Throwback Thursday: Some leave monuments when they go

(This column originally appeared in The News Herald on Sunday, October 23, 2005.)

Hugs all around, and smiles, and some laughs.

We compare bald spots, and aches and pains like the guys on Jaws comparing their scars. We brag about our children, their grades and accomplishments, bestow compliments and accept them.

(We live through our children, after all. We put our arms around them and hang on for dear life. The future is there. Here is the past, we say to the child as we brag to our forefathers about the living future.)

So many faces in the crowd. We don't see them any more, except at family reunions, or weddings or funerals. We don't have family reunions any more, and those of us who were once considered the kids of the family are now at that intermediate age when it seems like nobody's getting married.

I guess you know what that leaves.

I'm thinking it's a shame that it has been so long since I saw so many of these people, and I'm thinking Bobby would be glad to see so many of them gathered up in one place. He'd have something inappropriate and hilarious to say about it.

There are pictures and flowers, as there always are. And tears. But there are inordinate amounts of smiles. Bobby would have appreciated that — it's what he brought into rooms.

Later, after the service at the Flomaton Funeral Home and another one on the green hill overlooking the town, we gather at his house. We are greeted there by a wooden sculpture Roland Hockett might have conceived on a whim.

Bobby built the monument to the recent hurricanes Ivan and Dennis after they dropped trees — twice — on his house. The second time, after repairs from the first time had been significantly completed.

The freeform sculpture stands at the end of the walkway that leads from the street to the front door of the home. It's made of pieces cut from the trees as they were removed from the house, as well as various other debris.

Maybe it's a warning of what can happen if you fight the forces of nature, I thought. Maybe it's a kind of pine ju-ju meant to appease the hurricane gods. Most likely, it's just a typical joke — Bobby's way of saying he's not going to let something like a one-two punch from Mother Nature get him down.

Some people leave memories. Some leave legacies. Some leave monuments.

I snap a picture, and wonder.

Peace.

In Memoriam: Leonard Nimoy

Like so many others today, I am saddened by the passing of Leonard Nimoy, the actor best known for his portrayal of Spock in the classic television series Star Trek.

Here’s the New York Times article about his death,at age 83.

A friend of mine (who is the age of my son) asked which original series episodes would be best for Spock-watching this weekend, and I told him that just about any episode that was good for Spock was good for the whole series. However, these are the ones that immediately came to mind:

• In a Season 1 episode, The Naked Time, Spock is infected by the same germ that has affected the rest of the crew and begins to lose his inhibitions, releasing the emotions he has pent up throughout his life. He breaks down and cries, confessing to Kirk how he never even told his mother (a human woman living on a world where emotions were considered “bad taste”) how much he loved her — our first real glimpse behind his Vulcan facade.

• Later in the season, Galileo Seven gives us a “lifeboat episode,” with a small number of crew under Spock’s command trying to repair their crashed shuttle while under attack from giants on an uncharted, inhospitable planet. The crew soon turns on Spock, whose lack of emotional reaction to the stresses makes him a target of their fear and anger. However, it is Spock’s “hail Mary” at the end that saves them all.

• Another outstanding first-season episode, This Side of Paradise, again allows Spock a chance to lose his self-control, this time under the influence of alien spores. The hour gives Nimoy a chance to embrace his most naturalistic acting of the entire series as we see the first officer experiencing true bliss and true love, finally able to express himself freely. He then puts the mask back on, his “self-imposed purgatory” as he calls it, to help Kirk save his ship and crew.

• Amok Time kicked off the second year with Spock going into his mating season, which required him to return home or die trying. His visible struggle to maintain dignity, his sadness when he believes he has killed his captain, and the brilliant smile that escapes from under his mask when the truth is revealed — these are truly great moments by Nimoy that made Spock so much more real to fans.

Other good Spock moments can be found in Journey to Babel, which introduces Spock’s mother and father; The Devil in the Dark, in which Spock mind-melds with a dangerous blob creature and experiences its physical and emotional pain; The City on the Edge of Forever, in which Spock is tasked with building a computer using “stone knives and bearskins” while Kirk falls into a doomed love; Mirror, Mirror, which shows us that even the Spock of a parallel “evil” timeline is subject to the demands of logic; Specter of the Gun, which finds Spock melding with the crew to save them from death in a manufactured OK Corral scenario; and All Our Yesterdays, which has Spock cast back in time on a frozen world and falling in love with Mariette Hartley, who is wearing little more than a stone knife and bearskins.

"I Reach."

I even have fondness for the two most-ridiculed episodes of the series because of their very fine Nimoy moments, which have to be seen to be believed. The Enterprise intercepts a bevy of space-hippies in The Way to Eden, and we learn how Spock “reaches”; he is not Herbert. And the Season 3 premiere, Spock’s Brain, which finds Kirk and Co. tracking Spock’s stolen brain across the galaxy with a remote-controlled Spock body along for the ride.

Nimoy, of course, was much more than Spock. To fans of his work, he was a photographer, poet, playwright, author, producer, director — and even singer. (Look up The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins for a lark.) He was a social philosopher, truly embracing the concepts of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations that surfaced on Star Trek.

And as such, he was, and always shall be, our friend.

Life among the living dead

Chris Oneisom and Jennifer Creamer pose in zombie makeup before taking the stage for “Night of the Living Dead.”

LYNN HAVEN — They may have been coming to get Barbara, if you recall the old movie line, but the living dead I hung out with last Friday were mostly just ... walking.

Oh, they hissed and moaned. They growled from time to time, and pounded on the walls. And if a couple fought off smiles as they shuffled and limped behind the windows of the set, that might be expected.

I was invited to perform among the legion of the living dead as a “celebrity guest zombie” at the opening night of Kaleidoscope Theatre’s presentation of “Night of the Living Dead.” Before the double feature started, I signed some of my books for unsuspecting readers in the lobby, but as soon as “Hecate Hill” began — the first play of  the night’s show — I headed for the makeup room.

(The plays continue each weekend through Oct. 26, and I will be signing books before each Friday show.)

I was excited to participate. I’ve done one other community play in my adult life — Shakespeare By The Bay’s “Othello” in 2006 — and for the first time had a role that might not exceed my acting ability, which is best described as lifeless and monotone.

Daniel and his clown.

Daniel Gehrken, who also designed the promotional posters for the plays, spent about an hour finger-painting my face in shades of gray, blue and purple, before dripping blood from my eyes and smearing bloody handprints on my T-shirt. He said there was no extra charge for the face massage.

Some of the other zombies in the mob had neat prosthetic appliances that gave them the look of terrible injuries. Others had specific costumes — a cheerleader, a Girl Scout, a prom queen — and some, like Jennifer Creamer’s “bride” character, had both.

Daniel pronounced me an evil clown zombie, which made fellow zombie Madison Leighann Googe order me not to look at her. She had no difficulty stalking about with a zombie baby tearing its way through her abdomen, but she drew the line at evil clowns.

Zombie Master Chris Oneisom (or as I like to think of him, “He Who Walks Behind The Sets”) paired me with a zombie buddy, Juliet, who showed me how to shamble and indicated that there would be various times during the play when we would be expected to be louder, or quieter, depending on what else was happening on stage.

Juliet, at right.

When she sat and hid, I sat and hid. When she pounded on the walls, I pounded on the walls. When she got out of the way of starring performers running through, I got confused and almost run over.

Twice, while lurking in the background, zombies whispered to me that I could take a break by dragging myself off-stage for some water and air if I needed it. I took that to mean my makeup was impressive enough to fool the other zombies into thinking I was in a state of advanced decomposition — or at least, I looked like death warmed over.

None of this could help me in the closing dance routine, however. The best I could manage was to look befuddled, which is how I tend to look whenever anyone suggests dancing.

(Rest in) Peace. 

Ramona Hagan, left, won the grab-bag giveaway at Kaleidoscope Theatre in Lynn Haven last Friday. A season-ticket patron, she was sitting in the seat number randomly chosen by the author, shown in his zombie makeup. She received a graphic novel, DVD, comic book, paperback, and a copy of my collection of zombie short stories, “Tales of the Awakening Dead.”

(This was my Undercurrents column for this week at PanamaCity.com and in The News Herald.)

The child who paid her respects

Tammy on her bus.

FLOMATON, Ala. — The rain had not yet begun to fall, but low clouds crossed air currents above the hillside, curling around one another, gray on gray, and threatening a downpour.

We stood beside a freshly covered grave. Colorful flower arrangements lay spread on the upturned clay or stood in pots where a headstone was yet to be placed. A train passed down the hill, heading east, its mournful wail echoing among the pines and dogwoods.

At the head of the flower grouping lay a school bus formed of yellow silk buds. Near the foot, several popsicle sticks jutted from a clutch of cut flowers, decorated with figures named for some of the children who rode her bus. She drove for the Escambia County, Fla., School District for more than 15 years.

Tammy, my wife’s older sister, died Sept. 12 of complications after more than a year of treatment for leukemia, first at Baptist Hospital in Pensacola and later at the University of Alabama-Birmingham. She left two sisters, a husband and four daughters, her mother, grandchildren, cousins — and countless others — to mourn.

She was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, but an anonymous donor on the national registry was a perfect match for stem cell transplant. Thanks to that donor, her most recent biopsy showed she was 100-percent cancer-free. Tammy was looking forward to leaving the hospital soon and coming for a visit so she could dip her toes in the Gulf of Mexico on an autumn afternoon. She hoped to recover well enough to return to work someday.

Our photo albums are filled with her visits. A joint anniversary cruise on the Lady Anderson. Camping trips to St. Andrews State Park. Family portraits at the foot of the dunes and in the surf along Panama City Beach. Running the Gran Maze at Coconut Creek, miniature golfing, go-cart racing, shooting the rapids at Shipwreck Island. Most recently, a vow renewal ceremony for Tammy and her husband, Robby, at sunset on the beach.

As we stood there on the hill under threatening clouds — a small group having gathered a few hours after the services and now lost in our own thoughts — a beat-up Ford Explorer pulled over along the cemetery lane. A skinny girl in flip-flops and a black skirt climbed down from behind the wheel and crossed the lawn to join us. We didn’t know her, but she knew Tammy.

“I rode her bus when I was in third grade,” the girl explained. “If I was still in school, I’d be a senior this year. I heard this morning about what had happened, but I didn’t have any way to go to the funeral. I had to wait for my dad to get home from work so I could take his truck.”

She stood, hands folded together, studying the flowers and engulfed in memory, and I wondered how many others like her there were in the world. Children who rode a school bus —  perhaps only for a short time, many years ago — who will carry a piece of their driver’s spirit with them into the future. How many others might there have been if things had gone differently?

I wondered what Tammy had done to impress this one child, to move her nine years later to pay respects on a lonely hilltop as rain began to fall. But I didn’t ask. My curiosity didn’t matter, really.

The children mattered, and this girl’s quiet visitation was testament to how well Tammy saw to them in her time.

Peace. 

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Leukemia Awareness

What: September is National Leukemia and Lymphoma Awareness Month

Who: More than 1 million people in the United States are diagnosed with cancer each year

Details: Cancer.org

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This is my Undercurrents column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald this week.

One last ‘na-nu’ before you go

Mork calling Orson. Come in, Orson.

PANAMA CITY BEACH — In June of last year, a supermoon was in the sky the night author and screenwriter Richard Matheson died. A supermoon painted the night in brilliant shades of blue last Sunday, as well, the night actor and comedian Robin Williams’ took his own life.

It’s getting to be that I dread the next supermoon, which will hang over us on Sept. 9, and wonder what its tides will wash to the heavens.

Among his many dramatic roles, Williams portrayed Chris, the lead character in a 1998 movie based on Matheson’s brilliant 1978 novel, “What Dreams May Come.” In the film, as in the book, Chris finds himself in heaven after a car crash, then descends into his wife’s self-imposed hell to rescue her soul after she commits suicide.

“It’s not about understanding,” Chris says in one scene, “it’s about not giving up!”

By Tuesday, social media was filled with lists of Williams’ roles that touched people — beginning with his antics as Mork from Ork and continuing through his recent TV series, “The Crazy Ones.” Many of them quoted from “Dead Poets Society” or “The World According to Garp” or even “Mrs. Doubtfire.” Many commented on “What Dreams May Come” and wondered how a man who starred in a film with such a transcendent message could fall victim to his own darkness.

It’s a valid question with a gaping hole in it that defies an easy explanation because it’s a darkness that defies logic. It’s almost more incredible that Williams was with us for so long, considering the depression with which he struggled throughout his life. He was the quintessential clown, laughing in public, crying in private. Victim of a disease that so many fail to understand, he tried to cope by turning his pain into other people’s laughter.

After a friend’s post on Facebook quoted a line of dialogue, I was reminded of a scene in Steven Spielberg’s “Hook,” in which Williams played an adult Peter Pan who returns to Neverland in search of his kidnapped children. He’s a sad man with a broken spirit, on his knees in the sanctuary of the Lost Boys. One of the children removes Peter’s glasses and touches his face, finally turning up the corners of his mouth. The child sees the ghost of a smile on the man’s face and says, “Oh, there you are, Peter!”

Or the scene in “Bicentennial Man,” an often overlooked gem of a movie in which Williams played a robot that longed to become human. “To be acknowledged for who and what I am, no more, no less. Not for acclaim, not for approval, but the simple truth of that recognition. This has been the elemental drive of my existence, and it must be achieved, if I am to live or die with dignity.”

In his too-short life, Williams earned the acclaim, the recognition, even the approval. So many times, the wonder of his talent, his lightning wit, his giving spirit were acknowledged. But the mystery and terror of his condition didn’t allow him to internalize the love, left him perhaps feeling like a sham, not even a whole human being.

He said in interviews that addiction robbed him of his dignity, and the manner of his death has robbed him of it once again. Just as it has robbed all of us who were children getting laughs in the classroom by repeating Mork’s jokes from the night before, or who laughed until we cried while listening to his album, “Reality: What a Concept,” or who were moved by his performance in “The Fisher King.”

If this loss is to mean anything, and though we may never understand, we must never give up.

Na-nu, Na-nu. 

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(This is my Undercurrents column this week for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald.)

Keep watching the skies!

PANAMA CITY BEACH — A tropical front moved across the beaches early in the week, and I had the fortune of taking our dogs for a late night gallivant just as the clouds broke.

Stars like diamonds stood out against a deep black sky behind billowing cobalt thunderheads. I watched the creeping pinpoint light of a satellite or high-flying jet cutting a slow arc among them, and felt filled with childlike wonder.

I vowed in that moment not to fall prey to the ever insistent specter of self-reflection and recriminations that I felt building up as my lifeline rolled closer to marking its fifth decade. That long on the planet makes it easier for a brain like mine to look back and ponder all of the things I regret, all of the things I didn’t do and never will, all the people I miss.

Instead, I promised to do the more difficult thing, to spend these next days peering ahead, focusing on all the alternative timelines yet to be created, the infinite possibilities, events and accomplishments that still could happen, stories yet to be told, the people still with me and those I have yet to know.

To stare past the cloudline and into the deep unknown, where stars sparkle and uncharted worlds spin, and even my bad eyes can view with the power of hope and imagination.

On the morning I sat down to write this, I learned that Ernest Spiva, a man I considered a friend — though in truth, we barely knew each other — had passed away. He was 77, which meant he was 27 when I was born and nearly 55 when our paths first converged.

Before he retired, he liked to call me up on any given day and open with, “This is your conscience speaking.”

I had the opportunity recently to read the stories of Ernest’s youth in an unpublished manuscript he called “Growing Up on Grace.” And while he enjoyed looking back and telling funny tales, he never failed to encourage those around him to think about their futures. I think that’s the takeaway he’s left me with, at least in this moment.

I joke about having outlived my own “sell by” date, knowing I should have paid for the extended warranty when I had that cardio bypass, or looking in the mirror and seeing only bad hair days in my future. I toast to absent friends and loved ones. I tweet to anyone who will listen to “tell those punk kids to get off my lawn.” But all of that’s a front, and especially hollow when exposed before the vault of heaven.

When I was a kid, I watched a black-and-white sci-fi/monster film called “The Thing From Another World.” Produced by Howard Hawks, it starred James Arness as the “intellectual carrot” (i.e., alien plant monster) terrorizing soldiers and scientists at a remote arctic station.

The film ends with a reporter broadcasting the story of their harrowing adventure and exhorting other reporters: “Tell the world. Tell this to everybody, wherever they are. Watch the skies — everywhere. Keep looking. Keep watching the skies.”

It’s good advice, even if you don’t expect to catch an invasion of walking plant creatures. Maybe you’ll spot a satellite or a shooting star. Maybe you’ll see something even grander.

Keep watching the skies. Keep looking up, not back. The past will take care of itself. The future needs your attention.

Peace.

(This is my Undercurrents column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald this week.)

Requiem for the Restless Dead

(Note to regular readers: Some portions of this column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald were "borrowed" from an earlier blog. Self-cannibalism is my life.)

Little PC Zombie Walkers

PANAMA CITY — Apropos of All Hallows Eve on Thursday and Saturday’s status as Day of the Dead, let’s talk about this whole “zombie” thing.

Now, some of you are thinking, “Here he goes again,” but just take a look around:
 
They’re everywhere.

 AMC’s “The Walking Dead,” based on the long-running comic book created by Robert Kirkman, is the highest rated series on television. (News Herald writer Brad Milner is blogging about each episode weekly at NewsHerald.com.)

 Sundance Channel just kicked off a series called “The Returned,” which is a different take on the recently departed. Sprint even has a TV commercial that uses a zombie to comic effect. And that’s just the drop in the bucket, not even mentioning the glut of movies, video games, novels, ads and comics seizing on the image of deathless humans hungry for living flesh.

I was asked this week why that is. Luckily, I had already asked that same question last week of Crystal Creamer, the Panama City woman who organized a recent Zombie Walk to gather nonperishable food for the Panama City Rescue Mission.

“I think it’s because they are us — but not us any more,” she said. “It’s just terrorizing because it’s something we can’t control.”

My writer friend, Mark Boss, said the fascination could be based on the sense that people find zombies more accessible than vampires, which were another recent cultural fad. (I once heard the Young Adult section of a book store referred to as the “brooding vampire” section; the person who said this was relieved that the witchcraft fad seemed to be fading at the time.)

“Vampires are powerful, immortal and often glamorous,” Mark said. “I don’t think most of us feel like that. However, we see zombies, and that zombie is still wearing her uniform from work, and the zombie over there is wearing a tool belt and hardhat, and we see these reflections of us — ordinary citizens. Somehow, that makes them easier to relate to.”

Crystal Creamer, left, and friend

Maybe the fact that they’re such twisted reflections of our everyday friends and family is what is most frightening and fascinating about them. Like Crystal said, they are us, just with our morals switched off and our hunger turned up to 11.

The stories inevitably focus on a small group of people (which often dwindle to a lone survivor), which also works as a metaphor for our sense of isolation in the modern world. We connect electronically with so many more people than ever before, while at the same time connecting to fewer and fewer in the real world. It’s easy to begin thinking of those around us as faceless, soulless zombies.

As a fiction writer, I’ve found zombies to be fertile territory for storytelling. They make excellent metaphors for just about any massive, mindless groupthink you want to apply (insert your own political joke here), and they’re guaranteed to break any writer’s block.

Hit a wall in your writing? Add a zombie. They’re like literary bacon.
 
Peace.

In defense of zombies

Me, Zombified

Zombies scare me.

I don't know why, exactly. Maybe it's the idea that they are us, just with our morals switched off and our hunger turned to 11.

Maybe it's the idea that they can't be reasoned with (insert your favorite political joke here), or that they never tire, they never stop, and it seems like they come out of nowhere by the multitudes.

Maybe it's the overwhelming dread of a worldwide plague turning the planet into a dead zone where the slightest noise or a change in the direction the breeze blows can mean death.

I seldom have nightmares about zombies. I generally recall my dreams in detail, and my really bad dreams are usually about demons. (Don't even get me started.)

Then one night I dreamed that I was a zombie. I "woke up" in the middle of a feeding frenzy, at first frightened and confused by the walking corpses all around me and the prey they were devouring, and suddenly a weird calm came over me.

My new e-book of short stories

I realized what I was and why the horde wasn't trying to attack me. I was just like them. And I realized that was okay with me (in this dream, at least) — knowing what I was, I could deal with that. (I've tried to decipher the psychological implications of this dream. In fact, I'm writing a book to deal with them.)

But see:  There was a sense of personal freedom that set in once I realized that my continued existence had been made so simple. There were no worries, because the worst had already happened. All I had to do was feed myself, and the rest of the world could go to hell.

Like I said, I'm working this out: That's where the opening scene of my new novel takes place — as an undead man "awakens" (becomes self-aware) in the middle of an afternoon snack he's sharing with another undead man. (You can read this opening scene in my new ebook, "Tales of the Awakening Dead," only 99 cents on Kindle!)

I spent last year's NaNoWriMo exploring what happens next — a simple thing, as the man recognizes that the food stocks are being depleted while the number of predators rises. That won't do, of course, so he has to find a way to reduce the feeders and fatten the prey and ensure a steady supply of "This Mortal Flesh."

The trailer video for Tales of the Awakening Dead

As I wrote in the introduction to 'Tales of the Awakening Dead,' there's some cultural backlash already rising that indicates people think the zombie apocalypse is played out as a source for storytelling. That's being floated out there at a time when "The Walking Dead" is a hit comic book and a super-hit TV series. (It returns for its fourth season Sunday, and AMC is now developing a spin-off series to fill the seasonal hiatus next summer.)

The Walking Dead Season Four Trailer

So obviously, there are still plenty of stories to tell.

Myself, I write about zombies for a variety of reasons beyond my own desire to understand my dreamstates. One, they make excellent metaphors for just about any massive, mindless groupthink you want to apply. Two, you can set up different rules for how the creatures multiply and how they operate (can they speak? do they run or shamble? does only a bite spread infection?). Three, exploring how your human characters relate to one another and the zombies in such an environment reveals so many things about the human condition.

But an added bonus, and probably most importantly: You can tell any story in this framework. When it comes to human relationships, action/adventure, or even buddy cop stories, zombies are like bacon — they can make any story better.

Don't believe me? Next time you're writing and you hit a wall, and you don't know what happens next, have a zombie come through the window. Instant writer's block solvent.

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Thoughts? Refutations? Please comment!

‘Between There’ features ghostly tales

PANAMA CITY — A young deputy trying to make a name for himself opens a cold case and is visited on Halloween by a restless spirit as he answers a call to Econfina Creek.

Homeless men witness a murder while hanging out under Hathaway Bridge.

Two supernatural creatures are involved in a paranormal investigation of Bay County’s Tram Road.

Those are descriptions of “Cold Case” by Ruth Corley, “The Dog Watch” by Mark Boss, and “Elusive Prey” by Anthony S. Buoni, three of 13 frightening tales in the new anthology, “Between There” Vol. 2.

Such ghostly stories will be on tap Tuesday evening at Chez Amavida in Panama City, which is hosting the launch party for “Between There” in conjunction with Writers Gallery, the monthly open mic gathering for local writers. Books will be for sale, and everyone will be invited to play haunted bingo for door prizes. Costumes are encouraged.

“The coffee shop has been home to the Writers’ Gallery meetings on the third Tuesday of each month, allowing local authors a stage for sharing their work,” Buoni said. “This month’s meeting will not only let writers read their material, but will showcase several authors featured in the anthology, reading and signing copies of the book.”

Buoni describes himself as “a haunted writer” living in Panama City Beach whose work has been featured in magazines, noir anthologies and his own local underground ’zine “the meow.” In addition to writing, he is a musician, father and ghost hunter.

“Between There” Vol. 2, , released by Pulpwood Press, features the work of regional and national writers exploring what happens when departed souls intrude upon everyday lives. Ranging from mystery and horror to philosophy and erotica, the book showcases short stories, flash fiction, campfire yarns and a screenplay that brings readers not quite to the realm of Death, but somewhere between here and there.

Many of the writers involved are from Bay County. Joining Buoni, Corley and Boss are N. Wayne Garrett, Conrad Young, Brittany Lamoureux, Kyle Clements, Angela Apperson and Joseph Davis. Others include Autumn Lishky from Oklahoma, Dee Jordan from Mobile, Ala., and Jacqueline Seewald, previously nominated for a Nebula Award for her short story, “Touched by Wonder.”

Mark Boss at left, Ruth Corley at right

 (Full disclosure: I’m part of a writing critique group that includes Boss and Corley (see photo at left for the whole group posing with author Tim Dorsey), and one of my short stories appeared in the first volume of “Between There.” I’m also a regular participant at Writers Gallery.)

Corley is a fiction writer in addition to her job as public information specialist with the Bay County Sheriff’s Office. The two interests led her down a surprising trail as she wrote “Cold Case.”

“I love to hear the stories of the ‘old days’ in law enforcement here in Bay County,” she said. “A friend told me how the top floor of the old Old Jail (before what we now refer to as the Old Jail/BCSO Office was built, which used to be next to the Court House) was considered haunted. … I thought I would use that bit of folklore in a story and set it back in 1990, when both buildings were used simultaneously. Oh, to make it even creepier, the county morgue was housed in the basement of the old Old Jail, which also gave the building a unique ambience.”

Boss, a freelance editor and author of thrillers, said his inspiration came from multiple sources.

“The title has a double meaning,” he said. “It refers to a dog they see, and it’s also the nautical term for the short watches on a ship that take place between 4 to 6 p.m. and 6 to 8 p.m. I drew on the excellent work our local Association of St. Jude does in helping the homeless, and combined that with a scary location. The stuff about the dog and the murder, I made up.”

Corley said her characters often surprise her as she’s in the process of writing.

And that bodes well for a book about things that go bump in the night.

(Rest in) Peace. 

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BOOK LAUNCH
What: Release party for ghost story anthology ‘Between There’; books for sale; play haunted bingo for door prizes; costumes encouraged
When: 7 p.m. Tuesday, Oct. 15
Where: Chez Amavida, 2997 W. 10th St., Panama City

(This is my column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald this week.)

The moon and the sleep of death

Boston.com

PANAMA CITY — A supermoon ruled the night on Sunday, the day Richard Matheson died, ensuring that I will always equate the two, bright and larger than life, a beacon passing through the darkness.

Matheson, who died at age 87, was one of the great fantasists of the 20th century. I had no idea he was gone until early Tuesday, and spent some time that day reflecting on his body of work and his approach to writing and living.

His novels and short stories became the films “The Incredible Shrinking Man,” “I am Legend” (also adapted as “The Last Man on Earth” and “The Omega Man”), “Duel,” “The Legend of Hell House,” “Somewhere In Time,” and “What Dreams May Come,” among many others. His work for television included scripting several classic episodes of “The Twilight Zone,” “Star Trek,” “The Outer Limits,” adapting Ray Bradbury’s “The Martian Chronicles” as a mini-series, and many more.

AintItCool.com

He created the character of Karl Kolchak in the original teleplay, “The Night Stalker,” and ensured a generation’s bad dreams.

In a 2004 interview (which you can link to in the online version of this column at PanamaCity.com), Matheson called his novel “What Dreams May Come” his most effective because it had relieved many readers of their fear of death — “the finest tribute any writer could receive.” I have not read his book, “Hunted Past Reason,” but in that same interview he twice references an opening quotation:

“To die is nothing. To live is everything.”

Unlike Bradbury, whose name I immediately equated with the greatest in fantasy and sci-fi from an early age, Matheson was a slow burn toward recognition; I was late to connect his name to all the various thrills and chills the man’s work had elicited in me. I don’t recall how or when I realized he had created so many of the films, TV shows and stories I’ve enjoyed.

And I return to the moon, its light a reflection of the sun’s, a symbol of subtlety — as Matheson worked his influence.

Sunday, I followed my daughter out of the house to view the moonrise. It passed among clouds and loomed behind tall pines as the lonely call of a whippoorwill (in legend regarded as a harbinger of death) carried across the hill. For all its size, the orb was not as impressive in my mind as that of Saturday, which had the advantage of context both beautiful and surreal.

That evening, a low tide left an expanded shoreline along St. Andrew Bay. My friend David was on a paddle board on the calm water under the eyes of a small gathering of party guests. My wife held my hand on the shore, and we watched a brilliant sunset light cumulous clouds pink and orange, reflecting on the dark bay.

A couple passed along the tide line, walking their quiet dogs on leashes. Just a few minutes earlier, we’d all been serenaded by guests practicing their bagpipes under moss-draped trees — the night literally blessed by carols and hymns — and joked about the howling of dogs.

And then, the moon: Bright and cold, white as bone, rising slowly over the city to our east and easing out above the bay. It was a night for dogs to howl, for whippoorwills to call, for fish to look up and humans to wonder, like Matheson and like Shakespeare before him, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?

Peace. 

(This is my Undercurrents column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald for Friday's edition, June 25, 2013.)