Friday, January 11, 2013


24 August 2013

Jason Brett of Providence, RI confronts home intruder. First contact with Irginrasc Ascendancy emissary. 

25 August 2013

Term “iron mask” introduced. Establishment of Providence as Ascendancy capitol.

30 August 2013

First mass disappearance. Three-quarters of Providence missing. Establishment of Jeweled Irginrasc Ascendancy Centre.

26 September 2013

Brown University riots. 3000 dead, 92 injured, 65 missing.

30 September 2013

Jaymaris Gonzalez of Cranston, RI first confirmed PPR intoxication. Subsequent death precipitates Riot of Benefit Street. 253 dead, 16 injured, 0 missing.

15 October 2013

J. Blomquist of Warwick, RI shoots and kills emissary near Hayden Lutheran Church. Night of Nights Pogrom ensues. 1000 dead, 32 injured, 0 missing.

31 October 2013

"The Nail" first public establishment opened by Irginrasc Ascendancy. 

20 December 2013

Winter Revolt. 798 dead, 8678 injured, 349 missing.

24 December 2013

Ascendancy ships withdraw. PPR withheld.

25 December 2013 – 24 December 2014

“The Red Mess.”

25 December 2014

Return of Irginrasc ships. Capitol building demolished.

31 December 2014

Ascendancy introduces People's Constitution. PPR reintroduced.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Short Story: "Patience"

From a conversation with myself:

ME: Fat boy!

ME: What?

ME: Write something!

ME: Mmkay.

ME: Write a bleak confusing pretentious story. Use confusing pretentious names that you found on the Fantasy Name Generator. Make the story about zombies in love! Bleak! Bleak!!

ME: How can you write a pretentious story about zombies in love?

ME: You will find a way. 


She lived by the ocean with her two dead sisters. She had forgotten her name, which was Troptai, but she remembered the names of her sisters, Teuphight and Thryettai. She had a husband but he was away.

On a Thursday morning in autumn she and her sisters were in the boat. She did not go far out into the ocean, as the boat's engine was weak. Teuphight sat in the bow with a rifle across her knees. Thryettai lay on the bottom of the boat, staring at the gray sky. The sea was calm, and she saw many fish swimming underneath them. From time to time Teuphight would point her rifle at the water, at one of the passing fish, but then she would lay it again across her knees and sigh. When she sighed  steam billowed from her mouth.

After three hours spent drifting Troptai spoke to Teuphight.

“When will you shoot?” she asked.

Thryettai, still lying on the bottom of the boat, answered: “She shall not shoot today. Many of the dead men in the water.”

Troptai peered over the gunwale. “Oh,” she said, and covered her mouth with her hand.

The man swam without making waves. Around him the water lay as flat and as calm as the water in a well.

“He was handsome,” said Teuphight.

She watched as the man swam to the boat, unhurried. His long gold hair swam in the water with him. He rested his pale hand next to the oarlock. He smiled at Thryettai, who regarded him coyly.

“She would shoot me?” the man asked Thryettai, nodding his sodden head toward Teuphight and her rifle.

“She is hunting. Or fishing rather,” said Thryettai.

“Has she caught anything?”


“Will she catch anything with that strange pole?”

Thryettai tittered.

“Why does that woman hold a skull?” the man asked Thryettai.

Troptai moved her hand to the engine. “I believe we will leave now,” she said. “Hold on if you would like a ride back.”

“If you please,” said the man.

“I would have him overnight,” said Thryettai.

“I would have him overnight as well,” said Teuphight.

Troptai sighed.

She motored them back to the shore, the blonde man trailing in the water next to them, never once asking why he could not get into the boat. Troptai was glad that her sisters had not insisted that he ride with them, instead of in the water with the fish. Perhaps they had sensed that they were asking much by insisting that he stay overnight, and were giving their sister a courtesy by not demanding that he sit in her husband's boat. Once on the journey back, Thryettai caressed Troptai's hand in thanks.
They ate dinner. Aterward, Troptai spoke with Thryettai. 
“He is to be my husband,” said Thryettai. “I have spoken to Teuphight and we have an agreement.”

“You do?” asked Troptai.

“Yes. He is with her as we speak, walking along the stone wall. He explains this to her.”

“Does he?”

“He is my Philip!”

“That is his name?”

Thryettai giggled and slapped Troptai on the wrist. “Patience was rewarded,” she said. “God sent me this man.”

“He did?”

“Stop asking me questions!” quailed Thryettai as she trotted to the window.

They were silent for some time. Troptai listened to the ocean, to the smashing of the waves on the shore, and heard no more dead men in the waves. She breathed a sigh, her breath white in the cold air.

“They come back,” said Thryettai.

“They do?”

Thryettai pressed her face against the window. “And they are...they are...” She did not finish her statement, but she sobbed and threw her body against the window.

In alarm Troptai walked to her sister.

“They are hand in hand,” said Thryettai.

Troptai held her sister, who sobbed and sobbed, until Teuphight and Philip arrived back at the house. When they came through the kitchen door Troptai restrained Thryettai, who became enraged and threw herself at them.

When Thryettai was calm, Philip spoke.

“I shall marry Teuphight,” he said.

“What about me?” demanded Thryettai.

“Things change.”

“They do,” said quiet Teuphight.

“Change it!” shouted Thryettai, grabbing Troptai's shoulders and shaking her. “Change it change it change it!”

“I cannot,” said Troptai.


“I cannot,” she repeated.

“Aaagh!” cried Thryettai, and threw herself toward the rifles hanging near the door.

She was fast with the rifle. Troptai heard the bolt thrown and a round chambered. Philip put himself in front of Teuphight. "No!" he cried. "What are you doing?"

The shot deafened all and the smoke filled the air like white ghosts.

“Dear God,” said Troptai. 

"Boo hoo," said Thryettai. 

Philip looked down at the hole in his chest.

“Why?” he asked.

“I hate you,” said quiet Teuphight.

Philip prodded at the hole with tentative hands. He sighed, then his laughter filled the room like the sound of rolling cannonballs. 

"It's not funny!" shrieked Thryettai.  

“So you would do this from passion?” he asked, swinging his blonde hair as he tilted his head back to laugh. “You would do this?”

Thryettai mewled and dropped the rifle. She reached her arms pathetically out to him.

“If you would do this – out of your love for me, out of your great love – than I will come back to you! I will marry you!” shouted Philip.

“Oh God,” said Troptai.

“But,” said Teuphight.

Philip strode over to Thryettai. He embraced her. His golden hair covered her head as if it were binding them together.

“I love you!” said Philip.

And Teuphight held the rifle. She pointed it at the back of Philip's head.

Troptai was already out of the room, running upstairs to get the skull. 
In her room she thought about her husband. His name had been Jeremiah. Jeremiah stood six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds, and he would row them out to sea every once in awhile, so that they could shoot fish. Thryettai and Teuphight always would be waiting for them when they came back. Thryettai would talk to Jeremiah as they trudged back on the sand and Teuphight would cook whatever fish they caught in half-smiling silence as she listened to Jeremiah talk to Thryettai and laugh as they drank a full bottle of wine together.

She located the skull and brought it downstairs.

Philip sat at the table, clutching his head. The gun had taken his eye and his skull glistened through the terrible wound. Thryettai sat on the floor, head in hands, weeping. Teuphight stood next to the door, squeezing the rifle, causing her knuckles to shade alternately pink and white.

“Rarely have I encountered such passion,” said Philip.

“Are you going to grant him what you granted us?” demanded Thryettai through her tears. “He is my husband! He will be my husband!”

“No,” said Troptai, and moved first to quiet Teuphight, who held the gun.

Troptai pressed the skull to Teuphight's head. The dead sister showed no surprise at this. She collapsed on the floor and steam flowed from her mouth, mingling with the gunsmoke. 

“No no no don't do that to me!” cried Thryettai.

Troptai moved across the floor, brushing against Philip's shoulder. She leaned down to Thryettai and placed the skull against her other dead sister's head.

Thryettai was quiet.

Troptai sighed. She listened to the inhale, exhale of the ocean pulsing inward and outward across the grains of the sand. She inhaled and exhaled and thought of Jeremy. She caressed the skull.

She sat down next to Philip.

Philip stared at her with his good eye. For a long while they regarded each other.

“So,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

She pressed the skull to his head.

After that, she went outside into the night. The loud sea greeted the boat as she motored out into the darkness, churning white wake behind her. She thought of the night that she and her husband had gone out into the water, and he had told her of what he must do. She remembered the tears on her face like saltwater. She remembered rowing back alone except for the moon's reflection at her feet.

It was not an hour before another man came to the boat.

“Hello,” he said, his black eyes running with saltwater. “My name is Mooney Randall.”

“Hello, Mooney,” she said, and threw the skull off of the boat. It landed behind Randall and sunk into the water like the reflection of a full moon. When Randall sunk back into the water she went back to the shore. After tying up the boat she walked the beach, hand in hand with nobody.

Before dawn she had forgotten her husband's name. 



Thursday, December 27, 2012

New Short Story

Written and revised over the past week. Hope you like it. 
"Hold Your Breath When the Devil Sings"

After the Battle of Greenswards, Sergeant Bowman sat down next to me and offered a black cigarette.

How many dead?” he asked.

Fifty-six,” I said.

All with that?” He pointed to my rifle.


Eyes you got, man. Good eyes,” he said.

I knew then and there. Through the brown waters of fatigue and senses smashed into dysfunction, I knew. The notion was like a rifle-shot to the head. I saw.

I decided to play stupid.

So,” I said. “What and where next? Where d'we go next?”

He smiled. Three of his front teeth had been knocked out, but he did not notice or did not care. His right earlobe had been shot off or torn off. Blood painted his jawline.

Ain't no more 'us' for you, Darcha,” he said, rubbing his chin and frowning at a dead YS. “Not no more. Captain Ruppert, he done seen you. You'll be with Humble Queen right soon. Suppose I should say that I'm jealous.”

Sergeant Bowman laughed, which blew smoke into my face. He grabbed my knee and shook my leg.

It's decided?” I asked.

Damn, buddy, can't pull one off on you, can you?” Bowman continued smiling his toothless bloody smile as he patted the horn he wore on his belt. “They been watchin'.”

Bowman jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating one of the blood-red officer's coaches a hundred yards away.

Suppose they want you showered, prettied up. That Queen, you can't be dirty for her.”

I stared at the officer's coach.

Put down your rifle,” said Sergeant Bowman.

But even when the officer, clad in yellow sash and immaculate white boots, came for me, I did not surrender my weapon until Sergeant Bowman, who had tagged along, was obliged to wrench it from my hands.

* * *

I rode alone. The black horse that Captain Ruppert had granted me was silent, longsuffering, with a back like steel. It did not mind when I spoke to it, or wept against its neck. Its indifference was a consolation.

We passed along a road called Slaughter's Way, which followed the ocean. At times the road wound down to the beach, and I would close my eyes against the salt spray. Mostly I had my thoughts to myself, with only the noise of my mount's hoofs and the rustle of grass for company.

The black powder that I put beneath my tongue took away most memories of the battle, and of my wife, and of the YS that we had held back from the very land my horse's feet turned. In the short intervals when I did not have the black powder I found myself stroking the .44 pistol that Captain Ruppert had allowed me and scanning the undulant lines of the horizon.

I passed one village, mostly empty save for three women, all clad in gray and white, who watched me pass with rifles in their small hands. They looked so thin I imagined they would tumble away in the cold sea gales. When I waved at them they retreated into a moribund house to peer at me through broken windows, their rifle muzzles protruding from the glass like fossilized tails of giant rats.

Then, the keep. I would have sworn on God's Bible that it had not been there a moment in the past.

It stood in the ocean, a hundred meters from the shore. It rose from a base of shimmering material that was either mother-of-pearl or its clone. If it was actual mother-of-pearl, millions of oysters had lost their lives to construct the base which could not have been fewer than two hundred meters in diameter.

The keep itself was three triangles, each with a base fifty meters across and each tapering to a point. Towers to the east and west were white. The center tower shone a glistening black, like the pupil of a cat's eye in torchlight.

From the base of the black tower flowed a black road, like oil spilling from a broken lamp. The road stained the mother-of-pearl base of the towers and snaked through the water and finally reached the edge of the beach. The road meandered purposefully for another three hundred or so meters before it reached my horse's hooves.

Jesus Christ our Lord,” I prayed.

Down at the base of the towers, nearly a quarter mile away, there was someone riding out to meet me. I watched and waited for the Humble Queen's emissary. I prayed and prayed but God only responded in the sound of an engine.

When she greeted me I could not bring myself to holster my weapon.

* * *

After escorting me silently to the base of the tower, the emissary spoke.

She's right, honey,” said the woman, after shutting off her motorcycle and booting down its kickstand.With you she is especially right. Eyes, right?” Her voice was as shrill as a seagull's.

I did not answer. I stared at the dazzling ground around us. The luster of the mother-of-pearl caught even the gray light. Veins of purple, white, and blue flowed together.

Come on, honey,” she said. I felt her touch my leg. “Expectin' you.”

I looked down at the woman. She had taken the scrap of purple fabric from her face, and it fluttered over her shoulder like it was a part of her hair. Her face was plain, plain. She had one missing front tooth.

My name is Darcha Amun, and I am a married man,” I said.

Oh, honey,” she said.

She stepped back from me and went to her motorcycle. After rummaging in a saddlebag she picked out a tiny pistol.

Didn't want to do this, gorgeous,” she said.

I realized, as if waking from a dream, that I had the .44 pointed at her. I had no recollection of any motion of my body or the pistol or anything else. The woman did not appear concerned.

I will not,” I said.

In a way this is okay,” she said. “Gonna get all of the sleep you need.”

I did not fire the .44 when she pointed her tiny pistol toward me. I expected a crack from the gun but all I heard was a click, and a sting in my neck.

I fell into her arms. I felt her pulling me off of my horse. 

I dreamed of oceans.

* * *

Three days later I dined with the Queen.

She touched my leg and said, “Look up.”

I looked up.

Above us rose a vaulted ceiling, twenty meters high. Randomly placed white lights, glowing as dimly as Christmas bulbs, highlighted the glistening uniform purple-black which was the color of every wall, ceiling, and floor in the keep. Also above us hung a bright chandelier in the shape of an oyster shell.

Even when you're looking away from me, they're lovely,” she said. “You're not eating, darling.” The Queen dipped her shining hand into the mouth of a spinefish gaping at her from a pewter tray. She extracted a piece of white meat. I heard her chewing. 

Eat, eat,” she urged.

I took a strawberry covered in white chocolate from one of the numerous trays.

Good,” she said, laughing. Something moist hit the side of my face. “Good. Dessert first. Ha. Like sweets. Tell me about your – your eyes.”

We were alone in the great hall. There were no other conversations save our own and the whispering in my mind. The noise of the ocean was as a distant pulsing of blood, a heartbeat on the other side of the wall.

What about them,” I said.

What color were your father's eyes, darling? What color were your mother's eyes?”

I do not know.”

Ha ha ha,” she said. She prodded me with her elbow. “You would not, would you? That is correct.”

The YS--”

Hulga!” called the Humble Queen, cutting me off. “I think Drooga here would like champagne.”

The Queen laughed again and jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. “Champagne will get you oiled up, darling,” she said. “Maybe it put some lead in the pencil, right?”

The Queen laughed, a ribald sound that echoed through the hallway. For the second time that evening, I felt moved to look her in the face. 
Her skin was as white as bleached cotton. Despite her reputation she was not fat. She was naked from the waist up, her breasts painted a light purple. A necklace made out of mother-of-pearl dangled bib-like from around her thin neck.

Look at me with those baby-blues whenever you feel the notion,” said the Queen. “Are you wearing makeup? Eyeliner?”

I frowned, looked away from her.

Aw now,” she said, and let out a nauseating belch.

I heard footsteps, and the quiet muttering of Hulga, whoever that was. The sound of champagne slopping into a glass and Hulga's feet skittering away.

Darling,” repeated the Humble Queen. “Have another glass. Please. You know, we do not have to delay the inevitable.”

I looked her in the eyes. Their whites were bloodshot around the dark purple irises.

You took me away,” I said, speaking precisely. “So you can have a child...with eyes like mine. Yes?”

Her smile did not falter.

Is it a secret?” she said.

No. I should not be here right now. I should be in the field. I should not be...” I felt myself grabbing for the pistol that was not there. “I do not belong here. I belong first in the field, and then at my home with my wife.”

Oh no,” said the Queen. Her breath reeked of butter and fish. “No, darling. You are here right now, where I tell you to be. You are serving us here.”

Bitch,” I said. “Self-indulgent, spoiled, drug addicted, absolutely...”

My voice broke off as I felt a needle entering the side of my neck.

Thank you, Hulga,” the Queen said, as I watched her face waver and bend.

I fell forward without a sensation of falling. I wondered when I was going to hit the ground or splash into the ocean. A hand grabbed each of my shoulders, and I could not tell if their owner stood behind me or in front of me.

* * *

I sat at the window and stared at the ocean.

The ocean was a spectacle, a rolling moor of darkness interspersed with moonlight. If I squinted through the fog I could see what was surely the Isle of Min, which had been YS territory for the past fifteen years. The lights on the Isle wavered in the sick, lurid shades of green preferred by the YS for both their craft and their personal adornment.

What are you looking at, lover?” asked the Queen.

I did not look away from the window and I did not answer.

Does your nether-region sting, darling?”

I stared at the YS lights.

Come away from the window, lover,” said the Queen.

Do you look at the Isle?” I asked her. “Do you ever consider what it means? Why--”

Why the YS don't make more forays out of it? Because of the wonders of the army, my love. Now please come.”

The Queen lay shamelessly nude in the middle of her bed. The pure white sheets had rearranged themselves into neat squares and tucked themselves off to one corner.

Come and have some milk with me before bedtime, my darling,” she said.

I looked back to the Isle of Min. The green lights shuffled restlessly.

Come and tell me of your wife.”

I looked back at the light. I made a wish upon it: that I would be back with my men or back with my wife, either in safety or in peril. I wished the Queen ill, that she would perish under the weight of one of the YS, crushing her body that had so recently used mine. I wished all of these things as fervently as I wished for my own eyes to close, to dream of something else other than an acid-green ocean and the Queen's fingers.

I stood from the windowsill. A square of light passed my shoulder and then dissipated into the purple of the walls.

And I started to know something else; something I dared not admit even to myself.

She began humming a tune as I ambled over to the bed. It was a tune that had been popular with the men, and it had been rumored that the queen herself had composed the melody. Here I was with proof of the fact, as if it had not been within myself for the entire time. The melody was in a Myxolidian mode, which the harder of the musicians found decadent in its soft qualities, but still was inexplicably popular with the soldiers. Its title was “Hold Your Breath When the Devil Sings."

* * *

The sucking sound of a breathing YS echoed through the chamber.

I opened my eyes and saw it standing on the foot of the bed.

It wore nothing save a green sash, as is their custom during battle. Outside there hummed one of their ships, casting its green light through the room, casting bladelike shadows from each post of the four-post bed.

I was nude, but so was the YS.

Reflex launched me toward it. I grabbed for guns that were no longer on my person as I covered the eight feet between myself and it in two strides and felt myself slam against it.

The Queen screamed.

I snatched its forelimb and twisted. The YS made a noise like a musket going off beside my head.

The Queen screamed again as I continued to twist and shoved my fist into one of the distal mouths of the YS. The teeth in its throat closed around my arm, but I had learned years ago that all the teeth could do was scrape, not puncture. I grabbed the first lump of tissue that I found – a taste organ – and yanked and pulled my arm from the distal mouth.

I threw the organ against the wall as the YS groaned and gurgled and spat ichor onto the bed.

I turned and saw the Queen against the bed, holding a revolver that was nearly as long as a rifle. 

Another YS stood in front of her. She fired.

The round did not strike the YS, but shattered a mirror on the far side of the bedroom, bringing down a rain of shards. Before she could fire again, the YS was on top of her.

Killing a YS from behind presents no difficulties, even when it is girded for battle. I grabbed at a tentacle on its back and twisted, making it squeal and squirm and twist around into its various shapes. I grabbed one side of its green sash and twisted that too, tearing it from its body.

Shoot again,” I yelled to the queen.

However, she did not shoot. She was pummeling the YS on the head with the butt of the gun, hitting its proximal mouth.

The gun went off.

I tore the YS off the queen and threw it against the wall. It was draining, and ichor hit me in the face. 

The thrum of their ship lessened from a bone-rattling drone to the buzz of an insect as it sunk away from the window.

For a moment I breathed deeply and wiped the ichor from my chest.

I heard the ship crash into the rocks below us, twisting in the rocks. Its synthetic hull shrieked as its sentience died with the ship itself.

I calmed my breathing.

A clamor sounded in the keep below us. The sound of another YS ship droning up the side of a mountain and the other residents of the keep – God only knew who they were – wailing as if in sorrow over their damnation.

I breathed and out several times.

Acid-green light cast ghost shadows throughout the room.

I walked to the queen. I extracted the pistol from her clawed hand. I wiped the blood from its barrel onto the white sheets folded into squares on the corner of the bed. Four shots left, at least. I opened the cylinder and counted four.

The door to the bedroom burst open and two more of the YS fell inside of the room. Their yellow sashes fluttered in the weak light.

I held my breath and aimed the pistol.

* * *

Three weeks later, when I found Sergeant Bowman in an abandoned building three miles from the coast, he did not recognize me. 
Put it down,” he said, his beard scraping against the butt of his M1.

I ain't holding anything, son,” I said. 
When he recognized me he started crying. After ten minutes he calmed down enough to begin asking me questions. 
But what about you?” I asked him. “Where is everyone else?”

Didn't hold their breaths,” he said. 
After we spoke for a couple of more minutes, he led me into the interior of the building, which I gathered had been a hotel. 
I live in this room,” he said, pointing toward a green door. “If you want to leave here I understand.”

He retired, and I sat up watching the dark ocean. 
I had found my house a week earlier. There was no sign of my wife save for a handwritten letter taped to the table. It was in her handwriting, but she had not signed it. It mentioned her going to the keep to find solace offered by the Humble Queen. 
I sat and watched the ocean until a square of acid-green light appeared next to the horizon, floating above the water like a flying fish. 
Did she live? Even my eyes, the lust of the Queen herself, could not see.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

New Short Story

A 2000 word short story now available at Smashwords. Description:

Mrs. Lauder has some special requests for her late husband's funeral. She'll do anything to have his last wishes granted, even if it means revealing her true, twisted nature....

Just FYI: her nature is pretty twisted. 

This one is based loosely on nightmares I had while working in funeral service. Woke up screaming from some of those damn things. 

Hope this one gets under your skin. 

Sunday, July 10, 2011

The Time Draws Near...

Can you name the fonts? 

This is the (semi-) final cover art for The Dulcet Constellation. The painting in the background is called Mary, Queen of Heaven by the Master of the St. Lucy Legend. It's my favorite artwork at the National Gallery in DC. Go see the original—it's eight feet tall and shines like a gem.

This book has been a thorn in my side for a long time. Hopefully within the next month, I'll release it. There comes a point when more revision becomes not only insufferable, but futile. Your changes become just changes and not improvements.

But I'm very excited for everyone to read this. It's a PG-13, with no sex and minimal grue. I wouldn't be embarrassed to have my grandma read it, which is something I can't say about other stuff I've done. But, rest assured, things will still get as weird (and I would hope, interesting) as ever.

I'll do a full press-release type write-up sometime soon and post it here.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


...well, maybe not. But The Rifle Carousel: Hint Fictions will be free for the entire month of July. Click on the cover art & get to downloadin'!

You can get it at Smashwords or Barnes and Noble. (Smashwords is best for Kindle users, as it offers the .mobi format. The book hasn't made it to Amazon yet, unfortunately.)

Hint fiction is defined as a story of 25 words or fewer that suggests a larger, more complex story. I was introduced to the concept by Robert Swartwood, editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. My story "Civilian" appears in the anthology alongside works by Peter Straub, Joyce Carol Oates, James Frey, Douglas Clegg, and F. Paul Wilson.

Turns out, I loved the form. I ended up keeping a notebook specifically for hint stories, and The Rifle Carousel represents the best of them.

As you read, I'd encourage you to use your imagination to fill in the blanks. Twenty-five words ain't a lot of verbiage, so my job is to give your brain a push in the right direction. Titles are also very important; in many of my stories they're key to understanding (or not understanding) what's going on.

A handful of my favorites:

Spaghetti and Meatball Night at the Bigamist's Trailer 
Before desert, each of the three Mrs. Pfizers had tried to hold my hand under the table.

My Only Notes on the Investigation
After touching the ghost, three of us ended up in the hospital. Jerome and Janis, who were married, died.

Three Caskets
Two for the dogs, one for her. She wanted four but I kept the goat alive.

The Rifle Carousel
Every night: AK-47s, saddles on their breeches, gilt hooves for grips. Father Nemerow thinks it's a swords-into-plowshares dream. I know better.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Free Weird-Ass Horror

My friend Jonathan Curwen, who hails from the worst neighborhood in San Francisco, has finally got around to publishing his weird-ass novel Knife Lake. I'd be a terrible friend if I didn't mention that it was available on in every ebook format imaginable. And, in a characteristic gesture of sweeping beneficence, Cur has decided to make it a FREE download for the next 2 weeks.

To obtain: go to, put Knife Lake in your cart, and enter VE46K (not case-sensitive) in the coupon code box. Click on the totally awesome cover art below to get started.

Warning: this is a weird-ass book, and has plenty of disturbing images, bloody scenes, and shapeshifting demons. Not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.

And yes, I did design the cover.