The Ball that Disappeared – Part 2

If you missed Part 1, click HERE

Hugo and the rest of the kids stared at the busted fence. His baseball was on the other side, and the only way to get it back was to set foot on Old Man Semos’ property.

“You have to forget about it!” said Measles. “Go over there and you’ll get killed!”

“Of course he’s not going over there!” Shouted Pudgy, with a laugh. “He’s too big of a wuss.”

Hugo took a step forward, then stopped and gulped. That baseball was the only thing he had left to remember his dad by – it was more important to him than all the pop in the world.

“Don’t do it, Hugo,” said Measles. “I don’t want you to die. Not yet at least.”

Hugo continued his slow trudge forward.

The only kid who walked with him was Measles, who adjusted his glasses then said, “Old Man Semos puts bags of candy on his front porch for Halloween every year, and still nobody goes over there. You wanna know why?”

“Why?” said Hugo. The two of them were now well afar from the rest of the gang, and only feet away from the fence.

“Because the one kid who ever took some of that candy swears on his life that it was human flesh, mixed with sugar!”

Measles stopped, but Hugo kept going.

“Don’t do it, Hugo. It’s not worth it.”

“I know,” said Hugo, before peaking through the hole in the fence. No sign of any dog, and no sign of Old Man Semos. The baseball, however, just sat there, in plain sight.

“It was good knowing you,” said Measles.

Hugo turned, then watched Measles walk back to the other kids, hanging his head like Hugo had already been mauled to death. Hugo didn’t have time to worry about that now – if he acted quickly, maybe he’d be able to live and get his baseball back.

He ripped the rest of the broken plank away. The opening was narrow, but Hugo was skinny enough to slide through. For the first time in his life he was grateful for being such a rail. By the time he spotted it, he was in too deep.

The gargantuan hound. It really was the size of a horse! Sitting in its dog house, Hugo heard it growl once his shoe touched down on the burnt-out lawn. Hugo looked over at the ball, then back at the hound.

It growled again.

Hugo took one last breath, then booked it.

As he bolted after the baseball he could hear the hound’s chain dragging through the dry brown grass. The hound ferociously barked as it raced along the ground.

It wasn’t charging at Hugo – it was charging after the ball!

Hugo couldn’t afford to lose focus now – his eyes stayed trained on the baseball the entire time. As he neared it, Hugo realized he’d have to pick it up and keep running without losing a step – this hound’s chain was nowhere close to being taught.

The hound opened its jaw and Hugo swore he saw fangs in its mouth. Hugo returned his eyes to the ground, right where the baseball sat, and swiped it up then kept going.

The giant dog still chased after him; slobber splashed up and soaked Hugo’s elbow.

He was running out of room to escape – Hugo headed straight for the screen door to Old Man Semos’ house. He busted through and tore it down, landing in a rough dive that knocked the ball out of his hand. He barely escaped the Hound, whose chain tugged the collar on his neck and cut-off his pursuit.

Hugo stayed on his stomach for a bit, breathing heavily until he caught his breath. When he finally worked up the courage, he took his eyes forward to figure out where his baseball had rolled to. Sitting on the couch, tossing it up and down in the air with one hand and holding a rifle in his other was the scariest person Hugo had ever laid eyes on – Old Man Semos.

Hugo gulped.

To be continued…

• Thomas M. Watt

Oh where do we begin? The rubble or our sins? – Bastille, “Pompeii”

And there I was just sitting there,

Watching fire fall from air.

Vesuvius boomed and did explode,

I sat down and prayed in pose.

Oh my Lord what have I done,

This is the end and no more fun.

God what happened why’d we leave you,

Now my city burns to ruin.

I hope to God they see some day,

I died right here, right where I pray.

– Thomas M. Watt

Editing

Words fall down to death by red sword, pen cuts out the excess whores.

Red pen ink, to my page, stains the thoughts I pressed in pain.

Cut the shit the darlings too, kill the ego made from ruse.

Red line runs through half a page, cuts out these words I thought were great.

Cut the shit, cut it through, line-to-line an ‘X’ marks lose.

Red ink here and there a lot, lines by circle coffee blots.

Oh what action oh what prose guess what my words it’s time to go,

Leave my pages, I’m sucking thin, the story goes without you in.

I am so sorry, understand, the reader has made his own demands.

He said your lovely quite alright but he fears you’re endless plight.

You see dear words your painted tint, a sort of way to fake a win.

I guess you came to satisfy these thoughts of mine which I thought write.

Looks like I tossed you in a pile, mulled you over for a while.

Fell in love with your sweet mirth, should not have slept with Mrs. Adverb.

Time to say goodbye to you, nice to make you show such truths.

I am so sorry and so sad it’s come to this oh yes it has,

One more chance to let you speak, just one last thought I’m setting free.

The words that float and sound so good, the two I say do sound so rude.

I’m going to have to end with that, a spit of banter yet compact,

Off you go unneeded prose, take your charm you’ve been disposed.

No more fancy, no more show, grab your friend and off you go.

Suck my words into the night, enjoy this rhyme and sleep alright.

Read a thing a time or two, see it’s madness writing for you.

Well my words goodbye you two, bull-shit ends now – I bid ado.

– Thomas M. Watt

Writers Digest Writers Conference

 

I went to a writers conference this weekend. At the conference, there is a thing called a ‘Pitch Slam.’ Now, if you’ve never done this, and you are a writer, I highly advise you to fork up the money and go to a writers conference. The pitch slam alone is worth it.

Why?

Because it gives you a chance to meet face-to-face with an agent. You will pitch your novel, and they will either request an email from you, or insist you please leave their presence immediately. The benefit is you get to find out where your novel stands, and build up a new-skin for enduring the business end of writing. 

If every agent rejects your manuscript, it is a good thing. Either learn how to pitch better, or set the piece of garbage down, go outside, and try to pretend like you are a normal human being who doesn’t know what this drug called ‘writing’ is all about. Time saver. 

Now, as for the writers conference in general, it was one of the coolest experiences of my lifetime. There are lectures all weekend covering all the facets of writing. From those who wish to learn more about the craft, to those which wish to learn more about business. 

And I pride myself to a point of bone-headed-arrogance on never bothering with ‘tricks of the craft’, but even I learned something which will be pivotal to my story, in relation to suspense and captivation. Here’s a hint – When your character is motivated to succeed in his quest by a good heart, it isn’t quite as exhilarating as the knowledge that he will certainly be murdered if he fails.

Furthermore, besides the lectures and the pitch-slam, there is the collection of writers. Writers ranging from your typical, “Aw hell, I’ll write a book shit. What’s it but a few purty words put to-gather?” To my new friend Joe, who is spending this entire week pitching screen plays to Hollywood execs. And yes, he’s already received some serious investments for his online show, “Precipice.” You can check it out at http://www.precipicetheseries.com 

Then, lastly, there is the canoodling. You get to talking with these people. The writers, the speakers, the agents, the teachers, the published authors. On Saturday, we all stood around and gingerly sipped alcoholic beverages with one another.

Word of advice from McWatty9 – If you ever want to make a great connection with someone, get drunk with them and talk about B.S. the whole night. Trust me, you will make a far greater impression then pitching your book to someone who just finished listening to book pitches for twelve hours.

So, in summary, if you are truly serious about getting published, go to one of these events. It is far easier to ‘make a name for yourself’ with a handshake and an introduction then it is to write so many published articles your name is ingrained in every reader’s memory. 

Thanks to Writers Digest for hosting a great event.

– Thomas M. Watt