When I get an idea for a constructed world, or "conworld", it's usually based on something I've read. That usually happens because I try to make as much of my "fun" non-fiction reading do double-time as research. Now, that's easier than it sounds! I usually like reading the research I'm doing. For instance, I'm reading a book about Japanese history and culture during the Edo period called Edo Culture: Daily Life and Diversions in Urban Japan, 1600-1868 by Nishiyama Matsunosuke. I've also read similar books about China right before the Mongol invasion. And, don't rule out kids books, either. They do a fairly good job of giving a snapshot of a society or time-period.

I didn't always do research, though. I used to just write. (Some days, I think that way was better!) But, one day while talking to a friend who also wrote, he asked me how I did my research. Research? I write fantasy fiction, why would I do research? Well, that got me thinking about what I knew and didn't know about the time-periods and places I wrote about. Suddenly, I realized that I didn't know anywhere near enough about how culture and society works. So, I started to do research.
I try to take a page from Musashi's A Book of Five Rings, though, and "Learn from one thing, five-thousand things". For instance, when I read historical fiction, like Laura Joh Rowland's books about Sano Ichiro, I learn about Edo-period Japan. And, I hardly even notice that I'm learning. Ms. Rowland has done a bunch of research for me and integrated it quite nicely into an engaging story. But, then, I'll follow that up with my own research, like the book I mentioned in the opening of this blog entry.
I also try to research technology and science in general. And, I mean all science, too, not just chemistry and physics. Biology, in particular, is useful to me in creating fantasy worlds. If I want to build a better dragon, I need to know all about lizards of all kinds, not to mention general large-animal physiology and biomechanics. Also, if they're going to fly, I need to understand the rudiments of aerodynamics. Really, the list goes on and on.

My point here is that research can be never ending, so the trick is to make it fun. Write about things that you wouldn't mind doing research about. Find creative ways to teach yourself what you need to know. Never pass up a novel experience that might help your writing seem more real.

And, most of all, keep writing!

I haven't been so good at keeping this site updated lately, I know. That's due mainly to RealLife interfering. I started a new job last week and it takes up most of my day. See, I do this for fun, not profit. And, I have two other websites besides this one. I try to work on my writing, but with the reading I want to get done and family and all, there's not much time.

So, I try to make the best of it. For instance, this update is being done from work during lunch. The first half of lunch, I just read some in a rather dry book, which I'll mention in another update. Then, I talked to the Boss a little and now I'm doing a quick update.
I'm not sure how other people manage to maintain a family and a job and still find time to write. Maybe it'll be easier as I get used to the schedule I'm on right now, but I'm getting 6 hours, or less, of sleep a night as it is! Well, maybe writing when I'm tired will let me tap into my subconscious more than I do. God knows, my writing needs all the help it can get.

In any case, that's what's been keeping me from updates on this site. Look for more entries soon!!
In the meantime, keep writing!

Well, I've been a busy bee this week. I have a couple of updates, both on and off Fantasist.net.

On this site, I've updated the Cartography page. I added in a neat map that illustrates an idea I had for a world creation myth. I imagined a god stamping out evil, in a way, by smashing the chief evil spirit into the world-covering ocean. Where the god's hand pressed into the ocean floor, mud stuck to his hand and was pulled up through the ocean to form continents and islands. Then, the evil spirit tried to force his way back into the world, forming a volcano. So, to keep the source of all evil in check, the god creates human kind to guard over the breach in the world. In response to that, the source of evil creates his own race to fight the humans. Viola! A creation myth for a fantasy world!
In any case, to illustrate that, I did up a map. It's free of any labels, but the basic idea is pretty well displayed. The map and idea, incidentally, were inspired by the cover of a game called Kahuna, which is a strategy card-game set in a fictional Hawaii.

Off this site, I have posted two constructed language templates. They're geared toward creating phrasebooks for a conlang. The first, which I actually did some time ago, is a sort of "phrasebook for tourists". It covers all the basics like simple greetings, small-talk, how to order in a restaurant, and getting directions. All the kinds of things one might find in a tourist guidebook.
The second phrasebook is meant to jumpstart some ideas about slang in a conlang. Of course, slang is very culturally specific, but I threw out some fun ideas. I hit things like street "jive", cool vs. uncool, gambling and crime, and sex. Believe it or not, most conlangs don't actually seem to include stuff like that. I guess because most of us take an acedemic approach. So, I laid out some basic topics, suggested a meaning, added in a literal translation and left a blank for a conlang translation. We'll see what the reaction is, if there is any reaction at all.
The files have been posted to the Yahoo!Groups LangMaker2 list, which is available here. Unfortunately, you will have to sign up for Yahoo!Groups, and the LangMaker2 Group itself, to get the files. Eventually, I'll put up conlang page here on Fantasist.net and post them for download there.

Until next time, keep creating new stuff!

Well, I heard from Rob Kuntz over at Pied Piper Pubishing. The snag was really just another project that took temporary precedence over the one I was working on. It's hard to figure stuff like that out when you're freelancing sometimes. Of course, the fact that I'm in Houston and Pied Piper is in Wisconson doesn't help much either! Regardless, we're up to date on what's going on now, so I'm sure it won't be too much longer that I'm working on the next set of maps. I'll make sure to have an update when the product is ready to go.

On other mapping fronts, I've been messing around with the Campaign Cartographer 2 / Hârn Mapping Project, or the CHMP for short. It's a toolkit designed to work with Campaign Cartographer by ProFantasy Software. It's really cool, even if Hârn isn't your "thing". (Though, if you're a role-playing gamer and haven't looked at Hârn, it's worth your time.) This toolkit was put together by dedicated fans who wanted a unified look and feel for their maps that faithfully recreated the look and feel of Columbia Games Hârn. They did a great job and it's a great tool! Currently, I'm trying to create a decent gargun lodge. (Garguns are Hârnish orks.) I've actually gotten one, but the map is so slow to load that I'm not satisifed with the end result. So, I'm still working on it.

In still other areas, I've been doing some hand-drawn mapping as well. I have a world concept that needs a map. The kicker is that I've been having a hard time doing this directly in a digital format, so I've gone back to paper for "inspiration". It hasn't quite worked out yet, but I haven't given up either! Some of the maps if penciled actually look pretty good. When I get one I like enough, I'll scan it in and make a Campaign Cartographer map out of it. Then, I'll have some blog entries about world building!

Until next time, keep writing!

What is MICE? Well, it's an idea that Orson Scott Card talked about in his book How To Write Science-Fiction and Fantasy. So, what does it stand for? MICE stands for Milieu, Idea, Character or Event, and it describes the four basic kinds of stories that occur in speculative fiction. Let's break them down!

Milieu stories are about the world the author has created. They're all about exploration and seeing wonders. What matters is the journey through the world of wonders. Card gave the examples of Swift's Gulliver's Travels and Clavell's Shogun. What matters in both cases are what the main character sees and experiences and, to a certain degree, how that changes them. Remember, this story's main focus is the world in which the characters exist. Other things are secondary to exploring that world. If you've built a really detailed world from the ground up and want to show it off, this may be the kind of story you want to tell.

Idea stories focus on a particular concept or question that the main character wants to solve. Notice, it's about the main character, not the author. As an author you may have an idea that you want to get across or explore, but if you use the Idea story to do that, you have to make your characters care about the idea. A prime example would be the murder-mystery, where the main character is a detective trying to solve the question of "Who killed Mr. Body?" Characterization is not as important in Idea stories as it is in other kinds of stories. What matters is the Idea, or puzzle, to be solved. If you're writing this kind of story, you might read up on mystery writing, as well as fantasy and sci-fi.

Character stories are about just that: the characters. But, more than that, character stories are also about the changes the characters go through during the course of the story. Putting an interesting character under some kind of pressure and watching them react can be both challenging and rewarding. These kinds of stories can generate some really touching tales. Coming of age stories fall under this category, but so do mid-life crisis stories. Think Death of a Salesman or, for a fantasy example, Lawrence Watt-Evans' With a Single Spell. Remember, the Character story is about character. By that I mean that the story is driven by the characters and how they grow and change. A character must change in some way during the course of a Character story.

Event stories are about some great and earth-shattering event. They quite often include Character stories or Idea stories as sub-plots. These stories are about a big event of some kind that changes the world. The story, then, is about what happens leading up to the event, or how the world changes after the event. A science-fiction example is the "Wild Cards" series of shared world books edited by George R.R. Martin. In those stories, the Event was the release of a micro-organism that changes a significant number of the population into super-powered beings. Another example might be The Day After, which is a movie about what might happen after World War III.

So, in a nutshell, any good speculative fiction story should fit into one of these categories. If you're writing a story and can't figure out where it fits, you might need to re-think how you're telling the story.

Until next time, keep writing!

Okay, so I've got writer's block.

It's not a crime. It's more like a disease. An insidious, creeping disease that steals my creativity and locks me away in a horrible nightmare of sad, soggy prose. My problem isn't that I don't have ideas galore for stories. And, it's not that they aren't original and interesting. The problem is, when I go to put them on paper, they sound different than they did in my head. There's something missing. I have no idea what it could be, because I write basically like I speak. It flows naturally and easily, but when I read it, it sounds flat and dull in my inner ear.
Maybe it's because I'm trying to write fantasy stories in a world that I haven't fleshed out enough. Maybe I'm not seeing my characters and world clearly enough. I'll be damned if I know. If I did, I would be writing fiction right now, not this blog. In fact, I started making entries here in the hopes that it would get my creative muse flowing and let me get back to the stories. So far, that hasn't really worked out, but hope springs eternal.

While trying to smash my writer's block, I've been reading. I've been reading history. Mainly Chinese and Japanese history. Those "Daily Life In..." kind of books. It's really interesting for me, a Westerner, to see how advanced those ancient civilizations really were. Ancient China was far, far more advanced in many ways than Europe during the same time period. Sometimes, I sit and try to puzzle out just what happened and how we, the West, got the technological edge over Asia. It's a strange, convoluted thing. And, ripe with story ideas.
The other subject I've been reading is writing. That is, I've just finished re-reading Orson Scott Card's How to Write Science-Fiction and Fantasy. In fact, I'll probably do an entry tomorrow about the MICE "rule". It's fairly usefull for speculative fiction authors. It helps keep persepctive.
And, finally, I've been reading fiction in between the non-fiction. Mainly, I've been re-reading Lawrence Watt-Evan's Ethshar series. They're really nice books that deal with normal, everyday problems in a fantastic setting, but they don't get too nasty. I mean, they're realistic, but I wouldn't hesitate to reccomend them to my 10-year-old daughter.

So, until the next time, keep writing!

Well, it's been way, way too long between entries, so here's a little something to feed the blog monster.

I've been working on some mapping lately. I did a little freelance work for a small game company called Pied-Piper Publishing, but that project has hit a small stall. I can't go into details right now, except to say that my work there is on hold. I'm looking forward to getting started there again, but that's neither here nor there.
In any case, I learned quite a lot from that small bit of professional experience. And, I think, my personal maps will be greatly improved by the effort. I've been sketching quite a few maps, by hand, but I'm having trouble settling on one to go further with than just doodles. It's not easy having a creative vision. *sigh* And, too, my sketching has taken the place of actual writing, which is bad.

I really need to find a way to focus on my writing more. I have so many ideas that just never seem to make it to paper. I think that's really the greatest challenge any writer faces. I'll never run out of new ideas, but I may never be satisified with them once they're on paper. The curse of creativity!

Well, off to bed for me. Maybe I'll be more creative in the morning.

Well, here it is. The "Official" BLOG of Fantasist.net.

Okay, so I set up a blog on another site I own, saw how easy it was, and figured, what the heck. At least there'll be more fresh content here more often!

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
- John 1:5

Night. The stars glittered in the velvet sky. The smoke of a small cigar swirled in the air like a serpent. The thin knife glinted in Paul Black's hand as he turned it around and around.

Nietzsche thought that suicide was a comforting alternative, he thought. Why ? Why do I think of that now ? A chill wind passed over him and he shuddered in the sudden cold. A nighthawk cried in the distance like a mournful Arab at a funeral on the six o'clock news.

It's not comforting at all. He drew deep on his cigarillo and coughed the bile-bitter smoke back out. The knife lay in his hand. An invitation to oblivion. Blissful oblivion. It's frightening, but it brings release. I could finally be out from under. He spat on the uneven stones of the patio under his feet and slouched back in his blue and white lawn-chair. He tossed the knife on to the short, wooden table in front of him with a backhanded flip. It skittered and bounced off the far side of the table, clanging and sparking on the patio stones when it fell.

Aw, Phoebe, why ? Why couldn't you just say yes ? He sucked in on his small cigar and blew the smoke out his nose. It burned, but he managed not to cough and choke. I'll never come out on top. Never get out from under. You were my last chance, and now it'll never happen. He felt the tears start to well up in his eyes, again. This time he didn't try and stop them. He just let them flow. Why not me, Phoebe ? I'd have done anything for you. Given anything.

"I believe that you dropped your knife, Mr. Black," Ismail Ibn-Narr said smooth as silk with a voice like a dry desert wind.

"What the Hell!" Black shouted as he snapped upright in the chair. "Where'd you come from ?" Black jabbed at Ismail across the table with his cigar. "And who are you ?"

Ismail gave Black a sad, almost mournful, look and offered him the small, ivory-handled knife which had fallen to the ground. When Black didn't take the knife, he placed it very carefully on the table. Ismail was dressed in a dark, gray suit of conservative cut. His neck tie was the color of dried blood and on his head was a dirty-dark crimson fez with a silver tassel. His face was still in deep shadow as he spoke.

"You called me," he said, his sandy voice almost a whisper. He stepped forward into a patch of light reflected from a neighbor's house so that Black could see his face. It was a swarthy, weathered face the color of old, worn-out leather and was partly concealed beneath an oily, black mustache and goatee. Ismail's face would have been dominated by his hawk-like hook of a nose had it not been for his intense, sea-water-blue eyes staring steadily out from under his bushy eyebrows. "You may call me what you wish, but my name is Ismail." He folded his hands in front of himself like a mourner, or a security guard.

"I 'called' you ? I don't think I understand."

"You had a need. A desire." Ismail shrugged as if he thought that explained the entire Cosmos. "You said that you were willing to do anything. There was a power behind your words." He waved at the knife. "So, I came to you."

"You telling me you came to help me kill myself ?" Black's cigarillo fell from numb and forgotten hands. It dropped toward his waiting lap with an anxious speed. Ismail waved his hand again and the little cigar stopped for a moment, extinguished itself, and shifted forward before continuing its flight. It landed between Black's feet with an unnaturally loud "plop."

Black looked at his feet with astonishment. He had not been aware of the falling cigarillo until it was too late, but he realized that it should have burnt his lap instead of dropping safely on the stone patio. He looked up at Ismail with an open-mouthed look of complete astonishment.

"If that is what you truly desire, then, yes, that is what I will help you do." Ismail reached into his jacket and pulled out a thin cigar, longer than what Black had been smoking, and put it to his lips. He cupped his hands around the tip and light from an unseen flame lit his face quite clearly. As smoke began to curl from the cigar, Black noticed that Ismail's hair was an unusual kind of black. It wasn't blue-black like a Greek's or an Italian's, but rather it was red-black in a way that Black himself had never seen before. It reminded him of the dying embers of a campfire. His hands were once again in the reserved position of a funeral attendee. "But, I do not think that is what you truly desire."

"Then, by all means, Mr. Ismail, tell me what I do truly desire," Black said sarcastically. This guy must be one Hell of a stage magician. Or maybe, stage hypnotist, Black thought. Wonder who sent him ? Parents ? He sat back to await the reply, secretly hoping for the right answer, but not believing that this hokey Arab with his magic act could pull it off. After all, not even my parents know how much I want Phoebe.

"My name is not Mr. Ismail. It is simply Ismail." He paused to stroke his beard in a contemplative manner. "I believe that you desire a bright star." He gestured toward the night sky with his cigar. "But, she is not in the heavens. Her name is Phoebe, no ?" He sighed like a cool breeze across a desert oasis and shook his head like a teacher who is disappointed in his favorite student. "Does not your own Bible tell you,'Give not thy soul unto a woman'?"

"How ?" Black exclaimed. "How could you possibly know ?"

"It is no secret." Ismail shrugged as if to say that there were no secrets from him. "Anyone may read your Bible."

"No, the other thing." Black leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. "How did you know that I asked Phoebe to marry me and she said 'no' ?" His left hand strayed to the small, silver charm which he wore around his neck and ran it slowly back and forth on the simple chain from which it hung. "Did she put you up to this ?" He smiled rather like the Cheshire cat and added,"How much is she paying you ?"

"She pays nothing." Ismail sighed again like the wind from the desert sliding through an Arabian bazaar. "Perhaps I have misjudged you, Mr. Black. I was under the impression that you were more open to some of the more, shall we say, unusual possibilities which the Cosmos presents to us." Again the all-knowing shrug which also seemed a sort of challenge. "But, it seems that I have been misled. Thank you for your time." He paused to draw a deep breath of smoke from his cigar and started to turn away from Black. "Good evening."

"No, wait !" Black said, as he dropped the sterling trinket and gestured for Ismail to stop. "Tell me what you have in mind. Maybe I'm interested."

"Indeed," Ismail replied as he turned back to face Black. "It is as I said. You want Phoebe." He shrugged in a way that suggested a small victory casually dismissed and waved his cigar in a circle at Black. "I will give her to you."

"Just like that. You'll give her to me." Black laughed a bone dry rattling laugh and shook his head. "You'll give her to me." His hands hung limp between his knees. "Of all the crazy, outrageous, bizarre things to say ! 'I'll give her to you.' You, sir, are a nut."

"No, I am a djinn."

"A what ?"

"Brought forth from a smokeless flame by the Almighty Himself, I am a djinn." His voice grew steadily louder as he spoke and gained a rhythm not unlike a prayer. "Given power over creation and the Earth and sky and fire by the Great Creator. Set to walk about the world long before Man raised himself out of the mud and spoke his first word. I am of the first of Allah's creations. I am of the First People. I am Djinn !" And with that last word, thunder boomed and lightning cracked the velvet black night sky.

"Oh, well, I see," Black said. "And because you are a djinn, and I'm not, you'll just give her to me because I want her." He started playing with his charm again. "Free of charge ? Or, is there a catch ?"

"There is the small matter of payment, of course," Ismail said as he shrugged in his manner, as if to dismiss the payment as insignificant. "I would require a mere two hundred years of service from you and your descendants."

"You're wacko." Black paused in his absent-minded fidgeting and squinted at Ismail. "How do I know that you'll deliver once I've agreed ?"

"You require proof." It was a statement and Ismail spoke it as if he had been waiting to be tested for millennium. "Name a task and I will perform it if I am able."

"Bring back the dead," Black said triumphantly, like a little boy who is sure of stumping an expert.

"Who do you require ?"

"Caesar. Bring back Julius Caesar."

"It is done," Ismail said, and pointed out into the dimly lit yard. In the distance, Black could make out the somewhat insubstantial figure of a man approaching. He could hear the clank of metal on metal and the creak of leather stretching and relaxing. The man grew closer and more solid with every step, until, when he was but a few yards away, it was clear that he was in the costume of an ancient Roman soldier. His bearing, however, was not that of a common man, but of a leader. He was a man used to the weight of command.

"He certainly looks Roman, but how do I know that he's the real Caesar." Black shook his head. "I'm afraid I'll need to see more."

"Choose another," Ismail said. "Select two more, and they will come."

"Marilyn Monroe. And Elvis." Black smiled boyishly at the djinn. "Bring back the King." Without another word, Ismail pointed back into the yard. Caesar was gone and in his place stood a platinum blond who could be no one else but Marilyn Monroe. Next to her was a young man who's black hair was done up in a pompadour like hasn't been seen since the 50's. The King of Rock and Roll lived again. "Incredible."

"Have you seen enough ?" asked Ismail, the impatience in his voice the first real emotion that Black had seen him display. "Are you willing to accept the bargain ?"

"I have a counter offer for you, Ismail, my friend." Black had started to toy with his little, silver token again.

"Your charm is quite interesting," Ismail said.

"It's Ganesha, the Hindi 'Remover of Obstacles'. It's cheap, hollow silver. Cost me twenty bucks." Black paused to look down at it. "Probably cost a quarter in India." He looked up at the djinn thoughtfully. "You want it ?"

"I can make a thousand such trinkets with a mere thought."

"Right." Black dropped the hollow charm to his chest. "What you want is my servitude, right ?" The djinn nodded. "Alright, I'll trade you two thousand years service for three wishes. How's that sound ?" There was a long pause and then the djinn began to grin an evil, cat-who-ate-the-canary smile.

"Done."

"Don't I have to sign a contract, or something ?"

"Your word is enough."

"Very well. My first wish is that majik can really work."

"It is already so."

"Not stage magic, mind. Real majik. Majik like as in Merlin and Cagliostro and King Solomon."

"It has been so since the Beginning of Creation. You have wasted one wish."

"Not so. Now I know for sure that majik works. And soon others will too."

"So you say, manling. Name your second wish."

"I wish to know, understand and be able to use every spell, charm, incantation, or other similar formulae or enchantment which Mankind has ever known or will ever know."

"Done."

"Really ?" Black asked as he rose from his chair. "Do I really know everything there is to know about majik, now and in the future ?"

"Look into your own mind if you do not believe."

"Wow," Black whispered. "It's all there. It's all really there." He bent over and picked up the ivory-handled knife from the table.

"Your third wish ?"

"Let's slow down a bit here, friend," Black said as he fingered the knife. "Remember, with the next wish I condemn generations of my family to some mysterious servitude. Let's pause a moment to reflect."

"I can wait a while longer for you, manling." He fixed Black with a devilish stare. "Choose carefully."

"Hey, you know I've got a lot of Solomon's really good stuff running around up here," Black said, tapping his forehead with the tip of the knife. "He had a lot of your kind working on his Temple, didn't he ?"

"Yes, but I don't see how that effects your choice of a third wish."

"Then, you're nearsighted." Black lowered his hands to his sides. "You gave me everything. Solomon's Greater and Lesser Seals." He turned and locked eyes with Ismail. "Even his Most Excellent Subjugation of Spirits of Fire and Air."

"By Allah, no."

"Oh, yes. Submit, submit, submit. I order you in the name of King Solomon and the Arch-Angels Gabriel, Raphael, and Metatron to suppress thyself ! Submerge, suppress, submit !" Black raised the knife and cut the thumb of his left hand. He smeared the quickly thickening blood on the face of the silver Ganesha about his neck. "As the will of my mind commands thee, so shall the blood of my body contain thee. Thou shalt be required to inhabit the object which bears my life's blood until such time as I may require thine aid. Get thee thither !" At which point, Ismail made such a screech that it drove more than one animal insane and he became as smoke in the wind.

He became a foul black whirlwind who's focus was the hollow, silver charm about Black's neck. He fought and screamed and cursed and threatened. But, Solomon had warned of this and Black did not let his will waver. A moment later all was as it had been. Peaceful and quiet. The stars sparkling like fine gems in the velvet sky. Ismail was no longer to be seen.

But, Paul Black could hear him calling from his new home. He had switched to begging. Pleading. Bargaining.

"I will give you endless wishes, master," he whispered. "If only you will let me be free of this accursed prison."

"Well, old boy, I'll have to get back to you about that wish thing," Black said in a cheery voice. "You've given me quite a new lease on life. Now, it's about time I started paying the rent." He fished in the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a scrap of paper. On it was a phone number. He turned and looked at the sun rising above the trees and smiled. "I wonder if Heather's up yet ?" A new day had begun.

There's one of those "paid advertisements" flashing on the T.V. screens and the lights are strobing in time to the latest re-mixed, pop-music knock-off. The lyrics are saying something about dancing alone while she danced with another. Deep. Real deep. A whole six inches. I start to leave when I see him. He glides towards me all pale and beautiful like a silver shadow of death. All calm like a hang glider in the eye of a hurricane. I see him slide to a stop at the bar and he acknowledges me with a smile as white as an Auschwitz operating theater. I can feel the panic rise in me like a drowning rat trying desperately to climb out of a filling rain sewer. And I watch my home-made death as he turns in for the kill, his slicked back hair like roach wings reflecting the bright neon ripping through the air.

I light another Camel and draw hard, knowing that it'll be my last, and scratch my crotch checking the .38 revolver that I've taped to my leg under my black jeans. He's coming closer, weaving in and out of the crowd like a king cobra ready to strike. I unzip my fly and rip out my weapon of choice. No one seems to notice as I draw a bead and snap off four shots. Then they see the lip-stick-red blood and the sun-streaked blond hair and hear my screams of pain and fury.

And I realize that it's Diane who's bleeding on the beer-soaked floor, that she's already dead. And that he's behind me wrapping around me like some kind of shadow cloak. The last thing I see as his fangs rip into my throat like a thousand needles is her face torn apart by my own clean shots, the wounds so fresh that they are still pumping blood.

And I woke up screaming. The nightmares were starting again. It meant that he was coming back for me. My own personal, home-grown demon was coming back to claim me. It was April 30. Walpurgisnacht. My birthday. Happy birthday.

It had all started a year before, on my birthday. I was alone, again, and had been drinking like a tourist at the "last chance" gas station at the edge of the desert. Well, it wasn't long before I started getting vicious the way that drunks can get sometimes. The only difference was that I didn't have anyone to take it out on. So I decided to call someone.

Now that may not sound so ominous at first, but let me explain. My fraternal grandmother was a German emigree. She left her country before charges could be brought against her in the matter of a death. The death of someone who had insulted her. The charges were of witchcraft. That was just before World War I. I used to talk with Grandma a lot. She taught me some rather unusual nursery rhymes, which she claimed were in German. They weren't, nursery rhymes or German. She and I always knew that they were something more. We knew that in the proper setting with the proper conditions arranged by the rhyme-chanter they would call a being of the inner world. They would call a demon.

I rolled out of bed, sweat running off me like streams off a mountain, and fumbled with a Camel. Grandma would have hated to see me smoking. She could have helped me get rid of the thing which stalked me in my dreams. You notice how we never miss relatives until they're dead ? My hands were shaking so badly that I could hardly get the butt into my mouth. And when I tried to light it I was shaking so bad all I could do was stare into the flame dancing on my lighter.

I am staring into the flame sitting on the black candle. My eyes feel like twin globes of slow burning gasoline. My back is a suspension bridge about to snap under the weight of traffic. My body screams in protest when I begin the chant again.

"Ash nag durag..." My voice walks down my throat like a barefoot child skipping on sandpaper. Using my peripheral vision, I see the chalk drawings which enclose me like a protective custody holding cell. And then, gradually my vision begins to blur and I'm seeing heat-wave distortions ripple the world around me. The change is beginning to take hold. My call is being answered.

"Ash nag durag..." I cut my hand with a simple knife and drip the blood into the candle before me. The flame turns and twists like a teen age girl dancing at her first unchaperoned boy-girl party. And it is beginning to take on a shape. There is a viscous popping and then the smell of burnt meat as the thing from the inner world forces its way into our reality.

I sit back, tears running from my eyes as if from a faucet, and take a look at the thing which has answered my call. It isn't what I expect. He's beautiful. Tall and smooth and pale like a marble Michelangelo statue of David. His hair is the color of freshly shined shoes. His eyes are the bright blue of sunlight on water. His muscles flow like mercury in high-school science lab as he reaches a hand out to me. He can tell I'm lonely and he wants to help. My eyes flick in the direction of his erection.

He is so achingly beautiful that I don't realize I'm breaking the first rule. Never touch the called. If you touch the called he is free to do with you as he pleases. And you can't send him back by chanting.

I had set down the now empty lighter wondering if it was some kind of metaphor for my life. I threw the unlighted Camel away from me. It bounced off a picture of Diane. Suddenly calm, I picked up the picture and stroked her hair. The grainy laminate didn't do her justice. She had been so soft that I had always been afraid to hold her too tight, afraid that I might break her when we made love. You never miss someone so much as when they're dead. I needed her there in the bed beside me. But it was too late, I had turned her face into ground chuck. The thought started me shaking again.

"This is bullshit," I whispered through clenched teeth. "This bastard thing I called has taken everything I care about. I called him. I can send him away." I put the snap shot back on the stand next to my bed, face down. She was gone and nothing could bring her back, but I could destroy the thing that took her from me. I showered and shaved. I pulled on a pair of jeans and an old sweat shirt which read,"Property of Vero Beach City Jail."

I pulled open the drawer of my desk and looked at my dad's old .38 caliber. I picked it up and felt its reassuring weight in my hand. I held it up and took aim. I focused in on a dagger hanging on the wall. It was the same knife that I used when I called him. I put the .38 away. It was a night for knives.

* * *

I stood in the center of a raised concrete landing in the basement. I had redrawn the rainbow mandala of chalk and stood at its center. The candle in front of me flickered sending my shadow dancing around the cold, damp room. It was time to begin a new kind of call. I hoped that he would answer.

"Azg nag turish.." I could feel the world ripple and sway as I said the words. A cold finger of fear tickled my belly. I started to shake with anticipation. I wanted to see him again. I almost broke into tears when I realized that I wanted him as much as I wanted Diane.

"Azg nag turish..." The candle guttered in a sudden breeze and when it flared to life again the room smelled of fresh-cooked meat. I heard breathing behind me, but I did not allow myself to turn around. The thing behind me sighed like a homesick schoolboy at camp for the first time. Then footsteps start to come around the edge of the chalk drawings. I closed my eyes.

"Just couldn't say no anymore, could you ?" The voice was like silk being spun and molasses being poured on hot waffles. It was irresistible. I had to answer.

"No, Nathan. I couldn't let you stay away. I had to call you back." I opened my eyes. He was standing in front of me, smiling that same all-knowing grin. I felt a bad case of the shakes coming on.

"What do you want ? Why have you called me back ?" He said it in an innocent way like a five-year old asking why he couldn't play with matches. His smile never changed, but his eyes grew hard as he said it.

"You know why, Nathan."

"But I want to hear you say it !" he shrieked, spittle flying carelessly from his distorted mouth. "I want to hear you beg for me to come back !" His body quaked with uncharacteristic emotion and he stabbed at me with his finger as he spoke. "I want you to thank me for making you kill her."

"Please, Nathan. I need you." I managed to hold back the tears, but the shakes got worse. "I need you more than I ever needed her." I knew that he could tell if I were lying. And I was telling the truth. Right at that moment I did need him. As much as I needed to breathe, I needed him to be there. "Please, Nathan. Come to me. It'll be like it was the first time, I swear." He started to take a step towards me. "I need you, Nathan. I need you more than life itself."

"Now that's more like it." He glided toward me, his old self-confidant self in place again. "Aren't you glad I made you kill that bitch ?" He was four steps away and he came closer. "How could you go to her after what we had ?" Three steps and inside the first circle of chalk. "What the hell did she give you that I couldn't ?" Two steps and right in front of the black candle.

I took a step towards him, my left hand reaching up as if to caress his face, my right hand flicking back from where it had rested on my thigh. The dagger slid down the inside of my sleeve and into my hand in one fluid motion like a steel serpent. I grabbed Nathan by the back of the head and drove the knife into him two ribs below his left nipple. The look of hurt and betrayal on his face made me want to kiss him. For Diane's sake, I twisted the knife deeper into his chest instead.

"She gave me love you inhuman bastard," I whispered lovingly in his ear. He started to fade. His eyes dimmed like an old T.V. shutting down. And then he began to dissolve into smoke. The last thing to go was his face which silently mouthed the words,"I loved you."

He was gone. I had sent him back. Back to the inner world. Even though I can never escape the things that I allowed him to make me do, he had finally gone. Even though I can't break out of my own inner world, I had finally beaten him. I was alone. I had finally won.

THE END