Getting my scribble on today in Point Loma, San Diego, at the Comickaze #book store in Liberty Station for their #WalkingDead event. Me and my boy, #zombie#kyleclifford, will be posted up outside, scrounging for sales. I’ll be letting the limited-to-500, Pure #Art edition of my #hockey#horror#fantasy#novel go for the special event price of just $15, so shoot through and get your signed copy of this unique #collectible. I should be there from 12pm-5pm (don’t hate me if I’m running late 😬). Come hang with an #author and indulge in the ramblings of the philosophy behind my unique brand of #undead. GET BIT!!! Or just buy stuff. 🤘🤘
Doing my first signing in San Diego (Point Loma, Liberty Station) during Comickaze’s The Walking Deadevent this Saturday, peddling the limited-to-500 Pure Art edition of my zombie/fantasy book (not the exact one in the pic, but its variant that has nothing but the artwork on the front and back). If anyone is in the area, swing on through and get the book at the Special Event price while there’s still some left. If you can’t make it, checkout out BloodMagik.com to get a signed copy of the “exclusive-to-me” edition. Bookworms are eating this thing up so don’t wait, get yours soon. 😬🤘🤪🤘
Also, please Like & Share this post if you’re in the San Diego are so everyone you know knows it’s going down. Many thanks, zompeeps. See you there! \m/
Got the booth for #YumaCon 90% ready to rock. Mine definitely looks the most beastly so far. 😎 Made it all the way from San Diego to Yuma before realizing I left my banner at home, but found a spot out here that printed a quick one up for me. First noob crises averted. Looking forward to my #booksigning tomorrow and chatting up some fellow #comicgeeks. 6 boxes of #comics and about 30 #comicbook action figures are ready to go. Swing by and get the VERY limited exclusive Pure #Art edition of my #zombie #horror #fantasy #novel while you still can. And if you have kids there will be a fun little gwp for the first 50 or so buys. GET BIT!!! 🧟♂️🧟♀️🧟♂️
…quick words slipped into Blood Magik: Living Hell in LA (Book Three) this morning, getting back to the start of a mid-novel showdown twenty (of my character’s) years in the making. This one has a lot of potential for fantastical, apocalypse-world imagery since it’s taking place in the center of a bit of “terraforming” being orchestrated by the elemental, Raze: one of my demon queen’s twelve elite demons. These extraordinarily powerful entities don’t play too much into the plot, but have a final purpose in the overall story that won’t be revealed until the end of the Blood Magik saga. Until then they’re more like obstacles to have to work around while navigating through the New Hell. And this one is gonna help set the stage for a pretty savage beat-down. Fun times. =D Get in on the growing saga by getting your exclusive, collectible copy of the start of it all on my web page –> BloodMagik.com<– while they’re still discounted. Gonna be doing my first con next weekend in Yuma so it would be safer to get yours now since this edition is extremely limited. Also, follow my personal journey to becoming a better writer. The stuff I put together now is embarrassingly better than what I put together in the first book. Not the story, but the writing. I actually spent over a year updating Book One just so it could come close to what I’m actually capable of now, but compared to Book Three it’s hardly even noticeably the same writer (aside from my cheesy sense of humor). This too can make make Book One even more of a collectible, so don’t wait much longer. The first run will likely be gone soon. \m/
…The moment of truth. I’ve been hesitating to move forward with the next step of the publishing process because I knew the opening paragraph (and a few others) were just too damned much: too (”cleverly”) wordy. And, admittedly, some of these word clumpings are still overly zealous, but creativity with the craft is (partly) what I’m in the game for. So here’s the opening chapter (prologue). Who (out of those who actually read books) would be turned off by the writing; would put the book down and say, “Nah… Too much, dude”? Observe–
stalactites of frosted what-the-twisted-fuck-is-happening-right-now chillingly maturated from the corners of the
truck-bed’s gate like demonic slushie fingers bent on being noticeably
villainous. One tail light busted, the two thoroughly baked teens in the
truck’s cab were lucky to be navigating Winterset, Iowa’s version of the river
Styx on a dreadfully snowy night that harbored the dreary and barren air of the
planetoid Pluto in a K hole. Not a creature was stirring…other than these two hungover hamburglers, carting
around several near-frozen carcasses five hours before midnight.
flakes of a white Christmas swirled in their pickup’s wake. They’d coursed this
path before. Maneuvering the bumpy backroad with close to pitch-black looming
at their periphery was becoming old hat. Hardly a word was exchanged between
them on the drive.
crunched against the frozen, wet annoyance at their feet before two heavy doors
slammed shut, both sets of galoshes aiming their clumsy paths toward the
truck’s gate. One screeching of angry old hinges later – like the howling of a
sickly, injured beast – and two hands reached to heave while one mouth hooted—
Marvin, the taller
of the two youths, angling for the bit of the tarp that burritoed a sizeable
head, paused, discernibly numb to the
moment. He was the darker of the two teens. Where Shawn could compare the shade of
his melanin to that of Ice Cube’s, Marvin would more closely blend in to a
scene with Chris Tucker. Either, consequently, could match bowls in a
bong-off with Smokey and Craig despite being just short of legal age. In their
senior year at Benjamin Bakem High, at this point in the semester they both wondered
if they’d ever get the chance to throw up the “deuces” at their graduation and
doobie the fuck on out; blunts tucked under beanies, boastfully rebellious stroll
carrying them off the podium…
“What?” Slightly sticky with stupor from the hold up, Marvin’s
bloodshot eyes told the tale of a young man who’d been heavily over-medicated.
“You get the legs, man. I got the legs the last time.” Shawn,
just as spent in the tanked-bank as his best dude, hung slothfully in the
moment, waiting for their mutual agreement. Facial hair like lint on his chin,
if the town were to put it to a vote it’s likely they’d motion for him to just shave
it all off and stop pretending his scruff was dignified.
“The fuck difference does it make?” The afore-described “sticky with
stupor” escalated to a gooey, mystified squint.
“The legs is heavier. Dude’s got big ass feet – fucking boots on an’
“You seen this fucker’s belly? All the weight’s in the middle,
bruh.” Marvin found the strength to fail at a gesture toward the
cadaver-burrito’s bottom half. “Dude’s short, anyways – legs are like…I dunno…
Fuckin’ corndogs or some shit.”
“Fuck, man… Just get the legs, a’ight? Damn… We in this shit together.”
A sigh moved Marvin’s light green, alien-beanied forehead to meet the
tarped torso before he discovered more of that strength he waisted gesturing
and used it to lift his chin and nod. “A’ight, man, chill… Here, get on this
Boots depressed snow, positions exchanged, and Shawn grabbed just
enough head to lose his half the minute the weight slid over other two
tarped bodies and off the pickup.
A thump preceded Marvin’s drowsy concern.
Shawn attempted to recover his fumble but found his ass in the snow
sooner than he found redemption.
Marvin’s shoulders slumped; beanied, alien antennae appropriately
lackluster over his skullie. It was one of those uber hip, pop-culture snow
caps that looked like no male over the age of four should own but somehow found
their way into men’s sizes. Reflective, elliptical alien eyes adorning his
forehead with two moveable antennae, green-balled tips, braided green rope
dangling shoulder-length from the earflaps…
“Hurry, man, shit…”
Battling gravity and his weather-weary gear, Shawn made his way to his
feet and found a stable grip under the twine that kept the tarp closed. He
lifted at the neck – six inches shorter than Marvin in eight inches of snow –
just barely getting the cadaver’s caboose up high enough to lug it toward its
unlikely place of final respite, several miles into the woods and an hour north
of the mall where the trio had first been acquainted. The path they tromped was
another familiar one, blood and what was likely a small intestine dripping from
the center of the tarp. By the time they made it to their destination – a
quarry they figured would soon fill with snow – seventeen feet of some sad
sap’s colon lazily laid behind.
Shawn nodded, and the sendoff proceeded as planned. Three counts and a
release sent a two hundred and thirty-five-pound body over a steep ravine with
serpent-like sinew whipping behind. Shawn’s fingers had loosened the twine around
the tarp so that it unraveled in its fall, unveiling the
barely-hanging-together carcass under it in jolly red velvet with white trim.
The bloody and matted flag of a once proud, long white beard waved in the
gully’s wind…until the elastic keeping it attached slipped from his head along
with his Christmas hat and fluttered the rest of the way down. The body splattered
into several pieces when it landed and joined the unthinkable carnival of gore
that presided there before it.
Seven other jolly dead sons of the Happiest Time of Year already decorated
the snowy floor, spread in fragments over a hundred feet; bits of red and green
fabric and pink flesh scattered about like yuletide sprinkles over vanilla
Marvin led the way back for the next two flavors to add to their very
troubled snowy desert while Shawn dragged behind. Santa’s little helpers were
easily half the big man’s size, so they grabbed a tarped-elf apiece and
proceeded to top off their evening’s burdens after both stumbling to their
rumps three or four times, trails left behind as glairing as neon signs
reading, “Murder Depository in 100ft”. The two elves’ tarps came apart like
Santa’s before them, and if there was ever a greater waste of a sexier pair of
candy cane thighs under holiday green skirts, it was not only a crime against
Christmas, but against all of mankind.
Afterward, Shawn –
brow and ears hidden under his red, black and white Star-Wars-themed Christmas
beanie – shuffled back over their path, kicking up snow to hide the trail of
death they left behind. But Marvin stayed fixed, manifesting a moment of
clarity (or a resemblance of something thereabouts). His eyes cut through the
icy winter breeze into the vicinity of an unspoken decree, and there, for the
first time in his near-adult life he discovered something most weed-heads
thought to be a myth:
His plod back to
the passenger side of the truck and into the cab was an assiduous one.
“Wha?” Shawn was
exhausted when he got in the truck: a lump of snot stuck on the seat. Not in
any kind of condition for purposive conversation.
next. That’s where we gotta go.”
“Fuck you mean,
man? We can’t—”
“This shit ain’t
over, man.” He looked to his one and only true friend, eyes never more
unfaltering than now. “Not until it’s over.”
“What… You mean
like right now?”
Shawn knew what he
meant. An answer wasn’t required. Truth be told, as exhausted as he was, he was
just as ready as Marvin was for this to be over… He’d just prefer to handle it
after a few bong loads and a month-long nap.
The key in the
engine turned, the emergency break went the way of the killer whales, wet boot
met pedal, warm grill sucked cold snow…
The “day of” was
nearly here…and only one man was left in town who was down on his luck enough
this season to have agreed to take the velvet reins – and all for a beggarly
wage of ten-eighty-five an hour…
But for the sorry
son of a bitch known as Grandad Santa, it may be too much to hope for a happy
Raise your hand if you made it this far in the post. lol How was the read? Too heavy to struggle through a whole novel of more of the same? Thanks for your thoughts. -z/cm
Thought this morbid little xmas concoction was appropriate. XD
Ok, so, this sexy little sleaze of a novel is unofficially 257 pages, which bodes nicely for a self-published book to be on the thinner side (much cheaper to put into print). I just finished another run-through of it to dot my eyes and cross my peas and this shit is looking pretty fresh. I kinda did a no-no by adding something in that is definitely illegal, so I’m gonna look into getting permission to keep it (being intentionally vague, here, to not give away any of the plot twist). If I can get permission: sweeeet. If not: ain’t no thang; easily remedied. It won’t hurt the story to change it into something that legal. But while I’m looking into that I gotta track down some freelancer to format the fucker for me and get it print-ready for Christmas. I’ll probably eventually pitch it to an agent when I find one, but I don’t see why I can’t self-publish it in the meantime. So we’re one step closer tonight to getting ‘er done. I can’t wait to have a hard copy of it stinking up a shelf in my home.
…plugged into Blood Magik (Book Three) tonight. Poor, poor Alex (my story’s heroine). I bet if she ever got the chance to meet her creator she’d kick me dead in the nuts for the paragraph I just wrote. lol I suppose I’d deserve it. But is it my fault I’m a fan of shit so gross it makes you cringe? It’s all fun and games for me; out here in the “real world” chuckling at the thought of what I’ll never have to endure. But this chick… smh… Just wait, sweetheart. You’re getting off easy right now. This next bit’s gonna be a mindfuck you weren’t prepared for.
The top 5 things you will NOT FIND in my zombie novel:
1. CORPORATISM: There are no businesses, cooperate superpowers, cooperate lackeys, yes-sir/no-sir, right-away-sir fascism, capitalist greed or anything remotely related to politics or the super rich.
2. DRAMA: Now, this one is more specific, but was a goal of mine to avoid. What I mean by drama is shit like typical “relationship” drama; as in family tension, best friends fighting over a girl, couples fighting over attention, social ranks arguing over who’s right and wrong. These type of things are all generic, everyday, mundane, fucking imbecilic bullshit that writers throw into stories to either act as fillers to kill time, or to “connect” on an emotional level with their readers/viewers. Connecting emotionally is not a bad thing…but when they use the same goddamn bullshit over, and over, and over again it’s just a severe lack of imagination and a waist of time. I was sure not to expend any energy on these types of generic fillers and stick with what actually mattered.
3. ROMEROS: (I’ve heard that term used before to describe typical, brain-dead, shuffling zombies and thought it nailed my point). Not to knock a classic, but the Romero zombie is the most widely used version of the living dead, so I decided to switch it up in all possible aspects. My mythos is entirely my own. My zombies talk. They run. They laugh. They plot, scheme, terrorize, have powers gifted to them through blood magic, do not die when shot in the head, do not turn you with a bite. This is not a disease. This is magic. Fantasy. A twist that has, of course, been done, but seldom to the extent I’m taking it throughout the course of the books. Book One is only the tip of the bloody dagger, my friends. And there are a lot more than zombies running around to contend with in the future of this saga.
4. RELIGION: Ironically enough, considering one of the main characters is an “ex man of the cloth” and the premise of the whole zombie caboodle is a new Hell on Earth, I did my damnedest to leave religion out of it. I wanted to avoid anything that’s been overly used in the genre so there is no religious nut preaching the Word, or references to Satan and the bible’s version of the Apocalypse. I created my own goddamn devil, for shit’s sake, just so I could avoid the one everyone else is going on about. As I said in #3, this mythos is entirely my own, from the bottom up. The only thing borrowed is some of the obvious concepts such as heaven and hell, zombies and demons. But the rest I developed from scratch.
5. AWESOME: Wait, what…? YES…you will not find that fucking word used a single time in my novel. It is disgustingly overused in marketing, dialog and (I know I’m calling out the entire planet here but…) in every day exchanges. This goddamn word haunts me at every flick of the station, every casual conversation, every episode or contemporary story. It is a “safe” word (not to be confused with a “safe-word”) that is put in place of a more creative or “vulgar” one to express excitement. It’s what we say to little kids because we’re not comfortable blurting out “that’s fucking badass, little dude, yeah!”. Sure, there is a time and place for that word, but it is NOT in a goddamn zombie novel.
So these are a few (of many) of the things I did differently to be sure my zombie story was unlike any other. To learn more about the book and how you can get your limited-to-500 Pure Art edition (signed by moi), slide on over to BloodMagik.com and poke around a bit. Check out the “Take A Taste” link to sample the prologue, or the “Our Story” link to read more about my philosophy behind creating it. For the ebook (for a limited time) use codeword GoPriestsGo to get the download for a price of YOUR CHOOSING. And, don’t worry, I’m really eager to get this out to as many people as possible so it is PERFECTLY OK TO ONLY PAY A PENNY. This is the first book in (hopefully) a saga, so I’m more than willing to give it away for practically free. The more people who read it the better. If you like what you’ve read here, please REBLOG. And, as always, thanks for being a part of the New Hell, my ornery zomfolks.