M.C. O'Neill's Blog, page 5

The Men. The Legends. The Swap

Yeah, I bought a book called “Dick Swap.” So what of it?

When I post this, my Twitter followers are sure to plummet.

Mate, Swap and Die

Never thought it could happen.  The tale is legendary amongst the Bizarro crowd. Dick Swap was unleashed to the public by Anderse, er…  I mean, Andy Boring.

A brilliant tale of love. Brotherly love. Never has a relationship been so sex-charged and yet – platonic.

Two broheimers, Keith and Kevin, have the unnatural talent of being able to swap their gonads. Hey, it can happen!  Well, I guess, but…

As their suburbanoid adventures to the local Applebee’s unfolds, the swapping continues. On one fateful evening of milquetoast debauchery, one of these coveted organs gets ganked by a selfish conquest. Who’s laughing now?

An “epic” quest for the right to male genitalia ensues across the wide nation of America in thirty-five pages of whopping glory! There’s even a police shootout!

It’s like Thelma and Louise for dudes with no attention span.

Despite the vainglorious action permeating the story, the reader can sleep soundly knowing that there is always Applebee’s.

Winner,winner. Chicken dinner.

For Halloween – Night Commander

Hello again. I have a short story which I had originally published on another literary site some time ago and I would like to share it with you for this holiday season. Normally, I don’t write horror, so don’t expect a tale which requires a barf bag, but I’m sure you can appreciate its subtleties. Although I write YA, this story’s language isn’t for kids. Sorry!

All right, then. Without further ado… on with the show! I present:

 

Night
Commander
By
M.C. O’Neill

For the last hour or so, I have been waiting for my daughter to show.  She’s supposed drop by with my medication and some groceries, and she had better do it quick, because the cupboards and the refrigerator are damn-near empty.  I look at the clock and it reads ten a.m.  She always comes by at nine; it even says so on that dumb “Memory Board” my nurse has posted in every room of my house.  “Friday at nine a.m. – Jenny visits.”

I think Jenny gets me my food. I’m pretty certain that she brings me the medication because I am legally in her care. The goddamn courts want me in a nursing home because of my “public disturbances,” but my Jenny has a good lawyer who can really cook the books and get things in order. I must say, as a retired attorney myself, I couldn’t have done better.  That boy would make her a fine husband, especially as long as he can keep me in the house that I paid off years ago. To think that a bunch of crooked bureaucrats can throw an honest veteran who pays his taxes out of his own castle is preposterous.

That would never work. Jenny is one of those lesbian-types, so I suppose her marrying that lawyer is not in the near future.  That’s something I keep forgetting.  Sometimes, it’s almost as if I hear it for the first time and I end up confronting her about it all over again. We must have argued like cats and dogs at least twenty times over the subject by now. In the end, I always accept her decisions. “It’s a new day,” we always agree and that usually puts things in the right place again. I need to make sure that I remember this by the time she gets here.

Magda. Magda gets me the medication. She’s my nurse. Jenny delivers the food and Magda gets me my meds. Where the fuck is she, by the way? Looking over on the end table, I see that my pill boxes are all empty except for two capsules. If she doesn’t get here today, I’m calling that damn hospital. I’m telling the doctor on her and I’m having her fired.  I can hardly understand her anyway. She’s Polish or something.  Cute little lady, but I can’t make out her accent sometimes.  Can’t understand why a Vietnam veteran like me would have a Communist for a nurse, but so much doesn’t make sense anymore, that I would rather just watch TV and sleep.  Maybe that’s all a part of this “new day”.

According to the Memory Board in the kitchen, Magda was supposed to be here yesterday to refill my prescriptions and she’ll be back again today at five p.m.  to check up on my situation and cook my dinner.  She makes the best ravioli and sometimes she makes these things called pierogis that are kind of like ravioli except they are full of potatoes. I’ve never heard of them before. Must be what Communists eat, or something.  Hopefully, she’ll make those tonight, now that I mention it.  Either way, she wasn’t here yesterday like she was supposed to be, and I’m running out of meds.

Frankly, this just pisses me off.  If I don’t have those prescriptions tonight, I’m liable to go wandering around the neighborhood naked as a jaybird, and this time, not even Jenny’s lawyer will keep me out of one of those vile nursing homes. It’ll all be Magda’s fault.  She was probably out partying with a bunch of boys the whole night and couldn’t be bothered with an old fart like me.

The line to the hospital is a constant recording: “Due to a heavy call volume, we cannot take your call at this time. Please hang up and try again later for the next available operator. We apologize for this inconvenience.”  Goddamn robot. I must have tried the number at least ten times in the last half hour.

Why don’t they let me remain on hold instead of having to hang up every time? Looks like the entire hospital is full of people like Magda. This world is going to hell. My daughter is funny, my nurse is a Communist slut, and the hospital is out of order. I can’t believe I flew a Stuka for Adolph Hitler in the Big One just so society could end up like this. A “new day” – pathetic.

I’ll try that damn hospital again later, and when I get through, my doctor is getting an earful. It’s too late to call my daughter, because she’s at work now, and she won’t give me her office number because she knows I’ll bother her for every little issue I come across. She’s probably right about that.

When all else fails, I like to turn to the idiot box. Being a retired biologist, I like all those nature shows. Especially the ones with the sharks. They have these young men going down into the deep swimming around in chainmail armor. Every time I watch one of those programs, I keep expecting one of those boys to get a chunk taken out of them, but it never happens that way. A couple of close-calls, but they always come up with hardly a scratch.

My favorite show is that one where all these kids are locked in this big house and a bunch of young girls strut around half naked. This Chinese lady who acts kind of like a robot makes them compete in all these silly games for prizes and privileges. Usually, the games involve a pool or a hot tub and the girls have to get in these skimpy bikinis. One time, this blonde with big titties got so excited because she won a contest, that she lost her top while jumping for joy. The goddamn censors blurred out her nipples, so I couldn’t see all her goods. I got so mad that I threw my pudding cup at the screen and Magda had to clean it off. Now and then, I wonder what Magda would look like in a bikini. Where is she anyway?

News. Horror movie. News. News. Another horror movie. It’s only half-past noon and they are showing this crap on TV. During October, the stations like to air these kind of flicks at odd hours on account of it being Halloween, but looking at the calendar, it’s only April. Maybe it’s some sort of an April Fool’s joke? Some of those films they’re playing are pretty disgusting. They look just like the news casts, except there are a bunch of crazy people biting each other. It must be some Japanese thing. Lots of blood and screaming. It all gives me a headache. Personally, I don’t like watching these kinds of shows now that the house is empty and creaking because they give me the creeps – even in the daytime.

The movies that are on today are especially a bother because they look so real. The studios must be paying some big salaries to those makeup artists, because it looks spot-on like the carnage I was forced to see when I fought in Korea.

I hope the purple dinosaur show comes on soon. I like to watch it with my mommy and we sing all the songs together. All my favorite tunes are on that show, just like we sing at school, but better.  I’ll go to the kitchen and let her know that it’s almost time for it to air and then we can eat lunch afterward.

When I go to the bathroom to wash-up, I look in the mirror and see an old man. A decrepit old man.  Weak with thinning hair. Mom’s been dead for years.  I hate it when I have to remember this. It happens almost every goddamn day.  Sometimes, it’s like I learn about her death for the first time and I can break down for hours. Since I am a retired paleontologist, it’s no wonder I would like that stupid program.  I wish Magda would get over here.

The TV is off, but I still hear all that racket that was coming from one of those dumb horror movies. Yelling and groaning. Looking outside my window, all I see is an empty street under a clear, blue sky. Nice day. Everybody must be at work. There aren’t any cars in the driveways and nobody is rolling down the road.

Out on my porch, there is no mail or newspaper yet. What with that new mailman, I sometimes don’t get the mail until almost supper, but the paper is always here every morning. Usually Magda or Jenny brings it in for me. Maybe one of those damn kids down the street took it.  If they want it so bad they can just ask me for it when I’m done.

Something is strange about today. Everything is very still. Except for that moaning, I don’t hear anything. Not even birds.

Why can’t those kids leave me alone? Out in my backyard, it’s the same story. Not a peep. If those brats don’t stop harassing me with their ruckus, I’m going to call the police. I don’t have the patience for this shit.

The police are the same deal as the hospital. I suppose they have more to attend to than some little bastards playing jokes on an old man, but I pay my taxes! Back when I was a police officer, I would never let even the small things slide. Nothing got past me. All the lawbreakers in this town knew that they didn’t stand a chance against my long arms.  This time the recording sounds like a black woman. I hang up.

It sounds like those little bastards have recruited some friends, because now there is more moaning. Maybe they’re a bunch of those hippies having some of that free love in my backyard.  I’ll be goddamned if the backyard is as quiet as a mouse. Everything remains stone-still.  According to the clock, it’s almost four p.m. and there isn’t even a cricket chirping.

Why aren’t there any children coming home from school?  Shouldn’t those sons of bitches bothering me be in school? Maybe they should get a job. I poke my head out the back door and yell that suggestion with as much power as my old lungs will allow and slam the door shut just to pack in the message. That ought to do it. Maybe I used to smoke, but I can’t really remember if I did.

I’m so damn hungry.  I forgot that I haven’t eaten today.  Where is Jenny and my food? When Magda gets here in a few minutes, she won’t have anything to cook and I need to eat with my medication.  I could boil that last egg I have in the refrigerator, but I remember that the hospital put a lock on my stove so I don’t burn the house down. Only Magda and Jenny have the goddamn key.  There isn’t any booze left either because the doctors won’t let me have alcohol.

Looking outside again, I see that night is coming soon. The sky looks kind of like a rare steak, and seeing it only makes me even hungrier. It’s been awhile since I’ve had good meat like that. The mailman still hasn’t shown.

That does it. I have been having a terrible day. I’m so tired. According to the clock, Magda is late and Jenny is already off work, and still no sign of her. They can take their dear, sweet time getting here to do their jobs.

I don’t care anymore, I’m so beat. They can work around my schedule now. Since I’ve been waiting for them all day, they can wait on me all damn night.

My daughter is as queer as a football bat, my nurse is a Commie, the hospital and police are full of lazy bastards, and the TV censors the titties and plays nothing but those God-awful horror movies. There is something else bothering me, but I can’t remember what it is, and hopefully I don’t.

I’m going upstairs to take a nap and I’ll get up when I feel like it. When I do get up, if they don’t have my dinner ready and my medication stocked, I’m going outside buck-naked and letting the whole neighborhood know what a real man looks like. Just to prove that I’m a nice guy, I’ll leave the door unlocked and I’ll keep the lights on.

 

FIN.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

 

 

 

It’s that time of year! V/H/S Review.

Sorry I have been scarce the past few days, but I have been really busy with the amazing second volume to The Ancients and the Angels!

Right. Anyway, it’s Halloween. My favorite holiday and time of year. Aside from the costume parties and other assorted revelry, horror movies are always on every five minutes. It’s like you don’t have enough eyes for all of them! Thankfully, there’s OnDemand in this day and age. The following is my Amazon review of the wonderful indie-horror flick V/H/S. It’s a little different than your average found-footage reality film. Anyway, on with the review.  Oiche shona Samhain!

When I was a little kid, I wanted to watch Creepshow more than ever. I loved Stephen King and I had managed to get a hold of the Berni Wrightson-illustrated graphic novel. Every anthology has a frame story and that particular flick was glued together by a cartoon/comic. I couldn’t wait for it to come out on cable and finally, I got to watch during a slumber party. It was an amazing experience for me. That being said, I’ve developed a soft spot for anthologies.

V/H/S is framed by the video documents of a gaggle of goons who film their exploits and upload it. Tougher than Jackass but not lethal like Three Guys, One Hammer, they’re the kind of shock-vids that show up on ebaums from time to time.

We find that this crew is hired by a mysterious client to bust into this old house and steal this one particular video. When the cretins show up, they find they have their work cut out for them as piles of vhs tapes surround the dead owner. What to do but begin popping the tapes in and start viewing.

David Bruckner directs the first on the list. “Amateur Night” The strongest of the collection, the segment focuses on a group of collegiate bro-heimers who affix a micro camera onto their beta-male friend in hopes that he can film the results of their barhopping conquests. It’s a one-sided love story actually, where the supernatural is rebuffed by the boring human. Twilight in reverse meets August Underground. I would love to see this segment fleshed into a feature length of its own. Cool concept.

Ti West helms “Second Honeymoon.” It plays on your fear of the no-tell motel. I found it the weakest of the anthology, but the ending was so realistic and sickening that it made up for the lag.

“Tuesday the 17th” by Glenn McQuaid is a play on the psycho-in-the-woods theme. It actually has a thick backstory, but you don’t get to enjoy it because this segment documents the closure of the years-long trial the heroine has suffered. I still can’t figure out if I like that refusal of a deep narrative, but my curiosity of her past was definitely piqued.

Mumblecore hero Joel Swanberg directed “The Strange Thing That Happened to Emily When She Was Younger.” It’s a Cronenberg tribute with hints of urban legend fears of organ sharking. Question is, what ARE those organs? Again, we don’t have the time for the obviously rich backstory, but I would love to know more.

“10/31/98″ is brought to you by the Radio Silence crew. This tape (which probably was shot on vhs), details the fate of a costume party gone wrong during the heyday of the late ’90′s. Really liked this one.

V/H/S is a sampler (and only a sampler) of some really creative and intelligent writing. It’s packed with visual cues, hints and eggs that you will miss if you blink, but they are there and I had to watch it twice just to catch a fraction of them. Each story leaves all these open questions, but that seems to be the running theme of the movie. The nature of which the stories are presented just don’t allow for the big picture, although the slice-of-life (death?) you see on each tape hits you over the head with the notion that more is going on. Do we need it? Yes, but the minimalist presentation delivered by the minimalist medium does work in whetting your curiosity for more. If the whole story had been delivered, it might not work as-is.

Many have complained why all this digital media would be on vhs tapes in the 2010′s. Swanberg’s Skype-delivered segment has been the biggest target of concern. The answer is security. V/H/S can’t be traced and the owner of all this criminal media (obviously a snuff-distributor) would be caught for streaming such stuff online.

Some segments are weak, others are top notch and I predict that V/H/S will become a cult flick like House of the Devil or The Signal or some of the New French Extreme. That’s refreshing because we don’t get to experience that type of off-the-wall movie anymore in this era of disposable films.

Catharsis Review

Holy Snappers!

There are seven billion people, or rather, souls, on this planet right now. Statistically speaking, everyone has a doppelganger.  A person who shares so many qualities with you, that there exists striking similarities.

I write a series of books about life before humanity on our Big, Blue World. So does author Lada Ray.  The synchronicity is astounding!

“Catharsis” is a novelette tackling this same quandary.  And why not? Right now, doomsayers are screaming eschatological epithets for humanity. Transhumanists are telling us with gigantic presentations at T.E.D. that we no longer matter and Mayan shamans say time’s up.

This gets one to think: How did we begin? What made us the warlike entities that build, love, create and destroy?

Ray has no fear, as do I, to tackle this question and you really need to read “Catharsis” to get some insight into the point.

Don’t get me wrong, the book isn’t some diadem like “The Silmarillion” or some faux-history tome like “The Twelfth Planet”. Don’t expect an essay on what life was like in ancient Atlantis down to the statistical output of beans and corn. Be prepared to engage in a wonderful adventure, or rather, preamble, featuring drama and action for a people unlike us – but soon to be.

“Catharsis” is a planetary romance blended with dystopian drama that is like reading John Carter-cum-“The Time Machine”. It’s THAT good. But she only penned it in thirty-plus pages. More to come.

Seriously, I care not that I have a contender to my genre of pre-human romance. I want more than just me and Zechariah Sitchin trying to figure this terrible topic out.

God may not “love” you as you had thought. Your humanity may have awfully mundane beginnings and you may not like knowing them. Deal with it. Love each other and have hope for your species. We all share this Earth with each other just as I do with Lada Ray.

Five Stars.

In Review: How To Kill Yourself

No, this isn’t a pro-suicide entry by any means. C.V. Hunt’s novella How to Kill Yourself is funny, irreverent and a bit touching. It really blends genres well in its under-one-hundred pages. Gory horror, Bizarro distortions and even gushy angelic love affairs – like the kind that Yours Truly pens.

One big, gigantic problem with the book – it’s too short.

I’m stupid!

First off, there is so much going on that it demands adventure on epic proportions. A battle for Purgatory. Death herself hiding out in the burbs as a crusty-punk junkie. The Devil in a love affair with the angel who is entitled to rule over the Purgatum. The only problem is that he doesn’t love her back. She is the Devil, after all.

Hey, I know well that less can be more, but in this case, I really need more! As far as the wordsmithing and such, Hunt can spin a well-written yarn. I just wish she had used more yarn. I have to wonder if the book is a sketch for a grander scheme to be released at a later date. Perhaps? Please say “yes,” Ms. Hunt, because the story is so much fun!

You’ll understand the title of the book as you read because it refers to the method of travel between dimensions. I won’t say much more on that, but I was itching to see more of the already-fleshed-out characters going about with more incident and situations.

Being primarily Bizarro, you can’t expect thick, Russian literature, as most works in this genre pride themselves on brevity and open-ended scenarios. As they say in comic-booking – “one thing after another.”

Hunt ties everything up well, it’s just that the ride wasn’t long enough. I’d love to see this tale return in full glory one day if she has the time or interest.

Doubleplusannoying

When I was a young one in the ’80′s, Valleyspeak had emerged from the San Fernando Valley courtesy of films like The Last American Virgin, Valley Girl, and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Words such as “Awesome” and “Totally” infected the American vernacular almost overnight around 1981. Why not? It was the sign of the times. Carterian austerity gave way to Reaganoid yuppiedom and people were tired of going without. Everything digital was new and “awesome” and people could totally afford the total package. One particular element of this craze was to punctuate every sentence with the word “like” as much as you could. It was infectious. The language became a speech virus that many practitioners could not control.

Although it doesn’t seem to have any precedence in the media, the 2010′s are wrought with a new addictive language with key words that stick in the brains of many like a nervous tic. To fellow writers following this blog, I advise you to use these words sparingly throughout your works or you may date yourself in years to come.

Below is a seven minute tutorial on toning for digital painting. It isn’t a bad tut as far as the info provided, but count how many times the commentator says “basically.” Heh, turn it into a drinking game. I promise you will be very drunk if you take a shot every time the presenter says this word before the video ends. Truth be told, you’d probably get liquor poisoning.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gjFk7EpWiNs

Aside from “basically,” which I find to be most popular with the tech-geek crowd, other mundane words that have become contagious utterances in the ’10′s are:

1) Absolutely – Q: “Did you like your measly Saltine cracker?” A: “ABSOLUTELY!!!!!” Eh…it’s just a Saltine. You didn’t win the Lotto. Chill out, bro.

2) Actually – “This mainframe actually clocks in at actually 700 petaflops per second. And if you’ll actually look to your left, you will actually see a facsimile of Master Yoda, in the actual nude…”

3) Seriously – “SERIOUSLY! I just ate a bagel and I wanted strawberry shmear and I got blueberry! SERIOUSLY?”

4) Innit? (Britons Only) – “So, I take a wee gander o’er at that Ned bird, innit? And she was no-havin’ none of it. Innit?”

I beg you. Please think a bit before you speak. Even on high-production, Big Media presentations, these words are used to the point of excess. I know I sound anal retentive, but listen to that video above for a few minutes. It’s grating.

The Window of “Opportunity.”

Willy Wonka has been so gracious enough to allow we indie-plebes to stick our noses into his Chocolate Factory right about…now (Lord, that sounded dirty). Yes, my fellow novelists, HarperVoyager has released the floodgates to all of us who are unsigned and without agency about an hour ago from this writing to submit our unworthy manuscripts so that one day, HBO can make soft-pornographic miniseries of our imaginings. Oh, they would have fun with mine! Oodles of young, supple elfmaids casting their boobies to the wind for no apparent reason. Problem is, I write YA! Wouldn’t be too happy about that, but I would probably have no control over it either.

Ah, but my brainwashed brain has that lust for the Almighty Amerikanski Dollar! My Momma told me I should have a white picket fence by now. Lame. Like, I really don’t want to be responsible for mowing my lawn (that sounded kind of dirty too).

Being the filthy anarchist that I am, I really don’t mind sharing this call to compete with you, dear followers, because I would be just as happy to see any of you snag that winning contract with a Big Six-Shooter as I would for myself. Not so much for the money, but for the approval?

Here is the link to the hog-call: http://harpervoyagerbooks.com/harper-voyager-submission-form/

Right. So with that, I say, let the best man or woman win. They will accept more than one lucky soul, I’d imagine, but follow the guidelines carefully. One false move and you’ll never hear from them.

Give it a shot! If you aren’t aware of this opportunity, this just might be the best post you’ve ever read. An easier road to getting your message out there. I wish you all the best of luck.

Oh, and…Happy Hunger Games.

Into HELL with James Roy Daley

James Roy Daley is one of those horror novelists that drives his imagination to excess. As I’ve stated in previous reviews, horror is a gratuitous medium and this kind of explicit detail is necessary to instill the emotion of horror in the reader.

J.R. Daley does not skimp on detail. I promise.

Into Hell is one of those treasures that really knocks Stephen King from his throne. I’m not kidding. The impressive thing is, Daley can do this without inventing new monsters a ’la Clive Barker. Don’t get me wrong, that’s an impressive feat to accomplish, but taking time-honored boggarts and subverting their tropes makes the horror all the more… alien.  By doing this, Daley throws you, the reader into an uncanny valley where even the bad guys aren’t comfortable and in control. Talk about disorienting.

Our heroine goes to hell in this book. The title isn’t figurative or a metaphor. No, she sincerely rots in the abyss throughout its pages. Why she must, you don’t truly know or really care by the end of the book. He doesn’t touch on this too much because the terror begins immediately only to have the plot shift halfway through. Before the first chapter is finished, you feel like you are in a solipsistic playset owned by Leopold and Loeb. Genius, relentless, and murderous – fascist. There’s two scoops of goop on every page and I guarantee this. But, c’mon folks, hell has to be burly, right? Daley has made this so and you aren’t ever quite certain of where you are, even when things look mundane. If hell is this awful, I swear I’m going to be good from now on. No more premarital sex. No more cussin’. I’ll even tithe to the United Way.

Most of you reading this have played survival horror video games. Forbidden Siren, Silent Hill, Res. Evil; you know the lot. The feel of this book is lockstep with that immediacy and I even found myself tapping my Kindle in hopes that I could control Stephenie so she could do the right thing. Alas, it is only a book. It’s only a book…

Get Into Hell if you really want to experience a mirthless horror (there is no levity here – none) that will leave you second-guessing your atheism. This Canuck has crafted a world so terrible that you can once again fear Ol’ Scratch. Canada doesn’t mess around. With punk rock they spawned Dayglo Abortions and with literature they present James Roy Daley.

Six hundred sixty-six stars.

Your Book’s Shelfari page. A great tool for readers and authors.

Shelfari is Amazon’s answer to Goodreads. It has a pretty robust interface and you can deposit reviews and whatnot just like GR, but the traffic and communities aren’t quite as jumping as far as I can see. One thing I like about Shelfari is the book data page. If you are indie, this can really help your book shine with or without spoilers. Information like places, characters, plot points and themes can all be spelled out here in as much or as little detail as you care to release. This is also a great resource for the reader who really wants to dig deeper than the book jacket’s description, but doesn’t want to spoil it all by reading the free cheddar online.

If you are interested in some of the finer details of my book The Ancients and the Angels: Celestials, come take a peek into my book’s Shelfari Page. It’s probably the most comprehensive source of information an author can use to describe their products without giving away too much.

Gimmie Indie!

Back in 1988, The U.K. was celebrating its Summer of Love. The Second Summer of Love. Bands, writers and artists from King’s Crossing in Camden to Piccadilly Circus were making themselves known and Rave was the glue that kept them together. Musical monsters such as Blur, The Stone Roses, and Lush congregated together at venues which would become a common ground for all of the who’s-who. One music journo dubbed this nascent collective of immense talent “The Scene That Celebrated Itself.”

Indie publishing could be categorized much like this as well, if you care to see it. Right now, in your back alleys of Barnes and Noble, your left-fields of Amazon and all over Smashwords, indie authors are staking their claims into literary history. We are an eclectic lot, but many of us share so many talents and loves that our product may dovetail each other. This isn’t competition, but consolidation. Enjoy the spirituality of Gail Minchew, the pre-Colombian proto-culture of Zoe Saadia, the pre-human origins of Lada Ray. Oh, and Me.

These are authors that Big Pub fears and they love to send out their muckrakers to defame us. To fear the Monster at the End of this Book. Us. – The Indie Author. Will you continue to turn the pages despite how much Grover begs and pleads that you not? Probably. We love to do what we should not, and you, dear reader, are smart enough to hunger for the yarns that burst through the cobwebbery Big Six shoves down your eyes and into your minds.

I have these brave souls with me in my Twitter, my Goodreads, and my blog. I see these men and women now no matter where I go. No matter where I post. I love their words and I will continue to yearn to see them grow along with me.

Rejoice! A new force of imagination and wonder is here to fill your brains, dear reader. Indie is the future.