short fiction round up

I’m editing a bunch of new stories and sending them out. Worrying about them seems to be the best way to forget about the fact that my novel ain’t done yet.

Where do you go for online short stories?

I believe…

in any motherfucker who plays an organ with a chair.

That is rock n’ roll.

Long live Hasil Adkins.

Tomorrow | Powder Burn Flash

My new story “Tomorrow” is up over at Powder Burn Flash. Check it out here.

Tornado Season’s Greetings

We had a close call a few days ago. Lots of thunder, plenty of lightning, even some goddamn strong wind, but none of the twisting stuff.

You never really understand the approach of death like you do in the moments before a thunderstorm. The clouds. The threat of something coming like a freight train. Something heavy and powerful that you can’t control.

That’s the good stuff.

If you’re on Twitter, I’ve joined. If you can explain why the hell anybody would be on Twitter that’d be great.

New story up

The new Plots with Guns is up, and with it, my short story Mikey’s Old Man.

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Stacking the Row

Merry Christmas. I hope the Mall brought you all the presents you craved.

I spent the morning thinking about a game my crazy-as-a-two-legged-fish cousin Walter taught me one Christmas when we were both too young to know better. He called it Stacking the Row, in hindsight a better name might have been How To Kill Yourself as a Dumbshit 8 Year Old.

With that introduction, I bet you’re in a hurry to play. Fair enough. Here’s what you’ll need.

(1) a short length of 2×4
(2) three piles of leaves
(3) three kids who feel invincible or are dumb enough to pretend. The roles are Swinger, Checker, Jumper.

It goes like this.

Wait until dark. Build three piles of leaves. One kid crawls into a pile with the 2×4 (Swinger). The other two kids have their backs to the piles. After thirty seconds the Checker verifies that the Jumper has no idea which pile the Swinger is in. The Jumper then runs toward a pile of leaves of his choosing and either (a) successfully jumps over it, or if he picks the wrong pile, (b) gets clubbed with a 2×4 in mid-jump. If he clears the pile without getting hit, he switches positions with the Checker. If neither boy gets hit, the process happens again. If one of the boys gets hit, they become the new Swinger.

I swear to God it’s a miracle that any of us are still alive.

I don’t have cause to talk to Walter any more, last I knew he was selling cars in Modesto, CA. My mother tells me that he took up with a woman who already had a dozen kids (an exageration, but she already had a Brady Bunch of her own). I sometimes wonder if that crazy sonofabitch passed that game on to the kids.

Here’s to you Walter, you crazy sonofabitch–Merry Christmas.

Good News with Guns

I got some great news today when Anthony Neil Smith from PLOTS WITH GUNS let me know that my short story “Mikey’s Old Man” was accepted for the February issue. For those of you unfamiliar with PWG, they’ve published stories by some of the biggest names in crime fiction including: Ian Rankin, Ken Bruen, and Laura Lippman.

For those of you who want a little taste, here’s the first paragraph:

When Mikey’s old man got back from Vietnam he spent the first week hanging around the meat plant looking for work, drinking in the Oscar Mayer parking lot, and then once he was hired, screwing the lady who had kinda/sorta waited for him while he’d been shooting motherfuckers in southeast Asia.

The Idea Factory

I spent most of last weekend working on the book. This is the third year in a row that I’ve cut out of work for a few months. You know, that’s the plan at least, I’ll have to keep an eye on my 401K.

That’s a joke, motherfucker. I don’t have a 401K.

About a year ago I got an idea for the book I’m writing now. I’d read an article online about some crazy sonofabitch who murdered his wife and ran off with her daughter (his stepdaughter). The cops didn’t know if the girl went willingly or if she was kidnapped, but when they caught up to the guy and went to arrest him, she came out of the apartment they’d moved into and started swinging–I’m not making this shit up–some big ass samurai sword. Cops being cops, they shot her before she got too far into the routine.

But our lovebirds don’t end there. While the cops run over to her, to secure her or whatever (watch her die?), the guy gets out the gun he’s been holding in his pants and takes himself out. Right there on the front yard. And they say Modern Love is dead.

After our Romeo & Juliet bled out and got the Bright Light, Loud Siren Limousine Service to the morgue, the cops went into the house. And what did they find? Glad you asked. They found the following:

(1) The original wife’s wedding ring, birth certificate, and drivers licence. The drivers licence had been opened, and the daughter’s picture inserted.

(2) A “substantial” supply of valium.

(3) Newspaper clippings of the mother’s death.

So I started scratching the ol’ temple, wondering what sort of stew I could make with something like that. Hell, there didn’t even have to be much embellishment. The original story is fucked up enough that nobody would believe you even if you showed them the documentary.

But that’s why we write.

Welcome to my blog

I didn’t think (and still don’t) that I need a blog, but with Victoria half way around the world, it’s been getting a bit tiresome holding all of my conversation with Bowie and the longhorn (sounds like the name of a blues band I caught in San Antonio in 1988). I’m too lazy and modest to get a proper website, so for now this will have to do.

If a tree falls…is basically what I think about this blog, but who knows. Anything to not be outside. Jesus Christ is it hotter than a blowtorch.

Over and out.