All of us should consider the blessings that our current president bestows upon us. For example, the blessing of “word choice.”
Recently, our current president said in an NBC interview that he might continue bombing an oil facility on Iran’s Kharg Island “just for fun.” He’s called enemies “scumbags” and “lunatics” and termed accused sex trafficker a “terrific guy” (although he eventually changed his assessment of the same person to “creep”), but recently suggested a daughter “above six years old” would be “of age” (adding to the confusion, this suggestion was made while discussing providing Voter ID). These are just a tiny fragment of all the thought-provoking rhetoric our current president has espoused. And all of it suggests that America is being called to reflect on the value of word choice not only from our world leaders, but also from ourselves.
For example, suggesting the continuation of bombing anything “just for fun” links the speaker of those words to a certain mindset, a particular moral core that others either align with or reject. What does agreeing with this sentiment say about our own moral core? How does rejecting the same reflect upon us? Which kind of person do we want to be?
Do we want our leaders calling people “scumbags” and “lunatics” and if so, what does that say about who we are as individuals, and as a nation? Is this who we want to be?
And who among us sees six year old girls as “of age”? More concerning, “of age” for what, specifically? The connotation of that phrase drags us down a dark, ugly corridor towards problems this country is facing such as sex trafficking and the Epstein files. Is this really where we feel comfortable? The context in which that comment emerged also confounds; do we really think a six-year-old girl is “of age” to have anything to do with Voter ID? Are we as a nation okay with such confounding logic from our leaders? Is this who we actually are as a country?
On almost a daily basis, the current president is providing us opportunities to reflect on how we say things, why these things are said, what embracing or rejecting such phraseology confirms about us, and our leaders.
We certainly have a ton to think about during this presidency. The conclusions we come to may very well determine our future.
All of us should consider the blessings that our current president bestows upon us. For example, the blessing of “fake.”
Our current president works hard to define journalists and news outlets as fake. He does this constantly. This has led whole groups of Americans to believe the media is actually fake, is lying to us, and can’t be trusted. But according to media sources including NPR, the president himself has said he uses this strategy to render reporting that is critical of himself or his policies as unbelievable. Additionally, he told Leslie Stahl that he “slams” the press to “demean” and “discredit” them so the public won’t believe negative reports. He has acknowledged it as a technique to manage political perception, terming the press as an “enemy of the people” and accusing them of bias so he looks better.
Our current president has blessed us with the need to carefully decide what is true and what is fake. He has pushed us into a corner where, to determine the path of our nation’s future, we must ask ourselves: if our president himself acknowledges this is a strategy to control press coverage of his image, is it the press that is fake, or is it him?
All of us should consider the blessings that our current president bestows upon us. For example, the blessing of “fake.”
Our current president works hard to define journalists and news outlets as fake. He does this constantly. This has led whole groups of Americans to believe the media is actually fake, is lying to us, and can’t be trusted. But according to media sources including NPR, the president himself has said he uses this strategy to render reporting that is critical of himself or his policies as unbelievable. Additionally, he told Leslie Stahl that he “slams” the press to “demean” and “discredit” them so the public won’t believe negative reports. He has acknowledged it as a technique to manage political perception, terming the press as an “enemy of the people” and accusing them of bias so he looks better.
Our current president has blessed us with the need to carefully decide what is true and what is fake. He has pushed us into a corner where, to determine the path of our nation’s future, we must ask ourselves: if our president himself acknowledges this is a strategy to control press coverage of his image, is it the press that is fake, or is it him?
All of us should consider the blessings that our current president bestows upon us. For example, the blessing of mindset.
How a president thinks helps define the direction of the country and should be considered by its population. Here are some examples:
“It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.” – George Washington
“Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.” – Thomas Jefferson
“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” – Abraham Lincoln
“In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing.” -Theodore Roosevelt
“Democracy cannot succeed unless those who express their choice are prepared to choose wisely.” – Franklin D. Roosevelt
“Let every nation know… that we shall pay any price, bear any burden… to assure the survival and the success of liberty.” – John F. Kennedy
“The best way to not feel hopeless is to get up and do something.” – Barack Obama
“We lead not by the example of our power, but by the power of our example.” – Joe Biden
“It is amazing what you can accomplish if you do not care who gets the credit.” – Harry S Truman
“Leadership to me means duty, honor, country.” – Dwight D. Eisenhower
“Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction.”– Ronald Reagan
“The ballot is stronger than the bullet.” – Abraham Lincoln
“Every man who takes office in Washington, either as President or in any other capacity, has to take a vow that he will support the Constitution of the United States.” – Calvin Coolidge
“I have the right to do anything I wanna do. I’m the President of the United States.” -Donald J. Trump
What our presidents say indicates their mindset, offers insight into who they are, how they are thinking, and their intentions. We as Americans need to pay attention to what they say, how they say it, and then what they do to support such statements. It is their responsibility to lead, it is ours to decide whether their direction is reflective of who we are as a country. To sacrifice that duty is to betray ourselves and our nation.
So today’s blessing from our current president is a reminder to pay attention to our leaders’ words and actions, their mindset, and to think, really think about what we believe, what our mindset is, and whether they align with the president’s intentions for our country.
A weekly newsletter about being creative in the widening gyre
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
(from “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats)
***
Hi, I’m Christopher Ryan, a hybrid author with forty years of experience in journalism, education, sketch comedy, indie film, unions, community service, parenting, public speaking, acting, fiction, pop culture writing, and podcasting. Now I’m working to discover what more I can achieve and share with the world, and whether an older author can find a place in the storytelling business. Together, let’s see if I can get there.
***
Getting Ready for a Bloody Valentine…
It’s my turn to get some promotion regarding participation in an upcoming event. Check it out:
While the first sentence includes some of my former jobs, I truly appreciate the coverage and look forward to meeting everyone there and selling some books!
*** Tell The Damn Story focuses on sustaining progress all January
New year, new focus, folks. We’re trying to build something here, unit by unit. For January we’re going to focus on all aspects of deciding to write and ways to stick with it to make progress as a creative.
Ever read a passage in a book, or watch a scene in a film, or a TV show, or listen to a song, and experienced the thrill of coming across a creative moment that is absolutely bonkers, wild, or deeply moving? Sometimes our reaction is a wow, a gasp, a laugh out loud, a reread/rewind/relisten.
Such a moment is one of the reasons we humans consume art.
But we creatives have a follow-up interest in how the artist accomplished that exciting piece of work.
This is also one of the more harrowing chances a creative can take. How we deal with the call to create such a moment is often…odd. Procrastination. Insecurity. Doubt. Sleepless nights. Walking the dog to exhaustion for both of you. Why? Because creative risk is scary. We so want to get what we’re working on right that taking the chance can seem perilous.
I’m here to tell you, brothers and sisters, this is also where the most satisfactory artistic experiences reside.
Taking the chance, pushing yourself to write up to and then past the edges of your creative abilities, is a great way to develop as an artist.
Here’s how to do it:
First Draft: write fearlessly pushing your story to be the best it can be without listening to your internal editor of caring if it is good (Yes, folks, once again I’m telling you to let it suck) and keep going until the draft is completed.
Second Draft: Reread what you wrote carefully, with an editorial eye focused not on how preposterous it might be, but instead on how clear and coherent the story is at this point. Edit to clarify and strengthen coherence.
Third Draft: Apply science, history, story logic, etc. to the tale to see if all aspects stands up to such scrutiny. If your more outlandish moments fail the history or science or story logic, etc. test, ask yourself what is required to make it work. Do not immediately throw out the work because it falters in one of these areas; this is where the creative fun is hiding. Remember, many classic literature and beloved pop culture tales have negotiated these challenges as well. From Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to The Lord of The Rings to Superman to Star Wars to Avatar to Stranger Things, the writers of each project had to work through the same challenges you face. Have fun.
Then, submit it to trusted early readers or, preferably, a great writers group and listen to the feedback offered not from the POV of “they are saying I’m wrong” but from the perspective of “they are offering ways and opportunities to improve my work substantially.” Assess each comment from that perspective.
And then rewrite again.
We’re not tying shoelaces here, my friends, we’re coaxing art from the deepest depths of our collective souls. It is honorable and admirable work worth doing well.
Let’s party.
***
Humor with Bob and Grace
BOB: These ICE agents in Minneapolis are attacking American protesters more violently than ever. How can Americans express themselves if their rights are denied every time they get anywhere close to these monsters?
GRACE: Whip cream pie catapults.
***
And now for a peek at a handsome fella
Part of my service here is trying to improve your day. One of the ways I do that gets more appreciation than others, and that is sharing pics of a handsome fella named Sonny Mehlman. He’s also known as the KoC, as in the King of Chill. Here he is in one of his favorite chill spots, lying across the rarely seen Glorious, patron saint of aging dreamers.
***
Pop Culture Fuel
Deep Dive: Don’t Cut Corners on Award Show Writers
After the NFL wild card games and thanks to old school TV tech (yes, I’ll still DVR), I watched The Golden Globes. Nikki Glaser was the most consistently funny person on stage. She’s worked on the craft of writing and performing comedy for years and it shows. Bravo.
The writing for presenters, however, is a completely different challenge. So many bits fell flat. Sometimes it was timing or deliverance (especially regarding commitment to those bits), but too often, the bits are just not funny as written. Sure, not every presenter is great at delivering comedy. Perhaps that should be taken into consideration; straight enthusiasm for their craft in introducing an award and its nominees would certainly be more welcome than bad jokes. But Glaser’s comedy, the bit performed by “Smartless” podcast hosts Sean Hayes, Will Arnett, and Jason Bateman, and the teasing exchange between Don Cheadle and George Clooney proves that good comedy delivered well is possible during award shows.
Award show writers do have a tough job but it would be better for everybody to perhaps push all the presenters bits to a higher standard. Love of craft will always serve the audience better than unsuccessful comedy.
Current Obsessions:
Books
Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari (Glorious and I are both reading at the same time, a fun activity)
Scott Snyder’s American Vampire, Volumes 7 and 8
The Savage Sword of Conan, Vol. 1 (reread)
John Truby’s The Anatomy of Story
A History of Women in America, by Janet L. Coryell and Nora Faires
TV
The Pitt, season 2
The Night Manager, season 2
Amanda’s Mild Takes, on social media (a calming voice in this storm)
Andor (rewatch binge)
Film (we’re slacking here)
Music
Wednesday Bleeds – a friend recommendation that has stuck around because of the daring shifts in tone this band makes.
Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers The Live Anthology
***
Closing Thoughts
At times like these, a great quote from a true leader sometimes helps. Here’s one:
“Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.” – President Abraham Lincoln
Ultimately, Stranger Things celebrates our love of story. We need more of all this in our lives
By Christopher Ryan
SPOILER WARNING: Yeah, I’m going to discuss details from the end of the Stranger Things finale. If you haven’t seen it yet, I encourage you to do so and come on back when you’ve finished. Thanks.
On Thursday, I wrote about how I view the Stranger Things finale, as I do the entire series, as perfectly imperfect. The idea that any of these shows (or anyone’s novels, music, art, films, or any other creative output) must reach spotless end-to-end perfection defeats the point of art, which is expression of the human experience. Not technically perfected genius, just the human experience. And the even the best of such efforts brings with it our emotions, hopes, dreams, nightmares, insecurities, and flaws. Creative self-expression has always been working through all of that to find the purer whole that helps so many of us navigate our own lives.
So I don’t care to pick nits.
I’m attracted to the big swings, the humane gestures of artists wanting to connect to their audience. And in this area, the Duffer Brothers delivered a sweet exploration of hope and belief at a time when there really isn’t a lot of either to go around.
In an appreciated bow to The Lord of The Rings trilogy’s extended coda, the Duffers give us a new one to enjoy. From Rockin’ Robin’s addressing her radio audience one last time after the 18 month time jump all the way to the credits, each sequence offers hope.
(By the way, I suggest the 18 month leap forward does all of us a favor. No one needed to watch what would require maybe another hour of story time to show legal wrangling, military withdrawal, lawsuits, Board of Education decisions to do academic things to allow all their students to graduate on time, etc. Thank you, Duffers.)
Rockin’ Robin’s radio moment serves at least two goals for the audience. First, to address the elephant in the room that is the time jump. That she discusses how the town seems so different, almost unrecognizable to her, addresses that nothing will ever be the same for our heroes, for the town, for all of us. In a real (storytelling) sense, these characters’ worlds were absolutely rocked by what they endured. If we weren’t impacted by these journeys, one would wonder why we spent all this time with them. Additionally, there is a slight but definite subtext in Robin’s words that subtlety comments on the changes going on in our real world. So, she’s right to note the world is almost unrecognizable, but it might be us.
Secondly, Robin’s scene serves as a transition to the graduation sequence, eventually. Initially, we get character moments. Lucas and Max. Dustin and his mother. Beyer family photos. The Mike and Hop grief discussion. Each shows us these characters moving back to real life, some easier than others, but getting back to the ordinary world. And every hero’s journey must return the hero (heroes here) back to the ordinary world changed in ways that make it impossible to go back to the way things were. The Duffers nail this requirement here rather well.
And that leads us to the graduation, and Dustin’s speech. His observations underscore how much they all grew past the high school horrors of peer groups and pecking order and bullying. And there is true nerd joy in watching Dustin mock conformity, rip off the “uniform” of tradition and honor Eddie as the positive rebel role model he became for Dustin. And a lot of us.
This brings us to every nerd’s biggest temptation: being invited to the cool people’s world. It is exceptionally satisfying that Mike rejects it in favor of “a much better idea”—going back to the basement for One. Last. D&D game.
This was a bookend so many wanted, including the Duffers. And it works as the classic storytelling technique it is. Going back to how the tale opened allows us to see how much the characters have changed and how they are also still the good people we chose to follow way back at the beginning.
Adding Max to the game, and seeing her so accurately reacting the way Max’s character would suggests both elements. But her behavior and challenge to Dungeon Master Mike’s story wrap not only serves her character but advances all of us beyond what we expected of this scene to the wonderful storyteller’s sequence.
And Mike as storyteller does so much. It reminds us of his initial role, nudges us to remember we are here for story, nods to the fact that we’ve all just been through an extended, harrowing, five-season-long D&D campaign together, and does a fun spin on that 80’s trope of the “what happens to” stills that used to play during the credits of some of the hit movies this show celebrates. Bravo.
Most importantly, it challenges us to believe.
To believe that Eleven might still be out there (metaphorically, that the special world of story might still exist in our own lives).
To believe in story as a tool that helps us navigate our own lives.
To believe in the hope that story nourishes.
We need such a hope these days.
The truth is, we’ve always needed story since our species earliest tales around primordial fires. Sharing stories have urged our humanity forward for almost as long as there have been humans.
I suspect those who have embraced the power of story in their lives are better off than those who never invested in such joys. Our current times might prove that in increasing uncomfortable ways.
So here’s to storytelling, and perhaps most importantly, believing in the power of story in our lives.
Non-Spoiler Review: Stranger Things finale was perfectly imperfect
by Christopher Ryan
Last night was a Nerds Holiday unlike any other New Year’s Eve I can remember. The finale of this elaborate sci-fi/horror/comic book/80’s movies/childhood-teen-adult adventure banquet of hell yeah that is Stranger Things made this New Year’s Eve spectacular fun. The last episode was exactly what we thought it would be and was full of satisfying twists and surprises and fan service spun into fresh takes on tropes and our predictions that will ensure this series remains a rewatchable favorite for years to come.
All hail the Duffer Brothers. Standing ovation for the cast and crew. And sincere thanks to Netflix.
Oh, and if you’re looking for critiques and nitpicking, you’ve come to the wrong place. Life’s too short for bitching. Let’s celebrate.
The episode starts off fast and keeps going, pausing only at the most tense moments to offer long, talkie, intimate scenes that are emotional and satisfying and, as always, a bit too long. Pure Duffer Brothers, and if that still bothers you at this point, I question why you hung in so long.
Like so many inspirational elements from the 80’s, personal moments stop forward progress in favor of hitting key quiet moments of heart and character growth. It creates an alternate tension that is part of the brand we’re embracing each time we watch.
So be it.
Aside from that, there’s nothing to knock you out of this deeply engaging, multi-level pop culture, pulpy master class in fun storytelling (except how a certain long-ignored character returns for no reason, use, or even lines to deliver. Heh).
For this culminating installment, every piece on this glorious D&D board is in place and the moves come fast and fantastic as we race to the climax of the entire epic game.
Overwhelmingly, the fluctuations between action and character moments works, the visuals and music are killer, and the performances almost always ring true.
But the writing? That is worth experiencing several times. The writing will keep us talking about the delicious nuances of character and plot and homage they delivered. And how they accomplished all this.
Imagination. Compelling characters who stay true to both their attributes and their flaws. Letting those characters bang against each other to create tension, danger, humor, misdirection, plot twists, and satisfying (albeit short-lived) disappointments (“I knew so-and-so sucked!”). Then those few disappointments get spun into much more satisfying payoffs. All these elements combined to deliver more than we expected and flew in the face of complaints and fan demands and predictions to deliver on the Duffer Brothers’ most incredible talent:
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is dedicated to those who struggled in 2025. Keep going.
And, as always, to the Glorious One who inspires me every day.
Blue Christmas – A Revenant Story Christopher Ryan
Not as many houses had holiday decorations up this year. It’s been a downer of a trip around the sun.
I hunched my shoulders slightly against the cold, gray dawn because, while this part of Cincinnati looked like so many other American neighborhoods, I don’t look like the neighbors.
Call me MacTavish. Been around awhile, doing what needs to be done for folks at the end of their ropes or communities past that point. I’m a revenant, of sorts. Selected by Pieta, a version of St. Peter best I can figure. She’s a spirit who actively recruits certain souls to fight for those who have lost that ability. Sometimes they’ve been murdered, or lost their minds, or spiraled until they became a danger to themselves and others. Other times they’ve been pushed so close to the edge of sanity by the cruel side of life they can no longer contain their actions.
My assignment this bleak morning is all of that with a side of danger. If I’m honest, that’s become sort of a pattern for me. Let’s say I’m well-suited to the work.
I should be, I’ve been doing this over eighty years.
Pieta recruited me on the beaches of Normandy way back on D-Day. I served my country for all of ten steps into that kill zone before Nazi sniper bullets ripped through me. One second, I was a young newlywed patriot just trying to do right by his country and the world. The next I just another casualty strewn across those lonely sands.
As I lay there bleeding out, thunderous insanity roaring all around me, I thought only about my Mary. People are supposed to see their own lives flash before their eyes as existence slips away, but I saw Mary alone in our tiny house, one delicate hand on her blessedly growing belly. Then my mind shifted impossibly, and I was watching a pick-up truck full of drunken teenagers. With a pain sharper than the bullet wounds that were ending my life, I suddenly knew they were heading for Mary with dark intentions. The possibility it was true so unnerved me that I tried standing, blood slicked arms holding my guts together, as if I could get to her. The ludicrous effort just earned me another slug of blistering Nazi metal through my back.
I dropped face-first into the blood-spoiled sand, so close to my demise that everything was growing dim.
My final thought was a desperate yearning to protect Mary.
All at once the chaos fell away to silence and calm. I pulled my wincing face out of the sand, squinting at a blue-tinted brightness.
When the light softened, a woman stood in the gentle glow, her gossamer gown swaying softly in a breeze I hadn’t noticed in the cacophony of battle. But now there was no screams of soldiers, no zing of bullets, no cacophony of war which had overwhelmed my senses only a second ago. There was just her.
She was tall but that could have been the angle from where I lay.
Except…
I wasn’t.
I was standing before her, painless, breathless, maybe. “Am I dead, ma’am? Have you come as a guide?”
She smiled gorgeously. A beauty second only to my Mary’s. “Both answers depend entirely on how our conversation goes,” she answered, sounding like mercy and hope. “You are, however, close to crossing over,” she paused, then said, “unless you would prefer a chance to help those who can’t help themselves, beginning with Mary.”
I accepted immediately. And while I had no clue whether what I saw of Mary’s danger was happening at the same moment I was dying, or a month earlier or later, it didn’t matter to me. What I did know was I instantly found myself on our road, standing in front of the approaching headlights of that pick-up truck. The drunk kids inside screamed. The driver slammed on the brakes, fishtailing to stop a few feet away.
I was on them, fear of what they could’ve done to Mary and our unborn baby driving my fury. I glimpsed odd physical differences in me that I didn’t have time to fully identify. I was too busy putting the fear of God into those fully panicked boys.
And then I saw a reflection in their windshield that froze my soul.
All at once I knew what terrified them.
Looking back at me in that grimy glass was a nightmare wearing my Army greens, a moving, living, completely unnerving human skeleton that was…me.
I watched my fatigue wearing arms grab for their pick-up, saw skeletal hands grip, then tear off the truck’s hood before those boys screeched away in reverse until they were far enough away to chance a reckless U-turn and then speed off.
Turned out that entering Pieta’s service altered how I presented myself. My words, gravelly as they were delivered, hadn’t been what chased those boys away. It was my mug. Or lack thereof.
Eventually, I learned that with effort and focused will I could mask my unnatural state and appear as an unremarkable, flesh-covered man, but ever since Pieta let me save Mary, my default state of being has been, let’s say, more striking.
I never presented myself to my wife for fear that any mask I willed might slip and she’d be traumatized by my new reality.
So yeah, for the last eighty years, I’ve walked this earth as some sort of supernatural horror show. Now, I’m not complaining; I’ve adjusted. And honestly, the tradeoff was worth it. Mary had a good life. She stayed safe. Raised our beautiful boy to become an honorable man.
I checked in on them occasionally as the years went by, from a distance, of course. Got sad for a month when she met someone. Learned about the blues first hand when she married the guy. Nice fella. Took good care of my family. Added two lovely daughters. And I got to see grandkids grow up and even great-grandchildren (somewhat removed, I admit) that I check in on these days, still from a distance, of course.
I continued to wear my old army jacket to remind me of where this all started, and that I am still in the service, just of a higher order.
But overall, yeah, my face tended to unnerve those I addressed. Made my job a bit easier. Sometimes it didn’t. I had other resources for those hard asses. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need anything beyond my eternally grinning face this morning.
I paused at 753 Hickory Street. Two-floor colonial. Faded mint siding that needed replacing.
Crossing the dried out, neglected lawn, I made a gesture with my bony fingers, creating a soft blue portal that took me through this guy’s locked door. I found myself standing across a darkened living room from the man of the hour.
Robert Pressman sat on a couch on top of a rumpled sheet, a worn out blanket, and beat-up pillow that confirmed he’d been taking the name of the room literally for a while now. A plate sat on an end table with the remains of some long-forgotten dinner next to a battered box of Cheerios. These were the only hints of nutrition near him. A near empty fifth of bourbon suggested he’d switched to a liquid diet.
None of that concerned me as much as the sawed-off shotgun he was holding point blank at his own face. His eyes moved with slow annoyance to meet mine, or at least where mine would be if it wasn’t a skull staring at him.
“You can’t wait to drag me to hell, can ya,” he accused more than asked. “Or are you here to witness my final humiliation?”
“Not here for any of that,” I said, impressed that my growly voice didn’t bother him a bit. “Would like to talk, if you have a minute.”
That line earned a dry, unamused grunt. But he did not lower the weapon. “Death wants to chat. Who am I to deny him?”
“That’s another guy entirely, you have my word on that one.” I jutted my jaw toward a chair. “You mind?”
“Planning on being here long? ‘Cause I’ve got something to do.”
I sat. Pulled my hood off. Left the American flag hat on. It tended to humanize my countenance a bit. “That’s what I’m hoping to talk to you about, Robert.”
“Rob. Thought you spirits would get the name right.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I gently waved my skeletal hand at the coffee table between us. From his left to right, there were a trio of troubling items:
Baby shoes, never worn.
His wife Theresa’s certificate of death.
A pile of bills.
Some suicides wrote notes; Rob had laid out his version of Christmases past, present, and future. His loss was more familiar than I wanted to acknowledge.
Rob looked at me looking at them, tightened his grip on the sawed-off, his right thumb hovering just above the trigger. “Tell me what we did wrong,” he sneered, eyes flaring. “Tell me why we deserved to miscarry our son? We would’ve loved and cared for Robbie Junior our entire lives!”
At the mention of the unborn child’s name, I flashed on a room upstairs painted baby blue, an almost completed crib abandoned, a soft, pillow-sized Captain America left unhugged in the corner.
I sat silently, thinking of missing out on raising my own little Mac.
Rob’s eyes were burning with tears. “Neither of us ever robbed or conned or murdered or raped or abused anyone. We didn’t lose ourselves to alcohol or drugs or even tobacco or junk food. We just lived simple American lives.”
Like living in a cozy little home with loved ones. I hated how close this guy’s pain was cutting.
“Tell me which one of you unearthly bastards condemned my wife to four years of slow, agonizing death. At 37! We weren’t even married for10 years! We had our whole lives ahead of us!”
The fist he had around the shotgun’s stock whitened at the knuckles. I needed to de-escalate this now. Yeah, I could disappear the shotgun or make it fly out of his hands, but he’d just get another one after I left. I needed to reason with him. But before I could try, he erupted again.
“Your God sent this! Decided to shatter the simple love of simple people living a simple life, taking nothing from anyone!”
“I underst―”
He shoved the gun harder against his skull. “No! You don’t,” he hollered. “She was a nurse’s aide at a pediatric doctor’s office, for Christ’s sake! You can’t get less harmful than that!”
I needed him to ease up. “And you?”
“I was a federal worker, using my state college accounting degree to ensure seniors got the proper amount on their Social Security checks. We were just tiny cogs in the legendary American Dream, and we were fine with that.”
“Both of you did honorable work.”
He was seething now. Each breath rushing out of him like it would burst into flame. “Then came a change in so-called leadership. My entire department was fired without cause. An entire service destroyed even though people still needed it. Not even considering that Terri and I, we still needed my paycheck, our medical coverage. Who fires an entire department without a thought about the lives they’re wrecking?”
His eyes were searching for something but his grip ease up, moved the gun’s muzzle away from digging into his skin above his eyebrows. Better still, his thumb had angled just slightly away from the trigger. Good.
Then his visual search landed on the bills, that thumb returning to just above that trigger.
Damn it.
“You go ahead and talk to me about how an honest person survives the loss of his son, and the love of his life, and then gets handed unimaginable bills to pay for treatments that just prolonged her suffering. Tell me how it’s justified. And how it’s okay that some douche and his frat boy minions killed my job and our medical benefits for no real reason.”
I wasn’t doing enough. I had to change the dynamic here or I was going to lose this guy. “Let’s take a breath―”
He ignored me. Gotta give credit where its due, very few people can ignore a living skeleton.
“And how does it makes sense that we’re gonna be punished by financial ruin because giving the hospital all the money we had still wasn’t enough to buy her life back.”
Suddenly he gripped the shotgun and held the shortened barrel to his grimacing face, his thumb lightly tapping the trigger now. “You tell me there’s another answer.”
“Let’s put the gun down and discuss exactly that.”
He ignored me. “You know what Terri’s sin was? She dared to be a good human being. Blasphemy punishable by the ruination of our entire lives. It’s not enough that you took my child. You took my wife, too. You tell me why it doesn’t make more sense to eat this shotgun than to continue eating such bullshit! I wanna hear what you have to say to that!”
I lowered my voice, tried to soften it, but the gravel of it vibrating through my bones kept the sound threatening. “I’m not the one you need to hear from.”
Rob’s arm shook with fury. I was concerned he might blow his head off accidentally. “You gotta collect my soul, right? Condemn me to Hell. Is that what you’re here for?”
I shook his head, boney hands up, palmless palms out. “I’m not here for any of those things. Think of me more as an escort.”
“How fancy, you’re gonna escort me to hell.”
“I’m not here to take you anywhere,” I rumbled, my sight fixated on his thumb, now lightly grazing the damned trigger. “I’m here to bring somebody to see you.”
With that came a shimmer in the entranceway between the living room and dining room. It glowed warm and soft. A circle of light grew to take up the entire space.
Within that glow was Terri. Not sick. Not dying. She looked as young and vibrant and lovely as she appeared in the wedding pictures on their wall.
Terri stood in a field of high grass and flowers. I glanced over Bob’s head and noticed the exact place in a print of some nature painting framed on the wall above his head.
For the first time, Bob moved his weapon away from his face. “T-Terri…?”
“Robert,” she all but whispered. “I felt your pain from where I am, and I begged and pleaded for a spirit to help. Then I met Pieta, who works with this gentleman, and who said it would be a good thing for me to have this moment with you.”
Rob lowered the shotgun a bit more. “I can’t keep going, Theresa. This world is so awful, honey, and it’s worse without you.”
“I know, Sweetie.” Her voice lessened Rob’s shaking. “All I’m asking you to do is to hold on.”
Rob dropped his eyes to the tragedies on the coffee table. “Without you, there’s nothing to hold onto.” His grip on the shotgun tightened again.
Theresa pressed on, her voice softly urgent. “If you do what you’re thinking, then it doesn’t matter how many eternities I stand in this field waiting for you, we’ll never be allowed to be together.”
Rob looked over the shortened shotgun barrel at the love of his life, clearly struggling to process what was happening.
“Believing there’s a chance for us to spend eternity as a family,” she spoke in a breathy, hopeful tone, “that’s what makes the waiting bearable. But if you do this, no matter where we are, it will be hell.”
“Family?”
Theresa reached down into the high grass and picked up a baby boy. “This is our heaven.” She kissed the beautiful boy who giggled. “We’re waiting, Robert. Please make sure you can come to us, please.”
With that the light around her began to fade.
“Terri! Don’t leave me again! Stay with me…”
The glow around her dimming, she spoke one last time. “We’re here, and will be forever, until you complete us. Just have faith that you can get to us.”
The light faded, the circle shrank away, the room darkened again.
Rob stared at the entrance to the dining room where his love had been for long, silent moments. I didn’t move. Just waited for his decision, hoping I’d be fast enough if he chose darkness. Eventually, Rob looked down at the shotgun. I tensed, poised to move quickly if this failed.
Rob broke open the weapon, ejected the shells. We both watched them clatter across the floor. Then Rob extended the shotgun to me. I nodded. With a bit of will, I turned it to dark smoke in his hands. We both watched those dark whisps dissipate into the shadows.
Rob considered my skull-faced presence sitting across from him, then asked, “What now?”
“This week you’ll hear from two life insurance companies regarding policies. One you both took out for each other when you were first married. The second one Theresa took out at her job long before she got sick. Both companies have been dragging their feet on payment. You’ll also hear from an attorney whom I helped in a similar way to you. She’s been on them to pay, and she will also help you negotiate down those bills. You won’t be rich, but you won’t be destitute, and you have a skill set she can place. That’ll help you start over.”
Rob considered all this, exhaling as he struggled to believe something good was still possible. After a long time, he nodded. “You are not at all what I expected. Thank you.”
“Just the job, my friend.”
“Weird job you got there.”
“Better than the one I had on Normandy beach.”
Rob sat back, even smiled a sad little smile. That was something at least. “All the lawyer things won’t happen until at least Monday. And as much as I appreciate all your help, and the visit from my wife which I’ll be processing for the rest of my life, honestly, I have to ask, how do I get through today?”
I leaned forward, two boney fingers going into the top left pocket of my army jacket. They came out with two tickets. “Another former client works for the NFL. The Bengals are playing at 1.”
Confusion crossed Rob’s face. “No offense but you’d scare the whole stadium.”
I laughed that gravely laugh of mine, passed a bony hand in front of my face. Both the hand and the face become ordinary and non-descript.
Rob grunted. “Couldn’t have come in with that look?”
“You needed my work mug.” I shrugged. “This takes a lot more effort to maintain.” I paused, then, “Wanna go?”
‘Tis the season for “Best of” lists and “Top Ten” lists and columnists expounding on their favorite everything from music to movies to political crimes to Christmas specials to fruit cakes (that last one is a very short list. No entries, actually). But who cares what I think? Let’s see what pulp and adventure and horror writers hold as their favorite ho…
This morning, I posted my Music Monday column about authors’ favorite Christmas songs. Well, here’s more! Let’s see what pulp and adventure and horror writers hold as their favorite holiday tunes.
A weekly newsletter about writing fun stories while the world gets weirder
America feels sort of like Charlie Brown right now, reluctant to run and kick that football that Government Lucy is holding the Epstein football in position. We know what happens. Every time we commit, she pulls the football away at the last minute.
Not this time. We’re not going to try kicking it while House Lucy is holding—
She passed it 272-1. We could have kicked it through the uprights! Darn!
Yeah, but Senate Lucy has it now. No way she’ll let Charlie America kick it. They’ll pull it away, stab it with a know, put a lit stick of dynamite in it—
They passed it with unanimous consent!
And now we’re facing that football again. Executive Lucy has it held perfectly. We could kick it through the uprights easily. We want to. We’re dying to. The Epstein football is so close, so ready, just waiting for our glorious kick.
But wait. Lucy’s hand is discolored, her ankles are swelling, her blue suit doesn’t seem to fit right…
And her face! It’s so…so orange!
Does that matter? Can Charlie America finally score? Despite how Lucy looks, we’re gonna have faith one more time. Here we go…
***
Hi, I’m Christopher Ryan, a hybrid author with forty years of experience in journalism, education, sketch comedy, indie film, unions, community service, parenting, public speaking, acting, fiction and pop culture writing, as well as podcasting. Now I’m working to discover what more I can achieve and share with the world, and whether an older author can find a place in the storytelling business. Together, let’s see whether I can get there.
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Public appearance! Absolutely killer holiday sale prices!
I’ll be having an insane holiday sale and signing at The NYC Indie Horror Book Fair on Saturday, Nov. 22, 12-5 pm at Gottscheer Hall, 6-57 Fairview Avenue, Ridgewood, (Queens) NY.
Everything will be priced-reduced for the holidays:
All volumes of Soul Scream Antholozine usually $14.99, Book Fair price will be $10.
All novels usually $14.99, Book Fair price will be $10.
All short publications usually $9.99, Book Fair price will be $5.
All horror poetry collections, usually $11.25, Book Fair price $5.
Short stories usually $4.99, Book Fair price will be $1.
This crazy prices will be ONE DAY ONLY and exclusively at The NYC Indie Horror Book Fair.
See ye there!
***
The results are in! Respondents flood poll question! Tremendous success!
In last week’s newsletter I included a one-question poll of readers to see whether the features I am offering Sunday-Thursday are welcome, or if I should drop some.
The answer was unanimous, so hooray, right?
The number of respondents? Wellllllllll, at this stage, I’ll take what I can get.
Thank you all for not setting fire to this Substack. Here’s the poll results:
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Soul Screaming Humor continues with Bob and Grace
Rememberhow Calvin & Hobbes would often use a boy and a tiger to humorously ponder the mysteries of life? I always loved that aspect of Bill Watterson’s perfect comic strip.
And while, I’ll never be able to even approach Watterson’s genius (not a cartoonist, for example) I’ve been experimenting with an older adult take on the thoughtful discussion trope he used. While Bob and Grace do not have the innate charm of either Calvin or Hobbes, their “sweet old people” appearance allows the innocent-looking Grace to adorably cut a bitch.
Tell The Damn Story answers more writers’ questions this week
The legendary Alex Simmons and I dive deep into a variety of questions that pester both emerging and more established writers, often with answers you might not expect. Fun and occasionally informative, come check out a podcast that has enjoyed a small core audience for 390 episodes!
Perfect holiday gift for that 70’s music fan is available on the ‘Zon
Another writing experiment this year was Soul Screaming Music: 1975, a collection of my memories and reactions to hearing over 135 hits from that amazing year for music. Not a history, chronology, behind-the-scenes tell-all, this is written to inspire 70’s music fans to remember how much they loved these songs and hopefully go enjoy them again. If new music fans find songs they love through this, all the better.
Sonny Mehlman’s been binging TV with us. More in “Current Obsessions”.
And here’s a bonus throwback to the handsome fella’s younger days:
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Current Obsessions
Music – The Rolling Stones Black and Blue Super Deluxe Edition
Yet another 50th anniversary remaster/reissue, this one gets the full Stones treatment, which means tons of extras.
First, the main album has been given a 2025 remix that renders the music slightly brighter and crisper (but still rough and dirty, we are talking the Stones here). Occasionally, the vocals sound like there being sung slightly further down a hallway than half a century ago, but all-in-all there is just more detail to love from this version of this lesser celebrated classic.
Disc 2 is full of songs that didn’t make the original album, including a delicious version of “Shame, Shame, Shame” and four different jams. We don’t really get to hear such delights from this band, and that truth makes the disc a must listen. Most successful are the Chuck Berry Style and the Blues jams. Most interesting is their take on “Freeway Jam” which any rock fans of the era will recognize as a Jeff Beck staple. Fascinating to hear what Keith and the boys do here.
Discs 3 and 4 offer The Stones live at Earls Court, London, UK, 1976. And they sound every bit as loose and powerful and in full power here as they were in the 70’s. Truly worth your time.
Highly recommended.
Books – The Struggle Continues
Honestly, I am going through a cold streak these days, not being able to click with books that should be home runs. For example, I just put down Cameron Crowe’s The Uncool, a memoir I was sure I’d devour. I’ll try again someday but it didn’t work this time,
Television – Rebinging Stranger Things offers near-continuous rewards
As hinted at during the “handsome fella” feature above, we’ve been re-watching this Netflix series in preparation for the soon-to-be released final season, and wow, we’ve been shocked and delighted at each turn.
Sure, we remember the basic plot, but the twists and turns, the depth of the character development, the wondrous way it was shot, the nostalgia, and the consistency of the scares have all been welcomed rewards for rewatching.
What a great series this is.
Most highly recommended.
***
Alright, thanks for stopping by. Talk atcha next week.
A new feature in hopes of making some sense of things
Halloween is over. All Souls Day has passed. Yet the ghouls are still around.
That’s how it feels anyway.
I keep thinking of this one Halloween front yard display that snuck up and kicked me right in the truth.
Yeah, yeah, some out there are gonna argue that this whole display is hyperbolic, or woke, or belongs to a “leftist lunatic” but all of those accusations are wrong. The family that lives here is quiet and has offered me and mine a reserved friendliness of hellos for the over quarter-century that we’ve lived down the block from them. They nod. They smile. They play with their grandkids.
What they have never done in the entire time we’ve been neighbors is make a political statement.
Never.
In over 25 years.
But this year they felt compelled to handcraft a cemetery mourning the passing of so many things that through our history have made America actually great.
Whether those things are all completely dead right at this second is a distraction not an argument worthy of merit. The stunning statement here was made by a quiet family that never raised its voice before but needed to now.
I admit to being stunned by this display partially because of who made it, but also due to its understated eloquent truth.
America is dying.
More precisely, America is being murdered.
Look at that picture again, and we can see that each of those gravestones marks a right or function or ideal foundational to America that has not, at the very least, been lessened if not thoroughly compromised.
Hard to deny unless you drink the Kool-Aid. (My apologies to Kool-Aid.)
And it is getting worse.
Just this weekend, federal agents (yes, ICEholes) pushed down seniors and gassed kids on Halloween. They continue to detain people wholesale resulting in very few actual arrests.
And on All Souls Day, the Federal government stopped all SNAP benefits (blaming the Dems for shutting down the government even though MAGA runs the House, the Senate, the presidency and the Supreme Court), setting up millions of Americans to starve even though they have billions in backup funds for exactly this situation.
This is Making America Great Again?
I know, I know, it seems better for white supremacists and billionaires who dream about being trillionaires, but that isn’t most of MAGA.
In fact, much of MAGA is going to start truly suffering as the economic impact of the tariffs and alienating other countries and going to war with South American countries and declaring war on African countries on Truth Social, continuing to bait unrest and violence in blue cities, stripping farms of their trade markets, and now starving millions of Americans by withholding SNAP benefits kicks in through the holidays.
No Thanksgiving.
No Christmas.
MAGA world is looking bleak.
Add to that the spiraling questions and federal law enforcement battles over Charlie Kirk’s increasing difficult to explain murder, and the weird bond between Kirk’s widow and the married vice president, and some of the red state faithful must be having difficulty staying in MAGA matrix.
And as health care benefits become horrifying bizarre and Christian friends and neighbors find themselves financially devastated because Momma got sick, well how long can all this madness be ignored?
And Democrats aren’t gloating. Nothing to celebrate here. Both sides of the political spectrum are going to be forced together on this. united in suffering, with a new American bond forged right there on the quiet family’s front lawn.
We’re all going to find ourselves praying fervently at the graves of all the ideals that truly made America special for all of us, and now, by their absence, makes America a grey and desolate cemetery where the American Dream lies rotting six feet under spoiled ground.
Unless…
We all begin to do what Americans have always done best in times of crisis.
Despite ongoing prejudices and political differences, in times of war, famine, disease, and death, the best of us have made the effort to help each other, to build, or rebuild our strength, right the wrongs (somewhat), and defeat the occasional madmen who spring up to defile history.
We’ve done it before.
We’ve stepped up and accomplished what was considered impossible again and again, each time for the greater good.
Can we do it now? Is the Idea of America still strong enough to stir in us the ability to rise above our programming to think and act like human beings toward each other? Can we save ourselves from the political mess we’ve all collectively allowed to fester into existence?
Or are we already under those headstones.
Arguments can be made either way, but the time for arguing is wanting, if not already over. The time for action is now. Small statements like that front lawn (and maybe, hopefully, this quiet little essay) should move us to look at our fellow Americans not how some news station or social media posts casts them, but as they are: human beings.
And seeing our fellow Americans, and the common humanity shared despite what hatred teaches, should move us to small actions. Donating groceries, walking in protest, participating in the upcoming Blackout, saying in everything we do that we choose humanity, we choose the American Spirit over the festering hatred the current government is unleashing.
That is a hope for America I never want to see joining that graveyard.
Chris Ryan 