I finished it a month ago—my latest novel, Dark Consequences. Normally, I self-publish. More creative control, no middleman, a say in the logistics of the book, the title, and the cover. The best part, I don’t have to wait a year for the final product to come out.
For reasons that escape me, I’ve decided to get this book commercially published. You know the rat race—finding an agent, finding a publisher, rewrites to fit someone else’s ideas of publishable, and a decrease in creative say in the book cover.
I know why—I’m tired of hearing self-published authors don’t count. Bull sh–! Tired of my lack of marketing skills, damn introversion.
Are these the real reasons, or do I suffer from imposter syndrome? I’ve never held a book opening event. Just quietly published, made some posts, and let it ride. People tell me both books, Death in Disguise and The Revelation, are gripping, with well-developed characters and plots and subplots that keep the reader engaged. So what the f—- is my problem?
Everything is ready: The synopsis, the query letter, the pitch. I think it’s a great story. Just hit SEND!
Did I tell you it’s the first novel of a four-part series—all of it written? Just hit SEND!
You want to know what the story is about? It’s a dark historical supernatural novel. Set in 1848 Maryland amid the upheaval of a quarry town, the story blends gothic atmosphere with folk horror and social tension. It explores superstition, grief, and the resilience of working-class families. There is no reason not to hit SEND!
Here I sit, everything ready to go, a destination picked out, and a fear of HITTING THE DAMN SEND BUTTON! Can anyone relate to this? If so, I’d love to hear how you overcame this affliction.
Call me morbidly curious, gothic—not goth, macabre, perhaps even a dark coper. They all mean about the same thing. Paraphrased from the dictionary, someone having a fascination for dark and unpleasant subjects, the supernatural, death, and melancholy. A dark coper, a person who uses scary media to process fear to gain a sense of preparedness for real-world dangers.
You would never know this looking at me. I don’t advertise. This leads me to a quandary: trying to explain my writing to people who view dark fiction (horror) as slasher movies and grotesque. Yes, there is a market for this type of film. It’s not my market, and it is definitely only a sub-genre of a vast cornucopia of artistic endeavors.
To me, a good dark fiction novel contains deep, well-rounded characters with strong arcs and meaningful relationships. They encounter, because of their own actions or the actions of someone or something else, a situation(s) leading them to a life and death situation. Physically or psychologically. A cause to reevaluate everything they thought they knew about life. A chance to make a difference. An opportunity to do the greater good—even if the result is self-sacrifice.
Yes, there are works of fiction where the antagonist is the main character. The twists and turns of a mind deliberately cause the protagonist to struggle. Even then, both the antagonist and the protagonist need to be well-rounded characters—why else would you root for success? Though in some situations, the result is disquieting as the antagonist wins, leaving the reader with their own sense of dread or self-evaluation. The Invasion of the Body Snatchers is a good example of this. Spoiler: the aliens win.
Someone asked me, “Why do you write horror? Why not write romance or dramas?”
All my novels contain historical drama and romance. However, my answer is simple. It’s a great way to have a safe place to explore fears and past traumas. It’s cathartic, entertaining. I like it when a character beats the odds and comes out whole. And of course, it harks back to Memento Mori. I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame, unable to resist its calling. (Not today—at least I hope not!)
To date, I’ve written and self-published two fiction books. Death in Disguise is a dark murder mystery taking place in the 1950s in a small fictional town. The Revelation is a dark, supernatural tale set on an archaeological site in the 1980s. My latest finishedwork, currently vying for an agent, is called Dark Consequences, about an Irish famine victim, forced to come to America, where he makes a fateful decision bringing death to the small quarry community where he settles. It’s book one of a four-part series.
If you’re interested in well-developed characters living somewhere in history, a solid cast of characters and plots where the consequences of decisions are life-changing, exploring the world of the supernatural, give me a try. I’m really not that scary.
Ghost stories have chilled our bones for centuries—not just because of the specters themselves, but because of what they stir in us. The best ghost stories don’t just go bump in the night; they linger, unsettling our minds long after the last page is turned or the fire has burned low.
If you’re hoping to write a ghost story—whether spine-tingling, sorrowful, or somewhere in between—here are a few timeless elements to guide your way:
1. Atmosphere Is Everything
A compelling ghost story begins with setting. Think of your setting not just as a backdrop, but as a character with a mood of its own—dripping with memory, silence, or decay. A fog-drenched marsh, a creaking farmhouse, a cold hospital corridor—these places pulse with potential.
“It is the house that is haunted.” – Shirley Jackson
2. Root It in Emotion
The most enduring ghost stories tap into something deeply human: grief, guilt, longing, trauma. The supernatural often becomes a mirror for the emotional state of your characters. Ask yourself: What does the ghost represent?
Whether it’s a metaphor for a buried secret or the echo of a tragedy, a ghost tied to emotion will resonate long after the scare fades.
3. The Power of Restraint
Don’t show everything. Let tension simmer. Often, what’s not seen is more terrifying than what is. Hint. Suggest. Let your readers’ imaginations fill in the blanks. A shadow under the doorframe. A child’s voice in an empty room. A chair rocking slowly in the attic.
Ambiguity can be far more haunting than clarity.
4. A Strong, Unsettling Hook
Start with something slightly “off.” Maybe it’s a character who hasn’t slept in days. A letter that arrives from someone long dead. A recurring dream. The earlier you plant a sense of unease, the deeper your story will dig into the reader’s mind.
5. Make It Personal
Why this character? Why now? The haunting should feel intentional. Is it a long-buried family secret? An unresolved betrayal? A child who vanished without a trace? When the haunting is personal, the stakes rise—and so does the fear.
6. Let the Truth Unravel Slowly
Don’t give away the whole ghostly tale at once. Breadcrumbs of revelation—an old photograph, a diary, a recurring phrase—allow tension to build. A ghost story is a mystery wrapped in fog; each step forward should feel like sinking deeper into something forgotten.
7. The Ghost (or Its Absence) Matters
Some ghosts howl. Others whisper. And sometimes, the most terrifying presence is one the reader never fully sees. Whether it’s a pale figure at the foot of the bed or the unexplained scent of lavender where no one has been, make your ghost memorable—visually, emotionally, or symbolically.
8. There Should Be Consequences
By the end of a good ghost story, something has changed—someone is haunted, altered, broken, or freed. A ghost should leave a mark, not only on the characters but on your reader.
Final Thought: A ghost story is never just about a ghost. It’s about what haunts us—personally, culturally, emotionally. If you write with that in mind, your story will do more than frighten. It will linger.
I’ve found myself a bit of a casualty in today’s world of misinformation and half-truths online. Okay—casualty might be a strong word. Let’s say: misunderstood.
I write what I know. Sometimes I embellish, sure—but it’s always rooted in truth, unless I clearly say otherwise. Maybe I should start putting disclaimers on each post: This is true. This is fiction.
Take my recent blog about the miracle fish story. It actually happened. As unbelievable as it sounds, it was real. It didn’t even occur to me that readers might think I made it up—until one of my daughters commented, “I remember this.” That’s when someone reached out and asked, “Wait… this actually happened?”
They were stunned when I said yes.
Why do I write this blog? To share information. To offer insight. To spark a laugh. To make people think. But most of all, to leave the reader with a genuine sense of me—the person behind the words.
Am I succeeding?
Writing can feel like a blind art form. I can’t bring a blog post to show-and-tell the way someone might with a painting or sculpture. Writers can’t always tell where they stand with their work until there’s engagement. And when that engagement shows that I missed the mark—especially when something true is mistaken for fiction—it’s a shock to the system.
How could someone not know this really happened? (I have to shake my head, I can definitely see how this example could be taken as fiction.)
Clearly, I need to rethink that. Maybe other writers have been here too. Maybe it doesn’t matter as long as people enjoy the story. But I’m genuinely curious: Do you think the truth vs. fiction distinction matters in a personal blog?
And, just for fun— How many of you thought the fish story was made up?
Let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear what you think.
“You have quite the internet presence,” the woman said during my second interview for a part-time therapy position. “You’re exactly what we’re looking for—except… well, this is complicated.” She hesitated. “I’m not sure what I think of what you write. The topics you explore, you know? Granted, it’s not fair to judge you based on your writing. The other applicants don’t have the same visibility. It’s just—I’m more comfortable hiring someone whose beliefs and ideas are unknown to me.”
I sat there, feeling naked. I had purposely exposed myself to the world through my writing—and now someone was judging those parts of me that, at the time, had nothing to do with my clinical career. I was shocked, to say the least.
And I did the unthinkable: I stopped writing. No writer should do that. You would not like me when I’m not writing. It’s in my blood. It’s in my soul.
Years later, while running my private practice, the urge returned—louder, deeper. And with it came the question: Am I prepared to get naked again in front of friends, family, clients, the whole world, by picking up the pen?
I thought I was. I wrote two novels. And then… I let them sit. I was terrified to send them out into the world. Maybe I wasn’t ready to face that vulnerability after all.
Would I lose something—too much? Would total strangers stumble across my blog and turn away?
Screw it.
I self-published those novels—then looked over my shoulder. People bought and read them. No angry mobs, no torches. But I still felt exposed. I didn’t market them. Fear had crept back in.
Then came the saga: a historical fiction rooted in supernatural folklore and local legend. I poured my soul into it. Polished it to death. And again, fear gripped me—this time because I wanted to try querying agents.
Talk about nakedness.
I gave the manuscript to my parents. They’d seen me naked before (literally), so it felt safe. They gave positive feedback. Of course, they’re my parents. And still, the manuscript sat. Maybe it needed read-through number fifteen.
Eventually, I checked out agents. Wrote a query letter. Created hooks, taglines, back cover blurbs. And then I hesitated. I needed a web presence again.
And that same old fear of being naked returned.
I fought it. Damn you, fear.
I built a website. Shared my work. People responded positively. I even sold a few copies of those old books. But still—every keystroke felt risky. Any moment, someone might show up—someone I know, someone unexpected—and say, “I don’t like you naked.”
Well—too bad, buck-o.
I am who I am. I write what I know, and what stirs my curiosity. If that’s not to your liking, as one of my loved ones would say:
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.
I sweat just typing that. Ha. I can be such a wuss.
But seriously—there’s nothing wrong with being naked. Get out there. Do what your soul tells you to do.
Five years ago—somewhere between too many coffees and too many visits to the psychiatrist—I finally sat down to write the saga that had been spinning in my head for years. It was time. The stories, the voices, the haunted places—they wouldn’t wait any longer.
Since then, I’ve thrown myself into this world. I write every day, often for hours. I’ve researched until my eyes burned and the screen blurred. I’ve taken trips to key locations, walking where my characters walk, learning what they need to know to breathe fully on the page.
Now, five years later, I’ve written four books in the series. And for the first time, I think I’m done. The first book is ready—really ready—to send to an agent. That’s a step I’ve never taken before. Wish me luck.
My characters have taken on lives of their own. Sometimes they slip into my real world—I’ve caught myself calling friends by a character’s name more than once. Oops. I suppose that’s the sign of a story well-lived… but I’ll try to keep it in check. Maybe.
Now comes the business side of writing. The query letter. The dreaded synopsis. Somehow, I’m expected to distill a nearly 400-page novel (double-spaced!) into a two-sentence pitch, a logline, a tagline—a hook sharp enough to snag a stranger’s attention in seconds. It threatens to swallow me whole, but I’m doing my best to learn the ropes.
And then there’s the author website. I’ve spent two full weeks wrestling with it. Turns out, I’m a bit tech-challenged. Okay, more than a bit. But I’m determined to get it right—if it’s the last thing I do. The pages have to link up, the design has to make sense, and I will figure it out. Eventually.
This whole writing business is a wild mess. A beautiful, maddening, soul-stretching mess. I might lose a few hairs and collect a few scraped knees along the way, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“You have quite the internet presence,” said the woman on the phone who interviewed me six months ago for a part time position. “Well, this is complicated,” she continued. “I think you are exactly what we are looking for, but I’m not sure what I think of what you write. The topics you write about, you know? Granted, it’s not fair to judge you based on your writing vs not having the same criteria for all the other applicants. It’s just I’m more comfortable hiring someone whose beliefs and ideas are unknown to me.”
I put down the phone in stunned silence. I told my hubby what happened. He said, “Well, you obviously are not getting that job.” And he was right. “Just let it go,” he said. That was six months ago.
I did think, well, if she thought the content of my blog and web sites were controversial ( I don’t see the controversy), wait till she reads my novel. They would have fired me for sure, if I’d been hired.
Yes, I do have the internet presence, but hey, I’m out there trying to connect, trying to get my writing out, trying to share my inner sanctum with others who might benefit. I think it’s altruistic, in some respects. Does it make me vulnerable to scrutiny? Yes, and I knew this when I finally got the courage to write and put it out there. So what is the problem?
The problem is… this is the first thing I have written in six months. All editing, plotting, character development, research and blog writing came to a crashing halt. You don’t want to see me when I’m not writing. It’s not pretty. This is devastating to me and I am the one who is keeping me stuck!
“Do you stand by your writing?” hubby asks on the one hundredth conversation about the same topic. Of course I do. “Then this is a no-brainer, just start writing again and don’t let anyone slow you down.” God love him, he doesn’t get it.
I walk around in this state of malaise, passing by the proof of my novel on the desk, the dust covered storyboard of the next novel in the works, and think – is this what life is all about? That’s when I know I’m in deep doo-doo, when I realize my daily writing has become a once in a six month event and I’m contemplating the meaning of life – again.
It’s easy to tell my clients to do reality checks on those insidious thoughts and hidden emotions. It’s even easier to help my expressive writing clients work through their writing blocks and put their life on the page. Oh, therapist, heal thy self. It’s not like I don’t have the skills.
This is where the nude writing comes in. I thought my problem is that I felt vulnerable and exposed as a result of that ridiculous phone call six months ago. Even though I was already willingly vulnerable and exposed, having it brought to my attention somehow changed things.
Hmm, I often tell my clients to embrace that which causes us pain instead of hiding or running. So, I’m embracing feeling vulnerable and exposed. The next step is called flooding. It’s where you find a situation where you feel really uncomfortable with what ails you and work your way through. I can’t currently think of any situation other than writing this blog naked to feel totally exposed and vulnerable. So here I am writing again!
Am I naked? Hell no! Its sixty-four degrees in this house and the heater is not on! Do you think I’m insane? Which brings me to my last point, the imagination is an amazing tool. In a world of pure imagination you can conquer just about anything – and you get to keep your clothes on.
“You cheating son of a bitch!” Muriel screamed at him.
That’s the first line of my novel, Death in Disguise. It took me ten years to get that sentence on paper to my satisfaction—not because of writer’s block. I wrote the first draft in a few months. But then fear took over.
Not fear of rejection from publishers. That’s part of the business. This was deeper: fear that my story wasn’t good enough—that I wasn’t good enough. So it sat on a shelf.
We talk a lot about writer’s block, but not enough about writer’s fear. For me, it was perfectionism, tangled in the belief that my debut had to be flawless or it wasn’t worth sharing. That kind of thinking leads to silence.
In those ten years, I wrote constantly. I filled binders with stories, red-inked drafts, and characters I loved. But envy started to creep in. Artists hang their work. Musicians perform. Writers? We wait to be read. Unless we’re published, our creations often stay invisible.
Eventually, I took a class called Writing from the Heart. It broke through the perfectionism. I began to understand that perfection is a myth—and often a trap. Growing up as a performer, I believed hard work equaled flawless results. In writing, that’s rarely the case. Without feedback, I kept polishing drafts in isolation, terrified to let them go.
I tried sharing with family and friends. Some promised to read but didn’t. I took it personally—maybe too personally. I confused their silence with rejection. I let it hurt my relationships, when really, it wasn’t about me. People have their own reasons. I had to learn that support doesn’t always look like a critique.
Eventually, my parents read a draft—and loved it. My daughter even edited one and said, “Mom, I couldn’t put this down.” That was the moment I started to believe in my work again.
I decided to publish Death in Disguise independently—not because I wasn’t good enough for a big publisher, but because I wanted full creative control. It was a steep learning curve, but I embraced every part of it. After years of fearing imperfection, I took the leap. I made the baby—I wanted to deliver it myself.
We all have voices in our heads—old mentors, harsh critics, even well-meaning family members—who plant doubt. But writing isn’t about impressing anyone. It’s about sharing something true. Screaming into the forest and hoping someone hears.
My book is finally out. I’m proud. Nervous. Ecstatic. And yes, a little scared. But this time, fear isn’t the driver. I am.
This morning I discovered a wonderful and deadly secret, Burger King now carries Cinnabons. I love Cinnabons! Until this morning, I could only get them at the airport. Usually, I could resist them, too worried about making my flight or having oozing cinnamon sauce dripping down my chin and shirt.
Now, I can go less then a mile from my home, sit in my car and indulge in cinnamon-sugar ecstasy. Burger King has Cinnabons!
Like a cocaine addict, there I sat. Could have ordered the bacon, egg sandwich or better still, the oatmeal with fruit. No, I ordered Cinnabons, two of them. I deserved them, I told myself. Reasons why, I have no clue.
I ordered, paid and planned to sit in the parking lot eating them. My napkins in hand for the dribble mess that only a Cinnabon can produce. I opened the box. Two scrumptious, twisted, doughy circles dripping in brown cinnamon syrup and decadent white icing stared at me. Oh my!
My cell phone clock buzzed. I looked at the dash clock. It’s later then I thought. if I sat in the parking lot, I’d be late for my class on spiritual discipline. You know, learn not to over indulge. Keep an even-keel, that sort of thing. So, I have to eat the Cinnabons on the go. What could go wrong?
I turn out of the Burger King parking lot and the first gob of icing hits my jeans. It’ll wait. I can’t turn, hold a Cinnabon and grab a napkin at the same time. I’m not that coordinated. Not a problem. For the three miles it takes me to get to my class on discipline, I gorge myself on these overly-large, incredibly addictive, way-more-than-I-can-eat rolls. Pleased, that I only have that one glob of icing on my jeans to contend with.
At my destination, I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. The rolls are eaten. Not something to be proud of, but next time, I’ll order the oatmeal. No one has to know I slipped up and once again found myself in a sugary stupor. I’d gotten away with it! Ha, ha, indulge today, disciple tomorrow!
I garb a napkin to remove the incriminating evidence from my jeans only to find… it is joined by five other considerable larger globs all down my shirt and jeans. Crap! Good thing they gave me many napkins.
Did you know napkins adhere to Cinnabon icing globs like flies on flypaper? Napkins ripped, shredding all over my shirt and jeans. I look like a kid just learning how to shave, ending up with toilet paper wads all over their face!
I should be in class several minutes ago! How in the hell am I going to clean this up and look dignified? No one is supposed to know I fell off the band-wagon! I wonder if I can lick some of it off. I don’t have any water and drowning myself in caramel-mocha coffee doesn’t seem like the answer!
There is a knock on my car passenger window. It’s a friend of mine also going to this class. Her gleeful expression quickly turns to confusion. I’d be confused too if I wandered up to her car only to find her sitting there with napkin shreds hanging off globs of icing all over her shirt, hands and pants.
There is really nothing to say here except, “Burger King now has CInnabons.” She still looks confused.
“I’m not really sure how to help you with this one,” she says. Her head cocks sideways the way my dog does when I’m trying to explain the concepts of karma to him.
“That’s okay, I don’t’ know either.” I wonder if I can claim this as a new grunge/bohemian look.
So, I’m going to class wearing shredded napkins and not-strategically placed globs of syrup and icing. A smile on my face. I’m taking responsibility for my actions. I’ll take the consequences, the tisk-tisks, the smirks, and the malaise when this sugar rush crashes.
I get out of the car and straighten out my newly decorated shirt and strategically hug my friend who says, “Wow, you smell like a bakery, like Christmas cookies! That’s not too bad. It could be much worse.”
And this is why I have her as my friend. Everyone should have friends like this.
Hello, my name is Deborah Sickle Hill, Burger King has Cinnabons, and I have a problem. Damn good thing I’m taking a class on spiritual discipline. I think I have a stomachache.
What do you get when you mix a lime green Datsun with floor portholes, a trunk full of Twinkies, and an angry mob of monkeys? A safari detour gone spectacularly wrong—and a car barely held together by granite and hope. Hang on tight for this laugh-out-loud road trip through chaos, feathers, and fur. (Reading time about 8 minutes)
It was a two door, 1971, lime green Datsun B-210 with a black vinyl roof. Custom detailed with dual, on-the-floor, port holes for your road viewing pleasure. An additional emergency pull-rope release added onto the driver-side door for times when it’s not cool to use a handle. And a specially designed hood bent into the majestic shape of a steep mountain. Perfect for quick engine checks and radiator ventilation without having to fool with antiquated, interior, hood releases. The five pound Massachusetts’ granite, air-filter and cover-attachment-system fit perfectly under the shape of the hood.
Roach clips, never used, with hot pink feathers are swinging to the riffs of Keith Richards’ bass guitar and Mick Jagger’s edgy vocals. It’s Sue’s car. To the world, I am a Lennon/McCartney girl. Behind closed doors, I’m a Richards/Jagger mistress. I have a Sweet Pollyanna Purebred reputation to uphold.
We’re in New Jersey on a sweltering hot, July morning after a heavy rain. The smell of evaporating water on asphalt whiffs through my passenger side, floor porthole. I watch the macadam and occasional puddle fly by my feet straddling the hole.
“Let’s go see the monkeys at the drive-thru safari,” I suggest. I’d seen a sign just outside of New York City. “We’re only twenty miles away.”
“Sure, why not.” Sue replies. Sue is a tomboy. Something she readily embraces. This is evidenced by her grungy rock band tee-shirts, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and hat, slightly greasy dirty blonde hair, and automotive grease under her fingernails. She was always tinkering with the car.
I used to be a tomboy but exchanged it for grace, poise and the showmanship my performance persona demanded. I envy Susan’s grunge while I sit here in a crisp white pair of shorts, turquoise and white spaghetti strap tank top, with appropriately and pain staking matched jewelry. My white Jack Purcells are as spotless as my fingernails which have never touched motor oil.
The car wheel hits a puddle, splashing muddy water into my floor porthole. My crisp, clean whiteness is now a muddy, drenched mess. Water is running off the end of my pampered, Maybelline, light beige covered nose. It took me fifteen minutes trying to find my reflection in a campground mirror this morning to get this nose well blended!
Susan looks over at me and asks. “What the hell? How did you get all wet and muddy?”
“Oh I don’t know. Something about a hole in the floor that needs fixed.” At least my Nikon camera and accessories didn’t get wet. I look around for something to use as a towel but only find our mildewed tent, sleeping bags, duffle bags, firewood, a half empty bag of potato chips and an unopened box of Twinkies.
“Serve’s you right for wearing white!” She laughs, pulls the 8 track tape out of the dashboard, shakes it and puts it back in. I have no idea what this ritual does but this will be the sixth time I’ll hear the song, I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, in the past two days.
A kid with pimples greets us at the safari gate. He announces to no one, “Twenty dollars, stay in your car, the windows can be down except in the monkey enclosure, don’t feed the animals, the animals have the right a way, don’t stop in the monkey enclosure, take all the pictures you want, have a nice day.” He takes a breath. We drive on to join a long line of slow moving vehicles.
Our windows are down so I can take pictures without a glare. I tend to see everything through a camera lens. I go almost everywhere with my gear ready for that opportune moment. Several cars ahead, I see two mammoth gray ostriches weaving between them. Occasionally they case a car, seemingly looking for trouble. This could be that moment.
“Hey look.” Susan says as she points to the birds. “They’re getting really close. You might actually get a good picture.”
The birds are now several car lengths away. I look at my camera and realize I don’t need the telephoto lens so I bend down to get the 50 mm.
“Um,” Sue says. Her voice sounds a bit distressed but not enough for me to sit up. “Um, don’t, okay, just don’t get, um, I think we might have a problem.” I cock my head toward her to figure out why she suddenly forgot how to formulate sentences. Her face is oddly drained of color. “Right now,” she continues in a near whisper. “Don’t move, Debbie. We have a serious problem happening.”
I slowly turn my head to face the largest beak I’ve ever seen followed by two, large, black eyes on a face covered by prickly hairs. I definitely remember the animals have the right of way.
The beak, eyes and prickly hairs jolt past me heading for the back seat. It’s followed by an incredibly powerful, prickly haired, neck and a body of varying shades of musky smelling, gray plumage that completely covers my window opening. I’m pretty sure the 50 mm lens is the wrong one. What I really need is an extreme wide angle lens. But that‘s okay because I don’t think the ostrich is in the mood.
The gray plumage and powerful, prickly haired neck whip back out my window with the half-eaten bag of potato chips covering its eyes and beak. It’s really very stunning. The red and white of the family size, chip bag, against the increasingly frantic varying shades of musky smelling, gray plumage now in full regalia is so avant-garde. I can’t decide what strength and angle of flash to use on all this gray plumage with the very overcast, gray sky in the background. This would be a great shot in subtle shades of grays, blacks and white in the style of Ansel Adams.
“Put the window up!” Susan yells. “You’re gonna get in so much trouble for feeding the animals!” I really didn’t need to get into anymore trouble. I nervously try to push strands of my honey blonde hair behind my ear without success. It’s cut too short.
I look over at Sue’s white knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel. Her breathing is labored but is curiously in rhythm with her head shaking left to right and back again. It’s not my fault the damn bird likes chips. Not that it matters. I glance around the back seat for damages. Except for a few remaining terrified chips scattered hither and dither, all seems normal. The chips were destined for consumption anyway. What’s the problem?
“Well,” I tell her, “at least they didn’t get the Twinkies.” I can see from Sue’s expression there are no words to express her feelings on the topic. We start moving forward again.
The monkey enclosure looms ahead with its two-story cement walls topped in high voltage wire. Cars are only allowed through the massive wood and steal double doors at select intervals. Two armed animal control wardens monitor the opening diligently.
“They did say this is a monkey enclosure, right?” I ask. Sue nods yes and pulls the car up to the stop line before the immense, fortified doors. I recheck the settings on my camera.
A warden steps up to Sue’s window and says, “Door’s locked, windows up, don’t stop, no exceptions – got it?”
The massive doors open wide enough to swallow us and no wider. We pull through and they close quickly behind us. I look around expecting to see a cross between Godzilla and King Kong. I see nothing but the road we’re on and a well manicured lawn with lots of low shrubby trees. There is a red car about three hundred feet ahead of us moving slowly..
A large, gray-brown male macaque steps out from behind a tree onto the road ahead of us and sits down. Sue stops the car. His steal, green eyes watch us, the animals in the cage. He’s in no hurry to move. Peripherally, I see movement and turn to my right to see macaque mother’s with their babies.
“Check it out!” I tell Sue. “ Aren’t they cute?” I want to shoot a picture but my window has animal slobber all over the exterior. “What does it look like out your window?” She doesn’t answer and I turn to find out why.
On her side of the car, the one with the convenient, emergency, pull-rope door release, a line of fidgety, gray-brown fury bodies with green eyes watch us.
“This can’t be good,” Sue says. She turns the tape player off and we wait in silence.
The large, gray-brown, male macaque responsible for stopping the car jumps onto our mountain shaped car hood. He yawns, shakes his head and urinates all over the window.
“That’s something you don’t see every day,” I say and take a picture.
“This isn’t gonna to be good. I think we might have a problem,” Sue whispers.
Urine-monkey stands, flaps his arms, and opens his mouth displaying sharp incisors and screeches like a banshee. Suddenly, al I see out any window is a gray-brown, fury, moving carpet. The car shakes and bounces reminding me of an amusement park ride. I struggle to turn and look out the back window and see black ash rain.
“Sue, is that your black vinyl roof?” I ask. Thousands of pieces of black vinyl roof slide down the back window. I brace the camera against the rocking car seat and shoot a couple shots of the storm.
“Oh hell! No!” Sue yells. I spin around, jostled off balance as I go. “ They’ve got the rope!”
I lean over to assess the situation. Five monkeys are in a line pulling on the convenient, emergency, pull-rope release. It’s the exterior part with the knot we untie to release the door. Sue has the other shorter, interior end in hand. It’s obvious they have more leverage then we do. I can’t grab the rope. Sue is in the way. So, I move back to my side of the car. Counter balance, I figure.
My side of the window is now void of fur and I have a clear, abet smudged shot of the baby monkeys with their mothers. What the hell? I shoot a couple shots at different focal lengths and apertures, trying to adjust for the rocking motion of the tug of war occurring on the driver side of the car.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sue yells at me. I spin and look at her.
“I’m taking pictures.” I say and notice her eyes. Their size and her panic enhance their green and brown color making them look wickedly, earthy in this light. I shoot a picture.
“They’re going to kill us, you know.” She struggles to wrap the small section of rope around her arm like she was wrapping a garden hose.
“I suppose this is not a good time to tell you I think disassembling and reassembling the car door last night was a bad idea on your part?”
A blue mini-van filled with kids passes. My window is once again covered in fur but I see camera flashes. I realize the mini-van has a better point-of-view then I do. What good is expensive camera equipment if your point of view is wrong?
I’m distracted by the sensation that my shoe is moving on its own accord. I look down. Little hominid fingers have hold of my muddy, Jack Purcell shoe laces. Crap, I forgot the porthole. I yank my foot up but quickly halt. There is an arm and a shoulder attached to the hand and I’m pulling them inside the porthole. This would make one hell of a short video if I had a camcorder with me.
“Do something!” Susan yells. “Now! Put the damn camera down and kick that beast back to hell! I listen and obey.
The car stops rocking and the windows are fur free. The porthole is empty and the rope release on the door is limp. It’s no longer raining black ash. I take a picture of the empty, now larger porthole between my feet. I look up to see a warden in a bright yellow jeep beside us. He looks perturbed. The monkeys act aloof and I don’t know what I look like, but Susan looks like hell. He motions for us to follow him and we do.
“Go to the clerk,” he says. “She’ll take care of the damages.”
We park the car; examine all the thin, side, metal trim now jutting out at odd angles, the driver’s side door no longer sitting flush with the frame and the hole in the black vinyl roof.
“My poor car,” Susan says.
I look at the misshaped hood, the remains of the rope hanging off the broken door and my muddy Jack Purcells, complimentary of the floor porthole. “Yeah, it’s a shame.”
“There is no way the clerk is going to believe this,” Susan says. “Well, we might as well find out.”
We walk over to an office and I proceed to gingerly, almost embarrassingly explain our situation. I know they are going to look at Sue’s car and think we’re idiots.
“Damn monkeys,” the clerk says. “I bet your car is green. There is something about green cars. Take your car over to the park police. They have to make a report and photograph the evidence.”
We drive the car over to the police station. A pudgy, black officer steps out with an antiquated Polaroid camera in hand. “The monkeys did all this?” He asks while circling the car, stopping to look at the Massachusetts’ granite under the bent hood and the missing car floor from my open window. He looks directly at me.
I’m horrible at lying. Ever since I can remember people have told me, don’t play poker! “No.” I tell him.
“So, what damage did they do?” He’s still looking at me. I shoot a look over at Susan who’s shuffling her feet nervously.
“The roof and the metal, jutting out thingies,” I say.
“Thought so,” he says. He takes a couple Polaroid shots and waits for them to develop. “Are you two far from home?”
“Five hours, maybe,” I reply. Not sure why this is important.
“This car is a death trap. You know that?” He’s still looking at me. It’s not my car. I keep quiet.
He comes over to my side and shows me a very tiny, poorly exposed picture of Sue’s car. “This doesn’t quite do the car justice, does it? I bet if you used your camera, we could really see the damage.” He pauses, looks at me, Sue and then the car. He sighs, pulls out a pocket knife and slashes the monkey made hole in the roof and pulls it back exposing the metal. He snaps another picture and looks at me. “I think this might get the point across.” What am I supposed to say?
He takes Susan into the station to fill out paperwork while I stand guard over the car. I’m not sure how we’re going to get the car home with all that metal hanging off the sides. Sue comes out with a smile on her face. They paid her twice the amount of money she originally paid for the car – six hundred dollars.
“Ready to go home?” She asks.
I look over at the metal protrusions. “What about these?”
“That’s not a problem.” She pulls the metal completely off each side of the car and shoves them in the back seat with the moldy tent and Twinkies.
We drive back to Maryland in silence. I know my pictures will all be blurry and I’m bummed. We pull into the driveway, and as we unload the car, it hits me, and I stop moving.
“What?” Sue asks.
I turn and look at her. “I should have put the camera on automatic instead of manual.” I can see from her expression there are no words to express her feelings on the topic.
Deborah Sickle Hill 