two new anthologies

I am very very very pleased to announce two new anthologies featuring some of my short fiction.

*

First we have: STRANGE SEX 2: THE SECOND CUMMING from Strangehouse Books.

SS2

Click HERE to buy the kindle version (paperback CUMMING soon).

Here’s the sexy table of contents:

Tiffany Scandal – FLAT LIKE KEN
John Bruni – ZERO RECALL
MP Johnson – GROUPIE
Kristen M. Tepe – PROJECT 628
Daniel Vlasaty – THE SEX BUS IS ALWAYS THE RIGHT BUS
Garrett Cook – RAPECOPTERS
Gabino Iglesias – MANDINGO PARTY MASSACRE
Brian Williams – N.A.D.S.
Gregor Cole – CAVALCADES OF CADAVERS
William Tea – RULE 34
Rich Bottles Jr. – PINKFISH
Kevin Strange – HOLEY MATRIMONY

and here’s a link to the video chat all the STRANGE SEX 2 authors did a few weeks ago (viewer beware: there is much penis talk here):
STRANGE THE WORLD EPISODE 6: STRANGE SEX 2

*

Next we have: THE BIZARRO ZOMBIE ANTHOLOGY THAT WOULDN’T DIE! from Dynatox Ministries.

zombies

Click HERE to pre-order this SPECTACULAR book (it will be shipping in September).

Featuring stories by:

Dustin Reade
Garrett Cook
Shane Cartledge
Gabino Iglesias
Wol-viey
Kirk Jones
R.A. Harris
Jimmy Pudge
Lee Widener
William Pauley III
Michael Faun
Daniel Vlasaty 
Ash Lomen
Jetavia Jones
Matthew Vaughn

Advertisements

another excerpt from AMPHETAMINE PSYCHOSIS

I am currently working on editing my non-fiction/poetry collection called AMPHETAMINE PSYCHOSIS, trying to meet a self-imposed deadline.

Here’s another excerpt.

*

The stars above me become airplanes flying through the dark. Everything is moving. And if I try hard enough it’s like I can feel the rotation of the planet beneath me. Like I can feel myself moving through space.

I can feel the whole planet.

And the airplanes are flying above me. Flashing their red and blue lights. And the stars are not hidden by clouds.

It’s three in the morning and I’m pacing along the lake. Lake Michigan. The beach closed hours and hours ago. It’s the same beach we used to come to when we first moved to the city. With a case of beer and a water bottle full of vodka. And some friends. And we’d have a fire, until the police came to kick us out. This beach. It’s quiet and lonely now. Not like it used to be.

I am alone on the beach.

I bury my feet in the cold sand and just listen. There’s nothing but the water lapping against the shore and the beating of my heart. That irregular thud against my hollow bones.

The lake is a black pit in the darkness. There is nothing alive out here. And it’s too quiet for such a populated city. How could it ever be this quiet?

I dig around in the sand. Feel it clump up against my sweaty skin. I think about sandcastles. About how I never remember building one. Ever. Growing up on the south side of Chicago, we didn’t make it to the beach often. Even though it was so close. We didn’t make it out of the neighborhood as much as we probably should have.

A dog barks somewhere and I think about walking out into the black waters. I think about walking forever. I think about walking out to the middle of the lake and letting my body sink hundreds and hundreds of feet to the bottom.

I think about letting myself drown out in the middle of Lake Michigan. I think about dying in a place where no one will ever find me. And I can truly be free. Alone for all eternity.

I think about holding my breath until I am able to breath under water. And that way I’ll never have to come back to this place.

But I don’t do any of that. I just fall back into the sand and look up at the stars and the airplanes and the birds flying there. And I dry-swallow another pill and listen to the sound of my heartbeat and the lapping of the lake against the shore until it all becomes the same thing.

And I watch the night become day again. And I hear the city wake up around me.

Excerpt from AMPHETAMINE PSYCHOSIS

The small pile of yellow powder is a mountain. Right there on the coffee table in front of me. An entire bottle crushed to dust. The small mom-and-pop pharmacy by our new apartment worked fine. Or maybe my prescription forging skills are just improving. Maybe I’m just that good.

Maybe they’ll make a movie of me someday. Of my forging prescriptions and drug abuse and life in prison. My life of crime. My life at the bottom.

Maybe I’ll get clean and write that movie.

Maybe someone will actually want to watch it. But probably not. Because there are already a million movies like that. A million life stories that aren’t worth shit to anyone. Not even the person living it.

No one will want to watch it because who the fuck am I?

I’m just a person with a mountain of yellow powder on the coffee table in front of me. I’m just a person with nothing to do and nowhere to be for the foreseeable future. I’m just a man about to snort my weight in crushed pills.

I’m just a man that’s going to get to the moon, one way or another.

By the time my yellow mountain is gone I will have seen my own death a million times. I will have replayed my life over and over again. I will have rewrote my history until my past was something more big-screen worthy.

By the time I am finished here my heart will have stopped beating more times than should be possible. And I will take a deep breath and hold it in until the sun replaces the moon in the sky.

By the time my drugs are gone there will be nothing left but to sleep.

a poem

THE DEFINITION OF CERTAIN WORDS

I’ve met people that could never be real. Because if they were real the world would make less sense than it already does. For some people to live others must die. One in one out. Like that. No one stays too long and everyone is happy.

People haven’t been happy in so long that the idea of “happy” might not be real at all. Like “happy” is a made up thing, in the way that Jesus and Santa are also made up. Not real but believed in. You can’t be happy if you don’t understand the meaning of the definition.

All language is a lie. And people are the worst liars ever. Some of them. Probably all of them.

Nothing good has ever happened to a human being.

Nothing good has ever happened to a human being that wasn’t almost immediately overshadowed by the fact that they will soon be dead. That everyone dies and no one is any more special than anyone else.

Nothing good has ever happened to a human being that didn’t make it seem like they were cheating in some way. Like they found a way to be better than everyone else.

Nothing good has ever happened to a human being that wasn’t made up. That human beings are more pretend than anything else.

Nothing good has ever happened to a human being because what is “good” when you know sometime soon you might be dead. That you can live your whole life and be good and happy and that you will still die in the end.