“What’s the matter with you?”

Fred winced at the familiar query. Crouched, he held the paintbrush tight. He knew what came next. It never failed. Dipping the brush into the can, he sloshed white paint onto the fence.

Leaning on her walker, Mother Dove stood on the porch glaring across the yard. “Have a hole in your head?

Paint slapped on wood turning mottled gray white. Bristles splattered paint on Fred’s face. Frowning, he continued on pretending the old woman was dead

“After Labor Day,” said Mother Dove. “The yard can’t wear white.”

“Yes, Mother Dove,” said Fred. The old woman was never quite right, but it seemed the accident had stolen more than her hip. “But the fence is a blight.”

“Fred, my boy, paint the fence red.” she said. “It will go with the leaves. Might as well, you’ll not rake them anyhow.” Mother Dove turned, moved her walker clunking across the boards. She leaned on the handles, and her feet waddled a rump-rump sound. Clunk-rump-rump she went back inside.

Snatching the pail, Fred stood wondering how he put up with her. “Love,” he said, “it’s all that matters now.”

After finishing the fence, painted burgundy, Fred looked over the yard. The lawn needed mowing, the flowers demanded water, and rot threatened the eaves. He mowed the grass, even raked up stray blades from the flower garden. The yard appeared neat even without white.

Ladder leaned against the house, Fred climbed, a trowel in hand. Digging into moss and murk, he cleared the eaves, scratching away years of neglect. He heard the door open, and he paused.

Then it came, a clunk-rump-rump. “Fred?” said Mother Dove, moving her walker, a clunk-rump-rump. At the edge of the porch, she looked up. “What’s the matter with you? Have a hole in your head?”

Oh, Fred thought, how I wish her dead. He peered down. “The eaves,” he said.

“No leaves in them eaves!” Mother Dove stomped her walker on the boards. “It’s nap time as you’re well aware! Boy, let the eaves be. I have a new birdbath, didn’t you see?” A clunk-rump-rump, Mother Dove dragged her bad hip back into the house.

Fred climbed down the ladder and headed into the garage. He stood staring at the birdbath. The stone structure stood half his own height. “The birdbath will look great beside the oak tree.”

Grabbing the wide basin, he swung the pedestal out landing with a thud. His shoulders ached, but his love for Mother Dove carried him on. As quiet as he could, he walked the birdbath thudding between his soft steps across the lawn.

Positioned between the oak tree and rose bushes, the birdbath was a sight. All it needed was a splash of water. Turning around, he spotted the old woman on the porch leaning over her walker.

“Fred, have a hole in your head? That’s the north end!” Mother Dove shook her head. “Everybody knows birds bathe south for winter. You’re as dull as the dead!” A clunk-rump-rump she went into the house again.

Hands clenched, Fred stormed across the lawn, stomped onto the porch, and through the open doorway. He loved Mother Dove, but the wreck had stolen more than her hip. Reaching behind the door, he grabbed the baseball bat and swung. The sound meeting his ears was not the expected crack, more like a thunk of a melon. No more rumping and clunking, she slept in her own blood for more than an hour.

The sun down, town asleep, Fred turned off the porch light and crept, shovel in hand, into the garden. He scooped the petunias and begonias aside. He dug a hole. Twice he paused to listen, but not a sound met his ears. Finished digging, he returned to the house. Hefting the portly woman over-shoulder, he took the walker in hand, and stomped outside. He dumped the old bag, walker and all, into her grave.

“See what I did? No hole in my head.”

Petunias and begonias back in place, there was only one more thing to set everything right. Fred carried the birdbath, thumping across the lawn between his steps, and plopped the stone monument among the flowers.

“South side it is. Just like Mother Dove said.”

Returning to the house, Fred threw the door shut and took to the sofa. Arms sore, legs weary, he leaned back for a well deserved doze. Hands folded over belly, he closed his eyes.

A clunk sound broke his repose.

Sitting up, Fred gazed at the closed front door. It came again, a clunk on the porch. What could it be at this late hour? He already knew, and a rump-rump confirmed it. Another clunk-rump-rump, and the door flew open. Mother Dove, covered in dirt, leaned over her walker.

“Fred my boy,” said Mother Dove. “You never been right since the smash-up.” Clunk-rump-rump, she walked into the house spilling a cloud of dust. “A hole in your head, isn’t that what I said?”

Fred scrambled to the mirror, and there he saw it within his mess of hair, a circle of red. “I have a hole in my head,” he said. “All along since the car accident, we’ve been dead.”

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Looking at the girl, Nyx found a face wrecked in worry. She noted the clasped hands, thumbs working flesh.

Nobody ever asked anything of Nyx besides her swift departure. Men huddled by the fire or hid in their homes. They never faced her. Nobody ever did, not until that early morning the young girl came calling.

Removing her hat, Nyx peered up at the glimmering stars. Considering the request, she ran fingers back through her dark hair. The moon smiled, but face half illuminated it appeared more like a sneer. Looking east, she saw the red embers reminding her of a kiss.

The request came again in a burst of tears.

Patting hat on head, Nyx offered a smile. It felt cold, and she saw fear in the wide eyes.

Agreeing to the request, Nyx tugged at her dress gathering the darkness about her. She stormed across the meadow her cold gaze bearing down on Black Woods. Nocturnal insects sang their songs. Hair blowing, dress flowing, she crossed a river. A man dove into a home, door slamming shut. Entering the woods, she stormed up the mountain, river of darkness flowing behind her.

Atop the granite peak, the moon lit the way. Creeping from the woods, the wolves circled around. Some snarled, others cooed. Reaching out, she stroked their black manes as each one passed. Alpha took position upon his rock, and the others settled down gnawing at bones.

Alpha grinned, teeth dripping satisfaction. “Mistress,” he said, “we have done you a great favor.”

Spotting a boy climbing upon the rock, Nyx recognized the eyes. The girl’s brother stroked Alpha’s back. In the west, red embers lingered on horizon. Glancing east, she watched light growing bold. The weight of the problem fell upon her.

“The lad only wants to see his dear sister,” said Alpha.

Nyx shook her head. “Don’t believe his lies.” The wolves of the night wanted her all to themselves, never again hiding in their cave from her lost lover. “He means to devour you both.”

The boy withdrew his hand, fear melting his face. He stepped down from the rock.

“Dusk is ours!” Alpha snapped his teeth and snarled.

Reaching into dark dress, Nyx withdrew a sword. Fury exploded from her dress, cold waving over the mountain. She held the sword high, blade sparking into night sky. Tails hanging, the wolves glanced about. Nyx lashed out releasing energy. The mountain darkened, and wolves yipped bounding into their cave. Another thunder sent Alpha leaping from his rock.

The blade simmered smoking tendrils.

Standing before the boy, Nyx offered a smile. Her frozen glare sent him stumbling back.

“Please,” said the boy. “My sister.”

Looking upon the sorrow, her own longing grew. Lover lost, a forgotten kiss tickled her face. The siblings deserved better.

Gazing at the lantern in the sky, she pleaded. Listening, the moon nodded thinking it over. The wolves grew bolder, yellow eyes glinting from their cave. At last, the moon smiled and offered a solution.

Turning to the boy, Nyx knelt. “You will see your sister again, but you must return. Guard the border.”

Wiping a tear, the boy nodded. He took the sword and descended the mountain into the west.

Already the dark wolves were bounding down the mountain towards orange blazing horizon.

Descending through woods, cascading darkness, Nyx chased after. Reaching into the dark, she unsheathed her last remaining sword. The blade glimmered lighting the way. Bursting into the meadow, she found the girl surrounded by wolves.

Growls rumbled. Jaws snapped. The girl retreated, but the pack closed in caging their prey.

The blade sparked, a blinding orange shattered air sending wolves tumbling. Leaping onto his feet, Alpha snarled at the light. Waving the sword, Nyx glared at the wolf.

Light burned higher into sky; the dark wolves were out of time. A growl at eastern horizon, Alpha turned and led his pack racing for the cave.

Holding out the sword, Nyx instructed the girl on its use. Light recharged the blade keeping dark wolves at bay. Taking the weapon, the girl queried about her brother.

Removing hat, Nyx wiped cold sweat from her brow. “A promise. You will reunite with your brother. Whenever the moon joins the sun, light and dark together, you two shall meet.”

Throwing arms around, the girl hugged her.

The dawn fire burned. Nyx remembered the day, not its warm touch, but the brightness. Facing south, she gazed up at sky. Half her face lit, the moon smiled brightening the dark side.

Morning birds sang greetings. Men stirred in their homes. The wolves hid in their cave. Nocturnal creatures took a deep breath chilling the air, and settled into slumber.

Squishing hat on her head, Nyx looked down at the pleasant eyes.

“Will you watch with me?” Another request. A little hand rose, fingers open. “Will you watch the sunrise?”

Gathering the darkness about her, she reached out and grasped the warm hand. Sky blazed, orange pushing back the darkness. Dawn glowed.

Winking, the moon signaled the sun: the passage was clear.

Nyx remembered sunrise, the grandeur. Warm kiss, a forgotten memory teased her cheek. Lips quivering, she yearned to return the sweetness.

Day fire burned extinguishing stars. The world faded, little hand slipping away, a fleeing memory. Storm of light and dark rumbled, a wind pulled at dress and tugged hair. Nyx clasped her hat, and the world returned in a breath.

Glancing west, Nyx spotted the burning horizon where Dusk stood holding his sword. She looked at her empty hand, recalling the warmth, remembering Dawn.

She waved at Dusk and spun around heading into a valley. Darkness was her dress flowing over the land. Never sleeping, she raged on. The night was hers, and she was the night. The night moved on.

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In a previous post, I argued that “Consumers Pay for Content.” Many publishers try to sell content, but this is not the best marketing strategy. Sell ideas. Sell souvenirs. Sell an escape from reality.

Watch the video of Seth Godin, “10 Bestsellers: Using New Media, New Marketing, and New Thinking to Create 10 Bestselling Books.”

Two important points by Godin:

• Conversation sells.
• Good books sell themselves.

The first point is a big one: word of mouth (WOM.) If people are talking, tweeting, posting about the book then other people will talk about the book. And some of them will buy the book. Getting the conversation started means giving content away.

The second point helps make the first point happen. Start by writing something worth talking about. Readers are hungry for good stories seeking out conversations to find new morsels. Good content sells itself.

Never sell the content. Sell passion.

In the essay, “Post-Medium Publishing,” Paul Graham claims that consumers never pay for content. He begins with the observation that publishers set prices based on the cost of production and distribution of the format. The essay offers some consideration about the future of book publishing.

Do consumers pay for content?

I have never heard of a consumer paying for unwanted content.

Let us assume the consumer wants the content, and that the essay does not infer that consumers are unwilling to pay for content, simply chasing after the cheapest form of the content, otherwise libraries would have put bookstores out of business years ago. The consumer wants the content and is willing to pay. But does the consumer actually pay for the content?

Consider this question from the essay:

If audiences were willing to pay more for better content, why wasn’t anyone already selling it to them? There was no reason you couldn’t have done that in the era of physical media. So were the print media and the music labels simply overlooking this opportunity?

Art is subjective. Not everyone agrees on what makes good content. Many titles target an audience. Even the experts can’t always explain why a certain title sells as much as it does.

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Rising above the rolling hills, Nulan smiles upon the dark land. Her kisses turn the waving wheat into a shimmering sea. A shadow wriggles from my feet. Wind and wheat sing to her, swaying and encircling me.

I feel her touch, her paleness fills my eyes. Her smile, wicked, freezes my brood.

Nulan laughs. The wheat, the swaying grasses, the night bugs join the song. My shadow dances with them, mocking me. And Nulan howls an address. At my misfortune, at my prison, she laughs at me. She rarely misses.

The night is my shroud hiding my pale face from warm kisses. Nulan’s laughter, her pallid light, is a feeble mirror of warmth, of home. I wish she’d leave me with my stars glittering in my dark sea.

Nulan laughs. Always laughing, her bloodless light touches me, those grim kisses.

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