Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  Willie sneered at the tall boy. Unimpressed, the boy speared Willie's cheek with a stick.

  After an hour of merciless poking and prodding, the boys broke the stick over Willie's head. The tall boy said, "Hey, let's go get Juan and Paulo," and the boys raced away, bottles and cans rattling in half-filled garbage bags.

  Willie waited, praying that the gods would come soon.

  Then he realized what a numbskull he'd been. The gods were creatures of the dark. That was it. They'd come at night. And they'd bring him a new body, because gods could do things like that. Sure. They were busy right now, choosing one that was strong and handsome. And when Willie had his new body, when he was ready to make his first visit, he'd be sure to ask the gods where his two little buddies lived.

  A cutting breeze blew a candy wrapper against Willie's face. He licked the chocolate-coated plastic, happier now, occupying himself with thoughts of sharp sticks and startled, innocent faces.

  But when darkness fell, it wasn't the gods who came at all.

  Twigs snapped underfoot as the men crept through the orange grove.

  "Where is the filthy thing?" a man whispered. "Tell us and you won't be punished."

  "Over there." The tall boy sniffled. "El diablo is over there."

  The man pushed the boy aside. "You ninos, not even smart enough to be afraid. Maybe now you'll believe the stories I tell you, eh?"

  The migrants collected the remains of Willie Martin. One of the men dug a hole at the base of an orange tree, complaining in Spanish that he always had to work harder than everyone else. Someone found Willie's head and shoved a juicy orange into his mouth.

  A flick of the wrist, and Willie's head tumbled into the hole.

  Willie heard the slosh of a half-full bottle. Whiskey scorched his unblinking eyes.

  One of the men tossed a dog-gnawed femur into the hole.

  Someone said, "Willie Martin es Fiddler."

  The men screamed laughter. Willie watched a lit match drop toward him. As flames crackled over his face he fought through the pain and heard other sounds, other voices (voices that he had never imagined), far in the distance. Squealing tires. A rusty cemetery gate squeaking closed.

  A little girl crying.

  Her whispered curse, earnest and eternal.

  Someone spat whiskey into the hole and blue flames danced across Willie's charred upper lip. Trapped in Willie's mouth, the orange sizzled, dripping juice. Everything was slipping away. Slipping away to nothing. Burning away like dry, crackling skin.

  Oily smoke billowed from the hole. The tall boy yelled, “Willie Martin! Willie Martin!"

  It’s the Steak, Not the Sizzle

  Since the following is a tale of paranoia, this is as good a time as any to explain why a little bit of that particular commodity might be a good thing for a writer who wants to sell his work.

  First off, let me construct a scenario for you. Imagine every editor had a crystal ball that told him everything he wanted to know about a writer who'd submitted a manuscript. All he'd have to do is wave his hands over the ball in the prescribed manner, whisper the writer's name, and stare into the crystal while the writer's entire personal history was revealed to him.

  Did I say "personal?" Uh-uh. Scratch that. I'm talking PERSONAL. The stuff most people keep close to the vest...if not hidden up in the cerebral attic.

  One wave of his hands...one little whisper...and an editor could know all that.

  Frightening, huh? Not really. Stick with me. The truly frightening part is yet to come.

  Now imagine that it's your name the editor whispers.

  Your life that flashes before him in the smoky crystal.

  Your embarrassing moments on display.

  Now stop imagining. The reality is that editors may already have this power over you, and here's the moment of stone cold irony you've all been waiting for: if they've got it, you're the one who gave it to them.

  I'm sure most of you can already see where I'm going with this essay. You've guessed that the crystal ball I'm talking about is that wonderful modern miracle, the computer, which in truth requires no hand-waving or incantations to invoke the above operation. All you need is Internet access, a working knowledge of the search engine of your choice, and the ability to type the name of the person you'd like to investigate.

  Or as a publisher friend of mine says, "If I want to check someone out, I Google 'em."

  Try that with a few names from any small press table of contents page and you'll likely discover some stuff that'll make your jaw drop. You'll find online journals, blogs, and message boards where new writers discuss all kinds of things, and I'm not just talking about their forthcoming novels or short stories. No. I'm talking about the kind of stuff that would make most folks cringe...or at least blush.

  I'm talking about aspiring writers (and others who've been around long enough to know better) who seem to think it's a good career move to discuss—in full view of any editor, publisher, or regular Joe who can click a mouse—such topics as: their legal and financial problems, their divorce(s), why their ex-wife/boss/neighbor/landlord (pick one) would be better off dead, why Editor A is a no-talent jerk, why Publisher B deserves to have his tonsils removed with a pair of pliers, why Writer C is a know-nothing moron, why—

  Well, you get the idea. And I promise you, I'm not making this up. In fact, I'm restraining myself, in part because I don't want to embarrass folks who might recognize themselves if I provided more details. I'm not going to do that. That's not my purpose here.

  My purpose is to offer you a warning: this kind of thing can be a very bad idea for any writer with professional aspirations. Remember, writing is a business. If you want to do business as a writer, your reputation is something that should concern you. And if you get yourself a reputation as a whackjob, or a lunatic-in-training, or a whining crybaby, or a simple everyday garden-variety asshole—

  Well, do that and you're not going to do much business...no matter what you put down on the page.

  And, yes, I can hear you now. C’mon, Norm. Wake up and smell the new millennium. Things have changed since you broke into those dot-matrix magazines back in the nineties. Everyone's on the web now. These days, it's the best way to get your name out there. Besides, it's not as bad as you make it sound! And, anyway, I don't write about personal stuff when I post. I just use the web to promote my work!

  Huh?

  You know. I'm trying to break in, like you did when you were selling stuff to Cemetery Dance and Grue and Roadkill Press. A friend published a couple of my stories in his webzine, and I'm trying to get a deal with a small press to do a collection. I use the message boards and my website to get the word out and let people know who I am. It's the only way to get noticed when you're starting out!

  Uh-oh. Hold on there, hoss. You just punched a button. A big red one.

  Now sit back and fasten your safety belts, because I've got one little word I'd like to share with you.

  That word is: bullshit.

  The way to get noticed is to write good stories and novels.

  The way to stay noticed is to keep on writing them.

  Don't ever forget that. It's the best career advice I can give you.

  See, it's the writing that counts. That's the simple truth, and that's what you need to worry about whether you're just starting out or you've been around ten years and have a bookcase jam-packed with published work. Not coming out on top in a flame war, or designing a cool website, or being the life of the party at a convention, or winning a Stoker. All that's just a song and dance routine.

  Promotion becomes an important tool as you climb the career ladder,[56] but it's the last thing you need to worry about when you're starting out. You need to worry about the writing. You need to worry about turning out quality stories that will rise above the slush pile and get your work into magazines and anthologies that can advance your career. You need to worry about typing "The End" on the last page of a novel that'll allow you to interest an agent
who can cut a deal with a publisher who'll actually try to sell the damn thing. That's where your focus belongs. All the rest of it might be fun, and it might provide a few entertaining distractions or give you a little ego boost as you try to get your foot on the first or second or third rung of the ladder, but it can suck away your time (the time you should spend writing) before you even know it's gone.

  I'm going to be blunt, here—promotion on that level won't get you much, anyway. Oh, it might get you noticed by a core group of folks who attend horror conventions, and it might get you published in a bunch of small magazines and print-on-demand anthologies that really aren't read by anyone outside that very small circle. If that'll give you the validation you're looking for as a writer, that's fine. But don't fool yourself. You've still got a long way to go if you want to make it as a pro.

  Another thing: self-promotion can easily backfire on an inexperienced writer, especially one who overplays his hand. Go that route and you'll be putting yourself in a real put-up-or-shut-up situation. If you tell readers that your stories are new and original and daring...well, they'd better be just that. They'd better not read like retreads of stories that barely made the cut in small press magazines back in the early nineties. If they do, you're engaged in what I like to call "budget ape"[57] promotion, and you'll probably end up with more than a little egg on your face. Worst case scenario, you'll wake up one morning with the nagging suspicion that your writing career is nothing more than the punchline to a joke you didn't quite get until it was too late.

  Believe me, you don't want that to happen.

  Myself, I'm a writer. That's what I set out to be, and that's what I'm here to talk about. If you're looking for shortcuts, if what you really want to do is become a personality or a celebrity, you're reading the wrong book. I can't help you.

  But I can offer you a friendly piece of advice.

  Promotion is a tool; it ain't the job.

  Writing is the job.

  You can learn that now, or you can learn that later...but you will learn it.

  I'll lay money on that.

  So you've read my warnings, but you're new to the game. You don't know any other writers, and you've got a lot of questions you can't answer. You'd like to give the Internet a try, maybe get to know some like-minded beginners over the web who are going through the same thing you are, maybe even get to know a pro or two who won't mind giving you some advice. Here are seven basic tips to help you out if you decide to go online:

  1. There's nothing wrong with message boards—I've seen some boards frequented by established pros where beginning writers could learn quite a bit. But please remember this if you're going to participate: you are not on the telephone with your best friend. You are not involved in a private conversation. Almost anyone—editors, publishers, other writers—can look at this stuff, and they probably will.

  2. If you post, don't whine. It will endear you to no one.

  3. Didn't like that rejection letter Editor A sent you? It's your opinion that Anthology B (which also rejected a story) is a shameless piece of dreck? Think twice before posting your complaints, because blowing off steam can cost you. So can crossing potential markets or editors off your list.

  4. Never...ever...EVER...discuss business online before you have nailed down a deal, and I mean nailed it solidly. If a potential deal goes up in smoke after you've announced it—especially if it's a big one—you'll look like an idiot. And consider the fact that negotiation is a two-way street—if the person with whom you're negotiating finds out that you've been discussing your business in public, you may discover that those negotiations are quite suddenly over.

  5. I have heard that some naive souls out there actually believe that "Members Only" message boards are "private." It's my advice that you guess again, then refer to #1 above. If you just fell off the turnip truck and actually trust every member of an online group to keep his or her mouth shut about things said in "private," or if you actually believe that a username and password can prevent a determined outsider from "peeking," let me disabuse you of these silly notions and refer you to numbers #2 through #4 above.

  6. Have a problem with an editor or publisher that you can't handle? Need to vent about Editor A or Anthology B? Don't conduct your business in a public forum. Don't post your problem on a message board. Don't bitch on your blog. Privately e-mail or phone a friend in the business—or a couple of friends—whom you trust. Be selective... after all, do you really want the advice of anyone who can click a mouse (and do you really want all of them to know about your problems)?

  7. If you spend more time online than you do writing, it might be time to rethink your career choice. Being a writer is all about typing "The End" over and over and over again. No one is going to buy a collection of your greatest message board posts. Remind yourself of that, and get back to work.

  WALKERS

  The General was gone in a flash.

  Kim sat down and tried to remember him.

  Sharp nose.

  Blue eyes. Or were they gray?

  Tight smile. Chapped lips.

  Or maybe that had been the bus driver, the one who had looked at her with a familiarity bred of recognition. The one who'd watched her when he should have been watching the potholes that pitted the ruined streets.

  The one who'd smiled when she asked for directions to the apartment building.

  Don’t think about the bus driver. Think about the General.

  Blue eyes. Gray eyes. Blue eyes flecked with gray.

  Sharp nose.

  Lips. Don't think about his lips.

  Hard fingers. Gripping her trembling hand. Pressing the key into her sweaty palm.

  Tight smile. Parting words and last minute instructions that she hadn't really heard.

  And then he was gone, in a flash.

  Her search was thorough. She checked every closet in the apartment, every bookshelf, every drawer. But she couldn't find a picture of the General anywhere.

  Kim told herself that it didn't matter. A picture might make him seem human, and that could be dangerous. She might be tempted to lower her defenses. She might stare into his eyes and forget why she was here.

  She didn't care what he looked like, only what he knew.

  But she worried. She couldn't help it. If she was losing her memory, that could mean that the doctors had been right.

  And the General was dangerous. She was sure of that. He was not like the others she had investigated. He wore a uniform. He probably carried a weapon. And she no longer had her service revolver.

  They had taken it when she entered the hospital.

  Maybe the man from the mayor's office had tricked her.

  If he had, it was too late.

  Here she was. Alone.

  In the home of the General.

  In the home of a man who left no face behind.

  The refrigerator was well stocked. German beer, good cheese, lots of expensive fruit that had been purchased the day before. Kim knew that because she found a cash-register receipt in the bottom of the CRISPER drawer.

  She sniffed a golden papaya. Sweet. Like honey and oranges and watermelon mixed together.

  Was this the General's private joke? A last meal for the condemned prisoner?

  Kim halved the fruit, then cleaned out the slick, black seeds and sent them whirling down the garbage disposal with a blast of tap water. She set the fruit on an elegant Nambe dish, added a slice of lime, and chose a silver spoon from the utensil drawer.

  In the living room, Kim cleared a space on the brass coffee table. Books were everywhere. She stashed them on the floor beneath the table and turned on the large screen television. She flipped stations until she found a morning news program.

  The anchorman was talking about her again.

  At first the media had focused quite a bit of attention on her story. Ordinarily, people with inoperable brain tumors didn't disappear from hospitals. They just didn't get up and walk out.

  They were sick.


  They were supposed to rest easy.

  They were supposed to die.

  Kim knew that. She had been in a hospital bed, without her service revolver. She had been there, feeling just fine, really, until the Walkers spoke to her.

  The anchorman finished talking.

  The weatherman talked next. Then the sports guy talked.

  They didn't talk about Kim.

  She ate the papaya. In the hospital, she had been eating ice cream when she first heard the voices of the Walkers.

  They weren't ghostly voices. They were tinny, itchy with interruptions of static. They came out of the little speakerphone that was clipped to the bed rail, the one she used to communicate with the nurse's station.

  The voices said:

  "Get up! Run! We shouldn't even be talking to you. But they're going to kill you!"

  "They're going to do it tonight. Tonight!"

  "You're not really sick. They've been drugging your food for weeks. You're marked for execution."

  "That's right. We're taking a risk. But he says that you're important to us. He studied your record with the police department. You're brave and you're honest, and we need you as much as you need us. He needs you."

  "But you have to believe us when we say that they're going to kill you. Tonight! And we need you!"

  "Get up! Run! Before it's too late!"

  And she did. Get up. She couldn't run because her body was heavy with medication, but she could walk. She unplugged the speakerphone and took it with her, because now the voices were telling her what to do, where to go, how to get away. They directed her escape from the hospital and calmed her as she wandered the deserted streets.