Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Hunt at the Well of Eternity




As someone who grew up reading the paperback reprints of Doc Savage, Operator 5 and The Spider, I’ve lamented the fact that it’s hard to find new fiction that satisfies the pulp itch (a condition that no amount of Gold Bond Medicated Powder can relieve). Fortunately, adventure fiction lives, thanks to Leisure Books.

Hunt at the Well of Eternity launches a new line of novels starring contemporary two-fisted explorer-adventurer Gabriel Hunt, heir to the legacy of Doc Savage and Indiana Jones (many readers will not be able to stop smiling when one of those characters is obliquely referenced in the book).

When Eternity begins, Hunt already has several adventures behind him, a device that allows the reader to be pulled immediately into a high-octane escapade involving a stained Confederate flag, Mayans and a secret that could change the world. The action explodes every few pages, propelling the reader through the book at the speed of light.

Hunt at the Well of Eternity is a slim novel--just 226 pages. It proves to be the perfect length for this type of yarn, and it highlights the fact that publishing concerns require most modern thrillers to be bloated to an often unnecessary length.

The Hunt concept was created by Charles Ardai, the man behind Hard Case Crime. For this inaugural Hunt installment, Ardai wisely handed the writing chores to James Reasoner, one of my favorite western authors. Reasoner’s Death Head Crossing is one of the finest westerns in recent memory.

Hunt at the Well of Eternity could be used as a tool to teach prospective writers how to construct an adventure novel. Reasoner’s pacing, humor and descriptions of action are a blueprint for writing a satisfying page turner. In fact, the only negative is that readers have to wait two months for the next Gabriel Hunt novel.

I look forward to future installments. I just hope the next Hunt novels can come close to the high standard Reasoner has set with Hunt at the Well of Eternity.

Friday, May 01, 2009

The Pooh Flu

Click picture to enbiggen.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

The Critic has Spoken...er, Blogged


There's a nice review of Dead Earth: The Green Dawn here.

Dave and I are working hard to get the sequel novel in print, and we hope to have news very soon.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The Truth Behind Swine Flu


(Thanks to Nanci Kalanta)

Tidbits


Currently Watching: In Plain Sight. This is one of Norma’s favorite shows, and we’ve caught up on Season Two. Star Mary McCormack’s lips have gone from hideously overinflated to just kind of rough looking. Check out photos of her from the movie Private Parts or The West Wing series. Nothing wrong with those lips. But she got ‘em all mangled up for In Plain Sight. Thankfully, in the second season, those monster lips are start to return to normal.


Currently reading: Castaways by Brian Keene. Cross Survivor with Richard Laymon’s Beast House and you’ve got a real page-turner. Great fun.


Here’s an interview with my buddy Ron Fortier, the man who’s working harder than anybody at keeping pulp fiction alive.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Lying to Myself and Other Entertaining Pastimes

I have diabetes.

If you remembered that, you’re one up on me. Oh, I knew it. I simply chose to ignore it for a long time.

I was diagnosed in 2001. For a long time, I was great about monitoring my glucose. I ate the right stuff. I took my medication. I exercised regularly. I tested.

But my insurance didn’t cover testing supplies, so it became easier and easier to say, “I feel pretty good; I’ll test tomorrow” until I wasn’t testing at all. It also was quite simple to say, “That piece of pie I had last night didn’t bother me, so let’s have another one tonight.”

I still took my pills and I still exercised. And I was able to fool myself into thinking everything was fine.

Until I went to Mexico last November.

While spending a great day in the pool at our resort I ground massive blisters into the bottom of both feet. These developed into two deep ulcers, for which I had to see the Mexican doctor. I’ll save that story for later (except to say that when I got back home I went directly to my doc, who took a look at the oral medicine the Mexican physician gave me. He said, “I have no idea what the hell this is” then he threw the pills away). He told me to keep the wounds clean and that was about it.

So I did. And I tried to minimize the time spent on my feet. My daily walks were put on hold.

A few months passed, and the wounds began to heal. But after a certain point, they stopped. As long as progress was being made I could tell myself that I didn’t need to go to the doctor.

Meanwhile, my energy level had fallen dramatically. There were days – most days -- when it was all I could to drag myself through the door after work. And the idea of doing anything else, including writing, seemed impossible.

Norma convinced me to start monitoring my glucose again. I did, and the number was shockingly high. Apparently the amount of walking I normally did kept the glucose level slightly in check. Once I couldn’t take long walks, the sugar shot up.

I immediately cut out carbs and started trying to get the number down.

About that same time, I mentioned my situation to a coworker. It turned out that he had an appointment the following week with a new podiatrist, and while there, he mentioned my problem. The doctor advised my friend to send me in as soon as possible. So the next day I was getting the wounds examined. The doctor said they were clean and well cared for, but they were never going to fully heal because of where they were located.

Now I wear special shoes that take the pressure off the ulcers and I make weekly trips to the wound care center. I’m on the mend.

And the blood sugar is finally back in normal range, after the addition of a new medication. I’ve dropped a lot of weight over the past several weeks, and I’m exercising again, albeit not by walking, but that will come soon.

I’m pretty sure I will stay motivated. On my first visit to the wound care center, I sat in the waiting room with a number of overweight people, many in wheelchairs. The guy sitting next to me was polishing off a big burger and a bag of chips. Another patient, obviously a regular, asked Chip Boy, “How ya doin’, Ronnie?”

“Awright,” Chip Boy said. “They cut off another one of my toes last week, but I don’t know what’s wrong.”

That was the moment I vowed that will never be me.

I decided to share this story for those few who might wonder where I’ve gone or why they haven’t gotten a story/article/review from me in a timely manner

Now I’m feeling good again. I’m back to work on my writing and editing. While I didn’t finish the novel in March, I don’t see any reason I can’t type “The End” by late May or early June. I’m also working my way through the submissions for Appalachian Holiday Hauntings, so keep those stories coming.

And if you ever see me chowing down on a Snicker’s bar, slap me up the side of my egg-shaped skull, okay?

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Our Loss




This was a bad week.

People who don’t have pets or don’t like animals or think all dogs and cats belong outside should stop reading now.

Those who have pets or are animal lovers know how these little critters can enrich your life and worm their way into your hearts.

In November of 1995 we got two little kittens, a male and female brother and sister. We were supposed to actually get two males, but the kittens’s owner gave us the wrong one, though we didn’t know it at the time. We took them directly to our vets for a feline leukemia test. We had just lost a cat to that insidious disease and were determined it wouldn’t happen again. During the course of the test, we found out one of the kittens was female. We briefly debated taking her back and getting the other male, but while we had been waiting for the results, the tiny female had been curled up on Norma’s chest, never looking away from her eyes. They were irrevocably bonded.

When the vet asked the name of the two cats for their charts, I said the first thing that popped into my head, the name of a then-popular television series.

Thus, Lois and Clark joined our family.

Over the past few weeks, Lois had been acting odd. She was throwing up frequently, wasn’t grooming like she usually did, had lost a little weight and wouldn’t play as much as she normally had. At first, I put it off to old age. Recently, though, I was sure something was wrong.

Monday we took her to the vet, who decided she had a mass in her abdomen. On Tuesday the vet did exploratory surgery and found that Lois’s little body was filled with cancer. The prognosis wasn’t good. The vet could sew her up and send her home for a few weeks of progressively worse pain. Or we could let her go while she was still under, painlessly and peacefully.

As much as we wanted to keep her with us for even a few more days, we knew it would be selfish to let her suffer for our needs.

So we went into the operating room and kissed this sweet, gentle angel goodbye.

It’s one of the hardest things either of us has ever had to do.

There have been a lot of tears over he last few days. Nights are the worst for me. That’s when Lois would climb into bed with me, purring and “kissing” my lips and nose. I think morning are hardest for Norma, as Lois would sit in the chair with her while she worked at the computer.

But we have Clark to concentrate on, as well as our newest cat, Callie. Clark especially needs extra love now, as he wanders from room to room in this house, looking for his sister.

We had Lois cremated, and she rests now in a beautiful urn just a few feet from where I sit, in her favorite room.

I hope that the pain will diminish in the coming weeks and I can concentrate on the nearly 14 years of wonderful memories that I have of my little sweetheart. But right now it feels like an enormous hole has been carved out of my heart.

Monday, March 23, 2009

And the Nominees Are...

Despite the presence of me in their pages, both The Book of Lists: Horror and Horror Library Volume 3 have been nominated for Stoker Awards, the Oscars of the horror field. Congratulations to the editors, especially Scott and R. J., both a pleasure to work with. Here are all the nominees:

Final Stoker Ballot 2009

Superior Achievement in a Novel

COFFIN COUNTY by Gary Braunbeck (Leisure Books)
THE REACH by Nate Kenyon (Leisure Books)
DUMA KEY by Stephen King (Scribner)
JOHNNY GRUESOME by Gregory Lamberson (Bad Moon Books/Medallion Press)

Superior Achievement in a First Novel

MIDNIGHT ON MOURN STREET by Christopher Conlon (Earthling Publications)
THE GENTLING BOX by Lisa Mannetti (Dark Hart Press)
MONSTER BEHIND THE WHEEL by Michael McCarty and Mark McLaughlin (Delirium Books)
THE SUICIDE COLLECTORS by David Oppegaard (St. Martin's Press)
FROZEN BLOOD by Joel A. Sutherland (Lachesis Publishing)

Superior Achievement in Long Fiction

THE SHALLOW END OF THE POOL by Adam-Troy Castro (Creeping Hemlock Press)
MIRANDA by John R. Little (Bad Moon Books)
REDEMPTION ROADSHOW by Weston Ochse (Burning Effigy Press)
THE CONFESSIONS OF ST. ZACH by Gene O'Neill (Bad Moon Books)

Superior Achievement in Short Fiction

PETRIFIED by Scott Edelman (Desolate Souls)
THE LOST by Sarah Langan (Cemetery Dance Publications)
THE DUDE WHO COLLECTED LOVECRAFT by Nick Mamatas, and Tim Pratt (Chizine)
EVIDENCE OF LOVE IN A CASE OF ABANDONMENT by M. Rickert (Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction)
TURTLE by Lee Thomas (Doorways)

Superior Achievement in an Anthology

LIKE A CHINESE TATTOO edited by Bill Breedlove (Dark Arts Books)
HORROR LIBRARY, VOL. 3 edited by R. J. Cavender (Cutting Block Press)
BENEATH THE SURFACE edited by Tim Deal (Shroud Publishing)
UNSPEAKABLE HORROR edited by Vince A. Liaguno and Chad Helder (Dark Scribe Press)

Superior Achievement in a Collection
THE NUMBER 121 TO PENNSYLVANIA by Kealan Patrick Burke (Cemetery Dance Publications)
MAMA'S BOY and Other Dark Tales by Fran Friel (Apex Publications)
JUST AFTER SUNSET by Stephen King (Scribner)
MR. GAUNT AND OTHER UNEASY ENCOUNTERS by John Langan (Prime Books)
GLEEFULLY MACABRE TALES by Jeff Strand (Delirium Books)

Superior Achievement in Nonfiction

CHEAP SCARES by Gregory Lamberson (McFarland)
ZOMBIE CSU by Jonathan Maberry (Citadel Press)
A HALLOWE'EN ANTHOLOGY by Lisa Morton (McFarland)
THE BOOK OF LISTS: HORROR by Amy Wallace, Del Howison, and Scott Bradley (HarperCollins)

Superior Achievement in a Poetry Collection

THE NIGHTMARE COLLECTION by Bruce Boston (Dark Regions Press)
THE PHANTOM WORLD by Gary William Crawford (Sam's Dot Publishing)
VIRGIN OF THE APOCALYPSE by Corrine De Winter (Sam's Dot Publishing)
ATTACK OF THE TWO-HEADED POETRY MONSTER by Mark McLaughlin and Michael McCarty (Skullvines Press)

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Pod of Horror #52: Clive Barker and Ronald Kelly


On Pod of Horror #52, we interview legendary author, film maker and artist Clive Barker. Also, 90s horror icon Ronald Kelly has returned in a big way, and we discover where he went and what the future holds for his fans. Nanci is here with the Call of Kalanta, Norm Rubenstein offers a bunch of new reviews and we give away tons of horror in The Tomb of Trivia. Get it at i-Tunes or download it here. Pod of Horror is hosted and produced by Mark Justice.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Mr. Farmer and Me



The death of Philip Jose Farmer two weeks ago has sent me over a waterfall of memory. I’ve been re-reading the Riverworld series and digging through thousands of books in an attempt to find all the Farmer I have. I’ve located the majority of the titles, and I know the Opar books can’t hide for long.

As to how I discovered Philip Jose Farmer, I have to give all the credit to my Uncle Bud. Sometime in 1969, when I was almost ten, Uncle Bud gave me three Doc Savage paperbacks. Though I had been reading since I was four or five – thanks to book-loving parents – those pulp reprints were a little tough for me to get through. It took me almost a month to read The Other World. Though after that, I was hooked. I devoured the remaining two, Dust of Death and The Flaming Falcons, all with those magnificent and hyper-realistic James Bama covers.

Soon, I was haunting Hill’s Department Store in Russell, KY for my monthly Doc fix. Back in the days of yore when folks actually read, most department stores had a great book section. Hill’s had a massive wall of paperbacks. I wore out a couple of pairs of Keds browsing up and down that aisle, searching for any Docs I might have missed.

I also spent a lot of time the public library in Flatwoods. One day in 1973 or ‘74, I saw something on the New Arrivals shelf that stopped me cold. It was a hardcover called Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life by someone named Philip Jose Farmer. But there was something wrong with the cover. It pictured a man in a suit riding on the running board of an old-fashioned car. The wind whipped through his normal hair, and his necktie stretched out behind him. The car was driven was a squat-looking, tremendously ugly dude. Where was the ripped shirt and metallic widow’s peak of the Doc Savage I knew? Who was this Farmer guy, and what had he done to my favorite hero?

There wasn’t even a minuscule possibility I was leaving the library without that book.

I remembering reading it over a weekend. And believe me when I tell you, friends: I was never the same.

This Farmer fellow had taken the entire Doc Savage saga and placed it in chronological order, in essence turning my monthly fixes of adventure into a biography of a real person.

That’s right. Farmer claimed Doc Savage was based on a real guy.

Every circuit breaker in my brain tripped simultaneously.

Could this be the truth? These fantastic stories I was devouring as quick as I bought them – the mummy brought back to life, the hidden cities and mystic mullahs and fantastic islands –were real. Moreover, It turned out Farmer had written a similar book about Tarzan, and he was real, too (okay, I can hear your snickers all the way across the World Wide Interwebs, but in my defense, I was young and uber-naive).

I must have walked around in a daze for a month. I know I checked that book out from the library a dozen times before the first paperback edition showed up on my beloved book wall at Hill’s

I also learned that the cover of the book was the actual cover to the April 1935 issue of Doc Savage magazine. That was the way America knew The Man of Bronze in the ‘30s and ‘40s. (When Bantam published the paperback edition of Farmer’s book, they used the Bama version of Doc on the cover, though drawn by a lesser talent. When Playboy Press reprinted it again in 1981, Ken Barr painted a Bama-inspired Doc without the widow’s peak and wearing a high-tech vest instead of a torn shirt.)

At some point I discovered that Farmer had written some fiction about Doc Savage and Tarzan (calling them Doc Caliban and Lord Grandrith). One was called A Feast Unknown, and proved difficult to find. The other two were halves of an Ace double novel: The Mad Goblin and Lord of the Trees. My memory fails me at this point but I somehow discovered Mr. Farmer’s address in those pre-Internet days and I wrote him a letter asking for an autographed book (I don’t have a copy of my letter, though I’m sure it was as embarrassingly fanboyish) That was in late ‘75. On December 22 of that year, I received an autographed copy of the Ace double, along with a letter from Farmer with instructions on how to order A Feast Unknown. My parents must have known what a Farmer fan I had become, because three days later, on Christmas day, they gave me several Farmer books. I’m sure of the date, since I had a habit of writing my name in every book I owned, along with the date. I wrote “12-25-75" in To Your Scattered Bodies Go, The Fabulous Riverboat, Inside Outside and Strange Relations. I still have all of those books.

Over the next couple of years I read everything I could find by Farmer: The Green Odyssey, Dare, The Lovers, Blown, Image of the Beast, The Gates of Time. I must have been particularly impressed by Lord Tyger and Time’s Last Gift, since I wrote to Farmer about those novels in late 1977. Lord Tyger involved an experiment to raise someone the way Tarzan had been raised. In Time’s Last Gift, scientists travel back in time, but their time machine has a limited range.

Again, I didn’t keep a copy of my letter, but I must have expressed my desire to become a writer, even proposing an idea for a Lord Tyger sequel to Farmer.

On November 28, 1977, he wrote:

Dear Mr. Justice: Thanks for your letter of November 23. I had thought about Gribardsun building a time machine in 12, 000 B.C. so he could go further into the past. But I have so many other things to write that I abandoned the idea.

I also thought about plagiarizing from myself and having a group of scientists raise a male infant to emulate the fictional Doc Savage. But it would be too much like Lord Tyger in some respects. However, if you want to write a novel based on this idea, you have my permission.

You seem to be full of ideas. Good luck with your writing. And if you get the book a la Savage published, send me a copy
.

Best,
Philip Jose Farmer.



As you could imagine, that had me smiling for days.

Until I found the letter an couple of hours ago, I had forgotten about the Savage book idea (as blatant a Lord Tyger rip-off as it was). If I wrote it now I would certainly approach it much differently in the 21st century. But the idea still has bite. Maybe, one day...

Here’s where I confess the geeky PJF fan’s dream I’ve had since my teens: to one day collaborate with Farmer on a Doc Caliban novel. Over the last two weeks, that dream has become an itch deep in my brain, one I’m going to have to scratch, even if I’m writing it for my eyes only. If I do, it will be a collaboration in spirit, I hope.

Also, I want to one day write a story set on Riverworld. Maybe someone will put together a Farmer tribute anthology, and I can make that happen.

Coming soon: my telephone interview with Farmer for my Doc Savage fanzine, during which PJF tires to convince me Doc and Tarzan were real.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Rest In Peace, Philip Jose Farmer


Philip Jose Farmer passed away this morning at the age of 91.

He was a giant in science fiction. If the Riverworld series was all he wrote, his immortality would be assured. But he created so much more.

He had a love for the age of pulp magazines heroes. In fact, when I published a Doc Savage fanzine in high school with my friend John Boehm, Farmer was he first author I ever interviewed. Even as he tried to convince me over the phone that Doc Savage and Tarzan were real people, he remained a true gentleman. In later correspondence he encouraged my writing, and never treated me like the gawky fanboy I was.


I think I'm going to sit down with To Your Scattered Bodies Go, and rediscover the brilliance of his work.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Funked-Up Hog Meat


Proving that Internet radio shows have officially run out of guests, I’ve been invited to appear on The Funky Werepig tonight at 11:00 (eastern).

What’s that, Mark? you say. You’ll be a guest at 11:00 PM on a day where you got out of bed at 2:00 AM?

Why, yes. That’s right. Imagine the hilarity. Imagine the fun. Imagine the incoherent rambling.

Hard to believe they don’t charge you to listen.

I’m not sure what we’ll discuss, but I’m guessing the topics may include Pod of Horror, my meager literary efforts and my inexplicable fascination for Rachael Ray and Marie Osmond.

Tune in at the link above. If you hear somebody snoring, it will be me.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Pod of Horror #51 is Live


On Pod of Horror #51 we answer the question: Where in the world is Scott Nicholson? Also, Ronald Damien Malfi tells us about PASSENGER and his dad’s secret life. Author-editor Louise Bohmer talks about both jobs. Nanci chews out Wall Street on The Call of Kalanta. Norm Rubenstein is back with a plethora of book reviews and The Tomb of Trivia remains unanswered. All this, and a special appearance by Rain Graves. Get it at i-Tunes or download it here. Pod of Horror is hosted and produced by Mark Justice.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Appalachian Holiday Hauntings


For the writers out there, Mike Knost and I are editing an anthology of Christmas ghost stories. Details below.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

Title: Appalachian Holiday Hauntings

Editors: Michael Knost and Mark Justice

Publisher: Woodland Press

Publication date: November 1, 2009

Word count: 1000 to 3000 words

Pay: three-cents per word plus contributor copy (one-cent per word on reprints)

Submit to: xmasanthology@yahoo.com

Format: Attached RTF or Word Document file. (do not copy and paste into email body)

No simultaneous or multiple submissions

No explicit language or sexual content (this project will be in regional school systems)

Deadline: September 1, 2009 (do not inquire on status of submission until after this date)

We are looking for traditional Christmas ghost stories set in the Appalachian region. Think Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol with an Appalachian backdrop. However, given this example, we want to make sure you understand that stories may be set in any time frame, including the present.

We are not interested in tales that disrespect or alter the religious aspects of the holiday.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

The Haunt

I joined the new horror social community The Haunt.

Think MySpace or Facebook with blood and fangs.

If you're a member, drop by and add me.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Pod of Horror #50: Skipp & Goodfellow



Pod of Horror has reached 50 episodes. Who’d have thunk it? We celebrate with John Skipp and Cody Goodfellow discussing JAKE’S WAKE and future collaborations. We also talk to Scott Sigler, author of INFECTED and CONTAGIOUS. There’s a test of the Byte Me Emergency Response System on The Call of Kalanta. Norm Rubenstein is back with a bevy of horror reviews, and The Tomb of Trivia has another winner. Get it at i-Tunes or download it here. Pod of Horror is hosted and produced by Mark Justice.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Mondays Don't Totally Suck

I was given the official approval from my editor on the humor column, which may become a regular gig.

I also got that comic book proposal out to another editor.

And I hit my goal on the novel, despite a long, wacky day at work.

Let's hope Tuesday goes as well.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Sunday, Sunday

Here’s a quick note to catch you up on what’s happening. That’s right, both of you.

The new writing schedule continues to pay dividends. I’ll hopefully be finished with the first draft in early March. My plan is to then let it age a couple of weeks while I get to work on the next novel, Reaper Road. I’ll edit Novel #1 in the evenings. I’m not being coy about Novel #1's tile; I just haven’t settled on one I like yet.

Also in March, Dave Wilbanks and I plan to start Book 3 in the Dead Earth series. What’s that, you say? Where is DE #2? We’re shopping it around at this very moment. We hope to have something to report soon.

That humor writing I referred to the other day is turning out to be a lot of fun. I wrote the first column today and had Norma proof it. Since she laughed in all the right places, I sent it off to my editor. If it gets approved, I’ll let you know where to find it.

This weekend I talked to a publisher about a cool new idea for a novella series. This will be something I’ll write later in the year. I also had a conversation with a comic book publisher. I’ll be sending out a proposal for that tomorrow.

Finally, it looks like a project of mine that I tried to get off the ground a few years ago still has some life left in it, thanks to the interest of a friend of mine.

All in all, 2009 is looking to be the busiest year yet for my writing. Now if the Bengals learn to play football before this fall, it will be a fantastic year.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

Happy Soupy Day!

Soupy Sales is 83 today. In 1944 he graduated high school a few miles from me, in Huntington, WV. His daily kids show was huge in the 60s, and now, looking at clips, it's a little hard to understand. Soupy was an acquired taste. Even as a child it was obvious to me that his show was a bit more, ah, spontaneous than those of his contemporaries. Watch the clip below and you'll see what I mean. Watch it long enough and you can see Soupy lip sync--or "ear" sync--to his hit The Mouse. And I use the term "hit" loosely.

I would like to believe that my sense of humor has matured past the Soupy Sales level. But I know deep down that it hasn't.

And that's okay.

Happy birthday, Soupy.

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Mid-Week Update

So far so good on the new writing schedule. I've been able to hit my goal every day in 2009 ( that's right...seven big days!). Next week will be a challenge, due to some extracurricular stuff at work, but I should be able to plan around it.

It looks like I'm finally going to finish this novel, then move on to the next and the next...

An interesting proposal came my way today for some non-fiction humor writing. If it pans out it should be fun. As always, I'll keep my Internet pals and gals updated.

So far my favorite read of this very young year is Jake's Wake by John Skipp and Cody Goodfellow. Splatterpunk lives, baby! It's not for the fainthearted (Skipp's name on the cover should tell you that) but once you start, it's impossible to close the cover. Listen for the dastardly duo on a future Pod of Horror.

Sunday, January 04, 2009

Bad New/Not-So-Bad-News

Delirium dropped my collection Bone Songs, due to the economy and the downsizing of their output. And let’s face it: I’m not a big name.

The book is already under consideration with another publisher. This version is bigger. It contains several stories not in Bone Songs, including both stories that made up the sold-out Deadneck Hootenanny. I’m also shopping it around under the original title Looking at the World With Broken Glass in My Eye. That’ll choke a librarian, eh?

The same day I got the news from Delirium, I also got an invitation to an anthology that I’m very excited about. The editor is a well-known horror writer, and I have an idea that I think will work out well.

Speaking of writing, I was checking out my blog entries for the beginning of 2008. Ah, what a naive, wide-eyed romantic I was back then. I set lofty goals and met almost none of them. My biggest regret was missing a deadline given to me by another well-known writer who took an interest in my writing career.

For the last couple of weeks I’ve been trying to break down my problem in finishing a novel. Other than the things that are out of my control (a sometimes-crazy work schedule and a steady spate of health issues), I think I set an unrealistic daily goal. When I routinely failed to meet the goal, frustration would set in, and I would eventual flee from the keyboard.

So I’ve given myself a more realistic daily goal, one that I should be able to reach successfully. It’s worked well for the past few days and with a little luck and determination I should be able to finish this novel by early March.

The new schedule will also leave me a bit of free time to work on stories. I have several of those due, not including the anthology invitation mentioned above.

So here I am in 2009: refocused, re-energized and relentless.

Let’s see if I can keep it up.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Donald Westlake



If you're a fan of mystery fiction, you've no doubt heard of the passing of Donald Westlake. I didn't know the man. I just know he was a damn fine writer. You can find some remembrances at Ed Gorman's blog.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

The S**t Monster

Maybe it’s the new year, but I’ve found myself reflecting on the past, including the oddball collection of strange people I’ve occasionally found myself working alongside. Like the guy I call the Shit Monster (that’s right, kids, this entry will contains multiple uses of the word “shit”. If you thought you were logging into the Webkinz site, please leave now).

The Shit Monster had a problem. Maybe it was IBS. All I know is that SM didn’t believe he had a problem. SM thought the near-constant evacuation of his bowels was normal. Most of his stories would start like this: “You know how you’re standing in line for a prescription and you have to shit but you don’t make it to the rest room in time and you shit your pants? It happened to me again today.” Then he would laugh like we were all members of the Brotherhood of Zero Sphincter Control.

Most of SM’s stories ended with, “...so I just left my underwear in the stall!” Followed by more I-know-we’ve-all-done-that laughter.

Here’s my favorite Shit Monster story (and it wasn’t easy to settle on just one, believe you me) and it’s one that SM didn’t tell me himself. Was he finally too embarrassed? I doubt it. He was probably busy buying new underwear.

A friend of mine worked at an upscale business. One day, Shit Monster ran into my friend’s office and said, “Quick! Where’s your bathroom?” My friend pointed the way and SM disappeared. It was a particularly busy day, so my friend didn’t think about SM anymore until he noticed a commotion in the lobby of his office an hour or so later.

I’ll let my friend explain it in his own words.

“One of our male staff members went into the rest room and was so shocked by what he saw that he almost threw up. There was shit everywhere. On the toilet seat. On the tank. On the floor and on all four walls. He must’ve spun like a top. We had to hire a cleaning crew. It took them two days to fix that room.” My friend shook his head, like a trauma victim remembering a horrifying scene. “It was like...like a shit grenade exploded in there.”

One of my last conversations with SM occurred in the break room at work, where I was heating my lunch in the tiny microwave. SM was regaling me with his latest hilarious Bad Bowels anecdote. It seemed the day before he was trying to get into the men’s room at work and he didn’t make it in time. Since he had to meet a client, he told me he washed out his underwear in the bathroom sink.

I stared at the numbers on the microwave display, which had suddenly slowed so much that each second took approximately three minutes to pass. I was also trying not to throw up a little in the back of my throat.

“Well, I couldn’t go to the meeting with wet underwear. You wanna know what I did?” SM said.

In the name of the Sweet Baby Jesus, I prayed, let this microwave ding!

SM smiled like Michael Jackson at a Boy Scout meeting. “I dried them in the microwave.”

Happy New Year, Shit Monster. For the good of mankind, I hope someone finally fitted you with a permanent butt plug.

Happy New Year


I hope 2009 will be a fantastic year for you, the year you cut back on drinking cheap wine and beating your kids in Wal-Mart. The year you quit dropping "awesome" into every conversation and the year you stop acting shocked when people stare at your low-cut top. I wish 2009 will provide you a fresh start and enable you finally realize that Fox News is neither fair nor balanced. Look, I can say I'm skinny and have a full head of hair, but saying doesn't make it so, and it's time you grew up and realized that. And maybe, just maybe, this will be the year you finally start making up your own mind about things that matter, instead of listening to that loud asshole at work. I know, I know. It hurts to think, but you'll be a better person for it.

Make 2009 the year you remember who your friends are. Do right by them. In 2008 I had a deal go south on me because I wouldn't screw over a friend. The money would have been nice, but I'm able to sleep soundly every night. And that's where I'm headed now. Good night.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

A Free Story: The Harvest

I wrote this in 2003. It appeared first at Horrorfind, back when they had a fiction section, then at Adventure Fiction Online and, later, at The Late Late Show. It's a golden oldie that I'm dusting off for you. I hope you like it.

The Harvest
by Mark Justice

N’Fa’alu stopped the Hummer in the center of the narrow dirt road a few miles out of Charikar. Three men approached him, their bearded faces grim beneath the traditional Lungee turbans. Each carried a Russian Kalashnikov rifle. They could be bandits or militia. Or locals, protecting what small existence they managed to claw from the desert. It did not matter. He would not be stopped.

Even with his strength still depleted, he would not be stopped.

The first to reach the Hummer made a rolling motion with one hand. The other hand held his weapon, pointed at the vehicle. N’Fa’alu nodded and lowered the driver’s window. The heat, like a dragon’s breath, poured into the Hummer.

The man drew closer. “Who are you?” he said, speaking Dari. The language was fairly new to N’Fa’alu. But it wasn’t a problem. He could see the words in the bearded man’s mind.

“I am Red Cross,” he said, using the human voice box and speaking in the old language of his people. The bearded man heard the reply in his own tongue.

“Show me your credentials.”

N’Fa’alu smiled in his human skin. He produced the laminated badge and papers the little man in Karachi had prepared for him.

The bearded man jerked the identification from N’Fa’alu’s hand and turned to his companions. They began to jabber in a dialect that N’Fa’alu was unfamiliar with. He skimmed their thoughts and drew forth an image of his body, riddled with bullet holes, quickly covered by the blowing sand.

So bandits it was.
They probably couldn’t actually kill him. But in his weakened state he could be slowed down, perhaps even hurt. And he didn’t have time for that.

The first man returned to the Hummer, dropping the fake ID and raising his Kalashnikov.

N’Fa’alu whispered a word in his true voice.

The bearded man turned and fired upon his two companions before they could raise their own rifles.

A wave of nausea rolled through N’Fa’alu, causing his vision to blur. He couldn’t afford to expend more energy this soon. There was much work ahead of him today.

He stepped out of the Hummer, staggering a bit. The bearded man wheeled on him, confusion twisting his features.

N’Fa’alu grabbed the man’s neck and squeezed until bones snapped. He let he body fall to the ground and climbed back in the Hummer. He rested against the leather seats and let the air conditioning wash over him for a moment.

What a blessed device, he thought.

He sat that way for five more minutes, then straightened up, put the vehicle in gear and drove past the bodies toward the mountains. Toward his past.

And his future.

***

He had awakened nearly a year ago, weak as a newborn, unaware of who he was. It had always been that way. The sleep lasted centuries; the awakening happened at its own pace.

He was in a cavern, deep within the earth. The room was filled with a light the type of which he had never seen. It seared his eyes and he lashed out, shattering the source of the illumination. It was dark again. But he had weakened even more, forced to lay immobile for several days. In that time, his memory began to return. And something else.

The beacon, deep within his mind. There had been only one voice when he went to sleep so long ago. Now there were many. The voices were prolific, yet weak. He had to reach them.

After he had been awake for nearly a week, someone finally came to him, a descendant of the family he had charged with the task of his protection during the sleep.

The old man carried a torch in his hand, a torch without flame. He examined the broken lights and then realized that N’Fa’alu was awake.

The man fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the stone floor. His illuminated tube rolled away from him, casting a mosaic of shadows within the chamber.

N’Fa’alu hissed and the man looked up, fear in his eyes. N’Fa’alu hissed again and the man arose. He quickly lit candles and helped N’Fa’alu to sit up.

“How–how long have you been awake?” The man was old, dressed in unfamiliar garments. The tongue was also unknown. However, N’Fa’alu could see the meaning in the man’s mind, though it taxed him greatly. But he needed information.

“It does not matter,” he told the man, using the old language. He sent the words into the old man’s head. “When is it?”

“It has been over two thousand years, Master.”

N’Fa’alu was not surprised. It was near enough to when he had expected to waken.

“I need information,” he said.

***


At the base of the mountain, he stopped the Hummer and got out.

The desert heat bothered him less than it had before, and he felt stronger.

He knew it was his proximity to her. And to them. The voices were closer now, though diminished in volume. Weak. There wasn’t much time.

He stared at the ancient path that snaked up the mountain. The hillside was full of caves. And humans. He could smell them.

Inside his human skin, N’Fa’alu yearned to make the humans pay.

He began his trek up the mountain.

***

This was an age of wonders.

In addition to the fascinating indoor lights, his caretaker, who, he learned, was named Abidin, showed him television, indoor running water–hot and cold–, the telephone and, that most blessed innovation, air conditioning.

N’Fa’alu found television to be the most disturbing revelation of this amazing future. He watched while he recovered in a bedroom of Abidin’s apartment. On this television, an organization called CNN told him what had become of what he thought of as his homeland. It had a different name today.

The land he had known as Bactria was now called Afghanistan

According to this CNN, a few men had caused hell itself to be rained down on the country where his future–his destiny–lay hidden. The weapons the humans now had at their disposal could rival his own power, could destroy that which he held most dear.

But not yet.

The voices still spoke to him, distantly, like screams across the desert wastes.

This CNN constantly displayed a image of a human who had claimed responsibility for the near-annihilation of Bactria . N’Fa’alu studied the picture carefully. He wanted to know this human if ever he encountered him.

***

The humans attacked before he had covered a mile.

He knew they were there long before they revealed themselves. Since he had begun his trek to the caves, each step he took made him stronger. He seemed to be drawing potency from the land itself. He knew, though, that his strength was coming from them.

He sensed the two humans crouching behind the brush. He walked past their place of concealment then stopped in the center of the path. As they stood and approached, he touched their minds. They saw an old man, wearing the face of Abidin, helpless and harmless.

N’Fa’alu was almost amused.

Instead of firearms, these humans carried short blades.

N’Fa’alu turned and faced the two men, both bearded and dressed for the desert. Both smiling.

The man on the right ran at him and lunged with his knife. N’Fa’alu extended his arm and allowed the blade to pass through his hand. He closed his grip around his attackers hand and squeezed. N’Fa’alu ignored the scream and only released his grip when a pulpy fluid leaked from between his fingers.

The second human dropped his own blade and ran away. N’Fa’alu pulled the first man’s blade from his own hand and casually tossed it toward the fleeing attacker. It lodged between the shoulder blades. The man dropped to the ground and did not move again.

N’Fa’alu was disappointed. He had expected more resistance.

***

“I must go now,” N’Fa’alu told Abidin.

“Master,” the old man said, “you are not strong enough.”

N’Fa’alu shook his head. “I cannot wait. They need me now.”

Abidin lowered his gaze. He had been a faithful servant. N’Fa’alu would miss him.

“I will need a few things,” N’Fa’alu said.

Abidin listened to his master’s orders, then went to carry out his tasks.

Three days later, N’Fa’alu was prepared to leave. The Hummer was parked outside and Abidin had given him the name of the man in Pakistan who would prepare the documents he would need. In the front seat of the Hummer was a small briefcase filled with gold coins.

There was only one more detail to take care of.

“Abidin, you have served me well,” N’Fa’alu told the frail man.

“Thank you, Master.”

“You know what I must do?”

“Yes,” Abidin said, without a trace of fear in his voice. At that moment, N’Fa’alu felt something akin to affection for the elderly human.

“I will make it as painless as possible.”

“Thank you, Master.”

N’Fa’alu leaned close to Abidin and whispered in his true voice.

It was over quickly.

***

He reached the cave at dark. He stopped a short distance from the entrance and he listened.

The voices were here, weaker than ever. But close. Very close.

There were more humans, as well. At least three. He could feel their small, angry thoughts scuttling through his head like cockroaches.

N’Fa’alu walked into the cave. The interior was unlit. It smelled of dampness, which he found oddly refreshing in the desert.

About fifty yards in, the cavern made a sharp turn to the left. Here, he knew, two humans waited for him.

N’Fa’alu spoke a few words in his true voice, words from the earliest days of his people. Almost instantly, he heard two gunshots.

He rounded the turn and saw the humans, now dead, their brains splattered on the cavern’s walls.

The cave floor slanted downward. N’Fa’alu followed the path for almost two hundred yards before he saw the glow of the lamp. He soon entered a large chamber, one he recalled from nearly two thousand years before. Three cots had been set up. One of them was occupied.

The human was tall and very thin. N’Fa’alu read fear in his thoughts, and confusion at the site of this elderly form. He pointed a handgun at N’Fa’alu.

The man was ill. He had lost quite a bit of weight. But N’Fa’alu recognized him at once from the television reports.

The man who had started a war that caused this country to almost be obliterated.

The man who had almost destroyed everything N’Fa’alu held dear.

“Who are you?” the man said in Arabic.

“Your destroyer,” N’Fa’alu said.

The man fired. The projectile struck N’Fa’alu in the chest. He stumbled back half a step, then regained his footing and grabbed the man by the throat. With his other hand he removed the handgun from the man’s grasp and tossed it into the passageway.

He pulled the tall man off the cot and slammed him against the chamber’s wall, still holding him by the throat. He wanted to kill the human now, but that would have to wait. He slammed the man’s head against the wall a second time. The man went limp in N’Fa’alu’s grasp.

As the unconscious human slumped to the floor, N’Fa’alu stepped to the back wall of the chamber.

And he stepped through it. The illusion had held for these many years.

She was stretched out on the floor, so beautiful to him even in her desiccated condition.
Her eyes were luminous in the dimness, and filled with love. She recognized him even in his human casing.

“I knew you’d come,” she said.

The joy of hearing another voice speak the language of their people made him gasp.

“N’Fa’alu”, she said, her voice growing smaller, “I’ve done all I could. Take care of them.”

Her life slipped away, leaving only an empty husk on the cave floor.

He silently wished her speed on her final journey. He would grieve for her another time.

N’Fa’alu stepped over the body of his mate, crossing to a pit in the floor of the cavern.

For the first time, he viewed his children, awake now after two millennia of gestation.

A dozen grey-veined egg pods had flowered open, and N’Fa’alu could see his children looking back at him.

He could feel their weakness. Several of them were close to expiring. He stepped down into the pit and walked among the egg pods, softly touching each child on the head or the wings, transferring a bit of his strength to each one.

With each touch he also sent a message:

**I am your father. I am here to give you this world.**

He felt their young minds reach for his, eager and fearful. He did what he could to soothe them.

One by one, the infants lapsed into sleep.


N’Fa’alu watched for a moment longer before he leapt from the pit.

It was time to finish this.

“Wake up,” he said to the human.

The tall man shook his head, his eyes fluttering open.

“Look at me,” N’Fa’alu said.

The architect of this cavern’s near destruction stared up at N’Fa’alu. There was no hint of the smug expression N’Fa’alu had seen in the images on television.

N’Fa’alu let his human form fall away.

The tall man screamed and covered his eyes, but it was too late.

The angles and shapes of N’Fa’alu’s true body were incomprehensible to the human mind. The tall man’s eyes had been vaporized. The liquid remains of the orbs flowed down his cheeks.

The human uttered a word. It was the name N’Fa’alu had been known by centuries earlier, a bastardization of his true name.

He squatted next to the blind human.

“You know who I am,” he said in Arabic. “ I came here to guide your kind. Yet you twisted my words and my teachings to justify the blackness and the pettiness in your soul.”

The human whimpered. His shaking hands covered his dead eyes.

“Even worse, you jeopardized my children and their mother, who lay here tending to them for two thousand years. I do this for them.”

N’Fa’alu sang in his true voice, in his true language. The tall man trembled, then burst apart. His viscera coated the walls and splattered upon N’Fa’alu.

The blood was hot. N’Fa’alu liked the way it felt.

He stood and walked back to the pit. He checked on the children, sleeping safely in their egg pods.

He stopped for a moment at the body of his mate. Her work was over now. He would make sure it had not been in vain.

N’Fa’alu walked to the cave’s entrance. He wanted to feel the desert’s night air on his face. His true face.

The stars and the quiet of the desert were soothing, But he also knew it was deceptive. Though their leader was gone, there were many men left who twisted his tenets to their own ends.

That would change.

Soon the world would know of his presence and of his children. They would know him by the name the humans had given him.

Allah was back.

And he was angry.

© 2008 Mark Justice

Monday, December 22, 2008

Pod of Horror #49


Pod of Ho-Ho-Horror is back. On episode #49 we bring the holiday cheer like a bunch of elves drunk on tainted egg nog. We talk to VAMPIRE ZERO author David Wellington and to Michael Knost, the editor of the LEGENDS OF THE MOUNTAIN STATE anthology series. We also feature several audio excepts from HORROR LIBRARY VOL. 3. Plus Grim Rictus, The Call of Kalanta and The Tomb of Trivia. Find all this yuletide warmth on i-Tunes or download it at Horror World. Pod of Horror #49 is produced and hosted by Mark Justice.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Return of the Deadnecks


My story "Deadneck Woman" will appear in Novello Publisher's upcoming humorous horror anthology, Dark Jesters, to be published in mid-to-late 2009.

It's great to work with Nick Cato again. I also really enjoyed visiting my redneck zombies one more time.

Here's the full lineup:

- FOSSILIZED BRAAAINS by William A. Veselik

- THE PLAGUE OF GENTLEMEN by Matthew Fryer

- TONGS AND THE ROACH by David T. Wilbanks

- BLESS THE BEASTLY CHILDREN by Laura Cooney

- WOLF PLUGS by Jerrod Balzer

- HACKS by Sam Battrick

- PAPA'S GOT A BRAND NEW BAG by Robert Guffey

- CURSE OF THE BLIND EEL by James Roy Daley

- RETIREMENT by Rob Brooks

- DEADNECK WOMAN by Mark Justice

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Randomness

It’s been a while between updates.

My day job involves a lot of writing. A. Lot. Of. Writing. Some days I get home and discover there’s no gas left in the ol’ creative tank.

I know, I know. A “real” writer will crank out the words no matter the obstacle in his/her path. It’s nothing I haven’t told myself when I count my regrets in the middle of the night. Still, there it is.

Having said that, I’m starting to make a little progress on the word count front.

I also just submitted a longish story to a new market. The previous editor hadn’t responded to numerous inquiries over the past several months, and I’m quite proud of this piece.

Work and life have also gotten in the way of Pod of Horror, but there should be a new episode coming your way in a week or so. I’m looking forward to The Call of Kalanta. It’s been a long time since I heard foul language. Heh.

By the way, if you go to the reviews page at Nanci’s Horror World site, you can scroll down to my brief review of Steve Shrewsbury’s Hawg. Shrews’ writing can sometimes make you feel like you’re sliding down a banister made of razor blades. And that’s a good thing.

I’ve watched a handful of new movies lately, including:

The X-Files: I Want to Believe. Not as much suckage as I’d been told. I actually thought the Mulder/Scully character arcs were very good. Alas, there were no aliens, and I think that pissed off a lot of movie-goers.

Wanted. Pretty movie, but monstrously stupid. I will suspend disbelief to a remarkable degree, but “The Loom of Fate”? Really? Someone needs their ass kicked for that one.

Mama Mia. My wife’s new favorite movie. We saw it on the flight to Mexico, where I had the surreal experience of removing my headphones and witnessing half the passengers singing and dancing in their seats. At the risk of losing all of my testosterone street cred, I had fun watching it.

In the last few weeks, I’ve read Stephen King’s Just After Sunset (uneven, with flashes of brilliance. “N” is a masterpiece), Your Heart belongs to Me by Dean Koontz (it hooked me, despite some annoying Koontisms), and my favorite book of the year, The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman. If you love stories well-told, then this will be a volume you will read many times.

Finally, here’s a picture of my niece Scarlett at three months old. She’s a beautiful baby, despite being related to me.

Monday, December 01, 2008

How's Your Team Doing?

The Bengals suck more than Madonna in the back of A-Rod's limo.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Metal Crypt

Dave Wilbanks and I were guests on Metal Crypt a couple of weeks ago. You can hear all the rambling, nonsense and bad jokes here.

Happy Thanksgiving


From the offices of Department of Justice, we extend to you best wishes for the holiday, and hope you spend it with family and friends. Save some pie for us.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Horror Library Volume 3


Volume 3 of Horror Library is out -- or about to be any second -- with my story "Being Supreme".

The lineup this time includes Bentley Little, Kealan Patrick Burke and Gary Braunbeck.

Clicking here will preview the first two pages of my story, while this link lets you see the table of contents, sample other stories and order the book.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

By the Way

Here's a link to that Pod of Horror episode that featured Robert McCammon and Pulpmaster General Ron Fortier.

***

What's the true meaning of Thanksgiving? The two freshly-baked Red Velvet cakes and two pumpkin pies cooling on my kitchen counter, that's what!

Monday, November 24, 2008

The Past Year


We just got a first edition hardcover of Boy's Life for a Christmas present to a friend, and I realized that it was almost a year ago that I had the chance to tell Robert R. McCammon how much his novel meant to me.

In the last 12 months I interviewed McCammon, I interviewed Bill Clinton and I got to write a story about The Avenger.

I also produced some good radio, a few podcasts and sold a few other stories. All in all, not a bad year.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Sunday


More on Mexico:

The trip was great. We stayed at an all-inclusive resort at Rivera Maya. I got a little tired of the wristband we had to wear, but it was a small complaint. The weather was perfect everyday. Norma and I took walks on the beach each morning, at least until I cut my feet. That’s right, the Justice vacation curse struck again.

See, for years, each time I was on vacation, we had an appliance fail. Air conditioning, washer, dryer, and so on. Then karma took a cruel turn and the new rule became I fell off our deck and screwed up my shoulder. Burned the top of my foot. Fell off one of the pirate ships used in the Johnny Depp movies, etc. In Mexico, it was lacerations on both of my feet from the rough surface of the resort’s pool.

I had an amusing time visiting the resort’s doctor, who insisted on being paid in cash and sending me to a Mexican hospital. I declined the latter offer. I spent the last couple of days on the deck of our pool side suite, socializing with our neighbors. Despite my injury, it was an excellent trip, and I would do it again. Maybe I’d be a little more careful next time (and I did have water shoes, which were full of sand from the beach; now I wish I’d worn them anyway).

By the way, I’m on vacation again next week, and on Thursday our dishwasher died. Hopefully, the appliance took the bullet this time.

The photo above was taken by Norma from the resort’s lobby two weeks ago just before we left for the airport.

***


I spent this morning with my wife, shopping for Thanksgiving. Norma’s a super-shopper, who spent two weeks plotting out the shopping, clipping paper coupons and loading e-coupons on her Kroger card. She saved $60 today, so I guess it worked out.

We’ll have a house full of family and friends. My part in the preparation revolves around eliminating the piles of books that have accumulated since last Thanksgiving.

On top of that, we’re getting new carpet and furniture the week after Thanksgiving, so I have to create a whole new filing system for all the books, since our shelves are long past full. I am genetically incapable of getting rid of books, so I have my work cut out for me.

***

I’ve barely had a chance to crack the covers on The Avenger Chronicles. The two stories I’ve read have been excellent. Ron Goulart was the writer chosen to carry on the Avenger paperback series for Warner Books in the 70s after the original pulp novels had all been reprinted. His story in TAC is a sequel of one of those novels. I’ve always enjoyed Goulart’s style, and this story reads like he wrote it 30 years ago.

I’ve also read James Reasoner’s entry. Reasoner is one of the top western writers working today (he dabbles in the mystery and historical fields too). He’s also a pulp fan, and that shows in his Avenger story.

So far the book is off to a great start.

And before anybody points this out, I am fully aware that I am incapable of reading an anthology in order. You’ll just have to live with it.

***

I have writing to do this week. Wish me luck on carving out the time. I have a feeling it will done after my whip-cracking better half goes to bed.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Guess What I'm Doing Next Week?

Besides doing all the jobs on Norma's honey-do list to get the house ready for Thanksgiving.

My plot for a short story has just been approved by the license-holder. So I'll be writing about one of the world's first super-heroes (and I don't mean Popeye! Arf!), for an anthology to be published next year. I'm as jazzed about this as I was for the Avenger book.

More on this when the story is accepted.

PoH/Twitter

Pod of Horror has been postponed again. This is entirely my fault, and due mostly to my day job and other bill-paying obligations. If you feel the need to hate me, the line starts right behind Nanci Kalanta.

***

I'm Twittering again. For the life of me, I don't know why. Follow me here.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Our Secret Masters

Legendary country singer Loretta Lynn was in town to perform the other day. Her bus was parked in front of my office (she was staying at the hotel next door).

As I was leaving, one of the local homeless guys rushed by me. I asked him was what going on.

"Loretta Lynn is handing out autographs," he said. "Come get one."

I told him I was running late for an appointment.

"By the way," he said, "did you know Loretta Lynn is a robot built by the two-fingered people who really control the world?"

I didn't. But that explains why she can still perform at 115 years old.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Back From Mexico




It was a great trip. I’ve decided I’m tired of airports. And it’s good to be with our cats again. More when I catch up on rest.

I came home to find my contributor’s copies of The Avenger Chronicles. It’s a nice looking book that includes two contributions from me: a solo story and a collaboration. You can find it here. (I was a late addition to the lineup so I didn't make the cut for the Amazon listing. *sigh*)

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Reading, Writing and Packing

It’s been too long since I’ve talked about books here.

Ed Lee’s new novel, Brides of the Impaler, is both a departure from what most fans expect from Lee, and a bloodsucking success. Lee’s setting is uber-urban: a midtown New York populated by excess-addicted yuppies, calloused cops and crackhead whores. Add to the mix an artifact that may contain the spirit of Dracula, and this book’s off to the races. Lee proves he can deliver the scares in the back woods and the big city. And there’s plenty of sex and gore to satisfy longtime fans of Lee.

The Given Day is another departure, this time from Dennis LeHane, author of Gone Baby Gone and Mystic River. Set in Boston, at the end of the first World War, this epic encompasses racism, baseball, the influenza epidemic, police corruption, labor unions, immigration and the devastating Boston police strike. It’s a potboiler and a page turner, with writing that is, in turns, literary and pulpish. My only question is: will Scorcese be directing the movie?

A racially-charged incident from 1972 propels The Turnaround by George Pelecanos. Three white teens drive into a black neighborhood. Epithets are shouted, violence ensues, and one of the teens is killed. In the present, Pelecanos catches up with the survivors of the incident. Some have prospered. Others haven’t done so well. When Pelecanos finally brings the survivors together, each is looking for something different: forgiveness, redemption, even payback. The story concludes in a way that is surprising and moving. Possibly Pelecanos’ best novel to date.

***

I had a story accepted for an anthology this week. One more commitment out of the way. I’m trying to finish another promised piece this week, before we head out of town.

***

We’re going to a resort in Mexico next week. I’ll be out of the country on election day, and will miss voting for the first time since I was 18.

Norma and I went to our courthouse Friday to cast our absentee ballots. The election officials told us that absentee turnout was huge, and they hoped the number of ballots cast on election day would be record-setting. So do I. In the past, a 30% voter turn out in Kentucky has been considered good. Oh, really? 70% percent of the citizenry stays home and that’s good thing? If this election causes more people to participate in the process, regardless of who they vote for, that’s a victory.

Now I have to face my greatest challenge of the year: what books to pack.

Hardcovers are out. Since I have to pay if my bag is over fifty pounds, I’m not taking any chances. I can stuff more paperbacks into my carry-on.

At the moment, I’m leaning toward a few Hard Case Crime novels, a couple of Leisure paperbacks and the last few issues of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. That’s subject to change, of course. In fact, I’ll probably be adjusting the book lineup on the way to the airport. I’m sure my fellow book lovers will understand.

The beach, books, no election commercials and unlimited alcohol? Just what the doctor ordered.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Come on Come On/Stones in the Road

Hey, kids! It's one of Mark's favorite Mary Chapin Carpenter songs.



And here's the other one.

Whassup, McCain?

Friday, October 24, 2008

My Friends, Let Me Be Honest With You...

I have a confession: I'll vote for whoever Andy Griffith tells me to vote for. Come on, he's Andy Griffith.


See more Ron Howard videos at Funny or Die