Sunday, December 27, 2009

Character vs. Author

What to do when a character attempts to consume your soul. First, you need to show it whose boss. Flex the almighty pen or fingers and write a story where the same character is humiliated beyond anything you would do to your worst enemy. If that doesn’t work and the character begins to keep you awake at night by giving you more horrific accounts, then consider the alternative: make peace with it, thank it, maybe even make it a hero.

Throughout literature there have been several characters that live beyond the pages, particularly for those fortunate enough to portray them on screen. Take the Joker. Jack Nicholson did a wonderful job on the big screen. Of course, Jack is a bigger than life actor with his unique mannerisms and voice. I never thought anyone could top him until Heath Ledger came along and took the Joker’s character to a whole new level. Afterwards, Mr. Ledger had so much trouble getting the character out of his head that he needed a form of psychiatric treatment. I read somewhere that Jack Nicholson suggested he check himself into a hospital for a couple of weeks.

It’s strange that Mr. Nicholson was suggesting a form of character possession actually taking place. Could it be that Mr. Ledger’s untimely demise was his way of trying to actually kill the Joker? As a writer, I understand since I swear my muse has a life of its own. I wonder what things it’s done that I’m totally unaware of. Author Dean Koontz admitted to attempting to kill one of his muses. He claimed to have pushed her down a flight of stairs where she landed, he hoped, with a broken neck. Well, she managed to come back for another novel or two before he finally killed her.

I have to admit, I did interview a female vampire character of mine. I typed in the details of my adventure but a virus vanquished the evidence of our encounter. Also, I misplaced the hard copy but I recall having to interrupt the interview to take care of my necessities. Her powers seemed to force me to run to the bathroom. In retrospect, she tried to persuade me to make her the main character of the book. I told her in a polite form, that she was a bit clichéd. A vampire that strives to rule the world is rather old news, but she insisted she had a new twist. I told her to come back when I was stronger to stomach her accounts. She stared at me like a lioness eyeing a tasty meal. Of course, the interview was concluded with yet another visitation, on my part, to the bathroom. Perhaps she took pity on me and allowed me to survive, or maybe her ego is so large that she wants me to write her story so the world may see what’s coming for them. She’s such a nasty vampire.

My encounter with the female vampire leads me to my last suggestion, if the character is too powerful for you, run! Of course, sooner or later, it will get you, consume you, and hopefully, make you a ton of money.

Nomar Knight

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The Fountain of Muse

Why it is that one’s creative juices tend to flow in the most unlikely of places baffles me. I wish I could say that my best writing is done at my desk in front of the computer, but truth be told; ideas jump out at me in the bathroom. Perhaps it’s the solitude of the place or the anticipation of running water, or the need to think while doing nature’s cleansing. I don’t know why, but the bathroom seems to be working akin to the Fountain of Youth, only I call it, the Fountain of Muse.

In my case, the developments of crucial characters are born in a bathroom. I understand that for a normal person, the bedroom should be the most exciting place, but while the bedroom is a place of rest, relaxation, and sometimes exercise; I find myself exiting the bathroom with either a gleam in my eyes or just super anxious to unload my discoveries on paper. While I don’t always have a great experience in the Fountain of Muse, sometimes the well runs dry or like constipation, ideas strain to trickle out. Fortunately, I do have alternate rituals which put me on the right track. Although, I must admit, these rituals take place in other locations. For example, some of my characters prefer coffee over the nuances of a toilet. As a result, I’m regularly spotted in my neighborhood café surrounded by all sorts of invisible ghosts, demons, vampires and the like.

Another place I visit on occasion, especially when the character is either extremely stressed, or causes an unbelievable amount of grief, is the neighborhood pub. I’ve discovered that alcohol not only drops human’s inhibitions, but also that of fictional characters, since they believe they’re human too. Now I must admit I have not yet gotten smashed to the level where the characters take on a three dimensional perspective and therefore, have to carry me home. Taking account the evil I communicate with, it’s best to keep my senses in considerable working order.

I recall one day admitting to a teenage female that the evening prior, I had interviewed a beautiful, female, twin vampire. Instead of campaigning to have me committed, she begged me to introduce her to the character, even though I explained that vampires who were made in the 1600’s tend to be a bit antisocial. Nevertheless, she had to settle for a drawing of the character. In addition, I told her to picture the Olsen twins with fangs.

I’d like to know where your Fountain of Muse is located. Feel free to comment. Next time I’ll write about when a character consumes its author.
Happy Holidays to all.

Nomar Knight

Friday, December 18, 2009

Missing in Action

Sorry about being away for so long. Sometimes the muse takes a vacation even if you're not willing to part with it. Well, now it's back and attacking better than ever. I've just started a new project. There's no viable title yet, but it is a horror book. Don't know if it'll be a novella or a novel, but as the character's communicate with me, I'll know in do time. Here's a small excerpt of the opening:

The idea that history repeats itself may be construed as a myth. Some people believe there are creatures that roam the earth which few humans recognize. Others think sorcery occurs at the midnight hour and that night air can be a carrier of all kinds of malice. Those same delusional souls say evil attracts both corroded energy and virginal innocence. Perhaps history does repeat itself.

Then the action takes over. A mystical being observes its prey in the hopes of unleashing itself upon the human world.

It's fun to be writing again. Oh well, wish me luck.

Nomar Knight

Saturday, September 12, 2009

When Chaos is in Control

Hello my fellow readers, both of you... I'm back. Sorry for the disappearing act but my life seems to be in a tailspin. Too many new things attacking me at once, coupled by severe depression. It feels like chaos in control. I've been working on a story since December of 2008 and I still can't seem to spit it out. In all that time I only have four scenes. Yes, the scenes may be some of my best work to date, but I'm frustrated at how slow it's going.

In my last entry, I allowed one of my psycho characters to fill in. He wanted to inform you that he was transferred to a mental facility. Unfortunately, he bit an orderly's ear off and is still caged in isolation.

Anyway, my yet untitled story seems to be stuck in ice and after managing to write the first chapter of "Chosen" it appears that too is stalled. I blame myself since I did not write an outline for it. I'm also eager to rewrite my first novelette, Time's Up which features one of my favorite characters, Cole Mizer.

Oh well, that's all for today. Life is getting in the way again. I just hate it when chaos is in control.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

A Perfect Father

Hello. My name is William Sanchez, better known as Paco. Nomar Knight asked me to write something in this month's blog. I guess I should start by telling you where I reside. The actual location isn't important, but I was finally put into the population. The damn cop that busted me convinced the warden I was too dangerous so they had me in isolation. At last I can breathe. The first few days I only wanted to sleep for you see, darkness torments me beyond anything that's believable.

For much of my life I've been mistreated by those around me. My father castrated me when I was a boy. One of his many drunken fits turned me into his personal punching bag. He beat Mother to a pulp until one day she just vanished. Growing up was tough. He didn't allow me to cut my hair. The boys in school teased me, calling me names. Girls stayed away from me. The only humans that didn't judge me by my appearance were children.

Ah, children have always made me feel important. The way they smile, so innocent and sweet, so trusting. I vowed in my father's last minutes of life that I would be a better father. Hell, I told him that I will be the perfect father. All was going well too if it hadn't been for Lieutenant Woods. Clever bastard! I had just seen something that I knew to be impossible on my television set. The Winslow boy hugging his parents, happy as can be. So I lost all train of thought. I raced to the spot in the woods, afraid of having witnessed a miracle. This is my account of events as they unfolded:

As I took the shovel out of my yellow Volkswagon, images of what I had just seen on television flashed before me. The evil Jeff Winslow hugging his wife and little boy, when the boy should be dead.

"What's happening to me?"

The news media made a big deal about the boy's disappearance, yet when my little girl vanished, no one cared. Instead of showing compassion, Jeff Winslow fired me from the tire plant. He had to pay for his sins.

I shouted at the top of my lungs, "How could this happen?"

Ten paces from a huge, old, oak tree lay a grave. Maintaining the low beams on while I commenced my work, I chanced being spotted, but I had to know. The illumination created menacing shadows. The tree's thick, crooked branches crouched over the freshly packed soil as if ready to scoop an innocent child and trap it for all eternity.

More images of the happy Winslow boy hugging and kissing his parents haunted me while I pounded the shovel into the ground.

"It's impossible."

My face began to perspire, causing my thick glasses to slip off, so I put them in my pocket. With every scoop of dirt, I envisioned my five-year-old daughter playing in the park.

"Look, Daddy!" She waved at me and slid down the slide.

My muscles began to ache. Dirt piled up nearby, blending with the smell of sweat. I cringed when a blister popped in my hand.

"He has to be dead."

I remembered my heart almost coming to a complete stop and hearing the other parents' conversations as one collective, giant murmur. It felt as if I saw my surroundings through a dark tunnel when I realized the love of my life, Jessica, was missing.

I was nearing the tiny body when a beam of light flashed across, revealing my location.

Who could be out here at this hour?

My fear vanished when the vehicle headed off in another direction until it was out of sight.

Continuing my work, my limbs ached under the excess weight caused by lifelong depression. Throughout my childhood, rich, nasty boys picked on me. Some went as far as calling me a girl.

"It's not fair."

I recalled how Jeff Winslow looked at me with his cold eyes when I told him about my daughter. He eased away and ordered me to get back to work.

At last, a pale, blue rug was visible amongst the damp soil. I jumped in the grave and uncovered the tiny body.

All of a sudden, tires munched on the dirt road and pebbles kicked up bringing bright lights towards me, eliminating the comforting shadows, blinding my vision. Then loud shouts barked from a multitude of dark silhouettes forced me to freeze.

"Hold it right there!" A familiar voice echoed throughout. "Paco Sanchez, don't move! You're surrounded."

"My glasses. I can't see well without them. Who are you?"

"I'm Lieutenant Woods and you're under arrest for murder."

Lieutenant Woods was the man I saw on television with the happy family. He was a tall, lean, no nonsense man.

I raised my hands to show them I was harmless and unarmed. "It's not fair. My daughter is gone. Why should the Winslows have it all?"

"What are you saying?" The lieutenant aimed a weapon at me.

"Winslow didn't care. I loved my daughter and he didn't care. The bastard fired me. Can I take out my glasses?"

I heard shotguns being chambered. "Do it slowly." The lieutenant said, "How many more have you killed?"

The question confused me. I was the victim. I put on my glasses, glanced down and saw the boy's curly blond hair.

"But I saw him on television. He was alive."

The lieutenant nodded, "Computer generated. We superimposed the boy's image and linked a short circuit feed to your screen to get you to doubt yourself and lead us to the body. Is that the Winslow boy?"


"Why did you kill her?"


I looked down. Another body lay next to the boy's corpse. I spotted long, black hair amongst the dirt.

"Why did you kill Jessica Rivers?"

The rage. I recalled the anger rising in me. All she wanted was ice cream. That's all. It was easy to entice her into the car, to pretend I was her father. Just like I did with the others. Perfection came in the form of wanting something so bad that no one could stop me.

I cried, "Look at me Lieutenant. My father castrated me when I was a boy. No woman wants anything to do with me. How else could I show him? Every time I get a child, I show him I am the perfect father."

Suddenly, a pair of tiny hands grabbed my legs.


I collapsed, landing near the bodies. The policemen's shouts were drowned out by the blood rushing to my ears. Both of the children, eyes empty and wide, tugged at my shirt. Jessica smiled and then all I saw was darkness.


The next time I awoke conscious of my surroundings, I was handcuffed to a hospital bed. A correction officer guarded the door, while Lieutenant Woods sat nodding in disbelief and said, "How did you get the bodies to look like they were strangling you?"

"They tried to kill me, Lieutenant."

"Save it for the trial. You better get this straight. You'll never be a father, much less the perfect one."

"But you have to save me."

"From what?"

"At night, when I'm left alone in the dark, I hear them, laughing."

He raised his hand in disgust, "Save it--"

"You must believe me. They're going to kill me."

Lieutenant Woods smiled and said to the officer by the door, "Make sure this guy goes into isolation where it's always dark."

"You do believe me."

"Why shouldn't I? After all, you're not the only one who sees them. Payback is a bitch, Paco."

He left, grinning, ignoring my cries for help.

They tell me that I spent the last six months in isolation. Six months of enduring the children crying. Feeling their tiny fingers poking me. I begged to be let out. Madness consumed me. Soon I had lost all sense of time. I can still hear whispers at night. The children vow revenge. They cry and shout obscenities. I'm the only one who hears them. The warden thinks I should be in a psychiatric ward. I'm praying for the transfer to happen. If the transfer goes through I must escape. I must not allow darkness to continue to haunt me. I must find my son and show him what it's like to be a perfect father. I must get out. For now, time moves forward slowly and half of my days are spent in daylight. But the shadows are filling the room. There they go again. The children begin to whisper. "Paco, Paco, die Paco!" Oh no!

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Time to Chuckle

Horror doesn't have to be all gruesome gore and seriousness. Sometimes a little humor can be injected into a horrible situation. Now let's see... ah yes, what if a man finds himself trapped inside a tight space like a coffin, would you find the situation funny if it were you? No way, but this character discovers some strange things about himself while in the process of dealing with the madness. Here's a short poem which is also posted on, titled Alone in the Crypt. Enjoy.

Alone in the Crypt by Nomar Knight

I opened my eyes
Surrounded by night
Trapped in a coffin
With no help in sight.
I clawed at the lid
Yearning to be free
Something wailed aloud
"My God! It was me."

Terror knows no bounds
It's true what they say
We are all victims
Of death and decay.
The stench of feces
Reminds me of life
Tainted, imperfect
"Wait! What's this?-- A knife!"

I removed the blade
Out of my stilled chest.
Perplexed by my state
Given a new quest.
So how could this be?
Did I expire?
Am I the undead?
"Christ! I'm a vampire!"

I mourned who I was
Recalling the light
Plunging the dagger
With all of my might.
Blinded by moonlight
Chips fell on my head
Cursing the culprit
"I swear he'll be dead."

Kicking the cover
Off my bed of death
Searched my surroundings
Tried to catch my breath
Smiled at old habits
And frowned at my taste
The thirst consumed me
"Oh man, what a waste."

Hunger filled my thoughts
As easy as pie
Escaping the crypt
Now someone must die
My senses heightened
I spotted my mick
Holding a shovel
"Ah, blood on a stick."

© Copyright 2008 Nomar Knight (UN: nomarknight at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

Thursday, June 11, 2009


What does it mean to be cursed? A character finds out firsthand by discovering that the most profound moment of his life stays with him forever. Imagine you've done something horrible and you're forced to relive the moment for all eternity. While you read this little flash piece think about the most profound moment of your life, would you like to relive it for all eternity? Here is Cursed as it is posted on


By Nomar Knight

The most profound moment of your life stays with you forever.

Even as I try to remove the bloodstains, an urgency to complete my task gnaws at me. So much evidence to erase. The constant tick of the old purple wall clock urges me to move faster. My quest for absolution lingers in the air as time itself keeps me prisoner.

Without question, any man in my predicament will react the same way. When pushed to the brink, one finds the darkness compelling, indeed soothing. The whispers, at first subtle, are like a reassuring breeze on a humid summer day. So I do it. I pick up the knife.

The cause of my woes, Lily, sits on the bed, her feet tucked underneath her smooth rear. Her attention is not on me but on her favorite late night comedian.

With every step, I think about her vain existence. Even now as she paints her long fingernails a disturbing pink, her premeditated strokes triggers my correct perception of her deliberateness in all things. It's as if she is an ancient goddess sent to entrap good souls like me.

Tick. Tick.

Images of Lily talking with all of those men, letting them touch her as she moves seductively, flashes in my mind. For every dollar placed on her g-string, I endure watching a squeeze of a breast, a caress of her buttocks. Greasy dirty men.

I almost vomit when I recall the filthy spit spewed from their mouths onto her tongue.

Tick. Tick.

I try to convince her to quit that life. She rolls her eyes, laughs and says, "Who is going to pay the rent? You?"

Tick. Tick.

Bloodstains on the wall. I have no time to clean it. The white linen soaks in Lily's blood. I must burn it. Evidence.

Tick. Tick.

The whispers get louder, more distinguishable. It seems that the harder I wipe, the blood spreads further.

Tick. Tick.

Faster and faster I go. The whispers turn into chants.

"Kill her! Kill her!"

I glance at the wall clock and stop cleaning.

Lily is alive, painting her fingernails, watching television, ignoring me for the last time. I hope. I stand behind her with knife in hand, listening to the voices, listening to the clock, ready to kill her. I am cursed to relive this horrible moment again, because the most profound moment of my life stays with me forever.

401 words

Thursday, May 28, 2009

The Birth of a Psycho defines psychosis as a mental disorder characterized by symptoms, such as delusions or hallucinations that indicate impaired contact with reality; any severe form of mental disorder, as schizophrenia or paranoia.
It defines dementia as deterioration of intellectual faculties, such as memory, concentration, and judgment, resulting from an organic disease or a disorder of the brain. It is sometimes accompanied by emotional disturbance and personality changes; madness; insanity.

I find psychotic characters fascinating to write about because almost always, horrendous circumstances tend to push innocent children into becoming monsters. The notion that personal experiences shape who we are brings to light the possibility of psychotic individuals who pose a real danger to society. Weather through witnessing unspeakable acts or experiencing harsh physical or emotional distress, at the core of all evil is a trigger mechanism which propels forward an evolution of psychos hell-bent on fulfilling an urgent need deep within their dark hearts.
Hence, through the presentation of familiar settings a writer may utilize tools which show a young ordinary character experience vicious or malicious acts therefore changing him into everyone’s worst nightmare. In the micro fiction piece, The Bone Collector, written by W.D. Wilcox, a hard-nosed youngster becomes fascinated with the inner workings of animals. His hobby of performing outrageous surgical skinning of innocent strays; leads him to discover other uses for his rare talent. The revelation of physical and emotional abuse by his uncle along with insightful clues to his relationship with the story’s narrator, his best and only friend, gives real plausibility to the creation of something monstrous among us, something yet undetected by the larger population.
Wilcox’s engaging narrative and mastery of imagery makes him one of my favorite authors at His ability to make ordinary events and twist them into frightening action will raise anyone’s blood pressure and leave the connoisseur of horror with a smile.
Here’s a small sampling of “The Bone Collector:”
Harley held a black garbage bag. I knew what was in it, and the thought made my stomach churn again. “Geez, Harley, you scared the hell out of me.” He grabbed hold of the front of my shirt, stuck his face close to mine; I could see the sweat beading off his scalp and running down his face in rivulets, leaving clean, clear tracks across his dirty fat cheeks.

“Follow me, sissy, we’ve got some unfinished business to take care of.”

“Sure, Harley, sure.” I was trapped again. Harley knew I’d do anything he said just to keep from getting clobbered, or worse. He was a bad kid, real bad, and in his sick desire to collect bones, I was his number one helper.

Harley kept all kinds of bones: birds, rats, squirrels, a cat, and now a dog. I reluctantly followed him to his house, an old run-down shack he lived in with his uncle -- Uncle Jack, he called him. Harley said his uncle drank all the time and then would beat him for no real reason. Once he even told me his uncle did some other stuff to him too -- real bad stuff. I guess Harley was really screwed up, but I don’t think anybody knew how bad it was except me. I made the mistake of feeling sorry for him. He saw that as a weakness in me and took advantage of it. I became his flunky -- his whipping boy -- his only friend.

Friday, May 22, 2009

A Case of Mistaken Identity

In life, not everything is as it seems but some people prefer to ignore reality so much that they create a bogus world. I often wonder how many times I've witnessed a scene where people behave as society expects, creating the illusion of normalcy. Yet, if I take for granted what I see, I'd never know there was anything askew.

The same could be said about writing horror. When creating a scene, it's best not only
to analyze the action but rather infuse malice to ordinary events. The objective should be to turn an innocent situation into someone's worst nightmare. By placing characters into plausible scenarios that are common to everyday life, a connection can be made with the reader, igniting the mechanism all horror writers hope to invoke--fear.

Here's an example:

Little Tommy Dunn scoops sand and gingerly places it on top of more grain. Droplets of sweat cascade off his long, curly hair landing on what he considers, his masterpiece. He packs in the sand with great care, biting his tongue, wrinkling his nose. A salty breeze mixes with a familiar lavender scent. He knows his mother is near.

"Tommy, you missed a spot."

The little first grader looks down and sees his classmate's big toe sticking out of the temporary makeshift grave.

"I told you to leave it alone. I drowned the little bully in the water so it'll look like an accident. They're supposed to find him anyway."

Little Tommy nods and smiles knowing that tomorrow school will be a more peaceful place.

While it's fun to make the ordinary horrific, it is even better when you apply the technique to a character. In my flash piece, "Mistaken Identity," I take a reader on a fantastic journey when the main character chases a familiar foe through an everyday urban setting.

Here's an excerpt:

The first time I saw the stranger, a bomb exploded at Times Square. I watched amazed as police officers rushed by unaware of the monster in our midst, but I knew what he was. He looked like them. You know the type. They hide their heads and their faces remain unshaven. I figured if I caught this fool, the FBI would have to let me back in.

I followed him back into the subway. His movements deliberate, his eyes cold and calculating. For a man of average height and portly build, he moved with uncanny stealth. I had to utilize my skills as a hunter not to lose him again because he had a knack for disappearing in a blink of an eye.

So the next time writer's block occurs, go outside, experience life and look at the ordinary with malice. You just may witness a wonderfully terrible case of mistaken identity.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Mystical Attractions

Have you ever found yourself asking, "What was that?" A shadow or some play of lighting appearing out of nowhere, moving strangely. If you were with someone, perhaps the other person witnessed the same event, but nine times out of ten, the experience is a lonely one. Expect of course, the mystical shadow that you swear is watching you.

The reality of death has given birth to life after death. Cynics argue against such possibilities yet are at a lost for explaining appearances of ghosts or similar phenomena.

Take this eye witness account: I was driving down the highway late at night in a secluded section surrounded by trees, no lights posted anywhere. My high beams picked up a teenage boy riding a bike, heading straight for me. I didn't have time to react so I braced myself for the inevitable contact. It never came. What I thought was a kid on a bike turned out to be a transparent ghost. My car drove straight through. No physical contact was made, no one reporting an accident the next day, nor did my car have a mark on it.

The man did not sleep that night, worried the authorities would be knocking on his door. He tried to talk himself into believing he must have been sleeping, but he recalled enough details about the encounter consistent with an accident of that type. His slow reaction time due to disbelief and a strange opaqueness surrounding the object in question left him wondering about his mental state. He went from surprise, disbelief, shock, and eventually rationalization.

While the aforementioned encounter is pretty typical for those experiencing contact with mystical origins, it's quite spectacular when the living interact with the dead. I wrote a story based on a legend that spans centuries from numerous countries. Its underlying theme deals with obsession when the main character, Lisa, goes through extraordinary lengths to experience her first college dance. Her partner demonstrates a different kind of obsession. Mystical Attractions aside, The Dance
features unfinished business between a mother and her daughter.

Supernatural horror involves many different aspects of a fear that instead of its victims running away from predators or unusual foes, they become willing participants in macabre acts. Encounters connected to the mysterious realm of an afterlife intrigue many and opens the genre to very creative works.

Have you ever had an encounter with a ghost?- Tell me about it.