currents that pulled extremities in unnatural angles. She was excited that currents all converged toward her–that was clear from the way that she was blasted. The direction of upwards was a passing thought before she felt the weightlessness of the free fall. Last thing she saw was the approaching ground. She closed her eyes just before the impact. The air pressed out from her lungs in a hard thud against the ground and awareness went away. 

La Villette, 2018

Aspens

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He fell from the heavens to the Earth to the waiting snow. Puffs of diamond dust sparkle in cloudless sun with the impact. Pfffoooot. He lay there like a child, making an angel in the snow as the particles settle around him, sprawled and staring at the endless aqua sky beneath white, reaching branches of aspens thirsty for winter sun. There should be peace in a world connected to the heavens through nature. Humans rush around and miss all this. He stretched his arms and legs as far as they would go and considered the road ahead. 

He wondered if it was worth it to stand. Why depart from the feeling of the crisp air disappearing into his chest, becoming part of him before turning into tiny clouds dissipating with each exhalation? This moment should be savored. His eyes crossed to look at the condensation looming on his mustache. Then, a flash of white-hot guilt cuts to the guts, begging answers of why he decided to fall. He let the feeling wane, focusing again on the warm sun in contrast to the coolness seeping to his thigh backs resting on the snow. Life is long and full of complications. 

He lie back with another poof of the snow, looking toward the sky. Let one second be free to reach upwards just like the tendrils of the aspens. Hope is why he came here. One more second of enjoying the physical pleasures before starting the journey. 

Once the lie got out, everything got tainted. A futile attempt to erase watercolors. Everything already bled where it will settle. “It is out of our hands”, they said. But, whose hands is it in? That is the question. I am on  a quest, looking for the one in charge. It is strange to get used to waiting for something that won’t come. A shift in focus is warranted, but, that may take some time *palms your head down below the water*. They treat him like a dry erase board. Do this. Go here. Adapt. It’s a ghost of a joke the next day. No intent to assemble the bigger picture.

“Oooooh’s” to Heavens. Aspens, 2015