  Horror/Scary
This week: What If . . . . Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway
“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.”
― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt
“If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”
― Stephen King
“Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.”
― Mark Twain
“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”
― Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.”
― Stephen King, Different Seasons
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What If . . . .
I used to play the 'What If...' game with my kids when they were small: What if rain drops were red and blue? What if people wore boxes on their heads? That kind of thing. It was all great fun! But hey, they're all big now, and I sort of let the game slip away from my memory. Until recently that is, when I was stuck for a story idea and found myself asking myself, What if this? What if that? The game had returned to me, and I played it passionately.
What would happen if I fell into a BLACK HOLE?
What if earth were twice its size?
What if all the dinosaurs didn't die?
What if monsters were real?
What if zombies were invisible?
This went on for thirty minutes or so, and then it came to me: what if dead people don't really die, but are merely hidden or secreted away? The idea wasn't new, but it struck a chord. What if they just disappear and can only be seen by some and not others? And what if they just kept getting more and more pissed-off because nobody could see them, until they lost all semblance of humanity and started killing people to teach them what it was liked to be so ignored. Whoa, wait a minute . . . I feel like that now. 
Another idea was this, what if mere men could perform miracles?
I immediately came up with this intro:
BLOODSTONE
Brother Rubio Estrada rubbed his calloused thumb over the dark green piece of jasper that was cut into the shape of a crucifix. Across the skin of the stone, he could see red veins twisting and running through it, as though they pulsed with blood. It felt warm to the touch, like flesh. The monk had never seen anything like it before.
“Your crucifix, Father? No, I couldn’t possibly accept this.” He handed the cross back to the dying priest.
“Please, I insist,” he whispered. “Do an old man a favor in his final hours.”
“You are not going to die,” the monk said, forcing a smile. “You are the Miracle Man; a bout of pneumonia will surely not end you.”
“I have seen and worked many miracles before,’ the old priest said, “but I do not think saving my own life will be one of them.” He attempted to clear his throat. “But enough talk of death. I called you here to give you this, and to appoint you as the Church’s new exorcist. You are to travel to Viscera.”
“Viscera? Why?”
“I have received a message of a possession there.”
“But the monastery is there. Why can’t they take care of it?”
“They have tried , , , and failed. Two priests have died already in the attempt.”
“Died? How can that be? What is the manner of this possession that it could kill men of God.”
“It is a delicate situation. The man accused of possession is a priest. In fact, he is someone you know, Father Falgar.”
“Falgar? He is a devout and pious man, the head of the monastery. There must be some mistake.”
“No, no mistake. The report I have received says that after his return from the Holy Land he had somehow changed. The changes were subtle at first: blasphemy, anger, and then he raped a young woman during confession. The Brothers had no choice but to restrain him, imprison him. They said he had superhuman strength, spoke to them in tongues. It took six men to overpower him, chain him. That was when the first death occurred. They said he literally threw a young monk against the wall smashing in his skull.”
“My God, can this be true? But I am not ready. There is still so much to learn.”
“I have watched you. God has steered me in your direction. You are the one.”
“But my Latin is weak. I need more time.”
“This,” he said, pointing to the cross, “is about life, not death. Without it I am just a simple priest with great faith. But this is the source of all my power—my miracles. It was given to me by Pope Leo himself before assigning me out here to this god-forsaken land of peasants and farmers. As the story goes, during the crucifixion, the blood of Christ was spilled upon a small cluster of jasper gathered at the foot of the cross where it was absorbed and later gathered and fashioned into crosses. It is very old, but said to be one of the originals. In times of great need, the blood flows from the stone and into the person caring it, allowing him to perform wondrous miracles. Whether it has been my faith, or the actual blood of Christ, I do not know for sure, but when the miracles happen I’ve noticed the stone is void of any red markings.”
You try the 'What If' game and see where it takes you. I bet you'll think of all kinds of things. Hell, you could come up with something nobody has ever thought of before, and then BAM, you got a great story idea.
Until then, all the best,
billikus
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Stories That Make You Go, Uhmmm . . . .
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DEAD LETTERS
StephBee  reveals:
Reality is what we make it so if we thinking little zombies are living under the bed and need to be fed chocolate every night to leave me alone, I'll stock up on the choc!! Great newsletter Bill!
Specter  contemplates:
Hey WD,
What a provocative and philosophical NL gripping at shadows and striking down the wind that blows over into the afterlife. It gets me to reach the point of no return where I ask if photons could be no more than an illusion of all I survey. Or, that the soul types across the brain to fire off clusters and clusters of light. How becoming how the ghostly realm has always been about life, for better or worse.
Quick-Quill  explains:
Regarding: "Creating the Supernatural World"
What I deduce from your long expose' is Even crazy people have a reality. When creating a world, one must look at the realities within that world and know if they exist on earth, there will be gravity. You must deal with that fact. If something moves or flies or defies know gravity, there has to be a reason. What goes up must come down, it may be slower than a rock falling, or it could be a nanny blowing in on a breeze with an umbrella. You, the writer, must keep the perimeters of your world consistent and believable.
LJPC - the tortoise screams:
Hi Bill! I'm not sure if I read your newsletter, or dreamed I was reading it, or dreamed I was dreaming it.  I do love the paradox of the Matrix and virtual reality though. Thanks for the newsletter!
~ Laura
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Horror/Scary: March 18, 2015 Issue [#6876]
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