Summer Toads and Missing Moths

I had a summer of toads once. I must have been eight or nine, an impressionable age to be sure. We lived in an apartment, my mother, sister and me. she was doing what she could to provide as a single mom, my sister doing whatever it was she did that summer, and i found toads in the night.

The apartments were built on an old wetland I guess but no one had told the toads about the new landlord and that summer they sprang up and spread like rain. I never learned know how or where from—lord knows I looked. They were just there one night and for the nights that followed.

I remember seeing under the light of a distant streetlight, mounds of shadows wiggling and hopping. I’d catch them. It was easy. They were bigger than my hand. Expressionless, they’d look up at me and piss. That was their defense. I learned quick how to catch them and hold them so when the inevitable stream came, it would miss me.

I didn’t keep them. I just greeted them, admired them as only a little boy can admire a toad and set them down and watched them hop away. Or maybe they’d sit contemplating the strange visit we’d just had.

In the morning there was carnage. Flattened toads carpeted the roads. Hundreds flattened under car tires to a pancake , to cook solid and dry in the sun by the next night when more toads would come.

I never had another summer like that. The toads came back for a year or two, but never in those numbers. And then they didn’t come at all. Nothing. Never again.

I think back on that summer and wonder at it and mourn. As an adult I read that amphibians are among the most sensitive species on the planet, one of the first to suffer from a weakened environment. That was my first sign. The missing toads. The effects of my species on another
one.

What makes me remember those toads now so longingly, so wistfully, is I remember seeing also under that distant streetlight in my childhood, swarms of moths. The light was clouded by fluttering insects. I suppose that’s whey the toads were there to munch up the low fliers.

The moths lasted longer than the the toads. They followed me to other houses, but now too, they are gone.

I remember not being able to open a patio door for fear of a hundred getting in the house. Patio lights a were shadow plays under talcum wings and head butts, misidentifying a sixty watt bulb as the moon.

Now nothing.

I haven’t seen moths in years.

Not one.

The toads and the moths— their fates were the same.

We too must be on the list.


This is anecdotal. This is personal. This is tragedy.

FanX

I'll be at FanX this weekend, hanging out with the tribe. I'll be manning the League of Utah Writers table #31 in the Vendors area, west end of Aisle 1700 on the main floor.

FanX
Fri. April 19th & Sat. April 20th 

Salt Lake Convention Center
100 S W Temple
Salt Lake City, UT 84101 

Friday, April 19th

Author Spotlight 11:15-11:30 a.m.Convention Stage, Exhibit Hall 1831

League of Utah Writers Information Table #31
West end of Aisle 1700

Peaks of Madness Cover Reveal

It's spring so you know what that means. Rain and allergies and surprise snow storms that seem to kick you square in the...

But also, the annual Utah Horror Anthology.

This year I was once again privileged to participate as an editor and contributor. It's release is imminent. The cover is below. Check it out!

Saweeeeeet!

Reading Time

I rearranged my schedule and it has made all the difference.

Live in Letters is this year’s theme of the League of Utah Writers. I thought of it. It’s my theme. I’m the president. It’s a challenge to make literature a way of life. Since I’m a writer, that’s not too big a stretch, but the other end, I noticed needed some attention.

I read a lot, but only in the odd moments between other things. My change of schedule was to give myself time to read. By scheduling some time each day, for me in the morning right now, it happens.

It’s that old adage about saving money from your paycheck. Most people get their paycheck and pay for the things they need first, and then, later if there’s anything left, they put the remainder away for a rainy day. The better way to do it, is to save money first, then pay the rest. The money at the end of the month is then free money, guiltless spending. Time is the same.

Everyone’s resources are different of course, but a time budget has to be as important as a financial one.

Putting the things one values high on the list means it happens. I’ve been really good at finding time to write, but too often at the cost of reading. I read plenty, but I honestly could and should read more. By blocking out some time each day, that happens. The internet doesn’t miss me, the TV can get along without me, and I am fulfilled.

I know I’m talking to the choir here, fellow readers, but I have noticed, because I looked for it, a distinctive improvement in my life since I started blocking time out early for words instead of waiting for time to show up on its own. For one thing, I concentrate much better. Reading in the morning, means the afternoon will be effective, whereas surfing news sites online, especially these days, meant the doldrums later. Knowledge, focus, enlightenment and studying my craft all at once. It is part of living in letters.

I’m not saying that reading is a panacea, but it is a panacea.

Allergies. Again.

The allergy fairy is visiting me. Or maybe it’s the second flu. Cousin cold or mange. I’m thinking allergy though. My hair loss hasn’t increased beyond the usual—off my head down my back. It is the time of year when winter surrenders its cold embrace of the planet and fresh beads appear on trees, tulips poke up in their beds and all nature poisons the air to get even with people for the things we did.

Pollen. It’s got to be pollen. It took me years and years of spring colds to finally cotton on to the idea that I might be reacting to a chemical assault from my back yard. Years of not noticing the timely nature o the snot monster’s visit. Like clockwork, plants go green in the spring, I go green in the gills.

My problem was the myth of endurance, that is thae lack of change. Growing up I never had allergies, this time of year was as wonderful to me as the post cards made it sound. Then I got older and some microorganism got my number, some resistance I had went dormant or fled to Hawaii and I was doomed to suffer for two weeks a year as penance for living another year.

It’s the deal now. I get it. Things change. I change. The changing seasons were a good hint, but my changing immune system is the goods.

It is metaphor for existence. It is warning to humanity, told through a member of its ranks, that nature is not without weapons in the battle for existence.

It is decay in new life. My health, the land’s rejuvenation.

It’s wonderful and pretty miserable. Mostly miserable. Lots of misery. Lots of Kleenexes an pseudoephedrine. The pharmacist must think I’m cooking meth by now.

Still writing though. I’m good. The shot across my mortal bow is not unheeded. Make hay fever while the sun’s shining. Or something like that.

Jodi Milner – Stonebearer’s Betrayal

It’s been a while since I’d had visitors at the Blog Mansion, but when I heard my good friend Jodi L. Milner was looking for ink and had dared to touch upon my esoteric interests, I summoned a few friends and had her over.

Jodi L. Milner: What kind of interview room is this? Occult symbols, incense, swords…

Johnny: I do some of my best interviews here. Stay in your own circle though. If you leave it, the other interviewers can get you.

Jodi: What other interviewers?

Johnny: Oh, they’re here. Just let the smoke get a little thicker, they’ll visually manifest.

A Voice from the west: WHY ARE YOU HERE?

Johnny: Tell him.

Jodi: We’re talking about my new book, Stonebearer’s Betrayal.

A voice from the south: WHAT IS IT ABOUT?

Jodi: At its heart it's a coming-of-age story where Katira, at the very adult age of eighteen, believes she has her life figured out. She knows her place, understands her path, and is destined to be the best healer in the northern Panthara mountains, just like her mother. That all changes when demons attack and throw her world into chaos, threatening to destroy both her and her family. To survive, she must find the strength within herself to face her worst fears and protect the ones she loves.

A voice from the east: TELL US MORE ABOUT THE DEMONS. WE MIGHT KNOW THEM.

Jodi: Behind all the chaos is the Archdemoness Wrothe. She has escaped from her prison and will stop at nothing until she gets her revenge, which includes plans involving Katira's father. Is she a friend of yours?

A voice from the east: NOT RINGING ANY BELLS.

Low haunting laughter.

Voice from the west: TELL US ABOUT YOUR MAGIC SYSTEM

Jodi: This is where my favorite elements of the story come in. The magic preserves those who possess it, making them essentially immortal. These immortals formed a secret society, The Stonebearers of the Khandashii, to organize their efforts to aid and protect the people of the world from threats like Wrothe. The name Stonebearer comes from the focusing stone they are bound to that allows them to direct the flows of magic. There are limits, however, the energy required to perform this magic comes from the user. Not only does this cause the user pain, it can kill them should they attempt to use too much. To complicate things further, the magic itself scars the user's skin along the pathways it follows to leave the body.

A voice from the north: WHERE DID YOU GET THE INSPIRATION FOR YOUR WORK? WHAT DEMON DID THIS?

Jodi: I'm totally blaming network cable when I was a teenager for my inspiration, that and some truly excellent books. I survived adolescence watching The Highlander, Xena, and Kung Fu: The Legend Continues all while reading all the fantasy I could get my hands on.  

The incense gathered and morphed. Ghostly shapes could be imagined in the quadrants.

Johnny: How long did it take you to write?

Jodi: Including all the times I stopped because life got complicated, 10 years. But, to be fair, I had to learn how to write a book and that wasn't exactly easy. Plus, I had one baby when I started and then proceeded to create two more before I was finished. Honestly, making people is much easier than writing a book. It's the keeping them alive and healthy that's time consuming.

Voice from the west: ARE YOU MAKING IT INTO A SERIES?

Jodi: Yes. Books two and three are written and are entering the editing and polishing process as we speak.

Johnny: I’m always interested in how writers get started. Tell me the: story of how you got into print.

Voice from the south: YES, DID YOU HAVE TO SELL YOUR SOUL AT A CROSSROADS AT MIDNIGHT ON A MOONLESS NIGHT.

Ghostly giggles.

Jodi: You mean selling my soul actually works? That would have been so much easier. I started with short stories and worked my way up, learning about the publishing industry as I went. When my book was ready to enter the world I reached out to agents and publishers for almost a year before I signed a contract with Immortal Works Press. Do I think it's funny that my book deals with immortals and I sighed with Immortal Works? Yes, I do.

Voice from the east: NO BLOOD PACTS? NO SACRED OATHS?

Voice from the west: HOW DO YOU EXPECT TO SUCCEED WITHOUT SELLING YOUR SOUL?

Voice from the south: SHE’S NEW AT THIS, GIVE HER A CHANCE.

Voice from the north: YES, I WILL TAKE HER SOUL. I’M HAVING A SALE TODAY ON LITERARY SUCCESS.

Devious laughing.

Johnny: Tell us how your human community has helped your writing.

Jodi: I owe my entire writing career to the amazing authors in the Utah writing community. Without their support, guidance, and advice I would have never made it to this point. I'm a proud member of the League of Utah Writers.

Voice from the south: STEP OVER HERE IN MY CIRCLE, LITTLE GIRL. LET’S TALK. HOW ABOUT AN INTERNATIONAL BOOK TOUR? OPRAH?

From the north: SHE’S MINE! I CLAIMED HER FIRST.

Gusts of wind shaking the coagulated smoke.

Johnny: Don’t believe them. They don’t know Oprah.

Voice from the west: I KNOW A GUY WHO KNOWS A GUY. I CAN GET IT DONE.

Johnny: These are lowly demons, they’re just book fans.

Voice from the south: CURSES! DON’T BELITTLE THE LITERATE!

Johnny: I wasn’t.

Jodi: It’s getting hard to breath in here. My eyes are burning.

Johnny: Tell us where we can find out more about you.

Voice from the north: YES AND LEAVE A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR.

From the west: A DROP OF BLOOD TOO. THAT WOULD HELP,.

Jodi:
Website

Twitter

Facebook

Instagram

Goodreads

Amazon Author Page

Stonebearer’s Betrayal on Amazon

Publisher-Immoral Works

Johnny: Well I guess that does it, Thanks for coming over Jodi.

Jodi. It was fun. Creepy but fun. Give me a hug!

Johnny: No!

She steps out of the circle and is engulfed in whirling sulferous smoke.

WE’VE GOT YOU!
WHERE ARE YOUR SHADOW HOUNDS NOW? HAHAHAHA!
JOIN MY CRITIQUE CIRCLE!
SIGN MY BOOK!!!!!!

BWHAHAHA....

Gary Numan

I’ve rediscovered an old friend. Gary Numan, the 80’s New Wave pioneer who had a break out hit with his 1979 song Cars. Most people’s knowledge of the man and his music ends there, relegating him to the world of one-hit wonders.


 I was more tenacious than some, but not most. I followed his career for a while into the mid-eighties, three or four albums, but when he moved from synthesizers to guitars, I lost interest. He was just another three cord wanna-be rock and roller I thought. Striving for mainstream acceptance with conventional tools. He fell off my American radio stations and it it was natural to relegate him to the back of my cassette case and forget he existed as I followed other experimental bands.

But, whereas I gave up on him, he never gave up and his new album crossed my internet browsing and I gave i a listen.

It was very cool.

I brushed off my old albums and gave them a new listen and then dug into the decades of work he’d put out without my knowledge. Like binge-watching a career I saw his evolution and growth. He never stopped his experimentation. He built upon his moody vibes and throbbing dance songs that made me wiggle in my seat the first time I heard them.


He’d had changes in his life. He’d touched a nerve in politics before it was normal for artists to have and voice political opinions. He’d married, had kids and never stopped writing music. He was successful. He was under the radar, the mainstream had their new flash in the pans, but he’d found an audience and had kept them. They’d allowed him to continue creating.

He stayed dark and brooding, echoed the theme bands of his birth, Flock of Seagulls and the like, live shows with costumes and trippy lights, How'd I miss all this? I asked myself. Oh, yeah. Wrong continent.

Now, I’m digging on the new album. Now critics are re-evaluating him as well. Musicians are commenting on his influence on their careers and he’s been named “the Father of Dark Wave.” Pretty damn cool that he has a sub-genre of his own. What artist can hope for more?

I love this. Not only because it’s like meeting an old friend and falling in love again, but as an artist it thrills me that he kept at it. I was too quick to dismiss me, but luckily for everyone, he didn’t listen to me. He had his own path and every album I download and listen to is a picture of progress, a gem and joy. He inspires me.

O,h and his new album is charting.

Check out Gary Numan, Savage (Songs from a Broken World).