About me

I've been writing stories for years. I think I'm a good writer and I'm willing to bet you'll feel the same way. So here they are. Enjoy them, comment on them, tell your friends about'em, reblog them, retweet them, reread them. I have four stories in my archive so far:
"One day on the Mountain", a story of Lycanthropy, a father, and a son.
"The Boy", a story of a very ambitious and sociopathic fifth grade boy.
"The Easy Girl, A story of infidelity and unpaid sexual debts. This story is very dark.
"Brick The Mighty", a story of an aging superhero.
Although this is primarily a blog of horror, I also write about things that are important to me. I have more stories tucked away; they just need editing. There's even a few novels. There will be more to come.
PS. Feel free to leave a comment. I love comments.

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

The First of Many Farewells

     This is not horrible or horrifying. I'm leaving fear someplace else.

     No, that's not entirely true. I'm deeply afraid; my own mortality is at stake. At least, that's how I feel.

    My youngest son went to school today.

    My eight year-old went to school today as well. We dropped him off at the side of the road and he ran inside; that's how he wanted it. I'm used to him not needing me.

    But the little guy is five. 

    He's not afraid of school. He sole fear is of a flushing toilet, and what awful disaster might occur if that toilet were to overflow. But he's getting over that fear, and he's definitely not afraid of a brand-new classroom.

    But I'm afraid. My youngest baby is going to school. He's going to learn things, and be away from me all day. Without those two kids I'm a third of a man. For the past eight years they've been my identity, my distraction from the worry of growing old. The world has passed me by and begun to look at the next generation, as it should. That's how the natural order works. That's why we take care of kids. 

     But when those kids leave, and blithely wave goodbye with what is only the first and least heart-breaking of farewells that our kids bade us, we can feel that empty place that was once something we thought we didn't mind giving away. What is that? During the toilet-training, the sleepless nights, the cleaning up of puke, I forgot what that was. But I think I remember. 

     I think it was peace. We gave up peace; lazy, sexy, lazy Saturday mornings; adult time; and instead gave it to our kids. When they go away they take it with them, and it becomes confidence, sunniness, luck, love; all the sacrifices we willingly made becomes that which makes our kids special. 

    But boy, do we feel it when they go. I stood in that schoolyard and felt like a grieving, half-dead battery. I taught my boys everything but I don't think I can teach them how to deal with something like this: when your most inspired creations don't need you anymore. When you succeed so grandly that your mad scientist's monsters leave to write their own story. And you are left empty.

    I'm not afraid for them. Well, I have all the silly fears of all parents: gangs, accidents, stranger abductions. But on the balance, I know I have two stunningly handsome boys for whom the sky holds no limit. They have healthy grandparents who can step in if something terrible happens to us; we are in good financial shape; they're popular; they're healthy. 

    So why do I feel like we've put everything we hold dear into these two people we invented, and sent them off into the world like two genetic express envelopes without an address? I don't know. I could keep them with me, and never let anything happen to them. But as Dory from Finding Nemo says: You can't never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. 

    But not to worry - I'll get over it. He was gone for only and hour this morning, and tomorrow it will be for an hour and a half. Full-time school will start next week, and in the meantime he still wants a song before he goes to bedtime, and he still sleepwalks into our room and demands to be cuddled. He's still a baby. 

    For now. 


  1. Oh my goodness how I remember that first parting! Our son (an only child) lives in Australia with his new wife and family. Prior to Australia he spent three years in Denmark I thought my heart would break when he left but it didn’t – Australia felt so much worse (we live in the UK) but I survived. We now have a beautiful new granddaughter and lovely daughter-in-law OK they live thousands of miles away but there is email and phones and it does get easier. Plus our son sends long, long emails something he probably wouldn’t do if he lived in the UK and he is forever saying how we gave him the ‘courage’ to do all the things he has with his life. Enjoy your children while they are young, give them all the love you can then wish them well – after all what else can you do?

  2. "For the past eight years they've been my identity, my distraction from the worry of growing old."- Great line.

    I have quite the span, one child who is almost 18 and one child who just passed 18 months. Fascinating indeed.

    And I loved your line about giving up the lazy, sexy Saturday mornings. Good luck to you. I'm sure it will get less scary for you :)

    Paul D. Dail
    www.pauldail.com- A horror writer's not necessarily horrific blog

  3. very good work - glad to find your blog, joined and looking forward to more

  4. Barbara - thanks for the input. I suppose you did one of the last goodbyes; when a child leaves for far off parts. Myself, I can't wait for grankids, although that will be in the far future.

    Paul - that is a massive age gap. I think Brian Keene is in a similar situation (3 and 18). I just read your latest; will comment on it soon.

    Dean - thanks! You're a fine practitioner of the hardest and least lucrative of art forms. Have you ever heard of James Emanuel?