Stolen From Schwapp!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
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.
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:
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
The Harvest
by Mark Justice
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.
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.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Monday, December 01, 2008
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.
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.
***
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.
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*)
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