Published, now what?

Well I hit one of my earliest milestones in my writing career and that is to be published. My short story “Cycles” has been published in The Absent Willow Review. The lovely people over there also managed to pair the story with a horrific painting of a vampire which is awesome! After publication I spotted some spelling errors, but hey even Harry Potter has mistakes.

I want to branch out more. The week hiatus I took as I dealt with school issues seemed to disrupt the amount of page views I was receiving, but I will keep posting to the end! As I write this, I have a half dozen short stories in various stages of completion; all eager to seek some sort of recognition. I’ll be doing another mad dash at magazines to try and pair some of my stories with homes. Over a month ago I mentioned a serial fiction series and that has not been abandoned. Sometime early August I will be putting that through full force, but I’ll keep u guys up to the minute on it on my twitter @damianrucci.

I’ve been inspired by some authors that I’ve met on twitter like Michelle Franklin, who’s new e-book, Tales from Frewyn is receiving awesome reviews (and I will be reviewing it sometime this week once Amazon recognizes my kindle reader on my mac!). These inspirations have driven me to start planning an e-book that I hope to launch in mid-July. This book would contain some horror shorts, poetry, and two novellas I have lying around.

Well just checking in for today, does anyone know how to register the kindle reader for mac?

Damian

My First Short Story has been published!

My first short story “Cycles” has been published today in The Absent Willow Review; a free online horror magazine. Cycles is a tale of a true-to-life vampire lost in New York City. Here’s a sampler and then you can click the link to give the story a read

                                                    “Cycles”

The chair was cold against my skin, I couldn’t tell if it was wood or metal but it didn’t really matter. What mattered were the ropes binding my wrists and ankles to the damned thing and the gag in my mouth.  I couldn’t remember what had happened or where I was, my head ached though and I could feel a knot bulging out near my temple. Where was I? It was dark, so dark that I couldn’t even tell if my eyes were open or closed, not that it made a difference at all. Was I robbed? I tried to struggle in the chair to see if my wallet was in my pocket but I couldn’t tell. I was tied too tight to the chair.

The gag felt like some sort of cloth; my tongue flicked against it and immediately shrank away from the metallic taste of blood stained into the gag. I choked on its strength and tried to lurch forward but I couldn’t. Who did this to me I didn’t know, but more importantly I didn’t know what they wanted. Were they coming back? Were they even here? I couldn’t tell, but I felt the room shake, I assumed that was a nice side effect from the swelling bump on my head; probably a small concussion. I continued to gag on the blood in my mouth; if the person who had me bound here didn’t come back for me I was going to choke and suffocate on the cloth gag.

Read the rest here

Hey guys please click the share buttons below V to share this with more people! Thank you!

I’m Alive- Back to the Drawingboard & 3 more days!!

Woo. Well hello world I am alive and well, and now that school is drawing to a close within three days I will be taking this literary game by storm. The past couple weeks haven’t been done without merit; prom, a weekend away at the shore, and a plethora of missing homework that finally has found a home! I’m back to The Gray Pen and talking to all of you lovely people out there, both readers and writers.

I graduate from high school on Wednesday the 15th, but that is not the big deal; my first short story “Cycles” will appear in the Absent Willow Review the following day! “Cycles” is a horror tale based in The Great Apple and focusing on the urban life of a vampire. I’ll be posting a snippet on the blog with a link to the website for all to read. While I’ve been away I’ve been honing the plots on a group of stories that will be sent out shortly.

Tonight I’ll be posting a new poem, and though I won’t be posting poetry daily like I was back in Napowrimo, I’ll be sharing one or two a week.

From prom

Well this is my return from my little vacation; can’t wait to speak to all of you again!

Another New Story: The Old Box

                                                                        The Old Box

©http://theinspirationroom.com/

by D.F. Rucci

I knew an old man, who lived in an old cabin. He would sit on his old chair, and think of the old days. His hair was gray, and his eyes were old and wise yet cold. For as each day came by, the blue in his pupils grew weary and gray. When he grew tired of sitting on his old chair, on the old porch which barely hung from the front of the cabin, he would bring himself inside it’s old frame.  The cabin was bare, as bare and cold as his lonely heart, nothing stood in its wall besides a small table, and an old box.

The box was made of wood and metal, and looked like a chest. For as long as the old man could remember, he remembered the box as something so valuable, so precious that he may never open it. He grew curious and he grew stubborn and he would trail his fingers over it’s course exterior, dreaming of what could be inside. His eyes would swell and his old fingers would fumble for its padlock, but he would never open it. It was forbidden to open the box, for the box was as old and weary as he was.

Times came slow, and slower as the winters take grasp of the forests around his cabin, keeping him from his old chair, on the old porch. Times like these he would find himself staring at the box, always staring at the box, for the box was ancient and wise and it was his box after all. When he would get especially lonely and bored he would polish his father’s old Winchester, careful as to avoid the deep red stains on it’s barrel. Such a thing was important, such a thing was there to remind him of the past, but he couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember after all, but he did want to know what was in that box.  Always what was in that box.

Sometimes at night, when he would lay on the old floor in his old cabin, he had dreams; rather nightmares that kept him awake most of the night. He thought of a young girl most of the time, he didn’t remember if he had known her or maybe he had just made her up, but she kept him up most of the time.  Whatever she was, she made him sad, bringing old tears to his old eyes, and still couldn’t recall anything. But whenever he thought of her, he thought of the Winchester and he wept. This never perplexed or confused him so to say, for it was the way it had always been, and once he grew disheartened he would forget soon after, most of the time anyway.

It happened one night after he had spent most of the time in his own old thoughts, that he stumbled over to the old table, which held the old box. With reddened eyes and trembling hands he shook the box and he yelled.  Cursing it, cursing whatever it held. His old voice quivered and he shook it with violent strength until the padlock broke free from the old box spilling it’s insides over the old table:

A pink ribbon, a gold ring, and a photo of a young boy and girl lay on the old table.  The Winchester cried out and the old man found peace.

Like the story? Click the buttons below to share it with your friends   VV

No Rejections Stopping Me!

Hello readers!

How are you all doing on this spring day?

Best pic I could fine

I