COMING SOON- FOSSIL LAKE ANTHOLOGY

I am very pleased to announce that my story poem "The Rack" is going to be featured in an upcoming anthology that is going to be called "Fossil Lake." Just one of the things that is so exciting is that I will get to be in an anthology alongside the legendary Ramsey Campbell. I also look forward to reading the other writers as well. More details will follow as they are made available. The book is being published by Daverana Enterprises in 2014. Here is a look at the cover and table of contents.

 “A Letter from the Lake” – Ramsey Campbell
“Eat Yourself” – Michael Shimek
“The Varmint of Fossil Valley” -- Lewis Unknown
“Road Kill Angel” -- Dana Wright
“Silver Screen Shadows” -- Mathias Jansson
“C-C-Cold” – Ken Goldman
“What’s Your Beef?” – Mark Orr
“Alchera” -- D.J. Tyrer
“The Dank” -- Doug Blakeslee
“Dark of Madness” -- Tanya Nehmelman
“All That Jazz” -- Maegan Hightower
“Revolver Concert” – Spencer Carvalho
“Thick” -- Melanie-Jo Lee
“Ziggurat of Skulls” -- Joshua Dobson
“Apartment B” -- Stinky Cat
“Pretty Girl” – Deb Eskie
“Come Fly With Death” -- Wesley D. Gray
“The Horn of Plenty” -- Russel Nayle
“The Lost Link” -- Carl Thomas Fox
“Nat Poopcone vs. the Beast of Fossil Lake” -- Jerrod Balzer
“Where Lost Ones Dwell” -- Tony Flynn
“Lana Doesn’t Get Lucky” -- Kerry Lipp and Emily Meier
“Gothicism on Trial” – G. Preacher
“Finding Miss Fossie” -- Melany Van Every
“Arkham Arts Review: Alienation” – Peter Rawlik
“Mishipishu” -- Mary Pletsch
“Malicious Intimacy” -- William Andre Sanders
“Beneath” – Michael Burnside
“Passionate in Chicago” -- John Goodrich
“Mr. Winter” -- Jeremy Terry
“Impressions” -- Christine Morgan
“Make Me Something Scary” – Patrick Tumblety
“The Depths” – Stacey Turner
“The Day Lloyd Campbell’s Mama Came to Town” -- Scott Colbert
“The Rack” – Mike Meroney
“Beautiful” – John Claude Smith
“The Last Revelation of Gla’aki, an Excerpt” – Ramsey Campbell

THE WRITER

I am a writer-

I am human first-

but writer second-

though sometimes the two do get mixed up.

I have been known from time to time to question my humanity-

but no matter what side of the bed I woke up on today-

I wake up folded in the arms of one constant truth-

I am a writer.

I can write poetry that will make you swoon-

I can even make you fall in love with me

or somebody else-

without even opening my mouth

or reaching inside of my wallet-

I can paint a picture made of dreams-

you and me-

we're like two peas in a pod-

we can climb a mountain

or reach out for the stars-

we might even touch them

or maybe we'll go to the moon-

just put your two lips together

and whistle-

you don't have to pray-

just have a little faith

because I got it like that-

I'm a writer, see.

You stand next to me

and we can do it all-

sky high

or mountain tall-

just don't piss me off

and make me kill you-

I don't even have to have a reason

for I am a writer and it's in my nature to make somebody die

It's how I roll

and should I choose the avenue on which you're standing around

taking up space and doing nothing but wasting air and concrete

you best believe that I am going to roll right over and flatten your ass like a pancake

oooooh, pancakes-

is it breakfast time?

Is it break time?

Of course-

that's all life really is-

break time-

you're either breaking time-

or time's breaking you.

Every day people break their backs-

only to be stabbed there by the hands of the grim reaper-

that's why we all have to make our mark-

before we get marked-

Me?

I write.

Writing can be many things-

It can be therapy-

It can be joy-

It can be sweeter than a pair of sugar tits filled with high fructose corn syrup-

but something that many people do not realize

is that writing is work-

these tend to be people who can't read-
or write-
or both.

Fuck them.

The world needs less of these types anyway.

Writing is work-

whether you're writing about the Gettysburg address

or a blood stain left on the dress of the woman you loved so much that it made you put a steak knife through her neck-

It's all work-

and even that blood stain comes out in the wash- 

because no matter how many times you find yourself stabbing that woman in the crimson coated dress-

it's only on the page-

and in your head-

so be rest assured those blood stains will never end up on the floor.

Not if you are a writer-

like me.

Maybe you are simple-

and what could be more simple than composing an ode to tater tots?

If that is what you were born to write-

then you were born, right?

You're here-

so write.

Note to my own self that I wish to throw in a copyer and give to every single person who has ever written-

You are a writer.

Yes, writing is work-

it's working the heart-
mind-
soul-
and fingers all at once.

Sometimes writers break their backs-

and maybe even find themselves pierced by the sharpened boney fingers of that grim reaper guy.

But a writer never dies.

We live-

we write-

and then-

we go on living-

for forever.

THE STORY OF ANA AND MIA

Once upon a time there was a girl named Ana.

Some fancied her a pretty girl if she cleaned up real good. Kind of ordinary.

But do-able enough by the standards of a male society that thinks with the little head and never the big head and would probably have sex with a hole in the wall if it had lipstick around it.

Ana was sad despite all these horny men who simply wanted to jump her bone bones.

You see, nobody had ever shown her love.

She was a flower.  A beautiful petal that would blow ever so slightly in the wind but never truly bloom in the rays of the sunlight that seemed to shine its rays of purity upon the other flowers. Or some shit like that.

Ana felt dirty.  She felt ugly.  Maybe it was because she was ugly.  But this is not sleeping beauty damnit so fuck off.

Ana tried so hard to get anybody to love her but all the boys did was call her fat. Never mind the fact that Ana weighed in at negative fifteen on the scale.

Across town there lived a fair maiden named Mia. An iron maiden because she had been hit by a bus once and had a plate in her head.

On her way home from breakdance class Ana stopped to smell the rose garden.

Being so close to the city all she could smell was cheesesteak and feces from all the subshops and homeless people who liked to poop in the streets. But Ana would always stop to smell the roses because the true beauty of life is smelling the roses. Even if all you can smell is hot melted cheesesteak and freshly expelled human waste.

She bent down on one knee and began to breath in the stench of rose petals when she was greeted with a familiar scent. Curly fries.

The smell drifted through the waves in the air and washed itself up into the pothole on her face that was Ana's big ass nose.

She looked around and saw a girl sitting underneath a coconut tree. Please ignore the fact that there are no coconut trees in the city.

Ana smiled and ran over.

"What's your name?" She asked in a bubbly tone because the smell of curly fries makes all the girls extra bubbly as they float to the yard.

"My name is Mia." Came the response after deep throating one particularly enormous curled tater treat.

"Those curly fries sure do smell good," Ana could not help licking her lips, that were crusted from all the grease and fecal matter on the wind, as she spoke.

"Would you like some?" Mia asked, holding out the last remaining fries.

"No thank you. I can not eat them," She replied, her tone infested with sadness and regret.

"Why?"

"I'm trying to be beautiful."

"But you are beautiful. Besides, what the fuck? . . . . Do you weigh negative fifteen pounds or something?"

"How did you know?!" Ana exclaimed with shock.

"I have a plate in my head. I'm psychic. I can also pick up the radio and cable tv signals from 14 major cities in the US."

"Wow. That must be noisy."

Mia finished the last of the curly fries and jumped up from the ground.

"Hold on a minute. I gotta toss my cookies."

Ana gasped in horror as Mia went behind the coconut tree that wasn't supposed to be there and she heard really loud gagging and gurgling sounds.

"Why do you toss your cookies? I love cookies. I just can not eat them because I'm too fat."

Mia wiped the saliva and remnants of tossed cookies from her lips and stood back up.

"I'm fat too. I want to be thin. No wait . . . . Scratch that. I have to be thin. No! Wait . . . . . What I mean to say is. . ."-

Mia held up her left hand and spoke clearly and sternly.

-". . . . I will be thin. I will be thin. I will be thin."

Ana looked confused.

"Why do you say it like that?"

Mia laughed.

"You have to say it three times or it won't come true. Didn't you ever see Beetlejuice you dumb bitch?"

"No. I don't like scary movies."

"I saw it on my plate one night. You should see it."

Ana looked sad.

"Well I'm gonna go. Maybe I'll see you here tomorrow."

"Okay. Yeah. Totally."

Ana went home to the small studio apartment that she lived in that was above an Indian restaurant. She really did like the smell of all that curry, even if all she could eat three days a week was a small piece of tandoori bread dipped in toilet water. Today was not one of the days she was allowed to gorge. So that night Ana laid wrapped in her filthy bed sheet on the floor and dreamed there were curly fries in her toilet bowl.

The next day Ana went to breakdancing class and did some amazing pop and lock moves with her waifish frame in hopes that some of the B boys would dig on her mad skills and flavor.

One boy in particular had caught Ana's eye. He was an uptown stud puppet with a sexy ass named Tron.

Ana wanted to squeeze Tron on his sexy ass. But Tron was gay. Besides Ana was ugly and looked freakish to Tron because she only weighed negative fifteen pounds.

Ana left breakdancing class feeling sad because she would never get to do robot sex moves with B boy Tron.

She walked down the street and all she could smell was poo and no cheesesteak. She knew that she was on Flatbrush Avenue because the name on the street sign said so.

Ana perked up with excitement because she got an idea and she knew what she must do.

She ran down the street yelling and screaming. Everybody gawked at her because she was running so fast, and she was so light in the air, that people thought that maybe she would blow away in the wind. Besides she was really loud and annoying yelling like a retard during recess.

After she went to where she wanted to go she raced to the coconut tree that wasn't supposed to be there in hopes that Mia would be there today.

She smiled at the sight of Mia sitting on the ground eating a bag of chocolate covered pretzels.

She ran up to Mia and began to jump up and down with joy.

"I brought you a present."

Mia looked up with curiosity and a chocolate ring around her mouth that really looked a whole lot like poop.

"Oh yeah?"

Ana reached into a bag and pulled out a handful of cookies.

"I figured that if you needed to toss your cookies I would bake you some special cookies and you could toss them just for me. "

"Dude that is really sweet. Thank you."

Ana thought Mia looked impressed and she was kind of cute for a waifish cookie tossing bitchwhore.

Mia gobbled up all the cookies and then held up her finger.

"Hold up a minute will ya?"

She stepped behind the coconut tree that wasn't supposed to be there and heaved up a river of sugar coated, vomity goodness.

After she wiped the sparkly drippings from her mouth she looked over at Ana and smiled.

"I read your mind with my dish. You are pretty cute too you know. Why don't you come over here and gimme a kiss?"

Ana and Mia both laid down in the comfort of the shade and made out with each other.

Ana found love. Mia had an endless supply of cookies to toss-

And they both lived together in peace and harmony-

As lesbian waifers.




***This is the first in a series of Ana and Mia stories that I posted on an old blog page. Original posting date was  6/9/2010***

I WANNA STICK MY DICK IN YOUR AVATAR

The internet is like a fairy tale.

It's the land of make believe, bitch.

Where anything can happen and usually does.

Here on the internet, even complete losers and freaks of the literal kind can log into any social refuge and instantly be as beautiful as they have always wished that they could be in their brilliant minds and fat, stupid hearts.

As internet controversies go important things like who you laid out your douche chips for in the drag queen race or the identity of your favorite tag team midget wrestling duo often times get pushed aside for the most important issue at hand on the internet. What all of us motherfuckers look like.

We all want to be beautiful. In our own minds some of us are. But when we schlep down the street to the tune of giggles and vomit hitting the sidewalks many of us can only dream of being beautiful. That is, until we get a computer.

 Even myself.

Who cares if my lips are moving or in this case fingers tapping? All that matters is my face. The coolest thing though about the internet is that it doesn't even have to be my face. I can just cruise google images and find some hot young thing of varying gender and then in my about me section state that "this was me during my crispy beef cake (or beef curtain) phase" and the views will start piling up like Auschwitz. It won't even matter that I am sitting here in my underwear, bloated from not having taken my morning shit, and drinking my coffee in one hand while rubbing a gummi bear on the rim of my anus for that extra zing with the other. I am beautiful hear me roar.

If you are trying to be popular it would make perfect sense to choose a super model as your avatar. After all, if you are trying to post blogs and wish to be recognized how are you possibly going to get what is rightfully deserved unless people fantasize about shoving their fists or their heads into your ass cavity because they have always wanted to lose themselves in beauty? Using your brain and saying anything clever or unique or funny is for ugly people and if you are ugly, no matter how deep or thought provoking you are, unless people want to fuck you for some reason then you might as well be a mute because you have the cultural relevance of a shit stain.

I think everybody should use super model head shots (or ass shots to be more fitting in some cases) for their avatar. We should all change our avatars. Why show our real faces if we are ugly? Think about when you are standing in an elevator and an attractive person sneezes. If you say "bless you" . . . . Did you know that unless you too are attractive this person despises you? Who the hell wants to be blessed by an ugly person? Even if they were caught off guard and didn't have kleenex handy and you offered up clothing or hair for them to wipe their snot on they are still looking down on you because in this case they are thinking "why couldn't I have had a hot person allow me to wipe my snot on them?"

If you wish to be a number one blogger and regularly penetrate the putrescence that is the buzzing posts daily with your knowledge and soul please know that you are going to have to have an avatar that looks like it was lifted from the Sears catalog circa 1984. Lots of smiles. Hair blowing in the wind, suggesting that it might even be giving you a reacharound with that so fresh feeling. But please, no nudity. Blogging sites are a family establishment that should remain decent. Real. But not too real. Clothing upon the body to go right along with the closed for business sign of the mind and free parking sign that snuggles inside of the grassy knoll of one's ego.

To promote just the right amount of realness on this site we should all be forced to have beautiful avatars. That is how we all wish our world to be. Beautiful. Real beautiful. It's like dancing on clouds, with maps of the stars homes hanging out of our pockets. A twinkle between our legs because we no longer have pubic hair or gristle showing between our teeth. It's a many splendored thing this internet. Just like love. That is why we all love each other so much here. Because the internet and love . . . . They are one in the same. It's like having a piece of pea cobbler and washing it down with spiced butt rum. Brought tears to my eyes just typing that.

So let's all make love and make history in the process. Let's all be beautiful. If we are all going to touch each other and love each other, like we are having ourselves a cyber orgy, then we damn well should all be beautiful. After all, who wants to see ugly people touching each other? That is just wrong and it only leads to uglier babies, which is an entirely different blog.

***Original post date 9/28/2011***

DEPRESSION AND THE INTERNET DO NOT MIX

The internet and depression simply do not make good bedfellows. By internet I am referring largely to the network of lost souls who wish to rub elbows or pinch bosoms in the cyber court of chatroom and blog site settings.

It's one thing to go online and seek casual acquaintance, like giving or receiving a shout out here and there. Maybe reading something that speaks to you and speaking back in your own thoughts on the matter at hand. Even posting something that speaks to others and engaging in civilized banter. Whatever works for you, provided you comprehend the value and placement that such actions have in your day to day life. Of course, it IS the internet and if this is ALL that you have in your life you might wish to rethink your existence strategy. If you are so lost and deep in a pool of mire that you find yourself sinking deeper and deeper and thus eventually losing touch with the outside world and only able to function in an online capacity, well then this is just not healthy and it it is not going to benefit you or anyone else that you shall cross paths with.

The perpetually damaged have a tendency for not only seeking out but as well latching onto the perpetually damaged themselves. After all, it does takes one to know one. Sure there are people who have become jaded and frustrated with the reality of their surroundings and are looking for ways to pass the time. Porn sites. Fantasy football. Mah jong. That sort of shit. Me personally, I log in each day because I have to do so in order to write. Lots of people spend all day or night online admiring the architecture of genitalia or playing some mind numbing video game or buying baskets from Baskets 'R' Us. Not my thang at all. But hey, we all got our "thangs."

From my own personal experience, and theories derived from conversations with friends over the years, it is my belief that when somebody spends much of their time on the computer they are lacking something in real life and in turn searching for something online to fill that void. Looking at stuff.... doing stuff.... whatever. Reasons and thangs unique to the individual. But those who house the biggest voids are usually harvested of emotional glitches or social malfunctions and so the first thing these types wind up doing is seeking out others who are equally as glitch ridden and malformed. For those without friend or family to physically lean on or wrap their arms around when they need to be hugged and assured of their worth it might seem like a good idea to go online and find yourself some able ears and arms. Then again, maybe it also seemed like a great idea to share that picture of your cock that you took on your dick2phone with that new girl at the office you think is cute because after all, you did find her cell phone number while casing the employee directory. She must like you, right?

The only way that someone who is drowning is ever going to be able to break free of the vortex pulling them down and breathe in the fumes of restoration is to get out there and in fact breathe in the air. Looking at a picture of Elysian Fields on the internet doesn't count. The internet can be your friend if you let it. But it can also strangle your will to live and suck you dry while you are laying in a pool of self-doubt. The only way that someone who falls under this description can indeed be helped is to know when to turn their computers on and off. Chat rooms and blog sites tend to collect troubled souls. Troubled souls need wide open spaces and human contact. They might not always want these things. But they sure do need them.

Becoming lost in a make believe world such as the internet is no different than drowning ones sorrows in drink. It might seem like it's helping for a little while. Ultimately the course has been set for total destruction and should you not recognize before it's too late then you pretty much have taken something as precious and boundless as the gift of life and pissed it away to sit around stewing in your own misery and dirty underwear, all while talking to a bunch of other miserable fuckheads sitting around in their dirty underwear.

Depression is evil. Believe me, I am well aware on levels that tower over pavements both cracked and littered with debris. I always loathe to say "Been there done that" but well.... you see, I have and I have. The most important thing there is to know about someone with depression is this... inside of that empty shell of a soul they have.... those who cry out incessantly, or just plain cry at all the wrong moments, really do want help. Maybe this hand of theirs is buried underneath a pile of dirty clothes or crawling on the bottom of an ocean of their own bodily fluids. But that hand is there. Somewhere. The make up of some is so disintegrated that maybe their arms have fallen off. But that arm was there and in its place now might only be a stump that occasionally will take to flapping in the wind, sight unseen.

Those with depression know they need help. Face it, if they didn't they would already have fallen off from the edges of their flattened universe. Maybe they don't know how to ask. Maybe they do know but can't speak loud enough over the static and shuffle. Maybe there is another voice altogether in their head that forbids them to speak out of turn. But make no mistake about it.... these people need help and somewhere deep down inside they know it and want it. A lot of people spend their days asking themselves "How?" How can I help someone who feels like their self-worth rivals a piece of manure freshly dropped into the turd bowl? It might seem complex when you look at them from across the street and maybe even while you are standing there holding hands with them in the elevator so they don't have a panic attack while moving on up the shaft to the sky box. But many of lifes complexities are often times quite simple. Obviously circumstances and resolutions vary. But once again, this coming from my own and those of close enough proximity over time.... we want attention. Different strokes for different folks. But attention is the most rational course of action here. After all, the chances of someone jumping in front of a bus while you are delving in conversation are highly unlikely. Maybe in extreme cases not altogether improbable. None the less.... highly unlikely.

I have never agreed with therapy or being medicated for your sanity. I mean, I once knew a girl who said to me "If it weren't for the medication I am on I would kill myself." Certainly if the situation requires drastic measures to prevent ones harming of themselves, or others, than whatever is necessary shall indeed be deemed so. Still doesn't mean that I have to agree with it though.

The effects of medication are an illusion and will eventually wear off. This only leaves two options, even for the most inquisitive and creative pill popper. You either take another pill and be happily plastic.... or you don't.... and then you go and kill yourself or someone else. This doesn't seem like any proper way to live ones life. It could even be argued this is not even much of a life at all. Who knows? Maybe someone in such a state should just kill themselves and hope they come back as a bird or whatever warped shit these people tell themselves daily to justify or keep in check their ever present rattling demeanor and its possibly grave consequences.

As for therapy.... well, I would say don't get me started here.... but this being a blog.... my blog in fact.... fuck it. I am going to start it and end it right here and right now. I think the concept of therapy is bullshit. It's like someone else telling you to just clench up your muscles and not piss yourself. It might work. It might not. Regardless of the outcome you are going to fork out your paycheck just to keep from having to stand in front of or sit on a toilet like everybody else and once that prick who sits there and chews pens while you drone on and on about your misinterpreted feelings and noxious childhood tells you that your time is up he is going to drive to his mansion in a Lexus while getting head from a Lindsay Lohan-a-like and giving her a pearl necklace bought and paid for by your inability to cope. There are lots of things way cheaper and far more effective in my opinion to help cuddle ones sanity. Masterbaition and coffee being only two of them.

Another problem that I have with therapy is that it's all books and no experience. I don't care what you or anybody else says, but if you build a house solely based on an instruction manual the motherfucker is going to fall apart well before the house built by the person who is either a carpenter by experience or trade. Many of the people who counsel manic depressives and recovering drug addicts are people who skip to work every day and whose only drug of choice has ever and always will be smoking a pack of Salem ultra lights. Sorry folks, if I am wanting to be lectured on why I shouldn't blow my brains out or smoke another crack rock I would rather have somebody who still has scars and that smoldering fire in their eye from being in the burning building of life's inferno than some dick weed who learned all he needed to know from seeing a movie of the week where Michael J. Fox rode his moped by a crack house and is stirring in his seat while I pour out my soul because he wants to get outside and smoke a stoagie.

I have never studied or so much as read a single book on depression and yet I feel paramount in my confidence of not only diagnosing a pre-existing condition but taking it outside and beating the shit out of it. At the very least, talking it down from a ledge. How can I say this? It takes one to know one, motherfucker. So there.

The internet can be your friend. Sure it can. But friends can stab you in the back or in the front, depending on where you are standing in the elevator heading towards that sky box. Think about this as well.... the internet has killed everything that was way fucking cool and worth remembering from the past. Art being the most obvious victim here.

The mass downloading of music and movies has not only made artists sit on their creative thumbs and churn out mindless tripe in efforts to scramble crowds into empty theaters and concert venues but it's flat out taken the soul away from the whole concept of art because nobody on either side of the screen, the stereo or the stage, even gives a shit anymore. It's all just lather-rinse-repeat. Serve your servant and they will get paid while you eat beans and rice from a can. Yay. Wow.

The internet has killed businesses and dreams because who wants to bother opening a store and actually connecting with their customer base when you can just go on Sleazebay or Glamamazon and buy the same thing or scores of imitation products that are "liked" on Fuckbook by non-experts worldwide?

The internet has taken jobs away from real people who spend their lives working towards achieving something they might actually care about and believe in because after all, who the fuck wants to pay an actual person to do something when you can just hit a few buttons and be more cost effective? In staying with the concepts of how both art and humanity has suffered.... look at CGI. Remember when movies had cool as hell special FX? Now, instead of employing an FX crew, and handing out countless job opportunities, studios will just have some Star Trek nerd in a whacking coat write up a program and BAM! Movie magic. All the eager employees forced to learn the vulcan handshake and buy whacking coats aside, I happen to think that CGI sucks my swampy asshole because it's unrealistic to the nines. If I wanted to play a video game I would simply go online and play one. Certainly wouldn't go into an arcade now, would I?

Sure, the internet has its strengths. Even in a chat room or a blog site, it's a hell of a lot easier to ignore someone than if they were breathing onion breath on you and fogging up your glasses. But the internet comes with a price. It has killed everything under the sun and anything that it hasn't killed will soon be crossed out on the hit list. So yeah, you think that it's a good idea to take something as limitless and lethal as the be all fuck all of society as we know it and put it in the hands of a bunch of people who have trouble even raising their heads from a pillow in the morning?

The mind can be a terrible thing. But it can also be glorious and reap much bounty. The only way to achieve such bounty is to look in the mirror and like what you see and go from there. Once this can be done, then and only then can you and should you interact with the real world. Not the fake world we see on a computer screen and not the cruel world we see on the television screen. Real life with real people who really do care and will actually stand there and listen to you and if you still feel like you need a hug all you have to do is ask them and before you know it.... you will actually feel arms around you.... and THAT is priceless.

***Original blog post date 9/10/2011***