Inside Look at Dead West Part III: Pulling Weeds

With submissions at the 100 mark or so, I’m now at the point where I’m looking at which stories I want, and which stories I really want. I’ll say this, it’s one hell of a tough job. Maybe I’m too easy to please but I’ve liked or enjoyed something out of almost all of the stories I’ve read thus far. Yes, there have been a few stinkers, yet considering the ratio of good or great stories to mediocre or bad ones is surprisingly in my favor. While I’m relieved to not have to wade through a pile of badly written, or worse, boring, stories, the sheer amount of quality work, makes it very difficult to pick only 13.

You may ask, what it is I’m looking for, what makes one story worthy and another one a reject? First and foremost, it’s story, story, story. Did I get hooked from the first paragraph? If so, did the rest of the story of live up to its promise? If that was met, it goes in the possibility pile.

Next is the mechanics and format. Did the author follow the standard format as  written in the guidelines? Are there any gross spelling errors, grammatical mistakes, or plot holes? If not it gets another check, if so, it’s on the way out.

Next is length, and this is where all the stories are on a level playing field. Since I only have 13 slots to fill, and a fairly set word count, I have to fit the stories together, not only by length, but by the stories pace. Slower stories are fine if they keep your interest, but they need to be balanced with faster paced tales.  If I need a shorter fast paced tale for space requirements, I’ll take that over a longer piece no matter that pace. It doesn’t mean one is necessarily better than the other but one meets my word count requirement for the whole collection. This is really the hardest part, and where I’m currently at. As of today I’ve already got about 6 slots filled, and the last seven will really be difficult.

This brings me to the final thing I look for, and it’s nothing more than a gut feeling. I may like a story, but have to have the stomach tightening feeling; the one that makes me say, “This is it!”  Even with one story which is a reprint,  I had that feeling. It’s a knowing that it not only fits in with the theme of the book, but I can’t wait for people to read it, to get their reactions.

so far, I’m really giddy with what I have. However, as slots fill up, I know that rejections will have to go out, and that saddens me, as I hate to get them as much as I hate sending them. Yet, that’s part of being an editor. It’s not always easy to tell someone I”m not taking their submission, even though I know it’s nothing personal. Remember behind that rejection is an editor with feelings as well as the person receiving it.

 

Writers Workshop, Dead West and a Compliment

I’ve extolled the virtues of Michael Knost’s wonderful book, “Writers Workshop of Horror” elsewhere on the web, and my review of it can be found on Amazon; suffice it to say, if you write, whether it’s horror or not, you have to have this book with you.  It’s one of the best books about writing I’ve ever read, and that’s saying something as I’ve read dozens of books on the art and craft of writing, but nothing comes as close to perfection as this title does.

So with that in mind, what better way to improve your craft than taking an actual writers workshop with the editor Michael Knost?

All classes are from: 9:00 to 10:00 p.m. Eastern

Cost: $120.00 for all four classes

Payment (for all classes) must be paid in full no later than February 9, 2010
Nonrefundable on or after February 9, 2010

Accepted payment methods:
PayPal – Money Order – Personal Check

Online classes will be conducted live via audio/video conference with
PowerPoint presentations and chat lines. Audio or video capabilities
(or special software) are NOT required for participation. However,
a computer with Internet connection IS required.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Plot and structure.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Description and detail

Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Point of View and Dialogue

Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Creating great characters

To sign up, simply drop me an email (writingwithknost@yahoo.com) with
your choice of payment. I will then send you an email with the information needed to make the payment.

Not only is this a great way to improve your writing skills, but Michael is one of the nicest guys in the business.

The deadline for submissions to DEAD WEST is now closed. I’ll have a blog post specifically about the antho in a few days, but want to take this time to thank everyone for their submissions! I received far more subs than I thought possible, and it’s going to be very difficult to limit my selection to 13. While I can’t make personal rejection emails for everyone who submitted a story, please know, I’m very lucky to have so many good tales to choose from.

And there’s always the second volume. Yes, Rich and I talked about a second collection to come out about six months after the first. I’d invite everyone to resubmit their stories if they haven’t found a home or even a new one, when the time comes. Submissions WILL NOT be open until late this year, early next year, so save them, please!

I received an email from T.M. Wright yesterday, talking about my novella Barbed Wire Kisses, and here’s what he had to say:

I have finished BWK, really, really like it, and will have more to say tomorrow: But I can say that I would be very surprised if BWK doesn’t cause a stir in the genre; your characterizations are such a beautiful counterpoint to the action of the piece.  You really know how to work the two together–people and violence–with numbing reality.  You’re a talented writer, Scott.

When one of the writers you’v admired for 20 odd years bestows such kindness on something you’ve written, well it just humbles you. I truly hope I live up to the praise.

 

An Inside Look at Dead West Part 2:The Slush Pile

Last time I talked about the origins of Dead West, put up some of the timelines we have for it, and got the ball rolling for this series of blog posts. For this segment, I’m going to talk about my slush pile, what I do when going through it, and some of things I’ve found that are worth mentioning. PLEASE NOTE : to any of the contributors who read this and think I may be referring to their submission, most likely I’m not. I plan on keeping this as generalized as possible so as not to have anyone feel I’m speaking about them.

Okay, with that out of the way, we’ve received far more submissions than I know what to do with.  I could probably make two or three anthologies from what I’ve received so far (and may depending on how well Dead West does), so it makes having to choose very difficult. Since I opened the submission period, I read a handful of stories every day. I have the time to read more, but I think reading more than five or six diminishes my faculties. I’m not as fresh as when I first start reading and may not give a story a fair chance if I’m too tired. I learned this after trying to read too many stories one night, as a result I had to put them back into the pool of stories.

At this point, I separate the stories into one of two folders, stories I’m definitely interested in, and stories that have possibilities. On the stories with possibilities, I’ve made notes detailing my initial impressions, and rate it on a 1-10 score. Once the submission period closes, I’ll go through the possibilities folder and reread my notes and skim through the stories once more. I’ll add to the definitely interested folder until I’ve gone through all the subs.

The Definite Possibilities will be my short list and from that will come the final 13. I’ve already read a couple of stories I’ve asked writers to make some changes on; that doesn’t guarantee their story a place, but I’d like to see at least what can be done.

Now, some of things I’ve noticed don’t automatically disqualify get your story sent to the trash bin, but it does make choosing which stories go in, a bit easier.For example, single spacing your submission is not only a bad idea (aside from the fact it should never be used when sending a sub), but it makes me cranky. Rich will tell you, I’m cranky enough. Please, be kind on my eyes and the eyes of future editors and double space your work. Related to that, are odd sized fonts. Do you really have to put the story title and your name in bolded 18 point Hellvetica?) And yes my misspelling of Helvetica was intentional.) The answer is a resounding no. What you should put in is contact information,  and send it from an email address that won’t bounce my emails back. It makes communication much easier.   And finally, unless the weather or sky has something important to do with the story, a meteorological dissertation is best served in a brief sentence, not a paragraph.

Again, I say these things not to mock or be snarky, but only to point out some things I’ve noticed.  They aren’t deal breakers at all, but things to keep in mind for future submissions.

Part 3 will be up after the submissions close on the 31st. At that point I’ll talk a bit more about how I rate the stories.

 

George Carlin’s Last Words: A Book Review

When I was a kid, one of my hobbies-if you could call it that-was collecting comedy albums.  It started off with Monty Python’s Matching Tie and Handkerchief, then Robin William’s Reality, What a Concept! Over the years over my adolescence I had everything from Bill Cosby, David Frye, Richard Pryor to Steve Martin and George Carlin. There were many others, but those made up my favorites.

My first Carlin album was also his first, and cleanest, Take Off’s and Put On’s, which featured his classic Indian Sergeant routine.  Somewhere along the line I picked up AM&FM, and the rest of his Little David releases.  I liked them all, but even to this day don’t like every track on every album. I was never a huge fan of drug humor-hence my indifference to Cheech and Chong-but realized there was something to Carlin that appealed to me.

He was dangerous and my parents didn’t like him. Mostly, I suspect for his politics and his language, they couldn’t look past the fucks, cocksuckers, etc. This was in the mid to late 70’s, when those words held power, unlike now when even Mom  throws an f-bomb on occasion. There was nothing overtly dirty about his act, but his phrasing and word choices were enough to condemn me to hell just for listening. See, I grew up Catholic too, and related to his bits about the Church.

There was something more though. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but know what it is now-Carlin was first and foremost a writer. Sure, every comedian is a writer, but Carlin’s work was in another league. It’s not the fact he said fuck, it’s when he chose to say it. Each and every word had a reason for being in the place it was, and that’s something very few writers, let alone comedians can do. Yet Carlin made it seem effortless.

This really became obvious as the 80’s came around, and his Carlin at Carnegie hit HBO and the record store bins. His meticulousness with words really became apparent to me. As the decade wore on, and his comedy took a political bent, the care he took with his routines shone through loud and clear. Even up to his final HBO special and CD, It’s Bad For Ya, that craftsmanship was on display.

It’s no wonder then, that his autobiography is every bit as sharp, funny and insightful as his stand up work. Taken from years of interviews with Tony Hendra, pieces he’d written, and some of his stand up, “Last Words” stands as one of the best autobiographies I’ve read. He starts off in the birth canal, appropriately enough, and ends not long before his death in 2008. In between he charts his path from his days in the Army, to his time with partner Jack Burns and his solo career. In between he talks, very poignantly at times, about his parents (his mother was in the doctor’s office to abort him when she saw her mother in a vision and promptly left-seeing it as a sign from God), his wife of 36 years Brenda and their daughter Kelly. A large part is spent documenting his drug use-his smoking pot on a daily basis, the years of cocaine use and the toll it took on his personal life and career. As the 70’s drew to a close, everyone had written off Carlin as a has been, including Carlin himself. It was only with another management change (one of countless mangers he’d gone through to that point) and the explosion of cable and his HBO specials that he came back from the brink.

Carlin was reborn. It’s this period that people tend to remember, and I think rightfully so. It represents some of his best material, and the point where everything he wrote and performed-at least in my eyes-was damn near perfect.

At a mere 280 or so pages, Last Words is a fast read, yet he packs so much in those pages, it seems much longer, and that in essence is typical Carlin; being able to express a vast amount of ideas in as few words as possible. He leaves no stone unturned, makes no apologies for his drug use, and is unflinching in his heart wrenching description of being an absentee Dad in spite of his own upbringing.

And then there’s the excerpts from his routines. The true testament to his genius is that it’s every bit as funny as watching him perform the material. His creativity is well documented, and I can’t help but think, despite his being gone almost three years, there may be more material from him for years to come.

I for one can’t wait to see what pop ups next.

 

A Fond Memory Brought to Life

One of the few things I asked to get for Christmas this year was a DVD of a Fish concert from his NEARFest gig in 2008. It was the big man’s first US tour in over a decade, and anticipation ran high among the American members of The Company. I was especially excited as I’d been a huge fan from the first time I heard him sing when he was with Marillion back in the early 80’s. His lyrical genius has always been an inspiration for my own writing. In fact, the title for “Barbed Wire Kisses” came directly from an old Marillion song, White Feather:

When I hit the streets back in ‘81
Found a heart in the gutter and a poet’s crown
I felt barbed wire kisses and icicle tears
Where have I been for all these years?
I saw political intrigue, political lies
Gonna wipe those smiles of self-satisfaction from their eyes

When he left the band, I felt gutted, but was soon bolstered by his first solo release, “Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors”. From then on I became a devoted fan to his solo work. Fish’s last CD, and the one he toured the US with, “13th Star”, is in my opinion his best solo work to date. At times hard hitting, and others dripping with melancholy, it never disappoints. So it was with high hopes when rumors of a US tour might take place. When tour dates were confirmed and meet and greets were being lined up, I went into overdrive. The closest he was playing to me was Los Angeles, and I immediately booked tickets to LA, got a hotel room, and arranged transportation with a fellow Fish fan to get to the gig.

The absolute joy and high of that frenzied 24 hour period returned full blast as I watched the DVD:

What made it even greater was hearing a couple of songs he didn’t perform in Los Angeles. Yet that feeling of community and the absolute thrill of meeting one of my idols washed over me. I fell in love with his work all over again. I remember the anticipation of waiting at the Red Rock Bar for him to arrive, the euphoria of the moment, and the heightened senses from the Killian’s Red I’d had was the most perfect feeling in the world. As he walked through the door, I stood speechless, and then blurted out, “He-ey Fish!” We talked for a moment; well I drunkenly stammered and he patiently listened. I talked and mingled with other fans, and had my picture taken with Onkel Fish.

It was the dream of a lifetime. Once the meet and greet ended, we went over to the House of Blues where he was performing, and got to the very front of the stage. There was no opening act, just Fish. for over two hours I heard song after song I’d sung countless time over the years, and was in no way prepared for how emotionally invested I was in his work. By the time he left the stage, I was as spent as he probably was, and far more hoarse no doubt from the singing and screaming.

This DVD captures the perfection of this tour. It’s only in watching the bonus DVD, an hour plus interview with Fish about the tour, that you realize just how close it came to never happening in addition to the toll it took on everyone. In spite of all that, he gave me a moment in life I’ll always treasure and never forget.

This concert is a reminder of that. Available at www.the-company.com .

 

An Inside Look at Dead West

One of my projects for Bandersnatch Books this year, is an anthology of weird western stories entitled “Dead West:13 Tales of Murder and Mayhem”. The idea for this was conceived a few months ago as I was finishing up “Barbed Wire Kisses”. High on the western genre, I was rather amazed there wasn’t more weird western stories and novels around. I saw this as something that would be different enough, and interesting enough that it would be a good project for Bandy. I asked Rich what he thought, and he agreed.

At the time, I really had no inclination of getting started on it anytime soon. There was a zombie project I was more interested in doing. However, as these things go, the zombie project has gotten delayed due to communication problems with the artist. He’d become swamped with his 2 web comics, 4 podcasts and commissioned work. I can’t really fault him for not paying enough attention to a little company like ours (especially when we didn’t even have a website at that point).  While I still plan on that book, that’s going to be a 2011 project more than likely. So with that laying dormant, I decided in early December to move onto the Dead West collection.  I put together the submission guidelines and posted them.

The reaction I’ve received so far has been phenomenal. Not only from the submissions I’ve received but also from the positive and overwhelming support I’ve seen on the message boards and personal emails. There are people truly going out of their way not only to help me but also trying to make “Dead West” the best anthology it can be.

Quite honestly, it’s a bit humbling. The faith that others have placed in Rich and myself, particularly with “Dead West” is nothing short of astounding. Not only does it boost my confidence but it shows me what happens when you’re passionate about an idea. It becomes infectious. With each new submission, and I get some every day, my love for this project and the people associated with it grows.

And it’s in that spirit that I decided to blog about my experiences editing the collection. I wanted to document what it’s actually like to go through the process of being an editor. Even at this very early stage, I see some wonderful things coming from this book.

At this point, submissions will be open until midnight January 31, 2010.  I could actually close submissions now and have a great book, but I want to see more.  In February, I’ll be putting together a short list of stories I like enough to consider putting into the anthology. Already I can see the difficulty in this, as the submissions so far have been great. It’s going to be very hard to select only 13.

After what little hair I have has grayed some more, and I’ve decided on the stories I want, I’ll run them by Rich, and then send out acceptance emails. With luck I’ll have a TOC to announce by March. Between then and publication in October I’ll be editing the stories, paying writers and marveling-not for the first time-how lucky I am to do something I absolutely love.

 

We Don’t Need No Steenking Resolutions!

Yet I’ll make some anyway.

I’d like to lose some of the weight I’ve gained over the year of being unemployed.  When my feet are in the shade all the time, it’s probably a good idea to shed some pounds. One of the easier ways to start this is by cutting out soda, and switching to water or iced tea. I’ll be honest I hate the flat non taste of water, so it’s probably going to be a Crystal Light year.

I’d like to cut down on smoking even more. I had been down to half a pack or so a day, but went back up to a pack a day. Totally quitting would be great, but I’m a realist when it comes to my addictions.

Over the past few months I’ve ignored my blog here quite a bit, with weeks going by without an update. I plan on changing that, and will update at least 3 times a week. Most likely it will be on a Monday, Wednesday and Friday.  i’ll try to throw in some personal posts as well as posts about writing, not to mention reviews of books, movies and anything else that catches my fancy.

I plan on reading more. 2009 was a bad year for reading, as I did precious little. Some of that had to do with finances, and another part had to do with time-or more importantly-piss poor time management.

Writing every day. Even if it’s only 100 words, I want to get back into the habit of writing on a daily basis. With a new novella in the works, hopefully this will be easy.

Avoid political/religious flame wars on message boards. Does this really need an explanation?

Enjoying life more. I know this shouldn’t even be a resolution, but quite frankly, I get so wrapped up in the drama that passes through my life at times, I forget to stop and enjoy the little things.

Find a day job that doesn’t suck my soul away. Easier said than done, I suppose.

That may seem like quite a few, and I guess it is, yet I like a challenge, and if I manage to keep even half of them, 2010 will be a success.

 

Out With the Old, In With the New

As I write this, 2009 still has about 6 hours and 43 minutes left before it gives up the ghost. I have some pomegranate Iced Tea and watching a DVD concert of Fish at the NEARFest gig from 2008.  Appropriately enough the song being played is Slainte Mhaith. Outside, the temperature is a cool 63 degrees. My cat is asleep on the rocking chair in the corner, a bit of tongue poking out as the whiskers twitch.

It’s a good day. not only for me personally, but for looking back at what the year offered. It started off as it did for many by being laid off from the job I’d held for 2 years. Having unemployment deny the initial claim didn’t help matters, so then I learned the ins and outs of ebay. Fortunately the unemployment was approved, and I was able to breathe a little easier.

April brought my nephew’s wedding, and a chance to see my sister, niece and brother in-law, something I never get to do enough since they live in FL. I certainly was glad to be a part of it, and it made me realize how important my family is to me at times.

July saw me taking a little get away to the mountains of Lakeside-Pinetop with my Mom. It also saw the start of Barbed Wire Kisses. After a tragic act of stupidity I lost most of what I’d written, hence the beginnings of BWK. Reaction to the first chapter was amazingly positive, allowing me to carry on. Who knew it would take me another 5 months to finish it?

August saw my 44th year on the big blue ball.  A decidedly unemotional affair this year, it was more a day of resignation, knowing the hair would keep thinning, the eyes would dim a bit, and the heart wouldn’t know love for a third year in a row.  August also marked the 20th Anniversary of my Dad’s death (technically that was June, but he was also born in August). This was also the month Rich Ristow mentioned working on Bandersnatch Books.  At the end of August he asked me to be a part of it. That was the start of my Fellini moments.

October saw the incredible good fortune of  being able to get not one, not two, but three T.M. Wright stories for publication by Bandy. To go from being a fan of his work to publishing his work is still one of the great Fellini moments of my life.

November/December was the curtain call for BWK-in terms of finishing it. November saw me send the first 10 chapters to the wonderful Louise Bohmer for edits. Christmas Eve saw me send the second draft to her with all her suggestions included. December also gave birth to Dead West, my weird western anthology for Bandy. It also brought about some submissions from writers I’d never dreamed would be interested.

Which leaves me, humbled and grateful.  with BWK being read by one publisher, all systems go on DW and the excitement that antho is generating, I have to say 2009, while not a great  year, certainly set 2010 up to be a year of limitless possibilities.

Please, join me on the journey.

 

Notes on a Senseless Death

I didn’t know him aside from the adult videos he made. We weren’t friends, had no interactionoutside of meeting him at a  meet and greet at a local gay pride event. Hell, he wasn’t even one of my favorite porn models on the site. Yet I’d seen enough of his work to understand other people’s attraction to him. Here’s a photo of him from one of his recent shoots.

He’d been released from the site as he was getting a bit chunky and losing his hair. Not a crime per se, except when it comes to porn.

His real name was Andrew.

He die yesterday, from his own bad decisions.  According to news reports, there was an altercation at his home. Police came, he was being handcuffed and broke free. As he was running he stuffed a baggie of weed in his mouth and was trying to swallow it when he was tased.  He suffocated as the bag lodged in his throat, the tase paralyzing him, making him unable to swallow.

Here are the last seconds of his life as it was being filmed for COPS:

I’m not going to blame the police or call it police brutality. Did they have a hand in it? Possibly. Certainly Andrew was as responsible, by running and then trying to swallow a baggie of dope.

My point in trying to make sense out of this, is it was a needless death. Sometimes, we make bad decisions that affect our lives, and on rare occasions we make a decision that end our lives.

I hope Andrew has some type of peace that seemed to allude him in life.

 

Killer Weed

When I first started writing again, after not having done so for almost twenty years, this was the first story I completed.  It’s gone through a few variations based on some feedback when I sent it to some friends a year and a half ago. As I went through it today, I went back to the original and kept it  super short the way I had intended.  At 2700 or so words, it’s certainly the shortest thing I’ve written (my poem in DiC not withstanding).  As such,  there’s little room for a lot of explanation or detail. It’s very much a seat of your pants ride. While I don’t think it’s up to this level, it’s very much like an old EC comic, or Tales From the Crypt story. Leave reason and sense at the door. It’s also very safe to say, that since it deals with gay, stoner zombies it may be offensive to some, and too gory for others. Yet it is, what it is, which I think most of all, is a lot of fun. Enjoy. Apparently WordPress can’t be bothered keeping my formatting, so my apologies for that.

Killer Weed

by

Scott Colbert

When you kill your best friend, then he ought to stay dead.

If he had, I might have a better than snowball’s chance in hell of surviving. I didn’t pay much attention to him at first; after all he was never right in the head. I can say that, because, we’ve known each other since…well hell I don’t remember not ever knowing him. When I call him my best friend I don’t say it lightly. We’d both been through life’s grinder one too many times, and the shit storms we survived, brought us together. We were survivors, so it was a goddamn shame what I did but there was no choice. The bastard tore off my nut and ate it like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. I’m getting ahead of myself though, let me start at the beginning while I have time.

Like most summer days in Phoenix it was hot as fuck. Even my cat wasn’t demanding to be let out. Any other day, you would have found me at work around that time but I’d gotten suspended for excessive lateness. See, that still doesn’t make sense to me; not that it matters since there’s no job to go to anymore.

I was lying on my couch, half asleep and half listening to Montel kiss Sylvia Browne’s fraudulent ass. “It won’t be like anything else…” I heard her declare in that raspy smoker’s voice.

Looking back, I can say that’s the only thing she got right. Anyway, I’m in that twilight area of awake and sleep when the coffee table begins vibrating. I reach over, knocking the overflowing ashtray over as well as some empty packs of smokes and God knows what else onto a carpet that’d seen better days.

A blinking light. A text message. I mutter some random obscenity, flip open the phone and read the only two words on the screen.

U awake

One contemptuous sigh later I text back

NO.

I’d barely snapped the phone shut when an a familiar knocking came from the front door. Detta, my cat, hightailed it to the bedroom to cower in the corner. I yelled for him to come in while I sat up and pushed my erection back into my boxers.

The door opened slowly. Johnny boy peered in. “You awake?” he asked, stepping inside.

“I’m smoking’ ain’t I?” I said, lighting a Camel to prove my point. This earned me his patented eye roll. Shrugging off his backpack, Johnny boy coiled his too thin frame into the rickety rocking chair he’d built. Sweat trickled down his long face creating a glossy sheen.

“Didn’t wanna wake you up.”

When I caught him looking at my crotch, he glanced away.

“So what’s up?” I asked. Then just to be a prick I added “Besides me.”

Johnny boy smirked. He reached over the right side of the rocker and lifted his back pack as if it had nothing in it. I knew better and would have bet dollars to donuts there’d be some clothes, a day timer, books and whatever secrets he didn’t want anyone to find, including me.

Before he could play show and tell, I smelled the cloying earthy scent of pot. This wasn’t just any weed though; this was some primo shit.

All I could manage was a whispered “Holy fuck.” What he pulled out was not one but two Ziploc freezer bags filled with the greenest pot I’d ever seen. My first thought was luminescent emeralds.

“Stick your nose in that shit.” he said with a grin, tossing a bag over. Fact is, I didn’t need to stick my nose anywhere, the odor was so potent. “My brother Donald got these at work.” Already his fingers were poking and prodding in his bag, searching for the perfect bud.

“Lot of good this’ll do me,” I said, setting the bag aside, which caused Johnny boy to give me a weird look. “I have to go for a piss test tomorrow before I can go back to work…” The annoyance and frustration were getting stronger.

“What the hell? They suspended you for being late all the time, not for smoking a one hitter. Dude, that’s fucked up.”

All I could do was shrug. “I know-HR is full of douche bags, what can I say?” I picked the bag up again and kept turning it over and over. “Keep that one,” he said rolling and then licking the joint closed. “Donald said the shit’s growing like weeds.” He laughed. “Weed growing like weeds, that’s funny.” This was said more to himself than to me, so I didn’t bother correcting him. “You mind?” he asked lighting the joint anyway…

“Guess not.” I stood and stretched enough to pop my back. My hard on had subsided a bit, but still made a tent in my boxers. As I walked past Johnny boy I brushed it against his shoulder, just to watch him tense up. Despite all the years that had gone by, he never could forget the night we got drunk and he begged me to fuck him in the ass. We were barely 18 then and approaching 30 now; yet it still bothered him. Anytime I tried to bring it up he’d either change the subject or just walk away from me.

None of that means a handful of monkey shit now.

I went to the kitchen to make some coffee as Johnny boy created a cloud in my living room. “Want anything to drink?” I called out.

“No man, I’m cooo….” he trailed off before finishing.

“You baked already?”

“No man I ain’t no lightwei…” he trailed again. Detta came charging into the kitchen as soon as she heard me open a cabinet, meowing, and winding herself around my legs. While the Mr. Coffee came to the end of its brewing cycle, I poured some hazelnut creamer and a sweet n low in my favorite mug.

As I reached for the carafe, daggers of ice sliced their way down my back.

“My brother got these from work.” Johnny boy had said. I picked up the glass pot with a trembling hand and managed to pour a full cup despite the palsy shake.

Something wasn’t right. I made my way back to the couch where the zip loc stared up at me. I jerked back, splashing myself, not noticing the heat. Johnny boy’s eyes were a blazing red, barely more than slits. A small strand of drool hung from his upper lip. “Hey Johnny boy,” I said mostly to see if he could hear me.

“Yeah,” he said eyes opening up a bit.

I took a sip. My hands still shook and I couldn’t get them to stop. “Doesn’t your brother work at the graveyard?” I put the mug down as I began to put things together.

The quivering had strengthened.

On TV, Judge Judy replaced Montel..

Johnny boy perked up considerably. He liked nothing better than talking about the cemetery. “Hell yeah,” he said with a bit too much enthusiasm for my taste. He leaned forward, taking a hit then stubbed out the joint on a days emptied beer can. “Been there since he got out of prison.”

“That was like five years ago, he just now found it?” I asked. Sometimes talking with Johnny boy was like doing a puzzle made by a nitwit. When he got in this mode, it was better to listen, and then put things together and hope there were no missing pieces.

“No one ever goes there anymore, it’s closed, you know that,” he reminded me, though I honestly didn’t know it was closed. Being it was on the far west side of town, I very rarely went there outside of the keggers in college. “It’s gotten way overgrown so Donald got told to clean it up. “This,” he nodded in the direction of the baggie, “was growing wild all the way in the back where the crypts are.”

I lit another cigarette with the blue bic Johnny boy had. “There’re crypts back there?” I asked, intrigued.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s the fuckin’ desert, Eddie. Back in the day before bulldozers and shit, they couldn’t dig graves. Ground was too fucking hard. “Johnny boy relit the joint, took a long hit, and let it settle in his lungs, before blowing twin plumes from flared nostrils.

I looked at the bag again. Where I saw emerald green earlier there was now mold ripped from corpses long forgotten about.

“Dude, ” I said, not even trying to hide my disgust, “this was growing around dead people!”

“Donald says they make the best fertilizer.” Johnny boy sucked down the last of the joint, then leaned back with his eyes closed. A stoned grin plastered his face. With a quick kick I knocked the plastic bag off the couch, where it made its new home under the coffee table, with some other garbage and stains. It could stay there until Johnny boy picked it up and took it home for all I cared. I shuddered one time and lay down on the couch. The second hand smoke made me a bit drowsy. Even thoughts of rotted gardeners with sharp pruning shears, dripping blood couldn’t keep unconsciousness at bay.

It was only when Johnny boy began tearing my nut sack with his teeth that the real nightmare began.

The first sensation was of an ice cube being run down my inner thigh, which stirred me a bit. The sound of ripping cloth stirred me even further. The rough clutching at my balls woke me completely. My eyes opened in time to see Johnny boy with my nut sac in his mouth. Then he began whipping his head back and forth like a dog playing tug of war. I kicked him in the face, and as his head jerked back, my scrotum went with it.

I realized I’d probably made a mistake. I saw the skin stretch, heard it rip, saw the blood. I screamed as I clutched and clawed between my legs. Blood flowed down my thighs, over my hands and drenched the couch. Johnny boy held my nut between his teeth as if he’d caught a bullet. With dismay and anguish I watched his teeth sink slowly into the white, pulpy flesh, prolonging my agony as long as possible.

“That’s for fucking me in the ass.” He smiled then, showing red gristle covered teeth. We held eye contact for only a split second; enough for me to see that Johnny boy was history. Sure his eyes were red, but not from the pot; this was a viscous crimson that seeped from ducts and pores. Blue veins pulsed beneath peeling translucent skin.

The stench of decayed flowers and fresh dug graves hit me. I had no time to gag as Johnny boy lunged at me, his fingers digging into my shoulder; deep enough and strong enough to begin shredding my flesh. At least it drew attention away from the pain in my crotch. He slammed me down on the coffee table hard enough to send pieces of it flying. Something in my back popped and I added a new pain to the growing list. The god-awful stench from his mouth filled my nostrils, as he leaned in for another bite. I was able to punch him in throat with my right hand; flesh came away on my knuckles as some of the fluid from his eyes flew onto my forehead. I used my left hand to find something to hit him with. Anything, just to get the stinking grease bag off me. Something rough and sharp, jabbed my palm. I grabbed whatever it was and aimed the sharpness at the base of his neck. The broken table leg sunk in with a sickly wet sound, as blood oozed from around the wood. Johnny let out a sound, not really a scream but enough to make me shit myself just the same. I could only get to my knees as the pain in my groin and shoulder was proving too much. Snot flew from my nose while trying to catch my breath.

Johnny boy lay still, with blood pooling around his neck.

In time I was able to get to my feet and leaned heavily on the TV for balance. “You stupid motherfucker.” I spit at him, still gasping for breath. “Assholes! You and your brother, just stupid fucking assholes!”

Anger can be the angel or devil on your shoulder. This time it was an angel. In spite of the aches, pains and punctures, the anger seemed to sedate my injuries. I took a few tentative steps forward not sure where I was going, only knowing I had to keep moving. The living room made me nauseous as I surveyed the damage. Blood soaked my sofa, carpet and walls.

The baggies.

I stepped over Johnny boys’ body, grabbed the one on the rocker, and strained to reach the one trapped in the aftermath of the table. A nail had torn a hole in the plastic and a couple of small buds escaped. I left them where they were for the moment, and limped my way to the bathroom. As I hit the light switch by the vanity, Detta nearly knocked me over by racing through my feet, yowling all the way. More muttered curses. I grabbed the scissors I used to cut my hair off of the counter and stabbed one of the bags over the toilet. I could have opened the Ziploc, but slashing like that made me feel better. Bud after bud plopped into the bowl like grassy turds. After a few flushes both bags were empty, but my body was full of new and motivating pains. I dropped the bags in the tub, turned on my heel and saw Johnny boy standing in the doorway.

He was pulling out the table leg and I let out a scream out of surprise more than fear. I brandished the scissors and swung it in an overhand arc planting it in his left eye. It didn’t so much pop as deflate, releasing even more vile liquid that had the same smell as the dope. I pushed the blade in further. Not once did he try to stop me. I let go of the handles that were slick with god knew what and Johnny boy crumpled to the floor. What could have been an exhale, sounded more to me like he tried to say “love you…”

I stepped over him, said a silent prayer to an invisible god I had no belief in and stumbled into the vanity sink, with the mirror just daring me to look at my reflection.

I couldn’t. All I had to do was glance down at the blood drying on my legs, chest and stomach. My boxers were nothing more than an elastic band with a bit of fabric hiding the ruin. Everything hurt. I reached for the bottle of vicodin I had left over from an abscessed tooth, and dry swallowed the remaining four bitter pills. I slumped to the floor, in a haze of pain and exhaustion, with no idea how long I’d been leaning against the cabinet beneath the sink when I heard something that returned me to consciousness.

Music.

Loud and jarring.

I ignored Johnny boy for a moment, stood up and slowly made my way into the living room. One of the local anchors with a look of urgency broke into whatever had replaced Judge Judy. I missed the beginning but heard enough to know things were fucked.

“…reports of cannibalism in the metro center area…” I dropped into the rocker and it gave a warning creak.

Cannibalism,

Metro Center area.

Where I lived. My stomach churned. This was my doing. I had flushed the shit. Donald sold some, gave some away, of that I had no doubt. But I flushed that shit.

My big toe nudged one of the buds that’d jumped ship. I bent over to pick it up and noticed several small bites were taken from it.

Over the loud clatter of the a/c and the blaring TV came the sound of sirens. Underlying all this was the low predatory growl of an unearthed animal.

I don’t care who gets to me first.

(This story is the sole property of Scott Colbert and may not be reproduced in any form without prior consent.)