Whether you’ve found this site by chance, clicked on a link from Twitter or Facebook, or downloaded a free copy of 30 Minute Plan, you’ve made it. I’m guessing your likes are walks on the beach, people who like to smile, and horror. But wait, before you just go why not take a look at what else I have?
I just finished listening to this book last week and enjoyed it. I haven’t read a ton of Koontz (Mr. Murder, Tick Tock, and the one with that guy who had to scale a building to escape a couple killers come to mind) and his style was pretty refreshing.
Okay, so I’m about a decade late on this one. I also didn’t pick up the Dexter series until last year. I’d always passed any of the Odd books by
I found an old folder full of stuff, including a bunch of poems I wrote back in college. I’ll comb through it diligently to find some more good stuff. I think this was my first zombie poem. For more zombie stuff, please check out the several zombie stories in my book list.
My poor broken angel, buried in the yard
Eternity to tend the lush greens,
purples and reds of your garden.
A twin engine of lust half-winged
My over-brimming passions drowned you out. 5
Two fingers to your soft bruised throat
Confirmed the look in your tender eye.
That accusing stare that becried your crumbled heart
When only a moment before, I swear
Was filled with your undying lovingkindness. 10
Yea, the day is forever long that you left behind,
And all the darker the rest thereafter;
Choked I am from your presence.
Oh woe! for your beauty is consigned for alway to the scavenger beast
Of microscopic size that picks 15
And chooses and chews and—
What is it?
That unfamiliar scratch on the door,
From a stranger hand.
A monster’s sight behind thine knowing eyes! 20
Oh, beloved creature,
Take mercy upon me
Where I was excess
Leave me unmolested
For more than filth 25
And slime separate us.
The very walls of life and
Death are our barrier.
Leave not your stiff kisses
Upon my lips, O raised horror 30
Nor your degenerate stain upon my door
Grant me not the sounds
Of dirty utterances
No, I say! Speak not!
But instead I hear your soul-terrorizing answer 35
I will be revealing the new cover for The Beggar’s Bowl on May 21. This short of mine has been free for a few years now and I know it hasn’t gotten as many downloads as 30 Minute Plan because the cover is just awful. I’d made it myself. But now it has an honest-to-goodness nice cover and I will be revealing it next month in anticipation of the release of Axe to the Face. TBB will also include an exclusive excerpt of the novella.
Nick entered through the mudroom. His heart hammered in his chest like a fist-sized bird eager to be free. He could sense this was it, three weeks of investigation had lead him here, to this house.
He hadn’t knocked or even waited to see if anyone would come in or out; his sense had told him he needed to be inside immediately, that it was beyond a matter of life and death.
Nick proceeded quickly to the door opening into the house proper. He paused with a hand poised over the knob, took out his gun. Shooting someone wouldn’t be preferred but at the end of the day he’d rather risk a trial than be dead.
He opened the door and was surprised at the sight of a little person encased in shrink-wrap, strapped to a white piece of cardboard, propped against a door. Almost like a tiny (well, big) cut of steak like at the grocery store.
Poor little man. Nick thought that must have been a horrible way to go even though he had a serene look on his face. He was about to step into the little nook and passed him when the little man twitched. Barely perceptible and Nick almost missed it, but he had. He froze, stared intently, waiting for another movement.
There it was. The corner of his eye, half an eyelid flickered and was still again.
I wrote this back in September of last year, but I have no clue where it’s supposed to be going. It’s intriguing, but I have no clue what to do with it. It was titled, The Followers of Xokk.
Nick reached an arm out and finger-poked a hole in the plastic covering his open mouth. It took a moment, but then the ragged edges of the hole began to flagellate with the slight push-pull of his respiration.
Nick quickly unwrapped his head, then his body, coloring slowly trickling into the little man’s sheet-white cheeks. He blinked a couple times and Nick set him on the floor.
He regripped his gun. How many hundreds of years had man been doing that? Gripping a weapon for security like a child with a blanket or ragged teddy bear. But his tightening grip was inversely related to his relaxed mental state. At that moment he was supremely confident he could have handled an army of unknown foes with only the dozen bullets in his gun simply by virtue of how tightly he held it.
“Very disappointed. I was bored out of my mind by the Authors rambling even before I got to the story. Once I finally started reading I quickly stopped. It wasn’t what I had expected at all. It might be to someone else’s liking but I am not a fan of this author so far.”
Not that I should be immune to one-star reviews, but there’s absolutely nothing to this review to help anyone decide whether to or not to download this title. You were bored out of your mind by my rambling even before you got to the story. Do you mean the foreword? Why not just skip over it and go straight to the story? And why did you quickly stop once you got to the story? If it’s poor writing, a tired story, or whatever else, say that. I suspect this is someone else’s account and they’re posting anonymously.
Looking for someone with knowledge of writing an autobiography. Also involved in hardcore punk band SBLC. Wanna write a tell all book of all the craziness,mishaps….and how the hell am I still alive. I think it would be a inspirational book. From a crazy upbringing..to punk rock underground band SBLC and the infamous (brightmoor punks) to getting run over, stabbed , shot…drug addiction..living in cars…to meeting my wife..growing up..being a father..to a wonderful like. Damn I really need help writing this….Please help out…looking for passionate people. Not just some stiff that needs money. I can’t pay much…if any. ..but you will be paid back dearly once its published. Anyone left in this world with passion for writing?….thank you!
Now I can certainly appreciate a hard luck story, but my same argument applies: don’t underwrite someone else’s dreams. This poster would pawn you off as ‘some stiff that needs money’ but why else would you let him leverage your valuable time, else you were going to get paid for it? I don’t know, maybe you do have a thing for homeless, drug-addicted punk rockers, but the majority of anyone interested and qualified to do this work want to get actual money rather than a promise of dear payments once the book is published.
I suppose this person who can’t pay much must have a killer marketing plan and copies will be flying off the shelves, right? Or is the material so crucial that millions will have no choice but to purchase? Don’t help out. People like this need to know our services as writers have actual, quantifiable value and we devalue ourselves by assisting. I don’t mean to come off as angry–really, I’m not–but by one writer lowering his value, we all have our prices cut.
I’m sure this person means well, but I mean well when I walk into a McDonald’s with a hungry belly and no money. I can’t get that #10 combo no matter how interesting my story is.
AMC’s “The Walking Dead” is not only the biggest hit on cable, it’s also delivering the kinds of numbers the broadcast networks have all but given up on. However, it’s usually overlooked in conversations about the best work on television, especially when overshadowed by “Mad Men” and “Breaking Bad” on the same network. But Emmy voters, you should approach it with fresh eyes this year.
Officer Teabody climbed his large frame out of his cruiser and casually closed the door. He jabbed both thumbs into his belt, oncing over the big black Buick he’d pulled over. The old car hadn’t been going fast and that was the problem. Had whoever this was simply driven ten miles above the speed limit like everyone else Teabody wouldn’t have noticed him at all.
He’d tried not seeing the car as he’d been thumbing around on his game of Sudoku on his iPhone, but the Buick had crawled across his peripheral vision, several passing cars honking, and thus demanding his attention. Teabody liked Sudoku a lot and he did not like pulling people over, but if he wanted to continue playing while being gainfully employed, he had to occasionally make a traffic stop or two.
And someone making such blatantly poor use of all three southbound lanes on Rochester right in front of him meant that big black Buick had to be one of them.
Teabody took a deep breath and unclipped his Glock. He slid it out and let it hang by his side. He wouldn’t need to use it, these sorts of stops rarely, if ever, had some psychopath behind the wheel. The psychos tended not to stop and wound up starting a high-speed chase and killing some poor unsuspecting motorist. No, the ones who stopped usually were the bluffers; people who were drunk or stoned who thought a breath mint could hide what was on their breath or an air freshener would mask the smell of marijuana.
But he followed the procedure on the off chance this would be the one-out-of-a-thousandth customer who would do something truly stupid like try to shoot him as he came up to the car. Officer Teabody sauntered over, his eyes examining the rear window for passengers in the backseat. All he could make out was darkness. He came up to the bumper of the big black Buick and stared into the side rearview mirror, hoping to get a look at the driver. But it had been turned crazily and the only thing he saw in the mirror was a view of Rochester road, completely useless to him and the driver prior to being pulled over.
His mouth disapproved, forming itself into a grim line. Teabody knew his mouth. He listened to it. It was telling him this one might be a winner. Maybe not a one-in-a-thousandth, but the guy right before him–someone who might demand a gun to be pointed in his face before he complied.
Teabody’s ears perked as he tried to listen for something above the throaty growl of the big black Buick’s old engine. It sounded like there was a geriatric lion under the hood. The car had definitely put its better days in its rear view, but it still could probably get up in speed. The brake lights were off, so the car was in park. If the driver put it in gear, it would take several seconds before he could pull out onto the street. Officer Teabody would be back in his car before he hit twenty miles an hour and would be hawking him before he reached the next stop light. He amended his estimation after he peeked over at the far side of the car and saw the tire was in mud. The big black Buick was rear-wheel drive and would do a significant amount of peeling before finding traction. He could probably make it back into his cruiser and pit the car before it got off the shoulder.
But the driver showed no sign of making a run for it. Matter of fact, he didn’t show any sign of anything. As he sidled up alongside the big black Buick, he hunched his shoulders, letting anything unexpected filter in through his senses. He didn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary, didn’t even taste anything strange, but his twitching mouth told him there was more here than initially expected.
Finally, Teabody was just shy of the driver’s side door. The Buick was two-door so he was a little farther back than he wanted. The windows weren’t tinted, but it just looked so dark inside. He gradually made out the shoulders and head of the driver who appeared to be just sitting there, waiting. The window was rolled up, which agitated Teabody even further. Typically, people had the window down and were waiting for him, license, registration, and an unsure smile in hand.
This driver appeared to be sitting straight, eyes forward.
It made the corners of Teabody’s mouth nervous. Made him think about just raising his gun and firing until it fell on empty, reload, and begin firing again. Now there was an odd thought. He’d never fired on anyone before and this certainly hadn’t evolved into a situation that deserved it. He had to maintain control of himself.
He didn’t want to release the Glock from his thumbs-forward grip, but realized knocking on the window with the barrel of his gun might come off as a threat. He let go of the gun with one hand and wrapped on the glass.