Chainsaw Noir

Recent research has shown me something interesting: there is little intersection between people that enjoy my work and people that enjoy poorly built websites. VERY little. I've heard this brought up before. So, with a lot of help, I've launched a new, more aesthetically pleasing blog. Enjoy the stuff that's already here, you'll find the odd nugget of wisdom and piece of flash fiction in the archives, but for new material, you want to go HERE

That's http://chainsawnoir.wordpress.com. I'll see you there.

I Need You to Understand (a flash fiction piece)

Something awful has happened, Lyle. You have gotta believe me. I know that I am a representative of the liberal Jew run media, but I’m telling you the truth. You are decapitated. It seems like a difficult thing to process, I know, especially since your head is not attached to you and quite frankly, Lyle you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed anyhow. Not nearly so sharp as the machete that detached your head. You’re a dumb fuck, Lyle. A dumb, headless fuck.

You remember how last night I called you up and I told you I had a tip that a bunch of coeds were decapitated by a machete? It’s okay, take a second. You’re a little slow. Because you’re fucking headless. I’m sure if I were headless my memory wouldn’t be so great. Don’t call me names, Lyle. I’m trying to help you remember why you’re headless. But you are, Lyle. You are headless. Shit…okay, this is hurting my argument. Let me just jog your memory. You remember now? Yeah. You remember the call? Good. Remember you told me I was a liar? Then I told you to check your daughter’s room? And then you found her body, on the bed, in the puddle. And her head was under the bed. And somebody had stuffed all of those red crayons into her vagina.

Then do you remember what you said to me? You told me to stop making up stories or you’d put me in the drunk tank. And you did. You lectured me on making up stories. Told me you didn’t have time for my shit when a serial killer was loose. You didn’t seem to make the connection. It’s okay. Take a second. No, I didn’t just make that up. Then this girl gets wheeled in, headless, bunch of red crayons in her pussy.

And I screamed and I said “I told you so” and still you kept me in there for another hour til they brought in another girl. Naked. Stump where her head should be. Red crayons? You remember the crayons now, don’t you? It happened. Wasn’t just what the Jews paid me to say. And you looked at the body and you looked at me and you decided to look into this weird machete decapitator theory.

So we got into the squad car and you turned on talk radio and they said that murder didn’t exist. And so you hauled me back in and it took two more victims getting wheeled in headless with dozens of red crayons in their cooches before you decided that maybe this murder theory had some legs. So you remember that now? Yeah? Good. That was really fucking tiresome, Lyle. If you weren’t my brother, I might have sued you or something.

So you got a call on your police radio that a great big, hulking guy wearing an Archie mask and carrying a dripping machete was seen outside of a sorority house. At first, you insisted it was some kind of rush prank. But then you saw the guy and decided you’d shoot him for participating in such an insensitive rush prank. So we got out of the car, you took aim at this hulk of a man wearing an Archie mask and you reprimanded him for skulking around outside a sorority house waving a machete around when a serial killer was loose. The guy survived three shots to the chest, then chopped your head off and left you here, headless in front of a sorority house full of screaming girls.

Even though you have somehow figured out how to survive without a head, Lyle, I severely doubt that you will ever make sheriff.

Kizuna: Fiction for Japan

When the Japan disaster happened, I was devastated. A great nation was hit by nature's worst and a lot of my friends and colleagues live there. To add to this, I saw this:


The sentiments of some of America's most disgusting white trash. I ranted, I raved, I got mad. Still wasn't doing anything. That's why I was glad to see Brent Millis, a Bizarro/scifi author who has been living and raising a family in Japan had started a charity anthology to help out. I'm honored to be part of this project, which features great authors from all around the world showing that they care with works of short fiction. All proceeds from this anthology will go to Japanese disaster relief. Keep an eye on it HERE

Review of The Sorrow King by Andersen Prunty

Sweet Virginia who the peasants call the goddess of gloom… Edgar’s blues are just like Tom Thumbs. Sweet Virginia, vanquished Virginia, Virginia Lenore, Virginia Lee. Each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon his floor. He cries and trembles like the great old Florentine, architect of Dis cried over another little girl. They live forever and they ache forever, revenants of ruin like Mary Shelley’s flattopped green miscarriage. Grief is invincible, grief fucks your head. Grief is terror. Andersen Prunty deals with this relationship in a direct raw, yet altogether fun way in his latest, The Sorrow King from Cargo Cult Press.
The peace of Gethsemane, Ohio has been disturbed. Not the kind of peace that can be disturbed by teenage hooligans or loud parties, no, but a deeper peace, the heart of the town. This heart is breaking, it is beating fast with fear and threatens to stop. The horror obsessed over by Steven King and many before him (even Mary Shelley whose bolt-necked stillborn babe continues to terrify) has come to pass through an epidemic of teenage suicides. The why of it all has disappeared in favor of “who’s next?” There’s a tragic realism to this response, a reminder that depression is a mystery to so many. It hearkens back to Heathers, which shares many traits with The Sorrow King, including sardonic brutality and stylized but real young people.
The Sorrow King’s protagonists Steven and Connor are experiencing flashes of greater insight, cryptic clues that reveal where the sickness will strike next and that the two of them are quite possibly in the middle of it all. Steven is a real, listless teenager, with real listless teenage depression and real, listless teenage urges. Steven’s dad, Connor is somewhere between a sitcom caricature of a cool dad and a real life cool dad. Much of The Sorrow King is about their relationship is about their relationship, which is that of two men who have come together after the loss of Steven’s mother and one of two people who cannot comprehend the mysteries of depression and grief.
In the midst of death and despair, Steven develops an obsession that turns to love. Steven sees the enigmatic Elise walking the town at night and begins to join her. Their friendship turns quickly into love, but a love challenged by coldness and sexual distance. Prunty builds this relationship with an authentic blend of melancholia and wonder that perfectly characterizes highschool relationships. The relationship dissolves and Steven finds himself facing the power of guilt and sex through dark visions. For instance, in a particularly chilling scene, he encounters the sperm spilled during a handjob and it presents him with an awful truth.
As the book progresses the two men must do battle with a creature like Goethe’s Erl King, King’s Pennywise and perhaps Poe’s Conqueror Worm, an incarnation of grief that springs forth from the mysteries of depression and the human heart. Those who’ve read Zerostrata, Something Wicked This Way Comes and King’s New England will find The Sorrow King both alien and familiar, strange and undeniably human like grief and depression themselves.

The Sorrow King from Grindhouse Press is now available at Amazon.com.

BUY IT HERE

Art for Sale

I post a lot seeking work and reminding you that my books are available. Why do I do this? Because I am poor. It is hard to make money off one's art. I think things will get better after the Jimmy Plush release, but up until then, I've got to look for ways to make some extra money without begging and without cheating you fine people. When I was young, I wanted to be a painter, but was told I couldn't because of a lack of coordination and spatial sense. Instead, I learned to paint with words and poetry and construct images and worlds and states of mind. A few years ago, my girlfriend Leza suggested I try painting. I was reluctant at first, but I found myself enjoying it. I created this painting "The Magician".



Turned out I liked painting. And I've done it occasionally over the past couple years. I made one of my paintings my profile photo on Facebook and people responded very favorably, making me think maybe I had something. And what I shouldn't have is fear. So, I took my poverty as a blessing, understood is a receptive state and said to hell with it. I've decided to sell some of my paintings. The first painting, "The Magician" can be yours for just 25 dollars plus 12 for shipping (domestic) and there are others too.



This one is called Instinct. I painted it shortly before writing Archelon Ranch and I think it sparked a lot of the imagery I used in that book. I considered asking Matt and Rob from Legumeman if I could use this for a cover, but I lost my nerve. It is one of a kind and it sells for just 25 dollars plus 12 shipping. One of a kind, comes with a free piece of flash fiction.

$25+ 12 shipping

This next painting, "A Shearsman of Sorts, the Day Was Green" is bigger than the other one and has more sentimental value. It has inspired me and I hope it will inspire you. It's inspired by Wallace Stevens' poem "Man With the Blue Guitar", which in turn is inspired by Picasso's painting of the same name. This painting is a different figure, though, powerful but sort of malevolent, waiting and expecting something. This one is charged with a lot of creative energy, so would be a boon to have in your study or studio space.




35 dollars plus 20 shipping

The next painting is also weird and special. I had a tarot deck that was no longer serving me and I had just acquired a new one, so I decided I would do something that honored some of the cards while at the same time getting them out of my hair. So I wet them, tore them, stuck them to the canvas and painted three figures over them. I think you'll agree that they have a certain strange resonance to them. I call it "Gentleman Automata" because that's what the three figures make me think of, especially the pink penguinish fellow to the left.



40 dollars plus 20 shipping

Update: Decided to add another two of my earlier paintings. This is a smaller one, so is pretty inexpensive and won't cost as much to ship. But I think some of you might enjoy it.



15 dollars plus 8 dollars shipping

The lighting on this photo of the painting isn't great. The background is much lighter. This painting brings with it a certain sense of wellbeing and peace. I'm proud of how positive and nice this one is.

20 dollars plus 12 shipping

Thanks for looking at my art. If you like it, it can be yours.

Just So You Know

I am currently available to do manuscript critiques and edits, consult with authors regarding small presses that might be appropriate for their work and overall make the small press world a slightly easier place. Price negotiable. I have worked as submissions editor for Evil Nerd Empire and Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens and have edited four books thus far. I am most familiar with horror and Bizarro publishers, but all genres are welcome. Email gacookeditor@gmail.com

Birds and the Bees: Sex ed 2013

zRecently, in Texas an 11 year old was raped by 28 young men. Conservatives are saying it was her fault for dressing provocatively. The definition of forcible rape is changing. Someday, it will not exist. Let's peek in at a trailer home two years from now, shall we?

Rebel, my boy, sit down. Not there. Not on that chair. That's my other good chair. Man works his ass off from 35 years and he don't have a right to two chairs? On the floor, you piece of shit, sit down on the floor! This is important, dammit! Now you had better fucking listen, because I ain't gonna say this twice. You're sixteen and I think it's high time I taught you about...you know. YOU KNOW. What do you mean, you don't know? I'm talking, you dumb little shit, about sex. You know, sex? Yeah, I bet you know, sex. No, I know. You're a good boy, Rebel.

I'm sure you notice your sister's gettin' a little chunky. No, it ain't the tatertot bacon grilled cheese casserole. Your sister's with child. Don't you call your sister a whore! She was a good girl. I'm the man of the house, I asked for what was mine and she gave it to me. Barely cried. Earned her ice cream cone like a champ, so don't you call her a whore. Byron was tellin' me his daughter aborted his son. Can you imagine that? Little bitch killin' her own brother? I raised you two better than that, din't I? I raised you with The Lord.

Anyhow, your sister's with child because I stuck my...you know what...in her and I gave her my seed and the Lord saw it fit that she should bless this trailer with another boy. When you stick your...you know...in a girl...the Lord might see it fit that you bless your trailer with a boy. But first, you gotta court her. You might think you're s'posed to just wait by her car, choke her when she's gettin' in and demand she pull down her panties so you can just have your way with her. Not so. That, my boy, is rape and we ain't rapists in this family. Things get complicated here.

Now, if she's wearing a tightass little skirt, she's tellin' you she wants it. Then you can disregard what I told ya. Bitch is beggin' for it. That's how you came about. If she's dressed respectable like, you're gonna have to buy her a drink. And then you slip one of these badboys in there when she's in the bathroom. You talk to her 'bout her interests and shit til she gets sleepy and then you can bring her home and do your business, make yourself a son. And you raise him good like I raised you. Now tell your sister to get in here. I'm gonna show you some of the particulars.

Badger Cab

There was a woman that witnessed something terrible some gangsters did. Nobody was sure what it was. Not even she really knew. But the gangsters must have known since they objected to her knowing this. They somehow found out what cab she rode home in and while the cab driver was at his favorite Gingerbread House restaurant enjoying a gingerbread house, they filled the back seat of the cab with honey badgers. She got in the cab and was ripped to shreds since there were no action heroes in the cab. There are no action heroes but plenty of gangsters.

Serial Experiment Part 5

Experiment Part 4

"FUCK YOU!" he screamed at the light, the poetry, the hope, the mercy. She came to him lucky, about to rest, white haired, bloody angel. She came to him close to the quiet that was the best that men could hope for and he awakened her into the world of screaming and sorrow. He did not apologize for the things he did to people, no matter how loathsome and yet an "I'm sorry" almost crept past the wall of nihilism he had erected to keep out these and similar sentiments.

"Thank you," she said.

A lecture. A dismissive sneer. A derisive laugh. All possibilities. All in character. If there weren't a kind of blank canine sincerity in her brown eyes he would have thought that she was trying to mock him.

"You're welcome," he said. He meant it.

"I believe my name is Elsie," she said. She was proud. It meant something to be her, even if she could not tell what it was. He thought of the first time he called himself Robby Graves, screamed it into the microphone. Abrakadabra. Something else. An explosion of possibility. Not so much that she thought her name was Elsie, but that she knew this one fact and it deeply effected her beliefs. He trembled a little at the static charge of her assertion.

"It's nice to meet you, Elsie." It was nice to meet her. It was scary to meet her. He shouldn't have met her. She was dead. It was still nice to meet her.

"Do you have a name?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. He was hesitant to give it. He did not know which one to give or if either of them was right to describe what he was becoming.

"Is it a secret?" It was not sarcasm. It was perfectly legitimate question. If he were at the top of his smarmy, pseudospiritual depression junkie form, he would have said, "yes, but I'll tell it to you anyway."

"Robby. Robby Graves." She laughed at the pun. When she was done laughing at the pun, she laughed at another joke, one she kept private. It was cutting, truthful and funnier than the pun. He had an inkling what it was, but he would not have laughed at it. He did not ask what was so funny. She felt selfconscious about that.

"Is that your real name?" she asked.

"Sure, I guess."

She fell to the floor weeping and shaking as if kicked down by an invisible ogre. She folded her arms against her chest. He backed off, afraid to touch her, to do something about whatever celestial ailment left her in this position. He waited, knowing that it would pass, but that whatever had brought it on would linger.

She stood up straight, hugged him.

"We have to get out of here. Someone bad is coming."

Serial Experiment Part 3

This is section 3 of the Serial Experiment I've been doing with Ash Lomen. For info on the experiment and the first two sections, click the links below:

Serial Experiment Part 1

Factory Boys Serial Experiment Part 2

Part 3

Beloved Elsie, child of moonglow
Softer than fresh snow
If only you could know
The warmth that you've brought

Beloved Elsie, fire of destiny
Right hand of insanity
If only you could know the
Disaster you have wrought

Earthlight was singing. Name almost familiar. The voice was Summer rain. Not too heavy to make trouble. No hurry to get home. She would not catch cold. Second verse hurt, but it was strangely nonjudgmental. Simply what she was, whatever that was. She remembered a crowd gathered to watch a frightful looking man, a giant with a heavily scarred face. He was at a podium speaking. Looked scary, but nobody was afraid. In fact, they felt good being near him. They loved him. Without question, without hesitation, with the purest of intentions, they loved him. She felt like crying at the thought that somebody so frightful was so loved. She wondered if anyone had loved her so much as this man who loved and was loved as the Earthlight loved.

Beloved Elsie, brought forth in starshine
You'll understand in time
All of the things that you forget
You could live without regret...

The man who loved and was loved so much shakes, twists, contorts in pain. She hurts too, looking at it. The crowd hurts. Please, he is big, he is old, he is powerful, he will live...someone would have to listen to that prayer, someone would have to know how much everybody needs this man to survive. He gives one last pained look, asking why and knowing that the only one who could answer it would never tell him. Somewhere among the crowd, a bad man smiles. He must have been a part of it. It looks like he really wanted it. Somebody do something. Somebody save him, somebody do something about that man! Either man. The man everyone loves dies and the man who had to be the only one who did not love him flees the scene.

If this mistake has to be made
If this justice is delayed
Open your eyes, don't be afraid...

She opens her eyes. The face she sees is full of fear, full of misery, afraid of the dark, afraid of the light.

"I'm sorry," he says, not knowing what he has to apologize about.

Serial Experiment Part 1

So, I've been a bit on edge lately. I'm always a bit on edge. But, I've been waiting on edits and responses to a few queries and getting back to writing short fiction and thus my creativity and writing have been erratic. So I decided to take some initiative and jumpstart my brain again. Horror artist and Bizarro and horror author Alan Clark has a great book of fiction out called Boneyard Babies, made up mostly of collaborative efforts. Fantastic, experimental stuff. I will be reviewing it more thoroughly in the first issue of Nuckelavee. He describes a great writing game called Bone Grubber's Gamble. I decided to try it, so I got in touch with horror/Bizarro poet and author Ash Lomen and we tried it. Twice. Both times the stuff was good. So I decided to try another game. One more indepth with more longterm results. Each of us makes up a character. Sends details on the character to the other one. This is the first viewpoint character. The second one, we make up for ourselves. So, the story will be told from four perspectives two made up by Ash, two made up by me. When all four viewpoint characters have been introduced, we can use any perspective we like. If you want to follow this serial, you will need to follow both blogs, where we'll be taking turns posting sections of the story. I'm getting things started with the character Ash created for me. Lights go up on Gothrocker Robby Graves.

“I am the insurrection and the blight,
There’s a reason that I just go out at night
And all the little girls they spread legs wide
Because I take pride
At bein’ more dead than alive inside
And I will treat you like a slut
I will make you cut and cut
Cause we are only human when we bleed
And I’m becomin’ somethin’ worse
I’m becomin’ somethin’ worse than me…”

Robby Graves was more a consumptive than a rockstar, not singing, but spitting lifeforce that he couldn’t spare whenever he stepped up to the mike. A bleeder, a junkie, a proud lost cause that made stray martyrs long to strap dynamite to their chest. Girls caked in thick white makeup held up scarred wrists to reveal deep devotion cuts, tore off their tops and waved pierced, sliced and cigarette burned breasts that could be his if he offered only so much as his attention. They loved him for his long blonde hair, his bare chest and his message of existential surrender. He could never love any of them.

“Least favored son of Morningstar
I slash my wrists with my guitar
And I’m becomin’ somethin’ worse than me…”

A smiling Japanese schoolgirl in the front row stuck a sharp tanto into her belly. Twisted it. The smile never left her as she bled out everything inside. He stopped singing, absorbed in the spectacle. He was not surprised, he was not impressed, he was envious. He wished he could give something like that. Perfect display of Zen nihilism. Mastery of elegant empty. He walked out, went to his van. He needed a hit.

Cried, but didn’t shoot up. The drugs didn’t work anymore.The cuts went away. When he used his groupies, they developed an eerie sense of contentment and well being, the cuts on their wrists vanished as his had and their eyes opened to life, while his desire was always to lead them to the clemency of death. He didn’t like this. The drugs didn’t work anymore. The cuts went away. He had been dreaming of angels with the heads of white rabbits.

He took a handful of pills, begged his body to surrender, didn’t want to die necessarily, not for good, just to be away from the things that were him. What he’d always wanted. He was, in a way, getting it. He closed his eyes, concentrated. Meditated on disappearing. Black. Blank. Enveloped. Empty. Hollow.

Thud.

Something banged against the van. He opened the door, stepped out to find a dead girl on the ground face down. In spite of her white hair, she looked like she was barely out of high school, perhaps even young enough to be a junior or senior. He rolled her over, hoping to get a good look at her face. He regretted that. The spark he tried so desperately to suppress filled him, felt tiny traces of life left in her, sought to fill her too. He begged it not to, but it wouldn’t listen.

End of section 1.

Keep your eyes on Ash Lomen's blog for section 2.

Will Work for Brains

Looking round, one can't deny
That brains are in quite short supply
First portioned unevenly
Then rotted out by MTV
And we shattered several tiny minds
When we left every child behind.

Where does that leave the living dead
When they seek out their daily bread?
The werewolf gives a mighty howl
Which could endear him to Simon Cowell
And vampires now pose no threat
But get the teenage girls all wet
But zombies have no way with words
Because they all lack vocal chords
And it's hard to look sexy and sulky and wan
When your face is mostly gone.

Back in the days of antiquity,
There was no threat of zombie ubiquity
And zombies needn't ever compete
Over whose head they would get to eat.
The shamblers now hit record highs
And whenever anybody dies
They join the ravening unemployed ranks
Chewing on heads that just shoot blanks.

Now what remains of these remains
Hold up their signs "Will Work for Brains"
With zombies in Jane Austen now
Zombie pigs and goats and cows
And thus zombie originality
Gets oft eclipsed by banality.

With hordes of hordes of things around
We keep our gazes to the ground
And we gotta let the genre rot
When zombie Austen's the best it's got
But remember back when zombie fun
Was an illicit thrill second to none?

Want healthy zombie's? Here's a tip
Feed the genre, help John Skipp!


Rose, the zombie puppet musical has 21 days left on Kickstarter! Feed the zombies!

Rose on Kickstarter

Archelon Ranch on Kindle!

Archelon Ranch has been available as an ebook for awhile, but now it's available on Kindle! For just 4.99 experience the twists, the turns, the terrors and the truths of Archelon Ranch. Your Kindle will thank you.

Archelon Ranch on Kindle

Loosing the Nuckelavee

The Nuckelavee is something that is THIS awful.

It is my favorite mythical grotesquerie. Not horse, not fish, not man, not faerie. A brutal, disgusting thing. As weird as it is frightful, as frightful as it is weird.

As of today, I'm running an ezine. A dreadful thing, where horror and Bizarro mix and mingle, grotesque, hard to define. Reviews, interviews, stories, poems, commentary, all are welcome.

Go HERE to find out more.