Not Pounded By My Handsome Sentient Stoker Award Nomination For Camp Damascus Because The Two Of Us Are Too Busy Celebrating The Fact That A Story With An Autistic Lead Character By An Autistic Author Made The Shortlist For A Major Literary Award And Now We’re Donating Some Money To Autistic Self Advocacy Network

GREETINGS BUCKAROOS as you may have heard CAMP DAMASCUS is nominated for a bram stoker award this year. this is biggest literary award in horror and i am so deeply moved by this recognition. thank you horror writers association you have proven so much love to me. i feel especially moved as an autistic buckaroo writing an explicitly autistic lead character

when things like this happen there is suddenly a LOT of attention on authors and books and that is so wonderful. as you know i am always looking for ways to PROVE LOVE IS REAL and DIRECTING this kind of attention towards good causes can often be a powerful maneuver

with that in mind i have written a new 'no sex' tingler, NOT POUNDED BY MY HANDSOME SENTIENT STOKER AWARD NOMINATION FOR CAMP DAMASCUS BECAUSE THE TWO OF US ARE TOO BUSY CELEBRATING THE FACT THAT A STORY WITH AN AUTISTIC LEAD CHARACTER BY AN AUTISTIC AUTHOR MADE THE SHORTLIST FOR A MAJOR LITERARY AWARD AND NOW WE’RE DONATING SOME MONEY TO AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK.

instead of hosting on amazon, this tingler is FREE to read and download on chucks patreon, with a suggested donation of 3 dollars to AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK, a fantastic organization that works to help autistic buckaroos, and to support the wide, unique range of this experience. i have chosen three dollars because that is what i usually sell tinglers for, but you can donate as much or as little as you like. if you cannot afford donation at this time that is just fine bud, enjoy this book on me

thank you so much for trotting along on this journey, we have come so far together and i am overwhelmed with gratitude for the buckaroo community, for each and every one of your own unique ways that create this beautiful whole. step by step we are SHAPING AND BENDING the timeline towards love TOGETHER, and there is no sign of slowing down.

so enjoy this tingler, donate if you can, and thank you again to horror writers association for this incredible honor. LOVE IS REAL LETS HECKIN TROT

When the Stoker Award nominations are announced, Chuck Tingle’s feelings are complicated. He’s honored and thankful to be considered for such a prestigious award, with all this new attention comes new forms of anxiety. In Chuck’s case, that means a whole team of paparazzi dinosaurs kicking down his door and flying through his windows.

Now Chuck’s on the run, but a chance encounter with a horror legend helps Chuck realize that it’s okay to be himself despite all this newfound pressure. Being himself is exactly what got him here in the first place.

This important tale is 4,000 words of sexless love and appreciation between Chuck Tingle and his kind and generous Stoker Award nomination.

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DONATE TO AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK HERE 

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NOT POUNDED BY MY HANDSOME SENTIENT STOKER AWARD NOMINATION FOR CAMP DAMASCUS BECAUSE THE TWO OF US ARE TOO BUSY CELEBRATING THE FACT THAT A STORY WITH AN AUTISTIC LEAD CHARACTER BY AN AUTISTIC AUTHOR MADE THE SHORTLIST FOR A MAJOR LITERARY AWARD AND NOW WE’RE DONATING SOME MONEY TO AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK

By Chuck Tingle

This brief moment is one of my favorite parts of the day, a little sliver of time where everything feels like it has slowed down to a crawl and then whole world rests within the palm of my hand. In some ways, I suppose it really does, but the world we’re talking about isn’t quite the one you might expect.

As a writer, we’re always creating other realities, crafting entire universes where the rules are slightly different than this one. It’s a beautiful exercise, and I’m grateful every day that I’ve somehow managed to build a lifestyle around this creative practice.

I’m a writer, which means I get to explore these other realms quite often. Of course, it’s still not as much as I’d like, because building one world takes plenty of time from the other. We all still need to go about our daily business: paying bills, cultivating a social life, and—for many writers—working a day job.

I’ve somehow managed to squeak by without that last prerequisite, but it’s certainly not easy. To support yourself with nothing more than your own fiction, you need to spend a lot of time in front of the keyboard. I’m always writing, and when I’m not actually putting pen to page then I’m probably thinking about the plots I’ll construct when I do.

The way I’ve managed to survive in this creative field is to walk a razor’s edge, somehow finding the fine line between healthy productivity and mental exhaustion. Not writing enough is a difficult hurdle to overcome, but so is writing too damn much and burning yourself out.

Instead, I like to focus on keeping a steady pace. I set goals for myself and follow a routine—logging these hours in a healthy, reasonable way. I’m driving at a confident rate, not hammering the keys so fast that I’m liable to spin out of control.

All of this brings me back to my initial point, an appreciation for this very specific moment of the day. This is where it all begins, where I can see the path stretching out ahead of me and understand that for the next few hours I’ll be right here writing.

I’m sitting in the dining room staring out my window at the neighborhood beyond, the early morning sun just barely making its crest over a distant horizon. The sky above is blooming with a variety of glorious shades, pinks and purples treating me to an unexpected show.

A tall glass of chocolate milk sits by my side, ready to carry me through the first hour or so of writing, at which point I’ll likely return for a refill.

I lean back into my chair and close my eyes, breathing deep and holding. I let this moment wrap itself around me, sinking into it and allowing the golden morning light to permeate my skin. Eventually, I’m forced to let this air slip from my lungs, but the peaceful feeling remains.

I’m ready to take on the day.

There’s one last thing to do before I start, though. I open up my laptop, the rectangular device now glowing before me. It would be great to immediately boot my word processer and dive in, but there’s usually a little housekeeping to do. Often this takes the form of a few emails from my publishers, or a brief trip down the social media rabbit hole.

I open my email and, for the briefest moment, assumed I must’ve logged into the wrong account. Usually, there’s three or four unopened messages waiting for my attention, but this morning I’m greeted by an entire page of fresh emails. The initial shock wears off quickly, and I’m left to figure out what could’ve caused this mighty flood of attention.

I read the subject line of the most recent message aloud to myself. “Congratulations on your nomination for this year’s-”

Before I can finished the sentence there’s an abrupt, caustic crash and a flash of movement. My body instinctively reels backwards, struggling to understand the sudden change across my senses as these various puzzle pieces wildly swirl. I feel cold air on my skin, and a shimmering cascade of flashing lights flood my eyes. I see an enormous form moving through the air from right to left.

Suddenly, time catches up with me and everything falls into place. It appears someone has just swung down from the rooftop on a taught cable, kicking through my kitchen window with the force of their whole body and blasting shards of glass across my dining room.

I fall backwards in my chair, then scramble to my feet, adrenaline surging through my veins.

The intruder is clad in a thick puffy jacket and pants, a hood pulled up and goggles covering their eyes. Their gear is tailor made for this exact kind of maneuver, a professional in their field.

“What the fuck?!” I cry out, not sure how else to interact with this masked figure.

The intruder swiftly pulls off their hood and goggles, revealing the face of a triceratops underneath. She reaches into her coat and withdraws a wireless, handheld microphone, thrusting it towards me.

“How does it feel to have Camp Damascus get nominated for a Stoker Award?” she demands to know.

“What?” I ask, understanding her words just fine but unable to process this moment. It’s as if my brain has frozen solid, stimulation moving in and out of this frightened organ but my body unable to catch up with it.

“How does it feel?” she yells. “How does it feel?!”

I start pushing past her, overwhelmed by all the chaos and instinctually making my escape. The primal part of my mind has taken over, an alarm urging me to find a safe, quiet place as quickly as possible.

I’m headed for the front door, making my way down the hallway towards this beautiful rectangle of freedom. Before I get the chance to cross through this looming threshold, however, there’s a deafening bang. The door nearly flies off its hinges—kicked wide open.

A muscular T-Rex now stands in my path, a large camera sitting on his shoulder and his eye glued to the viewfinder.

“You’re Chuck Tingle, right?” he calls out.

“Uh, I don’t... I mean—yes,” I stammer back, still struggling to get ahold of myself and build an escape route that will steer clear of all this frenetic dinosaur chaos.

“What’s it like to be nominated for a Stoker Award?” the T-Rex asks, marching toward me.

I skid to a stop and immediately spin on my heels, taking off in the other direction. I sprint back the way I came, just barely escaping the hallway before I’m trapped by a dinosaur accosting me from either end. Instead, I duck and dodge, maneuvering my way through the living room and towards my backdoor.

A pterodactyl emerges from behind the couch as I chart my course, extending a microphone of her own. I somehow manages to spin away and leap over a nearby armchair. I roll end over end, then keep on moving, heading straight for the backdoor and slamming my body against it.

I twist the handle in sync with my movements, somehow hitting it just right and bursting out into the backyard without a moment’s hesitation. My feet are slamming hard against the grass now, beating with just as much intensity as the thunderous hammer of my heart.

I run along the side of the house, heading for the gate, but as I round the corner a figure emerges to stop me. I’m sprinting too fast to adjust my course, and suddenly all the movement of my body stops with a mighty thud.

I stagger back, flustered and confused as I gasp for air. The wind has been knocked from my lungs.

My eyes rise up and lock with the figure who blocked my path. It’s a sentient gothic castle, ivory in coloration and featuring a little open door at the front. The words Stoker Award are emblazoned within the tiny door, and above this rests a smiling face.

A scream erupts from my mouth, this primal cry carrying on and on with such violent passion that a flock of birds erupt from a nearby tree. The floating award immediately joins me with a scream of their own, equally caught off guard by my sudden appearance.

We both turn in unison, taking off in opposite directions. The movement of my feet has not slowed at all, and if anything, I’m sprinting away from this chaos and danger with even more gusto than before. As I cross back through the yard I see all three dinosaurs barreling after me, camera’s pointed and microphones outstretched. I kick into overdrive, narrowly avoiding them as I continue towards the fence.

Initially, I’d headed for the gate, but it appears my new path will have to do. It’s still not a guarantee that I’ll actually make it over the top of this wooden barrier, but there’s absolutely no way if I don’t put all the energy I can muster into this.

With my final step, I spring off of the grass and leap into the air, somehow managing to get my arms up over the fence and then slamming my lower body against it with a bang. The momentum carries me onward, and soon enough I’m pulling myself up over the edge and tumbling onto the other side. I hit the ground hard and then scramble to my feet, unwilling to slow down for even a second.

Behind my house is a reasonably large swath of woods, the forest stretching out before me with its thick underbrush and tall evergreen trees. This particular section is quite difficult terrain, a steep hill that leads down to a creek below, but I don’t have the luxury of pacing myself on this incline.

Ferns and branches whip against my face as I push onward, my eyes peeled wide to scan for the path of least resistance. With every passing second I’ve put another several feet between myself and these strange intruders, and as these seconds turn into minutes I find their prehistoric cries disappearing into the distance.

Still, I don’t slow down, and it’s this drive that eventually becomes my undoing. I take another step and my foot snags under a root, the tree yanking hard against my appendage and sending my body hurling forward through the air. I hit the ground hard, the whole world plunging into darkness.

“Oh, what a terrible way to go,” comes an unexpected voice. “I’m so glad you didn’t end up face down in the babbling brook.”

These words cut through the dark abyss of my mind. Slowly, I become aware of my body, the senses returning to me one by one and placing my form at the center of a curious natural scene.

I’m on my back, and a faint trickle of water is rolling along right beside me. It dances and swirls in my right ear, sending a chill down my spine.

My first attempt to open my eyes is fruitless, the lids refusing to budge. I try again, giving this one even more gusto, and soon enough a sliver of daylight slices its way through the blank void. Wider and wider this line gets until it consumes my entire field of vision, a blur of dark green with faint speckles of blue and a singular black orb at the center.

“There you are,” the voice continues.

When the blur finally sharpens I find myself face to face with an enormous vampire bat, the creature dangling from a branch above me. It stares down with ferocious intensity, it’s beady eyes locked onto mine.

“Are you… a talking bat?” I groan.

“Of course, that’s not a talking bat,” comes the voice, its origin much easier to pinpoint now. This sound is not coming from the creature perched above, but a figure sitting on the fallen log nearby.

I sit up, letting out a long groan and rubbing the back of my head. My skull aches, lingering trauma from whatever rock broke my fall. I can see now that I’m laid out next to a small stream.

Before me is a man in a black suit with a crimson bag of his head. A hole has been cut so that his mouth is visible, and his eyes are covered by dark sunglasses. Across the forehead of his red sack, a phrase is scrawled in jet black ink: you are one of the lights.

The man’s appearance is shocking, not just because his attire is completely unexpected, but because it’s a strange variation on something that I often wear myself. When writing under the pen name Chuck Tingle, I take a myriad of precautions to keep my identity private. When I’m making a public appearance, I cover myself up in the exact same way, only mybag is bright pink, and the words written across its forehead are love is real.

“Oh, hi,” I blurt. “Who are you?”

“Does it look like I want anyone to know who I am?” says the man in the red bag. “Who do you think I am?”

“Can I get a hint?”

The man in the bag laughs for a moment, finding this question amusing for reasons I can’t quite understand. Eventually, he stops, and although I can’t see a face to read his expression, I get the feeling he’s having a sudden realization.

“Wait, are you joking?” the man asks. “You really need a hint?”

I nod.

The man with the red bag over his head considers this. “Well, I’m a horror author just like you.”

I wait for more, but it appears that’s all I’m getting.

“Stephen King?” I guess.

“No!” the man in the mask erupts. “Read my forehead!”

“You are one of the lights,” I recite aloud. “And?”

The man lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “You don’t read the classics do you?”

I shake my head. “I wear a bag, though,” I state, hoping to find a middle ground and get back into his good graces. “Mine says ‘love is real’ across the forehead.”

“I know you have a bag,” he informs me. “That’s why I’m here. Us masked authors gotta stick together.”

The giant black bat squeaks and chirps, pulling my attention back up to its hanging, upside-down form. “Blood is life!” the creature calls out. “Blood is life!”

The answer suddenly hits me, nearly bowling me over backwards. “Wait, are you trying to say that you’re Edgar Allen Poe?”

The figure pauses for a moment, then lets out an even longer sigh. “Think about the award you were just nominated for.”

I consider this, furrowing my brow and then relaxing when a sudden realization washes over me. “Ohhhhhh!”

“There you go.”

My confidence doesn’t last long, however, confusion swiftly returning. “Hasn’t he been dead for like… over a hundred years?”

“Or has he?”

“I’m pretty sure he has,” I press.

The figure on the log stands up, this change in body language signifying an enormous shift in our conversation. He’s got something important to say.

I find myself rising, too, pulling myself from the ground despite the various aches and pains.

“There is no death certificate for the author in question,” this figure reminds me. “There is, however, plenty of evidence that he dabbled in sorcery, learning about the strings that connect this universe to the next. It’s said that he learned about the mystical powers of life extension, defying the ravages of time and age. He learned to transform his body, granting himself an entirely new appearance before faking his death and disappearing.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I counter.

“Is it?”

The man reaches up and grips the edge of his crimson bag. He holds the fabric tight, taking his time and then slowly lifting it up to reveal his face. To my amazement, the visage underneath belongs to someone I recognize—an actor.

“Chris Evans?” I fumble. “Wait, what?”

“That’s right,” Chris confirms with a nod. “These days I go Chris Evans, Hollywood actor, but centuries ago I was none other than the author in question. When you know what got published I started to see some real success, but that’s also when I started to realize fame wasn’t for me. I got into magic and, well, now I’m Chris Evans.”

“That’s…” I start, not entirely sure what to say. “The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Who’s writing this?”

“You are,” he reminds me bluntly.

Deep down, I know he’s right, but that doesn’t stop the self-sabotage. “None of this makes any sense. Why would the author in question want to act in superhero movies? There a time and a place for surrealist narrative, and then there’s… whatever this is.”

I throw my hands up in frustration.

Sensing my tension, Chris steps forward and places his hand on my shoulder in a soothing gesture. “Hey, hey,” he says, calm and confident. “We’ll get through this. I know what you’re feeling.”

“I just don’t know how we’re gonna pull this one out,” I stammer, the tears welling up in my eyes. “A lot of people are gonna be reading this story because it’s free, you know? I’m always trying to create something great, but when you get nominated for a Stoker Award you suddenly have ten times the pressure. This weird little free story is going to be the first thing a bunch of folks actually read of mine, and it’s gonna be weird as fuck.”

Chris’ eyes remain steady. “We’ll get through this,” he repeats, somehow even more convincing this time. It’s as though every time this phrase passes over me it becomes a little truer, chipping away at some enormous emotional block piece by piece to reveal the treasure hidden within.

“I actually think this is a perfect showcase for you,” Chris Evans explains. “It’s got so many of your hallmarks. You’ve become self-aware as a character in a Chuck Tingle book. There’s the dinosaurs at your house-”

“Oh gawd!” I cry out, throwing my hands up again. “Not the dinosaurs at my house! Nobody is gonna get that!”
 “They don’t have to,” Chris assures me. “It’s The Tingleverse, buddy. It’s worldbuilding. You’ve also got the meta references to Chris Pine.”

“But you’re Chris Evans!” I shout.

“But I’m a figure representing another author, a character who runs parallel to your experience and can offer advice as it relates to the theme of this story. A horror legend who decides to hide their face and feels nervous about their potential looming success thanks to one of their publications gaining a bunch of attention suddenly. That’s what this whole thing is about.”

The panic within me suddenly dissipates, a single phrase from this diatribe sticking in my mind and repeating over and over again.

“I feel nervous about my potential looming success?” I repeat back to him.

“Yeah.”

“Why? I’ve had plenty of success before. I’ve been nominated for two Hugo Awards. I’ve been on TV,” I explain. “I mean, it’s really cool to be nominated for a Stoker Award, and I’m honored, I really am, but it’s also a single step on the journey of my life. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a very cool step, but…” I trail off. “Why would I feel soanxious about this moment that I write a whole short story and publish it immediately after the shortlist is announcement?”

Chris Evans grins knowingly. “That’s kinda the whole point of feelings, right? The point of art. It doesn’t always have to make complete sense on the first pass… or ever.”
 I nod. “I guess you’re right.”

“You keep worrying about this story being too bizarre and surreal and chaotic, but honestly, that’s what art is sometimes. The Tingleverse is a place for you to work out your feelings, whether it’s the political news of the day, or a viral moment online, or just something in your personal life. This is the space for you to express yourself. To be your free, unfiltered self. Right now, our story is wild and complicated, but it makes sense because that’s exactly what your feelings are.”

“I can see that,” I admit.

“All art doesn’t need to follow the same structure, it doesn’t need to serve the same purpose,” Chris explains. “Your horror novels are one thing, and your Tingleverse shorts are another. This is your place to let it rip.”

“Is that my purpose?” I ask. “Is that what we’re doing here?”

Chris shakes his head. “Two goals, actually. First, letting it rip. Second, we’re celebrating by raising money for the Autistic Self Advocacy Network, because you’re autistic and so is the main character of Camp Damascus, and a book with killer autistic representation getting nominated for a major literary award is very, very cool.”

“Oh, okay then!” I reply. “That sounds great.”

A new thought suddenly erupts through my mind. “Wait, on the reader’s timeline is Camp Damascus as weird as what’s happening right now?”

Chris Evans laughs. “No, but Bury Your Gays kinda is.”

I nod along, not entirely sure what that means, but appreciating the sound of it just the same. “So, now that we’ve figured out all this stuff, do we just sit here until the story ends?”

“No. Hell no,” Chris retorts. “Listen, just because you’re getting all experimental with fourth wall breaks, that doesn’t mean you don’t have to tie up loose ends. You’ve still gotta learn and grow as a character.”

I don’t even need to ask what he means by this. I finally know exactly where this story is headed.

The dinosaur paparazzi are thankfully gone by the time I return, but their damage is apparent. The fence is broken where I hurled myself over the top of its wooden planks, and as I stroll up the front walk I can see my door hanging awkwardly off its bottom hinge, kicked open so hard that it barely maintained its shape.

I enter, then stroll down the front hallway and turn to face the dining room, expecting to find a disastrous sea of shattered glass covering the table and the floor. What I find, however, is completely different.

The inside of my house still needs some work, but someone’s been cleaning.

The physical manifestation of my Stoker Award nomination glances up, a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. “Oh, hey,” he says. “I can leave if you want. I just wanted to tidy up a bit before I take off. They really did a number on this place.”

“You don’t have to leave,” I say. “This is so, so kind. I really appreciate it.”

I walk into the dining room, motioning to my table which is now blissfully clean of any renegade shards.

“Can we sit?” I ask.

The physically manifested castle-shaped award floats over to the table and pulls out a chair, taking his place across from me.

“Things got pretty nuts this morning,” I start. “I think those dinosaur paparazzi represented all the attention an awards nomination can drive, and it was a little overwhelming. The point is, even though the attention can feel like a lot, I really do appreciate you. It’s not your fault at all, and I’m very honored.”

“Oh, thank you,” the physically manifestation nomination replies, clearly touched by my words.

“When I ran into you in the backyard I was scared,” I continue. “I shouldn’t have been. You’ve been nothing but kind to me. I’m sorry I had to work all that out by writing a piece of surrealist non-sexual erotica where Chris Evans is actually the notable horror author you’re named after who uses sorcery to change his appearance and extend his lifespan and now he has to come by and help me break to fourth wall to understand that it’s okay to fully be myself when the spotlight turns my way, in fact ‘being myself’ is usually why the spotlight turns my way.”

“Wait, did you say non-sexual erotica?” the Stoker Award nomination replies.

“This time around. Yeah.”

“Why non-sexual?”

“Because usually a story’s problem is solved through a sexual encounter,” I explain, “but this time around it’s solved by raising a little money for the Autistic Self Advocacy Network at autisticadvocacy.org.”

A smile begins to creep its way across the physical manifestation’s face. “I know story structure pretty damn well and I’ve gotta be honest, that barely makes any sense.”

“Every single piece of art doesn’t haven’t to make sense,” I reply, giving my friend a playful wink. “I do understand one thing know about this story, though. It feels great.”