Groaning for Burial by Kenneth James Crist
/Are the good times really over for good?
Read MoreInformation on the new releases from Hekate Publishing.
Random book reviews of self-published works, and new releases from other independent publishers. Remembering old books which are still worth reading.
Are the good times really over for good?
Read MoreA collection of finger nail yanking Noir from the editor of Yellow Mama, Cindy Rosmus. Her tales meander in and around familiar streets and bars, passing the hometown walking dead, witches and trick or treaters, their bags loaded with razor blade filled apples. Her stories take root in that burned patch of ground where nightmare and waking life coexist, each lyrical and presented lovingly like an exquisite bouquet of dead flowers. The collection is illustrated by Coates Walker, the premier collagist of modern irony.
Read MoreIt’ll take a lot more then ancient allegory to get Jake through the ensuing odyssey of brutal murder, betrayal and extortion with only sadistic drug dealers, vicious Rottweilers, and a lot of generally annoying people to keep him company
Read More. He looked exactly like you’d imagine some tired old salesman to look with a vague twinkle in both eyes telling whoever answered the door here was a fella that liked people.
Read MoreHe takes stock in plain language, defining himself, his context and his shadow, all illuminated in flickering neon.
Read MoreUnfortunately for him, this day turned out to be mine . . .
Read MoreTennessee Williams was born Thomas Lanier Williams III. His father, Cornelius Coffin Williams (1879-1975), was a hard-drinking travelling shoe salesman who spent much of his time away from his home and family. His mother, Edwina (Dakin) Williams (1884-1980), was an archetypal “Southern belle” with social aspirations that descended into snobbery and behavior that was neurotic and hysterical.
Read More. . . . Rudraksha wriggled his right hand inward, in the direction of the voice, needing to be certain the gun rested on the ground directly underneath Jairaj’s head. . .
Read More. . . Such large virtue lurks in these small things when extreme political superstitions invest them, that in some royal instances even to idiot imbecility they have imparted potency. . .
Read MoreAmerican author Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote a sci fi novel in 1913 called The NO. 13, later titled The Man Who Lost His Soul, finally re-titled,The Monster Men. Burroughs, who also penned Tarzan—King of The Apes, had no idea what a festering mindset wound he hatched in those Victorian days. Tarzan and King Kong, for me, are the same monster. The thinly-veiled stories of white supremacy over the savage beast. In other words any color that ain’t white.
Read MoreHe had extensively reviewed the literature of decapitation and the guillotine, and in doing so learned the brain used oxygen inside the head for a few seconds more, after supply from the heart had been severed; and in so doing, generated electrical signals.
Read MoreDo you want to make a thousand dollars a day as a writer?
Read MoreCovers and pseudonyms by Coates Walker
Read MoreWhat happens to a man who spends too much time in Dataland. . .
Read MoreIt doesn’t matter what the hell you write, so long as it sells.
Read MoreIntersection Operator, a dystopian ghost story, by J. Jupes.
Read More“What made Eckerly and I compatible? We weren’t nice people, for one, both cowards, emotional abuser types riddled with guilt. We had lost anything meaningful by the time we reached thirty. We formed our own whiner’s club. Two members. We descended, street level. Dragged people down stairs. Dropped them out windows. All of it made me sick, paradoxically. Half the time neither of us could remember doing it. We drank. We did what was expected. At some point, we looked at each other and nodded. Then stopped.
I wore a dress, worked undercover. That gave me an edge. Years later Powski told me the edge was just in my head. In my head? Yes, he said, you have no edge. This is a delusion. Eckerly was a little raging elephant. Wasn’t brave. Stupid. He would do the opposite of what his fear told him to do and do it without consulting me. Why would you do that? Everybody is crouched down behind the banister. There are bullets. Why would you stand up? Why would you go in that room?
He’d go in. I’d go in after him. The reason I’d follow Eckerly was I knew he had bad luck in every other area of his life except when he entered a room where everybody was packing. I don’t know why that was. I knew it was safe to follow him. Powski agreed. Yes, Powski said, it’s safe, OK to follow. The first time Powski said that, I asked him just what kind of psychiatrist are you,? He said, I’m your psychiatrist. Do you want me dead, Powski? He said, Yes, I might want you dead. Powski wouldn’t joke about something like that. This is why I trust him. He doesn’t let me figure things out for myself. He tells me what to do. This saves time. That’s why Powski is my psychiatrist. You see, I’ve changed the subject. I was supposed to be talking about Eckerly.
What does Literature of the Absurd, witchcraft and constipation have in common?
Read MoreKilmanjaro, Part One of the Gastrointestinal Witch-Crime Fantasy Thriller, Kilmanjaro.
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