Kyle A. Massa's Blog, page 17

Staying Shameless When Self Promoting

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For writers, self promotion is like visiting the doctor: necessary, but often uncomfortable.

Whether online or in person, self promotion can feel a little icky sometimes. So, when it comes down to tooting our own horns, here are some tips on how to toot without feeling guilty.

For starters, remember that everyone, even non-writers, must promote themselves now and then. Take the job interview, for instance. We show up with a piece of paper listing our GPA, accomplishments, and past employment. Then we talk about ourselves for an hour. Promoting our writing is no different, and no less essential.

Even if we don’t like promoting ourselves, I’m sure we all like the work we promote. Why else would we spend so much time on it? We write because we love what we write, plain and simple. We should never feel bad about sharing that love with others.

A great way to overcome the initial discomfort of self promotion is to pretend you’re a publicist for another writer. Pretend that your favorite author wrote your book and that you’re telling a friend why you love it. What makes it special? What makes it unlike other books? I’m sure you’ve done this before with someone else’s book, so try it with your own.

A truism of writing applies to self promotion as well: show, don’t tell. In the above picture, my cat Luna orders you to buy her book. This form of self promotion is a tad aggressive. I’ve seen a lot of writers do it, both online and in person. I’ve done it myself a few times. Trust me—it doesn’t fly. Luna might instead share her published work on her website (see how shameless I was there?). If visitors like what they see, they’ll be far more likely to do as she says and buy her book.

Yes, self promotion feels weird. But we need to do it. So instead of feeling weird about it, let’s embrace it. Let’s have fun with it. It’s called shameless self promotion for a reason.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction.

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3 Ways to Scare the Pants Off Your Readers

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Wait, no, keep your pants on. I’m only being figurative.

Happy Halloween to you, reader! If you like the frightening, the demonic, the monstrous, or the sugary, today is your day. That goes double if you’re into horror fiction. And maybe triple if you write it.

So, as a horror writer, how can you scare the pants off your readers (again, figuratively)? It’ll take more than just ghouls and guts. In this post, we’ll cover three classic writing techniques from famous horror writers. And…go!

Hinting at Future Tragedy

Warning your readers about looming danger creates a nice sense of dread. It’s the literary equivalent of the murderer sneaking up behind the lead character in a movie: You can see it coming, but you can’t stop it. 

For an example, look no further than the modern master of horror himself, Stephen King. In his 1983 novel Pet Sematary, King explores the cost of death—and life. When the Creeds move into a new home in Maine, they find an ancient burial ground that magically resurrects the dead.

In this novel, there’s a particularly sweet (and later tragic) scene in which the main character, Louis Creed, flies a kite with his son, Gage. Here’s an excerpt:

“I love you, Gage,” [Louis] said—it was between the two of them, and that was all right.

And Gage, who now had less than two months to live, laughed shrilly and joyously. “Kite flyne! Kite flyne, Daddy!”

There it is. Gage only has two months to live. Here we get a sense of tragedy. This poor little kid is going to die! In addition, the hint establishes that dread I mentioned earlier. We know that Gage will die, so for the next few chapters, we fear that moment. We know it’s going to be bad. We know it’s going to be horrifying. Yet it’s going to happen no matter what.

Inverting Natural Rules

Forget about flying—pigs shouldn’t be able to talk. Yet a pig talks in Clive Barker’s short story Pig Blood Blues. And it’s nothing like Babe: Pig in the City. Check it out:

[The pig] watched them through the slats of the gate, her eyes glinting like jewels in the murky night, brighter than the night because living, purer than the night because wanting.

The boys knelt at the gate, their heads bowed in supplication, the plate they both held lightly covered with a piece of stained muslin.

‘Well?’ she said. The voice was unmistakable in their ears. His voice, out of the mouth of the pig.

“His voice” is the voice of a character named Henessey who hung himself and was subsequently eaten by the pig. Yummy.

Why is this so disturbing? Well, for one, because it’s impossible. In both horror and fantasy fiction, the impossible happens. The key difference, I think, is exactly what impossible things happen. In fantasy, the impossible inspires awe or wonder. Think Rivendell in The Lord of the Rings or Quidditch in Harry Potter. By contrast, the impossible in horror inspires fear and shock. Think the Monster in Frankenstein or Dracula in Dracula.

This is what we see in Pig Blood Blues. It’s horrifying to think that a pig might eat a corpse. It’s even more horrifying to think that the pig might then be possessed by the spirit of the boy it ate.

Turning Narrators Insane

The crazy first-person narrator is a hallmark of horror fiction. Just take the work of H.P. Lovecraft. He often wrote in the first person, and many of his stories end with narrators claiming that they aren’t insane (even when they are). Take his short story “The Rats in the Walls” as an example. Here are the closing lines:

When I speak of poor Norrys they accuse me of a hideous thing, but they must know that I did not do it. They must know it was the rats; the slithering, scurrying rats whose scampering will never let me sleep; the daemon rats that race behind the padding in this room and beckon me down to greater horrors than I have ever known; the rats they can never hear; the rats, the rats in the walls.

For context, the narrator ate Norrys. Yeah, like Hannibal Lector.

The horror here is the fragility of the human mind. At the beginning of the story, our narrator is clearly sane. He seems confident, intelligent, and refined. Yet when he sees what lies beneath his family’s ancestral home, it drives him mad. That’s all it takes. The line between sanity and madness is thin. There’s nothing like a first-person narrator to illustrate this idea.

Happy Halloween!

Okay writers. We’ve learned some scare tactics from the best in the genre. Now let’s go scare our readers!

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction.

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Art, Artists, Money, and Fans

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My favorite band is The Who. I love their energy, their live performances, and their unique blend of raucous energy and thoughtful storytelling. I also love Keith Moon’s drumming.

But if you read enough about Keith Moon, you’ll find he wasn’t always the nicest guy. He was a constant drunk who caused thousands of dollars of property damage throughout his life. His wild behavior even led to the accidental death of a friend, an act which would haunt him the rest of his life.

That’s not all. Pete Townshend and John Entwistle, the guitarist and bassist of the band, both regularly cheated on their wives, much like many musicians during that era.

So then. What if I like the art, yet don’t support the behavior of the artist? Is it still okay for me to listen to their music?

That’s the question we’ll address today. As fans and consumers of art, can we enjoy art without supporting the behavior of the artists who make it?

The Financial Aspect

Sticking with the rock music theme, AC/DC understood the value of money to artists. In fact, they immortalized it by taking the phrase “Money Talks” and turning it into a song. (Theirs is stylized as “Moneytalks,” but you get the idea.)

For artists, money does talk. It says, “I came from a fan who likes your work and wants you to make more.” Money is the best way to support the things you care about. Word of mouth is good, tweeting is fine, but the almighty dollar ensures artists make more art.

The Problem Grows

Art is never made in isolation. Even solitary authors have alpha and beta readers, editors, sometimes publishers or agents. And then there are films, which sometimes have thousands of people working on them. Have you ever sat through the credits for The Lord of the Rings trilogy? It’s like another movie in and of itself.

It takes a team to turn art into reality. Which expands the scope of the topic we’re examining. When we support art financially, we’re supporting not just one person, but many.

So what if the second unit director on the latest Marvel film is a psychopathic cannibal, ala Hannibal Lector? (I’m sure she or he is not, but bear with me here.) I’m guessing you don’t support cannibalism. Yet your opening night movie ticket supports the film that the second unit director made. So, in a way, you’re supporting a cannibal. (Again, I’m sure the second unit director for Captain Marvel or whatever doesn’t really eat people.) Now we see the conundrum. It’s not just one person you’ve got to worry about—it’s possibly thousands!

There’s No Simple Answer

There really isn’t. I’ve thought about this constantly, especially in regards to my favorite genre of music, classic rock. The more you read about male rock musicians of the 60s and 70s, the more you realize they were on the whole not very nice people. Many of them were drunks, adulterers, and misogynists. Not all, but many.

Now one might argue the solution is to only pay for art made by artists whose morals align with yours. And hey, that’s your prerogative. The thing is, you might miss out on some great work. Furthermore, we’ve seen this tactic backfire before.

Though it’s not quite a perfect comparison, take Lance Armstrong and his Livestrong Foundation as an example. When I was growing up, I saw those yellow bracelets every day. Yet in 2012 and onward, when Armstrong’s doping scandal went public, the bracelets vanished. People stopped their donations to the Livestrong Foundation, all because of its founder’s actions.

When we frame this example in the art/artist mold, we clearly see the problem. The art (in this case, cancer research) is clearly deserving of support. Yet it doesn’t get that support because people disapprove of the artist (who is in this case, Lance Armstrong).

Maybe the you-can’t-support-the-art-without-supporting-the-artist argument doesn’t always work. By the way, I’m working on a trademark for that name, since it rolls off the tongue so well.

Can Anyone Separate the Art from the Artist?

Based on the argument I’ve made, you might be wondering if you can ever appreciate art again. What if you really love a book but really detest its author?

I’m not in the business of telling people what they should and shouldn’t like or spend money on. The purpose of this article is not to dissuade you from any art. Rather, it’s just to explore a topic I and others have thought about at length.

Furthermore, I don’t mean to make it sound like all artists are jerks. Artists are just like anyone else—some are jerks, but the vast majority are good people you’d be happy to support.

Anyway, I believe the answer is both yes and no. It all depends on the fan.

That’s Us!

As a fan, we absolutely have the right to spend where we want to. If you choose not to listen to the music of The Who because Keith Moon was kinda nuts, it’s your right to do so. You can donate to Livestrong because you like what they do—never mind the association with Lance Armstrong.

I think this common axiom about art applies well: When you release it into the world, it’s no longer yours. If fans treat art this way, that might allow us to be more okay with artists who aren’t necessarily people we want to emulate. We can at least feel like the work is separate from the artist. For some fans, this might be an important skill to develop. Many artists are good people who we would probably be friends with if we met them. Some might not be. And if we can separate the artists from the art, we’ll have a much easier time being fans.

So for all the Who fans out there, keep on loving Keith Moon’s drumming. I know I will.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction.

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An Excerpt from “Gerald Barkley Rocks”

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I have something special to share with you today.

I’ve been working on a project called Gerald Barkley Rocks for over a year. It started as a novel, then turned into a short story, then became another novel entirely. It’s now something of a mash up of four different subjects: mystery, comedy, fantasy, and 60s-70s era rock music. Oh, and also, cats.

Gerald Barkley Rocks is the story of a Los Angeles police detective whose been diagnosed with a rare, albeit relatively non-threatening, blood disease. He’s also investigating the possible murder of Julian Strange, an infamous rock and roll singer with a penchant for mysticism. Add to that his strained relationship with his daughter Janine and a budding romance with famous actress Carmen Fowler, and it’s clear that Gerald Barkley’s life is a bit overbooked. Will Barkley find out what happened to Julian Strange? And will that help him figure out his own life in the process?

Today, I’d like to share a piece of my story with you. This excerpt doesn’t feature Barkley himself. Rather, it’s a fictitious magazine article covering a Julian Strange concert. (Of note: There is some adult content in here, so just be aware of that.)

If you want to read the rest of Gerald Barkley Rocks, you can purchase a copy from Amazon on December 7th of this year. Make sure to subscribe to my newsletter for more updates.

And now, without further ado, let’s get to the concert. Hope you enjoy the show.

A Hidden Track: A Night with Black Cat Waltz, written by Bob Spellman for Soundwave Magazine, 1975

It’s Halloween night and Black Cat Waltz has sold out the Nebula Lounge in downtown Los Angeles. The feeling is electric.

“I hope they play ‘The World’s Gone Red.’” I overhear a young woman say this to a young man beside her. She’s dressed like Dorothy and he’s dressed like Toto. She smokes what is either a hand-rolled cigarette or a joint—the smell suggests the latter. “This is gonna be interstellar.”

The night is crisp and tangy as an apple, which fits the season (it’s cold, especially for L.A.). I stand in a line that winds around the corner and out of sight. It’s composed of cats, vampires, ghosts, pixies, Holly Golightlys, witches, John Waynes, hobos, and more. I myself am dressed in a leather jacket, jeans, and loafers. If anyone wonders what I’m supposed to be, I’m prepared to say, “Journalist,” which is of course entirely true. Anyway, no one’s asked yet.

The air is a rope ready to snap. Bits of BCW songs float up from the cacophony, with different voices joining the chorus as they hear it. Shouts of “Let us in!” and “This should be a free event, man!” echo into the night. Cars pass cautiously, as if fearful of the gathered crowd.

Indeed, one can sense the single-mindedness of this group. This is not some random assortment of young people out to hear some live music—this horde is here for Black Cat Waltz. Or, perhaps more specifically, it’s here for Julian Strange.

I hear snippets of conversation. Oddly enough, they’re all about Mr. Strange. This seems nearly impossible when I reflect on it. No one’s talking about the end of the war or Jaws or Patty Hearst or the Thrilla in Manila. Here in this line on this night, we only talk about the man and the band we’re about to see.

“Open the doors!” someone shouts. And another person quotes, “You can’t see the forest from the trees, when you’re dead and beaten and down on your knees!”

Someone else: “Julian Strange will live forever!”

And another voice: “Open those doors, pig! We want in, pig!”

Presumably, that last comment is directed at the bouncers on either side of the door (though they’re not policemen, so far as I can tell). They stand there grumbling and looking murderous. The wrong annoyance would give them an excuse to hurt someone, I’d guess. They’d probably enjoy that.

A fight breaks out somewhere in line. Two of the club’s bouncers peel away from the door to end it. That gives others hope. Three men dressed as the Three Stooges make a break for it. They get halfway through the door before they’re hauled off by a fresh pair of bouncers. Curly screeches, “We just want to see him! We just want to see him!” That leaves only one man defending the entrance. He suddenly appears a deal less confident than he did a moment ago.

The moment doesn’t last long. The doors open a crack and a message is relayed; the single man at the door pulls it the rest of the way and stands aside, like a surfer avoiding the rush of a tidal wave. I’m pushed from behind and suddenly I’m running forward with the rest of them. It’s either that or be swept under.

We crash through the open doors and flood into the lounge. I spoke to the event promoter earlier in the day and learned the maximum capacity for this venue is 1,001. Judging by the size of the line outside, I expect the health department will receive a call sometime soon.

The chanting begins as soon as we’re inside. One name, repeated over and over again: “Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange!” There’s a band here tonight, though you’d think it was a solo act.

The chant continues and grows louder as new voices enter the space. I attempt to order a drink with little luck—Gandalf and a Janis Joplin look-alike cut ahead, and suddenly a fresh wave of bodies rushes forward. Oh well.

When the lights dim, the audience screams. The lights come up again, and for the first time I notice the stage is littered with gifts. Wrapped boxes, flower bouquets, lingerie, packs of cigarettes. More follow them.

The stage itself is a modest platform ringed by more expressionless men in black shirts. The crowd tries an approach, but even their shoving can’t break these guys. At least not yet. The equipment behind them is all set up: a many-piece drum kit, Marshall stacks, wires, monitors. One single microphone in the center of the stage. Rumor has it that while the other members of the band can sing, Julian Strange won’t allow it; he wants only his own voice heard during shows.

Figures appear onstage. The crowd explodes. My eardrums whine with the sound of voices, so many voices collected into one. The figures are as follows:

Warren Wilder, the band’s always-electric guitarist. He’s dressed as William Shakespeare, complete with a ruffle around his neck, tights, and an ink-stained quill in his ear. His blonde hair is shaped in the style of the Bard’s. He slips his Fender Stratocaster over his shoulder and bows to the crowd.

Then there’s Francisco Jones Jr., the band’s drummer. He places a foot on the shell of both his bass drums, and suddenly he’s standing atop his own kit, arms held high, forming a cross with his drumsticks. He’s dressed as one of the three little pigs, making the whole scene all the more surreal.

Next, Luther Bangs, the band’s bassist. I think he’s supposed to be a blueberry though I’ll admit it’s difficult to tell; he wears a blue shirt, blue pants, long blue socks, a blue hat over wild hair. Maybe he’s just a guy wearing blue clothes. He dons his Gibson Grabber and waits, elbows propped upon the top edge of his instrument, one leg crossed over the other. Bangs stands just out of reach of the stage lights, a man in the shadows. He fires off a bass lick, his fingers flowing deftly over four fat strings and composing a flawless scale.

Then comes a pause while the three men wait. There is a fourth member of Black Cat Waltz and the audience knows he’s back there somewhere. Their chant begins again, louder than ever before.

“Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange! Strange!”

Yet still no man himself. They roar, they shout, they scream their throats bloody, all for him, all for Julian Strange. Someone has fainted beside me and her friends are trying to haul her out while still keeping their eyes on the stage. The chanting continues.

The voices grow louder, somehow. It doesn’t seem possible, yet it’s happening. And they grow louder still at the sight of the curtain parting behind the stage.

An immense figure approaches the mic. His night-black hair is a silky curtain and his beard cascades down his face like a rushing waterfall. He wears a formless white gown. The room’s gone hazy with smoke, but one can still make out the crown of thorns circling the man’s forehead. Blood (I hope fake blood) leaks down his face and into his eyes. He raises his hands and reveals more on his palms. It would appear the origin points are two deep gouges in the centers of his hands. If I could see his feet from where I’m standing, I’m sure he’d have identical wounds there as well.

The man standing at the mic is Julian Strange. He’s dressed as Jesus Christ. Maybe tonight there’s no difference between the two.

“Good evening ladies. Good evening gentlemen. Good evening felines.” His voice is a comet rippling through space. More screams, most of which sound orgasmic. “Good evening, my children. Happy Halloween. I hope you came to sing and dance.”

More howls, more calls. The man’s presence is like blow to these people. I must admit, even I am drawn to his energy. He has a magnetism unlike any I’ve encountered, and he hasn’t even started singing yet. It’s amazing. It’s strange.

Julian Strange purrs something into the mic. “Do you need an exception to the rule?”

Jones strikes his crash cymbal, Wilder thunders a tremendous chord, Bangs’s fingers slide down the neck of his bass, and suddenly we’re off into the first song, this one titled, “An Exceptional Boy.” It’s a tongue-in-cheek semi-autobiographical song about Julian Strange’s own life, stylized as a musical tale about a boy named Little Mudge who loses his voice. (Mudge, of course, is Strange’s real surname.)

The audience erupts. There are no seats in the Nebula, but even if there were, I doubt anyone would be sitting. They bounce up and down and jerk from side to side and dance like devils around a pyre. They hang from low ceiling rafters and are eventually pulled down by security. They rush the stage and are cast backward. They reach for Strange and they shriek wild words. The music drowns them out.

No sooner has the song ended than another begins. The next one is “May I Have Another?”, a subversive condemnation of those who make war.

Strange preens about the stage, leers at the audience, jumps so high that at times he appears to float. A man his size shouldn’t move the way he does, but I’m watching it and I know it must be real. On the guitar, Warren Wilder’s fingers dance over his fretboard. His pitch bends are impossibly crisp. I’ve seen Hendrix, Blackmore, and Clapton live, and though this man isn’t them, he is damn close. Behind him, Jones rages away at his drum kit, striking it like an enemy in battle. And Luther Bangs stands off to the side, edging closer still to the backstage. His rumbling improvised basslines wind around the main melody and form a counter-solo to Wilder’s, yet the man himself is almost like a ghost. One might wonder where the sound of his instrument comes from.

They play “There’s Starlight in Your Future,” “Cue the Music,” and “Sing Us a Song (But Not That One),” all in rapid succession. The room itself seems to bounce; the air is heavy with the smell of marijuana and booze and human perspiration. At first I recoiled from the Halloween fabric rubbing against my skin, but now I’ve accepted it. In this room, one is not allowed personal space.

I keep expecting a mid-set break, but Black Cat Waltz never takes one. They continue with a pair of ballads: “Love is for Strangers” and “Janine.” Their energy seems inexhaustible. Julian Strange has by now torn off his gown to reveal the hairy chest beneath, which seems to contrast with the usually hairless image of Jesus Christ. He’s also not so skinny.

Some cops have entered the floor. At first I take them to be attendees in costume, but when they snatch joints from people’s lips and haul them toward the exits, it becomes clear they’re the real deal. One of them gets up toward the front of the crowd and screams something into the ear of one of the security guys. The guy listens, leans back, shakes his head, and shrugs. If they’re trying to shut the whole thing down, it seems that’s not going to work.

Onstage, Waltz plays a song called “Mortal Man Blues,” a psychedelic 12-bar jam from their first album which stretches as long as 15 or 20 minutes when they play it live. I have no idea how deep we are into this rendition; their presence on stage seems to warp my perception of time.

At some point, the bulkiest and meanest-looking cop of the bunch bellows something at the audience. Problem is, he’s having a shouting match with Luther Bangs’s amplifier. He’s not winning. His face is all red and spittle flies from his mouth; the veins in his thick neck stand out like clutching fingers. He screams, and no one reacts. All we hear is Black Cat Waltz. He waves his arms toward the exits, even tries dragging someone off, but he’s a siren in a hurricane. He’s been rendered meaningless.

After another minute of this impotent posturing, the cop turns to the stage. The band has not stopped playing since they started, and it’s almost midnight. I can’t see the cop’s face, but I can imagine the expression upon it: awe, disbelief, hatred, embarrassment. When he turns back to the crowd, he’s deflated. He disappears within the audience, and I don’t see him or his men again.

By now the show is winding down. I never thought it would happen, truth be told, except they’re now playing “Interplanetary Freeway,” which is another double-digit minute composition. This one always comes before the encore, I’ve heard. It’s as good as you’d expect, down to the improvised guitar jam, an extended drum solo, and a bit where Strange repeats Wilder’s guitar licks with nothing but his voice.

“We thank you,” Julian Strange says to the crowd when it’s all finally over. “You’re the best audience we’ve ever had.” (I’m told Strange makes this assertion to every audience he plays for.) “We’ve got to be going now. Bless you, thank you, and goodnight.”

Shrieks as they leave the stage. The lights go out and we’re plunged into blackness. Maybe it’s the reefer mist I’ve been inhaling, but I swear I’m seeing things in the dark. Glowing eyes, bared fangs, leathery wings, tails, tentacles, tongues. They must be costumes—though I don’t recall them looking so horrifying in the light.

A woman’s voice asks if I’d like to make love on the floor. I decline, explaining that I’m actually working. She growls something that sounds more animal than human. I’m jostled and bumped from all sides. Twice I’m nearly knocked off my feet. I don’t know what’s going on around me, but I don’t question it. This is no longer Halloween—this is the night of Black Cat Waltz. Of Julian Strange.

They’re calling Strange’s name again. This time it’s louder than before, more desperate. They scream and cry and beg not for Waltz, but for Strange himself.

An amplified voice answers them. “Meow,” it says.

The crowd shrieks, the lights come up, and there they are. Black Cat Waltz.

For the encore, Julian Strange wears his crown of thorns and nothing else. This, of course, is completely illegal: appearing before hundreds of people entirely naked (with a massive erection, no less) is not exactly by-the-book. It doesn’t matter. The music plays on.

The band launches into “Gift to the Universe” and the crowd sings along. Pure hive mind, as if everyone in the room knows every word. I even find myself singing along, though I’ll admit I don’t know every word. Doesn’t matter. My voice joins the others and for a while, there is no individual singer. Even Strange’s voice, loud as it is, weaves together with the rest. We’re all one for this last song, and it is glorious.

When they finish, Strange says nothing. He and his bandmates bow and wave and blow kisses, and then they vacate the stage without another word. It’s an amazing feat, what they’ve accomplished. The crowd seems finally sated. They turn their backs on the now-empty stage and head for the exits. I follow them.

Outside, the night feels colder than it should. You don’t have to listen long to hear voices singing the songs. They disperse into the dark, yet a part of Black Cat Waltz stays with them. A part of tonight will stay with me as well.

I spot Dorothy and Toto wandering down the sidewalk, arms locked around one another. Dorothy says, “See? What did I tell you? Inter-fucking-stellar.”

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction.

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© Kyle A. Massa, 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.

The post An Excerpt from “Gerald Barkley Rocks” appeared first on Kyle A. Massa.