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Allusionary Assembly

The Writing of Kerry E.B. Black

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short stories and poetry

Games Omniverse – Epic Workplace

You have to read Charli Mills’ latest piece at Carrot Ranch. What a fabulous campus! I must visit sometime. Her challenge is to create a 99 word piece about another Epic Workplace, so I mentioned Games Omniverse. http://www.gamesomniverse.com/  I love writing for them! (There are folks closer to my age but so much “hipper” and “with it” at Games Omniverse. They seamlessly blend in with the young culture.)

September 6: Flash Fiction Challenge

 

 

Games Omniverse – Epic Workplace

Written by Kerry E.B. Black

They’re all so much younger than me, but I find their Millenial energy invigorating. I know they look on me as the Grandma of the bunch. They turn eye-rolls when I’ve fouled another computer task and hide their smiles when I say something about “me me’s” instead of saying “memes.”

Yet somehow, I bring something to the group. I’d never be so vain as call it wisdom, and my experiences aren’t always helpful. However, it works. When they need copy, I pound on the keyboard until some small magic occurs, and the Angel in charge nods. “This’s good. Thanks.”

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More exciting news!

Carousel of Nightmares by Kerry E.B. Black

I’ve been working with Tree Shadow Press, and it looks like a collection of my short scares geared toward younger readers will be out this autumn!

Care to take a ride on a carousel where not everything is merry as it goes round?

Reckoning

I’ve been lax about posting my 99 word https://carrotranch.com participation here, and for that, I’m sorry. Charli Mills’ latest prompt involved magic, so I’ve explored a bit more of my W.I.P. novel, “Wolves at Bay.”

 

Reckoning

by Kerry E.B. Black

 

“Where is your wife, Ward?” The magistrate’s robes flapped like a gaping hole.

“She took our son to visit her family.” Thank God she fled.

But what of Nina? Legs twisted like gnarled, unsupportive vines. Defenseless. Her only crime saving his infant’s life.

The magistrate rested a heavy hand upon Ward’s shoulder. It pressed like a stone. “Your wife will be tried. She consorted with a witch to save your son.”

Fire erupted within Ward, but he struggled to keep calm. “She didn’t. I fetched the woman who nursed our son. My wife had nothing to do with it.”

 

 

My First Novel!

I’m THRILLED to announce sometime this autumn, I’ll be a NOVELIST!

My YA novel, Season of Secrets, will be available through Rhetoric Askew.

 

 

I’m so excited and hope you’ll spread the word! (Of course, when it comes out, I hope you’ll read and enjoy it, too!)

 

Squee!

Happy Birthday, H.P. Lovecraft

Happy birthday, H.P. Lovecraft

written by Kerry E.B. Black

One of the twentieth century’s most influential horror HP Lovecraftwriters, H.P. Lovecraft, would have celebrated his 128th birthday today, if he hadn’t taken Death’s hand to start a new adventure on the Ides of March, 1937. (Howard Phillips Lovecraft was almost 47 years old when he died.)

Born in Providence, Rhode Island, Lovecraft began writing horror stories at the age of eight.  It wasn’t until he turned 31 that he published in a professional magazine. Three years later, he became a regular contributor to “Weird Tales” magazine. Unfortunately, this ingenious author of “The Call of Cthulhu,” “The Shadow Out of Time,” and “At the Mountains of Madness” found supporting himself with the written word illusive.

As a child, Lovecraft experienced hardships. When Lovecraft was three years old, his father Winfield Scott Lovecraft succumbed to psychosis and was institutionalized. Winfield remained in the Butler Hospital until his death in 1898. Young Lovecraft recited poetry by the age of three and wrote complete poems by six. His grandfather Whipple Van Buren Phillips encouraged Lovecraft to read such classics as “The Arabian Nights” and “Bulfinch’s Age of Fable,” and he retold gothic tales of terror to his grandson. Lovecraft suffered Night Terrors.

Lovecraft started school late, and he missed a lot of school due to illness. He left school in 1908 without graduating after having a nervous breakdown caused in part by his aversion to mathematics. After ending his academic pursuits, he lived for five years isolated with his mother. He wrote poetry and in 1913, a pulp magazine published a critique of Fred Jackson’s love stories. The ensuing debate garnered the attention of the United Amateur Press Association, and he joined the UAPA in 1914. He published a story, “The Alchemist” in “The United Amateur” in 1916. He mentored and corresponded with many contemporary writers, including Robert Bloch (Psycho).

His Mother died in Butler Hospital in May, 1921. For two years, he married Sonia Greene and moved to New York. After, he returned to Providence. There, he lived in a Victorian house on Barnes Street. (He used the address in “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward.”) He fostered a friendship with Harry Houdini.

He died impoverished of cancer. In 1977, his fans bought a tombstone of his own in Swan Point Cemetery. Inscribed thereon is the quote, “I am Providence.”

H.P. Lovecraft’s writing continues to influence writers, including Stephen King. He is called upon by modern writers to serve as a character of cunning, occult knowledge, and guile.

*first published at Halloween Forevermore

Sketches

Sketching quick 99 word stories at https://carrotranch.com is a useful and fun experience. Writers should check the challenges.

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

Captured quickly at the moment, a sketch can linger. It teases the mind with what has been included, as well as left out by the artist. But who is the artist? The one who creates a visual on the page or writes the vision imagined in the mind?

Writers took to their sketchbooks this week to draw stories of those who draw. Enjoy the resulting sketches.

June 28, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that is a sketch or about a sketch.

PART I (10-minute read)

Rainy Day Sketches of a Very Small Village by Bill Engleson

There are two tables and five chairs on the General Store porch.

The location affords a front row seat on not much.

I relish looking at not much.

A delivery truck departs.

Chips.

Our community eats a ton of chips.

I certainly do my bit.

Bite?

There’s…

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Witches Next Door

Write about property values, she said, so I did. Here are my 99 words in response to Charli Mills’ latest https://carrotranch.com challenge. What do you think of what I hope is a whimsical beginning to an interesting story?

 

Witches Next Door

Written by Kerry E.B. Black

 

Poppa scowled at the moving van, inventorying items deposited next door. Movers left garden items – astrolabes, statuary, tools, and potted plants – along the fenceline. Poppa stomped out a cigarette.  “Darnnit, there goes the neighborhood.”

 

Josey crinkled her forehead. “Why, Poppa?”

 

He pointed. “Spell books. Magic chests. At least four cats. Witches’re moving in.”

 

Two plump, frizzy-haired ladies smiled and waved.

 

Josey waved. “They seem nice.”

 

Poppa spat. “Property value goes down when witches move in? Nobody wants to be mixed up in magic.”

 

Josey disagreed. Nothing in their quiet town seemed as interesting. Besides, how’d Poppa know about magic?

 

 

Bloom Too Soon

The good folks at The Drabble published this little piece of mine. What do you think of it?

narcissus-3316490_1280

By Kerry E.B. Black

My children stir, wiggle beneath the duvet, tiny stretches too early. I encourage them to rest. Ancestral wisdom looks to a groundhog and its shadow for prognostication, and although the rodent’s seldom right, this year deserves prudence. The air’s too cold. Frost leaves the ground glistening.

However, the young are easily misled by the urine-yellow sunrise. They point to a sky stained with nursery pinks and declare their day’s arrived. The push aside their downy blanket and burst upon the day, faces radiant as new blooms. I marvel and fret – with good reason, because at sundown, the frost reaps.

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Guide to Peace

Guide to Peace

Written by Kerry E.B. Black

He fled, blinded by tears. Taunts and cruelty etching into his psyche. Heedless of direction, he dodged tree trunks, leapt tangles, and ducked beneath low-hanging vines until he panted into the silence of ankle-deep humus and the observation of hidden animals. He bent to relieve stitches and cramps.

 

Gentle breezes cooled tears on burning cheeks. Like teasing fingers, they brushed hair aside as if to reassure of his worth.

 

His nostrils flared to capture earthy perfumes so lush he could taste their rich decay and rebirth.

 

A delicate white flower bloomed in the shade, an unexpected guide to peace.

 

paperwhite narcissus

 

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