So, I promise I won’t turn into a promo-machine that only talks about my book, but, allow me one more post.
Because a lot happened recently, and I have pictures I wanted to show you.
If you happen to follow me on Instagram or Twitter, this would seem familiar—but, for those that don’t, let’s go.
I got my first copy on May 14th, and god did it look pretty. Continue reading
A book’s spine is not meant to hit a wall, but, there it slid down, coming to a forlorn, bent-out-of-shape slump on the ground.
Samantha crossed her hands over her chest and pouted. She’d been enjoying that book, loving the characters, the concepts, where it was going—but now…
A quick darting motion brought her phone up to use, as it had been an hour before, and her text sent at the speed of technology.
That was horrible. Continue reading
No one told me that publishing was a drug that had a high and a crash. That would have been nice to know before it happened. I was, and still kind of am, the moodiest version of myself I have been in a long time.
And, really, I should have seen this coming. I should have seen all of this coming. I threw all of myself into making the deadline for this thing. At the peak, I had five shots of espresso over the course of a single day.
It was fucking madness. Continue reading
Every word spoken, added to the physical mass. Charlie oversaw words and made sure that no one overused them. Words were precious, you see: a commodity that no one could do much without, yet paradoxically must not speak too often. They powered lights and made the cars run on time. If not for words, likely they would all be dead.
But then came a stranger into the town, who spoke freely, and with words they’d never heard before. Charlie grew worried about him but had no significant reason to remove him, he was but one man, and a kind enough sort at that.
But, yes, later, there was something wrong, there was something off. He used a swear. No one had ever heard it before—and it brought forth chaos. Continue reading
Oh, huh, would you look at that: I wrote a book.
HOLY SHIT, I WROTE A BOOK!?
Of one thing they were certain: they were not driving themselves that night. On the table was more booze than a man could feasibly drink, more wine than a Grecian of the olden, way olden days, could ingest—and they drank it like water. An alcoholic would have a pain in his liver at the sight.
And they were having a blast. Continue reading
It gets worse,
Before you can attempt,
To sow it back again. Continue reading
“We are not real living beings, you know,” Caffeine said, then jerked his head to the side, looking at the door to the room.
“Yeah—but it doesn’t much matter. It’s nice being as we are, at least,” Alcohol said, and sat down on his chair. He stared up at the other two and smiled goofily.
“It matters a little bit,” Nicotine said, parting back his ginger hair. “I, for one, like to be flesh.”
“Oh, well…so do I, but that does not mean that we are.” Caffeine’s words came out rushed and flowing—like he had rehearsed it, but not well, and was trying to get them out as fast as possible before he forgot.
Alcohol laughed. “I did not get that at all.” Continue reading
“So, you’re not going to press the button?”
Jim shrugged. “Nope.”
Cathy pursed her lips. She opened her mouth to say something and then did not. She looked at the red button on the table. They’d woken up to it being there in their kitchen.
“But,” Cathy began, “I feel as though we are supposed to do something with it.”
Jim considered the button again, rubbing his chin. He reached out to touch it, finger by finger, then he pulled away. He too felt the odd presence of someone, or perhaps many people, frowning. Continue reading
Ever since James tried to quit using the patch, he’s been having mood swings. I noticed, everyone notices—but we were too polite to point it out to him, and for that, we are probably not nice people. Despite us doing it to be nice, ostensibly.
But you can tell, you can really tell. He’ll walk into our classrooms, and he’ll look all, you know, happy and stuff—has on his yellow mask. Big cheery face with a smile and wide eyes and a sharp chin. But, then, and oh is it fast, he’ll see something else, some minor thing upsets him, and the red mask whips out of his pouch, my God. Continue reading
I know it is hard—
but hold fast—
To nothing at all. Continue reading
The teachers’ stoic moment shattered with but one word.
Mrs. Jasmine, known for her blue spectacles, dropped her mug to the ground and stared at the door.
“No,” she whispered. Continue reading
“It would be nice to take it all back, don’t you think?” she mused at the stone figure of a woman in a slip-on dress. “I mean—I didn’t quite mean for it to go so far.”
She swiveled her head toward a man with his face in a perpetual scream.
“And, you, I really did not mean for you to die. I was trying to be careful.” Continue reading
I can’t handle the smell.
“Would you please put that thing out?” I asked.
“Wish I could,” he responded, taking another puff of his cigarette. The noxious white fumes floated around in the room and had nowhere to go. I coughed, and my lungs burned.
“You can,” I said. I held out an overused ashtray. “You just stop.”
“That’s not how addiction works,” he said, and softly shook his head. “I figured with how much coffee you suck down you’d get that.” Continue reading
To tell you the truth, I never meant to be a horror writer. Everyone knew me as the sci-fi guy; that’s where I began. But, somewhere, along the way, this became the artistic avenue I connected to the most.
I say, whenever possible, “I am a horror writer.” Because I want that to stick. I want people to get what that means, even if I am not sure, myself, what I mean.
I’ve talked, at length, about my want for and to create dark stories. I do not fully understand my proclivity, but I know it has affected me. At some point, after I’d spent a good deal of time trying to come up with horror concepts, and studying other instances of it, it became clinical. Continue reading