Category: horror novel


New posters are up on the site, my dudes. And grab my novels for cheap now while they’re discounted \m/  -cm

A collection of the images I’ve used (so far) to tell the story of Blood Magik: A Cold Day in Hell on –> Wattpad.

So here’s the skinny:

Currently my ass is giving the novel an upgrade, chapter by chapter, to bring the beastly bitch up to my standards as the writer I am today. I wasn’t comfortable with, say, releasing the book nationally in the state I’d first published it in. It was loads better than how it was originally but, after two years of editing the bastard, I came to a point where I was burnt out and just said, “fuck it, close enough.” But now, about a year later, not only am I a better writer, but I’ve put enough distance between me and it to come back refreshed and with a creative vengeance.

The point?

I’m gonna put out a new edition in (or around) August. It’’ll be a Print On Demand book (through Amazon) but will be a unique, artistic, Second Printing. More on that later. For now I just wanted to throw the heads up out there because when I put that book out, the original will go up to full price and, even tho it will be shitty in comparison to the new edition, it’ll be even more of a collectible than it already is (being a Pure Art edition and limited to 500), Especially for those looking to be writers themselves, or who are writers and are looking to learn from others mistakes/experiences. (You could read the original, for example, and any time you come across an awkward or mediocre sentence, look to the new edition to see the changes made. There are a lot of them o.o). The full price of the collectible edition is $24 but is on sale now for $15 on

So get yours now while the gettin is nice and gooey, my dudes (idk…), because the New Edition is in the making. \m/ -z/cm

(oh, and that second-to-last image is a sneak-peek of the art for Book Two: The Reigning Dead. Not the background, but the character. I cut her out of the cover and pasted it on that image because there’s a scene in the last part of that chapter that it resembles. The full cover is fucking gorgeous shit from my man, Lucio Parrillo.)

Two baked beans bumbling through the holidays find themselves bong-deep in bodies. But no amount of blunt smoke can make this problem bury itself…

My latest attempt at an Add Campaign headline with only two characters to spare. Trying to sell your novel in under 150 characters (or whatever it was) is a bitch. At least, trying to use those characters to display its uniqueness is. Alliteration can be obnoxious, but I’ve always found it to have a ring. We’ll see if this one does any better than the last.

And, as always, get your signed copy from –> <– I marked it down to half-price for the off-season so now’s the time to buy! And, if and when you discovered you loved it, please take a few minutes to review it on your favorite book site. (Them reviews is hard to come by…) Thanks, peeps. Oh, and to sample the book, just go to Amazon and “take a look inside.” (but buy it from my site; Amazon gets enough of my profits as it is) -z/cm


Ok, so, the geniuses who printed the book with the (more expensive) soft-touch  lamination

(matte finish)

didn’t know what the fuck they were doing and scraped the backs of about 100 copies of my (ideally) gorgeous Pure Art edition. Really frustrating stuff considering I specifically designed this edition to be aesthetically badass, making it a collectible not just in number (limited to 500 copies) but in design. They apologized for their lack of competence, of course, and gave a partial refund so I can now afford to sell these copies for much cheaper than the original $24 list price. I just set up the listing on my website to let these marginally damaged copies go for a measly $9.99 a piece so if you’re like me, a bargain shopper, now’s your chance at owning a signed copy of my first ever published work, and in its collectible edition, for less than half its price. The book will still come signed, but not inscribed, and the least damaged ones will go out first. All are 100% readable and still a part of the original, limited-to-500 print-run. Dig in, my dudes. This buy is one for our times (cheap and shoddy, heh.) -cm/z

Get it here –> BloodMagik.Com

Oh, and if you’re new to my blog and don’t know anything about the novel, feel free to look it up on Amazon or B&N to get a “look inside” and other pertinent info. \m/

After-Xmas Bargain Buy! Both 6 x 9 Paperbacks for one killer price! (So exciting! 🤓) Get both copies signed on for a measly 24 beans! (Sale ends on 1/1/19)

Synopsis for A Christmas Carcassing: In Shawn & Marv’s Holiday Horrors (Book One), two toasted teens find themselves immersed in the festive corpses of Christmas mall workers without a clue to who’s leaving them behind. With only one Santa left alive in town, can these two leaf-brained suburbanites piece together who’s tearing the holidays apart in time to save Christmas? Comedy and carnage collide in this comedic -insert arbitrary C-word here-

Synopsis for Blood Magik: A Cold Day in Hell: Undead hockey jocks. An eight-foot-tall, soul-hording demon wolf. A near-immortal witch with sights set on ruling her New Hell on Earth. And a squad of unlucky chum in apocalyptic waters all collide under blood-clouds for a morbidly wicked adventure staring a beast, a beauty, and an old guy. Blood Magik is the sports-themed d-day no one dared asked for. Readers, be warned: This book bites. 

GET YOURS!! -z/cm


In Shawn & Marv’s Holiday Horrors (Book One), two toasted teens find themselves immersed in the festive corpses of Christmas mall workers without a clue to who’s leaving them behind. With only one Santa left alive in town, can these two leaf-brained suburbanites piece together who’s tearing the holidays apart in time to save Christmas? Comedy and carnage collide in this season’s cantankerous cockup. GET YOURS NOW! -z/cm


And a free Blood Magik pen with a purchase of $20 or more! (So exciting, right? =P lol) Thia stuff is mostly for cons and signings but everyone is welcome to dip in to some custom merch. The Blood Magic Dark Towers mug turned out pretty badass and the poster looks clean, man. (mostly ) ALL ITEMS ON SALE! And if you’re into horror comics, there’s a handful of select buys throughout the store. GET SOME! (lol I crack me up with this “salesman enthusiasm” bullshit.) Oh, and there are two different pens, the other has the BM character art on it instead of the logo. -z/cm/cc BLOODMAGIK.COM

Go to to get yours before Christmas!


Buy the book here –> A Christmas Carcassing <– while Christmas supplies last! (Free Shipping in the US for Christmas!)

…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–


Christmas Eve:

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.

The delicate
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.

Four boots
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—

“Ho…ho…ho… Waitaminute…”

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.

“On three.”

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

“C’mon, man…”

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.

“Grandad Santa.”

“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.

“That’s who’s
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.

He sighed.

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
New Year.


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.