Danielle wakes up dead to find a Siamese cat named Pudding to guide her in the underworld for the purpose of making a vital decision. She witnesses limbo, where mediocre people wander aimlessly, and then the snarky cat opens the portal to Hell by pooping. Pudding takes Danielle through the nine circles of Hell, complete with Cerberus and Lucifer. Further portals are opened by various bodily functions. In the end, she must face herself. This is an enchanting and hilarious story.
She was just a girl.
With a trust fund none knew about.
A girl born into the wrong time.
I should have lived in Victorian America, when melancholy was in high fashion—she’d whisper as I lay spooned around her. More often than not, I found her curled up in bed, staring at the wall. Only I witnessed her bravery in rising after days of feeling like nothing. She remained alive by sheer will.
And my cooking. I loved to cook for her. She ate everything and delighted in it, even when the beast held her tighter than I ever could. Food comforted her, and kept her alive, if not lively.
She rarely left her little home overlooking the river. The little house hung like an afterthought upon the bluff, threatening to come unmoored at any moment and tumble into the river. Incredibly, she worried not at all about the inevitable possibility. Her reason—This house will fall when I’m ready.
I love this house—she said quietly—Did you know it used to be a hermitage before this area was developed? I did, but shook my head, encouraging her to continue with the story about our local river king, whom most called a saint for the miraculous happenings during his time in this home.
Susurrations of gossip followed her through town as she walked, head up, eyes straightforward, never lingering to purchase anything beyond necessities.
Until I followed her home one day and she invited me in as though she were expecting me. From that day on, I made her purchases along with my own, but nothing staved off the beast, her modern day melancholy. The conversation that first day immersed us in an ongoing dialogue of slightly differing philosophies and worldviews, with matching intellectual curiosities. Love blossomed that day.
I saw it happen.
On my way up the switchbacks with an angelfood cake and a handful of wildflowers, the ground trembled. A cracked formed on the edge of the bluff just under the overhanging edge of the house. It shook, and slowly shifted downward.
Until it tumbled and slid down into the river. A hand may have appeared out the window. Perhaps not.
There’s no explanation for my continued climb to what was now the top, where I found the beast dangling. It lives in me. I shall not love in that way again.
In the quiet of twilight, when everyone else was gone, I went out to Dad’s garage behind the house. He was working on our old Ford Ltd.
Again.
Sitting on a stool in from of his worktable, I posited, “Daddy?”
“Yes, baby?” He responded while putting parts together. He’d tried teaching me mechanics, but it didn’t take, leaving him so frustrated that he yelled at me to go back inside and learn how to cook. I can’t cook neither.
“Daddy, I need a lock on my door.” The silence expanded to fill my head with his rising anger.
“What the hell do you need a lock for? You’re not locking me and your mother out of that room. We pay the rent here. Whatever you’re hiding we’ll find out anyways.” Holding the part, he dropped onto the creeper and rolled under the car.
“Daddy, I’m tired of Sam coming into my room without knocking. He comes in when I’m dressing and won’t leave no matter how much I scream. I gotta grab my clothes and go past him to dress in the bathroom.”
The creeper flew out and Dad sat up, looking at me with his crazy eyes that scared me, but I held my ground. “Are you serious?”
I nodded.
He stood up, wiped his hands on a red rag, and paced the room, shouting, “That little sonuvabitch! That little bastard! I didn’t raise no son of mine to be a pervert. I didn’t raise him to be peeping at his sister.” Daddy stopped, looked me straight in the eye, and asked, “He never touched you, has he?”
“God, no! Ain’t it enough that he’s looking at me? That he’s coming in my room without permission?” I hugged myself and shivered, having not thought of that possibility.
“Alright, baby, I gotcha,” he reassured me as he looked for a lock in his tool box. After picking up his drill, he left the garage, me following him inside and down to my room. A simple latch lock went onto my door in a few minutes. Daddy kissed my head and returned to his garage.
That evening, I was reading in our downstairs family room when my brother got home from his after school job. Daddy was waiting for him. Soon as the door opened, he launched into him, reamed him out clean. He didn’t even show up for dinner.
Halfway through dressing the next morning, Sam’s voice boomed through my door, “You awake in there, Serena?” A little chuckle turned into a BAM as he hit the door that wouldn’t open. I stood quietly in front of my closet, one leg in my pants, as he pounded the door and hollered to be let in.
My journal is filled with possibilities of what coulda happened without that little lock.
Erin was born in Missouri and moved to the East Coast in 2007. She holds an A.A.S in General Studies with an emphasis in Police Science, a Certificate of Education from Germanna Community College and a Bachelor’s of English, Linguistics, and Communications from the University of Mary Washington. She enjoys writing, acting, dabbling in the stock market and cryptocurrencies, and playing instruments. An introvert to the core, Erin self-identifies as a doughnut enthusiast and in her free time if she’s not price shopping for lye, she enjoys long walks in dark forests carrying her favorite shovel.
Tell me about your writing process: schedule, environment, inspirations, magic spells, etc.
Most of the time I write between phone conferences with various celebrities while I’m traveling on my private jet. I find that it’s the optimal place to write, up in the clouds, on my way to a tropical coast. Joking…
I can’t say that I have a process. I write. That’s pretty much it—one word and then next and the next. I never force myself to write; I don’t keep a set schedule or judge myself on the plethora of days and times I should be writing and I’m not.
On warm days (spring, summer, early fall) I have an outdoor spot where I write. It serves as fantastic inspiration, but I won’t say where it is.
As far as magical spells go, the fairies keep stealing them. Every single time I concoct a new one those thieving little jerks come along and take it from me. So, I would be more than happy to divulge the spells, but I no longer have them. Perhaps interview the fairies. They will tell you…maybe.
Walk me through the publishing process as an editor of anthologies, from soliciting submissions to marketing the final product.
I wouldn’t call the publishing process ‘walking’. The better term would be stumbling. It’s not an easy feat. Publishing an anthology would be my excuse for turning to alcoholism. But really, I think it’s a matter of being very clear on the submission call…VERY clear in terms of what I’m looking for, what I expect in terms of formatting, word count, content, etc. Doing this seems to help.
It’s working with a large number of artists, all with different tastes, styles, and trying to combine everything into a single volume; it can be fun and challenging particularly because it is multi-genre. I’ve really been fortunate to have worked with extremely talented authors and poets which has helped make publishing both “Cocky-Tales” and “Rejected” wonderful experiences.
Marketing is always a tough one. I approach it a bit differently. I don’t do what they call “link drop”. I’ve always worked to build a relationship with my audience from participating in real-life events to going Facebook Live, I appreciate everyone who takes time to leave a comment or follow my page, and I enjoy interacting with them as much as possible. When I market an anthology, I want my audience to also get to know the authors here and there—bios are important to me. I loved posting the rescue pet photos that a few of our authors had sent in.
Talk about your support system online and IRL; who are your biggest cheerleaders?
I feel like I have a larger support system online than in real life. Per the last question, I’ve taken time to try my best to build genuine relationships and express my appreciation because, wow(!), sometimes the interaction blows my mind! I’ve made a number of great online friends who are also authors or aspiring authors, and they are wonderful.
In real life I wouldn’t say I necessarily have ‘cheerleaders’. Although, I’m not opposed to cheerleading uniforms (i.e. Dallas Cowboys…anyways, that wasn’t the question. Was it?) I have a handful of friends, and I think if I ever wanted to quit writing, they’d probably try to talk me out of it, lol.
How does life influence your writing and vice versa? Feel free to share anything you want about When She Walked Away. Also, blatantly exploit this opportunity to advertise all your freelance work.
I think every piece of fiction is sourced from bits and pieces of reality. My life influences my writing in significant ways. While the experiences don’t exactly parallel, I think there’s parts of me in overall situations or traits in characters. If it wasn’t personal on a certain level, I wouldn’t write it.
When I write I also find I’m discovering myself. Maybe not in the initial piece, but once I am finished and I step back and see the complete picture, I find something new within me that I hadn’t recognized. Art is cool in that sense.
What do you love most about your creativity?
It’s a good way to escape. My creativity allows me to process situations in abstract and escapist dynamics; otherwise, I don’t know that I could deal with some things through the lens of “normal society”.
Author Extra: Tell us how you get acting roles! Don’t leave out the unglamorous, hard work parts.
Luck? Accident? I turned down my first role two times. I felt I was gracious and polite about it, having recognized the opportunity to be involved in something as big as Netflix, but it wasn’t where I thought I wanted to go in life. Finally, I ended up taking it.
After that, I decided I’d do some background roles. I only ever meant to stand in the background as ‘popcorn eating patron number 137’, but at my second job which was “Unmasked”, the director pulled me and gave me a speaking role. Then and there I made an important decision: Nothing is worth doing if it doesn’t scare the hell out of me.
Acting is practice, practice, practice…it’s investing time and finances into the craft. It’s driving to audition after audition, most are spur of the moment. It’s coming home from the gym, sweaty, at ten o’ clock at night, changing my shirt, putting on makeup, fixing my hair, and self-taping an audition or several.
It’s rejection after rejection, and sometimes you don’t even hear that “no”. What I do is submit and move on. Dwelling and checking email every second of the day is like concrete. It holds you back. Submit, move on, move forward, let go, because if it is meant to be, it’ll happen. And when I do hear a “yes” (YES!) it is so worth it, the entire process is worth it.
Connect with Erin:
http://www.authorerincrocker.com
http://www.facebook.com/authorerincrocker
instagram: @authorerincrocker
IMDb: imdb.me/erincrocker
“No one is my enemy.”
“Sure, Hank, no one is your enemy. We know. But let’s keep our tazers at the ready just in case, okay, my friend?” Waltraud snagged the book from Hank and stuffed it in the front of her shirt, bumping his tazer up with her own. “Why does your book smell like puke? It’s overwhelming my own fetid swamp in there.”
“It’s regurgitating the hate that surrounds–“
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Sorry I asked.” Shoulder to shoulder, they strode stealthily through the starship’s upper deck, three starkiller robots on their heels like big dumb dogs with 4317s holding ammo that detonated on contact. When one hit a human head, it was a fireworks of organic material. Hitting a robot endangered them all. Sometimes the difference wasn’t obvious. The starkillers were programmed to follow the instructions of Waltraud alone.
When she turned the corner and her head disappeared from a blaster ray, the starkillers turned to Hank, who said, “No one is my enemy.” They fired.
“The ring, please.” Father Monahan turned to Jeffrey, whose gaze sent everyone’s eyes to the back of the room. Whatever he was looking at was not apparent, and all returned their attention to the couple.
“Jeffrey,” the groom stage-whispered angrily at his best man. He couldn’t be bothered right now that his lifelong friend’s unrequited love hadn’t shown. For god’s sake, it was his wedding. If Jeffrey ruined it, their friendship was in question. It had been faltering ever more as this obsession had grown.
Laila slowly opened the heavy church door, hoping for a quiet entrance. She was late, hadn’t been expecting to come at all. Susanna had begged her to come. Her little sister’s wedding was a must, but she understood that HE would be there. They agreed that no one wanted the commotion that would ensue from her presence. Yet she desperately wished to see her baby girl she helped raise marry the man of her dreams. The door squeak echoed around the three-stories’ tall ceiling. Acoustics were fantastic in here—as a singer, she was impressed. Then all eyes turned again to the back of the room.
Halfway up, Laila’s ex-husband Henri sat with two of their children, both of them excited about baby sister as flower girl. Upon seeing Laila in the doorway, with sunlight haloing her auburn hair, he stood up, snapped his fingers for the kids to follow, and headed to the door. As he walked down the aisle, he heard a gasp from the front, but didn’t turn to find out from who. In his peripheral vision, he noted a tall man in black on the left get up and head in the same direction. He did not want to know who this guy was. Henri reached back for his children. The sound of little feet running behind him assured him that all his kids were coming.
Be Quiet…Don’t Breathe
Suhatra can move only her eyes. In her peripheral vision, she watches him flip switches like a mad scientist. Frankenstein images come to her, unbidden, terribly unwanted. The tingling begins in her fingers, moving up. This is so nerve-wracking, she’s afraid of farting right out loud. This thought causes her to make the tiniest little hiccough. He spins and leans into her face. “Be quiet. Don’t breathe. We’re very nearly ready to begin.”
He explains the anesthetic effect of the ionization process. The tingling continues, spreading throughout her body, then down to her toes. When it reaches her face, she absolutely, positively wants to scream, “Stop!” She lies completely still, keeping her eyes open, waiting for the cue to focus on that dot on the ceiling. This is supposed to hold her eyes in place long enough for the molecular rearranging to settle her new features without error.
The horror stories she’s heard. Wandering eyes causing a living nightmare of a cubist face make her want to focus now. Yet she’s been told that everything must be still at once, no breathing even. The eyes must focus on the dot at the proper time, as concentration may wane if held too long. She wants no cubist look, just to walk free again as an unrecognized individual. He whispers, so as not to disturb her stillness, “it’s time now to focus on the dot. In 7 seconds, your molecules will rearrange to create a new you. You won’t recognize yourself. Ready . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Voila! You are no longer gorgeous. You are normal. Normal, I say. Sit up, dear. Look. Look.”
I Started A Joke
It was only a joke.
I know. You told me.
I didn’t know you had done anything.
I didn’t know if I had done anything.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
And yet here you still are.
(Nurse) “I can actually see two people having a conversation.”
(Doctor) “Now that they’ve finally met, we can work on integration.”
Drew’s Cousin
Drew stood on the beach, savoring the moment. He was still processing that he was doing exactly what he wanted, and at only 19, starting his chosen career. At 19. He sent his thanks out to the Universe as loud as he could.
“Thank you!” he screamed out across the ocean.
“Yo, bud. What’s up with that?”
His new best friend and right hand man seemed intrigued at his fervor.
“Counting my blessings, friend.”
“Cool.” They hung together side by side absorbing the moment.
“Who’s that chick? Is she with us? I thought I knew everyone.”
Drew responded by waving and yelling, “Hey, Linda!” To Garret, he explained, “It’s my cousin.”
As Linda came closer, Garrett stood taller, straightened his t-shirt, and pressed back his hair.
“No way, man. She’s off limits.”
“Why? She’s hot.”
“The less you say to her, the better. She won’t understand. Her brain takes things literally.”
Watching the staircase tilting in the wind, Linda whispered to herself, “I’m not going up there again. It’s too scary.”
“Why would you? It’s dangerous,” responded a voice from the crowd.
Drew had said every scene could be viewed from the top, yet Linda hesitated. She’d been torn between the years of her mother admonishing her to never touch the stairs and her favorite cousin including her in his movie production.
“No, I can’t do it today.” Tears raged behind her eyes as she raced home to release them into the comfort of her own pillow.
“Hey, brah, your aunt’s on the phone. Does she want you to come to the big house? Shall we hold our breath as we tremble in fear for you?”
“Nah, she’s not like that. Maybe we should quiet down a little, though. Can you pass that around?”
“Sure thing.”
His crew watched as Drew’s face transformed into a visage of ultimatum expectation. After replacing the phone, he scanned the group.
“Did anyone do something I need to know about?”
Quiet faces with wide eyes stared back at him with no sign of guilt.
“Tremble in fear, my friends.”
The longest mile, he thought, as he walked from the carriage house through the dusk to see his aunt. He entered and went toward the light to stand in the doorway of the front room.
“I trusted you.”
Her voice slashed his brain. With no clue to his transgression, Drew considered a general apology, but determined that it was too soon.
“I’m sorry.” Automatic response. He mentally crossed fingers that he didn’t just imply guilt.
“Sit.” He took a chair nearest the egress, eyeing his aunt carefully. Her eyes seemingly riveted to the fireplace, she stated in a soft, yet damning voice, “You broke that trust.”
“What can I do?”
“You’re ignorant of your egregious error.” He stared at the fire with her. Tears brimmed his eyes. “My daughter climbed one of those rickety staircasees every time your crew hit the beach to film.”
“Why?” Names raced through his mind. Who would tell her to do that?
“At your request, Drew, according to her.”
“What? I never . . . fuck . . .”
“Please, Drew. There will be no fucking in this conversation. We’re both educated adults with intelligent vocabularies.”
“Yes, Aunt _____.”
“Those staircases have remained on the beach for over five decades, the last two against my wishes.”
“I know, I know. They’re from that movie. They bring tourists.”
“Tourists.” She said it the way he’d said ‘fuck.’
