"If stories are lies, then they are good lies, that say true things." - Neil Gaiman

January 02, 2010

Flash Story Featured on The New Bedlam Project

 

My flash piece, Black Dog Whispers, is featured in this month's issue of The New Bedlam Project, a pretty neat creation of Jodi Lee and Louise Bohmer.  Basically, New Bedlam is a haunted town where oddness abounds.  That, and most the townspeople have been suffering insomnia for ages.  Sounds like my kind of place. 

Anyway.  Enjoy.  If you'd like, leave a comment after the story.

December 22, 2009

Hiram Grange Marches Forward....


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the heels of the release of Hiram Grange and the Village of the Damned (B&N, Amazon, SP), Scott Christian Carr's wildly original novella, Hiram Grange and the Twelve Little Hitlers, has already begun to create some excitement among advance readers. Hitlers is the second installment in the Scandalous Misadventures of Hiram Grange series.

One of those readers is none other than Loyd Kaufman, President of Troma Entertainment and Creator of the Toxic Avenger.  Kaufman read Hitlers, and said it was:

 "more fun than a barrel full of Hitlers... The best novel since Don Quixote!"

Greg Hall, the master of ceremonies over at the Funky Werepig radio show was equally impressed:

“Somewhere in the Underworld, Lovecraft is grinning with delight and Hunter S. Thompson is raising his bottle high. You won’t find a darker, more twisted character than Hiram Grange.”

But the lavish praise and adoration don't stop there! Renowned  sci-fi author Patricia Anthony, who wrote Cold Allies, Brother Termite, Conscience of the Beagle, Happy Policeman, Cradle of Splendor, God's Fires, Flanders, and Eating Memories said this about Hitlers:


"Scott Christian Carr is one of the most insightful writers I know. He's also one of the funniest. Reading 'Twelve Little Hitlers' never fails put you under an intellectual pleasure-dome, which is great in and of itself --- The unexpected surprise is, you'll also laugh your ass off!" 

Stay tuned for the January 2010 release of Carr's Hiram Grange and the Twelve Little Hitlers!

December 05, 2009

The Advent of Hiram Grange

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hiram Grange Chronicles finally begins with Book One of the series, Hiram Grange & The Village of the Damned, available now on Amazon. You certainly don't have to pick it up to understand my title, Book Four - Hiram Grange & The Chosen One - but it would help, and also it'd be great help in building a fan base for the series.  The first installment has received glowing advance praise, and I'm jazzed that several authors whom I respect and admire have agreed to read mine ahead of time and provide blurbs for me, also.

I'm anticipating a lot of fun with this series, my title in particular.  I've several extra scenes I had to cut due to length, but they all tie into the story nicely, so I plan on releasing them as "webisodes" and through the newsletter, so be looking for that.  As a teaser - now that everything is all coming unwrapped - I've thrown in some of the artwork related to my title.  Just make sure you go check out
Malcom McClinton, the man who has given Hiram his disreputable but endearing mug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


November 14, 2009

Shroud Magazine, Issue 7 Now Available


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Issue 7 of Shroud Magazine, featuring my interview with the producers of the film adaptation of Brian Keene's "Dark Hollow" and the debut of Brian's column, "Seminal Screams", is now available.  Brian's column will detail classic, must reads for those who want to read and/or write in the horror genre.  Pick up today.  Great Christmas gift for your little darklings at home!

"Shroud is excited to offer Shroud 7, more than 150 pages of thrilling fiction, insightful articles, and amazing art encompassing the many exciting facets of dark fiction. In this issue, Shroud is absolutely thrilled to showcase an exclusive excerpt of best selling author, John Shirley's, latest novel. In addition, Shroud 7 will have original and horrific stories and columns from Brian Keene, Timothy P. Remp, Jackie Gamber, Richard Alan Scott, Jason Keene, Michael Knost, Robert Canipe, D.L. Snell, Kevin Lucia, The Brothers' May, Norman Rubenstein, Joel Sutherland, Adam J. Whitlatch, Adam Blomquist, and so many more! More than 150 pages of amazing and intelligent dark fiction. From noir to Horror!"

 

November 09, 2009

New Story Featured in Collection

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My latest non-fiction piece is now available in Guideposts' new inspirational collection Praying from the Heart. It's book#1 in a 12-book series on prayer called True Stories of Extraordinary Answers to Prayer.

My story is "More Than We Asked For", and it's about the challenges my wife and I have faced in the past year or so with the diagnosis of both my son and daughter as special needs children, and how prayer especially has been something that's supported us through this.

It's currently available here, but I imagine eventually it'll be on Amazon, and can be purchased through brick and mortar stores, also.

The submission call is still open for stories to fill the other eleven books, so I'm hoping if the "muse" sings, I'll have another story to pitch for this series soon.

November 02, 2009

KILL BRIAN KEENE ON YOUR BLOG

The Tragedy of Brianus Keenemus
 
"Mr. Keene? You've been really great and I'm sure you're probably sick and tired of answering all our questions..."
 
Brian smiled at the speaker, a pretty blond high school junior named Maggie.  Or Sarah.  Erin?  He'd laid off the Knob Creek this morning because of a bad head cold, but the cheap decongestant he'd bought at some hick gas station on the way here was kicking his ass...and his brain...all over the place.  Amazing.  For once in my freakin' life, my 'strong cold medicine' excuse is actually legit.
 
He blinked and smiled wider - but not too wide.  Didn't want to give the wrong impression.  He'd never done a high school gig like this before, (at a Catholic School, no less), and he didn't want to fuck it up.  St. John the Evangelist High School was a relatively short trip over the New York/PA border, and it'd be nice to make this an annual thing.  Easiest cash he'd ever make, plus bagging new generations of Keene fans every year.  If he could just manage to "not be him", (as Alethea and Kelli each had put it - in slightly more colorful terms - over the phone last night), for another hour or so, this would turn out to be the best speaking engagement he'd ever had.
 
Wide grin. Whoops, too wide.  "Sure.  I think we've got a few minutes left..?" He glanced at St. John's Creative Writing teacher, the guy who'd invited him to be a part of their first annual Writers Series, Andrew Slater.  Dressed in pressed slacks, white ironed shirt and a formal black sports jacket, the English teacher had made Brian worried he'd be under-dressed when they met this morning.  Slater had laughed at that, though, (in a pretty prissy chuckle, if Brian remembered correctly), waving him off with, "Oh, go on.  I'm just dressed like this because I'm the Dean of Students.  Role model and all that."
 
Still.  What the hell did that make him?  Brian fought the urge to glance down reproachfully at his favorite Anthrax hoodie.  Fuck 'em.  Bring the noise, and all that shit.  I'm fucking Brian Keene.  This is what I do.
 
Mr. Slater smiled and nodded.  Prissy, Brian thought again. Absolutely.  "Sure, Cindy.  We've got time for one more."
 
Prissy or not, guy had done him a favor by mentioning the girl's name, effectively saving his decongestant-addled ass.  Had to give him that.  Brian nodded at Mr. Slater, turned and smiled not-too-big-but-just-right at Cindy.  "Go ahead, Cin.  Fire away."
 
Cindy screwed up her thin but not unattractive face and breathed deeply, as if she'd been marshaling all her energies for this one question.  "Okay.  Now, I know from reading your blogs and memoirs and other stuff that this is probably a sore spot..."
 
Shit.
 
"...but I wanted to ask a question about The Rising."
 
Double shit.  Fuckin' goddamn, Donkey Kong, Thundaar the Barbarian shit.
 
"What I wanted to ask is this: why the hell was everyone so pissed about the ending?  Why'd Leisure make you write Dead City? I thought The Rising was fine as it was!"
 
Brian smiled, and didn't care at all how wide.  "Young lady...how'd you like Brian Keene books free, for the rest of your life?"
 
*
 
Ten Minutes Later
 
"That was really cool, Mr. Slater.  I gotta be honest, I was a little nervous talking to high school students and all...but that went really, really well."
 
Mr. Slater nodded as they walked down the green-locker lined halls to the day's last class.  Now that he'd gotten a chance to speak with the teacher a little, Brian found the guy very likable...if still a bit prissy.  "Well, it's been quite an honor having you here today.  Having someone of your talent and stature share the writing process with kids who want to do it themselves someday...that's better than any creative writing assignment I can give, really."
 
"Always glad to meet with aspiring writers."
 
A few steps later they stopped before an unmarked door to a room with the number '107' over it.
Brian, feeling a victorious flush from the day's success, clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly.  "All right.  Who'm I speaking with next?  Gen Ed kids?  English for Trade School students? I'm ready to inspire."
 
"Hmm. Right."  A cold spot formed in Brian's cut, dimming his excitement.  Slater looked almost... sheepish.  Hell, he looked embarrassed, toeing the floor with the nervous anxiety of a junior virgin taking the high school slut to the prom.  "Actually, you'll be speaking with my principal's class next...Ms. Pachette."
 
It was a terrible cliche, but Brian didn't give a rat's ass.  He LITERALLY felt the color drain from his face. "Principal? What...what class?"
 
"AP Literature."
 
Brian gaped. Swallowed.  Finally found a voice, and it wasn't a happy voice, at all. "AP Literature?  Dude...Mr. Slater...I barely graduated high school and flunked English.  How the hell am I gonna ...what the hell am I gonna say to them?"
 
Slater looked up but away, clearly avoiding his gaze.  "It'll be fine, really.  Just say something literary.  But don't talk about Urban Gothic or Castaways or Dark Hollow...or anything else you've written.  Just....well, talk about Ghost Walk.  That was pretty literary."
 
"What? How the fuck do you figure?"
 
"Well.  Didn't you mention H. P. Lovecraft a few times in that one? He's pretty literary.  Sort of."
 
Another cliche gripped him as cold sweat slicked his brow. "What the hell are you doing to me here, kid?  Surrendering me to the firing squad?"
 
Slater finally looked up and met his gaze with apologetic eyes.  "Sorry, Mr. Keene.  The only way I can get these writers approved is for them to meet with Ms. Pachette and her AP class last.  It's nothing personal.  Honest."
 
Brian sputtered.  He spit.  His bladder felt terribly, terribly full, because here he was, where he'd swore he'd never be, ever again: about to meet the principal.
 
Slater patted his shoulder. "It'll be fine.  Just...don't be you.  Be Mort Castle, or something."
 
Brian's eyes widened.  "What? M-mort Castle? That's fucking..."
 
The time for words had passed.  With the grim finality and certainty of a gallows axeman, Slater turned the knob and pushed open the door.  Brian, seemingly unable to control his own steps, gave Slater a weak look, then walked through the door.
 
"Oh, by the way," he heard Slater whisper behind him, "be careful.  She HATES horror.  Use the term 'gothic romance', or something."
 
The door thundered shut behind him.
 
*
 
"Welcome, Mr. Keene.  Please. Have a seat."
 
Brian swallowed again.  His mouth tasted like dry cotton.  He regarded the tableau before him with a crippling sense of dread.  All the other students he'd met certainly dressed nicely and formally, but they didn't compare to these.  The boys: armored in deep forest green suit jackets with the school crest emblazoned on the right breast, replete with green slacks, a white dress shirt and deep green tie.  The girls likewise donned green blazers buttoned right up, all wearing knee-length plaid skirts, white stockings, and black, sensible flats, not a high heel among them.
 
Every hair in place.  Ever senior boy's face shaved to a opalescent shine, and all of them...looking at him with the same flat, hungry look he always gave the zombies in his novels.
 
Oh. Hell. I'm fucked.  Royally.
 
"Over here, Mr. Keene."  The principal patted a chair next to her.  "At the head of the table. Right where someone of your literary status belongs."
 
Feeling like the only Ozzy Osbourne fan at a Pentecostal tent revival, Brian crept on rubbery legs around the table towards his seat, feeling every inch of the students' collective, burning gaze.  Somehow, he settled himself next the principal, swallowing back a rush of bile as he regarded the stern, chiseled-in-granite visage regarding him with a baleful glare.
 
"So happy to have you with us today, Mr. Keene. It's quite a treat to have a best-selling author to share his insights on the writing process and the power of literature."
 
"Uhh.  Thanks."  Shit! That wasn't literary.
 
"I was wondering if you could share with my class some of your influences, the great writers of the past from whom you draw your inspiration.  Maybe some of the writers we've even studied this year, perhaps?"
 
"Uhh.  Maybe." Yeah, right. Not fucking likely! "Well.  Edgar Allen Poe was the first, I guess." He turned and smiled feebly.  "I mean, everyone reads him in school, right?"
 
The students didn't react, twitch an eyelid...hell, breathe, even.  Desperate, he glanced back at the dour-faced principal, and when he saw her pursed lips and narrow her eyes...he knew.  He just knew.
 
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
 
"Yes. Poe. Of course.  But I'm sure you've read other, more influential voices than his?"
 
Brian bounced his knee and tapped it with his index finger, over and over.  "Yeah, sure.  Uhh...well, Bradbury was kinda cool.  When I was 12.  Stephen King, of course.  I mean," he added in a rush, "everyone likes him, right?"
 
He glanced around the silent room, and his heart dropped out as he saw that no, not everyone liked Stephen King.  At all.
 
He looked back at the principal, somehow holding a wince of pain back as her black little eyes bored smoking holes into his gut. "Well.  There's Matheson.  William F. Nolan?  Jack Ketchum.  He wrote under a pseudo-whatever.  Fake name.  That's sort of literary.  Layman?  He wrote a novel about Jack the Ripper...I think."
 
The principal's face wrinkled in displeasure. Perversely, Brian wondered - if it kept wrinkling, would the skin peel away from the skull and reveal teeming maggots beneath? No, stop it! That's the decongestant talking, dammit!
 
"What about James Joyce? Faulkner? O'Connor? Hemingway?"
 
Brian brightened. "I read a story about Hemingway once. It was called 'Old Man and the Dead.' It was written by..." oh, hell.  "Mort Castle."
 
"Really.  Interesting.  Was it biographical sketch of some sort?"
 
Quiet suddenly, Brian's bowels swam loose.  "Uhh. No.  Actually...it was a story about Hemingway killing zombies, see..."
 
A palpable, tangible hush fell over the room.  A bright, shining, cold icicle of fear lodged into his heart as he noticed, perhaps for the first time, the very large - big ass large, really - textbooks sitting in front of every student, including the principal herself.  The students had one hand placed upon the textbook, and with a quick glance, his stomach twisted in cold revulsion to see the principal lovingly...maybe even sensuously...caressing hers.
 
He squinted, read the white lettering down the spine of the book: Riverside Shakespeare.
 
It was then, quite simply, that Brian Keene knew he only had minutes to live.
 
"Surely," the words slipped out in a slow, languid purr, "you've read at least a smattering of Shakespeare."  He hated to do it, but Brian met her mad, glittering-black gaze.  "Surely."
 
Oh Christ. Oh Christ, oh Christ. FUCK! "Uh. There was that movie. With Leonardo. That wasn't bad, though I liked John Leguizamo as Tybalt better..."
 
It happened quicker than Brian's eyes could track.  The Riverside Shakespeare, seemingly of it's own accord, rocketed from its place and slammed into the side of his head, jerking his neck.  Something cracked in his mouth.  Blood welled.  The book - wielded by the principal, he somehow knew - slammed the other side of his head, harder, and he crashed from his chair to the cold, hard concrete tile floor.
 
Blood sprayed from his mouth, painting the floor in a fanned-arc.  After writing such scenes so many times himself, Brian was mildly surprised to see that it looked exactly as he'd always imagined it.
 
Chairs shoved back with wooden creaks.  Shoes and sensible black flats squeaked as the students surrounded him.  He saw through pain-hazed eyes they all held their Riverside Shakespeares at their sides.
 
He rolled onto his back and saw the principal looming over him, her Riverside open, she flipping through the pages.  Before he could open his mouth she found a page and read in a calm, even voice.
 
"Anthony and Cleopatra, Act I, Scene Five..." Here she stopped, looked at him...and gave him the most awful smile he'd ever seen. "I will give thee bloody teeth."
 
Ten Riverside Shakespeares rained down. Ten 700 page hardcover text books, hitting him all at once, in various parts of his body.  Something cracked.  He gurgled.  Then screamed. Long, and warbling...like a sick bird dying.
 
As he curled into a fetal ball, whimpering, drooling and bleeding from his eyes, nose, and mouth, he heard papers whispering until:
 
"The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1: I do begin to have bloody thoughts."
 
The textbooks slammed down again, in perfect, silent unity. More papery whispering, and then:
 
"Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 1:  Cry, Havoc! And let slip the dogs of war!"
 
Brian screamed.  He flopped, gurgled and choked on his blood.  And yet, the books kept pounding: over, and over.
 
And over. Until,
 
"Hamlet. To be...or not to be."
 
From his ruined throat, Brian Keene wailed, then knew no more. 
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
 
Brian Keene is being killed off today in a number of blogs throughout the world. If you are enjoying watching him being sent to the Great Beyond today, perhaps you'd consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards in Brian's honor. In recognition of the legacy of Ms. Jackson’s writing, and with permission of the author’s estate, the non-profit Shirley Jackson Awards have been established for outstanding achievement in the literature of psychological suspense, horror, and the dark fantastic. Please follow this think to donate. This one. Right here. And thanks!
 

Continue reading "KILL BRIAN KEENE ON YOUR BLOG" »

October 31, 2009

Happy Halloween! Psst...what're ya wearin'?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Hmm.  Just realized how that sounds...

Happy Halloween, everyone.  What costumes shall you be donning tonight? My daughter is very much still in her "Disney Princess" phase.  She had the choice of them all and chose Cinderella,  however, based on her fascination with Hallmark's "Halloween On Ice", I'm guessing next year's choice might have a little more teeth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Speaking of teeth, Zack is - in true form - going as the "king of the jungle" tonight, as a big ole lion...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although I have to admit, I liked last year's "Bam-Bam" costume a lot better.

Me? Sadly, no costume this year.  Took me too long to figure out how to manage it.  HOWEVER...I'll be collecting parts to my costume all through the off-season, and will be ready for next year.  In fact...I may just suit up for Horrorfind 2010's costume contest.  I mean, I'm no Mike Lombardo....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But I imagine I can come up with something fairly decent, in fact...maybe even an escort for the lovely lady herself...err....himself...

October 18, 2009

Old Stories, Stories With Moral Weight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recently I've had the chance to reminisce over old stories, works I wrote almost two, maybe even three years ago.  As any writer can attest, even months-old writing looks putrid and flat on the page.  Now imagine coming back to a work that's several years old.  All your old ticks, flaws, and tendencies are there, full-fledged, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Conversely, when I read decades old work, I'm actually surprised that even back then, I verged on my current style. For example, my word economy in exposition was atrocious, so was my POV (point of view) and I was WAY in love with adverbs and dialogue tags, but the dialogue itself was pretty good for how young I was.

The other day I received edits back for a short story I placed in an anthology awhile ago.  At this point, that's something I'm used to; in fact, it's become a mark of a quality publication.  However, the story's place in my "lexicon", if you will, is crucial - it's pre-Borderlands Writers BootCamp, (those of you who've been or heard know what I mean by that), but not only that - very early in my MA, and pre-Hiram Grange, which was like a year of workshop rolled into one work.  

I opened the document, and I'd like to say I was shocked by all my mistakes, but that would be putting it mildly.  What I did was slam the laptop shut and run screaming for my literary mommy. (Not sure who that would be.  Maybe Rob Dunbar or Kelli Dunlap would qualify). I'm immensely grateful said editor was willing to take it in the first place. 

Now obviously, I'm going to print it out and do the edits.  I'm a writer.  I want to be published.  I like cash, too.  Also, I figure it will be good for me.  I've become happy with the state of my craft, but I believe I should never be content.  Going over this early story will help with that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the other hand, there are old stories that are fun to read, and even though the glaring mistakes still jump out, we like the story so much we can't wait to get a chance to edit in all we've learned since writing it.  A few weeks ago I had the chance to read my very first published/paid-for work ever, a novelette entitled "The Way Station", which bagged Editor's Choice Honors for the first edition of Coach's Midnight Diner. 

It's about two years old, and the word economy is not so great, there's POV issues, and too many dialogue tags.  People, however, still really like it.  So do I; I just want to give it a good brushing up, chop out maybe 2,000 - 3,000 words.   Still, it has what I believe is a defining element in my work: a moral core.  Not a religious one, mind you, but a thoughtful comment on the human existence/experience/condition. 

For me, that's what makes a story worth writing and reading, genre irregardless - be it cyberpunk, horror, fantasy, or something as out of the box as Hiram Grange - a comment on the human experience.  I don't have any pretensions of being literary myself, but over the course of my teaching career, many students have asked, "What makes a work literary"? 

"A lot of things," I always reply, "but in the end the most important aspect: that it makes a significant, insightful comment on the human condition, one lots of folks can relate to."

Using my definition, a lot more works can be considered literary, I suppose.  There are other things to consider, too...things like artful craft, a definitive voice and complexity of plot and structure, cultural significance...but that's why most of us take the time to read, right?  Because we find resonance in those stories, because they say something about this terrible/awful/wonderful/confusing/beautiful thing called humanity. 

As long as I can write things like that, in a way that satisfies me artistically, touches people, and garners respect in the industry...then I'll feel like I've actually done something, here.

 

 

 

October 09, 2009

Art Show On Main, 2009

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had the distinct pleasure of taking part in Union Center Christian Church's Art Show On Main, a coffee-house style arts celebration held this past weekend. Art Show On Main is a wonderful exhibition of the arts: musical, graphic, paint, clay, sculpting, and the written word.  Artists from as far as North Carolina, Massachusetts and even Canada took part in the festivities.

All the "artists in residence", if you will, held critique workshops, sat on a Q & A panel that examined the "daily life of the artist", and then performed or presented their artwork in a true coffee house setting that was rich in style, substance, and outright talent.  The atmosphere was welcoming, cordial, friendly, and most of all...artistic.

Best all was its clarity of focus: yes, held in a church it featured artwork created from a spiritual mindset, but the focus was firmly placed on the arts themselves.  The collection of artists and their work was very diverse, and again - though presented in a fairly wholesome, family atmosphere, this was a celebration of art and all its forms, not a Sunday school service.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Probably the most enjoyable part of the experience was meeting and working with Massachusetts horror writer Dan Keohane, who met with my Creative Writing students the day before. Both he and I conducted critique workshops, served on the Q & A panel, then performed readings later on during the show. 

Both our readings were extremely well received, considering the mixed crowd.  Dan read from his first novel, Solomon's Grave, while I read from my novellete "Way Station", an Editor's Choice selection in the very first Coach's Midnight Diner.  A pin drop could be heard during both readings, which seems to be a good indication of what folks thought.

A good time was had by all, and yes - both Dan and I moved some product, but that wasn't the most important thing.  Again, the best element was getting to meet with yet another one of my writing Brothers-at-Arms, and spending time among those who appreciated art well done.

 

 

September 29, 2009

My Hyper-Caffeinated Mind Returns

Yes, it's back.  Enjoy it in all it's randomness.

My Hyper-Caffeinated Mind: A Blog of 3 AM Proportions.

 

Writer Folk and Other Cool Places