Linda J. Butler's Blog

I came to this realization today in the grocery store. Trying to blend in with shoppers, a woman in sunglasses teetered precariously in front of the canned meat. Another, his shopping cart askew near the packed strawberries, stared aimlessly into space, his mouth working furiously, his one hand waving at nothing. Another, perhaps operating on a vague memory of her former life, tried to maneuver a shopping cart, but lacked the ability to negotiate a proper turn. Her head angled awkwardly toward her shoulder as she ran into the display to fat-free cookies. I observed several zombies, but none seemed to sense me near.

The mode of infection? The cell phone.

Yes, this is a segue way into a rant of astronomical proportions.

People, contrary to how you view your personal skill set, multitasking may not be your strong suit. If you need to give your undivided attention to the person on the other end your call, do not...I repeat DO NOT have said conservation in the middle of grocery store. The rest of us are there to shop and get out. We can't do that if you're sending an errant shopping cart into our heals. While you're turning in circles, lost in your call, we may be trying to reach the yams and you're in the way. I felt like a football player trying to zig and zag around people who were obviously unaware that they were blocking entire aisles and speaking loudly to whoever they HAD to speak to right then and there.

God forbid the actual zombie apocalypse pops off. You won't see them coming if you're pacing in front of the yogurt, with sunglasses on at 9 at night.

That's my market, cell phone, irritated by society PSA.

Maryann stood at the bus stop, disappointed, cold and hungry. Dressed in green hospital scrubs, covered in fake blood, she looked and felt more pathetic than scary.

Her car had broken down again leaving her stranded. No chance of making it to her seasonal job at the local fair's annual Halloween Fright Night. Without roadside service, or even a cell phone, she knew she'd never make it and had decided to just take the bus home.

The bus was taking so long to arrive and she was really beginning to get cold. A dark October night in Canton was no time to be on a bus stop with no coat. She looked down the dark street, straining and hoping to see the bus' head lights emerging from the darkness. Nothing. She sighed and turned to sit on the bus bench when she was him sitting there.

Younger than her, by the way he dressed: jeans, sneakers, hoodie, and a baseball cap. His hands were in his pockets and his head angled toward his feet, shielding his face. Maryann was initially startled at the sight of him. She hadn't heard him walk up, and he was just sitting there looking down.

After her first shock, she was glad to have company. His presence assured her that the bus was on its way. She sat down at the other end of the bench, hugging herself from the cold.

"Why aren't you wearing a coat?" The boy spoke. His voice was flat, and Maryann felt a different kind of chill at hearing his words. They were delivered in a monotone fashion and he was still looking down. The brim of his baseball cap hid most of his face, the street light illuminated his mouth.

Maryann cleared her throat and faced the boy's profile, trying to sound light, " I didn't know I'd be on a bus stop tonight. My car broke down two blocks away. Now I'm just trying to get home."

"Why are you covered in blood?" The same flat, dead voice spoke. Now Maryann was getting very uncomfortable. There was something wrong with the way he spoke, and he still hadn't looked up when speaking to her.

"It's Halloween", she chuckled. Her words comforted her, as they explained the boy. Obviously, he was dressed for some Halloween adventure and was trying to creep her out with his strange speaking pattern she felt better and stood up to look again for the bus.

"Do you like being scared?" This time there was something different in the boys words. Maryann couldn't exactly understand, but something about him now made her want to run. She was alone at night at a bus stop in a part of Canton that had closed down for the evening. There was no where to go, she had to wait for the bus.

"I'm dressed like this because I work at the haunted house at the fair," The lightness was gone from Maryann's voice. She was almost pleading with him to understand. "My car broke down on my way to work..."

The boy interrupted her, "do you like being scared...like you are now?"

The streetlight still illuminated the lower part of his face and Maryann could see his mouth turned into a sneer. He was now breathing in a way that almost shook his body. The boy finally turned his head to meet Maryann's gaze, she felt herself swooning. She fought to keep control, then a yellowed fluorescent light bathed over her.

She turned to find the bus parked directly in front of her, its doors open. She hadn't seen or heard it approaching. She was lost in the strange boy. She turned back to see him, to finally see that face, and he was gone.

"Miss, are you coming or what?" The heavyset female bus driver barked at Maryann. She got on, took a seat, her eyes still scanning the darkened night for the boy.

Maryann made her way home without event, although she still felt odd after her encounter, she tried to shake it off. Once home, she'd called her brother about her car, showered and put on some chicken soup. She still felt cold to the core and hoped the soup would warm her.

Wearing a fluffy robe and slippers, she was about to sit down in front of the TV when there was a knock at the door. Her brother, Jeff she thought. He'd fixed the car and was dropping it off. She was about to open the door when a feeling of unexplained fear washed over her, she could barely catch her breath. Tentatively, she looked through the security viewer. She could see a figure, but could not make it out. She called out forcefully, "Jeff?" The figure didn't move. Without taking her eye away from the viewer, Maryann fumbled for the porch light. She flipped it on to see the top of the boy's baseball cap.

When the porch light hit the boy he began chanting, "Open, open, open," in that same dead fashioned. Maryann backed away, covering her mouth to stifle her scream. "Get away from my door or I'll call the police!" Maryann shouted, tears now streaming down her face. She could still hear the boy knocking and repeating, "inside, inside, inside."

She picked up the phone and dialed 911. The call connected just as the power went off in her apartment. Darkness engulfed her and everything, including the boy, went silent.

Panicked and wanting to escape, Maryann began to crawl toward her bedroom. After finding her way, she engaged the door's lock and cowered in the corner next to the closet. She tried very hard not make a sound. Silent prayers filled her mind as she waited; waited for the lights to come on, for her brother to arrive, or for that boy to make his presence known. How had he found her? What did he mean by "inside"? She had no intention of finding out. She wanted this nightmare and Halloween to be over.

A light tapping sound slowly began to fill the room. Maryann peered in the darkness, her mind trying to identify it. Just then, movement beyond the bedroom window caught her attention. Tiny pins of fear pricked her entire body. There, outside her second story window, against all rationality, hovered the boy, his finger tapping the window. The light of the full moon made his features clearer than ever before. His mouth was still twisted in a maniacal sneer.

For the first time, the boy removed the baseball cap, allowing Maryann to see his full face. Over the maniacal sneer were a set of abnormally large black eyes, like those of a shark. No irises, just pools of black. Looking into those eyes, Maryann felt fear like, unlike anything she'd known before. Those dark eyes transfixed her, as the boy now commanded, "OPEN, OPEN!" Maryann, under the spell of those eyes, obliged. The boy floated in, the power returned to the apartment, and after a short, muffled scream, the night was again quiet.

Two nights later, the bus driver that picked up Maryann was on her usual route. as she approached the stop, she was taken aback by the sight the young woman in blood covered scrubs waiting on the bus bench sitting next to the boy in the hoodie and baseball cap. The driver stopped the bus, opened the door and peered at the pair. After a few seconds, she barked, "You coming or not?"

When the young woman looked up, the driver almost recognized her, except for the strange, large, black eyes. The driver closed the doors before the couple could move and floored the bus as fast as it would Go. When she looked into the rear view mirror, the bus bench was empty.

~Linda J. Butler

Zombies are in! The CDC went to the trouble of denying the possibility of their existence. However, a mock zombie apocalypse is the focus of the upcoming Counter-Terrorism Summit. Do you get the feeling that 'they' know something that we don't?

If you're like me, you've considered at least in passing, how to survive the return of the relentless, hungry, senseless undead. What's your game plan?

I know where I'm going. Texas! No, I'm not talking Austin, Dallas, Fort Worth. I mean Highway 20 in the middle of flat, brown, "are we there yet" Texas. If you've ever driven through, you know what I mean. It's so isolated that the road signs advertising the tiniest township next 50 miles makes you giddy. That's the place for me. Low population means low number of reanimated dead.

Now the question, what to do with the pesky zombies that do happen to find me in Nowhere Texas. That one is a little difficult to answer.

Although I've been planning for ZA since the first time I saw Night of the Living Dead, I'm a writer not a fighter. I'm squeamish at road kill, I don't think I could bash someone's brains in, even if they weren't using them anymore. And using a gun? Please, I'm really clumsy. I wouldn't want to maim myself and wind up a desert buffet.

So what to do? Well, that's where my pre-New Year's resolution comes into play. Running, I'm going to start this weekend. Zombies can't eat what they can't catch, and I'm about to channel Usain Bolt and fly! Mind you, I don't think I can run a solid mile right now, but I will be ready for Z day.

What's your plan?

I recently read that novelist. Gabriel Garcia Marquez is experiencing dementia and is no longer able to write. What a great loss to the literary world.  Garcia Marquez is one of my favorite writers. 
I first read Chronicle of a Death Foretold in college, and  it Immediately became one of my favorite books. I loved the ambiguity and mystery of the novel.  I fell in love with the world Garcia Marquez painted as it was so beautiful, violent, and magical.  I wanted to read everything written by him, and quickly made it a mission to do so.  Along with Chronicle,  A Hundred Years of Solitude is another favorite novel. 
When I read about Garcia Marquez's condition, I thought how devastating it must be for him to lose the ability to write.  Dementia affects memory, language, and thinking. These functions are critical to the writer, like physical functions to an athlete or hearing to a musician.   How frightening to slowly lose one's most cherished abilities. 
I wish the very best to Mr. Garcia Marquez, and I hope by some miracle that he recovers and continues to share his remarkable talent with the world. 

Someone recommended an ap to me that records one's sleep. I thought the idea was terrifying. Maybe it's just the way my mind works...

Pearl Jam’s Alive wafted through the speakers on her laptop as Melody scrolled through selections on iTunes. With over 40 aps on her phone, she was looking for something interesting to do. It had been years since she simply sat still and did nothing; she was plugged in and connected 24/7.

Something caught her eye:
Sleep Analysis, the title bar read.
“Hmph,” she said to herself, “like I get much sleep.”

Listening to books, playing games with no payoff, texting everyone her every move, updating her status, tweeting photos , editing photos she tweeted in order to make her life look more interesting than it was…why not analysis her sleep.

She read on… ”determines how often the user dips into REM sleep, records any noise disturbances that interrupt REM, and establishes the ideal wake up time to start your day refreshed ready for the world.”
She hit INSTALL.
That night, or actually that morning; 2:00 to be exact, she set up her phone as instructed, on the bed, face down, and near enough to sense her movements. She sleeps.

By the time she awoke, she’d forgotten about the ap, but getting out of bed sent the phone crashing to the wood floor with a BANG.

“Baby,” she said, retrieving the phone and petting it lovingly, “did I hurt you?” Hitting the home button out of habit, excited to see all the new updates for the day, the display read SLEEP ANALYSIS READY FOR REVIEW.
Melody sat on the side of the bed, brushed her hair off her face and touched the screen. The graph showed four instances of REM, optimal wake up time 6:45. “Ha! Like that will ever happen.” Just about to set the phone aside in order to run to the bathroom for a morning pee, something caught her eye

NOISE DISTURBANCES: 1.

She thumbed to the next screen to investigate further and found another graph detailing the occurrence. The peak referenced 3:45 am.

She furrowed her brow, what could that have been, she wondered. Looking further she found an onscreen red button labeled, RECORDING. She touched it.
A grainy sounding recording played loudly and she adjusted the volume to suit her pre-coffee ears. She recognized the sound of her sighing and the bed squeaking gently.

She reasoned that this represented her turning over in her sleep. Then, barely audible, a whisper begins so faint that the sound blended into the grainy, white rush of the shoddy recording capability. Melody held the phone close to her ear as she thumbed the volume level all the way up.

Leaning in, the phone directly to her ear; so unexpected and out of place that her brain did not initially compute – a voice; angry, almost mad, spit out a whisper. Melody’s mouth went dry and a numbing tingle throughout her body kept her from shivering. Her eyes darted from side to side, her ears strain, as she tried to wrap her mind around the idea of someone speaking in her room.

Immediately, she looked around the room for something, anything to explain it away. Her clock radio sat on a bookcase on the opposite side of the room. She threw down the phone and hurried to it, flipping on the radio function. Nothing. Her trembling hand fumbled with the volume switch and slowly Mexican chatter filled the room, “the volume was all the way down; it couldn’t have been the radio,” she said to no one. Looking around, she found no other viable source. Her eyes fell upon the phone, a harmless object, a much loved toy and companion.

Reluctantly, she picked it up again.

A fairy tale for power ballad believer in us all...


The Tale of the Love Song

There once was a girl who lived in a house; she was given everything a girl could hope, or want for. The girl had a mother, had a father, and they both showered her with affection. The girl had no brothers, had no sisters, so she learned to play in a world of daydreams.
As she grew older, the daydreaming continued. Love songs, played on the radio, became the setting for her perfect imaginary world. She imagined a life that played out like the tales woven by her favorite ballads, a life based on all encompassing love. To the girl, being adored enough to inspire a song was the truest and most meaningful declaration of love.
One day the girl was in the yard doing her chores, listening to her favorite love song on her tiny walkman (yes, this tale takes place long, long ago, pre MP3 players) when a woman wearing a long red gown and matching boa tapped her on the shoulder, “What are you listening to, Runt?”
The girl removed her headphones, “Did you just call me ‘runt’? I’m almost sixteen, and I’m listening to my favorite love song, by my favorite band, led by my favorite singer; I’m going to marry him one day.”
The lady in red rolled her eyes, cocked her head to one side, and said, “While he’s singing your favorite song in your favorite band, what will you be doing with your life, Miss almost-sixteen?”
The girl pondered the question. She’d never actually thought of doing anything other than being the muse to her radio Romeo.
She was a fair student; but studying interfered with daydreaming, so she really didn’t devote too much time to school. She spent most class days gazing out the window and imagining a love song life. The girl shrugged and said, “I’ll just be there for him. That’s what love does. Why do you care, anyway?”
The lady in red shook her head, “Listen Runt, you have to know you know anything about loving someone else. The only thing you know about a singer of love songs, is that he’s learned to make a living by pulling at the heart strings of gullible little dullards like you. Love songs aren’t based in reality; life cannot be navigated using verse-chorus verse-bridge.”
The girl stared blankly at the lady in red, said, “Someone’s bitter…,” and headed back to her chores.
Years passed, and Miss almost-sixteen turned thirty-five. She was pretty, and in the right outfit, quite fetching. Her choice in love songs changed as the years passed, but she always maintained the idea that music would lead her to love.
As fate would have it, she met her radio Romeo one night after a show. She almost couldn’t believe her luck, or her eyes. It had been years since his days of fame and radio play; he was relegated to small, sleazy night clubs attended by people more interested in drinking than love songs. He was no longer the slim-trim boy who stared back at her from an album cover. He had a pot-belly, wrinkles, five o’clock shadow, graying temples, and an ever present cigarette dangling from his mouth.
He croaked out the song, and with her eyes closed, she was transformed back ten years in the past. She was in love again, in love with the song, the singer, the words; everything was perfect.
Miss almost thirty-six, stood by the stage door applying lip gloss, waiting for her radio Romeo. She grinned like a fool at their introduction; he looked her over, said, “You’ll do,” and with that, he swept her away…so to speak.
Life with radio Romeo consisted of trailing behind him from city to city as he meagerly squeaked out a living playing his one and only #1 hit song. They traversed the country in a beat up old van, slept in Travelodge Motels and ate at Denny’s. Miss almost-thirty-six hated life on the road. She hated the smell of radio Romeo’s endless cigarettes, the way he belched after a Denny’s Grand Slam; she even began to hate hearing her favorite love song performed night after night.
It all came to a head one night after a show in Eau Claire, Wisconsin; she had had enough. She told him that life with him wasn’t what she expected, and she wanted to leave. At first radio Romeo looked shocked, and then with a knowing look he began serenading her with her favorite song…right there in the Travelodge
He began to sing to her, only her, and for a moment, she felt like Miss almost-sixteen again. Having his full attention as he sang, stirred long forgotten feelings; she was once again the young carefree dreamer who believed that music was enough.
Then she snapped out of it. “This isn’t enough!” She shouted.
“You said you just wanted to be here for me,” he countered.
“I was naïve and gullible,” she cried.
Acknowledging how silly she’d been brought back the memory of the lady in red; everything shifted.
She removed the cigarette from radio Romeo’s lips, rested her hands atop his pot belly and gently kissed him, “Good-bye, I wish you all the best. I hope I didn’t hurt you. And if I did, I hope you get a good song out of it. You could really use a new tune.” With that, she was gone.
As she sat waiting in the Greyhound bus station in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, searching through the contents of her bag for her walkman, she was startled by a tap on the shoulder, “Jesus! You must stop doing that! What are you doing here?” The lady in red sat petting her boa and smiling, “Forget about me, what are you doing here?”
Miss almost thirty-six realized the woman was wearing the same outfit as the day they first met, and that she hadn’t aged, “Who are you?”
The lady in red rolled her eyes, leaned close and whispered, “You’re not as thick as you look; I’m the Groupie Fairy. I go around finding stupid little girls who believe the love songs, and try to talk some sense into them. So many hear lyrics written by strangers and think they’re being directed at them, it’s absurd. You’re meant to lead your life based on your experiences, your aspirations and your drive. You can’t think that every declaration of love heard on the radio is a sign from beyond telling you how to live. You have heard of the Pied Piper haven’t you?
Miss almost thirty-six folded her arms and pouted, “The Pied Piper, what do fairy tales have to do with this? I wasted all those years, there has to be something I can show for it.”
The Groupie Fairy smiled at Miss almost thirty-six, “You just think about it, Runt. You’ve been following a Piper around for decades now. But, cheer up! There are a lot of women and girls out there just like you who could use our help. I need an assistant, and you already know the ropes. You can help me wake up some sleeping beauties from their fantasy worlds. We just zip here and there whenever we hear the same sappy love song being played on repeat by some sap that’s locked herself in her room and away from reality, and we try and intervene. Sometimes they get it right away, other times, well…you know; it takes a little time to see the light. The pay’s not good, but the reward is priceless; nothing like seeing the stars in some little nitwit’s eyes replaced by common sense and a firm grip on reality.”
Miss almost-thirty-six pondered the offer and then smiled broadly at the Groupie Fairy, “Do we get to meet any bands?”
The Groupie Fairy said blankly, “Bands, you still want to meet the bands? Remember those wasted years you were just boohooing about?” She sighed and continued, “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand and go over what we’re trying to accomplish here. Maybe I’ll put it to music so you can follow along” With that she draped her boa around Miss almost-thirty-six’ shoulder and they vanished. The only thing remnant of their presence in the Eau Claire Wisconsin Greyhound station was a battered and well worn walkman with a cassette of power ballads.

--Linda J. Butler

I've been in love with music since I can remember. I have a Beatles 45 that goes back further than my earliest memories. My mother said that I'd dance around clumsily in my diaper and grunt/hum along to I Want to Hold Your Hand when I was only one year old.

I do remember winning a cassette/shortwave/AM-FM radio from a radio station when I was ten. I identied a Steeley Dan song, prompting the DJ to shout, "you've won!".

Tonight I took a trip down musical memory lane by attending the Dukes of September Rhythm Review at the Gibson at Universal City Walk.

I've attended plenty of shows there during my youth, but this was Donand Fagem, Michael McDonald and Boz Scaggs. I was a little kid when those guys were in their heyday. I bought the tickets from Groupn and took one of my oldest friends-we met first day of ninth grade, seemed appropriate.

What a phenomenal show. These guys are the real deal and ageless. They effortlessly breezed through the hits of respective repertoires along with staples from the '70s. I was completely captivated by their musicianship.

The songs they played took me back to living in my parents' house, being in my room, and listening intently to every song played on the radio. Their music carried me to such an innocent, idealistic time. I was so happy that I went.

Very few things; music, a good book, a good film, can transport you to another place and time that stirs emotions, brings back memories of sights sounds and smells. It's such a precious gift to give the world.
Thank you, Dukes

I've always written short stories and little scenes and just kept them to myself to look back upon months later. I find writing to be a cathartic exercise. It's a way to escape and it's very entertaining to the writer.

I was working at a job that I really couldn't see myself retiring from, when the unexpected happened. I got laid off. The timing was pretty bad; my father had passed away a few months earlier, I got my pink slip a week before my birthday, and I'd just paid for a two week U.K. trip being conducted by my alma mater.

So, what's a girl to do? Go to England, Scotland and Wales to clear my head, of course.

The trip was part of a travel study for graduate students. At the time, I held my B.A. In English and planned to go back to earn my Masters, some day. Over the course of the trip, the other students convinced me to enroll for the spring semester.

Now, I was laid off in 2009, at the same time as so many others. I looked for a job in earnest, but there was nothing to be found. So, I applied, was accepted, and begun courses toward my graduate degree in January 2010.

During the summer I took a Short Novel Creative Writing course, the objective was for each student to write a novel by the end of the semester. The professor had us each sign an agreement stating how much time we'd spend writing per day. I had other classes, but I wasn't working, so I promised to write for three hours daily.

We were told we could write about anything we wanted I had had a dream that stuck with me, so I decided to see where I could go with it.

The dream? I was trapped in my apartment with my best friend while a horde of zombies paced about in our building's courtyard.

I wrote for three hours a day, sometimes more. I usually wrote in the morning. I tried writing at night once and scared myself so bad that I had to shut the laptop and call a friend just to forget what scared me. That let me know that I was onto something. From the kernel of a dream, a premise developed that was both frightening and plausible. I loved it!

At the end of the semester, I turned in my project and my professor called me into her office. She wanted to see me alone to encourage me to shop the finished piece around. She assured me it could sell, and that it had merit.

She gave me the tools I needed to find a publisher and was always an ear to listen to my woes when I got discouraged or doubtful. I am forever in her debt.

And discouraged I got. I got turned down by bland form letters that neither gave reason or suggestion, just "no thank you.

Then, I found Spore Press. They specialize in 'bio punk' and wanted work based on science; they seemed a perfect match for my tale of clinical trial studies gone wrong. We struck a deal, and Anti-Sentient was published a week before I participated in my commencement ceremony.

The entire experience was like traversing an invisible road in the dark. I could only put one foot before the other and hope that I was moving in the right direction. I had no back up plan, I just had to keep going forward, hoping that I wasn't making a terrible mistake.

It's difficult to change direction midstream, or middle age. Sometimes, you have no other choice. Losing a job that I really didn't like proved to be a rebirth for me.

I have tons of stories to tell. I just never thought anyone would care to read them. Now, I won't hide them away to myself. I'll share them and hope others enjoy them as much as I do.

I love being scared, and I love scary tales. My parents are from the south, and as I child I remember driving to visit my grandparents "in the country". In the country the trees are full of moss, there's no such thing as a street light, stars light up the night. Sounds permeate the night; some identifiable, some mysterious and wild. In the country, I could always count on hearing a great ghost story told by my grandmother.

I was about fifteen or sixteen, sitting across the kitchen table from my grandmother one night as she told yet another story about a headless spirit coming back to take his revenge on his murderer when there was a knock at the kitchen door.

Now mind you, the closest house was probably a quarter or a mile away, and it was about eleven at night. I stood up to answer the door and let the visitor in.
My grandmother grabbed me by the wrist, looked deeply into my eyes and said, "Baby, don't you open that door." I could tell she was serious, but I still didn't understand. I told her I wouldn't open it, I just wanted to see who it was. I looked out through the kitchen window, and immediately felt cold all over.

There was no one there, and the way the house was laid out, there was no where to hide.
I didn't finish listening to my grandma's story that night. I went to bed and actually wanted to crawl into bed between my parents.