Shooter 13-14

Posted on August 22, 2013 by Lori Ericson

It’s hard to fathom from a journalist’s point of view the notion of not providing all the pertinent information for any news story. However, I’ve come to believe we should never know the names or see the photos of accused shooters or mass murderers, particularly those who wreak their havoc in our schools.

We so often fulfill their goal when their name becomes immortalized, when we forever remember the Eric Harrises and the Dylan Klebolds of the world. This seems to be especially true of school shooters who strike at the most innocent of victims.

The gunman who entered an Atlanta, Georgia school on Tuesday is now famous. We’re lucky we’re not seeing the faces of countless young children who didn’t go home to their parents that night. Although the outcome was brighter than his plans, his motives were likely the same of countless others who have been more successful. They are so often seeking notoriety through mass executions in some warped sense of self.

Sometimes they claim to be striking out after being bullied, which is an issue schools seem to be dealing with more frequently and more fervently. But the desire still comes down to an “I’ll show them and make myself famous doing it” attitude.

We should know Tuesday’s shooter as a number only. Take away that privilege of hearing his name on the television, knowing that his mug is now familiar to everyone within earshot of a television, and let’s see if the tragedies don’t slow down.

Withholding of personal information on the shooter should have started with the Columbine massacre in April 1999. If we knew them simply as 99-01 and 99-02, maybe we wouldn’t have had many follow in their footsteps.

It’s just a thought from a heart that worries for the next group of children hovering in the corner of a classroom and listening to gunshots.

As a mystery writer I read stories of murder and mayhem looking for inspiration, but these school shootings spark little more than sadness.

Thanks for reading, following and sharing.

Ham and the Meth Head

Posted on August 17, 2013 by Lori Ericson

As a reporter, I usually hated making the cop run. It’s when reporters go to the police station to gather a tally on who was arrested, what accidents occurred and what reports of interest have been filed. It’s dealing with the real underbelly of society, but at times interesting.

Years ago, I was taking notes as an officer for the Springdale Police Department was explaining why a woman had been charged with a crime for purchasing the ingredients to make meth. He listed off items she had bought at the local Wal-Mart. They included things like lighter fluid, pseudoephedrine and other ridiculous things the drug-addicted will mix together for the crazy concoction.

As he neared the end of the list, I heard from behind a shout, “Don’t forget the ham.”

I ignored it, but she said it again.

“Don’t forget the ham.”

The woman was handcuffed to the bench when I came in, but I hadn’t paid any attention, until now. As I turned and looked at her, I saw a woman with an open sore she had obviously picked at on one cheek, discolored teeth, straggly hair and grubby clothes. It couldn’t be the 26-year-old the officer had apprehended.

“I was just getting stuff for dinner, stuff for the house,” she said.

“Shut up, we know what you were getting,” the officer said.

“Well just don’t forget the ham.”

I couldn’t say a thing to her. I was shocked. She looked to be at least 40 years old. I stared.

She pulled at her handcuffed wrist and looked up at me. “Don’t forget the ham.”

I nodded and added it to the list in my reporter’s pad.

A True Encounter with a Dead Man

Posted on August 15, 2013 by Lori Ericson

I woke up to the “swish swish” sound of his arm moving against his windbreaker in the eerie green glow of the living room. His face was covered with blood, as was his chest that was exposed by the open jacket. He wore cut-off jean shorts and tennis shoes. I thought it was a dream, this stranger illuminated by the green glass lamp base. I was stretched out asleep on my stomach on the living room floor in the house next to the cemetery when I heard him. He came through the dining room and sat in my dad’s recliner a little after midnight.

He stared at me, the smeared blood making him look surreal. I put my head back down thinking I must be dreaming.

He rocked in the recliner.

Raising my head again, I could see the same image.

“Who are you,” I asked.

“I’m dead. I just crawled out of my grave.” He rocked.

“Oh, come on. Do you know my brother John?” I asked. He looked about John’s age, a few years younger than me.

“I might of, when I was alive, but I just crawled out of my grave.” He rocked again in the recliner and continued to stare.

Frozen in place on the floor in front of him, I was unsure what to do. He wasn’t a dream. I hadn’t ever seen him before. Fear caught in my throat.

His rocking stopped. He raised a hand to his face, drew it back and stared at his palm with a quizzical look on his face as if he’d never seen blood before.

Lowering his hand to his lap, he rocked and looked at me. “I’m bleeding to death.”

“You said you’re already dead. How can you be bleeding to death?” It was an obvious question, or so I thought.

“I’m bleeding to death,” he repeated in a raised voice.

That scared me. Why had I questioned this dead man, this apparition covered in blood?

I started to get up, moving backward slowly and watching him closely.

“I just crawled out of my grave,” he yelled.

I got to my feet, ran around the corner, down the hall to my parents bedroom. I heard him following. By the time my dad sat up in bed and put on his glasses, the apparition was standing in the hall. He reached into the bathroom, flipped the switch, and the light fell over this teenage boy covered in blood.

“Who the hell are you?” Dad asked.

“I just crawled out of my grave. I’m dead.”

He stared back at Dad, who repeated his question.

“I just crawled out of my grave, and I need to use your bathroom.” He stepped into the bathroom. I heard the water start in the tub.

I didn’t see him again until the police officer gently coaxed him out of the tub and escorted the boy from our home.

My dead man had apparently done a few too many drugs, entertained himself by jumping from headstone to headstone in the dark cemetery and broke his nose.

Darkness and Writing

Posted on August 12, 2013 by Lori Ericson

I grew up in a cemetery. My parents owned and managed it. The darkness of that upbringing either created or helped add to the dark thoughts and skeptical attitudes that roam around in my head. It hasn’t always been an asset, but that kind of thinking often served me well in my career as a reporter, made me frequently doubt the story I was getting on the surface, made me want to dig deeper.

It’s also an asset in my fiction writing. I like a good mystery. And I love creating a story that makes the reader guess at what will happen next, makes the reader squirm a little at the harrowing situation of a beloved character, even be creeped out by the turn of events. My favorite writers write great characters and good stories that catch me off guard.

My first mystery is again on the slice and dice table as I work through some edits and push for publication. Although it won a first place award more than a year ago in a regional contest for unpublished manuscripts, I have yet to complete the edits I know it needs to make it publishable. Keep your fingers crossed for me and watch here for updates. I have a publishing company interested. We’ll see how that comes out soon!

Thanks for reading my first blog!