After the amazing Scarelastic Book Fair, I got up early for a morning hike at Fort Harrison State Park near Indianapolis before heading for home. I chose the Fall Creek Trail—good choice! I love running water, and a walk through the woods is always good for the soul.
I tried something different with the video. Since the trail was relatively smooth and level, I tried reading while walking. And filming—three things at once! Woo. I got a bit out of breath toward the end!
When I first started writing this story—from word prompts—I intended it to go a whole other way. I was thinking more Yellow Wallpaper-vibe but told from the antagonist’s point of view. The story did not go that way at all. The characters really took it over and set me straight about what was really happening. I’m satisfied!
Somewhere I heard the expression “teaching the dead to talk with us.” I don’t think, really, that’s quite what was said. I don’t know that “the dead” were involved at all. But the minute I thought it, I knew I had a story.
I’ve been watching shark videos and reels in the way many people watch funny cats or goats in pajamas. I see people who are shark experts swimming with sharks. I admire them.
And I wonder if there are consequences to messing with the order of things.
I don’t have the answers. Just a story. Here it is.
No secret that I love fairytales and folklore. Different cultures bring different flavor. In Irish fairy and folk tales, you’ll find a grimly manic humor in the darker stories. A common thread that comes all the way from the epics through the fairy stories is the concept of lost time. While you are in the thrall of the ghost or in the fairy glamour, time marches on and you are outside it. When you return to your senses, you will find the world has changed—maybe only fractionally—if you are lucky—but changed all the same. I had that idea in mind when I wrote this story.
Jinx. From Feed Literary Magazine
This one is published in Feed Literary Magazine, and I’m so grateful to them for giving two of my micros a home in the same issue!
The video is from the end of September, 2023. I was on my way from Archon, a sci-fi fantasy convention held in Collinsville, Illinois (home of the world’s largest catsup bottle) to the Grubville Opry, a listening room in Dittmer, Missouri, to hear my songwriter husband, Tim Crosby, play. I was at Archon for the first time because Jonathan Maberry was there. He’s a writing hero of mine. He’s incredibly talented, and staggeringly prolific. He’s got a great work ethic to match his talent, and he’s super cool to his fans. I had a great time at Archon. A fantastic group of people—friendly, creative, supportive of each other… the kind of people you hope you find at a convention when you know no one when you show up.
I filmed the reading alongside the Meramec River in Missouri. I stopped at the Minnie Ha Ha Park in Sunset Hills, Missouri to take a walking break. It turned into a filming break. There’s a little bit of background noise—it’s a popular park! The crow, pileated woodpecker, and black snake clips are from Coyote Creek (my backyard).
JG Faherty was my mentor during a formal mentorship with the Horror Writers Association. And remains a mentor even now that the formal part is over. It is not an exaggeration to say he revolutionized my horror writing.
I’ve wanted to write horror as long as I’ve wanted to write. I admire people who started in horror and succeeded. I had to grow into it. I found my voice in flash fiction—a genre I adore. My mentor in that realm is Meg Pokrass. I have this idea that some day, future college students will study the Meg Pokrass school of flash fiction writing. If I could warrant a footnote, that’d be grand.
Faherty did that for me with horror. He gave me the roadmap I needed to be able to analyze my own work. That is no small thing. To read your story and know if it is on track or not is huge. I’m not an expert on my own horror writing yet. But he booted me far down the road—farther than I could ever have gotten on my own.
So anyway, yeah, I’m a fan. His recent book Sins of the Fathersgave me fucked-up nightmares. (Especially because they combined with Stephen Graham Jones’ The Mongrels.)
I don’t read enough poetry. Occasionally a poem will kick my ass all the way around the block. So I’m trying to read more. So when Faherty came out with a book of poetry, I was all about it. So I had some fun with it.
A reading in a sculpture garden at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. And an unflattering still.
And here’s a review:
If you read JG Faherty, you know he’s not afraid to go there. Where? There, man. Beyond the sane, normal, safe. He’ll go there. In a novel, that’s spread out over a couple hundred pages. So, take that (razor-wire) edge and condense it into poetry and you get Songs in the Key of Death. These poems are dark as a cloudy night sky with no moon. And they are bleak, or funny, or sly, or gory—all at once. I haven’t had this much fun reading poetry since… ever? These poems range from cosmic horror and aliens to slashers, serial killers, and sci-fi. The language is rumbly and strong, crashing around like giant-thrown boulders or trickling along like blood from a deep, non-arterial cut. They beg to be read aloud. But if you do that, stay in the salt circle—please! Enjoy!
In light of my recent adventure, I feel compelled to point out that the story in this reading is fiction. It’s not based on any of the stories I told myself about my birth parents as I was growing up, or as a young woman, or even recently. The story is from a writing prompt, and I allowed myself to be silly. Sillier than usual, that is.
But wait, what recent adventure? you ask. Oh, friends. Big adventure.
I shall have more to say about it later. For now, let me say simply: I met my family. My birth family. My biological family. The people whose genes I share, the people I look like, walk like, laugh like, and am like in some very important ways.
The additional footage in this reading is all of Lake Michigan, but it’s from both the east and west shores. From Sheboygan, Wisconsin, where I spent some time with my sister on my father’s side, and with my amazing nieces and even grand-nieces, and with my brother-in-law. These are some strong women, and artistic, and kind, and my sister is possibly worse than I am about making a beeline across a parking lot or beach to pet a dog.
There are also scenes from Escanaba and Manistique in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We drove north from Sheboygan, through the bottom of the U.P., over the Mackinac Bridge, and into Up North Michigan to meet for the first time my siblings on my mother’s side, and to visit with a cousin on that side I’d met previously.
So much talking and laughing! So many stories! And questions, some of which even were answered—on all sides. I met two brothers and two sisters, and have one brother yet to meet.
I’m still processing it all. But I do know I am blessed. Adoption stories are complicated, and emotional, and often involve secrecy and mystery and half-truths. The investigation is an emotional rollercoaster. In my case, it’s truly a blessing. I’m grateful.
This is my second reading for the Best Microfiction 2023 virtual launch. I love seeing the different approaches all the writers take to presenting their stories. I like to hear how a writer presents a story, how they placed the emphasis in a sentence or how they read a bit of dialogue. It can make me consider a story a whole new way.
This reading is from a bluff favored by rappelers in Giant City State Park. It’s a great place for a micro-hike, as it only takes a few minutes to get to the top of the bluff. Also, the meadow at the bottom really shows off the height of the bluff nicely. It’s not mountains, but it sure is beautiful.
The story first appeared in 805 Lit + Art. I’m so grateful for it’s first home, and also that they nominated the story for Best Microfiction—and of course that the Best Microfiction editors chose it!
This story started in one of my writing groups, and used a newspaper story as inspiration. I read at Giant City State Park, which is part of the Shawnee National Forest. This is the Post Oak Trail, which is the most accessible trail in the park. That wooden railing behind me is built over a bluff. There are four playgrounds in Giant City. I used to bring my son there when he was little.
The story was inspired by a photo of Lon Chaney Jr. in costume for The Wolfman, sitting patiently while a stylist fixed his hair.
The reading is at Walker’s Bluff, a winery in the area. I walked across the grounds to an outdoor area that is rarely used now that they’ve moved into the second and pending third phase of development. It’s a beautiful area near a manmade lake, dotted with clusters of live edge tables and chairs that put me in mind of sitting amidst mushrooms. There’s a small building there that housed the wine bar that I think may be empty now.
I used to live near the area, on Hill Road, at Broken Branch, when my son was small. I had Merlin then, and a Curly Peruvian Paso for Dylan named Crocodile. Odin the German Shepherd rounded out our household, along with the occasional volunteer cat. The house was nothing to speak of, but we had 15 fenced acres surrounding it. I could hear the horses grazing outside my bedroom window at night. We were brokity-broke-broke, but those were good times.
A teenaged girl used to ride her Haflinger horse past the house. If I was home and available, I or Dylan and I would ride with her. I showed her the trails along the Big Muddy River and the field roads I had permission to ride, and she showed me a beautiful field with rolling hills. One day she said to me: “This is the last time we’ll be able to ride here. My aunt is going to turn this into a winery.”
We have an official wine region here, the Shawnee Hills AVA. So I knew it was possible. But I had no idea the scope or the vision! Walker’s Bluff is now a winery with a tasting room and outdoor patio area. And a wine cave. And an upscale restaurant. And, coming soon, a casino-resort. My favorite area, though, is still that first outdoor area.
Other B-roll in the reading is from a trip a year ago to Albuquerque, New Mexico to spend Christmas with my stepson, stationed at a nearby U.S. Air Force base. We took a day trip to Santa Fe, where we strolled around the art district and checked out the Meow Wolf exhibit (which, by the way, I highly recommend).
I took the Blue Ridge Parkway from Blowing Rock to almost Asheville on my way home from my first AuthorCon / Scares That Care event. I stopped as often as I could to take in the view, or to hike a short ways, half a mile or so, on some of the trails. I stopped here at the Chenoa View to do a reading of my story Harbinger, which appears in Root, Branch, Tree: 2020 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology.
After I finished reading, it occurred to me I might have read that one at a boat ramp, since a boat ramp is not only part of the setting, but also where I got the idea for the story.
Once upon a time, I lived in a duplex not quite a mile from Cedar Lake in Southern Illinois. Before I had a kayak, I’d walk my dog down to the lake, or sometimes, drive there instead of going straight home after work. It was a chaotic time in my life (when isn’t it though) and sometimes I needed a minute to sit by the water before going home. The idea for this particular story started when I drove to the boat ramp during a nighttime thunderstorm. I sat there in my truck, watching the lightning flash over the lake and listening to the dark-moving clouds rumble, and thought about what it’s like to lose someone you’ve already lost.
In this story, I mean for the end to be ambiguous. Why does GraceAnn make her deal, and with whom? Does she want her sister to go soon so she won’t suffer? Or is GraceAnn bitter? Does she really wish it was her instead?
Epiphany Ferrell 