Rejection’s Poster Gal

Three dogs, one river. Miz Bridge, Jake in the middle and Molly the Chocolate Lab. Owyhee River.

Hello, various readers and passers stopping by on a snowy evening. Some Bob Frost to start us all on the road to hilarity and good cheer.

I’ve lost count of the rejections this week but it’s a LOT. I either need to write up a new batch of stories, poems and plays or keep sending out the same old crappola. Hoping this time. That time. This time over here.

That it will be different.

Except right now, truth is so much goddamn stranger than any fiction I could fart out or compose while munching French pastry and sipping Italian wine. While seated outside at a sunny cafe in Athens, Greece. I’d write longhand, of course. Using my own blood as ink.

Cause I’m a writer, dangnabbit! That’s a word you hear in old timey cowboy movies as they were not allowed to say ‘god damn it’.

Yes, the American political and all other scenes are just rife with WTF, then topped with Is That An Actual Tweet? followed by Don’t Read the Comments Section, ended with I Am So Done With Social Media, I’m Off To Raise Sunflowers To Help Third World Scarf Herders. Then the cycle starts all over again. With variations.

It’s the downward spiral. It’s the we’re imploding and prolly gonna take the entire world with us. It’s…it’s fucking hot right now.

So my thoughts are roughly—it’s hot. I should write something. About. Something. It’s hot.

Being poor, air conditioning is one of those unheard of, rich people inventions that exist in movies. Sort of kidding. I have a tiny fan. It helps. I go outside, throw water on my squash. I dig out weeds. I hear the hawks raising their kids down the road. Noisy bastards. Shut up, hawks! The corn hides the ditch bank road so the dogs have to listen real hard instead of watching to see who drives to and fro on what they obviously consider their bit of territory. Any engine gets them still and holding their breath. It’s rather creepy-cute.

What to write about. My hot take on politics? Nah, that’s just solid cuss words at this point. Eve Carlin, from hell, shouts out, hey, throw in some other words there. Feminist issues that affect us all? Golly, I’m either too much or too little here or…eh?

Oh!! Sidetrack. Here we go.

Saw the Spy Who Dumped Me. We have free Epix, whatever. So, the plot, eh. Some international whatever, been done a gazillion billion times. However, what’s fresh, you ask? Or haven’t asked at all though you’ve made it this far?

The relationship between the two best friends. Played by Mila Kunis and Kate McKinnon. It rang every true bell. How they support each other, are there for each other, their acceptance of each other’s faults yet the irritation over those faults…it’s all there. I especially found my bell rang over Kate’s character being called ‘too much’ by a lot of people, including the secret spy/boyfriend of Mila’s character. And Mila’s character siding with Kate’s character, then telling her she’s not too much. Ah!! I almost teared up.

As someone who’s been repeatedly called ‘too much’, which I ALWAYS took as—

there’s something very very wrong with me; nobody likes me unless I act quiet and not myself. I am a monster!—

That moment reminded me of what great friends I have.

I could write about my own experiences with people trying to whittle me down to acceptable size.

And never show that writing to anyone because it would be like ripping my face off and gluing a salted strip of razor blades in its place.

How I have the self-esteem of a dead rock and yes, have let other people define me because 99% of those people tell me I’m ‘too much’…!

And when I try to not be a monster, I find that I am silent and limp as moldy lettuce stuck to the gunk under the veggie drawer in the fridge. And that I am angry. Then I explode and people walk about me as if on the most delicate eggshells and…yeah, pattern.

Pattern! Yep. Pattern detected.

So I’ll stick to making up monsters or writing about sexual encounters between dinosaurs and women. Is that still a thing?? What about man’s inhumanity to man?

Oooh! I smell a Nobel outta that one!

I’ll call it Man Being Mean to Men. It will feature no women characters whatsoever. It will just be two white straight guys on a beach arguing over who’s the bigger victim of post-post modern society as the world literally burns. I will use a thesaurus a lot. I will describe their inner penis. A lot.

I suspect if I actually did write something like that, it would probably actually sell.

I’m not bitter.

Nope.

I am. I am so bitter I’m a walking moldy lemon at this point. Okay.

Rejections fast and furious this week. I’ll not buck up at all. I’ll stew in my own sweat until autumn shows up and it’s STILL FUCKING HOT GOD DAMN IT FUCK FUCK FUCK. But hey, the nights are cooler. I should move to the Artic. Except it’s on fire where they’re not drilling gleefully for oil. Where else is cold?

Minnesota? Maine? Montana? It would have to be within walking distance. How much can I stuff in a backpack? I’ll have to dig up my jars of pennies I buried for a rainy day. Some jars only have one or two pennies in them but hey, that first step, amirite? Amen! A cave, some berries.

I can be the Unibomber without all the baggage.

Holy moley, what a scattershot post. But I felt it important to not write yet another political scream that is only heard by some wide-eyed mice in a deserted choir room.

I managed to capture an actual bumblebee sampling my lemon balm plant. Isn’t it gorgeous???

Cowbell Em Up!

Christopher Walken from the cowbell sketch on SNL. Also? Replace ‘post’ with the word ‘America’. Thanks. 

Hi, Mr. Mueller. Apparently, you were like, boring, or somethin’ yesterday. When you did that testify thing and senators yelled at you for eighty nine millions hours. Yep. I’m thinking now you didn’t play to your audience.

Which is ‘murica.

No bells, no whistles? Come on! We’re trained lab rats when it’s politics time. If you’re not super-animated, waving your arms, shouting about socialists, how are we supposed to know to pay attention?

If you’re not throwing gang signs or white pride salutes or whatever, we check out. Bor-RING.

Where’s the fireworks? Where’s the pithy soundbite? Where’s the meme-able moment, old dude??

No shiny outfit? No wild hairdo? No tats?? WTF? I’m, off to watch old eps of Barney Miller, buh bye!

Did you know, by the way, that you’re old? I heard that so much yesterday I was confused. Do you not know your age, Mr. Mueller?? Are you some sort of weird JW sort who skips cake and present day?? WTF?!

After all, old dudes like you are tired and can’t remember shit. Except the Insane Shitweasel is older than you and actually can’t remember one set of feces from another set of feces at any given moment.

Also, it seems people forgot that Dougie Barr, Trump’s pet attack goblin, gave you some strict gotta do this instructions, so overgrown Boy Scout that ya are…

you decided to straddle the middle and just DO YOUR DAMN JOB.

I mean, hell’s bells, non-shouty old dude…

We wanted you to go all medieval on their asses.

You acted like it was just another day. Where you repeated, yet again, that there’s this sorta rule that says you can’t indict a sitting prezzie. Implying that the current thing in the WH is GUILTY AS ALL FUCK. Not a half fuck or a quarter of a fuck but the full fuck.

Obstruction of justice. Lying. Having aides lie to impede investigations. Oh yeah, also? Not a witch hunt and that Russia thing is for realsies. Oh my, oh dear, cue the twatwaffling from Fuck Your Face News blond shouty numpties.

It’s just a demonrat plot, they fed him the answers! Of course it’s a witch hunt! 

No, it’s not, says Mr. Mueller. 

He’s a dem operative working for Soros! He’s an old man who can’t remember doodle squat! 

Impeach that motherfucker already, er, not a witch hunt. Not a witch hunt. 

Hillary is behind this…what did Mueller say? What?? He’s old and insane and we’re the only real news. Just us. Just us!

I mean, hey, old Billy Clinton was impeached for one lie or somethin’. Or cannibalizing an entire red state in the Rose Garden as Hillary planned her world takeover. I don’t know which is true at this point. I’m thinking Bill Clinton really did chow down on an entire red state and they had to impeach him, praise Baby Jesus and the Machine Guns of God, hallelujah. Or the bodies would have piled up cause the Clintons are murder machines.

[There’s a trend over on Twitter or there was, about the Clinton body count. No, not even kidding. Not even a teensy tiny bit.]

They’ve got access to that Soros money! The secret Jewish cabal of endless money to turn the world into some sort of skate park! Stay tuned to watch Laura Ingraham rant for a whole hour about the Clintons and Soros money as she rides a dildo shaped like our beloved, dear, sweet, wonderful, so picked on it’s a crime, president! You go, girl! She’s gonna stick it to the libs in more ways than one! 

Yeah, uh, yep. 

My advice? My words of wisdom to you, Mr. Mueller?

Oh sure, I’m obscure. I’m a nobody. I’m a far left occasional blogger with a garden fetish. Sometimes I post pics of rocks I painted. But hey, listen to me anyway!!

Everyone’s opinion these days is, like, so valid and special and precious. You don’t have to be an expert in anything anymore. It’s GREAT. 

So here goes:

Dude. Mueller. My human bloodhound friend—YOU GOTTA COWBELL EM UP.

Bring your Chris Walken A-game.

Bring the cowbell, don’t send someone out to find one as you sit there waiting for the screaming GOP senator to pause long enough for you to ask him to repeat whatever he just screamed cause you like to watch the veins pop out in their red, red faces.

Dazzle em. Razzle-dazzle em. That number from Chicago? Where the lawyer does tricks and soft shoe?? Yeah!!

We want Law and Order explosions, not the dull creaky unwinding of actual facts and what actually went down. Fuck!!

COWBELL, DUDE.

Cowbell.

This has been a Pubic Serviced Allotment from yours truly.

Gotta know the audience you play to these days. They’re trained to crave drama, quippy word salad and above all, a good time.

Come on, sir. Did you really think showing up, being all dignified and measured, with the patience to listen to that bullshit streaming from the right and the omg, can we impeach this motherfucker yet gritted teeth of the left…would, like, produce results that shoved the country out of the no-one’s trenches we’re in right now??

Mm?? WTF is the matter with you??

Cowbell em up, sir. It’s not the patriotic thing to do but hell, patriotism now means ‘Arbeit macht frei’.

See what I did there?

Dramatic use of historical phrases to end a thinly veiled primal scream over the state of America lately.

You take care, Mr. Mueller. We keep waiting for you to turn into Captain America crossed with Clarence Darrow or even Sam Waterston’s lawyer guy offa that Law and Order juggernaut.

That’s why you should get all theatrical and wave that damn cowbell.

Then maybe at least four more might pay attention or…vote for Trump anyway cause they can’t get inspired by the democratic candidate who once had tea and cookies with Satan. That’s what Hannity said!

Cowbell em up, sir.

from Cowboy Compulsion. Now imagine a cowbell in his hand. Costume and props, Mr. Mueller. You’re dealing with America, not a rational set of citizens who do their homework. Hello!

 

Pipe Bombs Burstin’ in Their Hair

If you don’t know who Nathan Bedford Forrest is, go look him up.

Hey, my book is still on special over on Amazon.

I’m not shocked.

Not shocked by the recent racist red meat thrown to Trump Chumps. America has a deep vein of that ‘send her back’ nastiness embedded in the marrow of her bones.

The other. Not one of us. Not American. Doesn’t love America like us. Not a real American. They don’t get our ways. They don’t have our values. They won’t assimilate. They don’t speak our language. They come here to destroy our country. They are NOT ONE OF US. USA USA USA!!!

You can go back through American history, see plenty of that same shit Assolini spewed at his rally. It’s a diversion, sure. It’s meant to deflect from the Latest Scandal, this time the one with Jeffrey Epstein.

The child-trafficking bestie of powerful men across the spectrum of political and religious affiliations. As even those who worship Assolini would have to, and I’m not sure they would at this point, step back a bit and act sorta, kinda, almost mildly perturbed, if their savior-hero-object of worship gets tied to any of Epstein’s trafficking and underage rape sprees.

There’s also Robert Mueller testifying sometime, maybe? That might also be causing alarm and a need to throw out burning crosses and Make America White Again hysterical rantings.

However, the problem with all this is that there will be very real consequences for these political games. An elected Representative, Ilhan Omar of Minnesota’s Fifth District, might very well lose her life because of the ramped up rhetoric against her.

That someone who lies constantly gets believed by his base is Ionesco level absurd. It’s into Sam Beckett areas.

We’ve already had an Assolini follower try to send bombs to various Democrats on Assolin’s hit parade. It’s just…a matter of time, I guess. Before one of those acolytes succeeds.

And the press will fall in line and blame the victim…cause both sides or something. Maybe they won’t. Maybe lessons are being learned. And.

Nope. Nope, just checked. Nope!

I think America is all but dead. I think there are death rattles going on. But death swans in on chants of ‘send her back’. To people waving their red badges of dishonor.

Yes, I am incredibly disheartened by all this. I’ve even taken to writing a few things here and there over on Twitter. The disinformation, conspiracy theories about Hillary and now the Squad, just makes your hair rise on end. I hit fifty and less shits to give.

I’m watching the gutting of my country by a cynical walking and screaming actual piece of shit. I’m watching my own family embrace this enthusiastically. And swallow all of the lies, slick PR, the rhetoric…all of it.

I also notice, across the pond, that Boris Johnson will likely be the next PM. A British version of Assolini.

And I hope, I still hope, all this embracing of shouty men will end. I hope it doesn’t take a world war to end this fellating of horrorshows who shout and yell simplistic slogans that people can repeat and sneer at those like me.

I hope people notice there are no ideas offered. Give all the money to the rich and kill the group/s demonized for everything is so done that, been there, after all.

Never Again. Except. It’s How Fast Can We Repeat History while pretending this time it’s different?

Is the answer a lot?

Is the answer as much as possible because no one but whiny commie lefty hate the flag socialists who won’t say the Pledge and take knees point it out so it must be wrong, wrong, wrong to not be under the thrall of Orange Shouty Man Assolini??

At this point it’s just patriotic to be a fascist! MAGA! What are we shouting this time around again? I’m economically anxious! Look at me chanting horrible words at brown people while being economically anxious! Wheeeeeee!!!! I feelz so better now!!! Wheeeee!! Still can’t pay rent and buy groceries in the same month but SEND HER BACK SEND HER BACK SEND HER BACK.

That’s where we are. America has gone full tilt boogie insane. I guess those who stayed home rather than vote…nope. Nope, too fucking late to beat that skeletal horsie. You vote for Jill Stein [or any candidate that’s not the Dem nominee] in the next election cycle [if we have one] and I will personally roll my eyes at you. And write a nasty, barely veiled, poem about your genitalia. Okay? Okay!

Maybe! these shouty men [and the far right leaders getting voted into office all over the planet seem legion.] will just be a minor fever on the world’s journey toward some utopia.

Ah, world peace! Whirled peas! A UN type of world where the UN doesn’t really need to exist cause everyone, ahem, gets along! 

Some world where nearly everyone is treated well, there’s enough food and water, the environment isn’t a smoking trash heap, animals still exist in the ‘wild’ and the rise of shouty men is a laughable joke told by smirking comedians at art festivals dedicated to new works.

Yes, my utopia has a plethora of art festivals and smirking comedians. Make art, not war!

It can’t happen here.

Fuck yeah, it can. It is.

I think we’re there, for a while now– people also aint’ comin’ back from their Assolini fixation. You can’t pretend away that you were never really for him when he falls. And he will. Cause that’s what happens, for the most part, with shouty men. It’s not a nice or pretty ending or a ride off into the sunset on a pretty horse for shouty men.

Of course America is still fighting the War of Northern Aggression.

The Party of Lincoln is somehow also the Party of Jefferson Davis. That’s, um…yeah.

That’s nutballs with a capital NUT.

But hey, at least there’s a real sense of inert helplessness going around! We got that going for us!

USA USA USA. Flag.

Oh say can you ignore by the rally’s early light, what so cowardly we chant, is an echo of earlier shit our great-grandparents had chanted at them…And the machine gun’s red glare, the homemade pipe bombs burstin’ in their hair, gave proof through the day, that stirring up hatred works like a charm, hurray hurray.

 

See what I mean? Lilly perfectly echoes the lies, rhetoric, all of it, right on cue. My own dad couldn’t have parroted this better.

My book

Hi. My book, House on Clark Boulevard, is on sale over on Amazon until July 22. Go have a read, leave a review. And thanks if you do. 

Just got a bit of happy writing news so I thought I’d also post that MY BOOK IS ON SALE RIGHT NOW, GO GET IT FOR YOUR KINDLE OR E-READER AND HEY, LEAVE ME A REVIEW. 

Okay!

 

 

Also– try Oregon Gothic. What have you got to lose? Some sleep? Enjoy!

 

 

 

Sparklepony Jesus Spammer

Heaven. I’m in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…

Admit it. You’ve been missing my genteel and delightful titles. Today’s post is about a persistent spammer with a Jesus fetish.

Now “Emmanuel Love” seems hellbent on trumpeting the end of the world is nigh messages. The first full sentence of this spammy spam was praise for the Insane shitweasel for moving the US embassy to Jerusalem. Naming it the capital of Israel which needs to happen before a chain of events gets set off that will usher in…uh huh. It’s a parallel of the dominionism beliefs.

{If I am fuzzy here on Israel and all that, sorry. I’ll go look all this up, do some research.}

 Dominionisn?? What’s that? Ah. That’s Mike Pence and the Duggars. The Quiverful Movement. Where the women get bred like cows and the men are men, and don’t you ever forget it or they might snap and shoot you in the face cause Jesus. Where the end of the world is pretty much nigh and boy, oh boy, are they prepared for it. You can add survivalists in here. End time preppers. Hardcore Christians nearly vibrating with malice toward others. That’s my take. Just a vibrating set of WHEN JESUS GETS HERE YOU ARE ALL GONNA DIE AND BE SORRY SO THERE. 

That’s why the whole public masturbation over Israel. Because stuff needs to be arranged there to fit prophecy…cause Jesus needs help? Jesus can’t make shit fall into place? I know and you know Insane Shitweasel did that with Jerusalem on Mike Pence’s whispery pleadings. And the praise he got shivered shitweasel’s timbers.

Did you notice America’s birthday got hijacked? That California belched out an earthquake and DC brewed up a witch’s cauldron worth of rain, lightening and general bad wet awful weather?

I’ll let you go read up on this particularly awful branch of Christianity.

Now, my sparklepony spammer spams this same copy and paste completely batshit insane fanfic/novella at me about two or three times a day at times.

As if constantly bombarding me with nonsense and wrongness will turn my head.

Do you really want me wandering over to your site, dude? Or allowing your spammy shit to post, then taking it apart so hard you’ll still be crying for mommy in the echoing halls of some fourth rate hell?

I did go look at the site this darling oozed from. Holy hell and by the scaly tail of the devil!! Anti-human rights, anti-everything, pro-…?

From gay-bashing to how Noah’s Ark is super-real, you heathens. How evolution is fake. Yep. Anti-science, too. Anti-human rights. Anti-women.

The mark of the Beast, for the love of cupcakes and G-strings! Is, gasp, Obama still the Anti-Christ, dude?? Tell me MORE. Oh wait, don’t. Heard it!! Heard all this crap! Makes me giggle uncontrollably.

Prolly not the reaction you want, Emmanuel. 

All with the word ‘love’ thrown around like candy at a fascist rally. We do this out of love, I hear about such hardcore, used to be on the fringe, Christians. We do this to save you…Yeah, no.

Let me go to hell in my own way, to paraphrase Robert Frost.

I have no problem with religion or those who have faith or practice something. I have a problem with others demanding I practice a form of their whatever as well. I want to state that here.

Oh you’re just bashing Christianity!

Well, fuck yeah, I am.

When some lame ass spammer keeps spamming me about his fap fantasy end of the world ocean of blood cum dreams, I get a bit peevish.

Leave me the hell out of your everyone dies but about four people deathgasms. Leave me out of your world ends in fire and blood nuttery.

I’d rather fantasize about a deserted island, with a gorgeous beach and that inviting expanse of water. I can add whatever I need here.

A cocktail.

Someone to talk to, a brace of cheerful friends, a manta ray I can watch swim about.

Oh yes, I dream of going to the beach. That’s my heaven.

Not Emmanuel Love’s [maybe change your name to Blade Kill Em All, Blade Killemall]  grubby, awful, narrow vision of savagery. 

Blood to be spilled by a terrible version of the savior figure that floats through your fanfic like a combination of Voldemort and Rambo.

Just fuck off, sparklepony of hate, fear and jonesing for a big death show to end everything we know of life on this planet.

I’m starting to have no fucks to give anymore. Maybe this next decade is the ‘just go fuck yourself, you annoying shitmeister’ span of years as I toddle off into the surf to pet manta rays.

from a calendar of sexy Jesus stuff. 

Anyone else getting these numbingly frequent headscratchers? I cropped it. Emmanuel Love’s opening gambit. Notice that bull about prophecy, in case you thought I was inventing. 

Activities with Rocks

Early attempts at painting rocks

I wrote a scathing diatribe on the political hellscape that is ‘murica lately. Instead, to welcome yet another interminable month in this interminable slog of a life, I’ll write about rocks.  I’ll mention two novels that will hit sometime that could be any time, really. And something of mine that got included in a literary journal.

Rocks? Wha?

Military parade with a bloated price tag. Tanks. Money to pay for this culled from the national parks and veteran’s programs. With ticket prices, VIP seats! Sumbitch! Kids in cages. But hey, Nike pulled the Betsy Ross flag design and PEOPLE LOST THEIR MINDS CAUSE FREEDOM AND RIGHTS AND HONORING THE TROOPS OR…or…or…mm. Is that blood leaking from my ears? 

Yeah, I’m painting rocks. Badly. But it’s been a long time since I’ve painted anything. It seems a lot of people I know have turned to artsy crafty stuff to deal with…the drumbeats that celebrate the end of my country. With those supporting this screaming that we should get over it. With a ‘snowflake’ thrown in there.

I have friends also painting mandalas on rocks, leaving them places. Or writing some inspirational on a pebble, leaving it where others can find it and hopefully get inspired.

I do have a reason for why I’m slapping cheap paint on free rocks.

Last year, I went to the Death Rattle writer’s conference in Nampa, Idaho. I tried to sell some books. I was ill prepared. I didn’t have the fancy bank transaction app on my knock off Chinese-made phone. Where you can take people’s credit cards, run a transaction. Cause I didn’t even know that existed…I’m woefully behind the tech times. I’m also not up with how to sell your shit in these ultra-modern times. So. Learning experience.

I did get out of the house and mingle with others. Plus right there!

So I will attempt another attempt at a booth. You don’t have to pay a fee. Just apply for a spot. It’s held in a small alley by a bar. You sit there and try to smile and look inviting and friendly. Everyone seems to know everyone else. They’re all old friends or at least nodding acquaintances. But this time, for my wares, I intend to offer some art.

This takes place in October so I have the long hot summer to create. Or try to create something I can display without cringing.

I’ll also make some salt clay somethings. I was thinking pendants. One of a kind, small, tasteful, pretty. As I would love something like that and would scrape pennies out of the cup holders in the car to get one. I could also do some Christmas ornaments or even Halloween ornaments. I do write a lot of horror fiction. And it is my fave holiday.

If I focus on this rather pleasant problem, I do not focus on the crud coating my brain or the GODDAMN FUCKERY THAT IS CHEETOLINI and all that. At least, not entirely.

Also, I find other friends painting rocks or quilting. I noticed that Seth Andrews, who does the Thinking Atheist podcast, among other endeavors, got hooked on the Great British Baking Show. He’s been baking. I know tons of folks who love that show and then try to bake. Like, oh, me. Me, I’m one of those. 

 I am also hooked on baking competition shows.  I find baking so oddly fulfilling. I take raw ingredients, produce something roughly like what I saw. I’ve even managed to produce loaves of bread. I’ve moved from just schlupping the dough into a heated up giant cast iron pot into cutting the lump of dough in half, then placing that into bread pans.

I made this!

I’ve graduated to seeing what I can shape the dough into. Can I braid it or…turn it into something actually pretty or French Bakery-esque?

Yeah, no, not yet. But I haven’t been baking bread for that long and it takes a lot of flour. And yeast. It seems like a lot of people need comfort and an outlet to deal with reality lately. That everyone seems to have picked up some sort of art hobby or baking or throwing away all their stuff in some sort of supercleanse or life enema. I wonder why.  I don’t. That was sarcasm. I don’t wonder why at all.

Rocks.

I feel like I’ve got an actual plan here, planning for a booth space I might not even get. But it’s a long-range plan. Longer than “make it through day.”

Ah, a flash fiction piece of mine, By Starlight By Starlight My Dear, is included in the latest edition of A Door is a Jar literary magazine. I had entered an earlier version of this same one that got soundly rejected, with actual criticism sent my way. I rewrote it. It got better. A Door is a Jar accepted it and there ya go.

Oh, so I think I have two books in editing right now. Alice in Oregonlandia, the not at all anticipated sequel to my dead on arrival House on Clark Boulevard. I kid, I kid! You’re supposed to Always Be Closing. That line from the Mamet play, Glengarry Glen Ross.

It takes up about ten years after the end of House. Alice gets a turn. The fall out of Nancy’s time in that house. Alice discovering a few truths about herself. How Art steps up as dad and caregiver.

Aftermath, which is my take on…wait for it…zombies. I know. I know. But!! It follows Hannah as she finds herself in a world run by zombies, after killing herself because she was trapped in a dead end space by zombies. Hannah tries to navigate her way through a vastly changed world, where zombies run everything and have all the political, economic and actual power. Set in Boise, Idaho, because, frankly, it’s an hour down the road from me. I had great fun writing this. Isn’t that the point of all this?

Thank you to everyone who bothers to read these. I appreciate it. I can be a tedious bore with my depression and endless string of failures. My tiny advances that give me a tiny bit of hope that maybe I should keep writing. That maybe today I can find whatever courage or gumption it takes to just keep plugging on.

Plug on, you dull bit of coal. My shout out to Pink Floyd…

 

Available in A Door is a Jar, latest issue.

Miz Bridge and Molly the Chocolate Lab.