Note: for this month’s Bowlesian! I thought I’d share the first chapter of my newest novel, just released on Amazon this week. Please enjoy this sneak peek of “Resurrection Mixtape”. It’s all in the music, man. Press play at your own risk.
A mutual acquaintance introduced us. Years ago, when we were still in school. Emily was new to the city and wary of putting herself out there, which I could align with, because I wasn’t always eager to let new people into my life either. As it turned out, we both had respectable music collections. Her lexicon of rock and country and hip-hop and jazz, roots music, metal, soul, R&B, it was terribly impressive. I told her as much.
“Maybe we could combine forces and start a radio station,” she laughed.
“People don’t listen to music anymore. Not like they used to.”
And she gave me a puzzled look. “Yes, they do. Who on earth told you that?”
Emily didn’t buy the bad in life. Rented it sometimes, maybe. But rarely did she dwell therein. Everything we went through together, and she ended up with a guy named Guy. Stupid name for a guy, right? I mean, Guy. Barely a fucking noun. Guy was a real estate man, loaded, paid for one hell of a funeral. I attended of course. I forced myself to go. All it did was hurt me. I could’ve loved her better than anyone else. I would’ve seen to her every … well, I would’ve seen to her.
Maybe the MC at her wake played Bridge Over Troubled Water or something. I don’t remember. Emily would’ve preferred a more personal touch, perhaps even a song or two from one of her famous mixtapes….
* * * * *
Late Sunday Night—or early Monday morning, if you prefer
Summer in Seattle—KNOCK, KNOCK
Who’s there?
The dead woman standing at my doorstep could not account for herself, how she’d gotten there, by what incredible means. Expression vacant and gloomy, her eyes shifted from the contours of the porch, to my face, to the bright interior space behind me. My dearly departed friend, Emily Greer, almost a year to the day since she died in the fire. Not a ghost or a demonic apparition, not charred to a cinder or desiccated, sticky with rot, disfigured beyond belief.
Nope.
She looked perfect, untouched, like she’d just stepped from one of my memories. Naked and soaked in sweat, she shivered like a Pomeranian, like she’d just come through some terrible ordeal.
“Emily,” I breathed.
To which she replied, “Bluuuurgh.”
I blinked at her, dumbfounded, mind gloppy like horse glue. A soft vodka belch escaped my lips. Clearly, my night had shit-slipped into a different plane of reality. This was quickly and decisively not okay with me, like the music of Jared Leto or those little blonde fucks who sang MMMBop. It was well past midnight, humid and still. I felt hot and tired. Inebriated. Bewildered.
Those we connect with—in whose mental and emotional machinery we become entangled—enter and exit our lives at specific times for specific purposes. After everything I’ve seen, I can come to no other conclusion. But for me and you and everyone else, purpose can cut both ways. Like maybe you only meet someone so they can screw you over, make you feel scared or small, scar you up for the rest of your life (and maybe even your afterlife).
Case in point.
Emily held something small in her hand, just a little thing. Its plastic body reflected the soft, normative glow of my 60-watt porch light. An old audio cassette. Or maybe not old at all, hard to tell. She seemed to perceive its existence the same moment I did. She glanced at it and gurgled. Her hand trembled as she passed it to me.
“You … you want me to have this?” I asked.
Her head lolled to the side.
“What for…? What’s on it?” I said.
I scanned one side of it, Side A, then I flipped it over and scanned Side B. Clear body, bold crimson Maxell logo, its label inscribed in black ink: FOR THE MAN WHO HAS EVERYTHING. Once death and resurrection are on the table, one abandons compelling discriminative thinking anyway. I just so happened to have an old workhorse HiFi system sitting next to the TV in the living room. Tape deck still worked fine, too.
I told her she’d better come inside, that I had nosy neighbors. No skin off her bare ass. She staggered through the door, knocking into me as she crossed the threshold. The television blared at us from the next room. A Pink Floyd documentary I’d been dozing through. Dark Side of the Moon, spacey and comforting. I shut the door behind her and told her to sit tight while I went to flick it off. I was gone twenty seconds at most. When I turned around to head back, I found her seated comfortably on my sofa.
“How…?” I said.
“Bruglps.”
“How’d you move so—”
“Plurrbsss!”
“Okay, playing it. No need to get prickly.”
Machinelike, I powered up the HiFi, slid the cassette into the tape deck, hit the play button. A slight audio compression noise filled the room, the whir of blank magnetic space, a click when it tracked. A strange voice blasted from my upright speakers.
“Jason Halifax,” it said, “you are called. We call you. Play this cassette in full every Monday for precisely five weeks. Play it in full now and then follow our prescribed schedule for the remainder of the attenuation period. Do not deviate. We cannot stress this enough. Terrible things will happen if you do. Just awful.”
The voice was neither masculine nor feminine, young nor old. It was cold and ethereal, seeming to fill my mind as much as my ears.
“Upon completion of this task, Emily Greer will have regained her faculties in full. Made whole, better even. Quite simply, you will witness the birth of a god among women. You have been advised and duly warned. End spoken word portion.”
A clean, jangling piano flooded the sound field. My heart skipped a beat as it cycled through some pleasant seaside chords. A snare drum popped, a kick thudded, and the tempo changed. Billy Joel started singing Only the Good Die Young. 1978, charted at number 25, track six off his album, The Stranger.
I glared at Emily. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
* * * * *
For the Man Who Has Everything wasone of a dozen mixtapes Emily gifted me over the course of our ten-year friendship. It was a hobby of hers. She accepted and adored all kinds of music. I’ve never known anyone so universal. Her latest and greatest contained ten tracks in total. A few notable inclusions:
Blinding Lights, by The Weeknd, released in 2019. Driving, dirty synth pop with potent neo Michael-Jacksonian vocals.
My Sharona, by The Knack, recorded in 1979. Energetic and meaty. A pop classic everyone loves to hate or hates to love.
Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me), by The Temptations, released in the year 1971. The ultimate unrequited love song. So many beautiful bits and pieces. A delicate yet powerful composition, poetry in motion.
“You made this for me?” I asked, meaning the playlist itself.
Her head tipped back and then forward.
“Why?” I said.
She looked down at herself, patted her knees, seeming at last to have noticed she was freebirding it.
“You need something to wear. Thank you for that,” I said.
I tore my eyes away and headed upstairs to the bedroom, pilfered the pile of clothes lying on my floor. A t-shirt and some black sweatpants. They’d have to do. The muffled, soulful strains of Just My Imagination called to me. The song should’ve acted as a balm, a healing touch, but no such luck. I was just as busted up and bewildered as the night I heard about the fire.
Contrary to what I’d once believed about us, Emily never was Lennon to my McCartney, Simon to my Garfunkel. We were more like an alternate comic book dimension Rogers and Hammerstein. Like maybe Rogers writes the lyrics while Hammerstein shits in the corner. Repeatedly, just shitting over in that corner he shits in all the time … complete dissimilarity to the actual …you get my point.
Not because of who she was, understand. For what I turned into in pursuit of her. Love is destructive even at its purest and best, complete and all-powerful in its ability to obliterate and violently remake you. I’d become averse to love, superstitious of it, and for what it’s worth, willing to let any and all opportunities pass. I thought about that as I shook loose change from the pockets of the sweatpants. How many times I could’ve gotten with someone but elected not to on her behalf. I could’ve fucked my way into some kind of reasonable mental clarity. You never know. Instead, I chose the way of the lovelorn monk, because there’s so much joy to be had there.
Sighing, I tucked the clothes under my arm and headed back downstairs. She was right where I left her, on the sofa, listening to the music.
“Emily,” I said, “how is any of this possible?”
She stared at me like I’d just asked her to solve the relativistic mass-energy equation. The mixtape tracked to the next song, Style by Taylor Swift. I wondered if she knew I hated Taylor Swift (I mean, outwardly, anyway—what kind of monster literally hates Taylor Swift?).
I eyed her, resisting my growing resentment of the lack of reciprocal mental feedback. Setting the clothes beside her on the sofa, I noted how doped up and dreamy her big googly eyes appeared. I helped her dress. One arm and then the other, her legs, flimsy as noodles, awkward to stuff down pant legs. My hand touched the inside of her thigh. Still slick with sweat. Up, dude, look up.
Emily gurgled again at me. I offered her something to eat, mimed shoveling food into my mouth.
“Blarrss,” she said.
“Food, Em.”
Her body and expression froze. Her next intended syllable—whatever that may have been—stuck in her throat. She went very pale, rigid.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Not hungry?”
A subtle chill passed over the room, a lazy coolness like from long afternoon shadows. The wooden framework of my home creaked and groaned. Emily let out the most godawful moan I’d ever heard. The blood drained from her face, her eyes darting around, lips quivering. She collapsed into my arms, her body beginning to convulse. Worming and wriggling as she was, I couldn’t get a grip on her. The same disembodied voice from the cassette exploded from her mouth.
“This is not a social call, Jason Halifax,” it said. “Contractual obligations must be met. Our conglomeration simply could not turn a blind eye to the situation at hand.”
It dawned on me this voice, this presence, expected a response.
“This is about a contract?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember signing any—”
“You signed with your soul, Jason, with your intentions and all your secret hopes and desires. You believed this woman should be yours. Evidently, she did not disagree. Neither could the contract have been fulfilled while she was dead. Obviously so.”
“What do you mean she didn’t disagree? Who are you?”
“God,” the voice said.
“Really?”
“No, not really. That was a joke.”
The most bewildering and unnatural laughter rocked poor Emily’s body. It sounded like demons baying in skanky reverb, a mess of harsh unholy shit-swallowing. And I’ve never swallowed shit before, right? But contextually speaking, it sounded like goats suck-starting an elephant.
“Listen,” I said, “if we’re only gonna talk crazy here, I’m going to need something heavier than vodka.”
“Crazy? You’ve no comprehension of the word. Our true nature strains credulity. To attempt a worthy explanation of who we are and what we’re capable of would doubtless mystify you. Emily loved you dearly. That’s the important thing. It hurt her very much that you drifted apart.”
“That’s not how things were. I don’t believe you, Skeletor.”
“Skeletor. Ha. Yes, well looks can be deceiving. Make her whole, Jason. Protect this life, her life, her second chance. Love her with all your heart and soul. Isn’t that everything you’ve always wanted?”
And that’s it, folks! Pick up your copy of Resurrection Mixtape now. Thanks for reading, and I’ll be back next month with a December Bowlesian! short story that’ll knock your socks off. Goodbye!
Jeff Bowles is a science fiction and horror writer from the mountains of Colorado. The best of his outrageous and imaginative work can be found in God’s Body: Book One – The Fall, Love/Madness/Demon, Godling and Other Paint Stories, Fear and Loathing in Las Cruces, and Brave New Multiverse. He has published work in magazines and anthologies like PodCastle, Tales from the Canyons of the Damned, the Threepenny Review, and Dark Moon Digest. Jeff earned his Master of Fine Arts degree in creative writing at Western State Colorado University. He currently lives in the high-altitude Pikes Peak region, where he dreams strange dreams and spends far too much time under the stars.
Today is my birthday. I am 65 years old. This afternoon with the arrival of the post I have just spent a happy half an hour opening my cards. One friend has sent me a card with a horse’s arse on the front of it – I have no idea why, but she always was a trifle weird.
I have no idea where the time has gone, but it has definitely gone and I am teetering on the verge of being an official old age pensioner. Yes… next year I can claim my state pension, free bus pass, and then turn off my NHS laptop and RETIRE.
Retirement has always been something that happens to old people, but now very soon it will be happening to me. When I started work at the hospital back in 2002 most of the secretaries were older than me. Now they’re all younger…
Day 7 of the WordCrafter “Visions” Book Blog Tour finds us over on Roberta Writes with a guest post from contributing author Stephanie Kraner and a review of her story by Robbie Cheadle. Join us to learn more about this exceptional multi-genre anthology and don’t forget to comment for more chances to win one of five free copies of Visions.
WordCrafter Press is proud to present Visions, a fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and horror anthology.
Blurb
Fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and horror stories that will keep you awake long into the night.
An author’s visions are revealed through their stories. Many authors have strange and unusual stories, indeed. Within these pages, you will find the stories of eighteen different authors, each unique and thought provoking. These are the fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and horror stories that will keep you awake long into the night.
What happens when:
An inexplicable monster plagues a town for generations, taking people… and souvenirs?
A post-apocalyptic band of travelers finds their salvation in an archaic machine?
The prey turns out to be the predator for a band of human traffickers?
Someone chooses to be happy in a world where emotions are regulated and controlled?
Day 4 of the WordCraafter “Visions” Book Blog Tour finds us over at Robbie’s Inspiration with a guest post by contributing author, C.R. Johannson and a review of er story, “Her Beholder” by
Robbie Cheadle. Come join us and don’t forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a free digital copy of the anthology.
WordCrafter Press presents Visions, a fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and horror anthology.
Giveaway
Five digital copies will be given away in a random drawing at the end of the tour. Each stop visited earns an entry. Let me know you were there by leaving a comment.
Blurb
Fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and horror stories that will keep you awake long into the night.
An author’s visions are revealed through their stories. Many authors have strange and unusual stories, indeed. Within these pages, you will find the stories of eighteen different authors, each unique and thought provoking. These are the fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and horror stories that will keep you awake long into the night.
What happens when:
An inexplicable monster plagues a town for generations, taking people… and souvenirs?
A post-apocalyptic band of travelers finds their salvation in an archaic machine?
For Day 3 of the WordCrafter “Visions” Book Blog Tour, we’re over on “The Showers of Blessings” with a guest post from contributing author DL Mullan. Join us to learn more about her story “Reality Hackers”, and about this exceptional new anthology.
It’s my pleasure to host Day 3 of the new anthology Visions, compiled and edited by Kaye Lynne Booth.
Giveaway
Five digital copies will be given away in a random drawing at the end of the tour. Each stop visited earns an entry. Let me know you were there by leaving a comment.
Blurb
An author’s visions are revealed through their stories. Many authors have strange and unusual stories, indeed. Within these pages, you will find the stories of eighteen different authors, each unique and thought-provoking. These are the fantasy, science fiction, paranormal, and horror stories that will keep you awake long into the night.
What happens when:
An inexplicable monster plagues a town for generations, taking people… and souvenirs?
A post-apocalyptic band of travelers finds their salvation in an archaic machine?
The prey turns out to be the predator for a band of human traffickers?
Today, I am delighted to welcome talented children’s author, illustrator and poet, Judy Mastrangelo, as my Treasuring Poetry guest with her new book of poems for children.
Which of your own poem is your favourite?
SWAN BOAT
by Judy Mastrangelo
A Graceful Swan Boat
glides through quiet waters.
***
Sing to me my little ones of
Lands where Dreams are Born.
***
Sky Dreams, Cloud Dreams,
Castles full of Fairy Tales.
Lands where Elves dwell,
and Fairies dance till morn.
This is a beautiful poem, Judy.
What inspired you to write this poem?
Being an illustrator/artist, plus an author, I often begin a creation with an image that appears in my imagination. I call it a “Mind Painting”. This little poem came to me along with the Fairy image, with its lyrical song-like verse. The rhythm of the words seemed to go along with the gentle rocking of the Fairy Swan Boat as it floated down a magical stream in Fairyland.
What are your plans for your poetry going forward?
I’m now working on some books of original fantasy poems that I’m illustrating with my artwork.
What is your favourite poem?
THE FLY-AWAY HORSE
by Eugene Field
Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse– Perhaps you have seen him before; Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept Through the moonlight that floats on the floor. For it’s only at night, when the stars twinkle bright, That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane, Is up on his heels and away! The moon in the sky, as he gallopeth by, Cries: “Oh! What a marvelous sight!” And the Stars in dismay hide their faces away In the lap of old Grandmother Night. *** It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse Speedeth ever and ever away– Over meadows and lane, over mountains and plains, Over streamlets that sing at their play; And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he, While the ships they go sailing below, And he speedeth so fast that the men on the mast Adjudge him some portent of woe. “What ho, there!” they cry, As he flourishes by With a whisk of his beautiful tail; And the fish in the sea Are as scared as can be, From the nautilus up to the whale! *** And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those far-away lands You little folk dream of at night– Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow, And corn-fields with popcorn are white; And the beasts in the wood are ever so good To children who visit them there– What glory astride of a lion to ride, Or to wrestle around with a bear! The monkeys, they say: “Come on, let us play,” And they frisk in the coconut-trees: While the parrots, that cling To the peanut-vines sing
And fan a cool wind with their wings!
*** Or converse with comparative ease! *** Off! scamper to bed — you shall ride him to-night! For, as soon as you’ve fallen asleep, With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away Over forest and hillside and deep!
Eugene Field is a new poet to me, but I loved this poem best from your new collection.
Why do you like this poem?
I feel that Eugene Field is one of the most beloved poets who wrote only for children. I feel a connection with him in that respect, among other aspects of his art, since the majority of my books are also geared toward the “Young and Young at heart”.
His poems are beautiful, imaginative, and full of a dreamy quality that children love. He’s known as the “Poet of Childhood”. This poem speaks to me with its childlike fantasy that conjures up some delightful images in my mind, and I thoroughly enjoyed creating paintings to illustrate it.
But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear In those beautiful lands over there, Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his far-away course With the wee one assigned to his care. Then grandma will cry In amazement: “Oh, my!” And she’ll think it could never be so. And only we two Shall know it is true– You and I, little precious! shall know!
Poems to Dream on by Judy Mastrangelo
What Amazon says
Artist Judy Mastrangelo’s magical and colorful paintings beautifully bring to life this collection of famous and beloved poetry, written by great poets of the past. Here are a few of her favorite poems she has chosen to illustrate for this enchanting anthology:
From Robert Louis Stevenson’s volume “A Child’s Garden of Verses”, you can have fun flying up in the air with “The Swing”, and looking for tiny Garden Fairies in his poem “The Flowers”. Eugene Field, known as “The Poet of Childhood”, recounts a comical “Duel” of the whimsical Gingham Dog and Calico Cat. And his lovely “Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street” takes us to visit her wondrous Land of Dreams. Joyce Kilmer expresses the beauty of “Trees” who wear “a nest of robins in their hair” in his celebrated poem. You will recognize the popular lines “All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small”, in the poem by Cecil Frances Alexander. The funny “Three Little Kittens” will give you a chuckle as they search for their mittens, and you will marvel at the beauty of the “road from earth to sky” in “The Rainbow”, by Christina Rossetti. The poem “Toyland”, written by Glen MacDonough, contains the familiar verse “Toyland, toyland, Little girl and boy land”. Thiswas set to music for the charming operetta “Babes in Toyland” by Victor Herbert.
Judy has also included some of her own original poems that she wrote and illustrated, such as the “Graceful Swan Boat”, in which you can sail away “to lands where dreams are born”. From her series “Garden Gates”, you will enjoy playing with children in the Buttercups, having a Foxglove Tea Party, marching in a Tulip Parade, and making a wish on a Water Lily Pond.
Both Children and Adults of all ages will delight in reading this engaging medley of poetry, as well as looking at Judy’s captivating, detailed, and stunning artwork, which enhances and illustrates it so perfectly. In her “Poems To Dream On”, she has created an endearing and tender book, which will be cherished by readers for many years to come.
My review
Poems to Dream on is a beautiful edition to Judy Mastrangelo’s family of books. She has selected several delightful poems and songs by a variety of poets, including a few contributions she penned herself, and illustrated them with her wonderfully colourful illustrations.
Although I am a great lover of children’s nursery rhymes and poems, several of the poems in this collection are new to me, including The Fly-Away Horse, The Duel, and The Rock-a-By Lady by Eugene Field and The Sandman by Margaret Thomson Janvier.
One particularly gorgeous verse from The Fly-Away Horse is as follows: “And the Fly-Away Horse Seeks those far-away lands You little folk dream of at night. Where candy-trees grow, And honey-brooks flow, And corn-fields with popcorn are white.”
My favourite of Judy’s own poems is Buttercups: “Buttercups are magical. They’re gifts from Heaven above, Which bring us Joy and Happiness In golden cups of Love.”
This book is perfect to introduce children to the magic of poetry and fantasy with Judy’s fantastic illustrations to bring the words to life.
Judy Mastrangelo has written and illustrated several books, which include themes of Poetry, Fairytales, and Fairies. She follows in the tradition of “The Art of the Golden Age of Illustration”. Some of her titles include: a series of four Fairy books: “Portal to the Land of Fae” which include Flower Fairies, Fairy Tale Fairies, Secrets of the Fairies, and Mystical Fairies. Additional books include “What Do Bunnies Do All Day?”, “Enchanted Fairy Tales”, which she illustrated and adapted, “The Star”, illustrating the poem Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and her new fairy tale “The Magic Blanket”. Besides creating books, her artwork has been used in several Inspirational Oracle Card Decks, as well as some that she has also written herself. She licenses her artwork for many products, including Art Prints and Wall Murals. Judy has taught Creative Drama and Dance as well as Painting, to Children and Adults, and has directed her own Community Theater for all ages. As part of her work, she enjoys encouraging people to develop their own Imagination and Artistic Talents.
Robbie Cheadle is a South African children’s author and poet with eleven children’s books and two poetry books.
The eight Sir Chocolate children’s picture books, co-authored by Robbie and Michael Cheadle, are written in sweet, short rhymes which are easy for young children to follow and are illustrated with pictures of delicious cakes and cake decorations. Each book also includes simple recipes or biscuit art directions which children can make under adult supervision.
Robbie and Michael have also written Haunted Halloween Holiday, a delightful fantasy story for children aged 5 to 9 about Count Sugular and his family who hire a caravan to attend a Halloween party at the Haunted House in Ghost Valley. This story is beautifully illustrated with Robbie’s fondant and cake art creations.
Robbie has published two books for older children which incorporate recipes that are relevant to the storylines.
Robbie has two adult novels in the paranormal historical and supernatural fantasy genres published under the name Roberta Eaton Cheadle. She also has short stories, in the horror and paranormal genre, and poems included in several anthologies.
Robbie Cheadle contributes two monthly posts to https://writingtoberead.com, namely, Growing Bookworms, a series providing advice to caregivers on how to encourage children to read and write, and Treasuring Poetry, a series aimed at introducing poetry lovers to new poets and poetry books.
In addition, Roberta Eaton Cheadle contributes one monthly post to https://writingtoberead.com called Dark Origins: African Myths and Legends which shares information about the cultures, myths and legends of the indigenous people of southern Africa.
Want to be sure not to miss any of Robbie’s “Treasuring Poetry” segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress. If you found it interesting or entertaining, please share.
The final day of the WordCrafter “Haunted Halloween Holiday” Book Blog Tour finds us over at Annette Rochelle Aben’s blog with one last guest post from author Robbie Cheadle and one last chance to enter the giveaway. Please join us in wrapping up this fabulous tour and send off this unique children’s book.
For Day 4 of the WordCrafter “Haunted Halloween Holiday” Book Blog Tour, we’re over at “Carla Loves to Read” with two more intriguing questions for Robbie and a wonderful review by Carla Johnson-Hicks. Join us.
Day 2 of the WordCrafter “Visions” BookBlog Tour finds us over at The Showers of Blessings with host, Miriam Hurdle. Join us to learn more about this wonderful new children’s book, by Michael and Robbie Cheadle.
I’m delighted to welcome Robbie and Michael Cheadle to my blog today. They have a new book for your trick-or-tricking fun read with delicious recipes for the activities.
Haunted Halloween Holiday WordCrafter Book Blog Tour
Giveaway
For a chance to win one of three US$10 Amazon vouchers or one of three paperback copies of the Haunted Halloween Holiday, just leave a comment to show you were here.
Follow the tour and comment at each stop for more chances to win.
The prizes will be given away in a random drawing.
Robbie has been writing children’s books with her son Michael for years. It’s an admirable project between mother and son for such a long time. I invited Robbie to talk about Michael and their children’s books.
Hi Robbie, how did you begin writing children’s books with Michael?
Thank you for this question, Miriam. Michael and I started writing together…
