Corey Lamb's Blog, page 2

“Angel Adams: Bitch of Death” Part II

“Ah, yes. The French lacing,” a granular, droll voice called to me as I stared idly at the trim of the skirt. It belonged to a slender man in a light gray button-up and charcoal pants. He crossed in front of me and picked up one of the sleeves of the dress, casting a slightly wrinkled thumb across the material. “One of our best pieces.”

“One of your most expensive, too.”

The man gave a soft laugh. He was older, but handsome, in an accidental sort of way. All of the individual pieces were a bit skewed, but the package as a whole somehow worked. Like an abstract piece of art which might require some historical context to fully appreciate. Like a Picasso piece. He was Picasso handsome.

“You know what—” he said, rubbing his graying chin stubble a bit as he lifted the price tag. He had a look on his face like he’d just remembered a pepperoni Hot Pocket was steaming in the microwave. “Now that I think about it, I believe this particular piece is on sale today.”

“Really?”

As there were no vibrant posters advertising something as enticing as a clothing sale in a clothing store, I found the suggestion difficult to trust. And like my dad always says: “Don’t believe any hearsay from car salesmen.”

I’ll assume the same principle applies to dress vendors.

“Well, not for everyone,” the man continued, raising a hooked eyebrow. “Special employee discount.”

That smug son-of-a-bitch. I knew it. “And this helps me how?”

“Well, if you were my employee, you could have it for free.”

“Your employee?”

“That’s right.”

There was something unsettling about the way he looked at me, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Like those photoshopped pictures on the internet of German Shepherds smiling with human teeth. And who the hell just offers a stranger a retail job? Crazy people, that’s who. I could be an axe murderer. Or a cat person. But that dress…

I needed it. In a way I’m too ashamed to accurately describe.

“Um…I, uh…” I stuttered aimlessly.

“Sorry,” the man laughed, easing the tension. “I know this is a bit…unexpected.”

“You could say that.”

“I just let someone go this morning. She didn’t really understand the business. And I can see by your taste in fabric that you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I’m looking for someone with brains. And the application process takes so long, you see.”

“I wasn’t exactly looking for a job.”

“But you’re looking for a dress.”

I turned back to the French lacing. It’s true, I wanted that lace like fucking pumpkin spice in my lattes. But a job? At Dress Barn? Not quite the wind beneath my wings.

“And I’d get it for free?”

“Nothing out of your pocket.”

I chewed on my thumbnail a bit, staring at the neckline. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” the man said, pursing his lips with an unmistakably false sincerity. “I’m really shorthanded.”

I suppose he was hoping to appeal to my humanity, or something. I looked around the store. One other employee stood behind the checkout counter, flipping her way through Good Housekeeping and clearly uninterested in whatever the hell kind of barter was happening over here. I glanced back to the dress. Then the price tag. Yep, still one-fifty. I guess a little extra cash wouldn’t hurt.

“I have to be in court on Friday. It’s what the dress is for.”

“Go to court on Friday, then.”

He seemed to have an answer for everything. I checked my phone. Two thirty-six. Dad would be home in a few hours.

“I’ll tell you what,” the man continued. “You can try it out for the day. If you don’t like it, you can quit.”

“I can quit…just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And I’ll still have the dress?”

“My gift to you.”

God damnit. He had me.

“Okay, deal,” I said, hating myself a little bit.

The man smiled harder, further exposing his armada of pearly whites. I’ll never forget that smile. He lifted his hand. “Ethan,” he said, his lips curling as his mouth tightened.

“Angel,” I replied, obliging the gesture.

Ethan smirked. “Angel, huh? That’s funny.”

“How’s that funny?”

“It’s—well, you’ll get it later.”

“Uh huh,” I said, slightly reevaluating my recent decision. I pulled my phone back out from my pocket. “Well, I’ll just have to call my dad and tell him I’m apparently working for Dress Barn now.”

Though I had thought it impossible, Ethan’s smile widened. “But you don’t work for Dress Barn. You work for me.”

Somewhere in the distance, a record scratched. Glass shattered. A group of suburban housewives collectively gasped.

“Wait, what?”

Ethan stepped up to me, appearing more menacing than before. He had a good twelve inches on me, so it was hard to look anywhere but up at him and his silvery slicked-back hair. “You. Work. For me.”

“Angel Adams: Bitch of Death” Part I

THERE ARE A thousand and one places to begin my story, but I feel as though I owe it to you to kick this off from one of the more fucked up notes, so things can only get better from there. My name is Angel Adams, and it’s my job to kill you all.

Okay, that sounds a bit harsh. I don’t really kill people. No, they all seem to manage that part just fine on their own. I merely guide Death’s marked pigeons into that great big birdcage in the sky, if you believe in that sort of thing. It’s beyond my clearance level to know what happens next. I just take the paychecks and walk them down the aisle. But as you might imagine, things tend to feel a bit like a shotgun wedding.

Let me paint you a nice little picture, for a minute. I am seventeen years old, five-foot-three, and one hundred and five pounds. So if my butter-blonde hair wasn’t enough incentive for society not to take me seriously enough already, I have the body of a claymated Christmas elf. So, when I tell someone to walk with me into the shadows of the valley of Death, you can imagine the response.

So, why me? Well, that’s a question I can answer with an opportune flashback.

Remember the fucked up part I was talking about?

Around a year ago—to this day actually, holy shit—I went shopping. I know what you’re thinking: Of fucking course you went shopping. You’re a teenage girl. Blah blah blah shoes.

Ahem, fuck off.

Yes, I was shopping. Let’s get it out of the way. I needed a dress to wear to my dad’s court hearing. Now, just so you don’t leave here thinking my dad is a cat burglar or an arsonist or some shit, I’ll elaborate. My dad is suing Diet Coke. Not Coca-Cola. Diet fucking Coke. He found what he claims to be a chicken beak at the bottom of a can he polished off three months ago on his lunch break. As a devout vegan-slash-pacifist-slash-environmental-enthusiast, he’s suing Diet Coke for mental anguish and ten thousand dollars’ worth of medical bills he owes for a series of “checkups” and “hospital visits” following the incident. I’ve agreed to testify as a witness—because, you know, he’s my goddamn dad.

On second thought…he’s an arsonist.

So anyway, I was looking for a dress. Something elegant that said “supportive”. Like something you’d wear to a debate at City Hall if your dad was running for Mayor, which is essentially what I expected the tone of the hearing to emulate. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t look everywhere. Resale shops, bargain marts, those weird strip-center outlets with the naked mannequin amputees paving the receiving line down the center of the store and waving at you with whichever hand survived the apparent hatchet attack as you ponder your life’s existential meaning. But I digress.

Finally, at the Dress Barn across from Penny’s, I found her. Black, elbow-cut sleeves and a collarbone neckline, with a nice lace pattern crossing from shoulder to shoulder. Elegant and supportive. I reached for the price tag, ready to drop two months’ babysitting money on Black Beauty, when reality slapped me like a disgruntled eight year old unhappy with the notion of ending the Uncle Grandpa marathon and going the hell to sleep.

One hundred and fifty dollars? Well…fuck.

Announcing “Angel Adams: Bitch of Death” as a Weekly Serial

Yes, you read that correctly. Though everyone who joins my mailing list will still receive their FREE copy of “Angel Adams: Bitch of Death” upon its official release later this year, as a show of good faith, I’ll be releasing the entire book in pieces on my website as something of an experiment. Every Friday night, starting with this Friday (October 2nd), I’ll be posting the latest addition to the ongoing serial for you all to enjoy for free (that’s F-R-E-E). All that I ask in return is for you to spread the good word (and maybe get a few of your friends to join my mailing list). I think you’ll really enjoy this story. It’s been one of my favorites thus far to write.

So, set your calendars. Death is waiting.

“Thanks for the Screams, Wes”

I know I’m coming out with this a little late, but I feel as though I need to say something personal on the matter of Wes Craven’s unfortunate passing. He was one of my greatest idols, and my first introduction to horror. Without Wes Craven, I probably wouldn’t write in the way I do.

Let me set the mood for a moment. I was eight years old, barely into the first semester of my third grade year, and I was flipping through the channels on my bedroom television, mostly hoping to catch some late night Dragon Ball Z or something wildly inappropriate to talk to my friends about at school the next day. In truth, I should have been asleep long before then. But I was a little shit. And a curious one, at that.

Eventually, I came across what I now know to be the opening sequence of Scream. You know, the scene where Drew Barrymore is running in slo-mo while the black of Ghostface’s cloak billows in the wind just before he ganks her for getting the question wrong. I couldn’t help but to stare. I’d seen the Ghostface mask before in Halloween shops and posters, but my parents never made it a point to immerse me in horror, as you might imagine. Up until that point, I mostly associated the mask with “bad”. But there, in my bedroom, there was nobody to turn off the television. Nobody to tell me to cover my eyes.

Admittedly, the scene was more intense than I was prepared for, what with the intestines and the hanging (sheesh). But I was too entranced to change the channel again. I had never seen anything like it. I soon found myself watching my first horror film…and loving it.

Sure, I was scared, but in a fun way. I enjoyed the mystery. I laughed at Stu’s terrible jokes (“liver alone *sticks tongue out*”). I loved Randy’s “rules” to survive a horror film (which I found incredibly accurate in the coming years, once I exposed myself to every popular horror film imaginable), and I thought Sidney Prescott was pretty damn hot, even at my young age. And that ending. That fucking ending. It was so bizarre to me that the characters were carrying out the plot of a horror film while explaining that they were carrying out the plot of a horror film. It blew my mind. Who knew horror could be so much fun?

Naturally, I told my friends about it the next morning in class. And none of them gave a flying fuck. Not that I could blame a bunch of second graders for not caring about a movie they weren’t morally allowed to watch for another nine years. But it was frustrating. I wanted to talk to someone about it. My parents couldn’t know I had seen such a slaughterfest, and the internet wasn’t exactly the thing to do yet. So what could I do?

Well, I could write about it.

Before I ever saw Scream 2, I wrote a one-page elementary school level treatment of my own. It mostly involved Gale (Courtney Cox) killing everyone to make a good story, and Sidney and Randy saving the day and getting married in the end (give me a break, I was eight). I wish I knew what happened to it. Rest assured, it exists somewhere. But I eventually saw the actual Scream 2 and forgot all about it. Because Scream 2 kicks ass.

So thank you, Wes. Thank you for my love of horror. Thank you for making me want to be a writer. And thank you for the Screams. Rest in Piece, brother.

HOW TO WRITE SHIT: “Using Humor in Different Ways: Part One”

This post is a bit of a change-up to my usual material, but I thought I’d write something useful for once and not just blindly promote my own material (*cough* buy my books *cough*). So, I’m going to start writing these little segments here, giving my two cents on the whole “writing process”. This one will cover, as you may have guessed, the use of humor in your writing. Part one.

Now, I’m not claiming to be the leading authority on humor (or anything, for that matter), but my entire writing career at the moment is based around the notion that my books are funny. That’s my thing. Honestly, without humor, everything I’ve written thus far falls flat on its face. Thankfully, I’ve managed to make my readers laugh enough to look past how shitty some of my writing really is. Okay, I might be exaggerating a bit. My writing isn’t shitty, or at least, I don’t think it is. But it can’t be denied that without the humor, my stories are far less engaging. Think of what “The Hangover” might be, without the humor. On second thought, watch “The Hangover Part III”.

So how do I use it?

Most writers looking to play with humor typically won’t consider themselves “comedy” writers. Usually (from what I’ve read), they are writers from literally any other genre, looking to use comedy alongside building tension or relief from whatever else they’ve got going on. Take horror for example. I’d go as far as to say a good eighty to ninety percent of horror that’s out there in either literature or film has at least a couple of one-liners or small humorous situations sprinkled in to the narrative. Now, why in the hell would anyone invested in a horror novel want to laugh? It’s simple. It changes the pacing of the story, and it drops the reader’s guard, leaving them open to emotional distress. You know this as “comic relief”. As in, relief from the distress of horror. You’re scared. The protagonist and her boyfriend are crouching through the haunted house. The protagonist relates the feeling to Scooby-Doo. Her boyfriend falls over with a knife in his back. You were too busy thinking of Scooby-Doo to see it coming, and shit just got real. A small comedic line can make an impact hit that much harder.

There’s also an anti-comedic relief. I don’t want to call it “horrific relief”, but screw it. It’s called horrific relief. And it’s exactly what you’d think it is. Horrific relief is the strategic placing of horrific and disturbing imagery in a comedic story to bring the reader “out” of the comedy and into a vulnerable state. The idea is basically to get the reader laughing, show them a dead body, and then make a joke about the dead body. What this accomplishes is killing the reader’s good mood for just a moment (maybe even scaring them, if possible), in order for the reader to appreciate the next joke that much more. The psychology pretty much mirrors that of the “comedic relief”. If you buy a horror novel, you probably want to get scared. So when the characters make a joke, you might enjoy the joke, but your subconscious wants to be scared that much more, so when the next big fright comes, you react in a stronger way. Same thing with “horrific relief”. You buy a comedy novel to laugh. So when the cat is possessed by Satan, your subconscious starts looking for the humor in that fucked up situation, even if it irks you a bit more than you would have hoped. That’s when I strike with the next joke, and you’re back to your happy place.

Hopefully what I’m saying is making some kind of sense.

You’ve got to be careful, though. Sometimes your scariest scenes can be ruined with a misplaced one-liner. The same can be said about the misuse of a scare in a situation which is better suited as a purely comedic moment. In other words, know your story, and know your rhythm. Your jokes need to make sense within the context of your story. Conversely, so do your scares.

Using this foundation of psychology, you can also use “dramatic relief” or something similar, but it’s best to keep your “relief” on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum of whatever mood you’re hoping to convey.

And that’s how to write shit. Part one.

Cover/Book Reveal: “Angel Adams: Bitch of Death”

So I’ve been working on a little project to hopefully increase my mailing list, in the form of a new book that I will be offering for free as an incentive to join the list. “Angel Adams: Bitch of Death” follows the titular character Angel, who accidentally applies for the job of Chicago’s Grim Reaper when trying to get a dress for a court room hearing. As you may guess, hilarity ensues.

This is the cover I’m working with so far:

So if you’re interested in getting a copy of “Angel Adams” for free, sign up for the mailing list here, and you’ll have one sent your way upon the official release. I shit you not!

Next Project Post-Zombie Trilogy: “Palo Rojo Goes to Hell”

It’s never too early to think ahead, which is exactly what I’ve been doing since “I Am Become Apocalypse” was released. While the next chapter in my short Zombie trilogy is on its way (and not yet titled), I do have a new story in the works, in the form of “Palo Rojo Goes to Hell”.

I don’t want to say too much just yet, but I will say that the story follows Dave Reynolds, a man living in the desolate small-town of Palo Rojo, California. A young wealthy couple moves into the house next door, which has been vacant for fifteen years, and they seem to have made friends with everyone…except Dave. Something about these two tycoons just doesn’t sit well with him, and he begins to form outlandish suspicions of the two that even he deems to crazy to repeat to anyone. After all, thinking your new neighbors work for Satan is outright ridiculous…or is it?

I don’t have an official release date just yet (you know how I am about those), but I’d say expect it sometime at the beginning of 2016, with a cover reveal coming soon.

Oh, and I have another little project I’m working on, which I’m releasing for free as an incentive to join and refer people to my mailing list (which you can find here). But more on that later.

Lots of good stuff, people. Lots. Of good. Stuff.

“I Am Become Zombie” Part 3 Title/Cover Reveal Coming Soon!

Yes, you read that correctly. I am hard at work at penning the final sequence of the “I Am Become Zombie” trilogy, and let me tell you, it’s batshit crazy. I am torn between three very different titles for the final part, but I am confident that I’ll have made a selection in the next week or so. It’ll be at least a couple of months before you see the final piece of this decomposing puzzle, but you won’t be disappointed. So get ready to revel in the final days of the apocalypse.

And if you haven’t read “I Am Become Apocalypse” (Part 2 of this series), what are you waiting for?! It’s available now, so spread the word! You don’t want to miss this shit.

-Corey

“I Am Become Apocalypse” Is Available Now!

That’s right! The fabled sequel to my debut zombie short “I Am Become Zombie” has been merely the stuff of legend until now. Release dates have come and gone, without much for me to show in the nature of a part two. But that’s all in the past, as “I Am Become Apocalypse” is ready to blow your mind (or at the very least, give you a bloody smile). What’s even better…this is the first official publication under my new publishing house “Heads or Tales”. But more on that later.

You can pick up your copy by clicking on the awesome cover above…and for the love of god, review it! I’ll love you forever. But not in a creepy way. Unless you’re into it.

Also, I have an “official” facebook page for all of my upcoming shit. The first twenty people to like the page will get something very *ahem* special. Seriously, though…you’ll get something cool. https://www.facebook.com/clallenbooks

And if that isn’t enough incentive to do the things…well, I’ll think of something fucking ridiculous to offer next time. Until then!

-Corey

I Have SO Many Good Excuses, I Promise…

Okay. To all my loyal fans who haven’t forgotten about me over the span of the last 6-7-8-or-so months, I LOVE YOU. As in, seriously. I love you. All of you. In the most romantic way imaginable. And I say this because I definitely finally finished part 2 of my zombie trilogy, “I Am Become Apocalypse” (which was so damn close to being titled “I Am Become Zombies”), and I have updated everything to reflect the new and improved release date of June 30 (yes, of THIS year, I promise). I love you in advance for forgiving the postponed release and giving it a read anyway (*smiles nervously*).

Now this is the part where I list all of my super incredible excuses as to why I have taken so long to publish this piece. For starters, I pushed my writing aside for a little while to finally get my shit together and finish college…which actually worked! So these last 6-ish months have been especially grueling as I finished up my B.S. in physics (which I’m slowly realizing that I have no idea what to with). And I have a new living arrangement that is less-than-noteworthy and that I refuse to acknowledge in writing.

Alright, so I have more excuses, but you probably would be better off not hearing them. Just know that they’re there.

But all of that is in the past now, and I’m ready to continue the path I began last summer. I’ve started another project as well, but you’ll hear more about that next month. Right now, it’s all about the zombies. Speaking of which, I’ll be sending a few copies of the completed draft to some beta-readers for editing purposes, so if you’re interested, please let me know. If nothing else, you’ll get a free copy of the manuscript. I want this thing to be great! Or, you know, legible.

This also marks another milestone for me, which is that this will be the first official publication through Heads or Tales Publishing, which is a publishing house that I co-founded last year. Technically, I’ll be publishing an updated version of “I Am Become Zombie” under the new label, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to count that.

Anyway, thanks for listening to my nonsense, and may God have mercy on your soul.

-Corey