As I write this, my dog Kady’s nose finds my lap; as if her instinct warns her what I am about to write, the emotions it might drudge up. She seems to have a sixth sense. I stroke her muzzle and she closes her eyes. She is a black Labradoodle with a keen sense of family.

Iggy, a crossbreed Catahoula Leopard/Cattle Hound, waddles up and pushes his nose in. He is one of the craziest dogs I’ve ever owned. He forces me to pet him, pushing Kady aside to the point she begins to growl. They explode into a wrestling match, and I laugh as they enjoy playing with each other.

When all settles, Kady returns, interrupting me once more as I plot the path of this story. I don’t really have a plan. An offensive smell finds my nose, and I know a nearby Iggy is guilty. He has always been gassy. I stroke Kady’s head, staring into her calm brown eyes, and am reminded of another good dog.

I’ve had many dogs in my life, but perhaps none quite as special as Bijou. This is not a long tale, but it is one of truth. Bijou was unique. An ex-girlfriend once told me she thought Bijou was such a great dog because she had a conscience. Looking back on her life, it is hard to disagree.

Bijou came to me through adoption. Her family had outgrown her; the pregnant mother already overwhelmed with her other children. There was little time to care for a dog. I remember the kids crying as I drove away, feeling like a heel. They were a good family.

She sat unmoved in the back seat of my car, her tail without a single wag. I think as we drove away from her house, her family, she understood what was going on. Bijou was an insightful German Shepard/Labrador mix, and even then I think I could see that she was different.

Her first meal was a cheeseburger and fries from a fast food joint. I don’t think it was by any means the best choice for Bijou; heck, that stuff isn’t good for humans. What it did do was alleviate some of the emotions that were clearly running rampant through her thoughts.

Working at a pet store, I emptied my pockets, buying anything I could think of for my new dog. She was young, maybe two years old, and I splurged, using my meager salary. She was pleased that first night, lying beside my bed, but little did I know Bijou was not the sort of dog who slept on the floor.

The thing about adopting a dog is you really can’t be sure what you are getting without giving it some time. She nervously paced about, and I remember feeling a bit concerned about her behavior. She seemed to require something more than most dogs I had owned. She needed human constant contact and love. It was for this reason I shook off any apprehensions and allowed her to sleep in my bed. As she snuggled against my feet I saw something in this dog I barely understood; she was simply content.

Bijou was a near perfect dog the day she stepped into my parent’s house. She was smart, pleasing, and indeed she did seem to have a conscience. If she had an accident it was most apparent she felt guilty about it. In fact, Bijou was nearly flawless until the day Shacky entered her life.

Shacky had been named so because as a puppy he had a tendency to pee a lot. No, this wasn’t where the name came from. It came from the Radio Shack bag we brought him home in, so he wouldn’t pee all over the car seats. Before you think us crazy, know we used the bag more like a diaper, and didn’t actually force the entire dog into the bag.

Bijou accepted Shacky without a single drop of jealousy. She allowed the small puppy, barely able to walk, into her front paws, and rested her head upon him. Having been fixed, I believe this was Bijou’s motherly instinct taking over, and she did care for Shacky as if she were his birth mother. As I attended college and held down two or three jobs at any given time, and both of my parents working full-time, she almost needed to fulfill this role for both their sakes.

While Bijou was such a perfect dog, Shacky was almost the complete opposite. I often thought there was something wrong with him, as he was a bit mental. They said he was a cross between a German Shepard and a Beagle, so the mere thought of this alone already made for an unusual dog. Without doubt, Shacky had a wild streak in him that could not be controlled.

Where Bijou wasn’t the sort to run away, Shacky lived for it. Most of the time, he only ventured down to a small creek behind the house, where he would lay down in the water. This was one of his favorite things to do, and it would have been great if the water didn’t smell awful. Bijou followed her adopted son wherever he went, protecting him from anything he might encounter.

Both dogs went missing once. After three days of searching, I found them tied up at a neighbor’s house, only a few blocks away. This family had taken it upon themselves to feed and care for the dogs, as if they were their own. The father let his anger show when I told him they were my dogs, pointing out my contact information on their tags. Thinking back, I don’t fully blame the guy; Bijou had this affect on many people. It wasn’t the only time someone tried to steal her away from me.

During my years in college, I was often too busy for my dogs. I’ll admit this was a pure case of having bitten off more than I could chew. I was lucky my mother was kind enough to care for them. Barely ever at home, it was a rare occasion when I saw the dogs.

One day, when I arrived at my parent’s house, I found my mother in the back yard with Bijou running loose. We talked, and didn’t notice when Bijou moved to the front yard. She was a good dog, and I don’t think she would have ever left the yard without Shacky leading the way. When I found her in the front yard it was too late. A car sped away, their tires skidding, and Bijou sitting in the passenger seat anxious for a ride.

Panic seized me. I dashed for my car and gave chase, frantically searching for my beautiful dog. I know nothing about what happened to Bijou, or why things turned out the way they did. Maybe she figured out what was going on and started to growl. Perhaps, something was just too anxious about her behavior, thus frightening this person. Whatever the case, the potential thief dropped Bijou off at a local gas station, and the attendant called to let me know they had found her.

Over the years, I returned home less frequently, as many college students do. Call it right of passage, or merely thinking I knew more than I really did. Whatever the case, I missed many years of my dog’s lives. Upon finding my future wife, we spent more time at my parent’s house, and I was aghast at how bad things had progressed without me even noticing.

I slid down beside Bijou’s bed and stared into her dark, calm eyes. I stroked her black fur, being careful of the bandages. Bijou suffered cancer, and I had thought the surgery rather routine when the vet thought they could get it all. This was the key thing; I thought, and so did they.

Bijou’s eyes spoke of a pain so deep. They had dug into her body so badly around her hips that she could no longer walk without feeling it. They had her so drugged I couldn’t be sure whether she was really there or some shadow of the dog I loved.

I put her snout against my nose and cried. I had let her down. I had chosen things less important in life over the love of my faithful dog. As my tears found her face she did not falter, although I could tell her head was heavy even then. She needed to sleep. She needed rest.

“Get better girl,” I whispered into her ear. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Get better and we can go for a walk.” It pained to me to think that day may never come. Plus, even as I promised this I knew it was a lie.

I rose to my feet and my wife accompanied me to the front door, where I prepared to leave. Before I could, Bijou wanted to let me know something for herself.

She rose, stumbled, and made her way over to me with great difficulty. She passed me and stood at the door, waiting for me to take her for a walk. As painful and tiring as it must have been, there was no way I could deny her.

All that mattered was our companionship. Her weakened state only allowed for a short walk, to the end of the street and then back. I loved her for allowing me this one last gift.

Later that night, Bijou passed. I cried when my mother told me, a grown man expressing his feelings openly. I am not one to hide my sadness. I suppose she passed happy, one last shared moment with her boy, a good dream to take her onward. I have never forgotten her.

Shacky wasn’t the same after her passing. He lost most of his spirit, spent much of his time searching for Bijou. I can’t blame him; it was similar for me. He too was a good dog, allowing my first child to be a little rougher with him than he wanted. He cared for MacKenzie until the day he too passed. I sometimes think he was my daughter’s dog than mine.

I keep a small box with each dog’s ashes. Bijou’s is a silk heart-shaped box. Her picture sits beside it, framed with tiny flowers. When I took her for walks, she loved to stop and sniff the flowers. Shacky sits beside her in an intricate wooden box, speaking much of his relationship with Bijou. They are no longer separated.

I stare into Kady’s eyes, stroking the fur back over her head. She loves when I take the time to appreciate her. Iggy pokes his way in with his cold nose finding any flesh it can. I smile as they begin to bicker again.

Their relationship is not all too different from Bijou and Shacky’s. They remind me of them often. They look similar. They are not better dogs. They have their own personalities, and I love each of them for their differences. I wish I had some of those years back with Bijou. There will never be another dog quite like her. She was a blessing in my life.

On the day I decided to take writing seriously (and by this, I mean dedicate myself to improve my craft), I was lucky if I was able to put 250 or so words to paper. Note here, when I use the word paper here, I’m really only pretending I am old-school, and really mean the virtual sort of paper where the ream is ever-flowing. Hey, 250 words is a lot when your starting out, right? I akin this to making it to the end of the street upon taking to jogging to get fit.

Long ago, when I led a more sheltered life (who am I kidding?), the classes I attended required stories of 1000 words at most. We had two weeks to put our thoughts together and polish them up before critique day rolled around. This was almost heaven, as being a slow reader, I tend to write with equal speed. Roll it on out, take it for an easy stroll. Why rush a good thing?

Before I knew it, perhaps driven by repetition, I was putting out 500 words with ease. Three weeks later, my minimum was 1000, and it kept growing. What once was a daunting figure, now came to me with little effort. I was putting out words like a candy salesman at a grade school fair, selling his wares for a penny each. Nothing wrong with that, eh?

As fast as the words were rolling out, the rejections were pouring in. A few were slightly offensive, and one of them in particular was just plain hateful. I sometimes think this particular editor was having a bad day, or at least I hope that is the case. Anyway, there are two things you can do when this happens.

One, you can give up. Hey, this is the easiest route, and so many take it. I stared dreamily down the easy path, knowing how simple of a choice it would be. Or, you can embrace your shortcomings, and strive for improvement.

At my wife’s urging, I sat down and went over these rejections, searching for clues. This wasn’t altogether easy given so many venues now days tend to send out form letters. Some don’t even reply at all, leaving you to wonder whether you story even got there in the first place. Who knows? Not me. The Shadow? Muhahawahaha.

After hours of chagrin, I finally saw something. It may have come from my wife banging me over the head with a canoe paddle, but I like to imagine it was a moment of inspiration. There, between the “re” and the “jection” I found it. Not literally, of course, I mean come on. I wasn’t putting into my writing what I needed to hold these people’s attention.

Here is where things became complicated. I’ve put in a lot more time than I used to, and I still get rejections. But, I’m still reading between the lines. I see many more things than I used to. Some days I even put out 10,000 words, but quantity no longer matters. One of the things I have learned about myself is the process I need to follow to get a story out that I am proud of. And, that model is always fluctuating, always changing in how I approach my edits.

I use a modified version of the snowflake method, where the first thing I do is bang the story out. If you can’t get it out, you can’t do anything with it. How can you do anything with it, if you can’t get it out? I call this my “barebones” rough draft. I then several passes to throw on some meat, some muscle, and flesh. Hell, I might even take the time to give them some hair and eyelashes if they are good enough to me.

The next part is the hardest part. I take up my axe, my machete, like some post-apocalyptic warrior, and I hack away at the imperfections. I’ll admit, I am still learning, but I always put forth my best effort. Sometimes, looking back, it is difficult to read what I’ve written a mere month ago. I’ve fully dedicated myself to this process, though, and it has become essential to my writing career.

I’ve never shied away from criticism, good or bad. You can’t. All you can do is appreciate the effort, and how they present it to you, hope for the best. You have to want to become a better writer, and the more you hack away at the flesh of a story, the more you dedicate yourself to the process of betterment, the more you will start to see between the “re” and the “jection.” This is when you will know your words are starting to count for something.

I’ve said this before, and I mean it with all my heart. I want to move people with my words. I’ll not be satisfied until I do. But, even if I achieve this goal, I will never stop striving for improvement.

~Kenneth W. Cain

Okay, all kidding aside, I was recently struck upon the head with a thought, and I was like, “Hey! Why don’t I bug everyone else with this nonsense, too?” I know my humor sucks, but play along long enough for the punch line if you will. I may be a day older (a year today actually), but I doubt I am the slightest bit wiser. This seems to have eluded me.

My notion came at some recent comments about the movie The Human Centipede. I’m sorry, but every time I hear this title I can’t help but think of Southpark. Vanilla paste! Vanilla paste!

This persons comments regarded The Human Centipede as pretty much a movie absent of a good storyline, hell-bent on grossing people out. This person went on to mention a comment that stuck with me this morning when the wife and kids took me out to breakfast. They said, it had a place in the horror community.

I pondered this, trying to see where it fit. I’ve never been a huge fan of what I call over-gore (or OG for those who like acronyms).  It does however show up a lot in the movies we watch, the books we read, and regretfully on the side of the road as we slow to rubberneck. I use it sparingly in my own work, but I do use it. Some make their livings by using it.

So what is this place for OG? Where does it exist, and how do we get to this magical gory land? Then it occurred to me I have seen this before.

As a young teenager, I spent a good deal of my time at a neighbor’s house watching horror flicks into the wee hours of night. Back then, we snuck in wine coolers to drink, only God knows why. Those damn things were awful, and I much prefer the taste of a cold beer.

Anyway, walking home by myself the length of one full block was quite the daunting task at two or three in the morning after watching a handful of horror films. Every footstep echoed away in the night, bringing back a sound that didn’t really exist. I was sure at any moment some horrid creature was going to lunge out at me from the shadows, and rip open my throat, leaving me struggling as I died. To me, this is the real “scary” in horror. But, this other stuff, the OG, still has its place.

Remembering these days was refreshing, and there are plenty of good stories there. But, they also brought back a memory I had forgotten. Faces of Death! Even back then we had our OG, didn’t we? I guess there has always been an OG at every stage in my life, but why do we watch them?

It occurred to me, this is our dare. The teenager in all of us is daring to see if we can make it through without throwing up or passing out. Back then, it was a few friends and a bottle of Strawberrry Fields wine egging me on. Now, the man in the mirror tempts me. My inner-teenager demands it!

Alas, I am older, weaker, and perhaps a little wiser after all. I am quite fond of horror and all things scary, but seeing something OG really doesn’t do it for me anymore. I’d rather be mystified, challenged by the unknown, because OG I know thee all too well.

~Kenneth W. Cain

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Synopsis:
These Old Tales is a compilation of short stories, poetry, and flash fiction. Both the stories and the poetry are dark, but here is a brief synopsis of the six longer pieces within the compilation.

“The Patrol” visits the loneliness of war in-between the times when the fighting is taking place. It searches the dark recesses of the human mind for the horrid truths about war. It is within these folds the story takes a unique paranormal twist.

“The Daily News” is what one might call a moth man story. Lonely roads, deserted towns, and strange out-of-place newsstands are but the makings for a quick little story.

“Determination” takes place in another time, in a society unlike what we call normal. These people have found a way to make their utopian society function, and they will go to no end to preserve that perfection.

“After the Ocolitz” follows the tale of young Lindsay, and her quest to see the white foxes that visit their garage. She has many questions, and her mother’s hesitant voice only piques her curiosity.

“Working From Home” finds a young man, curious as to what his father does for a living. The more he pries, the more the door opens, until there is no going back.

“Branded” focuses on a gunfight, and the reader is thrown into the battle and the struggle to discern what crimes have led to this end. Can Jake unravel this mess before time is up?

~Kenneth W. Cain

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Synopsis:
These Old Tales is a compilation of short stories, poetry, and flash fiction. Both the stories and the poetry are dark, but here is a brief synopsis of the five longer pieces within the compilation.

“Molt” is the unique tale of a man on a business trip where things are not going as planned. He is tempted by fate, and also by infidelity, as the woman of his dreams comes into play. The question remains whether his lust is blindly leading him along.

“Nocturnal” is a story of darkness. When George and his pal, Frank go exploring, they come across a strange room. Within its walls, George will discover terror and strange happenings.

“The Lucky Shrimp” is a tale about eating. What could be more delicious? As our protagonist goes about feeding his waistline, he comes across a special little creature with extraordinary powers.

“Limbs” is a story about neighbors struggling to see eye to eye. When one of them comes to their wits end, the fight grows in intensity. What comes of such a dispute is interesting.

“Gladiator David” is a story about a great zombie killer. He exists in a not too distant future in a revived world, making due the only way he knows how. In this death defying tournament, will our young hero be victorious?

~Kenneth W. Cain

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Synopsis of my story:
A troubled bloodsucker has difficulty obtaining the sustenance he requires.

~Kenneth W. Cain

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Synopsis:
These three short children’s illustrated tales were created to help children come to grips with some of their own fears. You will find three short illustrated tales dealing with darkness, things that go bump in the night, and swimming.

~Kenneth W. Cain

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Synopsis of my story:
The ocean brings great peace to a diver. But, in this vast relatively unknown world, sometimes exploration can reveal horrors you hadn’t intended to find.

~Kenneth W. Cain

Synopsis of my story:
A man and wife find their marriage split by a unique undead situation.

~Kenneth W. Cain

Q: I’ve read and enjoyed the poetry on your website, and I see you have won many awards as a poet. Being so successful on that platform, what drives you to long fiction?

BB: Actually, I’ve been publishing fiction, some of it long, for as long as I have poetry. My first novel, Stained Glass Rain, is over 140,000 words. I’ve also published more than a hundred short stories. I’ve always written both fiction and poetry. You can find most of my best stories collected in Masque of Dreams (Wildside Press, 2001, 2009) along with some of my best poetry.

Q: My own poetry suffers, likely due to the constant want to make the piece into a story. What shortcomings and downfalls might one expect to encounter when tackling both poetry and prose?

BB: When you tackle poetry seriously, you are looking at every word choice and every line break. And how they resonate with one another. If your poem starts turning into a story, you can either turn it into a story…write a long narrative poem…or compress it to the point where it works as a short poem, making every word count. You choice depends to some extent on where you feel your talents lie. I’d say that if the ideas and words are flowing for you, go with it, go for the story. If you decide it doesn’t work as a story, it’s generally easier to cut and refine what you’ve already written while you were on a roll than it is to add to it. I’ve had poems that I’ve later expanded to fictions and fictions that I’ve extracted poems from. I’d say there aren’t any shortcomings or downfalls if you take an open approach.

Q. I find this interesting, because the first section of The Guardener’s Tale came off so poetic to me. Was this your intention, or do you think this is merely the voice you were given coming out through your work?

BB: The Guardener’s Tale evolved out of a poem that originally appeared in Amazing Stories in the 80s. You can find the poem reprinted online at Membra Disjecta. The opening section of the novel draws heavily on this poem. Poetic language can enhance fiction if it is used in the right way. Some writers, such as Lawrence Durrell and Nabokov, are good reads for me in part because their language often reads like poetry.

Q. The indiscretion of Tuesdays was brilliant for me. I love the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” concept that allows a society the ability to let loose once a week, as if nurturing the human need to be bad. So, why Tuesdays?

BB: Tuesday is three days from Saturday and three days from Friday, the days when one is most likely to go out with one’s mate. So Tuesday seemed the most logical day to go out alone seeking other liaisons.

Q. I find it interesting, the comparison to a gardener, and their garden–creating a thing of beauty. In your tale, it is no different, except there are a variety of levels to these Guardeners, that in part appears to have something to do with age/experience. Also, the play on the word, using “guard” almost had me picturing storm troopers from Star Wars, but in actuality they are far from such armored monsters. On all levels, they are creating a garden of beauty together. I also found the widespread use of imagery that revolved on flowers in the story. Can you provide some insight into your creation of the Guardener as a social status and job?

BB: If you recall, some of the Guardeners do act like storm troopers when they invade the slum and evict residents from their dwellings. The higher level Guardeners are both police and psychiatrists, or at least with the help of technology they take on the role of psychiatrists. The Future Perfect, the garden of beauty they envision, is only perfect in terms of a society functioning without disruptions of any kind. In other words, a world were everyone has the same values and all serve a productive function within the system. It’s a bit like an insect colony, with no room for individuality or attitudes and ideas that run counter to the norm. Also akin to the ideal state once envisioned by the former Soviet Union. Much of art and literature of the Soviet Union from the 30s through the 50s, known as Socialist Realism, portrayed striving for an ideal communist society. Of course any society has its canon of what is considered acceptable behavior, which includes the content for art and literature. The more totalitarian the state, the more narrowly such a canon is defined. The Guardeners in The Guardener’s Tale are both guardians of their particular canon, and like gardeners in that they are trying to shape the future of the state by weeding out undesirable elements and shaping others. To extend the simile to an extreme, something like bonsai gardening.

Q. As a writer, I often find myself divulging opinions of how I think the future will look. Our present society can at times appear so limiting, and yet with modern day technology it is actually mind-blowing just how limitless it is. In your tale though, we have a world where technology has surpassed freedoms, and the City State must take control in order to ensure a successful future. Tell us a little bit about this concept. Is this how you envision the future of society?

BB: In the world of The Guardener’s Tale, although computers are used by government and business, they are forbidden to individuals, considered a negative freedom. There is no Internet as we know it. Despite all its faults, the Internet strikes me as a force for individual freedom and a barrier to government control. It creates a worldwide community that not only transcends national borders but can quickly exert political and social pressure. It disseminates information that the powers that be, any ruling government, would rather not have freely available to its citizens. It can be disruptive to a smoothly functioning society. WikiLeaks is a prime example of this.

Q. And what of reprogramming humans, as you mention in The Guardener’s Tale? Was this just you being creative, or is this yet another glimpse into where you think things are heading?

BB: There always seems to be an attempt by authoritarian forces of one kind or another to reprogram human nature to fit some socially acceptable norm. This is endemic to social systems. The Catholic Church served this function for centuries in Europe. Today, our basic natures are all reprogrammed to some extent by the mass media we are exposed to. A more specific example: the clinics that try to reprogram homosexuals to be heterosexuals. As to where we are headed, I’m not sure. If a technology evolves that can successfully reprogram humans, it’s hard to believe that a government would not attempt to make use of it to stabilize its power and achieve its goals.

Q. On your website it says that you are credited with coining the word “cybertext.” How does something like that transpire? I mean, did it just catch on from one of your tales or the like?

BB: I published a collection of poetry in 1992 titled Cybertexts. The prefix “cyber” is defined as “relating to information technology, computers or the Internet.” Many of the poems collected in Cybertexts have to do with human interaction with computers of one kind or another. However, at the time I wrote these poems, the Cyberpunk movement was still flourishing in science fiction, so the book also contains poems that applied to this, i.e., poems that described or reflected the world of that movement. Jump ahead a few years to 1997. Norwegian Professor Espen J. Aarseth, odds are totally unaware of my poetry collection, published a book titled Cybertext—Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. In this study, Aarseth defined “cybertext” as referring to texts that require an involvement on the part of the reader. For example, a text that poses questions to the reader and then proceeds with further text in response to the answers given, and so forth. This is the sense in which the term “cybertext” is used most commonly today. I coined the word, was the first to use it. Aarseth defined it more specifically in its contemporary usage.

Q. What might we expect from you in the future? Another book? More poetry?

BB: My latest collection of poems, Surrealities, should be out any day from Dark Regions Press. This is not a horror or science fiction collection, but all surreal poems and poems about surrealism. It’s also a departure for me in that I illustrated this collection myself with original Rorschach inkblots. You can find the illustrations online HERE.

Beyond that, Gary Crawford and I are compiling a shared-world collection of dark poetry and prose, working title Notes from the Shadow City.

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Well Bruce, I’d also like to thank you for stopping by and giving us a quick glimpse into The Guardener’s Tale. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for a good futuristic dystopian tale. You can find out more about Bruce on his WEBSITE.