Write, edit, repeat
I've got stories coming. Stories and stories. A few coming out, a few being written for anthology publication, and a few I'm working on fielding to magazines and editors as I sit here and type this. I'm preparing for Texas Frightmare Weekend where I'll be helping Eric Beebe from Post Mortem-Press man a table. I'm trying to get my serial novel Flesh Trap ready for public consumption. I'm looking forward to summer trips, traveling, sunshine, seeing people who are important to me. Water, beaches, sleeping in, the whole nine yards.
But until then, I'm writing.
Like this. More Flesh Trap snippets. Consider it like DVD extras, like behind-the-scenes documentaries or creator commentary. Or, you know, something.
Casey Way sat on his hands on his father's front porch, and waited.
He was seven years old, all skin and bones and shaggy hair he hated having cut. He still had his mother's freckles then, back before they disappeared. They were the only thing she left behind when she went to Heaven, beside her pictures on the mantel and her Venus Flytraps in the backyard. Casey didn't know much about her except for the things she left behind. His father didn't say much. His father could be like that sometimes.
