Lee Thompson's Blog, page 29

A Hacked-up Holiday Massacre (and give-a-way soon)

Good to see this out.:D Will do a give-a-way for a couple copies in the next few days.

A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre, edited by Shane McKenzie.

Table of Contents:

"Consensual" by Jack Ketchum

"securedate.com" by Boyd E. Harris

"Face" by Patrick Shand

"Ghunt" by Lee Thomas

"Joyeux Paques" by Emma Ennis

"The Greatest Sin" by Kevin Wallis

"The Greenhouse Garden of Suicides" by Kirk Jones

"I *Heart* Recycling" by Lesley Conner

"Taco Meat" by Jon McNee

"Remember What I Said About Living Out in the Country?" by A.J. Brown

"Every Day a Holiday" by Steve Lowe

"Seeing Red" by Chris Lewis Carter

"Southern Fried Cruelty" by Matt Kurtz

"By Bizarre Hands" by Joe R. Lansdale

"Family Man" by John Bruni

"We Run Races With Goblin Troopers" by Lee Thompson

"Pascal's Wager" by Wrath James White

"A Special Surprise at Thanksgiving Dinner" by Elle Richfield

"Waiting for Santa" by Bentley Little

"Hung With Care" by Ty Schwamberger

"Sunshine Beamed" by Marie Green

"Dia de los Inocentes" by Elias Siqueiros

"Three, Two, One" by Nate Southard

Amazon Kindle

Paperback

What does and what doesn't matter to me…

Over the last twelve months I've been sick, mostly my lungs, but it affects everything really. I ignore it the best I can and even if I was close to dying I wouldn't tell anybody. I like working out lately, and hope it will help, but even that has to be done in short intense bursts of fifteen to twenty minutes or it leaves me extremely light-headed and super weak. And work, my actual manual labor work, which I used to take a lot of pride in because it was the only thing I was good at, is a chore now too. I can't push myself or I'll pass out. But I pretend everything is okay, and I smile, even though it frightens and frustrates the hell out of me.

Being labeled a writer doesn't matter to me. I'll write until a few days before they're chucking dirt on my casket. And even then I'll probably still be trying to make peace with myself.

Having some persona or being part of any cliques or being charming or popular isn't true to who I am and will never bring me joy. Even the sales don't mean much. Rock and Shock taught me that my favorite part besides creating is just talking to readers. They're good people and I'm a ferocious reader too, so we have that in common. And it means a lot to me when someone enjoys my work because beneath the fantastical elements the stories are GODDAMN REAL. They're MY motherfucking life and every bit of pain I've ever felt and every smile I've ever smiled.

I've got so many people (and I list a ton of you in the next two Delirium books coming out in February and April) who support me and spread the word. Thank you so much. It blows my mind that you're all so loyal and so giving.

And I have some people I don't care for. Some who can't let shit go even after years have gone by and still they're trying to interfere with my life, or writers who think I have some secret that will open the doors of publication to them (there are no secrets. Work your ass off and be as honest in your stories as possible and develop the way you tell stories, build faith in the stories only you can write, always learn more, always dig deeper even as it's killing you.) I wrote for years and years and years without selling anything. Rejection is part of the process. In writing, in work, in love, in school. It's always going to be part of it.

I feel overwhelmed because I'm getting things ready for what REALLY matters to me: to start a business in another state so I can move my parents to a better climate and take care of them. My dad is getting up there in age and my mom, who has had a stroke and is diabetic needs him, but the day is coming when he can't do it all anymore. When he can't cut forty cords of wood to heat their house in the winter, or his eye sight is so bad he can't give my mom her shots without hurting her. I have to make sure I do my part to set them up where they can enjoy themselves and I can spend time with them everyday and so they still have each other. And then I'm going to talk to more kids about imagination, creativity and honesty. Because that's about all I have to give. And it's more than enough for me. I don't care what anybody else thinks I should be doing.

I just can't handle everything going on (the health issues and legal crap; something in my love life that is new and scares me and I don't know how to deal with it so I'm backpedaling away from it; getting things ready for my parents) so I'm downsizing and cutting out Facebook and forums. I've always wanted to be behind the stage anyway, and off to the side. I don't like bright lights. I get over stimulated very easily when I'm the center of anybody's attention. Any news I share will be on my website here: book sales, new openings, interviews, books I'm reading that really move me, etc. Because my energy and focus are limited. I'll work on getting a subscribe button on here for anyone who wants to know when new posts are made.

I'm done…

I am just writing….

AnthoCon

If you're going to AnthoCon this weekend check out Susan Scofield's art, and then buy some of it!!! That pic is one of her pieces, sucka!

Say hi to Jassen Bailey (bigwig of The Bag and The Crow), and snag an awesome shirt!!!

Give Ken Wood of Shock Totem a kiss for me, and take a picture!!!

Dance with Andy Royal and pretend you're rock stars!!!

Thank you!

New Book Opening: Collected Songs of Sonnelion

I'm editing When We Join Jesus in Hell so I can turn it into my publisher by the end of the month. Now I'm working on the third Red Piccirilli book. The first (Before Leonora Wakes) was a fun and playful little romp into another world. The second (Within This Garden Weeping) grew far darker and showed Red how much power he held. This one (Collected Songs of Sonnelion) will show him how that power can destroy him. It transforms Red into who he is as an old man (John McDonnell's uncle) in the Division novels.

It's going to take him down a horrible path and my heart hurts for him. I hate to see him and those he loves suffer, especially from his own choices, but hell, that's life. It's going to be pretty layered with themes about family and love, redemption, agony, pride, weakness, so many things. Hope some people enjoy the start. Will fine-tune it once it's finished and I get feedback from my readers.

One

August 17th, 1963

Red Piccirilli was fifteen when his mother told him a secret that broke his heart. She said she was so happy when he came into the world because she finally had someone who had to love her. Red thought that was the loneliest thing he'd ever heard. And her eyes were damp, picturing him as an infant, her shoulders bunched as if she held the weight of him again, this little gem that would grow and fill in a part of her life she'd always thought missing.

He wished Amy was there so he could tell her about it, maybe together come to understand. But she was back in Michigan while his family had moved to a quiet little mountain town in northeastern Pennsylvania. Division. Something about the place didn't sit right with him and he wasn't sure if it was nothing more than Amy not being there. As if he'd been divided from her, a part of his life cut away, and he'd asked his parents why they had to move, but they never gave him an answer that made any sense, only looked at him sadly and with fear, as if he were a small puppy that would never learn and would one day wander too far from home, and fail to return.

There was a winding river not far from their new house and Red loved to spend time there that first week as he waited for summer to end and throw him in the lap of a new school filled with new kids he was afraid he wouldn't have anything in common with. He hadn't even been comfortable with his old school or the kids in it, other than Amy. And he had a secret to keep, one filled with promise and power, and he knew that somewhere along the way someone would catch sight of it, then they'd burn him at the stake or hunt him down like Frankenstein.

And it was at this river that he met a boy a little older than him.

Red had been watching black birds dart from tree to tree, quick and nimble and so full of life. He was thinking about the pivotal moments he'd experienced recently, and wrestled more guilt than he even knew existed because of what he thought he'd done to Amy's father.

The older boy sat on the bank, with his arms draped over his knees, long dark hair caught by the breeze revealing an angular, almost wolfen face. He looked Red's way as a branch snapped beneath Red's tennis shoes. They both froze there for a moment, studying each other, Red afraid that he already had somebody judging him. But there was knowledge in the kid's eyes, too, and something dangerous… and Red knew danger. He'd courted it, held hands, made out and tasted its black vile tongue force its way into his mouth, the excretions of its cancer like mold growing on his soul. He felt something inside vibrate as they held eyes, as if a tuning fork inside him had suddenly hit a fever pitch. He clenched his jaw, tried to relax his hands, and looked away, across the river where a deer perched on the bank drank its fill.

The kid said, "It's quiet out here. Nice place to think."

Red glanced at him. He wasn't sure the proper way to carry a conversation; especially with anyone older than him. So he did what he did anytime meeting someone new and asked questions. "What are you doing out here?"

The kid smiled. "Are you deaf? I just told you. I'm thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

He cocked his head, rubbed his knuckles and Red expected him to stand and come running at him, and that would have been a mistake he'd realize too late. Red thought, I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone ever again…

The kid studied him for a few moments then licked his lips. His voice grew more melodious and gentle. "You do something bad? Something you really regret? I know how that is."

Red stuck a hand in his pants pocket because it had grown cold suddenly. He said, "You do?"

"Not just me. Everybody, man. We all make mistakes. Some of us worse than others if you think about it." The kid raised his eyebrows. "What did you do that's destroying you?"

Red said, "I don't even know you."

The kid laughed. "I'm Abraham."

"Okay."

"So, what's your name?"

Red wasn't sure he should tell him. It almost seemed as if a little voice, somewhere deep down inside him, instinct maybe, said that there was power in names and people could not only use it against you, but would. Without much thought for the damage they'd do. He looked back across the river but the deer was gone.

Abraham stood. He was tall and lean and he moved with an easy gait, like a lot of the basketball players Red knew from his old school. He stopped five feet away. He extended his hand, said, "You're not from around here are you?"

"No," Red admitted. "And I don't I want to be."

Abraham dropped his hand back to his side. "Parents move for a job?"

"No. I don't think so."

"They're running from something then."

Red bit his lip. He thought, They're running from a lot of things. Don't you see everyone doing that? It's part of life, I think, but not any kind of life I want.

Abraham shuddered suddenly. He looked over his shoulder, back at the tree line as if he expected something dark to materialize beneath the branches.

Red squinted, studied the forest but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. And he figured if anybody could see things out of the ordinary it was him. He slid his hand from his pocket, careful of the Band-Aid, and said, "What's wrong?"

Abraham glanced back at him. He wore the pale and lifeless face of a ghost and for a moment Red questioned if the other boy was really there or not. He blinked.

Abraham said, "Haven't you heard what's going on?"

Red shook his head, wondered how the hell he was supposed to know what was going on around here when his family had not only recently arrived, but also didn't care. He shrugged. "What?"

"People are dying."

"So? People die all the time."

"No," Abraham said. "Not like this."

Red thought, The darkness followed me, or it got here first and waited, didn't it? I'm never going to have any peace and no matter what I do, or who I tell, no one is going to listen and no one is going to believe me…

He remembered Mr. Blue, an angel who had shown him the world within worlds, and he remembered Pig, an imaginary friend who wasn't such a great friend after all, and later, more recently, there was the Stick Man who had folded him up and tucked him into a pocket that led to another world where the wind had ripped the flesh from his palms and his blood stained the soil. He shook his head, a tremor working through him.

Red thought, It wasn't real, none of it. It couldn't have been….

Because he knew if it was, then he'd also committed the worst crime he could ever commit by snuffing the life from Amy's father. And she knew it. She'd been there, her eyes so full of confusion and sorrow he didn't know how he could ever make things right, or make her understand that he was protecting her.

Abraham said, "You've seen death before, haven't you? That's why murders here don't scare you?" Then he punched Red's arm and said, "Or maybe you're the one doing the killing, right?" He nodded to himself. "Sure, the murderer would just shrug it off, wouldn't he? Life is trivial. They had it coming. Whatever you have to tell yourself."

Red met his gaze. He couldn't tell if the older boy was joking or if he really thought Red might be responsible. He said, "What do you want from me? A confession?"

Abraham stepped back. He said, "You did do it?"

Red smiled his most wicked smile. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Abraham laughed. "You didn't kill anybody. You don't have the coldness for it."

Red laughed as well, thought that the boy he'd been three years ago was still in there somewhere, that he could find his way back out in time, but he didn't know what good it would do him. He said, "The world is a harsh place."

"A bloody place," Abraham agreed. He turned back to the river and said, "You been into town yet?"

"No. What's in town?"

"Not much but it beats standing out here. This is my place to come when I want to be alone. I'm not alone right now."

"This place doesn't make much sense," Red said.

"Division? Why?"

"No," Red said. "I mean the world."

Abraham laughed again. It reminded Red of his old unfaithful friend Pig. He clenched his hands and took a few deep breaths to get his temper under control. It was another thing he hoped would cure itself with time. But he wasn't counting on it.

The older kid laughed and slung his arm over Red's shoulders. "Lighten up, man. Life's short enough. You don't need to make it worse by questioning everything."

Red wanted to pull Abraham's arm off his shoulder but felt conflicted because it felt natural there, like he had an older brother he'd never met, who wanted to show him the ropes and be proud of him, so he didn't mind too much, though part of him still thought Abraham dangerous.

Give him a chance, Red thought. He's been nicer than most people.

They walked to town. In a lot of ways it reminded Red of home. Just a dozen small shops crowding an old street, old people on stoops laughing and chatting, younger kids hollering in the distance, playing games and totally unaware how fast time goes, totally ignorant that in the not so distant future they'd be the ones crowding store fronts looking for a friend, someone to hear them, to tell them that the world would be a different place once they were gone, or waiting breathlessly for someone to just tell them that their time here mattered.

Abraham placed a hand on Red's shoulder. He said, "I think you're an old soul, man."

Red nodded. "In a lot of ways."

"How about we just enjoy the moment?" Abraham pointed down the street to a diner where three young ladies were exiting, their laughter carried upon the wind, sunlight caught in their hair. He said, "Which one do you want?"

"What kind of question is that?"

Abraham laughed. "We're going to talk to them. Which one do you want dibs on?"

"None of them."

"Why?"

"Because I don't."

"You have a girlfriend back home?"

"No," Red said. "I'm not good enough for her."

"That's no way to think. Did she tell you that?"

"No, I just know it," Red said sadly. He didn't want to continue the conversation and he didn't like being pushed, and he mostly certainly didn't want to ask any other girl out when his heart and dreams were bound to Amy.

"Tell me about her," Abraham prodded. "What's so special about a girl in another state when there are girls right here, in the flesh?"

Red didn't have to think on it long. He smiled a bittersweet smile, thought about all the time they'd spent together the month before his parent's sprang the news on him that they were leaving. "Her heart is so pure. She's intelligent and it seems like she knows about everything. She loves taking pictures and somehow she captures things the naked eye could never see no matter how long you stared at the moment she's able to preserve. She has a smile that makes my knees weak. She's brave, a fighter. But she's also a pleaser and I hated when she'd do things she didn't really want to do just to make me happy." He sighed and rubbed his elbow, his voice thick as he said, "She listened to me even though I don't know crap. She's funny and she loves people even if they're not so great." Red glanced up at the brick buildings lining the street. "I don't know how she does that. I can't. She's really compassionate. When she held my hand my heart pounded like a runaway train. She's…"

"Is she hot?"

Red smirked. "She's my supernova. And she knew it but she's scared of me and I don't blame her." He looked at his hands then tucked them in his pockets.

Abraham looked away from the girls down the street and studied the storefront window and their reflections. "I want to meet a girl like your girl."

"She's not my girl," Red said, and pain blossomed in his chest upon saying it, because he wanted Amy to be his girl more than anything. He wanted to witness her doing all she would do in life, and to be there to support her every step, to learn from each other and lean on each other and…

"So if I ever meet her then I can introduce myself and see where it goes?"

"Sure," Red said, thinking it would never happen. She was a wondrous part of his life far behind him, far removed from this new existence. "Sure," he said.

Abraham grinned. "I'm just messing with you. I wouldn't chase down any creature you care about."

Red nodded absently. He could smell her, feel her leaning into him, see the pain he'd carved into her face that had obliterated all the hope and faith she'd once radiated.

He thought, I'm sorry. I really am. I never meant to take those things from you.

The older kid said, "You want to see one of the dead bodies?"

Red wiped his eyes. "What?"

"They have her down at the morgue. It's not hard to sneak in. I've done it a few times."

"No, thanks though. I don't think that's smart."

"Come on, grandpa, it'll be fun!" He patted Red's arm. "You gotta see this."

Why? Red thought, though he had to admit that part of him was curious. It was something he and his parents could talk about. Maybe something he could write Amy a letter about. The sun sparkled across a sequin dress a manikin wore in a used goods store's front window, and the air smelled so full of magic and adventure. The boy he'd once been, who seemed so distant the past couple years, swam up from the muddy depths he'd felt had become his soul and it hurt Red to see his face. And it tore him up inside to grab hold of that boy's head and push it back beneath the surface.

He bit his lip. "What if we get caught?"

Abraham threw his arm back over Red's shoulder and pulled him close. "Don't worry so much. If we get caught just let me do the talking, okay?"

Red nodded. "Okay."

Abraham said, "Follow me."

The sternness in his voice created racket inside Red's head, lingered there, and scared him a little. But he pushed his fears aside and followed.

Ravens crowded telephone lines and threw shifting shadows across the pavement and buildings.

Old people shut their mouths and straightened in their chairs as the boys passed.

Red tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was lodged there, until Abraham glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

A Hell of a Gift…

With every ending and new beginning, I feel weaker yet truer to my work and myself. I think the more honesty we drive into our books, the more we come to point where the stories are full of real life and even the fantastic constructs, upon closer inspection, reveal metaphors. I'm dwelling a lot lately on Pivotal Moments because that last novella I wrote is full of them; they're in every scene, they're the exposed muscles behind the mask, the scream or heartbreaking whimper in the night, the constant ache that never ends.

If I died right now I'd leave behind only a smidgen of what plays through my heart, and makes racket in my brain, and truths large and small that blossom in my spirit. I see my characters and in them see myself and it doesn't make me very proud. I am conflicted. If I could only love more purely, move more efficiently, learn more quickly, give more freely. But that's our lot, isn't it? To struggle; to fight ourselves; to find a way to overcome our selfishness and self-centeredness. Or we chose not to. Or we're not aware.

Pivotal moments. Endings. Beginnings. And all the space between, when our choices aren't the best ones, when we give too much and let go too easily. When do we ever learn balance? I'd like some of that. I think baggage gets in our way; our perceptions skewer worthwhile moments and leave us wanting more when we should be grateful, even elated. Society teaches us to run, run, fucking run, dive in the spotlight and keep pace, justify your actions to yourself and you can justify them to others. And I have such a problem with all that. I feel like an alien that I don't care about being in the spotlight, that I don't care about goddamn networking, that I don't take my writing seriously (I do take the stories seriously). I don't even feel like a writer yet. I feel inadequate and stupid far too often for that. I want to learn more though, and I do, because some really great people give me feedback and I read a lot. But I'm not anything special and I never will be and I'm okay with that (most of the time).

There's a little boy that occupies a tree fort in my heart and he swings from the branches and watches the world go by and so many people rushing around, growing grayer and sadder by the second, and he hurts for them because he doesn't think they're enjoying themselves, much less living. And he looks at the man I've become and sometimes he tells me point blank, I don't like you right now. You sometimes forget what matters.

Ray Bradbury said, "Find your bliss." Where is my bliss? I ache when I draw to the end of a story and I burn with fever upon starting a new one. But nothing lasts. Nothing lasts. So we have to make the most of the time we have, right? And this life is so short and we only get one chance at it.

You know how we can make it better? I know two things.

Kindness. Go be kind to someone. That's living and sharing life.

Listen to someone.

Shut up for five minutes and let someone else talk and be heard.

You're probably surrounded by people who don't think anyone can hear them, or that anyone even wants to.

I feel that way sometimes. Like I don't have anyone to listen to me. It sucks.

Do someone that kindness at least. It'll make them smile and tear away their cloak of invisibility. And that's a hell of a gift.

Down Here in the Dark galley and a story…

Received the galley for my Frank Gunn novella DOWN HERE IN THE DARK. Will give her a read in the next week and keep an eye out for any errors. It's always exciting when it comes to this part because once I turn a manuscript in I don't look at the story again until this stage. So, it's somewhat foreign and fresh and very exhilarating. I'm super proud of this book and the novel (THE DAMPNESS OF MOURNING) it co-exists with. Can't wait to hear what everybody thinks when they come out!

Also have a new and weird story up on Literary Mayhem called THE WEIGHT OF ALL THESE YEARS. It's trippy, but it's in Hell, so there you go. Let me know what you think.

And my Halloween review for The Crow's Caw will be live soon. I read Norman Partridge's great tale DARK HARVEST. Terrific book.

Still tinkering with the novella WHEN WE JOIN JESUS IN HELL. It has a ton of truth in it. It's vivid. It's brutal. It's tender. It's a nightmare. Figure I'll send it to my readers in the next week or so and have it to my publisher by mid-November.

Reading The Thief of Always by Clive Barker right now, and Harlan Ellison's Deathbird. Fun! Hope everyone is well! Sip some magic. Show some kindness. Live like everything you adore could be stripped away at sunrise.

Two new book sales and Rock n' Shock…

Yep, sold two more books!

The second Division novel THE DAMPNESS OF MOURNING is a dark sonofabitch and only grows darker the deeper you go into it, and the second Frank Gunn novella DOWN HERE IN THE DARK is a tender and surreal ride.

That makes three books sold in the past month (counting my novella IMMERSION).

Also got the galley for A Hacked-up Holiday Massacre which has my story WE RUN RACES WITH GOBLIN TROOPERS in it alongside work by Jack Ketchum, Joe Lansdale, Lee Thomas, Kevin Wallis, Wrath James White, Shane McKenzie, and a bunch of other people I admire.

I'm thrilled, of course, and owe a huge thanks to my readers Shaun Ryan, Kevin Wallis and Jassen Bailey, and to Susan Scofield who is always so encouraging and has my back no matter what.

Rock n' Shock was a blast. Susan did an awesome job setting up The Bag & The Crow table (I got to help. Yay for teamwork!), and we took care of it while Jassen went and hung with his buddies. I wasn't sure what to expect since it was my first time. Me and Susan may have grossed people out with affection (I can't help it. I'm affectionate, especially with Susan, who I think is amazing and the most helpful and kind woman on the planet) and it was neat to get the word out about Jassen's killer original tees and meet some great people. And I learned if someone is reading the back of your book then don't tell them you rubbed that copy against your crotch. Haha.

I sold out of the paperbacks of Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children thanks to Susan and Jassen too. And it was neat to have people ask about the book and see them holding it, reading the jacket copy, and super fun to sign them. I hope they dig the story! Thanks to those who laid the money down!

And thanks to Susan and Jassen for showing me such a good time at the show as well as at Halloween Outlet, the motel, Five Guys Burgers, Unos and everywhere else. I'm looking forward to more cons, meeting more people, enjoying more laughter. I just won't drink anymore (ever) because I was an asshole to Susan toward the end and she deserves so much better than that from me. My heart is so effing heavy with regret. I have to find a way to make it up to her. She is one of the featured artists at AnthoCon in another month, so if you're going check out her awesome work. I wish I could make it.

Also got things cleared up with a publisher and he took care of something immediately afterwards that made me very happy to see.

I also had a great time meeting and talking to Ken Wood, Bill Gauthier, Danny Evarts, Matt and Melissa from Corrupt Culture, the couple at Metal Dogz, those crazy bastards Jordan Norton and Scott Weiser of Morning Ablaze, Andy Royal who is tremendously funny, Adam Blomquist, Alyn Day, Tom Moran, Kurt Newton, Sara, and other people.

Jassen gave me some of his favorite books, too. And I'm currently reading Norman Partridge's Dark Harvest, and Erik William's Demon to review for The Crow's Caw.

I hope everyone is well! Thanks for all the support, encouragement, book buying and love!

[image error]

My visit to Maine with some pics!

I've had a very fun last few days at my buddy Jassen's in Maine. He took me to see Stephen King's house. See pics!

Also spoke (for the first time!) about Writing, Imagination, Creativity, and Publishing to his daughter Jayda's 6th grade Lit Class at All Saints Catholic School. It was very cool. I got to read the first chapter of a book, and the teacher Mrs. Whitney was super kind and helped me feel at ease and the kids were attentive and great. Going to send them a print copy of my YA book Before Leonora Wakes in thanks! See more pics!

Also got to go four-wheeling in the Maine woods with Jassen and it was a blast. He treated me to some great Sushi at Yoshi's and great meals here at their house. His dogs love me. I beat his daughter in arm wrestling and finished the new novella today.

Now we're in the process of gearing up for Rock & Shock (my first convention) where I'll be helping Jassen and Susan out at The Bag & The Crow's table, signing and selling copies of Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children, and day dreaming about how many more wonderful things the future holds. Life is good. Extremely good.