Sunday, December 15, 2013

The Carrier - FREE this weekend & Shadow Schism is Finished!

The Carrier is free today and tomorrow (12/15 & 12/16) - this tongue-in-cheek tale of "zombie erotica" addresses the embarrassing problem of contracting STZ (Socially Transmitted Zombism)...

In other news, Shadow Schism is finished!  Here is the pitch (which is not yet finalized):

Nick considers his life to be relatively normal.  However, that perception is radically altered when, in the span of twenty four hours, three unexpected events occur.  First, a folk singer tells him that he is the embodiment of sin (although the singer doesn't specify which one).  Then a verbose raven tells him that he has been chosen to save the world from impending cataclysmic disaster.  Finally, just when Nick thinks he might be regaining some shred of his sanity, an attractive woman named Susan seeks his assistance when shadows attack her in a parking lot.  From there, things start to get weird.

Although Nick is an unlikely (and not altogether willing) hero, when strange beings disguised as animals begin to talk to him, what real choice does he have but to listen?  Rifts are forming between conscious reality and the shadow world and, as these chasms grow, hostile animated shadows are beginning to leak into physical reality through the cracks.  Unless he can seal the rifts, all of reality will be doomed.

Finding himself suddenly saddled with this grandiose and improbable mission, Nick reluctantly embarks upon a surreal journey.  He encounters nine different animal totems, each with its own cryptic message.   He consults with a witch, an oracle, and evasive subliminal agents in order to learn how best to do battle against the denizens of shadow as they invade waking reality in a variety of harrowing forms.  And, with a little luck, he might even manage to win Susan's heart along the way.  But will he be able to find a way to close the rift between worlds before it's too late?

SHADOW SCHISM is a droll and unsettling tale of speculative fiction that will leave you questioning what you believe to be real.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

The Carrier - FREE today at Amazon!

The Carrier, my newest release in the Dead Lay "zombie erotica" series of short stories, is free today at Amazon!  Be sure to pick it up! ;)
When Marsha engages in unprotected intercourse with Lydia's zombie, she unwittingly becomes a carrier of STZ - Sexually Transmitted Zombiism. But maybe transmitting the infection isn't such a bad idea... 

This story is part of the Dead Lay series, a collection of sexually themed horror short stories that follow the adventures of Lydia and Heracles, her zombie man servant.

Monday, December 2, 2013

The Carrier - Now Available

"The Carrier," a new short story in the Dead Lay series, is now available!

When Marsha engages in unprotected intercourse with Lydia's zombie, she unwittingly becomes a carrier of STZ - Sexually Transmitted Zombiism. But maybe transmitting the infection isn't such a bad idea... 

This story is part of the Dead Lay series, a collection of sexually themed horror short stories that follow the adventures of Lydia and Heracles, her zombie man servant.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Dead Lay

A Polyvore collage capturing the general gist of the concept art for Dead Lay, my new short story collection.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Free Short Stories at Amazon for Halloween

The Help and The Equipment, two short stories from my upcoming Dead Lay zombie erotica short story collection, are free at Amazon this Thursday through Saturday (Oct 31st through Nov. 2nd).  Be sure to grab them during this, their last free promotion!

Thursday, September 26, 2013

The Equipment - Free this Friday & Saturday

Book Description

 September 25, 2013
This zombie erotica short story chronicles the further adventures of Lydia and Heracles, her zombie man-servant.

Lydia enjoys a relatively peaceful, idyllic post-apocalyptic life with her zombie, Heracles, who fulfills both her household and personal needs. However, Lydia's whole world begins to fall apart when important bits of Heracles start to break off.

Can Heracles be mended? Will Lydia ever be able to find sexual satisfaction again?

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Saturday, September 7, 2013

FREE at Amazon this Weekend!

Free for the Kindle at Amazon this weekend (9/7 & 9/8):The Help, my new "zombie erotica" short story in the vein of 50 Shades of Decay!  

The zombie apocalypse has been quelled, and now the undead are just another commodity to be bought and sold.  When Lydia purchases a zombie house servant, she has some other duties in mind for him...

Friday, August 9, 2013

Sunday, August 4, 2013

My Top 100 Sets

I just love Polyvore.  It's an extradordinary creative outlet.  If you'd like to know more about it, check out my article Exploring New Social Media: Polyvore as Global Art Gallery!

Friday, July 26, 2013

Shadow Schism Part 6 Is Now Available

A new installment of my serialized novel, Shadow Schism, is now available!  In this episode, Nick meets an oddly bird-like Oracle, and Susan comes under attack by impish shadow creatures.  You can find it here:

Shadow Schism - Book I: Out of Thin Air (The Raven's Message), Part 6

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Part 4 of Shadow Schism is now available!
Shadow Schism - Book I: Out of Thin Air (The Raven's Message), Part 4

Shadow Schism is my newest novel, and I'm serializing it in order to force myself to write the last 40 pages.  I hope you will give it a read and would value your feedback!

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

The Factory -- New Short Story!

Please check out my new short story, The Factory!


In this eerie short story with steampunk undertones, a woman finds herself forced to work in a bizarre and mysterious factory.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Another Random Chapter from Subliminal Debris

Archaic Remnants

            At first glance, the park lay still.  However, as Nick approached, he began to notice minuscule stirrings.  Still running, as he grew closer, he could see that there was a ripple of movement running across grass in the park.  It looked like hundreds of hyperactive clumps of dried grass clippings, or maybe dancing dandelion flowers, were bobbing along the ground as they were blown by the wind.
            Nick frowned.  There really wasn't much wind today, come to think of it.
            The park was full of Archaic Remnants -- creatures about the size and shape of dust bunnies that typically go unnoticed by human beings.  Archaic Remnants gathered in the wake of subconscious activity, drawn to its departing echoes.  Usually, a few dozen might huddle in the corner of a bedroom after an especially fitful night of dream-laden sleep.  However, the rift was causing their population to explode. 
            Archaic Remnants were oddly cute, sweet natured little creatures that generally did little more than make indecipherable but endearing squeaking noises and flit around in corners.  Since they characteristically remained in peripheral vision, Nick had never noticed them before.  However, as he watched the ground swim with these wee balls of animated fluff, they seemed very familiar.
             "We are Archaic Remnants.  Let us help you!" they cried excitedly in a disorganized cooing chorus.
             Archaic Remnants are renowned for their desire to be helpful, although their good will usually manifests itself in small, unnoticed acts such as the retrieval of lost pens and paperclips.  Nick did not know this, of course, but he was used to having weird things talking to him by now.  If these creatures that looked like dancing dust motes wanted  to help him find and rescue Susan, he would gladly accept their assistance without questions.
            "Toss us in the air around the park." some of the remnants instructed happily.  "Scatter us like seeds in the wind.  We stick to subconscious matter in the same way metal shavings are drawn to a magnet."
             "Put out your hand!" another directed cheerfully.
              Nick knelt down on one knee and put out his hand.  In droves, Archaic Remnants began to leap up onto his palm.
             "Will it hurt you if I throw you?" Nick asked.
             "Oh, yes!" a high spirited chorus answered without hesitation.  "It will kill us."
             "When we strike the ground, we will die, and our bodies will deflate into a residue like fine pollen." one of the remnants in his hand explained without a hint of trepidation in its squeaky little voice.  "That residue will work like dusting for fingerprints.  Our dust will adhere to subconscious material, so you will easily be able to follow the shape-shifter's trail."
             Hundreds more Archaic Remnants gathered around Nick's feet, excitedly leaping over his shoes as they waited their turn to be tossed to their deaths.
             Hesitantly, mumbling apologies, Nick tossed a handful of the remnants around him.  At first, he saw nothing, but then he spied a partial  paw print.
            Spurred on, he canvassed the whole park with remnant dust, unable to dispel the feeling that he was committing genocide as he murdered the joyfully burbling remnants one handful at a time while their brothers shouted encouragement.
            When a remnant deflated into powder over an area where the shape-shifter had been, its dust adhered to the print, turning shiny black with an iridescent oil-like sheen.  Nick was able to follow these tracks through the park and, still tossing his merry suicidal new friends as he went, he tracked it for another two blocks, where its tracks veered into a dark alleyway. 
            Nick rounded the corner with the remnants tumbling along at his feet as he strode.  The alley, which fell between a local grocery and a residence, dead ended amid trash cans, old boards, and debris.  However, defying all laws of science, at the very end of the alleyway, a tunnel hung in the air beside one of the trash cans. 
            It had no substance in the physical world.  It was just a hole, sitting about chest-high and wide enough for a man to enter.  If you walked around to look at it from the other side, it was like the back of a mirror -- just an opaque black void with a brick wall sitting inches behind it.  But from the front, one could see that, in whatever dimension in which it existed, it stretched on for a great distance -- perhaps a mile or more.
            "It still may not be too late to get Susan back!" the remnants cried up at Nick, bouncing excitedly around his feet. 
            Peering into its black depths, Nick could see that the tunnel was lined with crumbling earth, ragged twigs, and inky black vines.  The shadow shape-shifter's tracks entered the tunnel, and it had clearly been carrying Susan with it because a snagged scrap of Susan's clothing hung from a thin, gnarled branch near the entrance.  
            The Archaic Remnants chortled, "This is a tunnel between planes of existence.  It runs between the two realms of human consciousness.  Your physical body must not cross into the plane of shadow.  But, as long as you catch them within this channel between the physical world and the collective subconscious, you can still stop him!"



Friday, May 17, 2013

Monday, May 6, 2013

100 Posts & a "Subliminal Debris" Chapter Excerpt

Hmmm, my 100th post.  How the hell did that happen?  In person, I am someone who steadfastly tries to avoid talking about herself.  Ah, well -- so it goes.

My current writing project, which is still in title limbo (call it Subliminal Debris for now), continues to take shape.  Currently, its about 38,000 words and is probably two-thirds finished.    Here is an excerpt from what I wrote during the past week:

                        Returning from a stroll to the corner store, Susan paused to watch a black dog that was frolicking in a small neighborhood park.  Standing outside of the park, she couldn't help but smile smiled as she observed the exuberant animal bounding back and forth between the slide and jungle gym.  She wondered where its owner was.  It didn't seem to even be wearing a collar.
                        Squinting to try to see it better, Susan decided that the dog must be very shaggy because she just couldn't make out any of its features.
                        But the longer she looked, the more she had the feeling that there was something not quite right about the dog though.  Susan leaned against the fence and watched for several minutes, but she couldn't put her finger on it.
                        Then it hit her.  The dog had no shadow.  As it trotted happily to and fro, there was no shadow tagging along beneath it. 
                        Susan frowned, knitting her brow in consternation.  She knew that the prudent thing to do would be to get the hell away from here right now, but she hesitated.  This felt like a puzzle that she needed to solve.
                        And then a second, even more disturbing, realization hit her.
                        It wasn't just that this dog had no shadow.  This dog was shadow.  It wasn't a black dog.  It was a shadow dog.
                        This was wrong.  This was very, very wrong.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Beguiling Crone: Another Random Chapter from a Work in Progress (Title - Subliminal Debris? Inexistence? Who Knows...)

Beguiling Crone

The cat had furnished Nick with the witch's address.  He parked a block away and walked to her residence, trying to affect the air of one taking a casual, leisurely stroll.
Nick had hoped to at least possess the element of surprise, but as he approached the front yard of the residence, the woman standing next to a rose bush in the front garden turned instinctively, looking him directly in the face, her lips turning up in a gentle, slightly bemused smile.
            She was not what Nick had expected.  Although obviously elderly, she was far from frail.  Her appearance was that of a hearty, good humored woman with ruddy cheeks and an ample bossom.  What's more, she seemed to glow with a natural energy, and something about her appearance was singularly strong and earthy.  In fact, she looked as if her limbs had actually sprung from the soil beneath her, and her hair was a tangle of intertwining strands that formed an unkempt halo that blossomed wildly around her face.   She looked as though the rose bush she was tending might actually be her cousin. 
            To Nick, it seemed as if this woman might have been sculpted directly from the primordial substance from which the rest of mankind had only descended -- sculpted by some divine hand that, if not all knowing, at least possessed artistic flair and the capacity for great forethought.
"I've been expecting you, dear." her voice was low and deep, but not marred by age.  It reminded him of rustling leaves.
"I..." Nick stammered, taken by surprise.
" I understand you are in a bit of a quandary.  I'm sorry, what is your name, love?"
"Nick... Nicholas."
"A pleasure to meet you, Nicholas.  I'm Deirdre.  I suspect we have a lot to discuss.  But let's do so more comfortably, shall we?  Do come in, dear.  I'll make you some tea." 
Wordlessly, Nick followed her into the house.  As he passed through her screened front porch, he noticed a large loom tucked in the corner.
Deirdre ushered him into her living room.  It was a room that looked lived in -- the furniture worn, though not shabby.  She urged Nick to make himself comfortable on the sofa and trotted off to prepare their tea.
            As he observed her fussing over the tea tray in the adjoining kitchen, it struck Nick that Deirdre embodied all womankind -- a maiden peeking through in her coy smile while a mother's kind eyes gazed tenderly out from the wrinkled face of a wise old woman.  Yes, she was all women, and Nick found himself inexplicably mesmerized... and more than a little overwhelmed.
            Perhaps he was under her spell?  Was she some sort of siren?  In her presence, he felt almost a wee bit tipsy, his vision ever so slightly off-kilter, tilted at an almost imperceptible angle.  Perhaps she was giving off powerful pheromones or some other intoxicant? 
            Deirdre returned to the living room with a tray containing two cups and saucers, a rather delicate looking china tea pot, cream, sugar, and a plate of tea biscuits.  She set the tray gingerly upon the coffee table.
            "Cream and sugar?" she asked, beginning to pour.
            "Really, I'm fine." Nick said, trying to gently decline her hospitality.  He was nervous about drinking anything she had prepared.
            Deirdre frowned.  "Why so wary, dear?"
            She was too perceptive to try to fool, so Nick took a deep breath and proceeded with honesty.  "It's true, I am a bit wary of you, Ma'am.  You see, I know you can control people's actions."
            "Oh, my, no!" Deirdre clucked.  "You make witches sound so sinister.  We are a good hearted lot, I assure you." she said with a chuckle.  "And we would certainly do nothing so obvious and vulgar as control anyone... we simply offer gentle suggestions.  Think of it as merely a psychic nudge in a desired direction.  Purely benevolent, you see.  If someone needs a little help getting going, we provide the needed push."
            She had kind eyes that twinkled and seemed to have endless depth.  There was a hint of mischievousness glimmer in them, it was true, but it was playful and didn't seem at all malicious.  Nick decided that he liked her.  He couldn't help it.
            "You came here because you have a problem, did you not, Nicholas?" she asked.
            Nick nodded.
            "But you seem to have some misconceptions about witchcraft.  Let me put your mind at ease a little, dear, and then we'll get to your problem."
            She paused to pour herself some tea and savor a sip.
            "There are many types of witches, young man, and the vast majority are benevolent.  The world would be in far worse shape than it is if it weren't for the guiding hands of witches.  But, while technically a witch, I'm not a typical one.  I perform a specialized task; few women throughout history have chronicled the lives of mankind.  In Greek mythology, these women were known as the Fates.  They have also been known by many other names over the course of history.  But their nature has always been fundamentally misunderstood."
            Nick waited for her to continue.
            "Such women have been credited with writing men's fates." she said, shaking her head sadly.  "But our involvement has never been active; it is a passive role.  I do not write a man's destiny; I merely record it.  I am a simple historian." she said, turning her palms turned up in a gesture of openness.
            "So that loom you have..." Nick gestured in its direction.
            "Yes, my life's work.  I weave the thread, but each tapestry is merely a history.  I do not create the events; I merely record them."
            Nick nodded.
            "So, your problem then?" she coaxed him with a gentle smile.
            "Ah, yes.  There is a sort of shadow disease." he began.  There was no easy way to explain this.  "It is bleeding over from the realm of the collective unconscious and infecting people.  Eventually, they are overwhelmed by shadow and disappear from our world, apparently absorbed into the shadow realm..."
            "I am aware of the growing rift between our worlds." Deirdre said thoughtfully.  "And I am also aware of your role.  You have been using sets of universal symbols to help contain the ruptures, have you not?"
            "Yes." Nick responded.  "But that won't stop this infection."
            The old woman nodded.
"The cat said that symbols will not work because of your involvement." Nick said.
"No, symbols will not work, but that has nothing to do with me.  I did not create this distorted fate." she said. 
"But do you know how to stop it?"
"To intervene in a person's fate is a serious crime.  But I don't think that is of real concern to someone with your nature." she said with a smirk.
Nick dismissed the reference to his nature.  There were more pressing matters than his damnation right now.
"Besides, these fates are a result of underlying sickness in the tapestry of life." Deirdre continued.  "The pattern is unnatural -- altered by disease.  I cannot interfere myself, but I don't object to you doing so."
"You will recognize the afflicted by the pictures on their skin.  No mortal can cross over without these glyphs of transportation.  That is why your symbols can have no effect.  Their own organic ciphers act as a shield."
"Why did the cat blame you then?" Nick wondered aloud.
"Damned cat can't admit that there are things he doesn't know." the old woman grumbled.  "Snarky psychoid." she muttered.
Shaking her head, she continued, "But the infection can still be purged.  When you encounter one of the afflicted, induce vomiting.  I will give you a conduit -- the afflicted are tainted by shadows; they must purge until their liquids run clear."
  She placed a leathery hand atop his own, patting it reassuringly.
  Looking into her face, Nick was suddenly struck with the beauty of age.  Living in a culture that valued youth, he had automatically dismissed aging as undesirable all his life -- an unfortunate side effect of growing older.  But now he saw with sudden clarity that each line was like a medal life had bestowed.  With every wrinkle, there was wisdom.  An aged face was like a palm; the lines could be read if only the person looking was correctly versed for the task.
  The crone was beautiful in her quiet, faded way -- in the same way a flower is still beautiful when its blossom is waning.  It was not the arrogant beauty of youth, but a humble beauty --  deepened by experience, replete with the soft, lingering sadness that comes with wisdom.
  The kind lines around her eyes bunched as she smiled, and Nick was in a strange sort of reverential love.  A love for her kindness, wisdom, and understanding.  After he left, he would have to banish this epiphany from his mind in order to go back to a valuing the empty robustness of youthful beauty. 
"Thank you." Nick said.
She nodded, patting his hand once again.  "Purging will cure individual cases.  But, in order to put an end to the phenomenon, I'm afraid you'll need to do something far more dangerous."
  Nick nodded but said nothing.  He knew that the big final showdown that everyone kept alluding to was probably his alone to face.
  "Just a moment." Deirdre said, rising and excusing herself.
  Nick stared blankly at his undrunk cup of tea.
            The old woman soon returned with a bottle of what Nick presumed was an herbal concoction that would cause the afflicted to purge the shadows from their bodies.  But as he took the it from her, he saw that it was just ipecac.  He gave her a confused look.
            "What, did you expect some 'eye of newt' mumbojumbo?" she laughed.  "Why would I spend all day brewing up an elixir when something over the counter works at least as well?"

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Adam Ant's Song Encourages Anorexia

               Here is my random thought for the day, and it is, admittedly, very random: I have to admire Adam Ant for his balls.
               From the time I was eleven to fifteen, Adam Ant was my favorite singer.  Actually, he was far more than that; he was my idol and the primary subject of my adolescent fantasies.  I absolutely wanted to marry the man (if that wish had come true, I undoubtedly would be fucked up in a myriad of entirely different ways today).
               After eighteen years of musical silence, Adam Ant recently released a new album with a surprising long and inexplicable title (something about being a hussar and marrying the gunner's daughter).   Since I expressed a modicum of curiosity about it, my husband bought it for me.   
               I've been listening to the album in my car, and there is one track that has gotten under my skin.  I sing it to myself, I quietly mull over its lyrics -- I'm even writing about the damned thing!   The song is "Punkyoungirl."  It is a politically incorrect train wreck; there is just so much wrong with it that, in order to take it all in, one really must listen to it a number of times.  But I think that it is precisely because the song is so perverse that I am drawn to it with something akin to morbid fascination.  That, and it's damnably catchy.  
               To put it simply, the song is about a young girl (I'm guessing late teens or early twenties) with whom Adam apparently enjoys having sex.  Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mean to be a prude here.  That Adam Ant wants to have sex with young women is hardly surprising.  I imagine that the majority of older men would like to do so; most just don't have enough money or fame to be very successful at it. 
               Adam regales his listeners with an appreciative description of the girl's body and then credits her with causing his midlife crisis: "punky young girl needs a middle aged man / whose midlife crisis you began."   He goes on to bid her to "lift up your skirt, let me lick the alphabet."  Although I'm not sure from where the euphemism "alphabet" might have come, I'm still pretty sure that I can recognize a reference to cunnilingus when I hear it.  This line never ceases to cause a very visual image of Adam, in the midst of his alphabet escapades, to pop into my head and, while I must admit that it isn't an entirely unpleasant image, its presence there just seem somehow wrong
               After a few more thinly cloaked sexual references and some rather cute speculations about the girl's underthings, Adam warns her "if it goes wrong, don't look at me / my brain don't carry responsibility."  At first, this lyric sounds like a total cop out.  I mean, surely a man in his late fifties should carry the responsibility when in a relationship with an impressionable young girl, even if only because he has so much more life experience from which to draw?  But then again, Adam does have special circumstances (as he references in the song "Shrink").  Perhaps he really can't be held responsible for his actions after all.
               The real heart of "Punkyoungirl"'s ballsy nature is its chorus.  Adam repeats "She said nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." 
               First off, this girl has obviously never been introduced to a roast beef po-boy. But even if the girl's supposition were true, repeating it is probably irresponsible.
               A hint of admiration seems to be audible in Adam's voice as he sings these lines; he presumably admires her discipline.  She is clearly dedicated to maintaining her slim, beautiful body. 
               The problem is that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" is exactly the sort of phrase you will find on pro-anorexia websites.  It encourages the anorexic mindset.  And Adam Ant has put it out there for mass consumption, encouraging any young women who may listen to the song to starve themselves in order to be more desirable. 
               Am I saying that this shouldn't have been said?  Of course not.  I think people should say whatever the hell they want, regardless of how inflammatory it may be.  A lot of my own writing is undoubtedly offensive by many people.  But I am saying that Adam sure has balls to say it, and I'm not even entirely sure he even realizes what he's saying.
               Now that I have analyzed the song to death, I'll conclude by saying that, as screwed up as it may be, I do like "Punkyoungirl."  I think it's probably my favorite song on the whole album.

Friday, March 1, 2013

Twisted Tales for Twisted Minds -- Now Available!

Twisted Tales for Twisted Minds is now available!  E-book formats have been uploaded to Smashwords (already publicly available), Amazon, and Barnes and Noble (available in the next 24 hours).  The print edition should be available within the next few weeks.  
Once more, I would like to thank Streetlight Graphics  for their excellent work.  Superb cover art and formatting, as always!

GMOs Will Cause the Zombie Apocalypse

Not only are GMOs killing the bees and monarch butterflies, but they will eventually be the death of us all.

In the following excerpt from Making the Best of the Zombie Apocalypse, survivors discuss how genetically modified crops caused the dead to rise:

“We’re all infected.” Dave continued. “That’s why we’ll come back when we die.”
“When the dead bite the living, it’s just a virulent bacterial infection that causes the bitten person to die. Then their own infection, or, if you really want to be accurate, mutation, which is already present in their DNA, reanimates them. A zombie’s bite is like that of a monitor lizard. The chunk they take out of you might not kill you, but the bacteria from their mouths is likely to do so in short order. The bite kills, but it doesn’t cause reanimation.”
“But why?” Ron asked. “Why would nobody have this infection and then, suddenly, one day everyone becomes infected? Some alien asteroid? Or a biological weapon? I’ve heard a million theories since this shit began, but nobody seems to actually know.”
“It had something to do with beef.” Dave said.
We all looked at Dave, with varying degrees of puzzlement visible on our faces, and waited for him to say more.
“You can only feed cows other cows for so long.” Dave said by way of explanation. “All the cutting corners on animal feed and genetic engineering of crops to maximize profits had an unexpected effect. They fed the cows waste, byproducts, genetically modified grain and meal...
You eat enough genetically modified food, it’s going to modify your genetics.”
“But vegetarians...” Maggie began.
“Vegetarians and those who strictly ate organic foods weren't immune to the infection. Vegetarians typically made the decision to not eat meat in adulthood. They had already consumed heaps of genetically altered plants and animals by then. I mean, hell, it was in the goddamned milk.”
Dave had been compiling research since the outbreak began, and now he was able to lay it all out for the layperson, or laypeople in this case—us.
“Scientists kept waiting to see the effects of genetic engineering, but they were looking in the wrong place. They were watching for effects on living human beings, but the mutation it had caused remained dormant during the human life phase. The effect only presented in the post-life phase—the result being that the dead wouldn’t stay dead.”
“Remember mad cow disease? Beef moguls fed cows the left over bits of other cows, and it altered the animals’ protein sequences. People should have seen that something was up then. We fucked up the food supply and poisoned ourselves.”
If what Dave said was true, I wondered what the ramifications would be of our post-apocalyptic diet. Cannibalism had quickly become the norm after the outbreak. The living not only ate each other; they ate zombies if they were still fresh enough to consume. What further genetic damage might we be doing? But maybe that was a moot point; humanity seemed to already be tapering off to its doomed conclusion. Another plague of any sort seemed as though it would just be overkill.
Ron asked, “But why did all the dead start getting up and walking at the same time then? That doesn’t make sense... People would have had to be infected for years before the apocalypse occurred.”
“Popular theory is that the mutation existed but lay dormant and unnoticed until some precipitating global event triggered activation of the gene. A chemical spill was initially blamed as the cause of dead reanimation, but we now know that it could only have been a catalyst. High levels of some fucked up toxic chemical were carried on the air currents around the world, like radiation from Chernobyl. Though it’s difficult to verify anything scientifically anymore, it is strongly speculated that the spill provided the catalytic agent, awakening the gene. If it hadn’t been that spill though, something else would have triggered it eventually. It was just waiting for a reason to wake up.”
After years of having to accept this horrible reality without knowing why, somehow the availability of a plausible explanation didn’t make me feel much better. Still, maybe that there is an ascertainable reason is the first step toward the possibility of there ever being a solution. I’m not optimistic, but maybe.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Zombie Gras is Now Available!

Zombie Gras is now available!  E-book formats have been uploaded to Smashwords (already publicly available), Amazon, and Barnes and Noble (available in the next 24 hours).  The print edition should be available by the end of the week.  
Once again, I would like to thank Streetlight Graphics  for their excellent work.  Superb cover art and formatting, as always!

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Book Previews (Hurray!)

Previews are now available for Zombie Gras (sample chapter available) and my short fiction collection, Twisted Tales for Twisted Minds (one full short story available).  Please check these sneak peaks out!
Both works should be commercially available within a couple of weeks.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Another Random Chapter from Subliminal Debris (working title)



            Lyla was submerged in a tub of soothing warm water and, as she watched herself, she was evolving, her naked body gracefully changing.  Her features were growing smoother, less precise.  As she watched, her hands and feet fused, forming webbed fingers and toes.  Then a tail began to grow from her body, and her neck developed gill-like slits.  It felt utterly natural to her, and aesthetically, she found the transformation utterly beautiful, like witnessing the creation of a magnificent work of art.
            And then Lyla awoke.  She was uncomfortable and sticky.  As she began to gain her bearings, she realized that she was lying in a pool of her own murky waste.
She frowned with disgust, peeling the fouled sheets from her body.  This was the first time that Lyla had ever soiled her bed.  She had been suffering with stomach upset recently, but she had always been able to at least make it to the bathroom in time until now.
About a week prior, she had begun to defecate inky black liquid.  Shortly thereafter, she had also begun to cough up the same inky black liquid.  It was as if her body were overflowing with the stuff.  She feared that when she sweat, it would come out of her very pores. 
Although Lyla rationally knew that she should see a doctor, she was afraid.  She sensed that her system had been compromised, corrupted, infected, infiltrated... polluted.  There was obviously something very wrong.  Her stool was the consistency of oily water, and cloudy, swirling with copious flecks of black sediment.  Her body was covered in organic raised designs reminiscent of tribal scarifications.  She felt as though she was becoming something else.  How could she possibly explain any of this to a medical professional?


That evening, Lyla's nose began to bleed.  She wasn't sure why; perhaps it was the recent weather change.  Although not immediately terribly concerned, when she went to wipe the blood away, a chill spread through her body.  The blood was cloudy, full of black filament, and its smell was positively noxious, making her dizzy and sick to her stomach when she examined the blood soaked napkin. 
The blood had the foul stench of waste.
Lyla tried to arrest the flow of blood, but it would not abate.  Instead of slowing, the blood flowed faster, with renewed urgency.  Although the consistency of water, it seemed to be turning into a wax-like substance, solidifying as it ran down the back of her throat.  She felt as though she couldn't breathe; her throat was coated, her air ways blocked.
She fell to her knees in her bathroom, clawing ineffectually at her throat.   And then she felt the embrace of hundreds of slender hands enveloping her.
As she sank into the earth, the shadowy limbs engulfing her, Lyla suddenly remembered with exact clarity a stuffed animal she had loved as a young child.  It was a random thought, sad and distant.  And then she was swallowed up.
            Passing into the void in a great gush of inky umbilical fluid, Lyla was born into darkness, like a birth in reverse, sucked up into the confined space of a warm, moist, mysterious womb.
            The crone snipped away a thread from the tapestry she was weaving, silently flicking a wayward tear away from her eye.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Excerpt from Zombie Gras

             The local news team assigned to parade coverage were reporting live from the parade route.  Perched in a bleacher barricade constructed along the street, the two news anchors, one male and one female, and the weekend weather man were all slightly pink with inebriation, which was par for the course.  What wasn't so typical, however, were the expressions of wide-eyed terror that they wore or the shaking evident in their voices as they reported on the scene around them. 
            The parade floats had stopped rolling, stalled in the street, parting the sea of carnage that stretched out as far as the eye could see.  The newly risen dead, decked in all the splendor of their colorful Mardi Gras costumes, chased parade spectators to and fro, catching and devouring them here and there.  Near the television crew, a blood soaked woman with half a face stumbled by, lighted Mardi Gras beads flashing, twinkling festively against her exposed and torn bosom.             
           The throng of dead were thick against the news team's bleacher box, pressing in around them as they nervously reported on the events around them.
            "And, over there, Barbara, I think I'm seeing a clown eating another clown." said the male anchor.
            "No, Tom, I think that clown is eating a pirate."
            "Ah, you're right.  So it is."
            "Oh, the humanity..." sobbed the weather man.
            "And, over to our left, you can just make out the remnants of a high school marching band eating their way through the crowd in front of them." Tom continued.   

First Zombie Gras cover art concept sketch above!