JournalStone Publishing & Dark Discoveries Magazine Announce Famed Editor/Author/Reviewer Robert Morrish To Bring His Acclaimed “What The Hell Ever Happened To…?” Column To Dark Discoveries Magazine

SAN FRANCISCO, February 4, 2013 – JournalStone Publishing (JSP) President, Christopher C. Payne and Dark Discoveries Magazine Managing Editor, James Beach, are pleased to announce that, beginning with Issue #23, Dark Discoveries Magazine will be the new home for Robert Morrish’s acclaimed and long-running column, “What The Hell Ever Happened To…?”

Robert Morrish has always been intrigued by individuals, particularly authors and artists, who achieved a degree of notoriety in their field but later vanished from view.  He launched the column “What The Hell Ever Happened To…?” in issue #8 of The Scream Factory (Winter 1991/92) in order to start tracking down some of the horror genre’s former luminaries who had since gone underground.  A total of nine installments of the column appeared in the pages of The Scream Factory before that magazine ceased publication with issue #19 in 1997.

The column’s concept continued to resonate with Morrish, however, and in the latter stages of his tenure as Editor of Cemetery Dance (CD) magazine, the column was resurrected under the slightly more PC title “Where Are They Now?” However, after a short run CD’s already full slate of columns and columnists meant that the column would only be able to appear on an irregular basis.

Morrish thus secured CD’s blessing to find a new home for the column, and his search quickly led him to Dark Discoveries, which had significant appeal due to the regular publishing schedule promised by the magazine’s new publisher, JournalStone Publishing.  After some quick negotiations with JournalStone President Christopher C. Payne, the column has a new home.  The column will appear in every issue of Dark Discoveries, under its original moniker, “What The Hell Ever Happened To…?”  There are also plans to publish supplemental installments on both the Dark Discoveries website ( and Morrish’s Twilight Ridge site ( Subjects for the early columns include: John Coyne, Dennis Etchison, Alan Rodgers, and Randall Boyll.

Robert Morrish is the former editor of Cemetery Dance magazine (issues #35 through 60) and The Scream Factory magazine (issues #7 through 19), and has edited or co-edited several anthologies, including October Dreams and Thrillers II.  His long-running column on the horror small press, “Spotlight on Publishing,” has been appearing in Cemetery Dance since issue #8 in 1991, and his blog covering the small press horror scene can be found at

Morrish was formerly the lead horror reviewer for Publishers Weekly, and has also had reviews appear in mainstream publications such as The San Francisco Chronicle, The Los Angeles Daily News, The San Jose Mercury News, The Santa Cruz Sentinel, and The West Coast Review of Books.  He’s also published a variety of non-fiction work in genre publications such as Weird Tales, Rue Morgue, Cinefantastique, Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone Magazine, Dead Reckonings, Mystery Scene, and Midnight Graffiti. In addition, he has contributed to a number of genre reference works, including: The Encyclopedia of Fantasy; Fantasy and Horror: A Critical and Historical Guide; Supernatural Literature of the World: an Encyclopedia; and the forthcoming Encyclopedia of the Zombie. A Best of The Scream Factory collection is currently in production and will be published by Cemetery Dance Publications.

Morrish also writes short fiction on occasion, and his stories have appeared in more than two dozen anthologies, including The UFO Files, Subterranean Gallery, At Ease With the Dead, In Laymon’s Terms, and all seven volumes of the Shivers series. He’s had several stories singled out for Honorable Mention in Year’s Best anthologies, and his story “The Outsider,” which appeared in the DAW Books anthology The Texas Rangers (and was his first Western short story), was selected as one of three finalists for the Western Writers of America Spur Award for best short fiction.

Born and raised in Michigan, Morrish now lives deep in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, with his lovely wife Kayalucia (who he wed, most appropriately, on Halloween), five dogs, two horses, and a black cat.  As for his “day job,” Morrish has worked for a variety of Silicon Valley companies, including PayPal, Apple, Adobe Systems, and Symantec, and in his copious spare time, he’s a volunteer firefighter.

Dark Discoveries Magazine, a subsidiary of JournalStone Publishing, is a well-established and popular full-color slick print quarterly magazine, including a digital edition, which is internationally-distributed in the U.K., Germany, Canada and all across the USA, and features some of the best fiction, interviews, reviews and art to be found in the field of dark Fantasy.

JournalStone Publishing is a small press publishing company, focusing in the Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror genres in both the adult and young adult markets.  We publish in multiple book formats and market our authors on a global level. We are also active with major writer’s groups, including the Horror Writers Association (HWA), and produce a monthly newsletter with exposure to thousands of people. Our online presence and marketing effort is constantly expanding and recently we began our own forum. Assisted by a hard-working and distinguished staff of employees, President and Editor-In-Chief Christopher C. Payne has led JS on a rapid and successful journey to recognition and sales within the marketplace, with two books nominated for awards in JournalStone’s first 12 months of operation, and with JournalStone on the front cover of Publishers Weekly magazine in an April issue; with three of its authors highlighted on the inside cover.

# # #

For further information –

Contact:           Christopher C. Payne, President JournalStone Publishing



Phone:             415-763-7323. (READ)

Support for the Navy Seals

Support for the Navy SEALs

In August of 2011, the Navy SEAL community suffered its worst single day loss of life in its more than 50-year history when a team of SEALs aboard a special operations helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan. Like everyone with ties to the Naval Special Warfare, writer Jeffrey Wilson was deeply affected by this event. Everyone in the community is connected in some way to the families devastated by this tragedy.

Together with JournalStone Publisher Christopher C. Payne, Jeffrey has set out to raise money for the Navy SEAL Foundation, a non-profit organization that provides direct support for wounded SEALs and others from the Special Warfare community, and provides support and comfort for the families left behind when SEALs are killed in the line of duty. 

For the entire month of February, Jeffrey Wilson will donate 100% of his royalties from his novel THE TRAITEUR’S RING to the Navy SEAL foundation. In an incredible show of generosity and support, Chris Payne at JournalStone has agreed to not only match this donation, but in fact donate 100% of JournalStones’ February profits from this book during February. 

Jeffrey Wilson, a vascular and trauma surgeon, was deployed multiple times supporting the Navy SEALs as a combat surgeon. Although he left active duty in late 2007, he remains an active reserve member. Still assigned to the SEALs, Wilson runs a training program for SEAL medics. 

In Wilson’s novel, Americans confront terrorism; injured soldiers regain their health; sacrifice is rewarded; flashbacks and terrifying childhood memories serve the greater good; ancient (and infallible) wisdom is available to true seekers; and emotional connection binds people together for an eternity. Wilson is currently available for interviews. His publisher, Chris Payne, is also granting interviews. Please let me know if you’d like additional information. Thank you for your time and consideration. 

Author Bio: Jeffrey Wilson

Jeffrey Wilson, the son of a U.S. Air Force fighter pilot who later joined Pan Am as a pilot, spent much of his childhood in Berlin, Germany at the height of the Cold War (1970 – 1975).  He has worked as a musician (fife and drum corp) and actor; a firefighter/paramedic; and pilot and flight instructor. That was before he completed his residency in general Surgery and rejoined the Navy. He was a featured physician while the chief resident on trauma in an episode of “Trauma: Life and Death in the ER” on The Learning Channel during this time. 

Wilson did a Fellowship in Vascular Surgery at USF from 2002-2004. He reported for duty as a Vascular Surgeon to Portsmouth Naval Medical Center in July 2004. There he was the Director of Vascular Surgery research and director of the Non-invasive vascular Lab. In January 2005, he deployed as a Combat surgeon assigned to a FRSS team (the so-called “Devil Docs” who set up battle field surgical support with the Marines). They were in the Al Anbar province of Iraq for 6 months.

Upon his return, he was recruited by Naval Special Warfare to provide surgical support as a combat surgeon with the Navy SEALs. He left active duty in Late 2007 but remains in the reserves, still assigned to the SEALs where he runs a training program for SEAL medics. He works as a Vascular Surgeon at the VA and as a Trauma Surgeon at Tampa General Hospital with the University of South Florida. 

THE TRAITEUR’S RING is his first published novel, and is part of a three-book contract with his publisher. THE DONORS is due out next summer and FADE TO BLACK the following year. He is currently working on his fourth book.

Publisher Bio: Christopher C. Payne

Christopher C. Payne was born in DeSoto, Ill., in January 1967. He received his bachelor’s degree in finance from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, graduating in 1990. Currently he lives in San Francisco, Calif. In his spare time, he enjoys biking and snowboarding with his wife and two daughters.

Holding down a corporate accounting/finance job, Payne embarked on a literary career, delving into the world of writing with no preconceived idea of what to expect. He wrote three novels and edited an anthology before realizing his calling was more in tune with publishing. 

JournalStone was established in 2009, became a publishing company in late 2010 and published its first novel in the spring of 2011. Publishing over 10 novels in 2011 was quite an accomplishment for a budding small press but 2012 holds the promise of some enormous potential for JournalStone Publishing. 

Link to purchase the book on Amazon:

Book Information:

The Traiteur’s Ring

By Jeffrey Wilson, M.D.


ISBN: 978-1936564170

Contact Information:

Stacey J. Miller, Publicist

S. J. Miller Communications

Randolph, MA

telephone: 781-986-0732



What woman doesn’t want to be known for just her mind?  Most women would bend over backwards to find a man who could appreciate what she was thinking, not what she was wearing or how full her bra was.  Being waited on hand and foot doesn’t seem like such a bad idea either does it?  People to feed you when you are hungry, bathe you and adjust your bed when the pillows need fluffing?  Sounds like the life, doesn’t it?  You can have all of this and more.

All you need is a night out, in England, with a creepy sorta guy. Surprise!  The next thing you know, you are laying in bed suffering from a stroke which leads to a condition called “locked in syndrome”.  Poor, poor Allison.  She was the one who made it.  She was the one who lived.  Allison could have died from the stroke induced on her, but instead she is trapped in her body not able to move, talk, or breathe on her own at first.

Thorne, a local detective comes in thinking he has a serial killer to catch, only to learn early on that he has a serial wacko on his hands.  This guy is not out to kill his victims.  He simply wants to put them into a stasis, where the only thing that is able to be used by the women are their brains.  Everything in their lives are provided for, the criminal thinks he is doing these women a favor. The women have people to wait on them hand and foot, they will never have to lift a finger again, besides, they couldn’t even if they wanted to…

Thorne is a typical novel detective.  The funny thing is that, in the novel, he seems to point out how he seems to ooze out the stereotypes of the typical detective.  I find it amusing that the author points out Thorne’s un-uniqueness in the story.  Every time our typical detective gets close to honing in on the perpetrator, something seems to slip through the cracks, and Thorne is left standing holding his own…notebook.  The back and forth game goes on and on until finally the stakes are raised.  Thorne has about thrown in the towel.  The games are tearing him apart mentally.  Now is not the time to give up, there are many lives on the line  now and Thorne is the one who needs to finish the ordeal.  Blood will be  spilled, but whose and how much is the final question.

Creepy is all over this book.  The mental processes needed by the antagonist to do to these women what he does is just insane.  Trapping someone in their own mind is horrifying!  We get to hear  a bit from Allison in the book, these passages, to me are the most interesting parts of the book.  For a girl in an almost coma, the girl’s got a sense of humor!  It seems that Billingham really enjoyed himself the most when he was writing from her point of view.  These parts seemed too short in my opinion.

There were several parts of the book that seemed to drag on that I couldn’t figure out why he had put them in the book.  I know background is always important to have, but sometimes too much background is tedious.  Some of Thorne’s information could have been omitted or maybe condensed.  The one thing I was definitely glad to see not drawn out was the gore in the book.  Yes, there are killings.  Yes, there is death.  Yes, there are MULTIPLE deaths.  We understand what happens in messy killings, and we were given plenty of details, but it wasn’t anything I was going to be throwing my lunch up over.  For a debut book, it showed a great sense of maturity as a writer.   The imagination can fill in a great deal with the right lead from the author, and Billingham filled that role perfectly.

Get out some fish and chips and go on a serial whacko chasing adventure with Thorne.  Your dentist won’t hate you just for imagining you are in England.

Review by Amy Eye

Hall Pass

What kind of guy doesn’t want a hall pass?  A week off from marriage, no strings attached.  Does it get any better than that?  Well not for Owen Wilson.  He pushes his wife to the breaking point and she finally suggests he go off and do whatever he needs to do for a week, and then come home.  Kind of like that old saying of set the bird free and if it comes back it was yours to begin with.  If it doesn’t then he better pray to God he was shot by some Midwestern duck hunter.

Owen is the typical all American husband.  He is somewhat out of shape, has two kids and his eyes wander a bit when a gorgeous twenty something girl passes through his field of vision.  We can’t say the same for Jason Sudeikis.  Now that guy is a pig.  Who masturbates in their minivan on a regular basis, as it sits next to the curb in front of their house?  Isn’t that what the bathroom is for?

You are hopefully getting a feel for the movie now.  Do not take the kids to this one people.  I sat in the theatre cringing at a couple in front of me, with their two children, approximately 10 and 11 years old.  They shrunk into their sits for a full thirty seconds as we panned back and forth from an African American man’s penis to a Caucasian guy’s penis.  Nothing wrong with flashing the boys around, but do you have to bring kids watch?

Once Owen is set free he and Sudeikis find that life in the fast lane isn’t all they show in the commercials.  They putter out around 9 PM after inhaling a table full of junk food at one of the local sit down dinner chains and head home.  Is there a better place to pick up women than Chili’s?  I think not.  Here is where the movie went south for me.

If we are in the theater to see some raunchy comedy, then show us the raunchy comedy and be done with it.  Ok, maybe a small plot, but don’t give me too much to think about.  Hall Pass attempted to sway our thoughts to the loving couple, finding romance in the middle ages.  Maybe we’re all a little more in love with our wives than we let on.  Well, not me.  I’m divorced so to hell with it.  The romantic flip was a little too much for me and the movie quickly got very sappy.

Do we really think that Owen Wilson left alone in a bedroom with a naked Nicky Whelan would say no thank you?  The woman is smoking hot.  Damn, now it’s been a while since I got to say that.  I need to write more blog posts.

So bottom line, decent movie, a few laughs, not for the kids and you get a glance here and there at some hot women and some shlongs waving through the air.  Fell short for me but you could do worse in a pinch.  I would wait for the DVD and watch it from home.  Then you could pause on the Nicky Whelan scene and fast forward through the three men in a hot tub nightmare.


Biohazard by Tim Curran

Severed Press 2010
ISBN 978-0980606584
Available New Paperback

It is every person’s worst nightmare—nuclear war—and it’s happened.  Whole cities have been completely wiped off the map.  Those that are left standing are quickly becoming graveyards.  What’s left of the government has instituted Martial Law.  Corpse wagons make regular pick-ups of the dead.  Radiation sickness and diseases like cholera and typhus are running rampant through what’s left of the population.  Rick Nash’s wife Shelly has just died of cholera.  He wants to bury her properly but that’s illegal.  After weeks of eeking out some semblance of survival Nash has reached the depths of his despair and decides to commit suicide.  He is stopped by a presence that he refers to as The Shape that he feels needs him in some way.

In his continued quest for survival in a world destroyed by the bombs Nash is unceremoniously drafted by the Army to help in the disposal of diseased bodies.  He meets a young man called Specs and after multiple disagreements with the group’s leader they revolt and head to Cleveland.  There they meet Sean a former hit man for a bike gang out of New Jersey.  Sean has been hunting Trogs, people affected by radiation sickness who live in the bombed out cellars and sewers of the city and have resorted to cannibalism.  It is while in Cleveland that Rick and Specs learn about the Hatchet Clans, the Children, and have a harrowing run-in with mutated rats.  The three spend weeks together and soon pick up another survivor, a young woman named Janie.  She is a beautiful girl who has not lost her moral compass or compassion.  Rick tells the group of The Shape and its need for a sacrifice of some kind.  After attempting to satisfy it unsuccessfully, Specs gets sick and asks to be given over to The Shape.  When it finally makes an appearance they are horrified by what they see.  The Shape is a living nuclear reactor that destroys its living sacrifices on a cellular level.  Rick maintains his contact with it but doesn’t understand what The Shape wants from them.

The small group of survivors pick up Carl and Texas Slim.  Rick realizes The Shape is guiding them and on some level protecting them.  The group must make regular sacrifices on the night of the full moon and in some way it’s to keep The Shape from turning on them.  While in Indiana they run into mutant mosquitoes that bleed their victims dry, sand storms that pin them down for days, and dust storms that carry enough radioactive material to burn a man to ash in minutes.  Along their travels west, for that is where The Shape is guiding them, they are attacked by the Children.  The Children were created by the same radiation that killed the adults but somehow it turned children under the age of ten into walking nuclear waste.  If they touch you you’re dead.  They pick up Gremlin and Mickey who are both told about The Shape and what they know of it so far.  They manage to survive two different attacks by the Hatchet Clans large groups of people believed to be infected by a fungus and who kill everything it their path.  During these months on the road Rick has begun having nightmares of a Medusa-like creature chasing them and bent on the survivors’ destruction.  Rick comes to the realization that all of the places they have been to and the friends they have lost have all served a purpose, although he’s not completely sure what that purpose is…..until they stop in Des Moines and meet Price.

Price is a microbiologist who worked for the U.S. Army in a biological lab with Level 4 microbes—the deadliest on the planet.  Price explains that not only have people and animals been mutated in some way by the radiological fallout but so have germs.  Price himself witnessed the “birth” of Ebola-X, a deadly super-virus with a 99% infection rate and a 100% mortality rate.  It turns its victims into a liquefying mass of toxic waste.  This terrifies Rick and he thinks this is the connection with his nightmares and possibly The Shape, especially after Price tells him about the bioweapons lab in Nebraska.  Is this what The Shape has been driving them to?  And for what purpose?

Tim Curran has managed to scare the hell out of me with Biohazard and there isn’t a zombie in sight.  When I was fourteen years old I watched the TV movie The Day After and that scarred me for life.  I feared nuclear war because it was a real possibility.  Tim Curran has brought all of those fears right back and punched me in the gut with them.    The words he uses to describe all that the survivors encounter along their drive west paint an extremely frightening picture from the collapse of civilization as we know it to its final destruction at the hands of a superbug.  The end is terrifying and explosive and left me reeling.  Biohazard is a very dark look at the aftermath of nuclear war and there is no silver lining.  It’s raw and visceral and not for the faint of heart.  It will reach into your gut and squeeze as hard as it can, and even when it’s over you will be left feeling queasy.

Highly recommended

Contains violence and gore, adult language, and disturbing sexual images

Reviewed by: Colleen Wanglund

Duncan’s Diary, Maturation – Introduction


Below is the introduction to the as of yet unpublished sequel, Duncan’s Diary, Maturation.  It is the second book in the trilogy know as Duncan’s Diary.  The first book Duncan’s Diary, Birth of a Serial Killer can be found on Amazon, Barne&Noble or wherever books are sold. 

The story below contains graphic language and violence so do not proceed if you are not 18 years or older.   

You have been warned.    





            Jesus, the damn faucet never seemed to shut off.  What was the issue with valves anyway?  Nothing ever seemed to be made as good as it used to be for some reason.  It almost seemed like we came across a good idea, perfected it, and then the assholes in their suits saw how quickly they could turn it into shit so it was more profitable.

            Our society really did suck when you took in the overall picture.  I mean, really, Meg Whitman in a race to be governor of California?  Did she have any concept of what it really takes to run a government?  Not that I do, but I didn’t run for office, either.  The damn woman couldn’t seem to take the time to vote, yet she figured she could be governor.  It makes me a little sick to my stomach, thinking how far we’ve sunk.

            “Wouldn’t you agree, Veronika? I asked. Hahahaha, yes I realize you cannot talk.  That is the irony of asking the question, you see?”





            “Holy shit, that damn leak is going to be the death of me.  Now you must see the irony in that, my dear, Veronika.”

            Maybe now I should take a step back and explain about Veronika.  I realize anyone reading this will have no clue what I’m talking about, let alone what had occurred.

            I sat on the tile floor, in my bathroom, next to the tub.  The tub was filled with water, you see, and Veronika was lying inside on her back with her face directly under the faucet.  It was difficult fitting her in the tub, so I actually had to break both of her legs at the knee caps, twist them like a pretzel, and fold them back underneath her.  The tricky part was keeping her awake while this occurred.

“No time for taking a nap right now, is there, sweetie?” I said.

            I then placed a piece of plywood on top of her that I precut to fit directly over the tub.  I put several concrete foundation bricks on top of the plywood to hold everything in place.   Not that it mattered much. Veronika’s hands were tied quite firmly behind her back.

            At the top of the plywood was a nice, round hole that was just big enough for Veronika to poke her head through.  I’m not a cruel man.  Being locked up in a confined space with no way to view the outside world gives me the creeps.  We all have our limits.  Jesus, I guess I can’t say that for sure.  Do all of us really have limits?

            If boundaries were a thing that most people possessed then how the hell did that girl from Jersey Shore get a book contract?  What was her name?  Snooki?  I won’t even comment on what kind of a name “Snooki” is.  Of course, my name is Duncan Moron, what’s up with that?  Let’s just stick to the fact that this girl admittedly has read two books in her entire life.  TWO shitty books, and she was writing one.

            A Shore Thing. It hit bookstores during January supposedly.  The sad thing is it will be an instant hit.  I am sure of it.  If that is not a glaring indicator on how asinine our society is, then nothing else could come close.  Can we not look for stimulation that is more challenging, engaging, and worthwhile?  Could this girl really have anything to say that anyone really would give a shit about hearing?

            Maybe she should’ve run on the ticket with Meg Whitman. Now that would be a pair to vote for.  You’d have the bovine, middle-aged housewife who couldn’t even manage to vote and the young, airheaded socialite who probably couldn’t even spell the word vote.  Is it just me, or are we regressing as a nation?  No wonder the God damn Japanese own most of our cities.  We are too stupid and undeserving.

            “Anyway,” as they said on Friends, when my favorite character Phoebe opened her mouth and attempted to speak.  My intent was to inform you of who Veronika was.  Now I have spent most of my time describing her current precarious situation.

            Veronika attended San Mateo Community College.  Not to say that she wasn’t smart.  I’m sure there are a lot of our brightest young minds attending community colleges.  I wonder how many graduates from community colleges actually amount to anything more than clerks, or accountants, or some other mid-level workers.  Not that my collegiate career was anything to brag about.  I’m an idiot when it comes to books.

            “Jesus, you do look sad, Veronika.  It’s difficult for me to tell if you’re crying with most of your face submerged in water, but your eyes look so mournful.  Are you sorry, Veronika?  Are you now wishing you had made other choices?  Maybe not getting into the car with your boyfriend wasn’t such a good idea,” I mockingly said to her.

I had ventured over to the college one weekend for the farmer’s market that is held in the parking lot.  Some of the most succulent, freshest fruit can be purchased there.

            As I was reaching for a plump, ripe tomato, the kind of tomato that erupts with a cry for you to reach out and shove it in your mouth because it’s so fresh, I saw her.  I lost track of myself so quickly a lady next to me actually tugged on my shirt sleeve and pointed out I had crushed the vegetable in my hand as my unbridled exuberance overwhelmed me.




Holy shit, that noise was driving me crazy.  It probably had the same effect on Veronika, who, at that point, had been lying naked in this tub for 16 hours and 25 minutes.  She looked like on over-ripe prune, with her skin folding up in flaps and her face turning blue from the cold, sterile liquid engulfing her wrinkled body.

            Jesus, I wondered if she has relieved herself in the water, as well.

It was her happy-go-lucky cheeks that first attracted me.  Or maybe it was her smile and her way of greeting people.  She was one of those personalities that everyone brightens up around. 

            “Hey, how are you doing?  Can I try a taste of the broccoli-basil bread, please?  Oh, thank you.”

            It was the kind of talk that normally makes me sick to my stomach, but with her, it just made me smile.

            Her black hair was hanging down just past her shoulders, wavy and full, but not too overwhelming.  A cacophony of colors seemed to erupt from her eyes, almost to the point you couldn’t quite see what her dominant color was.  It seemed odd for a girl from the Philippines, I guessed.  Don’t most Filipinos have brown eyes?

            She had a bubble butt that oozed curves as her True Religion’s were tasked to the limit, attempting to keep it contained.  Women and their innate need to show off their ass.  What would most women do if they had a perfectly formed set of butt cheeks that looked half as good as mine?


I slammed my fist down on the plywood is it curved in slightly at the middle and launched a spray of water up from Veronika’s portal of light.

            “SHUT THE HELL UP WITH THE WHINING.  I AM TRYING TO THINK, YOU LITTLE BITCH!”  I screamed at her as the whimpering quickly subsided.

            It was too late, though, as took my hand, wrapping my fingers around her head and shoved it fully under the water.  The surprising thing was how strong somebody can kick, even when both of their legs are broken and knotted into a ball.  The plywood lid to her inevitable coffin bucked and jumped, but it didn’t give as she fought with all of her remaining strength for a paltry ounce of oxygen.

            The concrete blocks popped up and down like little ants when you roast them in an iron skillet over an open flame.  It’s funny how those little bugs can jump when their feet are burning from the searing heat.  I used to love to do that when I was a kid.

            We all take breathing for granted, don’t we?  Nobody cares about the pollution filling the air on a daily basis, yet once it’s denied, the inner sanctum of our souls realizes how precious this invisible sustenance really is.

            Luckily for her, I was not quite ready to say goodbye yet, so I released her and watched her nostrils flare as she sucked in the precious substance.  The grey duct tape on her mouth had started to curl on the sides as the moisture seeped in, but that didn’t really matter.  It wouldn’t need to hold much longer, her time amongst the living was quickly coming to a conclusion.

            A little smile formed on my lips as I thought of watching her die.  She was beautiful, if not a little more rounded than I normally liked.  This was the same thought I had when I saw her only a few days ago.  Nothing like being randomly picked out of a crowd, one of the hundreds of people that attended the market that day.  Talk about some bad luck.


I laughed out loud at the thought, and now I was sure I saw some tears running down her mascara-matted eyes.  It’s so funny how the black streaks form such a hideous picture when the make-up loosens its grip of vanity.  The very material that is used to beautify the painted women of our world, rebels against them at the first chance when things turn south and the waterworks begin.

            I had followed her that day.  It was too easy with the crowded market and her self-absorbed personality.  She was nice on the surface, I could tell, but that was all an act.  All women have an innate ability of deception built into their psyche.  They’re all adroit liars, and telling falsehoods is nothing more than another way to qualify the very essence of what defines who a woman is.

            Once she finished with her shopping, she strolled back to her little Honda Accord.  It was an older vehicle. But the damn things are meant to last forever, so who can really tell the year.  I sometimes think the imbecilic Japanese culture doesn’t really comprehend the true nature of a capitalistic environment.

            Building cars to last too long does nothing more than enable people to keep them that much longer.  Without people buying cars, jobs are lost, and when people lose jobs, they can’t afford to pay their bills.  In a way the homeless problem, the infectious plague of America, is caused by the Asian efficiency and higher standards of quality.

            I say give me the American-made crap, and let it fall apart.  To hell with the Japanese.  Then again, I drive a Volvo SUV, so what do I know?  And that doesn’t account for the Nissans I’ve owned in the past.  I really should buy a Honda and say to hell with it.  It’s built in America, anyway.  I don’t think anyone even knows what American-made means, or if it even has a true definition.

            Veronika, though I wouldn’t find out her name until later, cautiously pulled out of the parking lot, and I fell into place directly behind her.  She jumped on the 92 and headed to the El Camino exit.  I wondered for a minute if we were neighbors, but she continued on and ended up in Millbrae at a generic set of apartment buildings right off of Millbrae Avenue.

            I parked on the street as she entered through her gate, wrote down her license plate number, and headed home.  Before I left, I saw her park in the open lot versus heading into the garage, and a middle-aged man walked over to the door and helped her with the bags.

            He didn’t kiss her hello or even give her a warm smile, but it appeared that he was her partner of some nature.  It was probably sheer panic of loneliness that drove these two together.  Women, the older they get, the more like they are to settle for the best guy available instead of somebody they actually love.  Pathetic.

            Maybe the drive to procreate kicks in so hard they lose track of what love really means. They care about nothing more than dropping onto the next guy that gives them the time of day.  Show me a women who is in her late 20s and single, and I will guarantee you’ll find her desperate and afraid of dying alone.

            At the God damn age of 25 or 26 I think it starts kicking in.

            Over the next few days I sat outside that apartment building, watching, waiting patiently, trying to figure out who this girl was.  I followed her to yoga and to her spin class.  Figured out she was some kind of office employee for a company in South San Francisco, and she loved dining out for dinner.

            Her and her “boyfriend” would go out almost every night.  My guess is they weren’t saving much for the future.  They didn’t drive nice cars, but from the amount of money they spent at restaurants, they couldn’t possibly have much in the bank.





            I smacked the top of the plywood with my hand and then began to laugh.

            “I just wanted to see if you were still awake ,Veronika.  Hello?  Veronika?”

            I reached down a ripped off the tape from her protruding, plump limbs in one quick, sweeping motion.  I wondered if this could be some kind of service for the rich in lieu of collagen treatments.  Being stuck in a tub of water for almost 24 hours really puffs you up.  It almost appeared as if I had done this kind of thing before.

            “Hahahahahahaha,” I laughed out loud again. “Damn, I know it isn’t normal to laugh at your own jokes, but I sure as hell am a pretty funny dude.  Don’t you agree?”

            “Please, please let me go,” Veronika said in a cracked, unused voice.

            I smacked my hand down through the opening, connecting with her nose and mouth.  The blow followed through, pushing her head with such force that the sound reverberated off the walls when her skull hit the porcelain bottom of the tub.

            “SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU SLUT,” I screamed. “I will tell you when you can talk.  If you say one more word, I swear to God I will kill you now.”

            For a second, I was worried that my blow had been a little too resourceful.  Veronika’s eyes rolled around in their sockets as if they had a mind of their own, and blood began oozing out of her nostrils from the force of my punch.  Just as I began to say the words “oh shit” in my mind, I saw the recognition resurface in her facial features, and she came back around.

            “I just need you to be quiet for a few minutes, please,” I said respectfully.  “Can you do that?”

            Veronika nodded her head up and down.  At least, she bobbed it the best she was able to in her confined space.

            Women, damn maybe even men, are nothing more than carnival animals if you think about it.  Veronika had been with me for less than 24 hours, and she was already subservient to her master’s will.  I wonder, if I attempted to train a female with treats and electrical shock for negative feedback, how long it would take me to dominate a subject’s will.

            As luck would have it, and yes if you are patient enough luck will always find a way, one night the two lovebirds must’ve gotten into an argument.  It was probably about something stupid, I’m sure.  Maybe he was doing laundry and lost one too many of her socks in the dryer, or maybe he’d been working too late on his computer when he should have been holding her hand.

            I didn’t know, but I saw her storm out of the Chinese restaurant I had followed them to with him chasing after her.  He was pleading with her to get in the car, but it was apparent she was walking home, and he was on his own.  Women, does logic elude all of them or is it just the stupidity of man that drives them to insanity?

            She was wearing another pair of tight-fitting jeans, a white tank top T-shirt, and over that a form-fitting, thin blue sweater.  I swear to God, even from over a block away, I thought I could see her nipples fighting for their freedom to escape the confines of her clothing.  It wasn’t even cold outside, which made me wonder just how large they must be.

            Finally, he gave up and headed to the car.  You could hear him jam it into gear and the tires squealing as he launched the vehicle from the parking lot and drove away.  Now, she was truly on her own.

            She was only a couple of miles away from her apartment, but now with him gone, she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to make her way home.  She was crying, wiping her hands across her face and cheeks, and it almost broke my heart to see her so sad.  How could a girl so beautiful find herself in a situation that was so disturbingly miserable?

            I pulled up ahead of her a few blocks and parked the car, waiting.  I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for actually. I just watched her, observing her as she reflected on her life, crying.  She seemed too sad, and it took me a few minutes to realize I was crying, as well.  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and felt my stomach turning as I wept for this girl I didn’t really even know.

            “Please, don’t hurt………….”


            I slammed my hand down on the plywood again.

            “I promise you this – if you interrupt me one more time, I will cut out your tongue and shove it down your throat, laughing at you while you choke if you do not shut the fuck up.  Do you understand me?”

            Veronika nodded her head again.  Good little monkey, I thought to myself.




            Oh my God, that incessant drip. It was driving me insane.  My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t control them.  I felt that familiar yearning inside my loins, but I knew full well it was a false crescendo.  I was a failure as a man.  I lacked the ability to function anymore.

            “What the hell is happening to me?” I asked, but there was no response.  I would make them pay.  I now had my goal.  I knew what I had to do.

            It had gotten too difficult to watch her as she sat down on a bench less than a block from where I was parked. She was still crying with her face buried in her hands.  It was past dusk at that point, and the black of night had begun its inevitable envelopment of our daily lives.

            I had already exited my car, wearing my black pants and my black pull-over, long sleeve T-shirt.  I put my black leather gloves on slowly as I approached her from behind.

            What possesses a woman to sit down on a dilapidated park bench with its back to an alleyway in the middle of the night? It was a questionable-to-bad neighborhood for Christ’s sake.  It was not my intention to introduce myself that evening, but the opportunity had been more than I could pass up.

            Nobody was around, and no cars were coming down that little side street.  Veronika was so distracted, she had no idea where she was or what was happening.  What a distinct reflection of life.  Just when you think you have everything figured out, some nut in a black outfit drugs you, pulls you to his car, and tortures you for hours on end.

             I gently reached around her black, silky hair, placing the drug-infused white cloth over her face. By now I had perfected my dosage.  It was just enough to put them under, but not enough to cause them to go catatonic.  If a human’s limbs are too loose, they become much more difficult to carry.

            I sat down next to her on the bench as her head dropped on my shoulder.  My arm was wrapped around her with my hand keeping her propped up next to me.  Anyone who saw us would think we were two lovers enjoying the evening, basking in our budding romance that would eventually lead us to marital bliss.

            I picked her up and carried her to the car. It was only a block away.  I had left it unlocked and gently placed her in the passenger seat.  I carefully fastened her seatbelt, latching her into place, protecting her from any possible harm.

            The drive home was easy, and I pulled into the garage. I stared at her lustrous black hair, wishing I could have her. But I knew my body was now betraying me.  She was so beautiful.  Her skin was a silky brown tan that erupted into a smooth, blemish-free creamy complexion.

            I hoisted her out of the passenger seat and took her to my bedroom.  I knew I shouldn’t have brought her home, but I couldn’t stand the thought of not lying with her.

            I undressed her slowly, removing her sweater and then her T-shirt.  I took care to fold the cloths and put them on the dresser as each layer flittered away, revealing her to be more exquisite that I could have hoped.

            Once she was finally naked, I lay down next to her, my head cradled between her breasts as I imagined what it would be like to be happy.  What would a world be like where she and I lived in harmony? What would it be like for her to hold my hand as we entered a movie theater, bought popcorn and laughed about some joke I heard at work.

            When I looked into her eyes, I saw she was beginning to stir, and then the atrocity hit me like a wrecking ball.  There was a huge, brown mole underneath her chin with two long, black hairs protruding out like antennae, grasping for radio waves.  I almost threw up.

            That had led me…….







            The room almost erupted as I brought my hand down on the plywood, and I felt a sharp pain shoot up my arm and into my shoulder.

            “Shit!” I screamed. I shook my hand back and forth, trying to get feeling back inside. I jumped up, hitting the plywood as I did so, shifting it at an angle.  I saw one corner teeter as it moved from its perch, precariously dangling over the edge.

            Suddenly, one of the concrete blocks began to slide, and I watched in horror as it gained speed, heading directly for Veronika’s head.  The result was immediate as the corner connected with her forehead, driving a deep gash across her otherwise perfect skin.

            All I had wanted to do was clean her up. I wanted to wash the mole off her flesh and cut those disgusting hairs.  I had just wanted her to be perfect.  What is wrong with perfection?  By definition, it cannot be wrong. It is perfect.

            Now, the water started to turn red.  Her head was completely submerged.  She wasn’t fighting anymore – she wasn’t really even moving.  The rippling of the water had an eerie feeling as if she were translucent in an almost ghostly sort of way.  I wondered if this meant she would remain here, in my bathroom, as a spirit somehow with her perfectly rounded breasts and that oddly attractive bulging butt.

            I sometimes feel guilty when a murder occurs, but this seemed more like a tragic accident than a preplanned, thought-out criminal act.  I hadn’t meant for her to die, at least not in this way.  I wasn’t done yet.  I wasn’t finished with her.  I still needed her that night.  I needed to be held.  I needed to be told everything would be okay.  I needed her, and she left me.

            I let the water drain from the tub, washing the blood away as I bandaged over the wound in her head.  After I dried her off, I carried her back to my bed and placed her under the covers.  I had just recently changed the sheets, and they had that just-washed, wind-blowing-in-the-fields smell.  It was so refreshing.

            I propped her head up on a pillow and went to the kitchen to get a glass of ice water.  I can’t sleep comfortably without a glass of water next to my bed at night.  Even if I am not thirsty, just the comfort of knowing it is there somehow helps me rest.

            I stripped off my clothes except for my underwear.  I have to sleep in my underwear at night.  Something about being completely naked makes me feel a little creepy.

            Veronika lay next to me. She was naked, of course.  It is different for a woman versus a man.  A woman’s body is meant to be shown off.  Almost in any form, the body of a woman is so much more attractive than a man.  Granted it might not always age as well – at least that’s what I hear women say. But women are just so beautiful.

            I curled up next to her as I wrapped her arm around my shoulder.  I wished she could rub my head.  I closed my eyes and imagined her stroking my hair, twisting strands between her fingers as she told me about her day.

            “Really, that sounds nice.  Are you kidding me?  No way, that didn’t really happen did it?”

            I seemed to be answering out loud before I realized what was happening. I knew that wasn’t a good sign.

            The last thing I remember was playing with her belly button,  running my finger across it and listening to her laugh.  Wait, she wasn’t really laughing, but it seemed like she would’ve been laughing if she could have. Her smile was so beautiful with those cheeks, perfectly rounded, like a tomato, just waiting to be squeezed, then popped into your mouth and eaten.


Draculas is the much hyped novel by Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn, Jeff Strand and F. Paul Wilson.  The four of them collaborated on the novel and incorporated all of their input so it truly does flow fluidly.  It actually flows about as smoothly as a nice stream of blood from a cut artery, which there is ample amount of.  Blood that is, as well as severed arteries I guess.  There is more blood flowing in this novel than all of the Quentin Tarantino movies combined.  I think more people might have died in this book than all the other books I have ever read combined.

This is not your every day vampire book.  These creatures have one goal in mind, to kill as many people as possible, suck them dry and then head off to the next guy and do the same.  They will kill off their own, rip children’s heads off and drink them like a soda pop, and never bat an eye.  If that isn’t enough, and they lose track of time, finding themselves more hungry than they can stand, they will chew off their own innards and suck the blood from themselves.  It is just a non-stop bloodbath.  Trust me when I say you have not read a book this bloody in a long time, if ever.

Mortimer is an old guy, very old, and he is very very rich.  He has been diagnosed with cancer, is a few weeks away from the end and he gets a special package in the mail.  The package happens to be the skull of an ancient beast, recently excavated, that might have a human quality to it, save the hundreds of jagged hollow teeth that fill the monstrosity of a mouth.  After taking a few glances at it, the old guy implants the teeth from the thing into his throat and then starts convulsing.

The nurse and his geologist aid rush him to the local hospital where all hell breaks loose, and I do mean all hell.  Within minutes the old dude begins to change and all of a sudden his mouth transforms and his teeth eat right through his own jaws.  His hands turn to alien appendages and he suddenly has a craving for blood that cannot be quenched.  I do mean it cannot be quenched.  He jumps on everyone he sees and commences to tear at their skin while sucking as much blood as he can.  Those that do not die turn into the same form of monster that he has became, and they do the same.

And so on and so on and so on.  You get the picture right.  It doesn’t take long before there are more Draculas roaming the halls than there are people.  They are everywhere, and all they care about is sucking blood, any blood, even their own if they have to.  One of my favorites is the five year old girl who refers to the blood as red candy and can’t figure out why all the mean adults won’t give it up to her nicely.  Damn, she is used to getting what she wants.  Why all of a sudden is everyone being so stingy?

I don’t know if I am giving too much away, since the book reminds me of so many recent horror movies.  I don’t think there is a huge plot to hide.  There isn’t much depth here.  It is all about killing, blood, gore and death.  Every page, every paragraph and every sentence is about somebody dying or being killed.  So if you like horror books, with a lot of descriptive gore, then you will have died and gone to heaven or hell so to speak.  The book is very well done, filled with action to overflowing and keeps you extremely entertained.

I would give it a very solid four stars out of five.  I can’t go much higher because I do tend to like something more in my reading than just blood, but then again, I can go this high because the book was pretty damn awesome.  If you can’t handle violence and I do mean over the top violence, then stay away from this read.  If you love a gory blood soaked evening then tear at this one and enjoy.  You will be a little stressed out, but you should be satiated upon completion, at least for the time being, until the hunger kicks in again.

Brynn, why do today what you can do tomorrow!

Wow, I wrote that title and after reading it again I am wondering how many things you could infer with that statement.  Oh come on, are you really slow or am I just not putting enough effort into it.  I tried like heck……  Look at that, we really are PG13, I don’t care what all the head honchos in the women’s club say.  National really should put more effort into promoting reading instead of letting their jealousy get the better of them.  Damn, now what was I talking about.  Oh Yah…..

I tried to find out Brynn’s last name, but it seems to have eluded me.  I am serious.  I looked around for a good 2 to 3 minutes and I couldn’t find it, so I gave up.  Maybe I will try again tomorrow, she is obviously worth a little effort.  Not that I am procrastinating.  After reading the article in The New Yorker about putting things off, I, well, let’s be honest.  I meant to read the article, but figured I could read it tomorrow.  I am a little busy today, watching TV and eating chips and stuff.  I have a full agenda dude.

It isn’t like I am insulting people.  Damn, how long has it been since I insulted Catholics.  Maybe when I found out I had to convert in order to marry my girlfriend I decided to give them a break.  Yes, she is Catholic, what is the world coming to.  We let those people do anything don’t we.  Crap, I met to say us people.  Hahaha, I will be one of them someday, if they will have me I guess.

Please, it isn’t like I work for Universal.  Now why would they want to insult gay people?  Not that I am gay.  Wait; can you be Catholic and gay?  I might have to look into that.  Not that I have a problem with it, but you know those religious women, always complaining about website links and beautiful women.

Damn, now what does that have to do with homosexuality?  If you feel up for it, you can jump over to TMZ and read the article on how Universal is backpedaling by pulling their trailer from distribution.  I guess calling electric cars gay is going one step too far.  Really?  Is that really insulting?  Aren’t electric cars a little bit gay?  Damn, I might be a little bit Catholic and that is ok.  Please people, you can be a little bit of anything.  Isn’t that what college is for, experimenting and such.  Uh Oh, I bet the women in national just dropped a load when I said that one.

Sometimes I feel like a nut and sometimes I think it is ok to insult people, just get ready to reap what you sow, or is it sew.  I knew I shouldn’t have had that last shot before lunch.  I have no idea what I am even writing.  In all seriousness if you throw a stone be prepared to get smacked upside the head with a ball bat.  Leave gay people alone, there is more than enough material insulting Catholics.

Farren LeNae, Life is truly like a box of jalapeño peppers!

Isn’t it great how spicy life can be from time to time.  The excitement of being unemployed, (personal experience there), the joy of losing your retirement in the stock market, the thrill of seeing your ex-wife take all your money, and then telling everyone how you stole from her.  It just doesn’t get much better than that.  Thank God for Farren LeNae this morning.  I am not sure I would have had the strength to get out of bed if it weren’t for me running across her.  Not literally, and I am just joking honey if you are reading this.  I have to say this stuff, people won’t listen to me otherwise.

So Farren LeNae will be lighting up the screen sometime soon I hope.  Still pretty unknown, it is only a matter of time.  I just can’t help but wonder, since she just recently moved to the sunny state of CA, if she will continue to paint her nails.  Our esteemed elected officials in San Francisco have decided to wage war on those toxic chemicals and they are encouraging the local salons to stop using the foul smelling colorful paint.  This is all according to the Mercury News, which is actually quoting an article from The San Francisco Chronicle.

Now, which group should we lambast the hardest for spending so much time on something so stupid.  God only knows we don’t have bigger issues, like feeding the homeless, or even figuring out how to house the homeless.  We get to have our San Francisco city officials wasting time, then The San Francisco Chronicle reporting it, then The Mercury New reporting that it was reported.  I am going to give the prize to The Mercury News.  Why in the hell would you buy a paper that can’t even report on the news.  Do we really need to report on the news that was reported?

Maybe if they were experimenting more sexually then they wouldn’t frolic so heavily in the stupidity of life.  You laugh?  Ha, well the last guffaw will be on you.  According to The LA Times, we Americans are starting to branch out sexually.  What, you say?  Seriously?  They are reporting on a survey that apparently monitors our sexual activity and we are branching out with some of the experimental stuff.  Not for any sordid reasons though.  I guess we are all just scared of catching HIV and STD’s so we are forgoing the main event for some peripheral activities.

Now, don’t you wonder how much money we spent on that survey, and does this mean that more men are going to end up going blind?

Sometimes I feel like a nut and sometime it seems, to me anyway, if we pooled all of the wasted money being spent in the United States, (can anyone say Meg Whitman), we might actually have enough money to spend on educating our children.  Just a thought.  I know, I am stupid for even suggesting it.  Those damn kids don’t need decent schools, they might grow up and actually work on fixing our broken society.  What would we do then?

Tiffany Selby, What is the World Coming to….

I feel like I have to walk a fine line in life on most occasions.  People chastise me for promoting models on our publishing site and I for one say, well, I like models.  I happen to like books as well, but I think there is a place in life for all forms of artistic talent, modeling being one of my favorites.  We are a site that embraces all forms of talent and Tiffany Selby has load and loads of it.  I woke up this morning wondering what loads and loads meant, and I was rewarded with Tiffany.  Not literally of course.  All I do is use my laptop for writing about the artistic endeavors of others.

I might have to be careful about using my laptop too often though.  Damn, not because my mother told me using my laptop too often can cause blindness either.  According to toasted skin syndrome is the latest affliction to overtake the geek’s bedroom.  I guess it is a good thing that something is overtaking the geek’s bedroom, but if you saw some of these dudes’ legs you would stop laughing.  It really is an issue when the laptop starts frying your skin.  Don’t stop and ask what these guys are viewing on the internet that makes them so hot and bothered, it doesn’t matter in the end.  It is no laughing matter.

Well, it might be slightly humorous.  Wouldn’t you lift the laptop off your legs if it were beginning to burn you?  I mean it isn’t like the government is forcing you to look at gorgeous models on the internet.  Our fabulous officials don’t force us to do anything.  We head down to the third world countries and test our ideas out on minorities apparently.  According to The Chicago Sun Times we are really sorry for injecting all those Guatemalan prisoners with syphilis.  Yes, I guess we wanted to see how things worked and what better way than on some inmates, in another country.

I realize we live in a pretty good country, and I am not bad mouthing our elected officials, but please people.  Is there ever a time or place to actively give people a STD?  If we really need a study done on STD’s just enlist a bunch of middle aged divorce men who have recently taken trips to Thailand and or possibly Argentina.  Actually just enlist any middle aged man who frequents the massage parlors, even if they are married.  Yes ladies, most of those places actually do engage in some extracurricular activities, no matter what your husband says.  Anything would be better than force feeding syphilis down somebody’s throat.

Sometimes I feel like a nut and sometimes even I am surprised by what a few blowhards decide is morally correct as they sit in their lounge chairs sipping Scotch and smoking stogies.  Hey, I have an idea, let’s give syphilis to everyone currently in Congress and see what happens.  Damn, I guess that would be pointless.  Most of them probably have some form of STD already.  Aren’t you required to use illegal immigrants as house servants if you are an elected official?

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