Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

Previously on… Father Death (2)

2

Sidney’s hand lingered in Billy’s as they exited the movie theater. Billy felt her pulse faint as it throbbed in the digits. She walked close to him. The feeling of her body brushing against him with each step licked an excitement along Billy’s nerves. Excitement that baited the anticipation for the rest of the evening.

“What did you think?” Billy asked, squeezing Sidney’s hand and tugging her closer.

Sidney grimaced then flashed a dazzling smile, covering her teeth with her other hand as she giggled.

“You didn’t like it?” Billy leaned toward her.

Sidney laughed again. “It was so weird. And gross.”

Billy smiled back and swiped his fingers over his chin. “I supposed you haven’t seen the other Texas Chainsaw movies. You didn’t see much of this one since you kept covering your eyes.”

“I saw him crush a head with his mechanical leg! That was enough.”

Billy stopped walking and drew Sidney into him. He wrapped his arms around her and brought his lips to hers. Sidney responded and kissed him back. She parted her lips gently to allow him to slip his tongue into her mouth. Tasting her, Billy’s kiss grew deeper as he gripped at Sidney. Sidney withdrew with a playful laugh and planted her hands on Billy’s shoulders. When she disconnected from him, she glanced around to see if anyone was watching them.

“What time do you need to be home?” Billy breathed into her hair.

“My mom is expecting me at eleven.”

“Your dad is gone again?”

Sidney nodded.

“Another work trip?”

Sidney nodded again.

“Then we have some time.”

Billy hooked his arm around Sidney’s shoulder and brought his mouth to her neck. She cried out yet circled her arm around his waist as they walked to his car.

Billy opened the passenger’s door for Sidney. After she eased in, he closed the door behind her. With Sidney encased in his vehicle, a swell of excitement tickled along his nerves again. It tangled with the rage consistently smoldering in his chest.

He wanted Sidney. He wanted to take it out on Sidney.

He stopped for a moment and pressed his palm into the cool metal of the car. He closed his eyes to feel his feet against the pavement, the night air on his cheeks. When his heart climbed out of his throat, he hurried around the bumper and dropped into the driver’s seat.

Billy navigated the narrow, darkened streets. He drove them up a winding road past Sidney’s house to a small overlook on the hill. He parked and turned off the engine, turning to Sidney.

“What do you expect to happen here, stud bucket?” Sidney laughed.

“I wouldn’t dream of taking your virginity in a car, Sid.” Billy glanced down in his lap then brought serious eyes up to Sidney. “But we can still have some fun.”

Sidney looked at Billy through the fringe of her bangs. A sly smile crept across her lips as pink warmed her cheeks. Billy’s grin turned predatory as his hands slid to either side of Sidney’s face and pulled her into him.

Billy pressed hungry lips into Sidney’s, opening his mouth immediately. As he inhaled her breath, he guided her back in her seat and reached around to pull the lever beside the door. He kept his lips moving against hers as he shoved his feet into her floorboards and lay his body along hers. Sidney emitted a surprised giggle yet welcomed him with her hands firm against his back.

Billy’s heart pounded in a focused rhythm. The nerves on his skin arched toward Sidney’s heat, the feeling of her below him. He felt the frantic need to push her, to take her rising from beneath his constant rage. He exhaled steadily through his nose against her face to steady himself. He concentrated on moving his hands over her body and feeling how she reacted to his touch.

She wanted him. She wasn’t leaving. She wasn’t saying no.

Billy slid his hands into Sidney’s shirt, moving his fingers along the warm skin of her stomach. Her belly undulated at his touch. He moved his mouth to her neck as one hand wandered up to toy at the lace of her bra while the other descended to tug at her jeans. A low gasp escaped Sidney’s mouth as her head fell back.

Billy waited a breath for her objection. Then he loosed the button and struggled her zipper down, willing the frenzy out of his fingers. His hips fell into an unconscious rhythm as he moved his mouth back to hers, and he pushed his hand into her pants.

“Billy,” Sidney said.

Billy moaned soft in response and pressed his hand against her.

“Billy!” Sidney pressed her hands into his shoulders in a slight shove.

Billy retracted his hand and snapped his head up. His muddled mind screeched to a halt as the heat on his skin broiled differently. He glared up at Sidney.

“It’s 10:55,” she giggled.

Billy whirled around to the clock on the dashboard, the anger throbbing in his temples. The numbers mocked him in their glow. He dropped his head to Sidney’s chest in a pitiful whimper. She laughed and slid her hands into his hair, kissing his head.

“Hurry,” she said into his hair. “You have to get me home to make curfew.”

Billy groaned again. “You’ll be the death of me,” he said, shifting over the center console and back into the driver’s seat.

Sidney reached over and took his hand as he followed the winding road back to her house. Billy’s skin flinched away from her touch, wanting to coil down into his rage. She was choosing to go home over him. Yet he breathed and plastered the smoldering smile on his face. He packed all his desire to fuck her into an understanding grin.

Billy rolled the car to a stop in front of Sidney’s house, the massive structure and immaculate lawn emblazoned by the excessive exterior lighting. Sidney disengaged her seatbelt and tilted her chin, regarding Billy through her bangs. Billy reflected the sultry smile she offered. As Sidney leaned in, he wrapped around her and looked over her shoulder to watch a figure slip from the front door of the house.

Billy watched the man casually and confidently stride across the front porch and vault over the side rail. He landed effortlessly in the grass and took brisk strides over the grass, hustling to his car, which must have been parked unassumingly down the street.

Billy recognized the man immediately: Cotton Weary.

Cotton Weary, who owned the hardware store. Everyone knew him. Everyone recognized him. Maureen probably met him and initiated their affair by buying light bulbs or nails while her husband was on the road yet again.

Cotton’s slicked-back hair curled at the ends right above the collar of his coat. He tugged and adjusted the coat as he jogged.

Joy snatched him so quickly that he nearly squeezed Sidney. He had to temper his grin before Sidney slid from their embrace to bring her face to his. He kissed her hard and deep with all the passion of how everything was falling perfectly into place.

“I had fun tonight,” Sidney said, pulling back to her seat and reaching for the door handle.

“Oh yeah?” Billy smirked. “Exploding heads and blue balls.”

“Hey, maybe that’s what they’ll call the sequel.”

Sidney laughed and flashed her wide smile to Billy once more before exiting the car and moving to the house. She offered one more wave before disappearing inside. Billy’s grin remained as he steered the car back onto the dark street.

“Stu, are you even listening to me?” Tatum Riley shot up from the couch cushion and whirled toward Stu.

“Of course, I am.” Stu reached forward and gathered Tatum under his arm. “This movie is just really funny, and my brain can only process so much Major Payne yelling and you talking at the same time.”

Tatum glared at Stu but settled against him, turning her eyes back to the screen.

“Randy tried to get me to take A Nightmare on Elm Street, but I went straight for the New Releases,” Stu said.

“No. No splatter movie shit.”

“See, I knew that.” Stu reached down and tipped Tatum’s chin up to kiss her.

“If you had brought home Nightmare, you definitely would not have been getting any nookie.”

“Wait, I’m getting nookie?” Stu straightened and turned to Tatum.

Tatum laughed and hooked her nail on her bottom teeth.

“Stu Macher! We have been dating for like five minutes. How easy do you think I am?”

“I was hoping for pretty easy.” Stu shrugged.

Tatum shrieked and slapped Stu’s shoulder. Stu wrapped his long arms around her and wrestled her back against the cushions. As they tussled, the credits began to roll over the screen.

“That’s my cue,” Tatum sang, unearthing herself from beneath Stu and standing.

Stu snagged her hand and tilted his gaze up at her from the cushion. “You don’t have to go. My folks aren’t home.”

“Are you folks ever home?”

Tatum smirked as she bent down to kiss Stu goodbye. Then she bounced out the front door to her red Beetle.

Billy watched her leave the house and drive away before pulling his own car in front of Stu’s house and climbing out. Billy entered the house without knocking, knowing Stu’s parents were away, as always. He found Stu where Tatum had left him, ejecting the tape without kindly rewinding Major Payne. Stu figured that was Randy’s job.

Billy loomed behind the couch, watching Stu’s unsuspecting back until Stu finally turned around and noticed him. Stu startled at first. Then his face brightened at seeing Billy.

“Hey, man.” Stu attempted to smile coolly, rising from his knees.

Billy could not contain his grin.

“What are you so happy about? Sid finally give it up?”

Billy’s face fell slack before recovering. “Better.”

Stu slid onto the couch cushion in front of Billy. “What’s better than that?”

“I found our fall guy.”

Continued on… Father Death (4)

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Previously on… Father Death (1)

1995

1

“We’re doing this. We’re really doing this,” Stu exclaimed through clenched teeth.

Billy strode in measured strides while Stu bounced and leaped beside him. Billy cast his eyes to the side to acknowledge Stu yet continued walking. Billy kept his breath steady to control his heart rate and the heat brewing below his skin. He tensed his muscles to maintain a nonchalant and placid exterior while he roiled beneath the surface.

“How do we choose someone?” Stu pressed, sweat gleaming along his forehead.

Stu’s voice agitated Billy and undermined his control, yet Stu was necessary. Billy pinched his molars together and held fast. He pulled his breaths deeper into his lungs.

Billy traced the perimeter of the town’s square until the sidewalk led them to the white gazebo perched on manicured grass. He turned to lean against the structure and looked back at the pedestrians moving down the street. Stu wrinkled his face at Billy, whirling to the mundane street traffic and back, searching for the answer.

“One of them?” Stu hissed, leaning into Billy’s ear.

Billy chuckled and smirked. He remained against the gazebo, allowing Stu to twirl beside him.

“What about Randy?” Stu suggested. “That prick drives us both crazy.”

Billy pursed his lips, considering.

“Plus, he loves your woman.”

Billy snapped harsh eyes up to Stu, and Stu looked away, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Randy is too close,” Billy replied. “It can’t be someone we know that well. Too easy to be linked to us.”
“It’s not a very big town. We kind of know everyone.”

Billy glared at Stu until Stu shrugged. They both turned their eyes back to the sidewalk. Sheriff Burke and Deputy Dewey Riley stepped out of the Police Station. Sheriff Burke marched to his Jeep while Dewey chased his steps, asking a flow of questions Billy and Stu could not hear.

“I doubt we have to worry about them,” Billy chuckled softly.

“Ha! Not at all, man.”

The sun glinted off the Post Office door, flickering at the boys. Billy craned his neck to watch Maureen Prescott burst out into the sunshine. His body tensed at the sight of her, and he stopped breathing. He monitored Stu in his peripherals to ensure Stu did not register his reaction. Maureen’s dark, wavy hair flowed behind her as she strutted down the street. Her striped shirt left one too many buttons loosed, exposing her bare chest.

There she was: the bitch who had ruined his life. The coals of his anger blazed into flames inside his chest. The sweat prickled along his brow at the heat wafting inside him. He shuddered in his façade.

“Oh, look, there’s Sidney’s mom.” Stu planted his arm above Billy’s head and brought his mouth toward Billy’s ear, jutting his chin toward Maureen.

The boys watched as Maureen encountered Principal Himbry on the street. The two began talking, and Maureen reached out to touch Himbry’s forearm. She tipped her head back and laughed as she did. Then she passed a hand through her hair. Billy flexed his jaw until his teeth ground together to control himself.

“She’s at it again,” Stu said.

Billy licked his lips and pursed them tight, crossing his arms over his chest to bundle himself in his own containment. The rage roiled in his chest, tingled down his arms. Yet he waited. He glared at Stu in anticipation. Stu stared stupidly at Maureen for long and painful moments.

He needed Stu to pick her. It had to be her, but Stu needed to say it. Billy could not glance in Maureen’s direction without the nauseating anger strangling him, but he could not let Stu see that. Stu had to see nonchalance. Stu had to see Maureen as the perfect random choice.

Finally, Stu’s face exploded with inspiration. He turned his eyes back to Billy wide enough to burst. Billy released a small, relieved breath.

“Her!” Stu exclaimed, consumed by the entire word, embodied by the idea.

Stu snapped his neck between Billy coolly against the gazebo post and Maureen still caressing Himbry’s arm.

“Maureen Prescott?” Billy tempered his voice.

“Yeah,” Stu whispered, close and conspiratorial again. “I mean, look at her, man. We would be doing her a favor.”

“And every wife in town,” Billy scoffed.

“Exactly!”

Continued on… Father Death (3)

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

1994

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” Billy Loomis laced his hands behind his head as he reclined long on the red couch.

Stu Macher knelt before the television in front of Billy, shuffling through video cassette tapes. At Billy’s question, he stopped and turned with tapes stacked in his gangly fingers.

“How could you ask me something like that, Billy?” Stu said. “You know it’s A Nightmare on Elm Street.”

“You can tell a lot about a person by their favorite scary movie.” Billy cast his eyes toward the ceiling.

Stu turned back to the TV stand and continued to sift through tapes.

“Don’t start on that shit again,” Stu said. “You’re starting to sound like Randy.”

“Don’t compare me to Randy.”

Billy lifted his head from his hands and stared into Stu until Stu acknowledged the hard edge in the gaze. Stu immediately shrugged sheepish and focused on his task. Billy looked down his nose at Stu as he replaced his head on the pillow and resumed studying the ceiling.

“Aha! Found it!” Stu finally called, lifting the black rectangle over his head in victory.

“Took long enough,” Billy muttered as he pressed himself up to sit.

“I was going to find it. I knew it was here.”

Stu slid the tape into the VCR. The machine sucked it in, and the television screen above flickered before the movie played. The iconic and familiar notes of the theme song tinkled through the room. Stu lowered himself onto the second sofa, casting his eyes to gauge Billy’s approval.

Halloween.” Billy smirked as the jack o’ lantern flickered onto the screen.

“A classic. Pure slasher.”

Stu leaned forward and gathered up the heaping bowl of popcorn, shoveling sloppy handfuls toward his wide mouth. Kernels bounced from his lips and littered around his feet on the hardwood floor. He chewed loud and open-mouthed, the butter slicking his lips. On the screen, slasher vision peered through young Michael’s mask as he lifted the knife over his unsuspecting older sister.

“Do they ever say why Michael offs his sister?” Stu asked between chomps.

“They don’t really say, but you can also assume it is because she is fucking her boyfriend instead of taking him trick-or-treating.”

Stu nodded and continued chewing.

“The best reason is no reason, though. It is the scariest with no motive. Just a teeny, tiny psychopath.” A light flickered in Billy’s eyes, beyond the reflection of murder from the screen.

“I showed Casey this movie the other night.”

“Oh yeah?” The light dimmed in Billy’s eyes. He continued to watch the movie.

“Yeah.” A grin slithered across Stu’s buttered lips. “Went down on her when Jamie is in the closet. Scary movies always put girls in the mood.”

Stu vibrated on his cushion, waiting for Billy’s reaction. Still entranced by the scenes, Billy coolly slid toward the edge of the couch.

“Are your parents gone for the night?”

“My parents are gone for the week, man.” Stu lay along his couch, popcorn bowl perched on his belly.

“Again? Think they’ll miss a couple of beers from the garage?”

The idea broke across Stu’s face slow before his eyes beamed with mischief.

“Nah, my old man never keeps track.”

“Go grab us a couple,” Billy commanded.

The smile faltered on Stu’s face and flickered for an instant before he stretched it tighter.

“Yeah, man, I’ll be right back.”

Stu placed the popcorn on the table and vaulted over the couch toward the kitchen. Billy watched him move toward the garage door before leaning forward to pluck a couple kernels from the bowl. He chewed them slow as he watched Laurie Strode and her friends wander down the fall street in Haddonfield.

“So, Sidney Prescott, man.” Stu tumbled over the back of the couch and spilled beside Billy.

“Yeah.” Billy snatched a beer bottle from his hand.

“How’s that going? She seems a little…uptight.”

Billy turned cold eyes to Stu. Then the corner of his lip turned up.

“Just getting started. She’s like Laurie here.” Billy tipped his beer at the screen. “Inexperienced, shy, like any good final girl. Just needs someone to break her in.”

Stu laughed, stretching his tongue out past his chin as he did. Billy granted him a chuckle in return. They clinked bottles and turned back to the screen. The Shape moved through a dark Halloween night, stalking foolish teenagers.

“So, everyone knows Michael is the killer in Halloween. No mystery there,” Stu said. “And if the sequels are any indication, it’s pretty clear that Michael can’t die, so there has to be something supernatural at play.”

Billy shrugged and nodded as he took a swig.

“He could never pull it off in real life, though. It would be roadblocks, cops with guns, and back to prison or dead.”

“And what fun would that be?”

“Exactly!” Stu threw out his hand to punctuate the point.

“Anonymity would be the key in real life.”

“Yeah, man. Michael wears the mask, but everyone already knows it’s Michael.”

“The mask should really conceal your identity. And if you really wanted to throw them off, there should be more than one of you.”

Billy turned to Stu to watch his reaction. It blossomed across Stu’s features. His eyes widened first, below furrowed brows. Then his lips parted before twisting into a perplexed grin.

“More than one?”

“Think about it.” Billy leaned toward Stu and tilted his head to the side. “What if there was more than one Michael? The cops would never know what was going on. They could have him in one car, and he could be killing someone somewhere else. Laurie would never be able to get away.”

Stu’s eyes grew with his grin. He crouched toward Billy and propped himself on his knees.

“Multiple killers,” Stu mused.

“Posing as one killer,” Billy finished.

“Oh, man!” Stu slapped his knee and threw himself back against the cushions. “It’s brilliant. Why hasn’t it been done yet?”

Billy broke the stare, smacked his lips, and pushed back against the cushions.

“The slasher genre is dead. Everything just became endless, ridiculous sequels. One more ridiculous than the next,” Billy answered, pressing his bottle against his lips.

Stu mirrored Billy and leaned into his couch.

“Well, someone needs to do it. Bring the genre back!”

“Yeah, they do.”

A thin smile graced Billy’s lips as he turned his gaze back to Halloween.

“Oh, sick, I love this part!” Stu exclaimed. “When he hangs the guy from the fucking knife.”

Stu popped his eyebrows at Billy, goading a reaction. Billy flicked his glance over them and back to the television, beer bottle resting against his chin. Stu released a slow breath and watched Billy a beat longer. Stu looked down at the popcorn then back at Billy.

“How are things with your folks?” Stu asked in a quiet voice.

Billy’s jaw flexed as he closed his eyes.

“Why the fuck would you ask me that?” Billy narrowed his eyes on Stu.

Stu shrank back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, man. I just know it’s been….” Stu hesitated as Billy’s glare intensified. “Rough. You can stay here tonight if you don’t want to listen to them. You want another beer or something?” Billy remained immobile. “I’ll get you another beer.”

Stu fled Billy’s smoldering stare back to the garage. Billy’s eyes trailed him before swinging back to Michael Myers carving through Laurie’s friends. He glared at the television screen, almost through it, seeing the scenes more in his memories than through his eyes. His lips twitched along with the memorized screams and dialog.

“Where’s my beer?… Cute, Bob. Real cute… Come here, you fool…. Can’t I get your ghost, Bob? All right, all right. So, where’s the beer?”

Stu pounced over the couch again, sneakers slapping the hardwood in his landing. He planted the fresh beer bottles on either side of the popcorn bowl.

“OK, Billy,” Stu started, the wicked grin replaced on his cheeks. “I want to play a game.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Billy smirked. “What kind of a game?”

“Truth or dare.”

The curl dropped from Billy’s lips, and he leveled his face with Stu’s.

“I thought you were going to say movie trivia. Truth.”

Stu beamed and threw out his arms in excitement. Then he settled back to perch on the cushion.

“If this was your scary movie,” Stu started, “who would you kill?”

Continued on… Father Death (2)

Welcome to my Billy/Stu retelling of Scream (1996). Stay tuned for additional chapters to be released here! Obviously, I have no affiliation with the franchise. This is free, totally not for profit fan fiction.

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

It’s time. I’m ready to finally release my fan fiction project.

As you may recall, I was in a dark place last year (really, who wasn’t?). As a result of that or in addition to that, I hit the first real struggle in my writing since I started in elementary school. I feared I had fallen out of love with the craft, that it had been spoiled in my mind. So, for NaNoWriMo, I did a no-pressure passion project to reignite myself.

To do accomplish this lofty goal, I took myself back to where my love of horror began. My very first horror movie ever: Scream (1996).

Not to give too much away before I go and post the thing, I wrote the events of the first Scream movie (and a little extra) focusing on Billy and Stu.

So I’ve had this “book” since the end of November. But now it has been edited by someone other than myself, and I have decided to post it right here on this blog, just for fun. I couldn’t abide with it just rotting saved on a drive or in the cloud somewhere.

Now, I bring it to you. I hope to start posting chapters this week. I had fun with it and didn’t take it too seriously, so I would to hear how you think it lines up with the franchise. Come on, horror nerds, geek out with me!

Father Death is coming…

(And if you’re wondering about the title, “Father Death” is the name of the killers’ costume in the movie.)

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Where am I now? Not dead, for one.

But more importantly, where am I with my writing plan and goals? This is an author blog, after all (or so I tell myself between sappy, self-indulgent posts). As you may recall, this was the agenda:

  • Get to the next milestone in the new story
  • Outline the restructure of the rewrite novel
  • Restructure the rewrite novel and write new scenes
  • While rewrite novel cools, edit fan fiction novel
  • Post fan fiction novel
  • Edit rewrite novel
  • Return to new story

Shockingly, despite all the efforts of my mind and body to derail me, I am currently working the third/fourth bullets.

I am in the midst of restructuring my rewrite novel, marching through the new outline, rewriting scenes, and adding new pieces as I go. And I am actually loving the work. The book is taking a new shape that I don’t hate, and I am enjoying being back in that world. I remain a touch salty about abandoning my initial vision, but I am making my peace as I see the potential in what it is becoming.

I also sent the fan fiction novel to an editor. I have it back now, so I just need to prep it to release here on this blog. I have an artist friend (anyone who follows me closely knows who) who might contribute some creepy visions to accompany the words. I believe my plan is to release it serially by chapter. Perhaps one per week. It might be more apt to wait until horror season or when the franchise releases another movie but… fuck it. This is a passion project, so it’s about me.

I feel good. I feel like I am regaining my stride, nothing like before this slump (crash/burn/near abandonment of the writing I’ve done since I could hold a pencil). However, I have accepted that I do not need to always be that vicious with my time. The pandemic changed my perspectives (a little) on time management, balance, and being busy.

My marketing and promotion has gone to shit though. Aside from trying to recapture my joy and there being no joy there and trying to find new avenues post-COVID, mostly I am lost in the algorithm-laden bullshit of social media. It is inordinately challenging to connect with people now, even more difficult to get traffic on posts without paying. It’s all content into the abyss. And I have not landed on an alternative yet. I have been spending so much time trying to rekindle my drive that I have not been able to cast a glance in that direction.

Problems for another day.

I am looking forward to having produced something to release into the world. Without the traditional publication process and formal requirements just makes it easier. I am looking forward to reshaping my rewrite novel and hopefully creating something better so I can find a home for it. Then I can return to my WIP novel and start fresh again.

Onward.

On an unrelated/related note, (I don’t want to jinx it but) I feel like I might be coming out of the recent heavy gloom. I don’t want to be faked out by a fleeting mania, but this feels more substantial. As if I have finally breached the surface and can breathe again.

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Trigger Warning

Welcome to a darkly satirical little journey through suicide, suicidal ideation, self-harm, depression. Apply a heavy sardonic tone while reading.

I think I am having an inverted mid-life crisis. I am not trying to be young again, not groping at my youth or clawing to live longer. Rather, I don’t want to live at all. Instead, I want to skip to the end and be done living. My mid-life crisis is trying to find a reason not to die.

In a way only I could find humorous, this might just classify as me trying to recapture my youth—since this is exactly what I was doing when I was young.

I spent my teenage years in a painful blur. The sharp fragments that do surface from the haze are better left lost in the fog. I scratched incoherent calls for help into my flesh. I planted pills into my stomach and watered them with burning alcohol. I filled my lungs with smoke until I suffocated my own voice. I tempted anyone, everyone, everything to prove to me how terrible the world was and how I had no place in it.

In summary, I tried to kill myself after my conviction wilted with one failed direct attempt. If I couldn’t do it myself, surely I could tempt another way to find me. My writing career began when I documented this (see ”How to Kill Yourself Slowly”).

I squandered my youth crushed under the unhappiness of things already passed and figments contrived in my mind. I looked down at the genetic embers of mental illness and the low flames of trauma and poured gas until my entire world burned. The past swallowed the years greedily and spit me out, wasted.

Yet decades later, I find myself again on this same shore of a familiar sea. Somehow, it is like I never left, as if my footprints in the abrasive sand are still fresh and unfinished. The path before points to the waves. The dark water beckons, and the vicious sirens serenade my demise from the distance. The lyrics of their songs, the rhetoric they weave into my ears has changed, yet the pull to submerge myself into oblivion with them remains consistent.

I wish I could say that something clear and identifiable has happened. I wish that the call to the darkness was in an intelligible tongue that translated into logic. Yet the illness betrays itself in its clumsy, mute current. At its simplest, I feel this swelling wave repeating that I just want to be done. I am tired. Tired of pushing and trying and fighting. Exhausted of the cyclical repeat. Life has lost its fascination as enjoyment and hope has drained from almost every experience.

Sound like a symptom from a depression screening? I surely fail those every year. They have a pill for that! I can add it to all the other pills I have started taking. My body has turned on itself in a myriad of minor autoimmune conditions, manifesting suicidal ideation at the cellular level. Maybe next it will spell “end it’ on my scalp in alopecia bald spots or withhold circulation long enough to shed entire digits.

My hair does not want to remain rooted in my scalp. My blood does not want to pump through my vessels to feed my extremities. My stomach does not want to digest and process food. My brain does not want to wake up or engage the world. The body appears to be sending clear messages in multiple formats.

I am not even at home in my own flesh. My own body does not want me to stay alive, so why should I want to? Why should I battle both my brain and bone to keep going?

Half the time, it feels like my body is rejecting me. And when I look out of the eyes that do not even want me behind them, I only see bleak extremes. I see everything wrong with myself, my life, humans, the world, the future.

It does not seem like the time to worry about attending my twentieth high school reunion or accepting the permanence of baby weight or negotiating a better mortgage rate or deciding what to buy with the extra money I manage to scrape together after working the same years on repeat. It seems like the time to get off this demented merry-go-round.

Instead of giving myself a drastic makeover, chopping my hair and dyeing it red, I’ll shed this entire physical body. Instead of picking up a fitness craze and chasing the tautness of an Instagram celebrity, I’ll immortalize myself as under 40—forever. Instead of violating my relationship for a fling with someone young who wants to fill my inbox with pictures of their genitals, I will remain permanently faithful by creating a widower. Instead of making impulsive decisions like spending my 401K or quitting my job to make my mania blush, I will make one last permanent decision.

In the quiet oblivion, I would miss all the ugliness around me, all the noise inside my mind. I won’t have to stick around to see how this pandemic, next world war, political unrest, climate crisis, or any other historical plot twist unfold because (spoiler alert!) none of them are looking too good.

The ugliness in the world used to be a contrast point for me. It used to motivate me to identify and savor the rare beauty and joy in life. I have lost that. I feel only the dark and the ugly. Maybe it has been too long and I have become too complacent since the war zone, gagging on my own comfort and privilege. Maybe I have forgotten the face of true suffering once again, leaving me feeling sorry for myself.

Something has changed in me to bring me back here. My perspective has shifted. A lens has settled to stifle all the color, subdue all the joy, darken all the possibilities. Living has become robotic, detached, and contrived (uh oh, more symptomatic language). The experience has been reduced to a practiced rotation to amass material possession, create waste, and fight about issues that never reach resolution while the world dies. It all feels so futile and pointless, so much like running on a wheel that goes nowhere, and I no longer want to participate.

I feel like I worked my entire life and survived myself the first time to get to this future just to find out there is no future, just to learn the rest of life is only a repetitive struggle to survive and buy unnecessary shit until I die. And the gravity of that idea is heavy enough to make me want to chemically lobotomize myself to make existence palatable.

The easy answer seems to be to just STOP.

Randy Poe Photography

I have things to live for, of course. I have not lost sight of those. However, those things tend to only amplify and make this crisis more poignant. Loving my children fucking hurts. I keep seeing how I brought them into a world where people hate them for simply existing and their home is on fire every summer because the planet is dying. I think, what did I do to them? I wonder, what can I possibly offer them in all this?

With the way things are going, my husband wants to go off the grid, grow our own food, and sustain ourselves. I could fertilize the garden with my corpse. I would probably be more nourishing to my family in that capacity versus drawing trauma marks along their brains when they get swept up in the wake of my storm.

I could spare them my damage and grant them the fruits of my absence. Instead of worrying about dwindling resources and accumulating waste and what that will mean for my progeny, I can remove myself from the equation. I can offer up what I would consume and eliminate all the plastic husks that would trail behind me. One less viral contributor.

Who says living it out is better? Who says you need to know what happens? Sometimes, you need to turn the awful movie off or put the terrible book down. Sometimes, you need to get off the ride. Maybe we all would be better off if I just called it the end instead of the middle.

Just like when I was young, it seems so simple, so seductive. What if the first time in my teen years was my mid-life crisis and my return here now is simply the end? The math is right. I am about double the age I was then. Life could be one elegant, self-destructive circle with the conclusion back where I started. There would be a sick poetry in that symmetry. It would almost be like time travel, obliterating the happiness and good deeds done in the decades gap between these dark visits to the shore of oblivion.

Randy Poe Photography

Afterword

How much of this is overdramatic satire? You decide, but I do hope you slapped on the sardonic tone I requested. If you’re looking for optimism, you’re barking up the wrong blog. Have you read “How to Kill Yourself Slowly?” We don’t do that here. Writing is for the dark side of my mind. I am aware of how simpering and self-indulgent these posts are. But do not be concerned; I am fine. Obviously, I am not alone in a dark room plotting out the practical end of my life as I just blasted these feelings on the wide and public internet. I have dark emotions, and this is how I process them. Sometimes, things need to be written out to see how truly malformed they truly are. I actually firmly believe that nothing in life is permanent enough for suicide.

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Some recent reviews of my latest book Followers got me thinking… do characters have to be “good”? By this, I mean, do you need to consider the protagonist a good person or do you need to relate to or understand them to truly enjoy a book? Do they need to be the “good guy”? Do they need to do the “right” things? Do you need to see yourself (or what you would want to see in yourself) in them?

I think media has proven to us ad nauseam that flawed characters are compelling, from classic to modern literature (to movies, TV, video games, social media…). If characters did not make ill-advised decisions, how would we have conflict? But do we have to understand them? Do they have to be like us? Do they have to be sympathetic to be a successful character?

Where is that line?

Upon reflection, I find that I have mixed feelings on these questions (and the reviews). As a writer, I tend to avoid purely “good” characters. I don’t like good at all. I found my voice in creative non-fiction, and I am a deeply flawed person. That awareness of my flaws and defects translated to fiction. My writing is largely driven by the psychology and emotional experience of my characters, and for that to feel authentic, I feel compelled to include ugly truths.

In short, my characters aren’t real if they’re “good”.

I think real people are complicated and so too should characters be. I think they make awful decisions and mistakes. They hid and obscure unsavory parts of themselves. They behave in frustratingly human ways.

In Followers, I really pushed this idea. Sidney, my protagonist, is not a wholly sympathetic character. You meet her after she has ruined her marriage with infidelity. Then she soothes her insecurities by farming attention from online boyfriends. Did I mention she’s not the best mother either? Not savory characteristics but potentially real ones. Do Sidney’s flaws make her an unsympathetic character? Do the reader’s judgments of Sidney’s behavior color the rest of the story?

Sidney may be the most unsympathetic protagonist I have written, but she is not the first.

In Savages, my narrator is a whiny and traumatized reluctant apocalypse survivor. When she discovers a baby, she does everything possible to avoid caring for it to dodge her own painful memories. Who wants to root for someone who won’t help for a helpless infant?

In The Waning, captivity breaks Beatrix down slowly. The entire book is about her not reacting how she thinks she would, not fighting back the way she should. Her psychology and her will unravels. Can you keep fighting for someone who does not fight for herself?

In The Rest Will Come, online dating drives Emma over the edge, but she is obsessed with finding a partner and shallow in her pursuits. She tortures herself hunting for the perfect, hot, tall guy. Who wants the shallow girl to find the one and live happily ever after?

(Really selling my writing, aren’t I? haha)

All of these women, all of my protagonists are flawed if not fully unsympathetic. As a writer, I am drawn to them as my wounded little children. Their defects are what make them real and compelling to me.

Yet, on the other side of the page, as a reader, it is a different experience. Sometimes, a flawed character resonates with me perfectly and is brilliant. Yet other times, the character’s defects clatter against me off-tune, and it alienates me from the story. So… both? All of the time, a perfect or wholly “good” character turns me off immediately.

Perhaps the answer is empathy. Perhaps I tolerate the flaws and poor decisions and unsavory characteristics when I still empathize with the character. I do not even have to like the character, but I do need to understand and feel for them. Where is that line for me? I don’t necessarily know, but I can feel it when the book misses it.

Reading is a subjective experience. The same story and character can be read different by every single person. Every single person can prefer a different reading experience. I can think of many flawed and unsympathetic protagonists. Ones who have enthralled me and others who have irritated me. I wonder if my characters are unsympathetic to some readers or just not compelling enough to them to create the empathy necessary for those readers to go on the journey.

Is this a question of the wrong audience? Or should characters be universal enough to draw the reader into their world, seduce them into their flawed plight?

Ultimately, I would not change any of my characters. Sidney could not get in trouble with online stalkers if she wasn’t nursing her issues in cyberspace with terrible decisions. Emma could not find her homicidal tendencies if she did not suffer the consequences of shallow dating practices. Not only are my characters built on their annoying faults but so are the plots.

So what do YOU need in your characters? Do you need “good” people? Do you need to relate to and understand the characters to care about them? What makes a character work for you?

Who are your favorite unsympathetic protagonists? The best train wrecks from whom you cannot look away? If you like flawed characters, I clearly have a few to offer you…

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Crossroads

Posted: March 28, 2022 in writing
Tags: , , , ,

I find myself at a crossroads with my writing. Three options, three projects lay before me. Likely, I will eventually pursue all three, but each are deep and labor-intensive. I need to decide where to allocate my energy. I need to determine priority and select a focus.

The Not-Done Novel

After Followers, I quickly completed a new novel. And, for the first time, the story was not in the horror genre. Problematically, that left me completely disorientated on genre.

I drafted the book, revised it, worked it through beta readers, polished it. Then I decided it would be the first book I would query to agents to get published.

I got rejected by 50 agents. (Ouch.)

Clearly, something was wrong with the submission–either the query or the story, or both.

I decided the best way to troubleshoot would be to engage an editor, which, in hindsight, I honestly should have done before querying. I have worked with editors during the publication of all of my previous novels. However, this was my first editing experience pre-publishing contract.

The editor’s decimated the book I thought I was complete (a whole other post on that). To summarize: rewrite. Now, I am left with substantial substantive changes to make.

These proposed modifications present me with the opportunity to return to the world I built and the characters I created. I loved living in them during the initial creation and edits. I could break apart my story and puzzle the pieces into a new configuration. While daunting, I am inspired and challenged by some of these possibilities.

Ideas are perculating.

The Therapy Project

Last NaNoWriMo, I ventured into fan fiction to resuscitate my love for writing. I was able to locate my spark and also complete a short novel in the Scream universe.

The story remains where I left it after the sprinting first draft, so it is still quite raw. But now, what to do with it?

There will never be any formal publication. Do I let it wither and die in a file in some subfolder on my hard drive? Do I give it a polish and post it in serials on my blog?

My inclination is, of course, to release it. To do so, I would need time to clean it up and prepare it, especially through the lens of the latest chapter in the movie franchise. I also would love to have some art to post with it.

The Shiny New Toy

Shiny! So shiny. The new project is usually the most seductive and compelling.

I wrote about Scream in November to loosen my inspiration after all the rejection of my new novel (and life drama). It worked, and a new story idea surfaced between my lumpy grey lobes.

I have been massaging this story slowly over the past few months. Outlining and throwing down words when I feel like it. No pressure compared to how I usually work.

The story is not pouring out of me like some are want to do (Savages, “Freaks”, some of The Rest Will Come, “Malignant”, “Santa’s Workshop”…). However, it does take shape and flow nicely once I hit my stride. I am straddling between a planned outline and winging it. I know where I want to go, and the details are sharpening as I meander through the scenes.

I am allowing myself to establish the foundation in a broad stroke before painting in the finer points. This is how it always works, yet I am being more deliberate about skimming through the first pass this time, getting the basics established to build on. We will see how the strategy plays out.

The writing has been no pressure and pleasant. I enjoy building the world and forming the characters. Writing fresh is always my favorite part of the process. Obviously, this is the most appealing option, so equally obviously, it is the one least advantageous to pursue first.

The Direction

So which way to go? The arduous journey of reworking an entire book? The stalling edit that would yield a series of blog posts? The fresh and new story just getting started?

My heart, speaking based on what I enjoy the most, would say 1. new story, 2. fan fiction posts, 3. novel rewrite. However, my brain, considering what would be smartest and most productive or advantageous would say the complete opposite.

I think I have settled on the following (tentative) plan as a compromise, favoring the pragmatic brain:

  • Get to the next milestone in the new story
  • Outline the restructure of the rewrite novel
  • Restructure the rewrite novel and write new scenes
  • While rewrite novel cools, edit fan fiction novel
  • Post fan fiction novel
  • Edit rewrite novel
  • Return to new story

I get a little of everything I want and continue moving forward. Will it work? Maybe. Will I stick to the plan? Maybe not. But it is worth a try. It is better to have three options than none.

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

On Being Edited

Posted: March 9, 2022 in writing
Tags: , , , , , ,

So after Followers and during a pandemic, I wrote another novel. Spawned from a blend of world events and inspiration from random history articles, this story took me out of the horror genre for the first time since I started publishing my work. This story also flowed out of me like Savages, and I felt very strong about it. When I started editing and reworking it, I didn’t change much.

Insert red flag.

Then, when I thought it was ready, it got universally rejected. I know every parent thinks their baby is adorable, but even I could understand that this meant something was wrong with my creation. So, for the first time, I turned to an independent editor outside a publishing house.

I have worked with editors before (on all my published works), and I always use beta readers in my drafting process. Yet this is the first time I have interacted with the editor prior to the submission acceptance and outside the publishing process. Call it a new author experience for me. My authoring career is evolving, and I can hitch this on to the dreadful agent querying process.

My book clearly needed help, so I asked around and got recommendations for an independent editor. I sent her my raw, trembling, little baby, and she (and an associate) went through it before providing me an editorial letter of feedback. Standard process, as I understand it.

OUCH!

It is what I asked for. It is what I needed. But damn, it stung.

With my previous books and stories and my other editors, we have worked my pieces over very collaboratively. However, they have never ripped any apart or suggested severe rewrites. In short, I have been spoiled. I have been pushing my boulders up gentle hills and have just now encountered my first mountain.

Currently, I am in the “processing the feedback” stage. I have the editorial letter, and I am digesting the many ideas therein. Next, I will meet with the editor(s) to discuss and brainstorm. Then the fork in the road–what to do? I will need to decide whether to pursue the story, and if I do, I determine what changes to make to it.

Insert heavy sigh weighed down by how daunting this all seems. Didn’t I just finish this book?

My initial emotional reaction was, with so much feedback, was there was anything redemptive in my book? If the plot and the characters and the names and everything need to change, is the story even worth salvaging? Is it really only the idea that survives? Honestly, these insecure pangs still nibble at the back of my brain as I mull it over.

As I am processing the ideas and they are cooling, the sharp edges are blunting. The looming shadows are scaling down so they no longer blot out the sun and I can see over them. Critiques are gradually reshaping into possibilities. If I can remain pragmatic, I can use this arrangement as intended to improve and evolve my story, to level it up into something an agent will accept.

This is not my first critique and far from my most brutal. This is not new territory. However, I feel like I have been coasting for a while, sneaking by in a sweet spot that did not force me to confront my shortcomings.

As I type this, I know that is what I need to do and also what I will end up doing. My feelings have just not caught up yet. My emotions are wounded and tangled on any part that hurts. Based on rejection on so many other fronts, this just seems to deepen the wound. My brain seeks out the confirmation for the pain. As I work my way through it with this words, I see that what I feel isn’t even really about the book or the editorial feedback.

I had finally pulled myself out of a writing slump and dumped myself into a new story. This has knocked me out of that groove. This has me questioning my writing, my quality.

Unfounded, I know. This is part of it, I know. But feelings are feelings.

I need to remember that I do not always need to be accomplishing something. I can rewrite my novel at my leisure. There is no deadline. I can return to my new WIP whenever I want. It is not going anywhere. It is OK to take the time and take the breaks. It is better to get it right and make it better. I do not understand my own urgency, but I need to undo it.

Deep breath… Next step…

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

One more horror with heart. My latest book Followers! Sidney collects admirers online, yet when they show up in her real life, not all of them want to love her.

You can find Followers on Amazon.

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies