Under the Thrall of the Witch of Oz

My daughter lives in "Oz."

No, that's not the real name of the place, nor is it the HBO prison where love reigns, and I haven't lost the ability to differentiate between fiction and reality. It's a sorta, sometimes nickname for the lil' small (but big on charm!) town in which my daughter has decided to set her roots.

As a banker, her job is varied, which I guess is kinda par for the course for small towns. She runs the gamut of doing banking chores, personal crisis counseling, and scoping out plots of land for customers to bury bodies on. But the most curious thing she does is run errands for the town's crazy lady.

One time while visiting, she told me she dreaded going to work tomorrow. I asked her why.

"Because I have to go on a grocery run for...(honestly, I can't think of her name and even if I could, I wouldn't publish it) 'Mabel.'"

"Huh," I said. "So she must be a good customer."

"No, she's not a customer."

SOOOO many crickets. My brain ground through rusty cogs and wheels and gizmos. "But...but...but why are you going to get her groceries if she's not a customer? And even if she was a customer, isn't that going beyond the realm of good customer service?" (Side note: this small and quaint town is soooo small and quaint, it doesn't have a grocery store. You have to go to Walmart in the next town over. There're three tattoo parlors, three nail salons, 800 churches, and a bar, but no grocery store!)

"I don't know," she said. "It's just something everybody does!"

"WHAAAA? And she's not a customer??? But...but...what strange witchery is this?"

The witch of Oz's back story gets even weirder/stranger/awesome, depending on how you view it. Once, when my daughter's boss went to her house because she beckoned, she answered the door without any pants on. And one day she came into the bank with no eyebrows.

"Someone broke into my house and burnt my eyebrows off," she explained with a straight face and no eyebrows.

But my daughter (and a lot of the town's members) often go on errands for her, hauling a 20 pound bag of potatoes up two flights of steps. Sorcery!

Here's the best part: the woman pays my daughter off in ice cream drumsticks! (Where does she get this endless supply since they're never on her shopping list? Perhaps she's a rich, eccentric drumstick heiress.)

Yes, through either sorcery or subtle psychological manipulation, Mabel has the town do her bidding, and while under her thrall, her minions are helpless as they scramble to get cigarettes and TV dinners for her. Is she a good witch or a bad witch? The verdict's still out. Just beware of strangers bearing drumsticks.

Speaking of witches, one factors in mightily in one of the tales in my darkly comical and spooky collection of horror tales, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. As a matter of fact, the small town in which this peculiar tale is set is very similar to "Oz." Could it be...a TRUE STORY?

 

Wait! 60? That can't be right!??!

Turning 40 didn't bug me. I didn't even flinch at tipping into 50. But when my wife reminded me that my upcoming birthday would be my 60th, I freaked. It felt like I was taking the first doddering step toward the early-bird hour at the cafeteria. I swear to God I thought I was gonna be 59! 

"Do the math, dear," said my wife.

Well, math's not my friend, and it certainly wasn't this time. After struggling and counting on my digits (I had to borrow my wife's fingers and toes, as well), I finally came up with 60. Ta-dahhhhhhh!

Everyone had always told me that 50 is the big one. The one where I'd go out and buy a convertible, get hair plugs, and start (God help us all) wearing Skinny Jeans. But 50 didn't bug me, not one bit.

But 60! Man. No wonder my body's betraying me. Let's see...we're looking at getting winded by walking up stairs. Losing hair in the most mysterious of places only to see it migrate to most unwelcome new areas. Forgetfulness ("I didn't put that there!" "Well, then who did? The dogs?" "Yes."). 

And it seems like the older I get, the more crap I'm starting to lug around whenever we go on extended drives or trips. I put everything into a bag (but I'll never call it a "fanny bag." That's for you young whippersnappers.). What's in the bag, I hear everyone asking? Well, there's moisturizer, a top-of-the-line, retractable back-scratcher (I call it "The Claw"), several different chargers (why can't these impertinent young enterprising punks make one charger for everything?), a Kindle, a bottle of ointment for itchy skin, and soooooo many pills.

Back in the day, I went from no pills to a multivitamin every day. Arranged by my wife, that seemed like a big change in lifestyle for me. Now, I'm taking more pills than Seth Rogen at a party. I'm taking pills for bones, for heart strength, for eyesight. Hell, I'm even taking fiber and that's the one area I've never needed help with. I'm as regular as a cuckoo clock. I don't even know what half of the pills are or what they do, but it takes up a good chunk of time every morning, swallowing handfuls of the blasted pills.

My eyesight's getting so bad that I really don't like to drive at night. Things get blurry and you never know when my addled old man brain might take a detour and get lost.

When I first moved into my 'hood, I was the young whippersnapper, the old neighbors around me dying off left and right. Suddenly, I'm the grand ol' man on the block, the neighborhood historian. When did that happen? Even worse, when I talk to the new youth splattered around the block, I find myself embarrassingly trying to sound younger than I am.  "Hey, that's cool" and "I'm down with that" and "What's up?" and "Twenty-three skidoo, kiddo!" (Okay, I'm kidding about that last one. Even I'm not that old.)

For God's sake, I'll absolutely know I'm pretty much finished once I start watching the CBS ("Chronically Bitchy Seniors") network. Even worse, I might actively seek out "Matlock" reruns.

As I sit here writing this, in my gravy-stained Mr. Roger's sweater, my fingers cracking like a playing card clipped to the spokes of my bike back in the olden days of yore, I have to wonder how in the world I'm ever gonna handle 70.

Wait...I gotta go. There's some damn punk kids playing in my yard!

While we're chatting about old things (my back hurts!), check out my historical ghost saga, Ghosts of Gannaway. Not only does it take place in the '60's (peace, brother), but a dual timeline plays out during the Great Depression (kinda what I'm facing now). Oh, and it's scary, too.

The Great Unmasking

Well, as I'm sure you're all aware, it happened.  The CDC suddenly came out and said, "Yo, you vaxxed guys can dump your masks now, yo." BOOM. 

Just like that.

No build up. 

I mean, wearing a mask has become second nature after a year-and-a-half. I began to finally accept it as the new norm, hardly even bothered me after a while. My second skin. Hell, it became so normal, everyone in my dreams wore masks. Now, I feel like I need some time to adjust to the whole masklessness of it all.

Part of it is my distrust of my fellow citizens. The pandemic has made a lot of people and politicians crazier than usual. I guarantee that a lot of the people out there running around without masks right now haven't been vaccinated.

Which just gripes my goat. I don't understand the "anti-vaxxers." They cry about how they should have freedom to not wear a mask or choose not to get the vaccine. And buy assault rifles. What they don't take into consideration is that they're holding the rest of us hostage by refusing to get vaccinated. So much for their ballyhooed "freedom." Thanks, guys!

Not only is refusing the vaccination downright selfish, it just doesn't make sense. The vaccination doesn't carry tracking microchips, for God's sake. Why anyone would refuse to possibly save their--and their fellow citizens'--lives is beyond me. Of course it doesn't help when a lot of our so-called political leaders are refusing the vaccine. In the House of Representatives, only 95 of 212 Republican House members have been vaccinated. What the HELL, guys?

It's all become so tiresome with everything so politicized. The chances of swaying someone from one side of the argument to yours is flat-out rarer than catching a snipe.

But, hey, it's Amurica, dammit! Land of the free! Home of the brave people with assault rifles! And the unvaccinated! I suppose it's everyone's right not to get the vaccine. But your personal "freedom" should end when it puts the person next to you at risk. There was some local Kansas idiot who ran the worst Mexican restaurant I've ever suffered. He refused to have his customers AND staff wear masks because "a man has to draw the line somewhere." Big talk from a little mind. "Would you like a side of Covid with your burrito?" 

Freedom to go out and infect people ain't what America's about. Damn skippy. Can't believe I have to spell it out.

Anyway, back to the CDC's decision... As I said earlier, I've become a lot more distrustful lately (thanks politicians!). This CDC unmasking seemed incredibly sudden. I didn't think we were anywhere close to achieving it yet. I still don't. I suppose there's a level of anxiety about it all. When my wife and I finally reentered a movie theater, it just felt wrong to be sitting there without a mask as we binged on popcorn. (By the way, there weren't very many cinematic options. But, hell, we would've sat through "Barney's Big Purple Blunder" just for the experience.) So, why did the CDC finally have a change of heart? I know there's been political pressure on them (again with the stoopid politicians!) to issue the new order, so I can't help but feel they may have bowed down to the idiot "lawmakers."

I'm still wearing my mask out even though I've been fully vaxxed for some time. However, we've actually eaten at a couple of restaurants, trying to get back to living our lives. But baby steps, man, give me baby steps.

If you haven't yet read one of my books (in or out of a mask), then take some baby steps toward my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. You'll get a little bit of everything here, including a lot of dumb, stubborn Amuricans who get what's coming to them!

 

Straight Outta Applebee's

 

Meet the McCloskeys! Chances are you probably have by now, or at least you've read about them. They just take your breath away, don't they? Posing at full armed alert and in bare feet, Mark in a skin-tight pink polo and Patricia in her Blair nautical blouse, just whipping their guns every which way. Why, this could be an excellent freeze frame during a new Quinn Martin television action extravaganza!

Okay, you're probably wondering why I'm beating on this ol' dead horse. Why now, you ask? Because in April, Mark McCloskey said he's considering running for the 2022 Missouri senatorial race.

Why not? If Donald Trump can be president, then I don't see why Mark can't load up his guns and come out blazing at the Missouri capitol. Hell, toss in Lauren Boebert and we oughta be in for some rip-roaring, rat-tat-tat good times! Damn straight! Only in Amurica! Just like in the ol' West! Yee-HAWWWWW!

Let's look at Mark's other stellar qualifications for senatorial status... Hmmm. Both he and Patricia are personal injury lawyers (*cough* Ambulance Chasers *cough*). This certainly is experience enough for him to run for office. (Although I find it a little ironic that personal injury lawyers are packing heat...is it just me?).

A little bit of further background checking reveals...lessee... WHOA! Before they jumped on the Trump Train, they fought gun companies in court, winning hundreds of thousands of dollars for clients injured by faulty guns. In fact, they were at least partially responsible for bringing down Bryco Arms, one of America's biggest handgun manufacturer. Now they're pretty much the mascots of gun rights. (Pssst...just don't tell the gun lovers about this, even though Patricia is allegedly waving around a Bryco model handgun). Yessir, ol' Mark's definitely got the right stuff to be a politician, flip-floppy as can be.

The McCloskeys spoke at the Republican National Convention (*cough* Crazy Trump Town *cough*) and that's a shoe-in for a political seat. They've both gone on record saying they support the Black Lives Matter movement (*cough* A Lie! *cough*) even though they were threatening to shoot said protestors for taking a shortcut through their gated, private community. Yep! Mark's learned the surefire political methods and has mastered the proper tools for a seat in the senate these days.

Of course there's still that doggone, irritating charge of unlawful use of weapons facing them, but I wouldn't worry about that. Since when has criminal charges and accusations ever kept a great politician down (*cough* President Trump *cough)? Besides the Missouri governor has already said should they be charged, he'd "definitely pardon them."

Ta-dahhhhhhhh! Politics!

Our country is broken.

Further proof of how broke America is resides within the tales in my darkly comical and spooky short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. It's the dark underbelly of the Midwest written during the Trump trauma-filled term of terror.

A Mighty Peculiar Place to Visit...

Today, my favorite book of mine (outta 23 or whatever!) is republished by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press, Peculiar County, with a tremendous cover by the talented Jeffrey Kosh.

Why is it my favorite book, I hear you thinking? Not sure, really. Maybe it's the small Kansas town setting in the early sixties full of beyond quirky and sinister characters such as the librarian witch sisters. Perhaps it's the odd things going on around town such as Mittens, the ghostly dog or the mysterious creature that takes to the skies at night. Could be it's the (I hope) stylish prose. Or maybe it's just down to the protagonist, Dibby Caldwell, a smart, 15-year-old tomboy discovering romance, ghosts, danger, and mystery which upends her world.

I've had more than a few people ask how in the world I was able to channel the mindset of a 15-year-old girl so well. One person even suggested I'd transitioned. I don't have an answer for that except to say that once I got to know Dibby, she pretty much wrote herself. All of the best characters react that way. Frankly, Peculiar County was the easiest book I've ever written, too, and maybe that's why it's my favorite. I was on auto-write. The lazy man's book, the way I like it.

I dunno... Maybe it's my favorite because the last publisher who had it, didn't understand it and mishandled the hell outta it.

Here, give me a minute... 

 Okay, this is the cover they wanted to saddle it with. Sweet Mother of Pearl! See that Justin Bieber kid acting all coy and cutesy and bee-bopsy in the cornfields? That's supposed to be a six-year-old ghost in the early sixties. Geeze. Anyway, the diva cover "artist" wouldn't do a redo (everyone at that particular publisher bows down to her for some unknown reason), so I at least told her to ditch Bieber. Thank God she did that. But, still, the cover was lacking...What're we left with? Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Even worse, maybe "Little House on the Prairie." Gah.

Actually, the original inspiration for Peculiar County was the great To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (although not even near that classic's league, natch), one of my all time childhood faves. Except for, you know, the supernatural elements I added. And no social relevance. Okay, on second thought, it's nothing like Mockingbird, so ignore my pretensions. I just get excited about this book.

Some readers are also surprised that I've never lived in a small rural town. Just made it all up. And from paying attention when we'd drive through such places. It must be said, though, that a couple characters are based on real people my in-laws told me about. The one-armed, military attired phone operator was real! And the legend of the ghost dog was a story I picked up from an Oklahoma diner. The things you learn while driving through the Midwest...

All of these reasons and more are why this is my favorite book. In fact, it's nearest in end result of what I'd intended out of anything I've tackled. Which is why I've slowed way down on writing. I don't know that I'll ever match this book again.

But enough of my blabbing...check out what one reviewer said...

"What Mr. West has accomplished is a book that keeps on giving phrase after clause after sentence after paragraph you'll want to highlight and say 'this is so amazingly good.'" 

That makes it all worth it.

Life is different in Peculiar County.

So is death, as Dibby Caldwell, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Hangwell's mortician, is about to find out.

 

Witches lurk in the shadows.

A menacing creature haunts the skies.

And the dead refuse to stay dead.

Peculiar County. Available right about....NOW!

 

 

Spartacus Got Me Beat Up

I have a vague recollection of my parents dragging me to see "Spartacus," when I was a wee lad. It must've been a revival or maybe we even watched it on TV. Whatever. But forcing a six-year-old boy to sit through a three hour and twenty minute epic about boring politicians hanging out and talking in togas strikes me as not the greatest idea.

(Side note: My dad had a strange history of the films he chose for family viewing. We saw "Patton (tortuously dull)," "Walking Tall (how was this a children's film?)," and best of all, "Billy Jack (my first spotting of female nekkidness--three, count 'em, three times!--Thanks, Dad!)." Once we got older, his choices grew worse, leaning toward redneck comedies with Clint Eastwood and an orangutan. I finally broke with the herd; while they watched Burt Reynolds and cars, I snuck into the theater next to it to catch flicks like "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and "Dog Day Afternoon.")

Anyway, as a six or seven year old, "Spartacus" bored me stupid. But one thing stayed with me. Well, two actually: the gladiator fights and how the Roman emperors would react to the outcome of a match, usually with a dramatically downward turned thumb to end the loser's life. Cool!

So, the next morning, there I was on the school bus, all sparkly and glowing with gladitorial thoughts as we bumped our slow and nauseating way to school. All was terrific in my little world until we came to the inevitable stop to pick up this older, bus bully. That's when I always clammed up, for I'd felt his wrath before, having been tripped by him, shoved, called names, the entire fun package.

Once this monster boarded, I tried to make myself invisible and retract into my turtleneck shirt. It seemed to work, as he found a new target in the kid in front of me. But after a while, I'd had enough of watching this torment. I found myself wondering not what would Spartacus do in such a moment, but rather what would a Roman emperor do. The answer was quite obvious.

Slowly, methodically, oh-so-dramatically, I raised my hand. Made a fist with my chubby lil' thumb up. A hush fell over the bus. A spotlight framed by the sun pouring in caught me. For one glorious moment, all eyes were upon me in my most Roman magnificence. Then I turned my thumb down.

I don't know what I was thinking. The gesture was meant for the bully, not his victim, so it didn't make a lot of sense. And how in the world could I possibly get out of this? By inspiring the rest of the beaten and downtrodden smaller kids to revolt on my behalf? 

Clearly the bully understood the gesture was meant for him (even though I'm absolutely certain he didn't understand the context; I've never met a smart bully. I'm pretty sure that's why they are bullies). Quickly, his rage turned toward me. He grabbed my turtleneck, raised me, shook me, cursed me, and ended things nicely with a few punches. Naturally, the bus driver ignored the obvious ruckus, only because he was the second biggest bully on the bus.

(Side note #2: A college friend of mine was indoctrinating his girlfriend into the "joys" of "Spartacus" at a revival, as she had never seen the film. When they drove up to the glorious old Glenwood Theater {the last of it's old-fashioned massive kind}, she read the marquee and got angry. Beneath "Spartacus" was the title for another film, "One Good Cop." She read it all as one title. "You didn't tell me this was a cop movie," she yelled. Even better, when they watched the credits and writer Dalton Trumbo's name came up, she screams, "That's my uncle!" "Spartacus" touches everyone in different ways.)

Recently, my wife and I watched Spartacus again and all of these painful memories came flooding back. Some kind of leader, that Spartacus. Not only did he get all of his followers crucified, but he made a grade school kid take one for the team, too.

I am NOT Spartacus!

While on the topic of bullies from my past, they run absolutely amok throughout the first book in my high school/supernatural/murder mystery/comedy/social issues trilogy, Tex, the Witch Boy. These characters, too, are based upon my bullies in high school hell. Give it a look-see if you dare.

 

The Man Who Ruined Bowling

Maybe that title's a little misleading. Fact is, I've never liked bowling. But because of my own personal Bowling Bully, I'll never pick up a ball again.

It seems like all of my life I've been dragged into bowling alleys. From an early age, I thought it was kinda dumb, barely a sport at all. I didn't like the sounds of the alleys (thrumble, thrumble, thrumble, SPACK-BAK-CLACKETY-CLACK!) and I certainly didn't like the idea of sharing shoes with fellow sweaty outta shape men (and isn't bowling the sport for sweaty outta shape men?).

But everyone I know has always wanted to have a bowling experience with me. A rite of passage, I suppose...to HELL.

Which brings us to "Brad."

Really it's my fault that I found myself bowling with Brad in the first place.

Let me 'splain... I knew Brad back in the day when he worked at the same company I did. He was an affable enough guy and we became acquaintances. First came happy hour, then came friends, then came Stuart in the bowling alley.

Most definitely against my will, I was dragged into the alleys of deep, dark depression.

It's funny you don't really know someone until you either A) get hammered with them (I had many "friends" turn into ugly, violent drunks); or B) go camping with them (I wouldn't know, though, because a guy's gotta draw the line somewhere); or C) go bowling with them. 

Things got worse with Brad. MUCH worse. 

Once I entered the loud and odoriferous den of despair, I discovered Brad fancied himself an expert bowler. On the other hand, I knew I was a horrible, no-good, embarrassment-to-amateurs bowler. I had been conned.

Nine outta ten balls I sunk into the gutter. Hell, I didn't even have the coordination to ever launch off the correct foot. Just isn't in my clunky nature.

And every time I sunk a ball into the gutter, my ego sunk even further. Mainly because Brad sat at the table, roaring with giddy delight over crap beer, basking in his moment of supreme schadenfreude. 

See Brad laugh! See him giggle like the broken wind! Listen as he brags about how well he handles big balls! (Hold up...that didn't sound right...)

He didn't stop at guffawing. Soon, the "good-natured" insults began. 

"Hey! Hey, Stuart! Your lane's the one in front of you! Hoo-HAH!" and "Ha! I didn't know you were blind!" and "Maybe you'll get one pin this time! Ha HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!" and other choice bon mots.

As if my fragile male ego hadn't been battered enough into the gutter, the next thing I know, Brad's got his arms around me, trying to show me his alley expertise. Completely emasculating.

I slunk out of that hell-hole vowing never to bowl again.

And I haven't.

Coincidentally enough, on my last visit with my daughter, she told me of her last time in a bowling alley. A chip off the ol' block, she was dragged in kicking and screaming by a "bowling ace." He then berated, laughed, hooted at, and denigrated her lack of alley skills. I'm so proud of her.

Anyway, this guy, too, ruined bowling for my daughter for life. We commiserated (even though we both agreed "the sport" sucked to begin with).

Let's put an end to bowling alley bullying (say that three times!). Make a difference today. Only you can do it. Help save the children. Please send money and gifts to me, Stuart R. West, care of Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley (or should that be "Bowling Alley?") to help me battle against bowling bully PTSD.

Speaking of shameless plugs and desperate Trumpian level grifts for your hard-earned cash, check out my short story horror (and dark humor) collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There aren't any bowling bullies in the tales, but there are some dark characters that could give Brad a run for the gutter. Plus, it's one alley that's even scarier than a bowling alley.