The Eyesore Times

Bye-Bye, Little Doggies

2010-07-19T23:27:00.007-04:00

There were three of them, and they were about to die.

Mikey stood there, head cocked, watching. This wasn't his first time, and he felt a familiar smile tug at the corners of his lips as he regarded the thrashing forms. They squeaked and yipped, and would not stop.

He wanted them to stop.

The water wasn't deep. If the annoying things stood on their hind legs, their heads poked just above the surface, high enough so that their constant whining—a terrible buzzing wail—rattled throughout Mikey’s head. And worse, because of the shallow water, they still lived.

Determined to put an end to their taunting cries, Mikey knelt down, leaned forward, grabbed the fattest of the three—its soft body twisting in his grasp—and thrust it under the surface.

Mikey’s eyes widened and he sucked in his breath as the puppy tried to break free. He squeezed even harder, until blood darkened the water. The other two bumped and clawed at his forearm, trying to climb their way to freedom, while the one in his clutches continued to squirm. Then—finally!—it went still. A silver bubble rolled from its mouth, floated to the surface, and vanished amid a small ripple.

Mikey exhaled.

One down, two to go.

His heartbeat quickened, his skin grew warmer, then hot. A tremor of excitement passed through his body. It was like when the ice cream truck would come slowly down the street, its bell ringing, ringing, ringing, its music playing, and he would run into the house, screaming for a dollar. It was that kind of feeling, but more insistent, stronger. And he almost did scream. Instead, he giggled and clapped his hands in elation.

The remaining puppies went under together, one in each hand. The feeble things writhed between his powerful fingers. One of them fought hard, took longer to die. But in the end, Mikey won.

He felt strong.

Satisfied, Mikey rested his arms on the cold toilet seat, nestled his head on his shoulder, and stared at the lifeless things below the water, now thick with blood. He blew a strand of hair away from his forehead. He stirred the water with his fingertip in hypnotic circles. As his body cooled, pulse slowed, and the excitement of the moment seeped away, Mikey felt his eyelids grow heavy.

"Bye-bye, little doggies," he whispered.

He didn't hear the door open.

"Mikey, what are—" His mother gasped in shock, her nostrils flaring like fish gills. "My God! What have you done?"

Her voice had dropped so low Mikey could hardly hear her. He tried to look confused, afraid. "I don’t know," he replied.

She stood next to him, looking down. She just stared for a time, her face slowly turning red, like an oven burner. Mikey was in trouble, the really bad kind of trouble. He knew it. He cleared his throat, readying an apology, but then his mother turned away, walked to the door, and shouted, "John! Get up here and deal with your son. Now!"

Time slowed. Mikey sat there, hands folded in his lap, quiet. His mother's heavy breathing the only sound in the small room.

Ascending the stairs from the living room, Mikey's father asked, "What the hell has he done now?" Entering the bathroom, his father looked around and wrinkled his nose. He folded his arms and chewed on the corner of his bottom lip, trying—and failing—to bite back a smile.

"Oh, it’s a real knee-slapper, isn’t it, John?" Mikey watched his mother's face turn a deeper shade of red. "This is your fault," she continued.

"My fault?" His father chuckled, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at the same time. "He’s six years old. He’s just a boy!"

"Do all six-year-olds play with shit?" she shouted. "Do all forty-year-old men constantly forget to flush the goddamn toilet?"

"Sometimes," he said, looking back toward Mikey and the toilet. "Obviously." And then he laughed again, long and loud.

Mikey's mother inhaled sharply through her nose, fists clenched at her side. She stood motionless, saying nothing, just glaring at his father. Mikey knew that look. His father was in trouble, too. His mother then stormed out of the bathroom. Down the hall, a door slammed shut. The noise thundered through the walls and floor, up through Mikey’s legs and into his stomach, as if the big tree out front had fallen onto the roof. The water’s surface shivered.

When silence returned, Mikey's concerned but clearly amused father sighed, reached down, and flushed the toilet.

Mikey smiled as he watched the dead puppies swirl round and round and disappear.

END
Thoughts: This is an old story, but one I've always liked. Its original purpose was to simply work with flash fiction, which I'd never done before. I never intended to publish it when I began working on it. I just came up with an idea and rolled with it. Thus it's gone through a million rewrites. I tried all kinds of different things: voices and styles, extended endings, more characters, and so on. All of which I've saved. To my disappointment, this caused a bit of confusion down the line. More on that in a bit, though...

"Bye-bye, Little Doggies" is more than it appears to be. It's a story that many people have loved; but it's also a story that just as many have hated and actually been angered by. Without scratching the surface, one may find it to be little more than a joke story, a setup for a punchline. It's not. In fact, that which some people find to be nothing more than a punchline is really secondary, if not tirtiary or irrelevant, to the meat of the story: a young child destined for terrible things. It's the everyday serial-killer-as-a-child story, only before real animals are the victims (a cliché, I know, but again it was an "exercise in writing" kind of tale...plus I thought it was a sort of different take on the subject by going back to an earlier age). On the flip side, you have the parents, totally oblivious—and like many readers, they find it gross and amusing. I was going for disturbing, and with such a love/hate split, maybe I achieved that.

Publication Note: To my surprise, this was included on the Necon 30 Audio Horror Collection—featurning Rick Hautala, Althea Kontis, Weston Ochse, Bev Vincent, and 13 others—and passed out to all those who attended this year's Necon. As cool as that is, upon listening to it I quickly heard lines that were from a long-ago version of the story. In fact, I think it's a version that was in mid-edit, like I began to change things and then abandoned it.

Basically, I sent an older, far less enjoyable version. If that's not a tragic lesson in properly syncing your saved files, I don't know what is. From what I was told, though, far more stories than those that appear on the collection were submitted. So maybe it's not as bad as I think. What you read above is the final, much better version.

Click here to listen to the older version of "Bye-bye, Little Doggies," read by Gard Goldsmith.

A Comprehensive Update of Mostly No Importance Whatsoever

2010-07-14T17:26:00.000-04:00

Not a lot of updates lately. You weep, I know.

I stopped doing the writing progress updates because...well, I found them boring. Maybe not necessarily boring to me, but they didn't seem to have any real entertainment value. I will continue doing writing updates, but less frequently, and only when there is something more significant than word counts to discuss.

I also stopped doing the Friday short-story updates because it was becoming the creepy Friday "I Love Dean Koontzypoo" update. But I do like discussing what I've been reading, so I will continue to do so soon, only this time I'll discuss everything I read, from short stories to blogs to novels to bathroom stall walls.

Anyway, I've had a bit of success with some stories lately. At least beyond flat out rejections. Nothing to report yet. But soon. I hope.

The bigger news is that issue #2 of Shock Totem is out and availble.

You can order it here. Issue #2 is a different sort of animal from issue #1. This one is a bit more fantastical and...odd, surreal. Still dark, of course, but a different kind of darkness. You'll dig it.

Tomorrow I'm heading down to Necon until Sunday. Then it's up to Maine until the 26th. A vacation long overdue. I hope to get a lot of writing and fishing done.

And with that, I'm out. Take care, kids!

The Cast Of Nasties Invades Britain

2010-07-04T13:45:00.000-04:00

UK-based author Simon Marshall-Jones invited us Shock Totem dummies to run amok on his blog, Ramblings of a Tattooed Head. Thus, he and his garlic neckless are rendered powerless.

You can find us blathering on here. Check it out, say hello, and before you ask: Yes, that tattoo fucking hurt!

(And in case you were wondering, we're still waiting for issue #2 to show up online. It should any day now, though.)

The Elusive Art Of Giving Up

2010-06-30T20:15:00.000-04:00

I hate giving up.

I mean, really hate it. Even if not giving up is the sole reason for continued failure, I have a hell of a time doing it. My music "career" being the prime example. Fifteen years of "I'm gonna make it happen" accompanied by fifteen years of, you know, not really trying. Though, deep down, I knew from an early age that being a musician wasn't the right path for me, walking away from it, was giving up. Thus, it wasn't an option.

Crazy talk, I know. But that's how this old brain works.

Lately, I've noticed that it's hard for me to give up control of a story to the characters, those of whom need to tell it. By letting the characters tell the tale, I feel like I'm quitting somehow, which is absurd. I'm getting better as I go, but when I think I've finally given up control, given in, given the story to the characters, I read a book or story from someone else and quickly realize that I haven't. Not yet. I'm still there, giving my two cents.

It's an odd thing, really, because the character are, in a sense, me. But I still want to play, you know. Look at me! Look at me! I want to inject my thoughts and opinions, because I don't want to give up control—I don't want to quit fighting for it. Though in perpetuating the act, I'm failing. Over and over again.

I'll give in, someday. It's only a matter of time. Hopefully, for my sanity's sake, it doesn't take fifteen years.

The No Time To Read But I Keep Buying Blues

2010-06-25T16:46:00.001-04:00

I've never been a fast reader, but I used to knock out a book every two weeks, or every week, if I had the time. Nowadays, though, I'm lucky if I read a book a month. But I keep buying them!

A new Salvation Army Family Store opened by the mall a few months back, and they sell hardcovers for $1.99 and paperbacks for $0.99. How can I resist? I picked these up today, for a whopping $11 and change:

Since I'm not the biggest Stephen King fan, $1.99 is quite nice. And who knows, I may read them someday.

I also canceled my Science Fiction Book Club membership and immediately opened a new one. (Yes, I am quite all right with book club editions, thank you very much!) I got my introductory shipment today, plus a paperback from PaperbackSwap.

I can't wait to finish the Frankenstein series. I read the first in paperback, but not the rest. I was hoping for hardcover editions someday. An omnibus will do just fine.

And if you haven't read Naomi Novik's alernate history/fantasy Temeraire series, you're missing out. They're brilliant!

I've never read anything by Kevin J. Anderson, but I figured The Edge of the World wouldn't be a bad place to start. The novel has a musical companion album called Terra Incognita: Beyond the Horizon, by Roswell Six, which I love. It's a progressive rock/metal album that features some great musicians and singers, such as Dream Theater vocalist James LaBrie, Erik Norlander and his wife, Lana Lane. Not sure if the book will hold up, but the album is excellent.

See what I mean? A ballad, but it still rocks. There's a new album out called A Line in the Sand, which is the companion for the second book in the series, The Map of All Things. I haven't heard it yet, but I imagine it's just as good considering those involved.

Anyway, carry on...

Days Of Madness: Weeks 12 & 13

2010-06-21T02:23:00.000-04:00

Another double. Seems I forgot this again last week! Hope no one was disappointed.

Didn't think so.

Alas.

Anyway, some good numbers in the positive column. I wrote more, of course, but I'm still only counting those words I kept.

Sunday: 1,292
Monday: 841
Tuesday: 698
Wednesday: 542
Thursday: 561
Friday: 1,222
Saturday: 247

Sunday: 989
Monday: 2,118
Tuesday: 876
Wednesday: 349
Thursday: 0
Friday: 566
Saturday: 0

Total words written: 10,301

I'm still working on "The Candle Eaters." I'm not sold on the ending; it's a bit flat and too quick. No doubt it's going to change. I still have a month and a half to complete it, so I'm not worried. I've set it aside for a bit to let some ideas I have take shape. I still think it'll be a really cool tale once complete.

In the meantime, I've once again picked up "A Deeper Kind of Cold." This is a tough story to get right, so I'm being patient. I've also laid the foundation for a new story called "The Chained Man." I began writing this one last July. By hand, actually, which was a bit of a trip. I hadn't written in my notebook for a good number of years, so it was sort of nostalgic. But I finally transcribed it, added more words, cut away some flab, and fleshed out the ending. I'm using this one to get out something very personal, so it's getting to me a bit. Hopefully that translates.

I also received a rejection for the story "A Woman with Blue Eyes." Not entirely unexpected—it's an odd duck. Been a while since I got a rejection, but it kind of felt good and encouraging in a strange way. I think it's been too long since I submitted my work. Maybe I'll change that soon.

Maybe.

PDS Friday: Temple Of Shambolain

2010-06-18T13:49:00.001-04:00

I've been slowly adding old Dean Koontz publications to my collection, and I've been pleasantly surprised at just how good this guy was when barely beyond his teen years.

It was only inevitable, then, that Dean proved to be a human writer, one capable of writing the sort of tripe all young authors write. "You see? He's not a machine! He's a man!"

The story is "Temple of Sorrow," a novella published in the January 1969 issue of Amazing Stories.

The only thing amazing about this story, is how bad it is. It's no wonder Dean plans to keep it out of print for eternity. A good thing. It's a convoluted and confusing mess, a sci-fi tale about a plot to blow up the world. There's a spy, a bear-man that speaks in broken English (though later, miraculously, finds his human voice again, for no apparent reason), naked female "Angels," priests, bishops, two Earths, other dimensions, and an Atom bomb. BOOM!

It's not even worth going into further detail. To make matters worse, the editing is terrible. Gah.

—
"Shambolain," published in the November/December 1970 issue of Worlds of If, is no "Temple of Sorrow." Yet again, here is a tale that shows a great writer in the making.

"Shambolain" tells the tale of a small group of Freaks, citizens with deformities, the opposite of Straights. Then there are the Creeps, those Straights that are attracted to not the Freaks but their deformities. While the narrator has a third foot, and lives with people with far more disturbing malformations of the body, it is Shambolain that changes everything in their little world. Shambolain, a Freak in his own right, has a large oval head, thin and long, lips so thin they're nearly nonexistent, eyes too low on his face—and no arms, or so it appears.

To the Freaks, Shambolain is a freak, and thus the hypocrisy of the human condition comes through despite their own abnormalities. "Shambolain" is a tale of human weakness. Not great, but very enjoyable.

Off The Wagon

2010-06-14T17:58:00.000-04:00

Now that my work schedule is back to normal, I've been lapsing on the whole blogging thing. Despite being sick last week, I keep forgetting to do the damn updates. And I have more time now!

I think that's it, really. More time means more distractions, and more distractions means less brain function.

I have updated the design here, so that should count for something.

Days Of Madness: Weeks 10 & 11

2010-06-06T09:00:00.001-04:00

So here's the thing. I rarely get sick. It's been the way of things my whole life. Back in my schooldays I was never fortunate enough to really be sick—when I had rented that cool new video game and only had three days to beat it, for instance—and be able to stay home. Nope. I had to fake it. (Oatmeal and water, mixed with other random kitchen ingredients, poured in and around the toilet made for a fabulous vomit. Sorry, Mom.)

But sometimes I do get sick. Legitimately. And I've been sick lately. Not terribly sick, now, but even the mildest of colds shuts me down. I don't know how to handle it. You might even say I'm a bit of a baby. Haha.

Anyway, I'm good now. I have a lingering cough, but it's on its way out—I hope. I did manage some writing, though. I won't break it down into days this week. I wanted to show the numbers for the past two months and ten days.

We all know writing takes serious commitment. What many of us don't know, is that writing takes serious commitment. If a writer hopes to achieve any sort of success in this business, he or she needs to do some serious time in the chair. I detailed before how I've always had a hard time doing things in small chunks, whether it was writing or saving or yard work, because I was convinced I would do it all at once. Someday. A flawed concept, I know. So I set aside a time each day—six in the morning—and vowed to wake, sit, and write.

And lo and behold, it's worked. I started this on March 21, 2010, and here's how the positive word counts came out per month:

March: 6,041
April: 14,498
May: 17,086

I had a jump start in March, having already written a little over two thousand words earlier in the month, but four thousand words in ten days isn't terrible. Nor are the numbers for April and May. Sure, they're not as high as I'd like them to be, but they're proof enough that I won't get anything done unless I sit down and seriously write.

It's going to require further change in my life. I have too many other distractions right now—Internet, music, TV, and so forth—things that are ingrained in me and will be hard to walk away from. But I'm committed. The music will be the hardest thing to cut back on, and I know I'd be unhappy if I completely cut it out of my life, but it's an excessive obsession right now. So it's time to trim the fat and make some noise!

Anyway, back to the last two weeks...

I was largely editing "The Candle Eaters," which, I'm happy to say, is now done. It'll need another edit or two, and I think I'm going to change the ending, but for all intents and purposes, it's done.

I also rewrote an old story called "The Woman with Blue Eyes." It's a trunk story that I've always liked. I was inspired to rework it, and now I feel like it belongs outside the trunk. It's got a different kind of voice from what I normally write, more poetic, I think—maybe even a bit parabolic. Either way, I dig it.

This coming week should see the full completion of "The Candle Eaters." Hopefully I can coerce a few people to beta-read it. After that, I think it's time to finish "A Deeper Kind of Cold" and have the stork drop it off on Apex's doorstep.

Write on, folks, right on!

PDS Friday: New York, New Psalm

2010-06-04T15:44:00.003-04:00

I got the latest release from Apex Publications in the mail last week. Always a pleasure.

Dark Faith, edited by Maurice Broaddus and Jerry Gordon, features 26 short stories and five poems that attempt to tackle the intricacies of faith. I haven't read much of it, and as it is with most anthologies, I won't finish it all at once, but I look forward to picking its bones slowly.

The first story in Dark Faith is "Ghosts of New York," by Jennifer Pelland. I will sing praise for this woman until its borderline creepy. (I'm harmless, I assure you.) Her anthology Unwelcome Bodies is one of the best I've ever read. Sure, some stories didn't blow me away, but many floored me. Read "The Last Stand of the Elephant Man," and you'll understand. "Ghosts of New York" is not equal to that tale, but it is quite good.

The story revolves around the World Trade Center tragedy, particularly the ghosts of the jumpers, those victims that chose not to perish in fire or the collapse of either tower. The ghosts are forced to relive the terrifying free fall and final impact over and over again. It's a heart-wrenching tale, one of horror, tragedy, and discovery. And its beautifully written.

Brian Keene's "I Sing a New Psalm" follows. My first experience with Keene's writing was his short story collection Fear of Gravity. I wasn't impressed. I loved the final story, "The Garden Where My Rain Grows," it more than lived up to the praise bestowed upon him, but the other stories just didn't have the same impact with me. Decent, but maybe my expectations were too high. "I Sing a New Psalm," however, is a very good tale if a bit obvious.

The story is told in 44 short bursts and follows a man of uncertain faith through his ultimate acceptance and subsequent denial of God. It's a story that explores the puzzling contradiction of cruelty and selfishness from a so-called loving, omniscient god. Something we've all questioned. Keene does it justice.

Though I haven't read it completely, Dark Faith is worth buying. Anything Apex puts out is worth buying. Dig it!

Days Of Madness: Week 9

2010-05-24T23:16:00.002-04:00

I took yesterday off from work, and Work Brain powers things up on Sundays. So today is Sunday—in my head. Ever take a day off and it just messes with your head? I didn't even think to do this update yesterday, but today...today Work Brain said, "Writing update, sucka!"

So here it is, on Monday. Whoopee, right?

Sunday: 891
Monday: 784
Tuesday: 287
Wednesday: 776
Thursday: 995
Friday: 236
Saturday: 778

Solid numbers this week. Not a high word count (about 5,000), but those are all positive numbers. I did very little subtracting this week.

Those words comprise two new stories. "The Candle Eaters" is the one I'm mainly focusing on. The other, "Diggers," is largely in the idea stage. I've had this crazy image sitting with me for a while now, but it was always just the image. The shutter widened recently, so I'm adding to it as things take shape. I don't foresee this one being finished any time soon. I think it's going to be a novella, at least.

Either way, "The Candle Eaters" is coming along well. I'm quite pleased with it so far.

On a different note, I have three pieces floating out there in the Rejectiverse. Most ever. Go me. Or something.

Write on, folks. Write on.

PDS Friday: A Good Day To March, Doctor

2010-05-21T15:43:00.001-04:00

Last week I attempted to write about a story by Al Sarrantonio, from the latest issue of Cemetery Dance. When it came time to write it, though, I could only remember the beginning of the story. I realized, then, that I'd never finished it.

Could have sworn I did, though.

I really finished it the other day. Odd thing was, I distinctly remembered the ending. So I had read the beginning, and apparently the end. Something tells me I had also read this while falling asleep, and either I skipped the middle by mistake or just completely forgot it while in my sleepy state. Bizarre.

Anyway, let's try this again...

Halloween in May! Why the hell not?

The latest issue of Cemetery Dance—number 63—is a special Halloween issue. It's Halloween 2—a good Halloween 2. Yeah, out of season, but it's Cemetery Dance so they can make up their own rules.

The first story in this issue is from heavyweight editor/author Al Sarrantonio's "March of the Marionettes." It's a short quirky tale of marionette's being lead to war, essentially a battle with Halloween itself—ghosts, werewolves, vampires, ghouls, and every other creature known to come forth on All Hallows' Eve. There's a little twist at the end which is a bit cheesy, but because the tale is rather lighthearted the ending shouldn't come off cheap, annoying the reader.

"March of the Marionettes" is a fun tale. Nothing more.
—
This next bit is going to read more like a full review, but it should be noted that I've yet to finish reading everything. My opinions are based solely on what I have read and not on the entire publication.

In the world of small press, a new print publication is a good thing. Especially these days. Sadly, many writers tend to view these publications solely as markets, potential homes for their work, rather than an outlet for personal enjoyment.

While indeed a new market, Bull Spec deserves more. It's put out by Samuel Montgomery-Blinn, from North Carolina, and aims to be a quarterly publication. I hope so. It's a standard-sized magazine, color inside and out, nice paper stock, and an all-around fantastic design. Aesthetically speaking, compared to the aforementioned Cemetery Dance, Bull Spec wins by a mile.

But what of the important stuff, the content?

Bull Spec #1 features the standard fare of fiction, poetry, interviews, a comic. The interviews are informative and entertaining, but possibly too long, spanning 22 pages for three interviews. They're also presented with no context for the unfamiliar reader. The interview with game designer Lee Hammock jumps right into discussing the MMO Fallen Earth. But without context, it's meaningless. I don't know anything about Fallen Earth; the interview assumes I do, however.

There's also an interview with the owner and the manager of Sci-Fi Genre Comics & Games, a store based out of Durham, North Carolina. Again, it assumes too much by giving no background context to the reader. And at eight pages, it's far too long for anyone outside of that local area (though you can shop with them online). I do like the idea of this interview, giving voice to a local business; I simply think shorter would have been better.

The fiction is much more impressive, though I think putting it all in the beginning of the magazine was an odd choice. There are three stories, two of which I have read.

"Almost a Good Day to Go Outside," by first-time author Peter Wood, is a sci-fi tale that looks at the effects of familial and psychological stress in isolation. Light years from Earth, Ricardo and his family—wife and two children—live in the Hive, a massive complex that houses thousands of colonists, isolating them from the alien world outside while its being terraformed. But the slow rot of depression is setting in. While spending his days in a cramped surveying vehicle beyond the walls of the Hive, Ricardo longs for the open space of home, a tiny 400 square foot apartment with a window and separate bedrooms, a luxury thanks to Ricardo's position on the terraforming project. His wife, however, desires the open space beyond the walls of the Hive and their home, essentially her prison.

When a shipment from Earth brings televisions—an alien device to some, especially children—to the colony, the family is able to pick up old black-and-white transmissions from Earth that are just now reaching that part of the universe, almost like travelling back in time. The television, however, only further darkens the issue, showing the family so much of what they cannot have—freedom.

"Almost a Good Day to Go Outside" is a touching tale, one that tests the bonds of family. I found the idea of utter desolation being preferable to privileged isolation to be extremely intriguing, and Peter Wood tells it like a seasoned veteran.

Natania Barron's "Doctor Adderson's Lens" (originally published in The Gatehouse Gazette) follows, and it's fantastic. It's a bit steampunk, a bit zombie (though that's really pushing it), a bit fantasy, and a whole lotta brilliant.

Dr. Adderson is an eccentric scientist who discovers that the very essence of life is being siphoned from people by invisible birds, or what can only be described as such. Together with the help of his assistant, Dellacarta, and her recently returned-from-the-dead brother, Anton, they present the discovery to the world. And it's never the same again.

I'm running out of time here, so that's a sort of half-assed description. Apologies for that. "Doctor Adderson's Lens" is less about the effect and more about the process of discovery. Natania's writing is smooth, with the just the right slant of language to make it poetic without being off-putting or unbelievable. It's an outstanding story. Lady Barron has herself a new fan.

Though I haven't read everything in the issue, I don't really need to in order to tell you that Bull Spec is worth your time and money. These two stories alone are well worth the price. Highly recommended.

Go!

Days Of Madness: Week 8

2010-05-17T13:43:00.000-04:00

Some good numbers this week. Just words, though; no new stories.

Sunday: 1,268
Monday: 465
Tuesday: 2,872
Wednesday: 871
Thursday: 266
Friday: 849
Saturday: 0

I read a lot of blogs where the blogger discusses his or her weekly output, much like my Days of Madness posts. One thing that strikes me is how much they accomplish compared to what I accomplish. They may write 5,000 words in a week, but that's two stories and a poem. I may write 10,000 words...and I have nothing but 10,000 words. No story, no poem, nothing.

Of course, 10,000 words is wonderful, and I'm not complaining, but I can be so meticulous with my words—usually, anyway—that what I write today may get erased tomorrow. Since April 1, I've written nearly 40,000 words. You know what that resulted in? One completed 5,500-word story and slight progress on two others. There's nowhere near 40,000 new words sitting on my PC somewhere. Much of it has been discarded.

The good thing, is that I tend to take two steps forward and one back. It's progress, but a bit slower than normal. It's all about being comfortable, I think, and not second-guessing what I'm writing. I have noticed that my brand-new material flows much smoother and faster. So once I get finished with rewriting these old drafts—which are good stories but rife with mistakes, which of course hampers progress—I'll be cranking them out much quicker.

I think.

I hope.

For instance, yesterday I started a new tale. It's called "The Candle Eaters." The opening line:

Casey Adams cut a white swath through the darkened field, a ghost to all but the dead.

I expect I'll finish the first draft in the next few days. But time will tell...I dig it, though, and hope I can nail the images I'm seeing in my head, because they're really cool.

Rock on, mah peepos!

PDS Friday: Marionettes & The Graveyard Door

2010-05-15T01:15:00.005-04:00

Halloween in May! Why the hell not?

The latest issue of Cemetery Dance—number 63—is a special Halloween issue. It's Halloween 2—a good Halloween 2. Yeah, out of season, but it's Cemetery Dance so they can make up their own rules.

The first story in this issue is from heavyweight editor/author Al Sarrantonio's "March of the Marionette's"...and I just realized I never finished the damn story. No wonder my mind blanked while trying to write this earlier! Haha.

Right...we'll get to that one next week. As you were...
—
Though Dean Koontz was a fairly prolific short-story writer in his younger years, his output dipped drastically once his popularity as a novelist began to rise, and at one point, between 1975 and 1985, was nonexistent. He had a bit of a resurgence between 1986 and 1987, publishing nine shorts during those two years. After that, however, his output all but disappeared; in the twenty-two years since he has published just seven short stories.

First published in Tropical Chills way back in 1988, "Graveyard Highway" remains one of the most recently published shorts by Koontz. (It was also reprinted in the UK magazine The Horror Express, issue #4, in 2005.)

The tale begins ominously as, on his way to work, Mason Sondheim passes a strange highway sign: DEATH 2 MILES. He assumes he simply misread it, until he sees another sign. DEATH 1 MILE. The signs count down to the inevitable, and eventually Mason's car tops a rise and he views a sprawling graveyard—and a shadowy figure, flagging him down. Problem is, the graveyard shouldn't be there. Weeks pass, but the vision continues to haunt Mason, until he pulls off the highway and follows the man clad in shadows.

"Graveyard Highway" is a story of revelation, of a man being lead back to his destiny and celebrating in that rediscovery. It's a wonderful story for the most part, but unfortunately, it falls apart toward the end. For me, anyway. Dean takes the supernatural elements and spins a fine yarn for most of the story—then dumps politics and morality on the reader in the last few pages. It's like Dean realized he was late for dinner and hastily added the ending to avoid an ass kicking from his wife, Gerda—or Gerula, as she was mistakenly named by The Horror Express; a far more frightening name for a woman, to be sure.

Celebrate life. Follow your true destiny. Great advice, really, but "Graveyard Highway" could have taken a few more pages to get that message across.
—
UK author R. Chetwynd-Hayes is from the old guard of writers that dabbled in multiple genres—science fiction, horror, fantasy—and though you'll hear him praised for such works as And Love Survived and his Clavering Grange series, the average fan—American fan, at least—has probably never heard of him. Which is a shame, really.

Though he produced a number of novels in his time, Chetwynd-Hayes was most prolific with short fiction, with nearly thirty collections to his name. He also edited an almost obscene amount of anthologies, doing so right up until his death in 2001, at the age of 82.

Cold Terror was originally published in 1973, and it contains fourteen tales of "unearthly possession and ghostly horror." This is just the second collection I own of the man's work—the other being "Tales from Beyond." I found it at a Salvation Army store a week or so ago (along with The Face of Fear, by Brian "Dean Koontz" Coffey, which was a cool little find, though not all that rare, unfortunately).

The first story in Cold Terror, is "The Door," a twisted tale of a salvaged antique door that bridges the gap between reality and horror. William, a writer, has plans to use this massive centuries-old as the access point to a recessed stationary cupboard in his study. After the builders remodel the room and install the door over the cupboard, William and his wife, Rosemary, opine upon what the grand door may have once guarded, and later, Williams finds, through visions, that his wife's guesswork was far more accurate than it should have been. And then William is in the room, walking its length, staring beyond its windows. As the days wear on, the room haunts him. And there's a book, which he eventually reads from. It's in what he reads that brings the story—or nightmare, rather—to life.

"The Door" is a fun little read. It's a classic kind of horror telling; the kind of stuff the greats of our generation cut their teeth on. The story has been told countless times since, whether the supernatural portal between this world and some other is a door, a picture, or the trunk of a Buick 8. But there's a reason for that, right?

R. Chetwynd-Hayes. Remember the name.

Amended: Sometimes YouTube rocks. Here's is the film adaptation of "The Door," from From Beyond the Grave, an anthology film based on five of Chetwynd-Hayes's stories.

"The Door" begins at 2:40 and plays through 4:30 of part 10.

Well, That's Wicked: Shock Totem - Issue #2: Electric Boogaloo

2010-05-12T23:10:00.001-04:00

A sequel to my last post. New artwork!

I should have just waited a day, huh? Anyway, the Shock Totem font has been changed to white, the yellows in the artwork have been deepened and brightened, and some barely noticeable shadow has been added to the author names.

And in my opinion, it's now done. Dig it!

Well, That's Wicked: Shock Totem - Issue #2

2010-05-11T22:53:00.006-04:00

And now a break from our regularly scheduled program—which was absolutely nothing, so quit yer whining!

This one is important. And awesome! Here is the Table of Contents and cover art for issue #2 of Shock Totem:

* To Be Titled: An editorial, by K. Allen Wood
* The Rat Burner, by Ricardo Bare
* Sole Survivor, by Kurt Newton
* The Spooky Stuff: A conversation with James Newman, by John Boden
* Sweepers, by Leslianne Wilder
* Rainbow Serpent, by Vincent Pendergast
* Strange Goods and Other Oddities (Reviews)
* Abominations: Hide the Sickness: An article by Mercedes M. Yardley
* Pretty Little Ghouls, by Cate Gardner
* Messages From Valerie Polichar, by Grá Linnaea & Sarah Dunn
* Return From Dust, by Nick Bronson
* Leave Me the Way I was Found, by Christian A. Dumais
* Upon My Return, by David Jack Bell
* Howling Through the Keyhole (Author Notes)

This TOC is a bit shorter than issue #1, and that is because we've bumped up the font size for this issue so we were left with less space. The word count on fiction remains the same, though (approx. 30,000 words).

You'll notice that Kurt is once again in this issue. The reason for this is explained in the editorial. We don't intend to feature authors in back-to-back issues ever again, unless we have a serialized story.

And Mercedes is now on our team, so that's why her name is there. I saw someone recently write that it was "a bit cheeky" that we featured "an editor" in issue #1. We did not, of course. We got to know Mercedes after we had accepted her story for issue #1, and we asked her to join us well after the issue came out. And if you've ever had the pleasure of getting to know her, you know why.

How about the cover art?

Wicked, huh? I'm not sure I like the yellow Shock Totem font yet, so that may change before the layout is complete. The artwork was done by Hicham Haddaji. You can check out his work here.

Once the layout is complete, and the book block is checked for missed typos a few more times, we go to print.

Soon. Very soon!

Days Of Madness: Week 7

2010-05-09T21:40:00.001-04:00

Maybe the numbers don't reflect this, but I thought this past week was fairly productive.

Sunday: 744
Monday: 123
Tuesday: 255
Wednesday: 785
Thursday: 29
Friday: 547
Saturday: 0

The bad news is that I didn't move on to a new story. I tend to need a short break after I finish one tale. The good news, then, is that I finished "Goddamn Electric." One friend is still reading it, so I may make some changes after she passes along her comments (I know she said there's one line she hates), but for all intents and purposes, it's done. Stick a spork in it!

The story has generated some positive feedback, which is pleasing of course, but more importantly it shows that I'm still progressing with the craft. That's what I'm looking for, really. Now, if I just had the balls to submit it somewhere!

As those ghost-busting turds say, on to the next (fist bump!)...

PDS Friday: Soft Balloon Girl Dragons

2010-05-07T23:50:00.007-04:00

The Late Edition...

A few years ago, I was introduced to this little publication by a friend who at the time worked with the publishers, a husband-wife team. I thought it looked cool, so I gave it a shot. I was impressed. Very impressed, actually.

Quick Fiction is a literary publication that features flash fiction tales—so dubbed "precious little fictions"—of 500 words or less. It's published bi-annually in a non-traditional 6x6 paperback, about 50 pages long. Quality stuff.

Being that it's literary fiction, some stories don't quite move me. They're just kind of there, describing a moment in time that doesn't seem to have anything to say beyond, "Here I am, all shiny and pointless." Then again, maybe I just don't get it. Who knows. Probably the latter. The stories that work for me are usually of the more fantastical pedigree, magical realism, if you will. And being that each story is so short, I often find myself grabbing an issue off the shelf while I'm cooking, or watching TV...or, you know, flying to some exotic locale in Azeroth hell-bent on killing bitches. ('Cause that's what I do, yo!)

And so it was, yesterday, that I found myself reacquainted with Angela Jane Fountas and her brilliant story "Balloon Girl" from Quick Fiction 11.

The story is about a girl who lives happily inside a balloon, with red birds nesting on her head, and a selfish prince who wants to know what's inside. She is summoned to the castle, but the young prince does not get the answer he is looking for. And then, many years later, he becomes King. He ruins the land, drains it of life, and all the starving birds flock to Balloon Girl's head. The prince who had become king sends forth a message, with a promise to feed the birds, if Balloon Girl will come to him. And he fulfills that promise—at the expense of Balloon Girl's happiness.

Now, that may sound like some fairy tale schlock, but it is quite profound, to be honest. A tale of the curse of one's selfish desires over his need, no matter whose world it affects, or destroys. "Balloon Girl" is fantastic.
—
Yeah, more Dean Koontz. I picked up a copy of an early Ace Double—the only one of five to feature Koontz back-to-back—that had Koontz's first short story collection, Soft Come the Dragons (scary title, if you think (don't!) about Dean's early foray into adult fiction—Bounce Girl, anyone?), and the short novel Dark of the Woods.

"Soft Come the Dragons" is the first story in this collection of eight tales; it was Dean's first published story in the field of science fiction—published in Fantasy and Science Fiction, no less! The story is about the balance between myth and science, fantasy and reality. Without science, we do not advance; without fantasy, we're soulless. We must embrace both. A great message, and a very good story if a bit predictable. The cover depicts the not-so-traditional dragons from the story.

One thing about Dean's early work that amazes me, is how bright his potential shines. It's almost blinding. I hope someday he'll put these old tales into a new collection.

(And I originally wrote Dead Koontz above, so if Dean dies tonight...I'm really sorry.)

Getting Beyond The Door

2010-05-03T14:15:00.005-04:00

Ever heard an editor say a story needs to grab him—or her—by the second page? Have you ever thought about what that means for you, as a writer? What it really means?

In the business of reading slush, where hundreds of stories pour in weekly, those first few pages can mean the difference between rejection and acceptance. Some say a story needs to grab hold from the opening line, and while some authors pull this off with ease, others take a slower approach. Some authors start with an explosion, while some light a small flame that grows and grows. Is there a wrong way here? Not at all. Some stories need a slow build...

But how often is a great story overlooked because of this?

I recently finished a 5,300-word story. In standard submission format—12pt Courier font, double-spaced—it's 29 pages long. Now let's discuss exactly what that translates to. Changing the format to Times New Roman, single-spaced, the story shrinks from 29 pages down to 11. What was once the first three pages an editor sees is now barely a quarter of the way down page two, and the story starts halfway down page one! So we're talking a mere 483 words.

Frightening. But it's worth thinking about.

We, the writers, must impress within the first few pages, right? We're told this over and over again. But that likely seems much longer than it really is. In truth, we have but a handful of words just to keep the door from closing, let alone get us across the threshold. And beyond that there's a whole new set of obstacles.

Less than 500 words...

Scary.

Because It's Funny: Thank You, Dead Animals

2010-05-02T13:41:00.001-04:00

A while back I saw a billboard that made me do a double-take. Once past it, I thought, Did I just see what I think I saw? I saw it again the other day. And yup, I saw what I think I saw. So I had to take a photo. Because it's ridiculous.

[ click photo to enlarge ]
Sure, it's true, but no less absurd to see on a giant billboard—in the ghetto.

Days Of Madness: Week 6

2010-05-02T12:10:00.000-04:00

Another relatively slow week. Here are the numbers:

Sunday: 602
Monday: 456
Tuesday: 18
Wednesday: 772
Thursday: 336
Friday: 982
Saturday: 0

Nothing for Saturday, as that was my one-year anniversary with the luckiest girl in the world.

I continued work on "Goddamn Electric," which is why those numbers aren't very high. The story is now pushing 5,500 words, a significant jump from the original—and severely flawed—2,000-word version. Where I once saw gold for a turd, I am now seeing gold again. No longer am I blind with excitement just for having written something after so long. Now it's a real story, and a good one—I hope. Still a little too much telling, I think. Maybe not, though. Others think not. Either way, I think a little more depth to the protagonist is necessary, and that's what I'm working on now.

When all is said and done, I think it's going to be a quality story. After that, I'll finish "A Deeper Kind of Cold" and then get a-crackin' on "Ripples in Time," or whatever it'll end up being called (fairly positive that title will change).

So how was your week?

Happy writing, folks!

PDS Friday: The Hun On The Left Screamed With Us

2010-04-30T16:17:00.002-04:00

Lee Thompson is a cool-cool dude. And he's a writer, who just had his story "Daddy Screamed With Us" released by Horror Mall's Darkside Digital. So naturally I want to support his writing, which is why I am no longer a digital virgin. No pain, a little blood, and it was a good time.

"Daddy Screamed With Us" is a story about choices, or maybe one of necessary evil. Or both. When Jeremy's release from prison is up for review, it's up to Doctor Kerr to determine if the killer is fit for release into society or a continued life behind bars. But there's more to it than that; it's not up to Doctor Kerr to make that decision. Jeremy has to make his own choice.

Jeremy is in prison for killing Edward Singer, but he says he's killed more than once, and Doctor Kerr wants to know about that. It's in Jeremy's telling that his past is revealed and his fate is sealed.

As an introduction to Lee's work, "Daddy Screamed With Us" doesn't disappoint. And at a cost of $1.49, really you can't go wrong. Sure, it's digital fiction, but if you purchase this story now maybe we'll see it in print someday, in a nice glossy collection. Buy it!
—
I picked up this limited chapbook last year at Necon. It's sat on my bookshelf since then, just a sliver of white, a mere fifty pages, practically invisible to me. I'd thought it was part of the spine of another book! Anyway, though limited, it's still available at Horror Mall for five beans.

Right House on the Left is a triple shot of haunted-house—or in the case of the story I read, haunted disco (a weird disco)—parodies by L.L. Soares, Steve Vernon, and Mark McLaughlin.

The story I read this week was "The Blood-spattered Mirror Ball," by L.L. Soares. The story is about those social misfit-types who were never invited to gatherings of the so-called social elite. While alive, anyway. See, because they're dead, and now their ghosts are determined to have a damn good time, invited or not. Even if, for one of them, it means entering not through the velvet ropes but out of a horse's ass. Yes, folks, a ghost emerges from a horse's ass. I've read a lot of absurd stories in my day—I remember Fagula, the gay vampire who turned those he bit into homosexuals; and then there was the witch who selflessly fed her vampire lover during her menstrual cycles—but usually they make me cringe. This time I laughed.

Surprisingly, "The Blood-spattered Mirror Ball" is a lot more serious than I expected. Yes, there is a high level of absurdity here, but it was an enjoyable—dare I say, moral—tale that transcended its humor. Looking forward to reading the other two tales.
—
Been on a Dean Koontz kick lately, and it's been a blast. Old Deany-poo is my favorite, you know. Soon I'll be reviewing more of Koontz's early, obscure work, but this week it's back to Strange Highways. "Miss Attila the Hun," to be precise.

This story seems to be something of a transition point for Dean. It's a dark tale but still incorporates a bit of his early sci-fi mojo. In fact, it's sort of cut from the same mold that Winter Moon (originally Invasion, released under the pseudonym Aaron Wolfe) was cut from. It involves an alien being, little more than a sentient mass, which takes over its hosts for the sole purpose of world domination and spreading chaos. But while this being has encountered love on other planets, it has never encountered the overpowering strength of human love.

"Miss Attila the Hun" is enjoyable if a bit hokey. And Dean seems to have forgotten the black alien stalks and tendrils that burst through people's chests, because when it's all over...there are no gaping, bleeding holes. Say what? Maybe I missed something. Either way, a fun read.

And that's it for this week. As I've said before, if you enjoy something, support the hell out of it! So click those links.

Hey, Whatta Ya'll Know...Ol' Billy's Back

2010-04-26T20:42:00.004-04:00

(See what I did with title up there?)

So Cemetery Dance just published Blockade Billy, a new novella by Stephen King. I bought it. Cost me $32 total. Possibly the most money I've ever paid for what is a very short story. (I may have paid more for Dean Koontz's Book of Counted Sorrows, which was a ridiculous waste of money thanks to half the book consisting of Dean being all cutesy.) I figured Blockade Billy was worth paying for, though, as it was to be published in such a small quantity—10,000, which is only small by King standards, really.

But then things changed.

I've never been a serious book collector. I have my favorite authors, and I'm perfectly fine with their mass market releases. Hell, I'm equally fine with the looked-down-upon "Book Club Editions." I don't go for the pricey limited editions. I just read what I can get my hands on and hopefully for cheap money. If I can grab a collection by an author, I'll do that instead of hunting down all the individual publications those stories originally appeared in. I just want the stories, you know.

With music I'm a little different, a little more obsessive. I own over 7,000 albums—mostly CDs, some vinyl, and a handful of rare demos on cassette. But still, I'd rather have an album with bonus tracks than that version plus the regular version. It gets a little annoying when there are bonus tracks for Japan, then different bonus tracks for Europe and, as seen more recently, Best Buy, Walmart, Target, and so on. It sucks, quite frankly. I'd rather one album with all those songs. I understand the purpose behind all the bonus tracks, even though I think it stinks, and I empathize with the collector mindset and those that need every version of certain albums. But I don't need everything, whether books, movies, or music...

Which is why it irritates the hell out of me that I bought the limited edition of Blockade Billy.

After about nine million e-mails from a ridiculously excited Cemetery Dance (and don't get me wrong here, I'm happy for them—it's a big deal and they should be excited), what was once limited to 10,000 is now into its second Cemetery Dance pressing—for libraries, it is said, and sans baseball card and slipcase—and it's out, or coming out, in a variety of e-formats. Lonely Road Books is also publishing signed deluxe editions—limited and lettered—later this summer. (I imagine those were always planned, though, as Richard Chizmar, owner of Cemetery Dance, is part owner of Lonely Road; and they're always very pricey and very limited anyway, and cater to an extremely small group of collectors.) Plus, in May, there will be an audiobook and trade edition hardcover released by Simon & Schuster, with an album equivalent literary bonus track, "Morality," originally published on-line by Esquire last year.

So I want that version! Which means I'll probably sell this first pressing of Blockade Billy at some point. To make it more enticing for sale, I've purchased the slipcase—at $23.95, including S&H—that will ship sometime in the future. Add to that the original cost of the book and we're at a nickel under $56—for a book I can't read until May because I don't want to damage it. And then I'll pay even more money, likely bringing Billy's damage to about $70, probably more.

This is a selfish rant, I know, but I am happy everyone will now be able to read the story. I was just hoping limited, you know, meant limited.

I sigh.

My bank account weeps.

Days Of Madness: Week 5

2010-04-25T20:45:00.000-04:00

Despite not waking up at 6 A.M. at all this past week, I managed to write a lot. This tells me the habit to write every day is sinking its claws deep.

Here are the numbers:

Sunday: 1,102
Monday: 245
Tuesday: 333
Wednesday: 676
Thursday: 1,392
Friday: 1,494
Saturday: 0

Nothing for Saturday, unfortunately. I was on-call the night before until 4 A.M., then had to leave for work (I normally don't work Saturdays) at 9:30. So I was a bit drained.

Anyway, I can't leave "Goddamn Electric" alone. There's still too much telling, I think. So I continue to tweak it, which has been sort of enlightening as I watch the paragraphs grow from individual trees into a forest. I blame this habit of telling on my decade and a half of writing reviews, where telling is essential. It's a hard habit to break.

As such, work on "A Deeper Kind of Cold" was slow going. Everything is there; I just need to add a new coat of paint...you know, strengthen the light, deepen the dark. But first, I need to tackle and overcome these bad habits.

I've also started a new story. This one is a little different for me and I'm not sure where it's going to lead. Right now it's called "Ripples in Time," but I'm not sure if that'll stick. I'm not sure if the story's ready to come out, either, but I had to start it. We'll see...

PDS Friday: The Twelfth Altarboy Baby Beyond Space

2010-04-23T14:18:00.001-04:00

Stopped by Pandemonium Books last Friday before seeing a friends band, Dogs on Televsion, play a show at Club Bohemia, below the Cantab Lounge. (I wish I had a camera, too, because the opening band, Boston Blacklisted, was fronted by a dude that was like a weird out-of-tune lovechild between Iggy Pop and Jack Ketchum, and the bassist was channeling some serious Yoko Ono. A very bizarre but oddly rockin' performance, but I digress...) Pandemonium is a cool little shop, perfect for the geek that resides in all of us. I only spent about ten minutes there, but I managed to find two old science fiction anthologies that I'm pretty excited about.

Dean Koontz, as I mentioned last Friday, has published well over fifty short stories—and probably he's written countless more—though for most fans—myself included, until now—there have been just eleven of them available, in Strange Highways. Much of his short work was written very early in his career and, from what I've heard, is largely science fiction. And that's what we have here in Wondermakers 2, edited by Robert Hoskins.

As you can see by the image above, Dean was such an unknown at the time that his name along with just four others out of nineteen, including William F. Nolan, did not even grace the front cover. Crazy. Dean's story is called "The Twelfth Bed," and according to the quasi-bio before it, it was his favorite of all his short stories. It was originally published in 1968, in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, when Dean was but a wee lad of twenty-three.

"The Twelfth Bed" is a tale of sadness and hope, about the final days and months and years of the elderly in some far-off future. Essentially a futuristic look at a nursing home; this particular home being the Old Folks Without Supporting Children Home. Its residents, twelve to a sealed-off-from-society room, haven't much to look forward to. They're just waiting to die. That is, until Gabe Detrick shows up.

Gabe is too young to be in the home; he's there by way of some mix-up with his dying elderly neighbor. But the home is manned solely by robotnurses—there are no humans but for the patients and no way to contact the outside world if there arises a grievance, such as being twenty-seven and trapped in a temporary home for the soon to be dead. Despite his predicament, Gabe is something of a light in the dark for the dying patients—mediator, entertainer, confidant, friend. But eventually Gabe concocts a plan to escape the room, and things don't go quite as he'd planned.

I can understand why Dean called "The Twelfth Bed" his favorite. It's a fantastic little tale, one that shows glimpses of what would become Dean's signature dark-but-hopeful storytelling style. It's all in the final paragraph. I'm not sure why Dean refuses to publish more of his early work, but it's unfortunate any way you slice it, especially for the fans. You don't get to be a writer of Koontz's stature without having talent, and while his early work may not be up to his standards of today, there's no doubt it would bring pleasure to many a fan. And in the case of "The Twelfth Bed," that pleasure would be very justified.

I'm actually curious to know how he feels about it today, if still he considers it his favorite.

I read a few other stories in this anthology. Ward Moore's "Dominions Beyond" is an absurd tale of a ridiculously-named Englishman, Humphrey Howard Clarence Beachy-Cumberland, who accidentally becomes the first Man to land on Mars, unbeknown to all but Humphrey and the man who built the ship that propelled him to Mars at a million miles an hour. Humphrey comes right out of a Monty Python skit. He is greeted by an alien race of savage beings intent on killing him, but Humphrey's indignant, aristocratic personality catches the aliens off guard and they're not quite sure what to do with him. In the end, Humphrey helps create society, civilization, political systems, religion. And when the "first" manned mission to Mars lands some eighty-five years later, they're in for a fairly unexpected surprise.

See? Absurd! But "Dominions Beyond" is an extremely enjoyable—and very tongue-in-cheek—tale. Moore died in 1978, but I'd love to read more of his work.

Though one of the most prolific writers of science fiction, this was my first experience reading work by Isaac Asimov. His story, "Living Space," is about the greed and shortsightedness of Man. Far into the future, Earth's population has reached a trillion—far too many people to inhabit just one Earth. The solution is a simple one: With an infinite number of parallel Earths out there, people rent their own uninhabited Earth, like an apartment. Hundreds of billions of Earths, occupied by a single family.

This works, until Clarence Rimbo and his wife hear loud noises and rumblings on their planet. Rimbo complains that his planet is inhabited and pompously demands an investigation. During the investigation it is discovered that indeed Rimbo's planet does have visitors—Germans, in fact, from a parallel Earth where Nazi Germany conquered all. It is only then that the consequence of such encounters—with people from Earth and beyond—is pondered. But by then it may be too late.

The very end is a bit hokey, but despite that, "Living Space" is a great story.
—
Another early Dean Koontz story is found in Infinity Three, also edited by Robert Hoskins. This time, though it came out before Wondermakers 2, Dean's name made the front cover. His story, here, is "Altarboy."

"Altarboy" is rather political, about Consensus government. In this future, people are often required to vote, and in the instance of this book, for or against war. Those voting against are considered Dissenters, but luckily are given three chances to change their votes. These chances are of the persuasive type—mind control, essentially. Those that still vote against after three attempts are arrested as Dissenters and given a fourth, more invasive brain probe. Those that continue to vote against are considered incurable, Absolute Dissenters. They're then turned over to the Executioners.

Executioners are an elite group of citizens capable of stealing the immortal souls of beings and keeping them trapped within their own minds, a sort of purgatory. The souls are denied an afterlife so long as the Executioner lives. However, the protagonist Executioner in "Altarboy" is having problems containing one of his taken souls. To combat this, espers whisk him away to a time long past to steal the soul of a near-mad and suicidal American Nazi Party member (who, oddly, is named Weissner for a page or so, then becomes Weisserman). Weissner-Weisserman's soul is taken for the purpose of keeping the other souls within the Executioner in line. But Weissner-Weisserman isn't interested in just controlling souls; having his own soul ripped from his body has pushed him over the edge and into the depths of insanity, and his brand of insanity demands more.

"Altarboy" is a decent story, but strangely mistitled. An altarboy is one that removes the corpse of the soul-taken; they're mentioned one time, in a single short line ("Special altarboys removed the corpses on gravity sledges"), and are entirely inconsequential to the story. Unless I'm missing something. The prose is a bit flowery at times, especially when Dean is describing how the souls react within the Executioner's mind, but when it works it's solid Koontz all the way. Probably not the best example of his early work, but the concept is good enough that I'm surprised he never reworked it. Possibly it's too political.
—
Jeremy C. Shipp has one hell of an imagination. Sheep and Wolves is his first collection of short fiction, and if you like it bizarre, then look no farther. Bizarro fiction is not my favorite kind of fiction, but I can appreciate the beauty of it even if, maybe, I can't figure out what the hell a story is about.

"Baby Edward" is one such story.

Shipp is a fantastic writer; let's get that right out of the way. The man can write! But it is strange. "Baby Edward" is about Ed, a man struggling with the demands of fatherhood—metaphorical or literal? is the question—and a baby's hunger to be fed, even if its on those Ed loves, or at least needs, maybe a mother-figure. For me, the story is about a man reconciling his years of anger borne from a childhood he's been trying to keep locked away.

Then again, this is Bizarro fiction, so it's probably about the Volkswagen Bus declining in popularity due to pervasive breast-feeding in public. But it was a damn good read. Highly recommended.