Belated Update

Hey gang, just a quick update.  Things have been pretty busy here as of late but I'm getting back to work on the second book which I'm co-writing.  It's a different kind of anthology with 10 stories and a framing story around them.  I'm so reluctant to call it a horror book as it's not really your standard horror.  My co-writer, A.D. Simms, says it's more of a psychological thriller anthology.  I refer to it as a horror book for people who don't generally like or read horror as it doesn't really have ghosts, monsters, etc etc.  Either way, it's over %50 finished and should be completed by mid-March.  While I'd like to send it to just Supposed Crimes, my current publisher, my co-writer would like it sent everywhere and see where the book would be best suited.

When this book of strange tales is complete, I'll be jumping right into the re-writes on my first sci-fi book.  I'm very excited for it.  It's very different and very different for me as well.

Gun Control for Polar Bears is still available on most sites you can order books from (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc).  Regardless of its title it is NOT a book about gun control; it's a poetry book.  The poems don't follow a lyrical rhyme scheme but are more abstract in nature.

A lot of things are on the horizon.
Stay tuned.

Twenty Four Hour Demon - A Short Story

Another more personal short story of mine.  I'm finding I'm liking writing in first person and when I'd thought of this story it lend itself perfectly to it.  I hope you enjoy it. 

Twenty Four Hour Demon

By Christopher Michael Carter

I slept well.  I feel refreshed.  I get out of bed with perfect fluid movement and am thankful, for yesterday this wasn’t the case…

We think we know ourselves pretty well, better than those around us, but we all have the capability of losing control.  We are all players in the universe’s mystery and we are all susceptible to unknown forces.  The night before last I had went to sleep feeling just fine and was on a regular sleeping routine; however, I had woken up feeling more tired than what I was going to sleep.  ‘What did I dream?’  I thought, believing perhaps I had gone through another exhausting nightmare draining any and all of my waking energy.  I couldn’t remember for the life of me.  It felt as if there was someone was on either side of my bed holding down the sheets firmly.  Imagine waking up to someone putting all their weight on you with multiple hands holding your limbs down with an unrelenting grip.  I tried to get up but was feeling overly heavy as if being held down by some invisible force.  Gravity was against me on every level as simply lifting my head was quite the chore.  ‘What is this!?  What’s wrong with me!?’  I thought in pure fear and terror. 

I tried to get up for a half hour to no avail realizing that I should probably go back to sleep.  I shut my eyes and tried to drift back to sleep but my mind seemed as heavy as my physical state.  I was thinking about everything all at once however there was no focus to be found.  I would’ve tossed and turned if I was allowed but I lied there like a stone monument.  My eyelids were too heavy to keep open yet when they were shut they couldn’t relax enough to sleep.  My entire being began to ache and I mustered up enough energy to turn over to my side and my insides felt like the crew of a capsizing ship on the sea.  I hurt all over and tried to force myself up but that feeling of vengeful gravity wasn’t having it.  I felt as if something had entered me and taken over; something sinister.  Was this a spirit?  Was I being possessed or is my house haunted?  Had I caught a parasite?  Was I bitten by something in my sleep?  It was all overwhelming.  I felt my eyes welling up but no tears followed so I tried to yell for someone to help me up but my vocals wouldn’t cooperate as I couldn’t get more than a grunt or moan out.  I would’ve loved to cry.  It would’ve been a great release, but no tears would come; no release.

This was driving me crazy, being held down against my will.  I moved for my phone, just out of reach; my hand feeling like solid stone.  I couldn’t reach the phone and I was drifting off.  I was blacking out but still couldn’t fall asleep which, frighteningly, was making no sense to me.  What was this damn force with its grasp on me?  I was being held captive by my own body.  If it wasn’t for the pain I would say I was completely numb but I had plenty of feeling with no ability to move.  This invisible being, whatever it was, was relentless in its quest to keep my motor skills and functionality at bay.  I was firmly in its iron grip.  This thing’s large hands held my arms and legs and would constantly push my head back down whenever I could get it lifted.  It was as if my head was in a vice while the rest of me lay in wet cement and nobody was around, not that they could’ve really helped me fight it from the outside.

Its touch was all over me; too aggressive to be a caress.  Head to toe I was being strangled by this entity.  It was suffocating, like an unwanted hug in which they refused to let go of.  ‘What does it want with me?  What does it gain by debilitating me?’  I would’ve asked it if only I could’ve spoken.  ‘Let me go!  Let me GO!’  My brain screamed while incapacitated.  ‘Please…  Please…’  My foe didn’t care about my internal cries.  There was no negotiating or pleading with this…thing as it had its way with me, its prey.  I had become a small mouse caught beneath the paw of a hungry cat or a weak child held down by bullies in a schoolyard.  My bed was quicksand and I was struggling and falling deeper into the depths of its hold.  I had to fight it, but how; it’s me. 

I had to fight to pull my eyes open properly and when I did, every facial muscle pulled up to make sure they’d stay open.  Every time I blinked I had used the same energy to make sure they didn’t snap back shut.  I felt like titanium tentacles with the occasional barb tethered me down and my captor was refusing to let me up.  Despite this feeling I mustered up enough adrenaline and might to throw my legs over the side of the bed.  After having to reload, I slung my body up to a sitting position.  It’s as if I was drugged, sitting there in a daze.  I could feel the gravitational like force pulling me back down but I had already made it so far.  I rocked back and forth a couple of times before shooting myself up to my feet.

The sensation was like standing while going through flu symptoms however beyond the weighty heft I didn’t feel sick at all.   I walked like a child new to the motion with robotic-like and aimless steps while I had brought my still-heavy arms up for balance; even if it was the illusion of such.  After a few steps I began to stumble but caught myself at the wall.  When I walked I felt like I was dragging dead weight around; it tried its hardest to immobilize me and for the most part was doing quite well.  I fought past it and continued through the house trying to do daily chores in hopes to break this phase; I had hoped it was a phase anyway.  Everything I did was like I was watching through someone else’s eyes, through someone else’s body.  I was on complete autopilot, doing my daily routine without actual control over my body.  I was doing exactly what I wanted my body to do but there was no mental or emotional connection.

Whatever had taken hold of my body and mind had developed a certain kind of lamination over my being that separated my feeling the actual actions and the reality of what was going on.  The autopilot feeling lasted all day and I couldn’t honestly focus on anything for the hours in which I was under this spell.  I was thinking about every little thing going on in my life but each thought passed me by like strangers on the street.  Whatever was ailing me, this unseen energy that had drained mine wasn’t letting go.  The zombie-like state lasted all through the day and into the evening when I’d finally fall asleep from exhaustion of fighting my hidden attacker for so long. 

I slept like the dead and woke up this morning starting with a sense of fear as if I’d go through it again.  I found myself fully functional and in control.  I felt refreshed and thankful that my struggle was nothing more than a twenty-four hour bug of sorts; or a twenty-four hour demon.  This concealed enemy had hijacked my entire being, controlling and abusing my person.  The intruder and I battled beneath my shell for an entire day as I struggled against my aggressor forcing itself on me.  I was a victim of this uninvited guest who had snuck in; this invader that had forced itself in and taken advantage of my nervous system. 

I got up and out of bed with the greatest of ease and I’m enjoying my freedom.  I don’t feel any side effects or aftershocks of its hold but I certainly remember what it felt like and I curse the day it happens again.  I’m certain it will come again, and I won’t be ready because it will surely creep up on me as it did yesterday.  Until that day comes I’m going to enjoy functionality and control over my own vessel.  I am able to walk without stumble and talk without stutter.  I’m able to laugh and converse; having control over my emotions again is a near-euphoric feeling.  When yesterday I walked like a novice, today I move like a seasoned vet with a spring in my step.  I can form thoughts and control them at will.  All of which are controls we take for granted on a daily basis and it’s frightening when they’re subdued against our will.

I’m happy but leery of my attacker’s presence.  This intruder lives with me; an unwanted roommate.  I go through this every so often and knowing this doesn’t make the restraint feel any better; doesn’t cushion the blow or soften the feeling of being forced upon or taken advantage of.  This is a common day, sadly enough, when you have Multiple Sclerosis.  When the fatigue takes hold, there’s no protection and I feel like a victim of un-sexual-rape.  It’s a horror that I’ll neither get used to nor grow comfortable with; being bound by neurological chains that feels the equivalent of demonic possession.  Yesterday I was mentally and emotionally on my deathbed and today I feel quite human; who knows what tomorrow will bring?  

I’m almost afraid to find out.

About a Clown - A Short Story

This is another old one of mine that remained unfinished for a long time.  It started out as a short script.  I finally dug it up, converted it to a short story, finished it and here it is, "About a Clown"...

About a Clown

By Christopher Michael Carter

This is Bob.  He gets out of the shower.  Once dried he wipes the steam and sweat off of the bathroom mirror.  With his makeup kit on the sink he begins painting his face white.  He’s staring into the mirror with his face now painted stark white when his beautiful wife enters and puts her arms around him.

Bob sits on the end of the bed with his wife holding his left arm while her head’s on his shoulder.

A pair of red clown shoes sits on the floor.

She’s sitting back on the bed watching TV while he’s putting his shoes on at the end of the bed.

They’re at the door as Bob’s about to leave for work decked out in complete clown garb.  Both of them are smiling.  They kiss.

“I’ll try not to be too late.”  Bob says.

“Knock ‘em dead, honey.  I love you.”  She replies.

He responds, “Love you too.” 

“Oh wait!  You almost forgot!”  She grabs his big red nose for his costume off of the coffee table and gives it to him.

“Thanks, babe.  What would I be without you?” 

“You’ll never have to find out…”  She says lovingly.

He puts the nose on and exits.  She shuts the door and sighs.

In the night club we’re at floor level looking up at him on stage.  He’s in his clown shoes, a blue and white costume with white gloves, his face is painted with a big red nose and bright red wig.  He’s just finished his comedy set with a rubber chicken in his hand.  Everyone’s laughing.

“Thank you everyone!”  Bob concludes, “Good night!”  The clown exits the stage.  Fans and attendees discuss the show at their tables. 

“Ah, man, he’s hilarious.”  A man says.

A woman adds, “He’s so funny.  I’ve been to all his shows.”

Backstage Bob stands with the club’s owner, Vince.

“Think they dug it?”  Bob’s always thinking about the audience.

“You kiddin’ me?”  Vince started, “You killed ‘em out there!  That rubber chicken joke got ‘em good!  I can’t wait to hear what the new stuff is like.”

“Well when it comes to me you’ll be the first person to know.”

“How come your wife never comes to your shows?  I bet she’d love it; her man bein’ a big time comedian.”

“Eh, she just doesn’t like crowds.”

“Understandable.  My sister’s the same way.  Well alright, Bobby, you have a good night.”

“You too, Vinny.”  The two men exit in separate directions.

At the local bar, The Tide, Bob enters, walking through the door.  People are clapping.  Tony, the bartender looks over at the clown, “Hey!  There he is!  How’d the show go, champ?”  Tony sets Bob up with a shot of alcohol and the clown approaches the bar.

“Eh, it seemed to go okay.”  Bob the Clown shrugged as a drunken customer comes to his side, “Okay!?  He was funny as hell.  Heh, I think I peed a little.”

“Thanks, friend.”  Chuckles Bob while patting his fan on the back.  The drunken man walks back to his group and Bob sighs before taking his shot.

“Think I’m gonna head out.”  Bob starts to leave.

“You headin’ out already?”  Tony shrugs throwing his towel over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go home and get me some lovin’.”

“Alright, later.”  Tony chuckles.

At the apartment building, Bob’s walking up the stairs to their apartment humming a tune stuck in his head.  He opens the door and hears his wife moaning.  He takes off his bright red wig and opens the bedroom door just a crack to see what’s going on to find his wife having sex with another man.  He drops his wig in almost a slow motion and he’s gone before it hits the floor.  He leaves; the door shuts.  They hear it.

“Oh shit.”  The guy says.

“Oh my God!”  The adulteress says with her hand on her head. 

She opens the door and sees the bright red wig lying there on the floor before her.  She kneels down and picks it up.  A sad look clouds her face.

“What?  What is it?”  The man says walking over to her.

“He was here.  He knows.”

“Then I guess he got the hint and took a hike.  What’s the problem?”  The guy says putting his arm around her.  She knocks his arm off and pushes him away, “Asshole…”  The man returns to the bed, “C’mon, babe…  C’mon…”  She looks like she hates herself.

Meanwhile Bob’s walking down the street whistling the theme to The Incredible Hulk TV series.

Back at The Tide, Bob enters the bar again looking as glum as ever.

Tony sees this, “Whoa, Bob, who died?”

“My trust.” 

Tony gives the man a beer, “What happened, man?”

Another drunk customer approaches the clown, “Heya, Bobby, how’s life treatin’ ya?”

Bob gives him a look from the corner of his eye, “He’s sleepin’ with my wife.”

The man laughs, “Funny guy, this one.  Have a good one, Bobby.”

“Yup.”  The man leaves.

“Man, that bitch!  I’m sorry, bro.  That’s rough shit.”  Tony sympathizes.

“You’re tellin’ me.”

“Man, I’d probably kill a bitch if she did that to me.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

Tony looks around before coming in closer whispering, “You gonna kill your wife?”

“I’m thinking about it.”  He says taking a drink of his beer.

“Gettin’ a little fucked up, don’t ya think?”

“It’s already fucked up.  I gave that girl my heart.  You saw the ones I passed up for her.”  Bob shakes his head, still in disbelief.

“Bombshells, total knockouts…”

“Then you see what I’m sayin’.  What if…  What if you went home tonight and Shirley was fucking some dude in your bed?”

“Alright, I get it.  One sec…”  Tony walks away from his friend for a moment.  Bob continues drinking and lights up a cigarette. 

Tony’s on the phone, “Hey, honey, it’s me.  No, no, everything’s fine.  How’re things there?  Oh yeah?  Okay.  Anyone there?  Oh, your sister?  Okay.  No, hun, nothing’s wrong.  Okay, talk to you later tonight.  Bye”

Tony walks back to the end of the bar where Bob is sitting.  “So what did you say when you caught them?”

“Nothing.  They didn’t see me.  I saw ‘em and booked it.”

“Damn.”

“I know.”

Bar local, Jim, approaches the bar.

“Ay, Jimbo.”  Tony greets him.

“Ay, guys.  What’s up, Bobby?  Girl problems?”

“You can say that.”

“Broads, huh?  Say, whena re you gonna hook me up with a couple of tickets to your show?”

Bob turns to Jim, “Jimbo, you show up and I’ll get you in the show.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.  Bob, you take care.  Tony, I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

Tony stops him briefly, “Jimmy, you got a driver?”

“I’m hailin’ a cab.  I’m good.”  

“Alright, later.” 

Jim exits.  Bob looks deep in thought.

“Another beer?”  Tony asks.

“Nah, I’m good.”  He’s still stone faced.

“You think he’s still there?”

“Maybe.”  Bob shrugs.

“You’re not gonna try to patch things up, are ya?”  Tony’s face scrunches.

He lets out a stifled chuckle, “C’mon, Tony, how long we known each other?”

“You’re right.”

“Go home to Shirley tonight and you love the shit out of her.  I’m goin’ home.”  Bob gets up.

He walks to the door still in a daze.

“Bobby, you’re not gonna do anything crazy, are ya?”  The worried friend asks.

Bob stops and thinks to himself, “You never know.  Hey, Tony, what do you call a live cheating wife?”

“I don’t know.  What?”

“Lucky…”

Tony nervously laughs.

“I’ll be fine.  Have a good night, Tony.”

“You too.”  Bob leaves while Tony speaks to himself, “She might not be so lucky,” before refilling drinks.

Bob the Clown continues to walk home in a trance; his expression an about face to his makeup.  He kindly waves to people in the street in passing while continuing his journey home as if nothing was bothering him. 

Upon getting to the apartment building he looks up to his window to see a dim light and shadows.  Bob opens the passenger door to his car and gets into his glove box to retrieve his pistol he keeps for safety.  The door is shut and he takes another look up at the window before taking a deep breath and pushing forward.

He slowly walks up the stairs he’s walked for years, this time with a purpose; he’s a man on a mission.  The clown reaches the door and opens it slowly, scanning the living room.  He quietly closes the door behind him locking it.  He treads lightly in his large red clown shoes.

Back at The Tide, Tony continues to work but the conversation with his friend is weighing heavily on his mind.  He stops, thinking to himself, and goes over to the phone, picking it up. 

The apartment’s quiet but he can hear slight chatter from the bedroom; no moaning this time.  He sees his wig still on the floor and bends down to pick it up.  He puts it on positioning it correctly and cocks his gun.

In the bedroom the man is getting dressed while his partner in this affair is dressed and sitting on the end of the bed.

“I just don’t think we should do this anymore…”  She says shaking her head.

He’s struck by this, “What?  You can’t be serious?  What’s with all this shit about how you don’t love him and you want us to be together.  I thought you loved ME.  Don’t you want me?”  He’s furious. 

She’s confused, “I-” 

Before she can finish the door is KICKED open and the clown steps in firing four rounds into his wife’s lover.  The gunshots are explosive and send the man back into the closet in a bloody mess.  His wife is screaming with her lover’s blood splattered on her.  Bob stands frozen still pointing his gun and turns it towards her.  “NO!”  She screams running out of the bedroom.  “I’m sorry!”  She continues to scream.  She gets to the locked door and wrestles with it before unlocking it.  Bob is slowly walking after her blinded by rage.  She opens the door and rushes out of the apartment.  Other tenants are stepping out of their doors, “What’s going on out here?”

She doesn’t take time to warn them or tell them that her husband has lost her mind; she just continues to run down the hall.  The clown steps out of the apartment with his gun poised.  A couple of guys are standing out in the hall confused.

*BLAM* He drops one of his neighbors with a shot to the chest.  People panic and scurry. *BLAM* He shoots another man and then *BLAM* a woman trying to escape his anger.  It’s clear he’s lost it and is now on a shooting spree blind to his initial morals.  Blood is spilt in the hallway as people continue to scream along with his cheating wife who’s running down said hall.  He fires randomly to his sides and behind him before putting his wife back in his sights.

*BLAM* *BLAM* Just as she reaches the top of the stairs he delivers two shots into the harlot; one in the back and one in the head.  Her body, now lifeless, crumbles, falling down the long staircase to the bottom.  Though she’s dead well before hitting the bottom her collar bone and a leg are broken and bones are sticking out of her skin.  Her body twitches for moments after death with involuntary nerve spasms.  She’s covered in her own blood and her husband saunters down the steps.  The broken shell of a woman at the bottom of the steps looks only vaguely like the woman he used to be so madly in love with.  His big clown shoes step over to the other side of her corpse.  He stares down at his former love with a blank stare.

He crouches down to her, “Why?  What did I do?  What didn’t I do?  All I do is work and live to love you.  Did I not love you enough?  Did I love you too much?  Did I not make you laugh?  I just wanted you to love me.  I’d ask you what I could’ve done different but it’s too late for that.  It was too late long before this.”  Bob motions to his gun.

He fires his handgun aimlessly upstairs at nothing in particular, reminding the tenants upstairs of terror.  The shot echoes up the stairwell and panic can be heard.

“You see…people think a clown with a gun is scary but what’s really scary is marrying a stranger; or having someone unknowingly transform before your eyes from something you loved into something that terrifies you, that angers you.”  He stops briefly listening to the mayhem.  “No, what’s scary is giving someone your entire being only to find them use and abuse it…corrupt it.  …No, I’m not scary, this isn’t scary,” He says holding up his pistol, “Having complete and total faith in something, someone and they go and shatter it without a second thought – that’s scary.”

People upstairs continue to scream and cry but it doesn’t faze him.  The ethical notion of the chaos he’s birthed has evaded him.  He continues to talk to his blood drenched dead wife.

“How long has this been going on?  How long did you think you could get away with it?  You weren’t going to get off light.  Leaving you would’ve been too simple.  Hitting you wouldn’t make you stop.  In fact, it would only drive you to continue.  No…this is right.  He got what he deserved…and so did you.”  Bob takes off his white glove and slowly takes off his wedding band gazing at the ring; at what it meant.  He tosses the ring down onto her broken body before putting his glove back on and adjusting his wig.  Closing his eyes he inhales and exhales big; a sigh of relief.

Inside his wife lies in a crumpled pile while her lover is sprawled out bleeding all over their bedroom floor.  The neighbors are still terrified and probably will be for some time.  Survivors are attempting to help the wounded and the dead are just that.  The carpet is wet and stains and dampens the socks of those trying to help.  The hallway is painted red; the same red the staircase is splattered with.  Cries and whimpers fill the air.

Outside the building multiple police cars have arrived with their lights flashing.  The clown steps out of the door with his gun in hand.  The police draw their weapons.

“Freeze!  Drop your weapon!”  A policeman yells through his megaphone.  Bob is still in a daze and raises his arms with his gun still gripped.

“I just wanted you to love me…”  Bob says. 

“Drop the gun!”  The cops yell.

“I just want to make you laugh…”  Bob says dropping the gun.  Almost before the gun hits the ground he’s reaching into the shirt of his costume, “See…?”

The police see him reaching into his puffy shirt and open fire gunning the clown down to the ground.  The shots are brutal and loud while the wounds are massive leaving his once white and blue clown costume a mess of dark red.  The clown’s brief yet effective killing spree has ended and the police have taken out what they see as a madman; a stone cold killer.  The newspapers love drama and with the actions of tonight they’ll have plenty of it to go around.  Not often do they feature stories about a clown; a comedian whose laughter died and all hope plummeted which led him to a point of no return.

What he was reaching for wasn’t seen before he was shot down but they weren’t taking any chances.  Bob the Clown gave his last show tonight and now lies dead outside his home on his back with his eyes open staring into the night sky.  His white face paint is speckled with blood and his big shoes stick straight up.  Though one shot surely would’ve sufficed, the bloody mess is riddled with holes.

The police move in on the body to find…a rubber chicken in his hand. 

Gun Control for Polar Bears - Out Now!

Gun Control for Polar Bears

The title: I used to do it more than I do it now but I would come up with abstract titles that didn't really mean anything and keep them simply because I liked them. "Gun Control for Polar Bears" was one of these titles that I liked but didn't know what to do with but I kept it anyway. I figured I'd use it eventually. I've joked about the irony that this book is published Now in a time when Gun Control is such a hot button issue in our country; when, in reality the title is really old.

The poems: I used to write lyrics all the time and, being used to that, the poetry I'd write would also be similar with rhyme schemes and all. Years ago I started getting these odd little phrasings or these strange non-rhyming poems that were broken up into this odd pattern because that's how I was hearing them in my head. I kept writing them in these little notebooks and they all kind of took on this weird broken pattern for the most part. They're not about anyone in particular, mind you, just all made up like one would any other story. When I would be writing these, for the longest time I didn't have the notion to put them in a book; I was just writing these things that were popping up in my head. When the time had come when I was like, "I think I should put all these together" I didn't have a title but that's when I remembered Gun Control for Polar Bears, the title well older the works inside, and decided it was perfect for these.

They sat on my computer for the longest time, fully collected under their new (old) title, still unsent. Amidst trying to get my screenplay in the hands of an agent and trying to figure out what to do with some of my other work, my wife, Anchanie, said "When are you going to do something with your poetry?" In a lazy nonchalant tone I replied, "Eh, I got a book on the computer, I just haven't done anything with it." She said, "Well do SOMETHING with it." So I had sent it around and, of course, was met with loads of rejections; some would say no but still ask about the title as it interested them. I'm used to rejection so it all came as no surprise. But when I got an email back from Supposed Crimes I was a little weary as, in this journey of mine, I've had less than pleasurable dealings with publishers. The owner, Christy Case, and I wrote back and forth and we really hit it off. I felt like it was the right move at the right time to go with them and I've been happy with the decision.

The book's poems are comprised of abstract pieces, mini stories, motivational bits, social issues, and more. They aren't titled, but numbered. My dad's complained to me several times about the lack of titles (lol) and there was another guy who'd had the same complaint but then claimed he understood why I did it (as if it were an artistic choice). Truth is it was different things. There were no titles when I was writing them down in the little notebooks and I didn't feel titles would do some of them justice, along with their varying lengths. It was more of an executive decision to just number them.

It's odd to me the shift that poetry has had in the literary world. Poetry used to be more important and now it seems to be more of a niche thing. Most writers these days get their novel or what have you published and then end up self-publishing their poetry book; I ended up doing it a bit backwards.

So that's the story of this little book which has ended up starting my career. I've been hard at work on the next things to come, as there are plenty. Thank you all for your support and thank you to all of you who truly understand what this is; which is not just a little poetry book but a beginning, a start to something much more.

Gun Control for Polar Bears can be found online in e-book and paperback at just about anywhere books are sold, i.e. Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc etc