Blood on the Page: The Complete Short Fiction of Brian Keene, Volume 1 Read online

  BLOOD ON THE PAGE

  THE COMPLETE SHORT FICTION OF BRIAN KEENE,

  VOLUME 1

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Foreword

  Portrait Of The Magus As A Writer (Interpolating Magic Realism)

  Captive Hearts

  Johnstown

  Waiting For Darkness

  Dust

  Burying Betsy

  Fast Zombies Suck

  I Sing A New Psalm

  Caught In A Mosh

  I Am An Exit

  This Is Not An Exit

  That Which Lingers

  Halves

  Without You

  Couch Potato

  Fade To Null

  Babylon Falling

  A Revolution Of One

  Full Of It

  Two-Headed Alien Love Child

  Bunnies In August

  The Wind Cries Mary

  The Resurrection And The Life

  Stone Tears

  Red Wood

  The Ghosts Of Monsters

  Slouching In Bethlehem

  Marriage Causes Cancer In Rats

  Golden Boy

  About the Author

  Also by Brian Keene

  Copyright

  This one is for Paul and Lisa Synuria

  My sincere thanks and appreciation to Robert Swartwood, Kealan Patrick Burke, Dave “Meteornotes” Thomas, Ice Bat, J.F. Gonzalez, Mark Sylva, Tod Clark, Stephen McDornell, the editors whom originally published these stories in their individual form, my readers, and my sons.

  INTRODUCTION

  To this day, I have no idea why I picked up a copy of Brian Keene’s novel The Rising.

  Seriously, I really have no idea. I don’t like zombies. I don’t find them particularly scary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Night of the Living Dead the entire way through. The only reason I know what’s going on with The Walking Dead is from seeing everyone bitch about it on Facebook and Twitter every week, starting about thirty seconds after an episode ends. Yeah, not a fan.

  So to this day I have no idea why I bought a copy of this book. Back then, I was working at a government contracting job, and I would read two or three books a week during my lunch break. I’m thinking I bought the book because it was in the horror section at Border’s, and it was something I hadn’t read. (My particular Border’s had a very weak Horror section, which was pretty much King, Koontz, and whatever other stuff they could fit onto that shelf. It was eventually replaced with a toy display. Border’s no longer exists. Cannot imagine why ...)

  I had obviously never heard of the author before, so I doubt that’s what sold me on it. But I did buy it and put it in my backpack to read the next week. And it surprised me. I enjoyed it. I liked that the zombies could talk and were actually fast, since one of the things I always disliked about zombies is that they were slow and something I felt could be easily avoided. I liked the characters and there were some cool action sequences. The part with the helicopter and the bungee cords is one of those things I’ll never forget. And, after I thought about it a bit, I even liked the ending. It wasn’t the greatest book ever or anything, but I did have a good time reading it.

  Time passes. I notice the guy who wrote this book posting on message boards and some other places on the internet. I see he has a Blog. I start to read his Blog, and he’s kind of amusing. I notice he’s going to do a signing at a bookstore not too far from my house. I figured I’d go meet him and get whatever new books he had out. I’m always convinced that no one on Earth really wants to talk to me, but told myself, He likes metal and Howard Stern, so he’s probably cool.

  Turns out, Brian Keene was cool. That early signing was pretty dead (something that would change later on in his career), so me and the couple of other people that showed up had lots of time to talk about books and music and comics and a bunch of other random stuff. Little did I know it at the time, but this would be one of the first of many times hanging out at signings or at our local horror conventions, and in bars, around fire pits, and many other places. Turns out, Brian Keene became one of the best friends I’ve ever had, one of the few people on Earth that I trust and would take a bullet for if I had to.

  Over the years, we’ve had some amusing adventures, shared some hilarious stories (“I’M EATING PIE!”), gone through some hard times in our personal lives (the less said about that the better, though I will say Brian was there for me when pretty much no one else on Earth was), and even worked on some projects together. I’ve laughed with him, drank with him, talked about super-serious subjects with him, and even roasted him at a convention. I’ve found him to be loyal, very giving of his time, very kind to his fans, and the sort of person you want on your side. He’s the type of person that’s willing to take on something he feels is right, even when pretty much no one else will side with him (the Dorchester Boycott, for example), helping out many other people, no matter what it might cost him to do this.

  Sure, he’s not perfect. He continues to refuse to write a shark novel, his iTunes library needs a good scouring by someone with musical taste (like me), and his inability to recognize that Geoff Tate is the reason one of the greatest bands in the history of music have become almost a distant memory will always be a sticking point between us, but overall I do feel that my life is better for having met this guy. Through him, I’ve met a lot of people that have also become close friends, all of us tied together more or less by writing (though unlike everyone else, I’ve never published a word of fiction—all the writing I’ve done for money has consisted of magazine articles, random nonsense posted to various websites over the years, and technical documentation). Despite not being a fiction writer, I still think I’ve learned a lot about writing from Brian, both from reading his work, and spending countless hours discussing writing with him and other people, often around a fire or some other casual gathering. Listening to how a story is constructed, or edited, or how a novel is marketed (or not marketed), and many other topics has been like attending the best writing workshop ever over the years. With plenty of bonus alcohol.

  And aside from all that, one of the other things I’ve learned over the years is how much Brian Keene pours himself into his work. I think the first time I realized this was while reading Terminal, where I came to realize that the friendship in the book had to be based on people that he was the same kind of friends with (and I was right). As I got to know Brian better, I began to see more of him reflected in his writing. Sometimes this was a good thing, bringing a lot of extra depth to the stories he was telling. Sometimes, I think he might have gone a little too far (and I think this is something he’d admit to as well), maybe sharing too much. But in the end, his pouring his soul, his pain, his love, his blood into his work makes it stronger, at least for me.

  This collection you’re about to read has plenty of stories where blood and pain and love and hate and sorrow and joy and so many other emotions and personal experiences have been poured into words, words made better from this concoction. Some of these are among my favorites (“Burying Betsy,” “Dust,” “Bunnies In August”), but all of them entertain and evoke feelings in their own special ways.

  So enjoy what you’re about to read. And if while you’re reading, you find yourself thinking that the pain or fear or whatever emotion that is pouring forth from the words seems so strong, there’s a reason for that: because it’s real.

  Dave Thomas (a.k.a. Meteornotes)

  Keeper Of Ice Bat & Maker Of Brownies

  May 2013

  FOREWORD

  This
is the first book in a multi-volume series that, when finished, will collect every bit of short fiction I’ve ever written—warts and all. The only stories that won’t eventually be included in these volumes are the ones already collected in The Rising: Selected Scenes From the End of the World and Earthworm Gods: Selected Scenes From the End of the World. Obviously, as those books are still in print, it doesn’t make sense to re-collect them again.

  I usually don’t like the things I’ve written after I finish them. There are a few exceptions: my novels Dark Hollow, Ghoul, and Kill Whitey, and my novellas The Girl on the Glider and Take the Long Way Home come to mind. But as I said, those are exceptions. The same goes for my short stories. There are a handful I like. Most of the others (especially the really old ones) I don’t. But you folks seem to like them (as well as my novels and novellas) and for that I am grateful and thankful and humbled. So, I’ve decided to collect them all together for you. If you have at least a passing interest in my work, some of these stories will be familiar to you. Others are ones you’ve never read before. It is my hope that they will give you the same experience I always hope for you—a few minutes of entertainment, a few hours of escape.

  This first volume, Blood On The Page, doesn’t really have a “theme” per se, other than all of these stories are ones that are personal to me for one reason or another. I bled into them, meaning I invested a part of myself in their telling.

  A comment on story notes: while compiling this collection, I asked readers on Facebook and Twitter if they preferred story notes at the beginning of the story, the end of the story, the end of the book, or not at all. After a few thousand responses, the only thing I learned was that there’s no way I’m going to please everybody in regards to story notes. The majority seemed to prefer them either directly before or immediately after the story itself. A smaller portion of the audience said they preferred them at the end of the book, and a minority said they don’t like story notes at all. Personally, I love story notes. They are often my favorite part of a short story collection, because they give me deeper insight into the writer and the creative process. So, with all that in mind, I’ve decided to include them in this collection (and subsequent volumes). Sometimes, they’ll be at the beginning of the story. Sometimes, especially if they include spoilers, they’ll be at the end of the tale. If you’re one of those folks who don’t like story notes, just skip right past them safe in the knowledge that you didn’t miss anything vitally important.

  My thanks to Robert Swartwood for designing this book, Kealan Patrick Burke for the cover, and Dave Thomas for agreeing to write the introduction. And as always, a special thanks to you for buying it. I hope you enjoy the book.

  Brian Keene

  Somewhere along the Susquehanna River

  April 2013

  PORTRAIT OF THE MAGUS AS A WRITER

  (INTERPOLATING MAGIC REALISM)

  STORY NOTE: This was written as a bookend for my 2004 short story collection Fear of Gravity. The publisher decided not to use it, and it has remained unpublished until now. It was my first professional stab at writing meta-fiction (something I’d only dabbled with years earlier when I was still trying my hand at writing). Meta-fiction was something I’d return to years later with The Girl on the Glider and Sundancing, the seeds of which were sown in the following tale.

  Sometime around 2005...

  When he turned on the computer, she was there, waiting like always.

  The Magus ignored the flashing chat icon, ignored the insistent beep. She knew he was at the keyboard, and his refusal to acknowledge was nothing more than a game to her.

  He glanced around his office. The End, he called it, and after a lifetime spent on the run, he intended the office to be just that—the end of his journey. The final stop, a place to rest and to write, while settling into the uncomfortable familiarity of his rapidly approaching middle age. In his mid-thirties, he felt tired and old, and he didn’t want to run anymore.

  Shelves lined the walls, and books lined the shelves—his books and books by others. Awards and knick-knacks filled the holes between them; two ceramic haunted houses that he’d won for his books, a plastic statuette that he’d won for eating cow intestines during a ‘Gross Out Contest’, the real names of his enemies, each written on lambskin and tied with a lock of that person’s hair, the fragment of Stonehenge, the vial of dirt from the Nazca lines, the figurine he’d stolen from the Inca temple when he was twenty-one.

  He was by no means a wealthy man, but his writing had furnished the down payment for this house. It had paid for the new driveway and the new roof. It bought groceries every week and kept the lights on. He’d done all that with words. People liked those words. They wrote him letters and sent him emails saying so.

  They liked his words.

  His words. The Magus laughed, and the laughter tasted bitter in his throat.

  The computer beeped again. She was becoming impatient.

  Ignore her, he thought. Just ignore her.

  He opened a new Microsoft Word file, and stared at the blank screen. Sipping coffee, he thought for a moment, and then began to type.

  Magic flows within my veins

  But all it’s brought me is pain

  He paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

  The words would not come.

  “Shit.”

  He never could write poetry.

  The chat icon was still blinking. She beckoned him. He glanced at the clock. Seven minutes. He’d resisted her for seven minutes this time. He was getting better.

  He clicked and there she was.

  Muse: Hi! :-)

  Magus: Hey. Sorry for the delay. I was making a pot of coffee.

  Muse: Liar. I know you too well. You may be able to fool the rest of them, your family and friends and fans, but you can’t bullshit me. ;)

  Magus: Wouldn’t think of it.

  Muse: I missed you.

  Magus: I missed you, too.

  Muse: Where’s the wife? Sleeping?

  Magus: Of course. Do you think I’d be chatting with you if she wasn’t?

  Muse: Why not? You think of me when you’re with her.

  Magus: No, I don’t. I love her.

  Muse: I know better. Don’t forget, we’re psychically linked, you and I. You think of me when she makes you go to church and while you’re watching TV with her and even in bed, when she snuggles tight against you. It’s what you do. You can’t escape who you are. You think of me—always. But it’s not just with her either, is it? It’s your friends, too. Your family. You think of me when you’re with them all. You’re always thinking of me. Aren’t you?

  Muse: Aren’t you?

  Muse: Aren’t you???

  Muse: Hello???? Magus! MAGUS!!!!!

  Magus: Yes, goddamn it! And you knew that already. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing—I think of you. At least part of my brain is always with you.

  Muse: Sorry sweetie. I just like to hear you say it.

  Magus: You’re all I think about. All I think about is the fucking writing! There. I said it. Happy?

  Muse: Much better. So, how’d the convention go last week?

  Magus: It went well. It sucked. I don’t know. I don’t care anymore.

  Muse: Why? What’s wrong?

  He paused, thinking about how to respond without sounding like the conceited bastard his detractors accused him of being.

  Magus: It’s not fun anymore. I miss the days when we were all just a bunch of beginners—a bunch of nobodies. This whole gangster thing is out of control.

  Muse: Why? I thought you embraced it? What happened at the convention?

  Magus: I got mobbed everywhere I went. That’s the problem with success—everybody, and I mean everybody—every-fucking-body—wants to talk to you. And you want to talk to them, because you really are grateful for their support. But it gets so fucking draining. You get pulled in different directions, like a fucking rock star, drawn and quartered. Take L. L. for example. I was really l
ooking forward to catching up with him and his wife, but every time I’d try to make my way to him through the crowd, somebody would want my advice, or want me to buy me a drink, or decide to get in my face about something I said on a message board or in an interview. So I didn’t get to talk to him, and now he’ll think I was being rude or a snob. I don’t know. I sit and I write all year long, and my one chance to get out of the house and see my friends is that convention—but I don’t get to see my friends because I can’t to be rude to anybody else.

  Muse: Well, I’m sure your friends understand.

  Magus: But that’s just it. They don’t. Now they’re the ones accusing me of being rude. Gumby says I flit. Chaos said I sold out and went mainstream. Gunslinger and The Lion both think I’m mad at them, and Zevon’s been mad at me for ages now, and I don’t know why.

  Muse: What about Corwin?

  Magus: No, Corwin doesn’t say anything, of course. Good old Corwin. But I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He doesn’t talk as much anymore. And I think that maybe he suspects.

  Muse: Suspects what? Us, you mean?

  Magus: Yeah. And you know how Corwin is about these things. He’d never forgive me. Never understand.

  Muse: What else happened?

  Magus: Flew out there with Pretzel Boy and after getting to the hotel, I saw him for maybe five minutes. I just couldn’t get away. Every time I left the room I got mobbed. I wanted to tell Colors and Sandman and Eddie and Donn from North Carolina that I’m proud of how far they’ve come in the past year—and I didn’t even get a chance to find them!