Deadly Ever After

Archive for the tag “Discoredia”

RUNNING HOME and All Books of the Dead Titles Have a Celebration Sale!

TODAY’S BREW: Not cider. Drank it all.

By Julie

THINGS HAVE HAPPENED! My publisher, Books of the Dead Press’s blog has hit a quarter million views, and so to celebrate

ALL BOOKS OF THE DEAD NOVELS ARE 99 CENTS THIS WEEK!!!!

Yes, that means Running Home, which you can get here, for the same price as shitty 7-11 coffee. http://t.co/wXBPE87nMX

You’ve also heard me babble incessantly about my good friend, J.C. who wrote the horror I fangirl over, Discoredia. HIS book is less than a buck, too. If you like the hidden themes and story within a story style of my writing, Discoredia is for you. I’m hard put to find a novelist that can create something so frightening, but with so much poetic beauty to it. There’s no cheap thrills here, I actually started talking to J.C. on Authonomy, when I got my first review and it was a little overly critical, perhaps. This guy came out of nowhere and told my critic to shut up, and then I got a peek at Discoredia, and was instantly hooked on his writing style. We became close friends over the last year and a half, and that became even thicker when we both got picked up by Books of the Dead. Discoredia was one of the rare books to make it to the Harper Collins editor’s desk at Authonomy, and they had actual good things to say about it! There’s a rarity.

“Readers also won’t be surprised to learn that I swear a lot, have a bad temper, and have been known to display a nasty streak at times. Marriage and fatherhood have mellowed me, but Discoredia was written in, and belongs to, the period of my life before that,” J.C. said to me, when I told him I want people to know him the way I do.

The reason I think the book works so well is because J.C. never wrote it to be published. “I wrote Discoredia because I was challenged to write a novel. It was written for two people, myself and the person that made that challenge. I never aimed on it being published. That’s why it’s so personal, and also why it’s quite commercially naive in that it doesn’t “fit” the genre. Now it’s not about me any more, it’s about something which other people will hopefully enjoy. So click here to buy it y’fuckers.”  YES, THIS IS LITERALLY FRESH OUT THE EMAIL HE SENT ME. http://t.co/UZXLvCqGcD

The band of freaks that Books of the Dead Press picked up this past spring became fast friends, but Mark Matthews and I clicked and are constantly in each other’s faces these days. One of the most genuine guys on the planet, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that man can creep me out with the shit he comes up with in a mere tweet, let alone the insane stories he comes up with. (If you don’t believe me, check out last Friday’s flash fiction bit from Mark right here.  http://wp.me/p2x7oj-y3. His writing is so crisp, so evocative and deeply disturbing, I just shake my head at how he comes up with it. SO FOR A BUCK, BUY On the Lips of Children right here. http://t.co/mFzbjq8rNL. Thank me later via check or credit card.

TO SEE ALL OF THE TITLES THAT ARE 99CENTS, GO SLAP AROUND BOOKS OF THE DEAD PRESS HERE http://t.co/3YowvUPte4. (Shut up and buy Mountain Home by Bracken MacLeod, too. Shut up, baby, I won’t recommend any more books, I swear to God.)

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My Dumb Sick Day

TODAY’S BREW: Water. I am feeling a little punched in the face today.

By Julie

Today, I feel like crap. I think this soul-sucking tetanus shot that I was due for did it to me. Let me give you a brief overview. I go to the doctor for an innocent little physical. Moments later, I’m having blood drawn, being jabbed mercilessly with a needle while the tech tells me it’s coming out really slow, until I get really light headed and start hurking into the trash can while saying how embarassed I am and eating tiny peppermint patties for comfort/nourishment/condolences. WHATEVER, STUPID SHOT, IT’S YOUR FAULT, YOU HAPPENED FIRST.

These are the things I want for my sick day that isn’t even really a sick day but I feel like crap and even napped, so here, indulge me because I came home with clothes in a biohazard bag from the doctor’s office today, and that’s real.

1.  A hot water bottle like old people use

2.  A Twilight movie marathon. No joke, I want that.

3.  To never move from under this fuzzy orange blanket.

4.  Someone to rub my feet and tell me I’m a pretty, pretty princess.

5.  One and one half gallons of Earl Grey tea.

6.  A Sears Christmas catalog to leaf through. Not the new one which is a glorified pamphlet. The old one, the one that mattered. The Wish Book.

7.  After the Twilight marathon, The Golden Girls.

8.  Six naps.

9.  A bunch of people to go buy J.C. Michael’s Discoredia right here http://t.co/UZXLvCqGcD

There is no number ten. I’m not greedy, just wanty.

Taking donations of above items now.

The World’s Longest Thank You by Julie

TODAY’S BREW: Still drinking champagne.

By Julie

I didn’t move from my laptop the whole morning. This is the text I woke up to from Kristen the first morning Running Home was up on Amazon:

WAKE THE FUCK UP.

LOOK. CHRIST ON A CRUTCH WOMAN YOU’RE KILLING ME.

(sees Amazon ranking of 25 in Dark Fantasy and 12,298 in total books. Hurks into mouth a bit.)

Running Home has been out in the world for ten days (at this point), and is still getting better reception than I ever expected. It’s still in the top 100,000 books on Amazon, which to me is like being in the pretty girl’s club. I don’t know how people release books and don’t just cry into their hands all day at the sheer fucking joy of it.

I have these incredible people all around me that never waiver in their loyalty, and stand next to me through everything. This is a team effort. I wrote the book, but this is showbiz, folks, and it takes an army. The people who put me on their blogs, and are writing reviews, and read the damn thing, and tweeted with me while I was querying and supported me while I freaked out, they are my friends, not my team. They are my family, not my pseudo-employees.

I have a small army sorta. There’s not a thank you card in the world that could possibly say how I feel. And there are so many of you! So many people who handed me over their blogs to make a mess of as I please. So many of you who retweet my crap. And all of you who keep me going when I need it most.

Some of the best friends anyone could ask for and that I never thought I would find; Josh Hewitt, the brother I never wanted. Julie Hill, who makes me feel like I can do it, all the time. Beau Barnett, the sweetest, kindest ladies’ man that brings tears to my eyes with his support.

Laura Hughes, Reggie Whitley, Torgs, Megan Paasch, Jessie Devine, and Lou Gornall. You guys are at my very core, and I couldn’t survive without your faces. Or in Reggie’s case, without his hair.

Chris Liccardi and Bobby Salomons. Or Solomons. Bobby, for real, this last name stands in my way. You guys hear more behind the scenes than you probably want to, and I love you for it. Friends forever. I’d get bracelets if I could that said it.

Thanks to Dylan Morgan, who’s been a friend for a long time, and supported me the entirety of it.

My brothers at Books of the Dead Press, especially John F.D. Taff, my old friend, and one of my new favorite people, Mark Matthews. I’m so happy we’ve become the friends we have. And James Roy Daley. You believed in this book right away, and no matter how many bumps we’ve met getting out there, we did it. I have you to thank for making it real.

Thank you Jacke Czel, Elisa, Megan Eccles, Megan Orsini, all the Megans, including the incomparable Megan Kay, who touches my heart every day. Thank you, Imran Siddiq, for reading my book when he clearly has more to do in a minute than anyone on the planet.

Lydia Aswolf, I cannot thank you enough, honestly. The media support alone, but there could be no better woman in the world to make me feel like I really stand a chance out there. You make me a stronger writer.

How can I thank Jolene Haley? Not only is she one of the first friends I ever made on Twitter, but she has given me endless ideas that I execute poorly to promote the book, she sent me a pre-published book by one of my favorite authors, and she is endlessly gushing over me between making sexual comments. I love you, Jolene.

Rob Kristoffersen, Huggy Bear. The work you put into doing my review, and all the virtual holding back of my hair while I hurked. I love you dearly, but even I had no idea that you would come through for me in such a huge way. I’m floored by it.

My friends at Opening Line Magazine! That review and the interview, and the publishing of The Love Abominable stories, and the tweeting, and all the wonderful conversations we have, AND THAT REVIEW! Finding Opening Line was one of the best things to ever happen to me in the release of this book, and when I think “dream come true” I envision that review and the cover of Running Home on your site. Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you to Phil Cone, a man beyond measure, one of my favorite authors and one of the people I never expected to need in my life the way I do. You may tell me I’m a shitty writer all day long, but I know you think otherwise. Also, everyone go buy Paddy Nemesis. You wish you could write with that little filter, but you can’t because you’re not the amazing Phil Cone. You mug.

One of the first people to ever say Running Home was a solid book, even before it was, was JC Michael. This man went to bat for me immediately after my very first somewhat negative criticism on Authonomy. Then I read Discoredia, and we’ve been in each other’s faces ever since. We’ve come so far together, and I couldn’t be more grateful to have a friend in you.

AND YOU PEOPLE HAD BETTER ALL BUY DISCOREDIA WHEN BOOKS OF THE DEAD PUTS IT OUT SOON, BECAUSE YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. YOU DON’T EVEN.

One of my real life people, Jillian Marques. This gorgeous creature was actually a favorite employee of mine over ten years ago, and reappeared in my life, thank God, as a grown adult. I loved this girl from the minute I met her, and still do. Now, she’s not only an amazing support person in my life, and one I can always count on, but she has amazing writing chops of her own. Jilly Bean, I can’t wait until your work is out there for everyone to read. I love you.

Chynna-Blue Scott. The British little sister I never had. I don’t know what I did before you, and certainly won’t ever be able to be without you. Nobody knows just how much we really talk, but you’re one of my best friends in the world, for anyone who doesn’t know. Even if you didn’t have an amazing mind for what to do with Running Home, and didn’t put all the effort in that you do to be my personal cheerleader, I would still think you are one of the most incredible people on the planet. Brilliant, hilarious, beautiful and with a voice unlike any other I’ve ever heard in a novel. I love you dearly. Thank you for everything.

Kristen Strassel. You guys all see that we’re inseparable, but it’s so much more than that. Kristen has believed in my writing since we were kids, and has believed in Running Home even when I didn’t. She is the reason why I’m not in a social media hole. She’s the reason why I know anything about all the avenues I took to get this book published. She’s the reason why I never stopped. She was next to me when I pitched this book to an agent by phone in Hurricane Sandy, when we shouldn’t have driven to New Jersey, but did. Not because she needed an agent, but because I did. She feeds me, listens to me, is loved by my children, mom and husband, and she does more for me on an emotional level than even she realizes, and I can’t ever be without her. Kristen, I can’t wait to do this for Because The Night and Night Moves, not to  mention all the other awesome stuff you’re going to write.

And last, I swear, my husband, Tim Hutchings. You put our entire lives on the line by letting me leave my job to pursue this, because you always knew I could do it. You smile through the hardest times, you hold me when I can’t get out of my own head, you love me when I’m too hard to love. You’ve always seen me, and I’ve always seen you. There will never be anyone in the world who reaches my very soul the way you do. There’s no life for me without you in it. I love you more than you can ever know.

There are more people in the world for me to thank, but not all of them will read this, including Mrs. K, and Mr. Waterhouse, my 5th grade teacher. And Professors Curley and Hurley. (That’s real.) And of course, my mom and stepdad, and my Dad. But this is all I can take for today. I love you all.

The 12 Days of Christmas by JC Michael

This is our good friend, JC Michael’s idea of the 12 Days of Christmas!  He is the author of Discoredia, which we posted an excerpt from some time before now.  You will find he has one of the most original minds in horror out there.  Go read it, then buy his book, I command you.

 

On the first day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
A message through my Sony T.V.

On the second day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the third day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
A nine mill. Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
A ten gauge sawn-off,
A nine mill. Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Eleven men to shoot,
A ten gauge sawn-off,
A nine mill. Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Twelve final victims,
Eleven men to shoot,
A ten gauge sawn-off,
A nine mill. Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three Beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V!

 

Discoredia by JC Michael: Read This Horror Novel and Like It, Damnit!

TODAY’S BREW: As much coffee as I can fit in all 5’2″ of my body.

This, my fine young friends, is the first chapter of our good friend, JC Michael’s horror, Discoredia. What I love about his work is the very realistic fright fest it provides, all while giving you kick-ass imagery that makes it a thoughtful read at the same time.

Discoredia is currently #1 on the list of books headed to the editor’s desk on http://www.Authonomy.com. I could not be more pleased to see a horror novel take that spot, and even more pleased that it is JC’s. He has worked for it the good, old-fashioned, honest way. Enjoy the read, and check out the whole novel on Authonomy!

CHAPTER 1

He was wrecked, wasted, totally, utterly, and unashamedly, out of his head. God it was good.
Back home he felt old, past his prime, almost thirty, and the drugs of the new millennium had disappointingly failed to live up to the promise of their ‘90s predecessors. He could remember a time when a couple of good E’s, Doves perhaps, were all he’d needed for a twelve-hour shift. Nowadays, gobbling down a dozen or more still wouldn’t guarantee he’d last an all-nighter, at least not without ending up huddled in a corner, wishing it would end. As for the music, to him it increasingly sounded like sped-up pop, the decline in quality seemingly linked to the current rise in popularity. Sometimes, he wondered why he still bothered.
Tonight, he knew why. Tonight was different. It was the payoff, the reward for his persistence. He felt young, a youth in his mid-twenties with his life ahead of him, and he was completely fucked; fucked on a single, solitary, pill. The music consumed him within his personal utopia. It was hard. Fast. Mean. It had retained its edge. This was real Hardcore, pride of place in the Main Arena, not shunted off into a shitty side-room to make way for the latest Top Ten bootleg. A Main Arena that in itself represented a step back in time to the good old days. An old school Shangri-La devoid of neon and fluorescents. No bright lights. No inflatables. No fucking foam. This was a proper rave, not a poor imitation like the ones back home that at times seemed more like a kid’s birthday party. The oppressive darkness was a world of shadows, a world filled with smoke and pierced by lasers. A warehouse full of Gabbers, not Hard House posers. He was overwhelmed. He was loving it. So what if he was abroad? This felt like home should feel.
This was RottRave, billed as Rotterdam’s hardest Rave of the year, and the first time he had travelled outside of England for a night out. By these standards, it wouldn’t be his last. Gabber, Techno, and Speedcore, an unholy triumvirate of styles of ultra-hard dance music, each of which endeavoured to trepan through his skull and bore into his brain. He lived for this music, so full of aggression and raw power.
He’d bought his ticket over the Internet; got a cheap crossing on North Sea Ferries with a voucher from the local paper. Made some new friends. Got drunk. Got caned on the best weed Amsterdam had to offer. Yet somehow still managed to get here. He wasn’t certain how. The pill had been purchased off a shady looking guy in a Feyenoord shirt. A bargain at five Euros. The end result? The night of his fucking life. He’d lost his new mates somewhere in the smoke, but he didn’t care. He was rushing like fuck.
This was how things should be, how they were meant to be, how they had been back in the day. The music engulfed him, taking away all perception of when and where. Time meant nothing; only the beat mattered. His hands, and the trails they made as he moved them, mesmerised him. How long had he been dancing? No idea. It must have been hours but he didn’t feel tired, not at all, he had energy to spare. Rushes of blissful euphoria swept over him in waves, swamping his thoughts with ideas of how this was it, nothing else mattered, work, family, life, all a sham, an empty way of existence. This was pure; he was one with the music, one with the crowd, the crowd he could barely make out through the smoke surrounding him. Everyone else just a shade in the mist. Brothers and sisters he knew were there, but by sense, rather than sight. He was lost but he was found, found himself, found a home, found God.
He stumbled, a momentary sickness coursed through him, but it passed, to be replaced by a glimmer of clarity as he remembered where he was. How long had he been tranced out like that? He tried to think, but the concept of time eluded him. Had he been dancing? Dancing like a shaman caught up in the rapture of ecstasy, or stood, barely moving, like a rock buffeted by the power of an angry sea, a violent ocean of beats and bass. He thought about it. He didn’t know. His thoughts moved on and someone spoke in his ear but the words were lost, drowned out by the sped up chorus of a track sampling one of the classics. “Eezer Goode, Eezer Goode, He’s Ebenezer Goode”. He began to dance and lost himself once more.
A melody swept around him, lifting him like an eagle on a thermal, before the percussive bass thundered in once more. Occasionally he thought that he recognised a tune, but before he could be sure, it disappeared. The mixing was tight and fast, each song replaced no sooner had it started. It was how D.J’ing should be, a skill, an art. Not one record played for three minutes forty-five before having its outro mixed with the intro of another mass-produced, music by numbers, piece of crap. He could barely tell where one track started and another ended; the changes so rapid it all merged into one, but he knew that although it sounded like a single tune, it was many. He tried to concentrate, to focus, but his head span, his attempts to think requiring too much effort when conscious thought was merely a distraction from the instinctiveness of being high. He closed his eyes and closed his mind, letting the music take him yet again.
Another stumble. He was at the front. Had he just got here or been here all along? He didn’t know. He turned his back to the stage and looked into the crowd. He raised his hands, and they raised theirs. He was a King. He turned. And saw his Queen.

The M.C surveyed the crowd before him. It was a good night with the D.Js on top form and those packing the dancefloor seemed well up for a party. He took a drink of lukewarm water and looked around some more. What the hell was Ruud doing? He recognised the girl as a regular at Gabber nights in the area, but why Ruud would be helping her up onto the speakers, he had no idea. If he wanted a “gabberinnen” to put on a bit of a show there were plenty more to choose from, the vast majority of which made this one look like the trash she was. Scrawny with greasy lank hair, and wearing the same grubby pale blue outfit and beaten up trainers she always wore, she looked terrible. Part of him hoped she would fall off the speaker stack; her attempts at dancing were an embarrassment, although there was some nut gazing up at her who looked positively besotted. He’d heard the rumours that the bitch was anyone’s for a line of coke or a hit of crack, but Ruud just wasn’t into that kind of thing. It didn’t make sense but then again, so what? Ruud now seemed more interested in the guy dancing like a lunatic in front of the little skank anyway, though God knew why. He put down his bottle and, raising the mic to his lips, berated the crowd for being too quiet. He could quiz the Ruudster later.

He heard the MC on the stage demand that the crowd make some noise but he was too engrossed in the divine image of the goddess in front of him to care. She was beautiful, and had been placed on a pedestal just for him. As she danced atop the speaker, he felt himself imitate her movements, first in canon, then seemingly in unison. He stopped imitating when she looked at him and smiled. He was transfixed as she raised her hands above her head, clamped her fists together, and danced as though performing for his own, personal, enjoyment. Performing a sensual, sexual dance around an invisible pole.
As the lasers on the stage behind her penetrated into the darkness they lit up the blonde streaks which shimmered as they shot through her long hair. Hair which was so luxurious it belonged in a shampoo advert. Hair which was held back from her face by a thick, pale blue, Alice-band only a shade lighter than the tight, cropped, running top and matching micro shorts that she wore. Hair which framed the angular features of her angelic face. His eyes lingered for a moment, noting her clamped-shut eyes, small nose, and rich, full, lips, before looking down over the curves of her slim, athletic figure.
Reaching out, he touched the pure white Nike trainer that, despite the writhing of her body, remained rooted in its spot on the speaker before him, level with his own shoulders. He felt the vibration of the bass through her foot and ran his hand up over her ankle to her calf, the nylon of her tan tights sending a tingle of static through his fingertips. The tingle was matched, and then exceeded, by a jolt of electricity that he now felt rushing up his spine to the base of his neck. He tilted his head back to gaze upon her. His whole body rigid. His penis erect.
Her foot pulled back and he looked up. Looked into a pair of ice-cold eyes above a sneer that demanded, “Who the fuck are you?” How could she not know he was her King? He smiled to bring her out of her confusion. She showed him her middle finger. The sign was universal and it was treason. A blatant act of treachery compounded by the audacity to only now bring a smile to her face.
The rage that exploded within him saw the tingle within his spine vanish, its replacement feeling like a column of molten lava erupting upwards and into his brain. He lunged forwards, sinking his teeth into her calf, his incisors biting through the nylon and puncturing her skin. The coppery taste of her blood excited his tongue, and as he pulled away, the nylon of her tights stretched and then tore into ladders running up towards her thigh, like a damaged spider-web. The fabric snapped as he ripped away a mouthful of flesh. His Queen fell to her knees, falling where she stood to bow down in supplication before her Lord, but her obedience had come too late. With her face only inches from his he paid scant attention to the wide-eyed terror that had consumed her, for now he could see her for the hag she was. The music pounded in his head, beating upon his brain. What trickery, what witchcraft, had she used to deceive him so? She looked at him, her eyes pleading for mercy, but nevertheless, she had disrespected him and must pay.
As violent eruptions in his brain demanded retribution that be both swift, and brutal, he knew that if he didn’t succumb, if he didn’t obey and deal with the slut before him, his head would crack open like the slopes of a volcano. He showed her his own middle finger and then thrust his head forward, straining his mouth open so wide that his jaw cracked, and bit her again, this time her neck. His teeth were clamped down, the jugular, yes; he remembered the vein’s name from the vampire films he’d watched in his teens with a fleeting clarity that had no business interloping on the fury that devoured him. He felt her pulse with the tip of his tongue as she tried to pull away, and bit down harder. The vein was severed and, as the lava continued to erupt in his brain, her blood pumped onto his face from the fissure he had torn in her flesh. His vision was gone, a thick red curtain brought down over his eyes. He swallowed a mouthful of blood and revelled in its richness.

“Security to the front of the stage. Fuck. Fucking Security. Down Here. Now.” They were words he barely registered.

He wiped the blood from his brow and the vision returned in his left eye just in time to see the M.C, microphone still in hand, jump off the stage and run towards him down the metre-wide gap between stage and stand-off barriers. He guessed that the muscle-bound skinhead bearing down towards him, with what looked like a bootprint tattooed on the right side of his face, was a fighter, and that was one skill he had never had, but the explosions in his head had opened up his brain. Areas previously unaccessed had swollen and burst, releasing the suppressed knowledge of ancestors now forgotten by time, but who had existed through eras far more warlike than the twenty-first century Europe he knew. He was suddenly aware of his bloodline, the warrior DNA that had been hidden for so long, and he had nothing to fear. The right hook, which M.C Bootface probably thought was a dead cert to break his jaw, came at him and he ducked it with ease. Now it was his move.
Throughout his act of aggression towards the innocent young woman, now collapsed, twitching, on the speaker before him, and the attempted retaliation that had followed, his middle finger had, unlike his manhood, remained rigid. In the absence of any weapon, other than his own body, he plunged the digit into Bootface’s right eye socket as hard as he could. He felt the eyeball push back and then ride up over the finger that he now curled and hooked into the socket, before yanking back and simultaneously launching his head forwards. The resulting collision shattered Bootface’s nose and, hearing the crack, he realised that the music had ceased. Cries, shouts and screams had taken its place but he didn’t care, the music was still there for him, there in his head. The red curtain descended again as more blood spilt over him. Act Two was complete. He felt so alive and wiped his face clear on his sleeve. Adrenaline coursed through his body like never before. Then another crack, this time from himself. Cheek? Jaw? He was unsure. His conviction began to falter as pain muscled into his thoughts. He fell to the floor and rolled to his right, looking up just in time to see the boot of a bouncer stomping down towards the side of his face. He moved. This time his reactions let him down. The boot connected, mashing his cheekbone further and leaving an imprint eerily similar to that etched on the M.C’s face. The red curtain dropped for a third time and the fire within him began to subside, the lava within the column of his spine and crater of his brain cooling and solidifying into paralysis.
Grabbed by the arms he found himself being dragged away. Through his court. Through his subjects. What had happened? Wasn’t he their King? Or was he a usurper whose rule was now coming to a bloody end? Confusion drifted upon him, the rush of adrenaline spent. Where was he? What were these people looking at? Looks of horror and disgust contorting their faces as he passed. Dragged further now, beyond those who had bore stunned witness to his madness, and to those unaware of what had just transpired and who seemed only to care why the music had stopped. Past more who looked at him with a morbid fascination. Why? He could taste blood. Was it his? Someone else’s? A cocktail of both? Had he had a fit? Collapsed? Been attacked? He felt sick but was unable to retch. Dragged further. He could see a light; a side door had been opened.
Hauled towards the opening now and he spotted a guy in a Feyenoord shirt standing out in the crowd. Did he know him? He thought so but the jumble in his mind failed to either confirm or deny. The man was talking into his mobile, but as he passed him he lowered it from the side of his face and looked straight at him, smiling as he did so. Who the fuck was he? Did it matter? And then he was gone, lost back into the throng of gabbers as he himself was hauled from it through the door and into the light. A pulse of nausea convulsed his stomach, creating an unsettling feeling that something intangible had been torn from deep within him. He was beginning to lose consciousness, but a voice pulled him back, someone saying someone had been assaulted, killed, could it be something to do with him? He didn’t know. He felt drowsy. He felt himself being dropped to the floor, but his eyes were now closed. Oblivion demanded him.

http://authonomy.com/books/42398/discoredia/ Now, go! Go, and back this novel for free on Authonomy so we can see this sucker in print!

HAPPY HORROR MONTH!

TODAY’S BREW: pumpkin, of course

It’s Horror Month here on Deadly Ever After! And also at every strip mall that features a Spirit of Halloween store.

Kristen and I love Halloween, though oddly, not getting dressed up in costumes. I am a little too low maintenance for that, and spend a little too much time doing it with the kids. Any day I get out of pajamas is like getting dressed up for me.

October promises all kinds of creep factor! We will feature a blogspot for our friend, JC Michael, and his fantastic horror novel, Discoredia. We are planning a trip to Salem! I am very excited for this, and haven’t been there in years. We will give you the scoop on how awesome that is. There will be plenty of zombie-related material, some courtesy of our good friend, Rob. (See Zombie pin-up calendars! Place your orders now!) We will find horror-related fashion, and horror art. We will post pics from my trip to Roger Williams Park Zoo’s Pumpkin Spooktacular, an annual tradition for the Hutchings family. (Hope for me that there is a Bea Arthur pumpkin again!) We will do a short story or two for you all. I will tell you my favorite horror movies and why, may favorite horror novels and why, my favorite everything about October and why. Why you ask? Because I can, that’s why.

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