Hand Poised On Knob

Hand Poised On Knob

You’ve had your bags packed
For a very long time
No chance to think it over
Just grabbed your essentials
Essentially you’re gone.

But still you remain
For what or why
You’re not sure yourself
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

And that’s a problem
Isn’t it?

Remaining behind the door
Hand on knob
Certain of the monster behind you
Not sure of the monsters beyond
Duffle bag on your back
Mouth dry as cotton
Frozen
So you remain another day.

But your bags are packed
And in your head you’re gone
Living your life this way
One day at a time
One monster clawing at your back
God knows what waiting beyond.

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

“Oats” in The Sirens Call eZine

I‘m happy to announce that my story “Oats” is currently appearing in The Sirens Call eZine Issue #8 – Men in Horror!

Sirens Call has consistently published strong anthologies since emerging on the horror scene, and their eZines have definitely followed suit.  Issue #8 is no different.  98 pages of horrific fun featuring short stories, flash fiction, poetry, artwork and more.  The unbelievable thing is that the ladies over at Sirens Call make their eZines free to everyone.  Download and read it chunks at a time or devour it all at once!  The choice is yours!

What’s so special about “Oats,” you ask?  Well, I’ve kept and maintained a collection of story ideas since 1992, and no matter how silly or odd an idea may sound, into my tome it goes!  It could be something snipped from the news, or a nightmarish conjuring from within my head.  No idea is judged; no idea deemed too good or bad.

“Oats” originated around 1993 as an unnamed, loose story about a child who loses a tooth and the evil father who won’t allow said child to keep it.  I knew that Sirens Call was looking for submissions for Issue #8, so I decided it would be fun to go burrowing into my journal.  Lo and behold, an entry caught my eye.  Twenty years later, I am proud of the fact I birthed that idea to fruition.

So what do you get when you mix a creepy tooth fairy and my love for oatmeal in one bowl?  Well, “Oats” of course.

Please download Sirens Call Publications Issue #8 – Men in Horror! for free and read “Oats“, which is on page 34, along with the a multitude of fine stories by talented writers including two other Pen of the Damned members!.  Please drop me a message and let me know what you think.

Complete

Complete

I‘ll take what’s left of you

And reassemble your pieces

No need for glue

No use for twine

For you’re perfect broken

Shattered

Pieces long gone.

I’ll lay you across the table,

my jigsaw.

The sum of your parts

Telling a story

Filled with gaping holes

That make perfect sense

Only for me.

Copyright © 2012 Joseph A. Pinto – All Rights Reserved.

Insight behind “Sweet Nectar of Life”

I had a blast writing “Sweet Nectar of Life!”  It wasn’t such a blast getting there, however.

Just months before crafting the tale, my daughter entered this world.  I simply didn’t know how I’d cope.  I’d lost my father to pancreatic cancer only two months before, and the swell and swing of emotions was simply beyond my grasp.  I couldn’t comprehend that my own father was gone, let alone that I was becoming one.  It became a dark time within my heart, and I was oblivious to the sunshine surrounding me.

So how could I have had so much fun writing “Sweet Nectar of Life?”  It became very therapeutic for me; the story spoke and I listened.  My tongue firmly planted in my cheek throughout, it is nonetheless a dark tale, and the suspense and cold dread are without question palpable.  More than anything else though, “Sweet Nectar of Life” taught me an invaluable lesson.  If I did “dad” things instead of thinking I was now a “dad,” well, then “dad” would be just fine.  And I was.  From that point forward, being anything other than a dad to my sweet little sunshine seemed incomprehensible, and still is to this day.

“Sweet Nectar of Life” is currently in the Cruentus Libri Press anthology ‘The Dark Side of the Womb.’  A glowing review for the anthology can be found at Review Folder.

Wet your appetite with a little taste:

“Sweet Nectar of Life”

Yet did I somehow… no, impossible!  I’m beginning to sound like a crazy man.  But what if… what if I’d inadvertently cursed the child while it still lay in its mother’s womb?  Like the hex the infamous Mother Leeds placed on her ill-fated thirteenth infant, doomed to suffer a fate only the damned could appreciate. 

I’d done no such thing, of course.  Not consciously.  Oh but how the worry picks at my brain the way a rat nibbles on discarded scraps!  And I did have my worries.  I was justified to have my worries.  I’d expect any man to have them – but would they voice them as I had?  Raising a child in today’s world… the corruption of society… the erosion of morals… the implosion of economics…  I’m not ashamed for stating that a man and woman could be considered downright selfish for introducing an innocent soul into this cesspool we call humanity.  What is greater – the loss or the gain?   

My wife, as expected, was appalled.  My arguments (which I believed as entirely sensible and she as entirely unforgivable) drove her from our room on numerous occasions.  God granted the miracle of birth; did He not also grant the miracle of free will, thought and speech?  Why couldn’t I exercise my own?  So many nights I left my bed to lay upon the couch as the question ping-ponged inside my head.  And just before dawn, face drawn from distress and insomnia, I’d sneak back into bed again, finding my wife the way I left her – sleeping upon her side, pillow between her knees, one hand dangling over the edge of the mattress, the other gripping her swollen stomach…

Give “Sweet Nectar of Life” a loving home, won’t you?  It may be the last thing you ever do…

Available on Amazon.com

Treason

Treason

(acoustic guitar)

 

My words they’ve been swept away

Feeling much the castaway

If only I could bring back yesterday now,

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

Your eyes blaze like July.

Still there’s nothing I remember

Of your cold heart December

Such subtleties whispering goodbye.

My thoughts they’ve been led astray

Searching for the right of way

If only I could have the right to say now,

What’s your reason

What’s your reason

Your eyes blaze like July.

Still there’s nothing I remember

Of our snowbound December

Such casualties of war and of lies.

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

Your eyes blaze like July.

Still there’s nothing I remember

Of your cold heart December

Such subtleties whispering goodbye.

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

Such subtleties whispering goodbye.

Copyright © 2013 Joseph A. Pinto – All Rights Reserved.

‘Sex-Starved Thing’ on Pen of the Damned

Where do I even begin?  Maybe I should start by saying that I don’t “game plan” my writing.  I sit; I write.  It’s that simple.  I never steer a story’s direction, nor do I even attempt to influence it in any way.  I see images in my mind; I feel emotions wash over me.  Then I go about creating…  It’s not something I can easily describe.

Each story has life.  Each story is a life.  It’s my responsibility to birth it.  I allow each their own identity.  They are my children, and I am equally proud of them all.

Have you read Sex-Starved Thing on Pen of the Damned yet?  I have no issue telling you it’s quite the story.  It’s a depraved tale about a man and his Sex-Starved Thing.  It is brutal.  It is violent.  It is disturbing.  Yet it’s about as beautiful a piece of prose as I have ever written.

I created Sex-Starved Thing while sitting in my basement.  Ipad on my lap; wine on my table.  Stereo cranked.  No motive inside my head.  But there it was: “Nails grate across stone; she comes for me.”  The beginnings of a new life.  As I said earlier, it’s that simple.  No game plan.  No map.

But that only scratches the surface.  True, I had no idea how my story would develop.  But once crafted, I realized my subconscious screamed out on many darker levels.  Is Sex-Starved Thing a state of unconditional love or a condemnation to love’s conditions?  Hmm.  So many things unanswered; so many angles left to ponder on your own.

What does it stir within you?

Please enjoy Sex-Starved Thing on Pen of the Damned

My dearest THINK

I won my six-figure deal last week.

My contract signed inside my daughter’s preschool classroom of all places.  Her teacher asked if I would participate in Read Across America week, and I agreed.  It was a tough crowd; preschoolers know what they want and when they want it.  Straight shooters, these preschoolers.  Rougher and more critical than any literary agent or editor I’ve come across.

I settled into a rocking chair set solely for this purpose. Looking up, I saw their tiny faces scrunched before me.  Scrutinizing.  My daughter’s included.  Interested neither in adjectives nor metaphors, sentence structure as useless to them as a wrapper with no candy hidden inside, they waited.  Give them what they desire; magic! And you had better deliver in its telling…

Carefully and reverently, I opened the tome upon my lap.  “You can think up some birds…”  I began, my mouth dreadfully parched, fingers trembling upon the book’s gleaming surface.

“Excuse me, where’s your hair?”

Along my brow broke a bead of sweat.  My eyes flicked away from the tale for a moment; trepidation mounting.  Confidence shaken.  I tremulously stumbled, “Umm…that’s what you can do.  You can think about yellow or think about—”

“Athena’s daddy, I asked where’s your hair?”

All eyes…all narrowed, measuring eyes…upon me.  Did I mention they were a tough crowd?  I reached into my back pocket, pulled forth my last vestige of hope then extended a sealed fist to my diminutive blond heckler.  “Take this,” I croaked, engulfing his open palm.  “It’s my last hair seed.  Grow this for me so one day I can plant it back on my head.”

Silence. What had I done?  Awful, black tombed silence.  Time stood still.  Then an eruption of unearthly shrieks.  Earsplitting giggles.  Tiny bodies jumping in delirium.  My daughter beaming.

Give them what they desire.

“Think!  Think and wonder.  Wonder and think,” I proclaimed, nailing each verse to perfection, my inflection as never before.  Enchanting the room.  “How much water can fifty-five elephants drink?”

Magic.  It had better be in the telling.

I finished my book reading, ears humming to the roar of joyous children.  My goddess rushed to me and wrapped her arms around my neck.  “Thank you for reading to us, Daddy.”

I won my six-figure deal last week.  Signed and sealed forever in my heart.