And check out some Flywheel

I can’t say enough about the editor or the fine group of authors he was able to assemble for the book. Not a bad read in the lot. I’m actually pretty honored to be asked and included with all these fine people.

Do yourself, and some kids, a favor and check it out. And while you’re reading, listen to the sound track on YouTube.

From Amazon: ‘Hitmen, cons, winos, bag snatchers, killers and psychos, the wronged, the vengeful and the damned, all darken the pages off this superior crime anthology. Off The Record is seriously cool.’ – Howard Linskey,         Author of The Drop, named in The Times best reads of 2011

38 writers, 38 short stories based on classic song titles…

The best writers from both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, come together to produce an anthology of short stories, with all proceeds being donated to two Children’s Literacy charities.

In the UK, National Literacy Trust. (http://www.literacytrust.org.uk/)

In the US, Children’s Literacy Initiative. (http://www.cliontheweb.org/)

Stories from -

1.Neil White – Stairway To Heaven
2.Col Bury – Respect
3.Steve Mosby – God Moving Over The Face Of Waters
4.Les Edgerton – Small Change
5.Heath Lowrance – I Wanna Be Your Dog
6.AJ Hayes – Light My Fire
7.Sean Patrick Reardon – Redemption Song
8.Ian Ayris – Down In The Tube Station At Midnight
9.Nick Triplow – A New England
10.Charlie Wade – Sheila Take A Bow
11.Iain Rowan – Purple Haze
12.Thomas Pluck – Free Bird
13.Matthew C. Funk – Venus In Furs
14.R Thomas Brown – Dock Of The Bay
15.Chris Rhatigan – Shadowboxer
16.Patti Abbott – Roll Me Away
17.Chad Rhorbacher – I Wanna Be Sedated
18.Court Merrigan – Back In Black
19.Paul D. Brazill – Life On Mars?
20.Nick Boldock – Superstition
21.Vic Watson – Bye Bye Baby
22.Benoit Lelievre – Blood On The Dancefloor
23.Ron Earl Phillips – American Pie
24.Chris La Tray – Detroit Rock City
25.Nigel Bird – Super Trouper
26.Pete Sortwell – So Low, So High
27.Julie Morrigan – Behind Blue Eyes
28.David Barber – Paranoid
29.McDroll – Nights In White Satin
30.Cath Bore – Be My Baby
31.Eric Beetner – California Dreamin’
32.Steve Weddle – A Day In The Life
33.Darren Sant – Karma Police
34.Simon Logan – Smells Like Teen Spirit
35.Luca Veste – Comfortably Numb
36.Nick Quantrill – Death Or Glory
37.Helen FitzGerald – Two Little Boys
38.Ray Banks – God Only Knows

With forewords from UK writer Matt Hilton, and US writer Anthony Neil Smith

If you’re not into autobiographical rambling, you better stop reading right now.

Now get this straight, I’m not a big believer in birthdays. Being that it is early January, my birthday was always combined with Christmas. Since I’m of the Catholic persuasion (my family has 3 nuns in it, which makes absolutely no difference at all besides highlighting how family reunions were peculiar – not in a bad way, just different), I always found it odd people wanted me to share the big day with Jesus even though mine is in early January. That has to be some kind of sin in the Book. Whatever. People born in the summer can kiss my ass.

Like I said, I turn 40 in a few days, and I find myself stumbling through the forest of my mind catching something beautiful between the patches of poison ivy. Seriously. It hurts. If you know me, I’m a sentimental fool. I mean, Harry Crews and Chuck Norris would probably punch me in the mouth just because I’m one of those mild mannered guys. And while that would make a great anecdote to tell people at parties, I hate eating blended steak through a straw. I say all this because when I reminisce about all the great people who have impacted my life, who are a part of my life, I’m pretty content. The apocalypse doesn’t seem like such a big deal. I don’t even feel the need to store a basement full of MREs or get a shotgun. I do have a cool Swiss Army knife though and that will come in handy. It has a ton of gadgets.

Growing up, I went through some hard times with my family and more importantly with myself: drugs, fights, jail, rehab. I dealt drugs to support my habits and my habits were powerful. They were my religion, and I went to church daily. I saw things that I had no business seeing. At 5 or 6 years old, I was licking joints for adults. When I was 7, I got my first Playboy. In 6th grade, I witnessed the body of my neighbor, a kid in my grade, wheeled out with a .38 bullet in his head. By the time I was 16, I hung out with people double my age, bought drugs from guys who saw worse and were rougher than I ever was, and I constantly hurt the people who cared about me. If you ask any addict, my story isn’t that different than theirs. The only real distinction: I was lucky.

No one could help me, but people tried.

I read a recent study where scientists found that rats were extremely social animals. Go figure. In fact, one rat would literally help another escape a trap and share its food before eating any of it by itself. After watching reality television for over a decade, I’m not so sure we can say the same thing for our species. I can honestly say, though, luckily I had a few special people stay close to me. They spied me inside the emotional plexiglass, clawed at the walls, tried to free me. When I finally opened that door, they were there.

So that’s really what I’ve been thinking about lately: my family and friends.

I want to honor these people who were with me during the good and bad times. Unfortunately I could never do them justice, especially with mere words. Language is a frail, brittle thing that way. My problem is I cling to so many moments I can’t sift through them to find that one.  If only I could paint clear moments that say everything without saying everything. James Wright did that so well. Everything would be so much simpler if I could do that.

John Henry Newman said we have to train our mind to think. He argued that being smart, to regurgitate information, was easy but to use that information in new ways was true education. My grandmother never went to college, but she is one of the most learned women I know. See, I tear up every time I think about her. It’s stupid to tear up in a coffee shop. People look then quickly turn away. I told you I was a sentimental fool. Note to self: don’t write reflections on turning 40 in the year the world will end at a coffee shop.

My grandmother survived a rigid and emotionally cold mother. She got through the depression and WWII. She followed her husband’s baseball career (drafted but was injured) and cared for him when another injury on the docks completely debilitated him both spiritually and physically. She watched over him during electroshock therapy and bathed him. She buried him. Now she takes out old photos and tells stories to her great-great grandkids. She recently received a Presidential award for volunteering but will only show it if we beg. She buys us goofy Christmas ornaments every year. She hates the Tea Party. She still says, “shucks,” “phooey”, and “fuddy duddy” in everyday conversation.

My mother and father have been immortalized in my poetry. At least moments. Shards of glass. I suppose I was following in the tradition of Snodgrass, Lowell, and Sexton in writing confessional poetry even though I didn’t know it at the time. When I was in graduate school, I remember reading a critic who said confessional poetry was “rather shameful,” and perhaps it was/is, but screw it. I did. Sometimes I do. That’s one of the nice things about 40: I accept who I was and who I am (even my insecurities).

My best man, Steve Ida, witnessed my bumbling through middle and high school. While I’m pretty sure his mother didn’t care for me (she only spoke Japanese when I was there and often went into her room to pray), Steve hung out, spent hours on Axis and Allies, and played a ton of pick up basketball with me. He was the fastest guy on the court, but the clumsiest one too. You know that screech of skin on hardwood? Yeah, that was Steve. And he always laughed about it. Every single time. Steve was the only friend who gave me the advice I didn’t want to hear.

Another buddy I keep in touch with, Dan, set me up with my wife. It was a blind date for prom. At first she balked at the idea; after all, it was only a few months before that I had sold her then boyfriend acid, but Dan assured her I was reformed. Against her better judgment she went. She told me multiple times she wasn’t sure why she said yes. I’m still not sure why either. Sometimes I tell her because I was hot and had a “history.” She tells me to keep dreaming. Prom night I ordered lobster (which I hate but I wanted to impress her), and talked her ear off. It’s amazing she saw me again. Then I met her family.

I don’t get people who dread their in-laws. From the very first moment I met mine I liked them. Gracious, kind, always looking to laugh. What most drew me to them was their openness with each other. My family was generally shrouded in silence, divided by rooms and television screens, but my wife’s family aired their thoughts, good or bad. They spent a lot of time at the kitchen table reading, ready for discussion. I hate to admit it, but I was terribly envious.

It’s interesting to reflect on the people who had an impact one’s life. It begins as a drizzle then turns into a torrential rain. Those people are like wonderful songs that make me sing at the oddest moments: Cutting a 2×4, walking the dog, staring out a coffee shop window.

I’ve met and nurtured some very important friendships over the years; well, I can count them on one hand. I went to undergraduate with Scott, a fantastic poet in his own right, who recently scared us with a liver transplant. A few others: Lowe, a fellow English instructor who, for 7 years, did construction and house painting every summer with me; Beth, the most giving, fun, caring person I have ever met in my life (seriously); and Steve.

Now the first time I met Steve was in grad school. He had a tie (green with polka dots I think) wrapped around his forehead like a doo-rag and played darts with steak knives. I believe it was the same party we painted abstracts on the kitchen wall and two friends decorated asses then pressed them on top of the abstracts. A color copy of sorts. Yeah, we threw out the brushes. Our families have grown up together and in the same direction – but he can keep the earthquakes, floods, and broken water lines. I’d write more, but he reads my bullshit blog sometimes and I don’t want to give him any more fodder for his ego. Besides, I’ll buy him some Bushmills and tell him I made it all up just to mess with him.

But I always return to my wife and 3 awesome daughters. I stare at the ceiling, pet the puppy, let my mind spin so fast I think it will just tear apart. My wife is stronger than I am. She’s more honest. She’s better with the kids. She experiences joy and frustration and love more deeply than I. She can garden while I can only dig holes. My wonderful children deserve dozens of posts each, but I have an aversion to writing about them in public forums. I know, I’m weird that way.

What does turning 40 mean? 2012?

I hear it’s time for some kind of crisis. I need to start working out, get on a diet, buy a Mustang, pull an American Beauty and smoke dope while working at some burger joint, but the closest I’ve come to a midlife crisis is taking on a Ph.D. program full-time while working full-time (yes, I’m a dumbass). In 2012, sleep deprivation may bring on a nervous breakdown (though as long as I keep on my meds I should be ok). And the steady production of writing will slow down, but as evidence by last semester it won’t come to a complete screeching halt. Even if I’m blessed with just a fraction of positive feedback from people on my writing, I’ll be ecstatic. Snubnose Press (which has a family of writers I’m honored to be a part of) picked up my novel, a number of anthologies included my work, and I haven’t run out of ideas on future projects.

Turning 40 during the year of the end of the world means I spend a lot of time cherishing my family and friends and remembering to focus on the beautiful mysteries of life. 40 isn’t so bad. Maybe even a better age than any one I’ve ever had.

Then I started to drift off to sleep and was thankful that no only was I able to provide the feast, I was able to share it with my family. This leads me to the Lost Children. As described on its website:

Stories by David Ackley, Kevin Aldrich, David Barber, Lynn Beighley, Seamus Bellamy, Paul D. Brazill, Sif Dal, James Lloyd Davis, Roberto C. Garcia, Susan Gibb, Nancy A. Hansen, K.V. Hardy, Gill Hoffs, Fiona “McDroll” Johnson, J.F. Juzwik, MaryAnne Kolton, Benoit Lelievre, Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw, Vinod Narayan, Paula Pahnke, Ron Earl Phillips, Thomas Pluck, Sam Rasnake, JP Reese, Chad Rohrbacher, Susan Tepper, Luca Veste, Michael Webb, Nicolette Wong and Erin Zulkoski.

They are at it again, but this time we all have a chance to be as giving. They put together an anthology of some great stories that came out of that flash fiction exercise and it will be sold as an ebook November 1st. Again, the proceeds will go to PROTECT: The National Association to Protect Children and Children 1st UK.

It’s an honor to be just one of the writers included in the anthology. Please look for it on November 1st.

BoucherCon in St. Louis = goodness.

I was able to meet a lot of fantastic folks: From the nicest people on the planet (yes, I’m looking at you Mr. and Mrs. Holmes), to the craziest bastards (ok, Cam, where do I get one of those hats?), to the most down to earth fellows (How does Mr. Rawson think of this demented shit when he seems so “normal”).

I hate flying. With a passion. On the way to St. Louis there was a problem with my ticket. It took over 30 minutes to get that addressed. The whole time I’m clenching my jaw while my wife, smartly, takes over and gets it straightened out. She’s good for me. A jail cell would have been a lot worse than being a little late.

On the way back, it was worse. First, my checked suitcase was over the limit because of all of the books I was taking home. I was glad I could get enough of the titles shoved into my carry on (even though my back is still sore). It would have been very difficult to explain to my wife why I was missing all of my boxers and t-shirts. Security was awful. I get in a line that snakes around the lobby like we were waiting for ribs at Pappy’s. I’m next in line to go through when 7 pilots and stewardesses break in line. “It won’t take long,” they say. Sigh. When I finally go through, it’s the usual routine: Shoes, belt, phone, change, computer, etc. Then I hear the dreaded, “Sir, can we put your bag through again.” I wonder if they are going for Ashley and Rawson’s Crime Factory #1 – I wouldn’t be surprised. “Sure,” I say. The swabbing of my bag arouses my attention though. The pulling out my pocketknife gets me shaking my head. Shit. I forgot it was in there. I’m surprised it made it through Greensboro, but whatever.

They give me two choices: check it which entails locating checked bag, bringing up to front counter, putting it in, re checking bag, and going back through security; or throwing it away. Goodbye sweet pocketknife I shall miss thee.

Ron Earl, my roomie, meets me outside the hotel and shows me the digs. Nice place. Close to main convention. Even better, he’s a nice guy who doesn’t snore. I stuck by him most of the time which was pretty cool.

I pick up my name tag and about 8 pounds of books then hit my first panel. Did I mention I hadn’t eaten? I was freakin’ hungry while I lugged books around.

Overall the panels  were pretty damn great. I was able to catch people like Scott Phillips, Frank Bill, Christa Faust, Tom Schreck, and others share their stories and insights. The panel moderated by Katrina Holm, Death by Good Intention, featuring Donna Andrews, Shirley Damsgaard, Rosemary Harris, Julie Hyzy, Joanna Slan, was perhaps one of the best out of the conference. Funny and insightful, it didn’t get much better.

It was wonderful meeting all my Twitter friends and authors I’ve only read. Some very good discussions with big man Kent Gowran, the sweet Sabrina Ogden, Thomas “shortest man alive” Pluck, the finger guy, Mrs Drew, KatKap (Kathryn Ryan) who is sitting on a gold mine of a story, the tallest man there, Jeidiah Ayers (who, btw, is the only guy who could pitch a children’s book “The Underwear Fairy” without smiling), the shady Matthew C. Funk and his partner in crime the cracked Callaway, Mattew McBride and Daniel O’Shea, the gracious Hillary Davidson (Yea, on the award for The Damage Done), that Andrew the Canadian Maneatingbookwrm, my good pal Barna Donovan, and so many more I can’t list them all here. Just an impressive, impressive group of people.

Now let me just say, I like food and I ate a lot of it. Alligator, ribs, oysters, more pulled pork. Jameson. Yes, it is a food group all by itself.

The biggest downfall of BoucherCon: I have too much fucking shit to read now and my wife is getting sick of the piles of books littered around the house. Eh, what’s a fella supposed to do?

I’m hoping the Snubnose family will be able to represent next year – and if you haven’t checked the crime family yet, go on and take a peak. Yeah, I’m blessed enough to in there with my novel KARMA BACKLASH which will be coming out in 2012.

Pics from BoucherCon can be found here.

Flash Fiction Friday

Here is my submission. Thanks to Fiona and Thomas for sponsoring and donating.

Outside the Dream

His skin was like rotting fish on a muddy riverbank. His bulbous eyes pushed against his lids, his dark eyebrows wild, and his bald misshapen head, battered, scarred, knotted from of fights long forgotten made all the stories of a boogey man seem true. When he smiled it seemed like his face was struggling against the brain’s impulses.

He loped down the sidewalk smoking his menthol cigarette. Toledo wasn’t much, but it was his. The burgeoning art district brought hippie middle-class college kids downtown. They watched middle-aged couples meander through small stands of pottery and glass bulbs, beads and fake jewelry. When it got dark, they hustled up their shit and scurried back to whatever suburb they came from. They liked to pretend poverty.

KaVon went to the river, plopped onto the grass, and watched the sun fall. He imagined God’s hand laying the sun down like a man might guide a child’s head to his pillow. After awhile, he stubbed his cigarette out and closed his eyes. He hummed some Junior Kimbrough. Soon he’d go to work.

When he awoke, the night’s chill already gripped him. He stood, cracked his neck, and made his way to the city’s landscape. It was quiet, only the argot of the city calling him. As he passed one corner, KaVon saw a girl’s face silhouetted by street light. When she noticed KaVon walking by, she stood into the light and grinned.

“You looking for someone in particular, honey?” KaVon just kept walking. He had things to do.

Ahead he saw them, three boys trying to be men. Two stood on the corner, 13 years old, but Jesus to fuck it was getting hard to tell anymore. One older man, Lamar, lounged on a stoop about fifteen yards away. “Ain’t it a little late, K?” The kids laughed. Lamar stared. “Maybe you want a little bump? Old times sake.”

“Light?” KaVon said pulling out a cigarette. Lamar nodded. When KaVon was close he grabbed Lamar’s head and brought his knee up. Lamar’s nose snapped, blood flowed. KaVon grabbed the .45 Lamar had under his leg.

“What the fuck, K?” one kid stammered.

“I want to know where Jonah is.”

“Jonah? I don’t know…”

KaVon put the gun to his lips. “Think. Hard.”

The boys shared a glance then one squeaked, “He stayin’ with Reggie.”

At Reggie’s place, a decrepit box of rotting wood, KaVon walked to the back door. He heard ‘Lil Wayne bumping and caught the aroma of smoke wafting out the window. As he stepped into the kitchen he spied Jonah: head back, eyes closed, pipe in his hand. KaVon turned off the radio and Jonah jumped, dropping the pipe to the floor.

“Fuck, lookit what you made me do. Reggie’s gonna be pissed,” Jonah said scooping up the contents.

“Leave it. We have business to discuss.”

Jonah’s eyes widened. The dark pools trembled. “I’m not doing that anymore. I told you.”

“I know what you said.”

“I won’t.” His bottom lip quivered.

“Problem is you never do what you’re told; you never follow through with your promises.”

Jonah jumped up, his slight frame rushing toward the yard. KaVon wondered why they always tried to run. His powerful hand gripped Jonah’s shirt and pulled him to the floor. The boy flailed, but KaVon’s forearm on his throat and hand over his mouth stopped the squirming quick.

“You gonna walk or I hafta carry ya the three blocks home?”

Jonah nodded. KaVon helped the boy up. As the tread back to Jonah’s house, the boy studied the sidewalk. “You just don’t understand.”

“Fuck I don’t.”

“I tell her how it is, but she don’t care.”

“You’re her golden boy.”

“What else am I gonna do, K? Wash dishes?”

“I’m doin’ ok.”

“That’s cause you have yer own angles. How much momma pay you to fetch me?”

“Enough.” They walked in silence. KaVon regarded the boy, his simple wish to be relevant, to imagine something beyond what he could see around him. “Don’t break her heart like I did.”

“My boys, they won’t let me go. You know that,” Jonah said.

“Listen, you do right by momma and I’ll take care of you.”

The boy nodded. KaVon put his arm around Jonah’s shoulder. He knew he was going to earn every penny that night.

Recently a friend and I were talking about the attacks on education. Of course we travelled the broken down highways of high school and college, but we also bumped along some gravel roads. By the end of it, we decided we should just write something. So we did.

We’ll just call my partner in crime Morgana. Morgana teaches at a very good public high school in northern VA. I teach mainly general education courses at a public university.

I understand why many teachers feel compelled to defend their profession, especially in the face of the massive money cuts, laws attacking their unions, and people rolling out the tired “Those who can’t teach” meme, but seriously they don’t need to. It’s not about the profession, the work, the pay, the union, or even the perceived benefits.

It’s about perceived power and the “breaking” of government.

The problem with education is that it is powerful…and it’s free.  If we give an education—correction, a GOOD education—to everyone, we endanger the current power structure and threaten the foundation of the old boys’ club.  Isn’t that how every corrupt government keeps its people in line?  Control what they know and you control how they act.

In America, however, that line of attack is too blatant.  Most Americans know when they are being denied information, but few of them know when they are being handed lousy information.  Can I have a “Death Panel” for $1?

Give them teachers; they demand teachers. But give them only the teachers who are willing to work for near-poverty-level wages, and you are sure to give them, for the most part, the least effective teachers that can be found.  If we continue to hire our top teachers from the bottoms of their graduating classes (simply because those who graduate at the tops of their classes would not stoop to the wages we offer), then we continue to poison the well from which our future voters drink.

Now don’t go getting all holier-than-thou about good teachers and dedicated teachers and teachers who give everything they have to kids who have nothing.  We know. We have a combined history of 30 years in education, and both of us are parents.  We have seen some of the best. We’ve seen teachers improve student reading abilities by three and four grade levels in a single semester (this is not an over exaggeration). We’ve seen teachers turn kids on to politics, to calculus, to chemistry in severe and profound ways.  We’ve seen teachers pull children up out of the gutter and make something of them–something honest, something passionate, something not to be trifled with.  We have seen students straighten up in their chairs, question us, society, themselves. We have seen students in offices shaking hands or near tears thanking teachers for mentoring them into doing things they never thought they were capable of. We have seen teachers give more than education; we have seen them give hope.

But be honest with yourselves, fellow parents, fellow teachers.  We have seen some real shit out there too.  We have walked by classrooms where nothing happens, day after day after day.  We have seen our own children come home with As on essays that are full of grammatical and mechanical errors. Morgana has listened to her son explain that his class was told to put their heads down on their desks for hours that day because the teacher had important work to do. I have watched students stew in busy work,  copying definitions from outdated textbooks and memorizing, memorizing, memorizing—the lowest form of understanding and the most commonly used lesson plan in the country. I have seen power point and scan-tron dull children into something right above amoeba. I have seen students make teachers cry, and—honest to God—Morgana has seen them make one man soil his pants.  We have seen the best; and the worst.  Sadly, the worst are far more common.  I hate to say it about my own, dear profession, but the truth will out.  The most effective thing you can do for the classroom is to give those kids an effective teacher.  But effective teachers do not come around every day…not for these wages, they don’t.

Indeed we could make arguments about any professional, from plumbers to CEOs, and how she makes too much money for what she does. We could go into any office building and find the lazy ass who doesn’t do his/her job, but instead stands around and pontificates about how everyone else isn’t doing what they should be doing. I could go into any business and find one person whose product is ineffective or defective or just plain inadequate. I could even argue whole industries (big oil, big banks, etc.) are just so god-awful that we should just get rid of them (of course, what’s alternative, be like Alaska and give every resident checks from profits and hope that makes the industry more efficient?). I bet I could make broad sweeping generalizations and call managers thugs who push around their employees.

Ask yourself, what would happen if we began paying teachers better wages?  We would get better teachers…more of them, anyway.  What would happen if schools could afford to offer attractive wages to the top graduates from the top universities?  We might begin to produce more top graduates.  Isn’t that what we are always crying about? Why can’t we compete in a global economy? Because we don’t teach our kids dick.  That’s the fact, plain and simple. And once our students begin to understand that, once they see not only what you have taught them but what you have tried to hide from them, they begin to vote with that knowledge.

This is what the old boys’ club fears most of all, the person who can read, the person who can critically think, the educated voter.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to meet writers from across the state. It was a well attended one day conference on UNCG’s campus that also sported some great regional/small presses like Press 53. The only bad thing: we were inside on a beautiful day.

I attended two small sessions and the author readings. The first session was on speculative science fiction run by Edmund Schubert. He’s the editor of Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show and a fine writer. He read a ghost story with a twist, a funny twist.

I do wish I had an opportunity to meet the poet, Joseph Mills. During his reading he shared some brilliant, simple moments that were rife with everyday humor. What is fantastic about his poetry was how accessible it was while still having a tight lyric. He did remind me of Stephen Dunn and Scott Cairns. Highly recommend. 

I had a great time seeing some old friends from Wildacres and meeting new ones and I look forward to the next writer’s conference in September under the arch.

Here is Schurbert and Mills at the close of the day 

Cindy Rosmus’ story, Homesick, is over at newfleshmagazine. Aaannd they have a free e-book.

PulpMetalMagazine hosts one of Richard Godwin’s stories. Well worth it.

You like comics? Well, there’s this guy, Walt Kneeland, that does these reviews at his blog and at cxpulp that you might be interested in.

Did you hear Poetic Justice Press is making an e-book and it’s going coming out in August? Well, now you did.

Sabrina Ogden over at They Call Me Kate has some good news.

Val Nieman’s Blood Clay from Press 53 is out.

And now for some self promotion:

May 4th you’ll get a chance to see my story “Kids Are Mean” at Shotgun Honey. If you didn’t take  look at the site from my Facebook or Twitter posts yet, then maybe you should catch up — great stuff from a new mag.

“To Honor and Obey” will appear in Yellow Mama in issue # 26 (June 15). Yes, that Yellow Mama. Some wild, wild stories in this issue. Still working through them, but good stuff so far.

One of my zombie stories is coming out at Title Goes Here in July — it’s a mouthful.

And another zombie story that gives a whole new take on bible camps is coming out in the anthology CHIVALRY IS DEAD by May/December Press. Look for it right around father’s day. By the way, you should check out their other books. A lot of great horror in them there pages.

Pulp Empire #7 is due out in November and, yep, it sports one of my stories. If you follow me on Twitter, maybe you’ve checked them out already.

“I See Black Light” will be in a future issue of one of the premier crime/noir mags out there: Beat to a Pulp — rock on.

And the legendary Mysterydog accepted a killer story for a future issue of Darkest Before Dawn. Pub date forthcoming. This is one story that the character just won’t leave me alone, so I think I’ll have to go back to him and let him do more things in a few more stories.