The Etiquette of Booby Traps

Happy Holidays!

2011-12-17T16:01:00.000-08:00

"Twas The Night"

No snow. The sky like a cataract. A few ice-edged puddles lined the street, trapping soda cans and detritus in place. The breeze that toyed with the crumbling wreaths and faded red ribbons smelled of suplhur and oil. The reek of long ago progress.

Bob "Mr. Pickles" Hedress sat inn his dilapidated house, beside the window. He peered through the stained curtain and scrutinized the empty street. His work vehicle sat at the curb, a dinosaur carcass rotting to rust. The vinyl decal rainbow spots curling or missing. The carefully rendered script painted on the hood and doors, once proudly proclaiming "Mr Pickles, The Number One Party Clown" was now almost invisible beneath the coating of dust and grime. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Pickles" Bob wheezed as he drew a stinging drag from his fifth cigarette. Snakes of smoke coiled about his balding head like spectral fingers. He coughed and spat a piece of lung into the coffee can at his feet. Something moved in there, a small splash and a squeak as the mouse contniued to struggle not to drown in the mucous, blood and lung tissue. Bob sat the dirty plate he was holding over the mouth of the can and the squeaking muffled. "And a Merry Christmas to you, Cheeser."

###

Bob stood before the mirror and adjusted the hat. He had to roll the white fur an extra time to keep it from sliding over his eyes. Who would have thought you could actually lose weight on your head!? He buttoned the red suit and stuffed another pillow down the front of his pants. He recalled better years when he filled it out nicely, when the only accessory needed was the itchy fake beard. He picked up the sack, sewn from old bedsheets, and went back downstairs to the living room.

The dolls were piled nearly to the ceiling. All hand made, stitched from clothing and stuffed with hair. He thought of every child he had scalped, not really. They were already dead. The morning he awoke and found himself alone, the dead lined the streets, three deep in spots. After the flies took their wage and the wolves stole of bone, all that remained were remnants of clothing and hair. He salvaged that. He made something from them. Bodies of T-Shirt cloth and denim, filled with hair and mud. Into each doll was sewn a scrap of paper and upon each scrap a single word was scrawled.

He walked the streets and placed a doll before every door of every house he passed. He whistled and sang and stooped when he heard growling or saw red eyes glowering from dark spaces. He made it home before the night and re-took his spot by the window. He watched the clock as the minutes ticked by, scurrying like roaches in bright light. He took off the Santa hat and picked at the white fuzz that stuck to his lesions. He pressed his hot skin against cold window glass and uttered a word. The word he'd read about in college, in religous histories. The single word in the belly of every doll he made. "Emet".

###

Mr. Pickles sat at the window. His jokes all in order, his props all laid out and waiting on the table: The rubber chicken, a whoopie cushion, a fake bouquet dusted with flour to make him sneeze when he sniffed them. He pushed the red rubber ball further onto his nose so the putty would adhere it in place. His smile broadened at the sound of the first furtive footfalls on the warped lumber of his porch. He heard dusty giggling and small voices. He sighed deeply and smiled with exaggeration. He stood and walked to the door on clown-shoed feet. You cannot disappoint children.

All I got was a rock...

2011-10-28T07:05:00.000-07:00

Holy Cow! I have not posted anything on here since May?! I suck. But I have been sort of busy. Honest.

JULY:

...saw me attend my first ever writer-type gathering. Nick Contor (another of my Shock Totem brothers) flew out from where ever the fuck it is he lives...not Arizona. He and I then drove from Pennsylvania to Bristol, Rhode Island to attend the legendery NECON. A very cool gathering of some big names in the genre of dark and fantastical fiction. Over 8 hours in a car, nearly 100 degree heat and too many fucking bridges ( I'm Gephyrophobic) made for a wonderfully interesting journey. We arrived at our destination and met up with our esteemed leader Ken Wood. The weekend was full of great conversations and friends, both old and new. Ken killed a pillow and threew a booger on the floor. Violet LeVoit astounded with her rendition of "Bizarre Love Triangle" at the Scary-Oke. While John Skipp pummelled with his version of "The Banana Boat Song." I was a Skipp fanboy to the highest power BEFORE Necon and meeting him in person, it went off the charts, so much so that I presented him with a 10 pound chunk of the delicacy that is Lebanon Bologna. I was also lucky enough to finally meet the wonderful Jack Ketchum...a sweet and soft spoken fellow, a fantastic writer. There were others too numerous to list but everyone I met was cool.

I was also painfully reminded as to the reason I do not drink. I have an alcohol allergy. The slightest sip will have me bed-bound and vomitting within the half hour, and this harsh lesson also cost me missing out on the most fun of late night activities on the last night there. Of course, being the sympathetic friends they are, Ken and Nick saw fit to come in peridoically and tell me what I was misseing out on. Over all, a great, great time was had.

AUGUST:

CF and I travelled to the wilds of Clearfield, Pa to see veteran 80's bands Cinderella, Firehouse and Slaughter perform. It was a good show. The rest of that month cruised by as usual, working, spending whatever time I can with the family and slacking off when I should be writing.

SEPTEMBER.

A train delivered one, Ken Wood to Harrisburg and a plane dropped off one, Jeremy Wagner to the airport. I colelcted them both and with CF in tow, we travelled to Gettysburg to the notorious HORRORFIND convention. This was an amazing weekend, the highest point of which was finally meeting James Newman, in the flesh. James is one of the best fucking writers around today, that sadly most aren't aware of. You need to remedy that! But he and I have been online friends since 2001 or 2 when we both used to hang on the old Horror Channel board...It was a great thing to finally meet him and his family. Jeremy was a treat to finally meet as well, even if we all bopped around playing some sort of "friend tag volley ball" all weekend. I met more cool writery folk: Tim Lebbon, Christopher Golden and Norman Prentiss...and CF and Jamie Newman were trying to pick up hot actory chicks. It was a blast!

Which brings us to now, end of October. Last year I made a goal to publish 8 pieces within the year and I succeeded and wrapped up 2010 with 10 pieces out there somewhere. This year I left the goal the same. I have not sold a thing. I have two subs out currently and more unfinished rough drafts that I can count on two hands. That is all. Laziness. Lack of motivation. Lack of discipline. When it comes to writing, I am my own worst enemy. I fight myself to get anything accomplished. I'm a slacker I gotta work on that.

No Pain Or Strain, Just Sit There And Let It Drain...

2011-05-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

I like to write. I am also one of Ken's evil henchmen over at SHOCK TOTEM. We have lots of flash fiction events on our forum. I try and participate in most. below are some of the turdly offerings I have entered, and oddly most have met with nice words of slight praise! Bear in mind these are from the one hour flash contest. As in 60 minutes to conceive, execute and post a story under 1000 words, so there is little in the way of editing here.

“Untitled”

The dance starts slow, winding as a serpent. Her cold hands tied to mine. Her icy lips, between my teeth. “This hand is your hand, this hand is my hand,” I hum and she rolls her eyes over white. The tiny sigh that escapes her mouth flies to the moon, a bat. The grey drizzle soaks my rat skin cape; my saviour coat. I hammer the sidewalk with my feet, in exaggerated soft shoe style a shadow tap dancer. Her petite feet drag like whispers from a drunken tongue. I sigh and drink more from her mouth. Thick sins and tangy regrets. Her short life so heavily stitched with cheap threads of despair. Sometimes, in this business, I feel like I am actually doing one a favor. Sometimes. “From California, to the New York island.”

The streets are dead, all closed store fronts and shells of buildings. Tall boxes of brick and black glass, offer us mirrored audience. Whirlwinds of trash and leaves, spiral around the gutters. I spin and sway and she withers in my arms, the golden fleece to my Jason embrace. Saliva and blood like webs between our lips. I swallow the last of her soul. Then fold her like a handkerchief, small and square, she fits into my pocket. The pocket of my saviour coat, she nestles with the detritus that lives there: a razor, a lozenge, a holiday promise and she. “This land was made for you and me.”

"What It Is To Burn"

All around him was white and ice and frozen and dead. The wind was stuck in mid breeze, a visible swoosh in pale gray air. Those who walked dodged frozen curlicues of breath like bullseyes. Birds were welded to wires and ledges with frost. The night had been so frigid it has shattered and lay on the ground like black glass. Everything seemed carved from white ice, creepily serene sculptures of once water. Amidst all of this stood Alan, literally steaming.

Alan stood seething, as always. So much anger and rage, about everything and nothing. His birth pissed him off, his aging annoyed him. he found free will aggravating. Incensed by existence, he walked alone in this wretched place. So very cold, so void of heat and warmth. He walked the paths and people turned away, faces buried beneath layers of scarf and wool. Leather and fur. "Hello" he said, in his best mimicry of polite behavior. A small child, boy or girl, who could tell beneath the shapless mass of clothing, stopped before him.

"Mphfo" a small voice filtered through layers of cable knitting. Alan smiled as the parent grabbed the waif and dragged it away, angrily. Alan's smile slipped and fell to the ground.

He cast his smoldering eyes upward, and cursed the God that put him here. What a punishment it is to burn alone in a world of ice.

.We host these challenge every other Saturday night on our forum. http://www.shocktotem.com/

Come join in the madcap shenanigans!

On Becoming A Writer... by Lee Thompson

2011-02-20T11:30:00.000-08:00

On Becoming a Writer…

Hi there! Are you ready to go on an adventure? Saddle up, bring your rifle, and make sure you have plenty of water. Trials and joys shape writers.

Once upon a time a young boy, a prince, lived in the country. He didn't sleep well at night (because he felt most alive when everyone else slept, he was free to do whatever without being judged, he could dream with eyes wide open) but the King made him feel bad for it anyway. The prince frustrated the King about a lot of things (the prince was more imaginative than practical, had more heart than brains, and his nerves were very close to the surface—everything was an explosion of wonderful sight and sound and textures.) Like most boys who grow beneath punishing hands and critical tongues, he doubted himself, and eventually he grew angry. He and Father threw sticks, then rocks, then cannon balls at each other.

When the prince became a teenager he searched for truth, casted silly spells, lay on the roof at night, staring sadly at stars. Nothing ever got better. He and the King were headed for a showdown. He lifted weights and studied martial arts because he was afraid that one day his dad would hurt him bad. The boy learned discipline without even meaning to. He found confidence in focused repetition, in learning new techniques (much as he would find immense joy with those things later—in his twenties playing guitar, and in his thirties writing.)

He loved his father as much as he hated him. But one day, when the prince was seventeen, they fought and the prince had to move. He went to his uncle's house—they shot guns a lot when not cutting trees up in the forest. And at night the uncle took the prince along to his second job.

The seedy little bar sat out in the country by Shays Lake where the black people lived. It had bad lighting, women slowly shedding skin on a cheap stage, booze in cold bottles. He'd always been happy by himself. He wasn't a social teenage butterfly. The bar of dancing ladies wearing thongs and false smiles made his skin itch, even though the women both aroused and frightened him. He witnessed bad things, drank too much every night for a few years, on his way to being an alcoholic—the whole time still angry, untrusting, cautious.

He spent his twenties moving around—out of state, between family and friends houses, his own places (until he lost them due to his decision to drink instead of pay all his rent), he worked various jobs: from logger in Michigan to installing professional fitness equipment in 13 states, landscaping in Michigan and Tennessee to utility work and building custom decks in Colorado.) He'd been homeless a few times, lived in a half-way house, picked himself back up, and got his shit together for a while until he let old patterns get the better of him. He played guitar live and wrote songs and there were some clear, sober times that gave him a taste of a more stable (and creative) life. He got off on the discipline again. It in itself was rewarding. Finishing things, doing the best job he could, were things he could take pride in.

In his mid-to-late twenties the prince started writing a novel to get some aggression out, examine who he really was (both good and bad), and because he just loved to read at that point. He didn't see the King much and at times he missed the Queen horribly because she'd always been good to him.

Then one day in his late twenties the Queen's brain shorted out.

The young man's heart broke.

The King's heart too.

The Queen lay in a coma and the castle walls trembled as the rest of the family lost their anchor. They wept regret and blood and guilt.

But the Queen didn't die. Nor did she stay asleep. She woke on a cold gray morning surrounded by run-down and rumpled versions of King and Prince. She was confused and frightened because her body wouldn't do what she wanted it to, and worse she didn't remember anyone.

A tightly wound cord snapped between King and Prince. They had to work together for the Queen's sake. They both choose to grow up and truly appreciate what they had and stop crying about what they didn't. They worked together, with softer hearts, more gentle and encouraging words, and slowly the Queen improved. So, suddenly there was genuine tenderness and respect and compromise where mostly fear, self-loathing, chaos, and selfishness roosted before.

The King became a husband and father.

The prince became a man who saw that though some circumstances are tragic they also bind our hearts in love, strength and maturity.

***

Addiction, relationship problems, and family secrets fill my characters minds in NURSERY RHYMES 4 DEAD CHILDREN—the desire to be accepted, respected, to know our purpose and shed delusions while loving as openly and honestly as possible. The three main characters all have a big part of my personality from various points in my life. I've done some horrible things and some good things, and like my characters some choices make me proud and some haunt me.

John McDonnell (my lead character) is torn by choices. He's a wreck. An alcoholic of guilt. Only his problems are much larger than mine ever were. I think at the start of the novel he's a strong mix of me in my teens and early twenties. I hurt for him because I remember what it's like to be Afraid. To wonder if you're making the right choices, to feel as if the world is pulling you apart and there's not damn much you can do about it. For John it's all about the mystery of life, regret, and choices.

Michael Johnston (other lead character and John's best friend) is mostly me now. I like to get things done. I protect those I care about it. And even though I have a solid dozen people I think are wonderful I'm still pretty much a loner. It makes me feel weird sometimes. But like Mike, I have faith in myself, and faith in those who've shown they are responsible, reliable, and respectful. His past haunts him, too. There are things he learns on his journey that could destroy him if he let them. For Mike it's all about planning, committing, and action.

-Lee Thompson:
http://alongthispathsodarkly.blogspot.com/

A Valentine

2011-02-14T15:23:00.000-08:00

“This Twilight Garden”

    The lot was hedged with thick shrubs and squat bushes. Where there were gaps, there was fence. Nice, tall ,plank fence. Miller stared up at the moon with wet eyes and spoke quietly to no one. He picked up the spade and knelt beside the garden. A small rectangle of tilled earth adjacent to the unused garage. He gouged and turned the soil and watched the dislodged worms as they squirmed and wriggled back into hiding. He swiveled and took one handle of the black cargo bag that sat on the grass. He unzipped it and took out his newest trophy.

    The pale green silk of the handkerchief had darkened from the blood that soaked it. He looked at the heart in the moonlight; a fist of glistening black muscle. It had held all of her love. He gently placed it in the furrow and covered it with dirt. He picked up the small marker he had made, a ruler-sized sliver of wood with a name written upon it in flowing cursive. This one was Emily. She had actually kissed him. Her lips dry and trembling, tasting of fruit flavored wax. He picked up the watering can and sprinkled its contents over the tiny mound, as well as the six other marked mounds and their name stakes…

   Mary, the one who had held his hand. Thelma, the tall girl with the birthmark over her ear. She talked to him for hours, but never listened. Carrie, plain and sweet but so full of slef loathing. Sara, the dark haired dirty girl, her eager hands were her downfall. Alice, she wanted money and fame and was gone as soon as it was made clear Miller could suplly neither. Patricia, the quiet girl. She smiled and listened and did all the right things, but in the end, she just was not the one.

   His knees popped as he stood and looked at the garden and the markers. It was like a miniature cemetery. He went back into the house to get something to eat, and to prepare for his evening.

Lonliness is a lot like a too big room or ill fitting clothes. These girls had all been loved by him but at some point sought to leave him. They all broke his heart. He knew it was not their fault. The heart is a seed. It can only grow as much as the hull will allow, and if the seed is damaged or sick, then it will grow monstrous and wrong. If you love something set it free…

He decided to free the seeds and plant anew. He stood at the kitchen window and watched the moonlight soak his garden. As he chewed on a bite of pear, he saw the ripples in the soil. Small rolling waves. He saw the fingers as they sprouted from the earth and reached towards the sky. He saw the arms extend. They were growing. He saw the arms and head break through the earth, the moonlight painted dusty breasts silver. It was working.

   He sat at the table and straightened his tie. Seven heart-shaped boxes of candy and seven single roses waited on the wooden surface. He heard muffled groans and the sound of bare feet on patio tile. The cloying smell of earth was coming through the window screen. He licked his fingers,smoothed down his hair, and wished he had a mint.

The End

Thoughts on the story: I really don't have much to offer here. We, the folks behind SHOCK TOTEM, had such a blast doing the Christmas shorts, that we decided it would be a hoot to tackle other holidays. The only funky fact of note, is that when Ken asked me if I had an idea for a Valentine's flash, I told him I did. And that it involved a man who was planting hearts. Ken scoffed: "No way! My idea has a guy harvesting hearts." Oddly ironic.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

The Hit List

2011-01-11T05:51:00.000-08:00

I am stealing this idea from Ken, who stole it from others, because Hey! That's what we do.
I will from time to time update this list. The Hit list will consist of all the books and movies I have read or viewed over the course of this new year...but only the ones I liked. I refuse to wave negative banners by posting about something I didn't care for, especially since these are such a taste oriented hobbies.

I should also note these will not always be "new or current" works, but will be new to me. So don't contact me to complain that "XXXX" was printed in 1994....I know, but I must have only recently gotten it.

So I will start this off with a quick breeze through what I have delved into from Christmas until now.

JANUARY 2011-

"The Cannibals Of Candyland" by Carlton Mellick III (2009 Eraserhead Press)

Mellick is one wild cat. After first reading his "Wow, just Wow!" novella "The Baby Jesus Butt Plug" in one of the "Bizarro Starter Kit" volumes, I was anxious to read more. This one seemed to be something I would enjoy, and enjoy I did. "Cannibals" concerns the wild mis-adventures of a man, trying to follow his quest to expose a race of subterranean child-eating candy people to a zany uncaring world. It's crazy, bizarro and gory...and not without liberal doses or oddball humor. I hope and plan to read alot more Mellick!

"Riverside Blues" by Erik Tomblin ( 2005 Earthling Publications)

Fantastic. This short novella has alot of heart. It is mainly a tale of loss and longing, with an ounce of that "Be careful what you wish for..." addege thrown in. It tells the sad story of Gordon, a man who loved his wife with all he had, and who threw it all away upon her disappearance fifty years prior. He decides to clean up their special place by the riverside in an effort to keep his mind and body occupied and try to get his life back in gear. In the course of doing so he meets someone that will change everything.
A compeltely unique work that plays on your mind even after the last page has been turned.

"What They Hear In The Dark" by Gary McMahon (2011 Spectral Press)

I read this in half an hour. Which is a perfect chapbook, if you ask me. I will start by saying that this is a sharp looking booklet. Nice artwork and sharply done...Nice collectible feel...and then we get to the actual story. I am not familiar with McMahon's work, but I am good friends with Spectral Press founder Simon Marshall-Jones, and know him to be a stickler for quality. This is a superb tale about a haunting. A couple buying an old house to renovate and work through a personal tragedy only to find themselves haunted by emotions heavy and horrifying. McMahon's descriptions of the emotions at work here are fantastic. I am eager to check out more of his work...and extremely anxious to see what is next from Spectral Press.

FEBRUARY 2011-

"Silent Weapons For Quiet Wars" by Cody Goodfellow (2009 Swallowdown Press)

Before delving into this collection of strange shorts by Meesta Goodfellow, I was only familiar with his collaborative work with the mighty John Skipp.

This has proven to be a tragic oversight on my part, as the stories the man writes are nothing short of incredible. They are twisted and bizarre, surreal and striking...and good. From the warped take on the consequences of neglected familial duties in "Baby Teeth" to the unusual perils that befall a drug-ridden Border guard in "El Santero." The ups and downs of gambling and the luckiest man on earth come together in "His Station & 4 Aces," while "Magna Mater" gives us the gruesome and cartoonish subject of a haunted peep show booth. The brutal surrealism blast of "Atwater" is the stuff of dreams. And I can honestly say all of these tales I described in such a short blurbish manner are so much better than that. So much more.

"There Once Lived A Woman Who Tried To Kill Her Neighbor's Baby" by Ludmilla Petrushvskaya and translated by Keith Gessen and Anna Summers (2009 Penguin Books)

This was an impulse buy and not a bad one...although not somthing I think I could re-read. The prose and delivery is almost painfully simplistic. Literally reading like a story a grandparent would tell a child at bed time, were that grandparent prone to darkly sinister tales. My favorite of the collection would the tale entitles "Marilena's Secret," In which a grotesquely obese woman, named Marilena transforms, for two hours nightly, the beautiful dancing twins sister Maria and Elena.

"Skeletons" by Al Sarrantonio (1992 Bantam)

Everything old is new again. With the past few years offering us a glut of the undead and zombies. This paperback from nearly twenty years ago, is as fresh and unique as it was upon it's release. Sure, in it the dead rise and there is much violence. But there are cooly differences from what has come to pass as the template.

In this novel, the dead return as skeletons only, housed in a vaporous shadow of their former appearance. They hate the living, and upon one's death, the flesh melts away and then the victim is a part of the skeleton army. The twist being the raising affects ALL the dead...through all of time. There are historical figures sprinkled through out this book as well as animals...even dinosaurs. It is not as goofy as it sounds. It is a fun romp of a book with a great B- movie sort of plot that works.

March 2011

The few books I read this month were for review purposes and have or will shortly be appearing on the Shock Totem site.

Leaving Stains

2010-12-10T15:14:00.000-08:00

I began this year with a goal of having at least six pieces of my writing published, in some capacity, by the time 2010s yawning maw started to close. Well, I am happy to say, I succeeded.

The year saw the following pieces published in the following markets:

"The Worm Eaters" appeared in 52 STITCHES.

"Strange Yield" showed itself in EVERYDAY WEIRDNESS.

"Peter Peter" sold early in the year and will see release in BLACK INK HORROR #7 , whenever that comes out.

The poems, "Scree" and "Stilted" appeared in SNM MAGAZINE.

A strange recipe/poem, "Recipe For Nothing" appeared in HORROTICA magazine.

The bizarro microfiction offering, "In The Morning" was in WEIRDYEAR.

And most recently, my story "The Pass" went to TWISTED DREAMS magazine and will see E-print in February.

Now that sounds fanatsic and groovy...but I feel that luck had alot to do with it. I am far from a great writer. I need a great deal of work and am trying to stretch myself out beyond the comforts that micro/flash/poetry have given me. It's a struggle. I am currently working on a few stories that are longer than what I am accustomed to and I think they'll be nifty upon completion. I consider myself very fortunate to have surrounded myself with a great group of writer friends, who have proved extremely helpful and nurturing in the honing of my writing.

There were also several rejections from markets I received, but I don't let that deter me much. I like to write. I like to think of unique and interesting ideas and scenarios. I would not mind making money by the bucketful doing this, but the reality of that is...well, you know. I am just as happy leaving small stains throughout the genre, like tagging a brick wall or carving your initials in a wooden desk in school.

My Life In Books, Or You Are What You've Read.

2010-10-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

I have always loved books and reading. When I was small I had books I read and read until they fell apart. The earliest memory of this was a small book called "How To Be Grouch" supposedly penned by Oscar The Grouch, and while I don't remember much about, I vividly recall the artwork that graced it. Specifically a picture of a cone or dish of yucky looking ice cream with worms in it. I loved that book! There were other books that occupied special spaces in my pre- school years. I absolutely loved "The Biggest Bear" by Lynd Ward, so much so that I tracked it down to read to my sons when they were wee and neither one gave a shit. I was crushed.

Crosby Bonsall's "Who's A Pest" was another staple. With it's silly tongue-twistery dialogue. Classic. I also recall having a book, I seem to think my Dad had gotten it for me. I can't remember the name or what it looked like but it was a sort of large softcover book, like a workbook, but it dealt with monsters and the supernatural and had all sorts of histories of monsters and odd stuff in it. I carried that around until it fell to pieces.

By the time I reached grade school, I was reading classics, and watching horror movies by the weekendful. Our school library was little more than a class room with a wall of bookshelves in the back that had a few hundred books calling them home. I checked out all the "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" series repeatedly, "Monster Museum" being my favorite...as I adored the Idris Seabright story, "The Man Who Sold Rope To The Gnoles", I also had a rotation going of Daniel Cohen's "Southern fried Rat and Other Tales" and "Monsters, Giants And Little Men From Mars", in fact I wrote a short review of the latter for the debut issue of Shock Totem.

By the time I hit middle school, I was reading Stephen King, Ray Bradbury and whatever science fiction and horror I could sneak from my mother's bookshelves, I also had a wonderful Step-Aunt who let me haunt her bookcase as well and borrow great 80's horror pulp titles, you know the ones where alot of the time the cover art was better than the actual book. I started buying books when I could...titles that stand out as leaving scars on my being would be: "Toplin" by the late Michael McDowell , "The Light At The End" by John Skipp & Craig Spector, "The Painted Bird" by Jerzy Kosiński, "Lord Of the Flies" by William Golding and "666" by Jay Anson.

In my junior yearof high school, I got a paperback copy of Stephen King's "Danse Macabre" and was thrilled with the appendices, one for book and one for movies, He felt were inportant to the horror genre in some way. I used them like a checklist, crossing off those I had seen or read and highlighting the ones I wanted to track down.

I have since discovered and devoured the works of numerous authors: Joe R. Lansdale, William Burroughs, Th. Metzger, Shirley Jackson, Robert R. McCammon, Chareles Beaumont, Harlan Ellison, Brian Lumley, John Skipp, Cody Goodfellow, Kurt Newton, James Havoc, James Newman, and I could literally go on for days.

I still read voraciously and still love all the above mentioned books and authors. When I think of them, I can recall where I was and what was going on when I first read them. This usually makes me happy, for a little while.

Sweet And Sour

2010-06-30T10:40:00.000-07:00

They say when life gives you lemons make lemonade....but unless the gnarled hands of life are also filled with sugar and water, said lemonade shall taste like ass. It's ebb and flow. Good and bad, and one cannot exist without the other. Siamese twins sort of. And things roll that way.

I proclaimed this year that I would see at least 6 of my stories or poems published by its end....and now as we enter July...I have all but reached that target. With 5 pieces published/sold so far. I find this exciting and slightly scary at the same time....see I am not a writer...in the classic sense. Not a "career writer... I don't write and write and write. I have maybe four finished stories at any one time and about 478 shards or sketches of stories....I don't do the whole "I have this many out at any given time" thing...I just send one out and await word on its fate then try again. I work a lot of hours and usually don't have oodles of free time where I can just sit and concentrate on my writing. Hell, most times if I sit for more than fifteen minutes I am asleep.

I have placed a super short flash piece in 52 STITCHES, another in EVERYDAY WEIRDNESS...2 poems in SNM HORROR and have sold a story to BLACK INK HORROR...I have some things in submission limbo at this moment. I don't dwell on it all...I'm gracious and just happy to be able to do it.

Otherwhere, SHOCK TOTEM is preparing to drop its anitcipated second issue any day now...and I would like to credit the magazine as well as my fellow staff members and the boardies for the continued inspiration I find in them.

SO we all deal with the balance....the sweet and the sour. Sometimes more of one than the other...so the next time life gives you lemons...or lemonade...be thankful because around the corner...fudge is made!

Slight Success and the Big Boy Beltway.

2010-05-01T15:31:00.000-07:00

Holy shit! It's May already....

I have not blogged a thing since late December, mainly because I have little to say, but I felt I would babble a little here....

In January I presented myself with a goal to have at least 6 pieces published, in some form, by the end of the year. I have reached the halfway point....and am sort of, a little bit proud.

In April, 52 STITCHES (a groovy online zine of flash fiction) published my super short "The Worm Eaters"...then last week saw the simultaneous arrivals of two more works, "Strange Yield" over at EVERYDAY WEIRDNESS (Another cool zine) and my poem, "Stilted" in SNM HORROR....I have two stories out at the moment and one at the ready, but in all actuality, I'm pleased as punch with things already!

I had to drive to Richmond, Va for a work related trip last week. And I will go into this tale by letting you all in on a secret. I am a big pussy when it comes to driving in unfamiliar places or on huge beltways with thirty-six lanes and whizzbang-zipping traffic. I borrowed my nephew's GPS for the trip and was ecstatic to find the route it was pegging for me was to take me around and away from D.C. for if there is one place you don't want to be at 8a.m. on a Monday....So I get up super early Monday....I jump in the car and plug in the GPS...I'm zooping down the highway, happy as a clam (yup, that happy) and was about two hours into the trip when I made a discovery. If you deviate from the GPS planned route...it can't rationally redirect you back to your point of deviation...I had to make a pitstop....I took an exit and took care of business...the GPS then directed me (I'm thinking) to a means to reconnect with the route I was originally on....things started looking strangely busy to me and before I know it...I'm on I-95 skirting D.C., five lanes of beeping and bumper to bumper traffic, as I have ended up here at morning rush hour....Yay!!!

I made it through and eventually arrived at my destination after five and a half hours of driving. I put in my hours and then some at work during the week and then Friday it was time to come back. I was feeling cocky as I made it down on I-95 with nary a scratch or mental scar...so I threw caution to the wind and went home the same way. this time the five lanes were full of furiously fast vehicles whipping in and around each otehr...blaring horns at each other (I was only beeped at once)....and still I survived. I drove like a big boy on a big boy stretch of highway. I was proud....and tired....and glad to be home.

2009, We barely knew ye...

2009-12-21T09:22:00.000-08:00

Seems as though 2009 is fast coming to a close, hard to believe but true nonetheless. The first decade of the "New Millenium" is fast approaching, and have we learned anything....let me just babble about with a few events, observations and things of note as they factor in to my life and thoughts...

- 2000-Well, the world didn't end, but I'd be a liar if I didn't say that some days I think it would have been better if it had. We are most certainly none the wiser. In fact in a lot of way we seem to have grown more barbarous as a society. At this moment we are teetering on the brink of class war and financial fallout....racial tension and socialism....

-2001- Whatever happened this year of any significance was dwarfed by the horrific attacks and events on September 11th. We have all seen the footage, things changed that day....and I fear they will never change back....But this year we bought our house...

-2002-My second son was born and after a few rocky months or squalling and screaming, has changed our lives with his perpetual bright outlook on it all....there was also loss and heartbreak and healing....

-2003- This year saw us go to war with a seemingly faceless enemy...it saw America drown its fear in the mindlessness of reality TV (I must admit even my family was sucked into the ridiculous shit that is "American Idol")...It saw a country brandishing patriotism like a big knotty club and ready to whomp all that entered our borders like a animalesque Caveman (Bunga Bunga!!)...Warren Zevon and Johnny Cash died.

-2005 and 2006- We saw natural disasters and hurricanes....We saw the President and politicians do what they do...and lie about it. I celebrated a 10 year Anniversary of my marriage to my lovely and beautiful wife.

-2008- I saw the sad passing of my dear Grandmother. This was the year that SHOCK TOTEM began as an idea my friend, Ken had and asked me to help with...and it has turned out pretty okay so far...

-2009- The boys keep growing, I keep loving my wife...and my family. SHOCK TOTEM is doing well, great reviews and I have made a lot of new friends through that...I have a job, which is a good thing in this bleak landscape of unemployment and job loss. I sold my first short story this year (yay!!!) and appeared on BELIEVER's newest album, "Gabriel" along side my oldest son...Went to a few great concerts.

There were alot of things that happened I didn't even mention: The DC sniper, The monstrous mutation of the news media into some shambling all devouring beast...crimes against children and women and nature.

Now what does the future hold? I am not sure, but I fear it may not be the best. There is an old saying "Sometimes to know you are well, something must come along to hurt you"...My friends, the hurt has been a long time coming. We are a stupid species and we never learn from our mistakes...As much as I hate hippies and all their claptrap sentiments...maybe the BEATLES were right...Maybe all we need is Love...or just a little more of it. A little.

November ( 2 days too late)

2009-12-02T09:56:00.000-08:00

No shadow no stars
no moon no cars
November
it only believes
in a pile of dead leaves
and a moon
that's the color of bone

No prayers for November
to linger longer
stick your spoon in the wall
we'll slaughter them all

November has tied me
to an old dead tree
get word to April
to rescue me
November's cold chain

Made of wet boots and rain
and shiny black ravens
on chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd
you're my firing squad
November

With my hair slicked back
with carrion shellac
with the blood from a pheasant
and the bone from a hare
tied to the branches
of a roebuck stag
left to wave in the timber
like a buck shot flag

Go away you rainspout
go away blow your brains out
November

(Lyrics by the one and only TOM WAITS)

I Remember Halloween...

2009-10-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

It's Halloween....And what was once my absolute favorite time of year, has over time been sapped of all it's evil dark power and now holds much less allure than it used to. I used to start anticipating the month long marathons of horror films on TV...they bandied out all the classics, the black & whites as well as all those trashy 80's travesties that I was raised on and love like a five year old girl digs Dora. Then it started to change...sort of in a franchisey way. The selection of fright fodder thinned out...and this year, I have seen a few classics that done see airtime often but for every one of those they ran HALLOWEEN 5 or SAW VI or SCREAM twenty times. I mean one channel is running NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD for 24 hours...like they do with "A Christmas Story"!!! What the hell? Why can we have a shopping channel..but not a horror movie channel...24 hours of horror films, old new, American or foreign...why? We have a 'horror" channel called CHILLER...it's better than nothing but they fill the days with marathons...the same ones weekly...and the TALES FROM THE DARKSIDE day is my favorite but it unforutnately is always NOT on my day off...I luck out to crap like BEAUTY AND THE BEAST or DARK REALM...ick!? So that is part of my rant on the ruination of a groovy holiday.

The costumes and overall excitement seems to have slipped as well. I used to start planning my costume months prior and get anxious. In my area alot of costumes were homemade and pretty creative. Now you're hard pressed to see any costumes. In recent years I have seen lumbering teens (too big for it all anyway) saunter up to my porch in hoodies, sweats and carrying a pillow case..."Trick or treat" they mumble...I then give them my best dirty look (which is an award winner) and ask them a trivia question or a math question so complex my son wouldn't know the answer...and if they can't answer they get bupkiss in their bag. And I earn another tally for my "Reputation of "that Asshole" on our street" chart, which I must honestly say I wear like a crown...

I still like Halloween. I still watch all the horror movies the meager channels offer (I just bitch whil I watch them) and I still like trick or treating and my kids do too, they come up with interesting and unique costumes every year..so there is hope, I guess.

Birthday Party...Cheesecake...Jellybean...BOOM!!

2009-10-14T09:05:00.000-07:00

"Some say the end is near.
Some say we'll see armageddon soon.
I certainly hope we will.
I sure could use a vacation from this"

So what's it gonna be boys and girls? The great Mayan end of the world in 2012? The inevitable Race War as was foreseen by Charles Manson? Plague? Hyper-fucked weather ala "The Day After Tomorrow"? A Zombie Apocalypse?

"Some say a comet will fall from the sky.
Followed by meteor showers and tidal waves.
Followed by faultlines that cannot sit still.
Followed by millions of dumbfounded dipshits."

We have several unstable small countries with nuclear weapons and itchy fingers on sensitive buttons. We have our own country on the verge of social and financial implosion. We have many groups saying the endtimes are here....Obama is the Anti-Christ. I don't think these cats are too far off the bubble. All that is happening, has happened and will happen has been predicted by the Mayans, Nostra
damus, Sylvia Browne and the ghost of Bill Hicks.

Am I frightened? Not entirely....when time is up, it's up. Ding Ding Ding. on to the Next thing. When our time on the planet is done..When the Earth has had enough it will shake us off it's back like bloated fleas and something else will come along. As long as I can be with my family in the end...and as long is doesn't hurt...and as long as it does not involve spiders or cobras (my wife is afraid of cobras), I'm good.

It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

[lyrics taken from the song "Aenima" by TOOL]

Truth And The Half Of It

2009-10-05T15:51:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a small...really small town in central-ish Pennsylvania. A two mile stretch of paved road, lined with houses and small businesses and centered by a singular (Yes, ONE!) traffic light.

While growing up in this Norman Rockwell as channeled through David Lynchian village, I heard a lot of things. A myriad of strange tales, legends and "swear to God" tales. I will touch on a few of them here.

There was a woman who would, on occasion, entice children into her home by asking if they'd like to see her puppies...and puppies she would show them. Small dead puppies wrapped in plastic that she kept in her freezer. Stillborn. This woman would meet an unfortunate and whispered about violent death in a blood-splattered trailer, locked from the inside...by the end of my teenage years.

My Nan used to entertain me hours full of stories and my favorites were always the scary ones, which she would deliver and always knew my favorites to repeat. The ones that have stuck with me all these years are the ones from her home (I believe in Port Royal?) where she claimed to have been visited on several occasions by a small black cat with a baby's face. It would follow her around and rub against her legs...I don't recall much else from those tales as that visual would engulf my young brain and have me working overtime up there.

There was a legless man who drove a black van and would snatch you or your siblings up with no hesitation to do nasty things with you...I was terrified of black vans for a long time...

There was a young and brilliantly gifted artist who attended my high school. He so impressed the teacher that some sort of art apprenticeship was fashioned. One day some classmates thought it would be a hoot to dose the said young man's food with Angel Dust and the effect was tragic. His brain was fried and the poor youth was never to recover. He went from promising artist to a shambling, twitching pariah who haunted the streets and towns flailing and blurting out indecipherable dialogue. One night while some bad men were fleeing the scene of a robbery they had pulled off, they crossed paths with this unfortunate and for whatever reason pegged him a "threatening witness"...they chased him down to the railroad bridge at the end of town,where he was beaten to death and thrown over the side into the water below.

Those strange tales and dark fodder are all presented as I heard them, which is not to say they are 100% the gospel truth, but they did all happen and were spoken of to someone, who spoke to someone else and so on...I think all towns have stories like these, well...maybe not quite.