James Cheetham's Ballad of a Bought Farm

2009-12-21T18:44:00.000-08:00

Many years ago, I took on the arduous task of editor for a 'For the Luv' horror ezine called The Murder Hole. There was no monetary gratification for myself, for the woman who hosted the website, or for any of the contributors. Yet month after month I was overwhelmed with submissions and I still managed to put forth issues highlighting some of the best dark fiction out there. From well-established writers to semi-established writers working their way to the top, to newbies, I've watched over the years as many of the authors I published moved on to become award-winning novelists, mass-market novelists, even publishers and editors. It's kind of like watching your babies growing up to be successful in doing what they love and do best: writing.

That being said, I completely understand what Steven N. Marshall puts into his ezine each and every month. It takes a lot of dedication. It takes a lot of hard work. It requires enthusiasm and unconstrained loyalty to his chosen path, even in the face of adversity; perseverance overcoming animosity. And Steve manages to pull it off, putting out a new issue every month with style and flair, overwhelmingly denoting the true reasons he continues.

It's all about 'for the love of.'

The authors published by SNM every month demonstrate that same love and dedication. Reading the stories in this anthology, you can't help but see the love these writers have for their craft of writing. Their best efforts shine through brilliantly in every story, adding new twists to old plots, bending rules, breaking out of the proverbial 'box', showing the readers that not only do they love to write, but they write for a simple reason: They want to entertain you, the reader.

This yearly crowning achievement published by SNM is a work of love, devotion and commitment by the authors and editors for those who enjoy and appreciate the efforts put forth by all involved. It is an extraordinary accomplishment, packed with compelling horror and dark fiction that will keep you turning the pages long after you should have turned the lights out and gone to bed.

I was truly honored when Steve had approached me about doing the introduction for this anthology. The anthologies he puts out prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the writing and creating of stories and the genuine objective to entertain isn't all about money. It's about literary achievement in the horror community and becoming known. It doesn't happen overnight!

The editors know this.
The contributors know this.
Now the readers know this.
It's all about telling a story.
And, most importantly
It's all about 'for the love of.'

I was very impressed by this anthology. The consistency of quality writing, they way that each story stands apart from one another, the literary prose, the haunting residual in the mind, makes this a perfect masterpiece of fiction. It is comprised of the Stories of the Month for a year and a half, over careful consideration and selection from a top-rated magazine that publishes cerebral, psychological horror; horror that isn't afraid to cross taboo thresholds, yet suggest something so menacing that the reader is grateful its kept offstage. Let these brave pioneers of the next Poe and Lovecraft generation whisper their dark secrets into your soul and haunt you in the most eerie, personal way: through the power of suggestion and the art of horrific eloquence. My favorite type of reading!

Wendy Brewer, Copy Editor for Edward Lee.

Order Bonded By Blood Now

And then it was February, Dr. Feelgood...

2009-02-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

An update on the situation:

February has been busy. Tanya and I headed to Vegas to catch the Motley Crue gig at The Joint, and I have since written an article about the last night at the famous sin city club that should be available in an up and coming magazine in July, the brainchild of Dick Rivers a former DJ on Power 97 here in Winnipeg.

I am still waiting on the New York Agency for their decision after they requested to see more Ballad of A Bought Farm.

I am almost finished a short story I am calling Wabigoon which is a tiny town in Ontario, just east of Dryden where my father once lived with his fiance. Her whole family lived in the tiny town on Lake of The Woods.

There is a publisher requesting stories that tie zombies to fishing, which oddly enough happened to be close to a story I've been pondering over the past few months. The story takes place of course in Wabigoon and I think the name itself leaves people guessing, so I am leaving it as is. I personally love the story, and it ties into my Seasons of The Brittle Harvest theme of the living dead invading Canada (eh?). Wabigoon has become one of those stories I thoroughly enjoyed writing. We have an audio nature channel on our satellite dish here at home which simply plays the sounds of nature. It's like some guy goes out and sets up a microphone beside a lake then leaves to gets a Big Mac and a beer, and comes back an hour later to retrieve his tape recorder. I had it on while writing Wabigoon and believe it helped paint the serene nature of a day on a beautiful lake ruined by yes, yes, yes...them pesky zombies....

Speaking of Zombies, and Seasons of The Brittle Harvest. Raine Eadie has decided she can no longer be part of the comic book project, so that for the time being is on hold. I have two publishers currently looking at Seasons. If they are interested that would be great but if not, I am debating releasing the book as a free read on the zombie makeover site. I would release one chapter every Friday along with fresh makeovers. Does this make me any money? Well no, of course not but I didn't write the zombie story to make money (did that sound sincere?), I wrote it because I love the genre and wanted to bring it to Manitoba and to Canada, which still excites me to this day. I would love to hear what people think of this idea, your support is always important to me.

I would also like to expand the T-shirt line, hopefully by the summer. The original T-shirts are all but gone and for a trial run they did well but as my wife Tanya says, girls aren't interested in zombie shirts if they aren't girlie zombie shirts...which went over my head several times but I think I finally got it. Hopefully some fresh designs and styles can be developed. I would love to see some of those incredible zombie makeovers turned into chic fashion.

I am also working with Garth Buchholz to start up a Dark Fiction Guild for writers of the genre so that they have a place to speak with other writers and gather information about the industry. It is still early in development but Garth does some fantastic web design and is a writer as well so I am looking forward to seeing where this project takes us (and other writers out there who are still looking for a place to call home).

Garth is also involved in the celebration of the anniversary of Edgar Alan Poe. It's been 200 years since his birth and Garth has put together one hell of a site where he has had the privilege of interviewing those inspired by the master, like recording artist Alan Parsons, and producer Gail Anne Hurd. I am proud to play a small part in this project, offering my own experiences in writing and Poe's influence on my creativity.

The zombie makeovers are still ongoing. Feel free to send me a good clear picture. The address where I will accept photos is jcheetham01@hotmail.com . There is a $10.00 Canadian fee now, which has reduced the flow of people looking for a free makeover, and given me back my sanity so that I have time for other things, crazy things...like writing and sleeping.

Wanted to share a few links:

Edgar Alan Poe 200 site (look for my interview soon).

Dark Fiction Guild (If you are a writer of dark fiction/ horror, welcome to your new home).

SNM Magazine (a great online horror magazine where new writers will feel surprisingly welcome).

Cheetham's Zombie Makeovers (If you don't know what this is, you're new to my world).

Unconventional Interviews (a place for people cooler than you to answer questions mainstream media refuse to ask. If you are cooler than me and think you deserve an interview, feel free to contact me and I'll set you up)

PS: If you are not one of the following: a writer, musician, a director, a scream queen, a serial killer, a stripper, a fire eater, an actor or daredevil, we probably aren't interested...I'm just sayin'...

Thanks for the support!

Talk soon!

James Cheetham

Happy New Year, Spider Babies

2009-01-07T08:32:00.000-08:00

Hello everybody!

Happy New Year and all that. 2009 promises to be interesting for the entire world but in my little corner, things are thankfully quiet.
Stephanie is back to school after Christmas overload and I'm back to writing. Working on two short stories as well as Ballad.
Just heard from an literary agency in New York this morning so I am putting a package together for them. I won't mention the agency of course because it's very early in the process but if you are a writer you will have heard of them and likely know the butterflies now forming in my belly after what turned out to be a futile 2008. Will keep you posted of course...
It has been very cold here in Manitoba. -35 this morning with the wind chill, but its been colder than that. A good time to write, the harshness of winter seems to inspire me.
Tanya and I will be heading off to Vegas in February. The Joint is closing down and on their last night they have Motley Crue playing. We have tickets and I look forward to seeing an arena sized band in a club. Should be interesting. Last time I saw Crue there was 16,000 people. The Joint only holds 1400. I was thinking maybe I'm getting too old for that kind of thing at 37 then realized Nikki Sixx just turned 50...if he can be there, so can I!

Also wanted to mention a movie I watched while up late one night last week struggling with the flu. Spider Baby is very good!Here's a blurb from IMDB:

The basic story is about the remaining members of the Merrye family, and their caretaker, Bruno (played brilliantly by Lon Chaney Jr.), and their fight to stay secluded and together against the forces that would split up their "family". The Merrye's have a strange disease that causes them to act strangely (and sometimes murderously...), and some of their extended family want to cash-in on the estate of the now departed father of the family. The kids (including a VERY young Sid Haig) don't want to be separated from Bruno, and will go to any lengths to keep their little "unit" together...

The very creepy little girls are the best part of the movie and of course seeing Sid Haig looking no more than 18 or 19 was interesting too. Great soundtrack as well...check it out if you want a Midnight Movie type experience.

Talk to yah!

A Dark Vision of Prairie Terror

2008-12-09T10:01:00.000-08:00

I have teamed up with artist Raine Eadie in an attempt to bring the Seasons of the Brittle Harvest series to comic book form. I want to welcome Raine, and let her know how much I appreciate the fact that she is as excited about the possibilities of this collaboration as I am. Nothing is guaranteed to come of this venture but I am honored to work with Raine, she appears to have the same vigor and ambition as I do. It's refreshing, let me tell you...
Please welcome Raine and her fantastic artwork!

A Year In The Life:

2008-12-04T05:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my agent and I went our separate ways. I feel this was a terrible waste of a year but wish her all the best with her fresh goals for the agency. This of course gives me the freedom once again to seek out interest in the Seasons series, rather than simply sitting and waiting which is maddening when month after month slips away and there is little you can do about it.

Lets face it however, the Zombie series is genre based, and most publishers are not going to touch it, especially publishers in Canada, so I may have to consider alternative options, including the comic book version which is still being investigated further.

In the meantime I continue writing Ballad as Christmas creeps up on us. I am excited, not for myself but for my daughter who has taken to school with a vigor, landing herself a role in the spring play and an instrumental bit in the Christmas play. She is coming out of her shell, which makes me very happy considering I worried that she, like me, would spend her childhood being a shy kid, both of us children without siblings. I'm very proud of her but mad at her as well. I made her promise she would stay nine and she went behind my back and turned ten. Let's see if she can her empty promises this year...

Deer Me

2008-11-21T10:34:00.000-08:00

The other reason I write in my sunny kitchen. My daily visitors to the grind...right out my back door.

Conceptual Isolation

2008-11-20T09:43:00.000-08:00

It's hard to talk about Ballad of a Bought Farm without giving too much away. Like Fade To Pale, I hope the details in this book sneak up on the reader and make them think a little. There is nothing worse than figuring out a plot line long before the writer intended for you to. That makes crafting a good book a rather meticulous little operation.

In an interview I was once asked what my approach was to writing Fade To Pale. I replied that it was not unlike building a human body (a Frankenstein monster in my case). You start with an idea, a skeleton, and you build on that skeleton with characters (muscles), plot twists (organs) and great literary flow and dialogue (arteries, and life blood). You then give it heart. In the rewrites and edits you give it skin (and hope that your own, is thick enough to endure the response of those you dare let read it). That is not enough however, editing and rewriting also gives the book beauty (you must dress the Frankenstein monster up!) . And last but not least, you must name your living creation. I find many books and even movies, have names I find terribly easy to forget and wonder why. If you are going to put that much energy and time into creating another world, why would you name it something so forgetful? I don't know the answer but hope somebody will step up and tell me if the titles I choose are forgettable. That's not good...no sir!

So what can I tell you at the moment?

Well, I'm a shut in these days. I have fallen into a schedule which I am learning to appreciate, a schedule is a good thing for somebody like me. if I don't have a schedule, three years will pass before I realize I haven't let the dogs out to pee. (And trust me, they will hold it).

I'm getting up every morning in time to make my daughter breakfast and get her off to school. I am back home by 9:30 am and then do a half hour on the treadmill, shower, check my email, clean up (like a good house husband should), and hit the kitchen where the morning sun shines best. There, my laptop awaits for me to sit and write, only taking short breaks to do things like this, or to check CNN to make sure we have survived yet another day in our march toward a New World Order (it's coming people, get your head out of the sand)The laptop is where Norman dwells these days. He is the main character in Ballad of a Bought Farm, and he is a heroin addict about to quit cold turkey, much to his displeasure. If there is no drug to be had, and no way to get more, that's as cold as turkey is ever going to get. I am now speaking to experts on the subject of addiction to heroin, and the effects on the human body and mind when faced with such a dilemma because I want to get it right. Especially in Norman's case when he finds himself in the company of a less than hospitable farming family out of touch with our current society. Why is he there you ask? I can't tell you that yet, it would give too much away as bad as I want to... whoever you are that might be listening.

I am easing up on the zombie side of my life. Too much time has now passed, and maybe it's for the best. The book was written fast and furious in an attempt to keep things moving. Fade To Pale took three years to complete from concept to published book, and that literary style is what I truly want to pursue with Ballad as well. I still hope to make Prairie Frost into a comic book and have not given up on that idea yet. I have people looking into various options and fabulous artists more than happy to climb on board. It's a tough gig though, and I'm still a little fish in a big pond...

Well, I should let the dogs out to pee, have you ever seen a Golden Retriever cross her legs?Or worse, give her master the middle claw? It isn't pretty...

Until next time...give a hoot, read a book.

James Cheetham

A Rough Introduction to a Rural Nightmare.

2008-11-05T11:06:00.000-08:00

All is well with the dust. All is well in the mind of the frenzied and the bowels of the forgotten where moonbeams turn and rush the other way. All is well with harsh judgment and dismal worry. All is well with death, his hand cold and distant yet ever present. All is well in the universe where the living and the livid, the dying and the damned to do so work as one purpose-forgotten entity.

And that universe above, below and around, so filled with the unknown seeks not one answer; only that part of it which refuses to acknowledge how unessential it truly is, they call it mankind. That they evolve despite their own better judgment and hold truth for all, but only if it serves a best interest. What will become of them all?

Six and a half billion individual cells make up the single virus, intelligent enough to name themselves Homo sapiens—as they forsake the vast universe and pray instead to a creator constructed to define their own significance. How very terrifying it would be for them—even as great in numbers as they are—to have someone tell them even in their masses, how alone they truly are. How bizarre and speculative to contemplate a higher being, informing all of them that their numbers mean nothing when there are six and a half billion individual opinions floating amongst them.

Forget the idea was ever mentioned. There isn’t anyone available to tell them, and the irony is lost on them because nobody was listening to begin with.

So where does the madness end? It doesn’t. At least one cell, one human must remain alive for the universe to continue its existence. Two must continue on, one of the male species, one of the female to extend this vastness into yet another human generation. So what then when they do cease to exist? Does the universe crumble and fold? Certainly it would if the virus called ‘man’, created it from their own filthy minds. And what of this God? Will He die with the human virus too? Does the spirit die with death? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves then. Instead, let’s change the subject…

There is a farmhouse two miles east of Libeau, Manitoba. It has sat there as long as the universe has—and this is a confirmed fact, feel free to ask your Saviour. This house sits—as it has for all of eternity, beyond the ice age and before the dawning of civilization. It is not uncommon on the open prairies to see a deserted farmstead just like this one. There are many just as familiar, with fading paint and cobweb covered sills. Some still have windows that represent unblinking eyes where young, rosy cheeked little girls pressed tiny noses up to panes to watch many unforgiving winters blow across their own universe, the space that existed between the porch…and the driveway.

Ask any local and they will tell you a story about the farmhouse. Abandoned in 1930, abandoned in 1936, abandoned in 1943. Nobody really knows, because nobody really knows. Yet everybody wants to be somebody, and everybody had parents who felt the very same way. In an attempt to validate existence the human virus grasps at stories handed down from past generations to gain some form of validation. To make it so—not unlike the creation of God, a power so bored with the vast universe He took one single grain of sand the humans call earth, and placed on that tiny granular the most important creation in the universe. Then, He left the scene of the crime never to be heard from again…

When one decides it is imperative to validate one’s self, a human will devise a story, invent a plotline that guides them to an all-confirming conclusion. The farmhouse has been abandoned for thirty years, and this is Lord’s truth because it was passed down the generations like a quilt, like a sir name… like their fear in their God.

On the front of the abandoned farmhouse is a porch. The weeds have grown over it in time and it is surrounded by the remnants of sunflower crops, so much so that you can no longer see it from the highway. The driveway that connects this icon of lost generation is half a mile long—though one can no longer see that either, for reasons much the same.

All the house’s windows are intact, except for one. An upstairs pane is smashed out and pigeons have since moved into one of the upstairs bedrooms where they live on as a species, asking for nothing in return but the air that they breathe. The winged animals have no need for a God, no need for salvation. The window however is rumoured to be broken because somebody else did need it. The legend is that a young girl smashed the window in an attempt to escape what would have been her rape. She remained virtuous, but died bloody and mangled as she leapt through the glass, cutting herself mortally before plunging to her death below. God would have wanted it that way some suggested. Not one soul can confirm or deny this story. There is no official record of this event, even though many will insist the story is true, even swear on a bible should you put one in front of them.

There is a softer side to the farmland however. The local women swear the best Chokecherries on the prairies grow on that land. They take much pleasure in picking the berries when they are ripe for the occasion. The women will tell you the berries make wonderful jam, and syrup to die for. This statement is truer than any other you will hear the aging women mumble. The berries on a Chokecherry tree do carry a darker side and have been blamed on many an animals’ death when the seeds of the berries were swallowed in great numbers. The poison must be separated from the sweet. Such very fine lines the living walk indeed. Yet, if treated with the respect one gives to a spitting Cobra, the seemingly harmless Chokecherry is sheer pleasure in pancakes and muffins and if given the right amount of time to age, a wine fit for a king, or even perhaps a God.

Yet God created everything, including the seed of the Chokecherry. He must have done so then for a reason. So why do they insist on eating them still? God is just going to have to understand that his minions have found a way around such dire warning. This contradiction in terms goes on and on for the vain virus called the humans. Finding a way around the laws of nature is but one trick of the species’ trade. Validating their existence part and parcel.

If asked, the women will not argue that God put the Chokecherry trees there, even if they tore the rest of his creation in the area away to grow sunflowers in a vast fields just beyond the old farmhouse. The Lord put every tree limb, every bug eye, and every acorn in its place, and man—validating himself throughout history, tore it up and planted the sunflowers instead. God would have to understand, the species, the humans, and the virus…it has to survive, and it has to endure. Survive indeed, but strive? Was this His intention?

God did not say no.

Was it as good as saying yes? You can’t wait forever for an answer from the good Lord, far too busy to ever reply. Sometimes you must take things with a grain of salt, a grain of salt the size of a planet floating in a universe seemingly never-ending.

Near the farmhouse stood a decrepit barn staunch in its refusal to die. Neither the strength of tornados nor the weight of heavy snow did anything to change that. The building stood there on the horizon, impartial to its purpose. The barn was as old as the house and as old as the stars that shone above it. It was as old as the broken glass from the upstairs window hidden in the weeds and filth, and as old as the porch just beyond. Not one memory reached as far back as the memory of that house, that barn, or the land it sat upon. No single member of the human virus had a millennium worth of repressed memories that could account for any rhyme or reason. The farmhouse simply was, and simply is.

So what was the truth then? Where lay the records of its history? There was an archive in town but no paper trail. There were dusty historians but none immortal (though some might argue). There were scattered memoirs; they lay as words in the fibre of minds fading with time that restrained aging tongues and left them no longer able to speak. Yet so much history took place behind the walls of the seemingly abandoned farmhouse, so much anguish, and so much realization. It continued as it had for eternity and as it would forever more. Learning to accept this was as easy as taking your last breathe…

Seasons can blister like the finish on a crematory coffin. Summer grinds like dirty teeth full of dead bugs and chew. This is the place where the tallies are totalled and the consequences spurred.

Six and one half billion times…

It will never end, as long as the house remains empty over here. It is a different story mind you… over there.

Over there an unexpected twist has taken place. It has caused massive delays but like a clot in a brain, it goes unnoticed until perhaps it is too late. Then what of consequence? Would it really matter? Could the universe truly depend on a single cell floating on a planet the size of a grain of sand in an ocean infinite, a universe never ending?

The answer is yes…

Would they understand however?

Never…

And what if God explained it to them… perhaps then?

No…

Why?

They’ve never learned how to listen…

If you're going through hell, keep going - Winston Churchill

2008-11-03T08:16:00.000-08:00