"Day of the Dead"

Today, I am pleased to bring you a bit of short fiction by Salvatore Buttaci.  Check out more of his work-->  Click Here!

I held her in my arms, mi hermana, broken and bloody, her life slipping away. My young sister Renata who loved all God’s creation, raped and beaten. Abandoned here for dead.

“Renata, no me dejes!” Don’t leave me!

She locked her dark eyes into mine in a stare I feared gazed through me and touched that final veil.

“Who did this to you, mi querida?

Bubbles of blood popped from black swollen lips.  “Pañuelo,” she gasped. Handkerchief.

Quickly I withdrew from my back pocket a white handkerchief, shook it like a flag, then gently patted Renata’s lips. She moved her head away.

“No, no.”  A faint whisper. “pañuelo negro.” Black handkerchief.

Then my sister’s head lolled towards her left shoulder where a last breath breezed against my trembling hand.

A black handkerchief…Words of delirium?  A misunderstood whisper?

Not until five months later, on the eve of La Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, All Soul’s Day, did it come to me. At the grave of Renata, corazon de mi vida, heart of my life, I spoke aloud my prayers and my promise of venganza, sweet revenge.

At once, I saw in the muddled mind of my sorrow Renata’s unvoiced screams and the man with the black handkerchief now approaching her grave, a bouquet of carnations in his hand.

I threw all to the wind! My very soul into the pits of Hell! Dagger in hand, a family heirloom of honor, I struck down the dishonorable. Repeatedly I plunged the avenging steel into the heart of the demon Don Carlos, hurling him in a splashing aura of blood into the ranks of los muertos.

“Renata,” I whispered over her grave, “Descanse en el reposo ahora.”  Rest in peace.

And the law would never have found out if it weren’t for the fingerprints of my gloveless hand on the dagger jutting from the demon’s chest.

The Versatile Blogger Award...

K.S. Brooks, writer and human being extraordinaire, was awesome enough pass this award along to me.  You should check out her awesome blog - HER AWESOME BLOG - for all kinds of good stuff.  It is truly an honor for me to win this chain letter...er, award...and I would like to dedicate it to Mr. Pish.  A lovable pooch owned by none other than K.S. Brooks.  And by dedicate, I mean, he can, like, feel good about it, but it's mine.  All mine.

So, as with any good award, there are rules.

1. Thank K.S. Brooks and link her blog, which I have done.
2. Share seven things about myself.
3. Pass the award on to 5 deserving bloggers.

Seven things, huh?  About me...and they have to be witty cause all the other bloggers got all witty and shit.  Great.

1. In college, I majored in Creative Writing and wrote a sonnet about pigeons eating vomit off my windowsill after I drunkenly puked out the window.  It was surprisingly well received.

2. I don't like sleeping in socks.  But lately I have been doing it.  Mid-life crisis?

3. My favorite kinds of music are old country and hip hop.  Take that stereotypes.

4. I once met Adam West.  I said, 'Nice to meet you, Batman'.  He said, 'You too, Boy Wonder'.  I was young.  It was the dopeness.

5. I don't own a TV.  I have no idea what is going on in the world.  And I don't really care to know.

6. Is there a cash prize with this award?  I mean, I like club sandwiches on an unhealthy level.  Like, if club sandwiches were people, I would be in jail.

7. I used to smoke cigarettes and hated all the judgmental non-smokers.  Swore I would never become one.  Guess what?  Keep your cigarette away from my daughter.  

(Bonus) - I can never, ever spell judgmental right (just did it wrong in a different way), and I judge myself for this.

So, thank you, K.S. Brooks.  I encourage you all to check out her blog for wit, good writing, and an attractive simple format (it's not one of those seizure causing blogs).

And now I will recommend five other bloggers you should really give a gander to (I don't know...they like geese):

Rosanne Dingli
Richard Godwin
Morgen Bailey - (Yes, I know K.S. nominated her, too.  She deserves two nominations.)
Mary Chase
Tom Kepler


Thanks again to K.S. Brooks for the words with which she graces this here internet.  Check out her blog and the blogs of the fine writers above.  Thank you one and all.  I must now go to a Christmas party and pretend that being surrounded by drunk people is an activity I enjoy.  And it was, before I quit drinking.  See 'judgmental (ha, spelled it right FTW) non-smoker' above.

Promotion in a fiverr world...

Thanks to the magic elves that make the internet run, it is now possible for pretty much anyone with half a brain (Joe Café) to publish a novel, make a movie, start a blog about their parrot, etc.  This is both good and bad. It is good because a lot of talented people are getting a shot they wouldn’t normally get. It is bad because a lot of untalented people are getting that same shot. Or I guess I shouldn’t say bad. Everyone deserves their chance, but it does present an interesting dilemma. Promotion. How can you make your novel, song, dance number, etc. stand out from the quagmire? It’s a good question. I congratulate myself for it. 

          
I talk to a lot of people about self-promotion, and what I usually say is something along the lines of…well, you promote your work the same way you would promote yourself. Be decent and kind to people. Think about how you can help the community you want to be a part of. Find people who are creating things you believe in and push their work.  No one likes a hard sell. It is far more effective to let people get to know you and your work on their terms. Less off-putting. Blah, blah, blah.

          
And then there is fiverr.com. For those unfamiliar, fiverr is a website where you can get anyone to do just about anything for $5, of which they keep four. I decided to do an experiment. Actually several. I’m not rolling in dollar bills (I quit stripping), but at five bucks a pop, you can afford to experiment a little. So, I did. Some of it you see here. I did a search for most popular services…who would have thought you could send some random woman your web address and it would be written on her cleavage and emailed back to you in less than five minutes?  I am here to tell you it can be done.  Go to fiverr and search ‘tayl0rwhat’. You, too, can have your name emblazoned on breasts bigger than mine.

          
The coolest thing I did on fiverr was to have a drummer play with my website on his drum and then have some guy plug my book. I have no idea who the people are. But it turned out awesome (search: Naiyyer). I am not sure if it sold any books or got any people to my website, but I like to think it did.

Promotion is a tricky thing. I wrote a book that I believe is pretty good. It’s no East of Eden, but it is getting good reviews on Amazon (except for one guy who apparently liked it, but ONLY if it cost 99 cents)…which brings up another point about the quagmire. It used to be a book cost more than a sandwich.  Now, you charge more than ONE DOLLAR for your book and some nozzle is going to claim he didn’t get his money’s worth. Creative work is being devalued. On my website, www.jdmader.com, there are enough short stories for a few collections. Some of them have been published before. Two of them got ‘positive rejections’ from the New Yorker. And they are all there for free along with essays and music and a lot of work that I put a lot of time into.

         
I’m not complaining (much). The ability to get your work out there... Kindle. Print on demand. Blogs.  The ability to do all that for free (without an agent) is huge. I have heard it argued, and tend to agree, that as a few years pass, the wheat will begin to separate from the chaff, but until then, it’s a big world out there. There are great, amazing self-published novels that you can buy for the price of a cup of coffee. And there are pieces of trash that you will pay the same price for. There are lots of ways to get your work noticed. Word of mouth is pretty powerful. But boobs never hurt anyone either.  

Right now I'm gonna pass the mic...

Today, I get someone else to do the hard work for me again.  I asked L.A. Tripp to write this because he digs music and I am super interested in the way music and writing inter-relate.  As a musician, I have always found it interesting that writing is one of the things I can't do while listening to music.  Well, I can.  But I don't.  But many people I know do. Anyway, enough about me.  Read on.  Meanwhile, I'm gonna sip this coffee and try to get all these supermodels to leave me the hell alone...


Music, Mind over matter, and Me...

I've been asked several times how music affects me and my stories. Well, let me explain.

Music is a natural part of me. I grew up with it. I listened to it with my parents. I listen to it while I drive. I listen to it when I go out and dance to it. It only makes sense that I'd use it while I write, as well.

Here's my process.

I sit at my desk, settle in with my computer for a cozy little work session. But, before I get too cozy, I pull up my music on my phone, pop the earplugs in that we call headphones, and select some music. What happens when the notes start traveling from the phone, through the wire, into the earplugs, and resting in my ears? Well . . . they don't rest. Each note buries themselves into every fiber of me. I feel the beat, the symbols, the guitars, the voice. It reverberates through me. That symbol could tell me a character needs to get killed off. That bass line may tell me a tragedy is on it's way. The soulful voice may steer me toward a love connection forming. As these notes filter through my body, my fingers travel across the keys and write what is plotting in my head.

The end result is the story that you laugh, cry, and cringe at.

Hope you enjoy my works, and keep in mind the journey going on in me while you journey through the story.

L.A Tripp is a writer and an all around nice guy.  Check out his work and support a writer that truly supports the arts and his fellow scribes.   CLICK HERE

A very Odd review...

‘Odd and Odder: A Collection of Sensuality, Satire and Suspense’, by K.S. Brooks and Newton Love is a book with a long name.  It is a book that, despite the names of the authors, is neither about trout nor cakey cookies.  It’s a book, alright?  Lots of words, put together into sentences and paragraphs.  Some prose, some poetry.  It’s the kind of book that approaches from the shadows and you don’t know what it wants.  Maybe you’re about to get the best ass-kicking of your life.  Maybe you’re about to get laid.  Maybe you’re about to encounter the heroin addiction that will follow you for the next decade, as your life crumbles around you.

‘O&O’ is the kind of book that makes readers glad they never gouged their eyes out with screwdrivers.  It makes writers feel like they got gut-punched.  It is the kind of book you can’t put down, especially if you superglue that shit to your hands.  Makes it damn near impossible. 

I happened across this book when it fell out of the sky and hit me smack on the top of my handsome head.  Well, actually, it fell out of the sky in the form of electrons or some shit and landed in my Kindle.  You get the idea.  The book came to me.  I sat down.  I used my eyes to transfer the words into images and thoughts and I liked what I read.  Hell, I like liked it.  My kindle hasn’t operated the same since.

‘O&O’ is the kind of book you read if you want to be entertained.  It’s not stuffy or pretentious.  Not like me.  I’m pretentious, and I stuff.  Usually a sock.  Gets the ladies’ attention.  Argyle especially.  Don’t ask me why.  I’m not here to talk about my prosthetic penis, I’m here to talk about a book.  The kind of book that makes you want to kick yourself in the face, drink two beers, and call and order pizza.

It keeps you jumping, this one does.  It’s like Muhammad Ali.  First a story – bam, to the gut.  Then a sprinkling of lyrics – a flutter of jabs to the face.  Then some satire – a hard right to the temple.  Not like a Buddhist temple.  That would be stupid.  I mean the side of your head.  Where it can kill you.  Bottom line, this book can, and probably will, kill you.  Whatever you do, don’t buy it.  Steal it.  Wait, don’t steal it.  Buy it.  Buy two copies.  You never know when you’ll be running from the house naked.  And you want to cover your ass.  But you can’t have your junk all flopping around.  I had to buy a second Kindle.  But I did it.  And you should, too.

In all seriousness, I’m going to be serious now.  Seriously serious.  This book is funny, touching, brilliant, and many more adjectives or adverbs or whatever they are.  Okay, now I’ll be serious.  What you have here is a collection of excellent writing.  Some of it is hilarious (Dark Alley is one of the funniest stories I have ever read).  Some of it is emotive – and hits damn close to home.  Brooks & Love (should start a country band?) have come up with a collaboration that gives you everything you want out of a collaboration.  The pieces don’t fight each other – they compliment each other – and complement each other.  The satire is raw and funny and fresh.  The verse is heartfelt and begs for an old guitar.  And there are surprises around every turn.  

There are books that scare and disgust.  There are books that leave you on the edge of your seat.  There are books that teach you how to knit in easy steps that anyone can follow.  There are not nearly enough books that you finish, with a smile on your face, thinking, ‘Damn, I’m glad I just read that’.

 "Odd & Odder: A Collection of Sensuality, Suspense & Satire" brings together the creative, off-beat minds of published authors K. S. Brooks and Newton Love. From short stories befitting The Twilight Zone, to lustful verses of poetry, to thought-provoking flash prose: "Odd & Odder" is consistently fresh, sometimes outlandish, and truly entertaining.

The Case of the Missing Plot Bunnies...

My friend Stephen Hise graces us with his literary badassery today.  In this piece, he spars with the monolithic NANOWRIMO (national novel writing month)...which challenges writers to enrage their significant others every November.  Check out his blog: www.indiesunlimited.com to keep tabs on what is going on in the indie scene.

It was one of those days at the office – long as a Sunday sermon and half as fun. I hadn’t had a case in weeks and I was down to my last packet of Ramen noodles. The name’s Spade –Marlowe Spade. I’m a private dick. Well, private ever since that one unfortunate incident at the park.

I was just about to close up shop for the day when she walked in. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, the vacuous stare, the mismatched shoes, and the disheveled hair, she was just my type.

She plopped her pretty little bottom down in the chair across from my desk like a pile of old pastrami on the stale rye bread served at Gino’s Deli on Tuesdays. Why Tuesdays? Because the Health Inspector comes on Wednesdays.

“Mr. Spade? You’ve got to help me,” she said in a breathy voice.

“I know, sweet cheeks. How do you like NaNo?” I asked. Her eyes showed the first spark of life since she’d come in to the joint, but that spark disappeared like a sailor’s paycheck the next instant as she burst into tears.

I wasn’t sure whether she was crying because I’d seen right through her or she finally realized she was still wearing her bathrobe, but I’d seen it all before. Big NaNo picks these fresh-faced kids up right as they get off the bus. He promises them fame and fortune if they work for him. You wanna be a real writer, don’t ya baby? Well then you gotta put out for me – show me what you can do. Before they know what hit ‘em, they’re on the hook for fifteen, eighteen hundred words a day. A lot of those kids break, and even a lot of the ones who make it are never the same. Happens every year about this time.

“Show me what you’ve got,” I said. She fished a couple of pages out of her robe pocket. I pulled the wadded up chewing gum off it and took a look. I started reading it. It looked promising at first−her female character was taking a shower, but somehow little Miss Writesalot managed to write the shower scene without any steam. I tossed the crumpled manuscript on the desk.

“Baby, I’m gonna tell you straight. You don’t need NaNo to make it in this town. The big six mob is busted, they’re dead and don’t even know it yet. If you wanna write then do it, but on your own schedule. You don’t need Big NaNo to call the shots.”

“Do you think I can, Mr. Spade?” She looked hopeful as a cocker spaniel at a Thanksgiving table.

“I know you can do it doll face. Indie is the way to go these days. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise,” I said.

“Oh, Mr. Spade! How can I ever repay you?”

I looked at the calendar on my desk and saw it was Tuesday. “Why don’t we go grab a pastrami on rye? You can buy. Then, let’s you and me go re-write that shower scene.”

Another case closed and another satisfied client.

'Apostle Rising' by Richard Godwin

A little change of pace, here's a review of a book you should definitely, definitely purchase immediately.

            Apostle Rising, by Richard Godwin is an extremely good read.  It is also extremely hard to categorize.  It defies categorization.  This is one of its  many strengths.  It is a detective novel.  It is a mystery.  It skirts the edges of gothic horror.  Some of it is written (brilliantly) in verse.  It is dark.  It has depth.  It gives a nod to Noir.  It is so well-wrought and complex that it is almost like two novels in one. 

Did I mention that it is dark?  So dark that parts of it are hard to stomach, but it is well worth the trip into hell.  The prose is beautifully written.  Godwin certainly knows what he is doing.  The story is tight, with enough twists and angst to satisfy the most critical ‘crime novel’ fan.   It is a book that will stick with you.  The beauty of the words resonate long after you have read the last page.  And the darkness will tug at you, reminding you that the world is full of lots of different kinds of people.  And some of them are intensely frightening.

            Our protagonist is Detective Chief Inspector Frank Castle.  He is of the old school…the kind of cliché we love so much he’s not a cliché, but an archetype.  He drinks too much (whiskey of course).  He is incapable of feeling joy.  He is, in fact, haunted by a string of murders that almost drove him insane (the ‘almost’ is questionable).  The Woodlands Killer nearly drove him mad, but he hung on, only to find himself up to his eyeballs, years later, in copycat killings that are so much like the old cases that it would make any hardboiled detective dive into the bottle. 

Castle is aided by his partner DI Jacki Stone, a tough woman who is faced with the toughest case of her career.  Meanwhile her marriage is falling apart due to the stresses of her work and her inability to leave it at the office. 

And then there is Karl Black, a sociopathic, religiously obsessed manipulator who played a large role in driving Castle insane with the original investigation and gets Stone in on the act with the new one.  He is a fantastic character.  He is evil, yet his charm (and his ability to get under the skin of Castle and Stone) make him a pleasure to visit.

            There are more characters of course, and they are well rendered and interesting, but I don’t want to give too much away.  So, we have our cast of characters.  And we have death.  Dead hookers and dead politicians, brutally murdered by…who?  Some of the murders match the MO of the Woodlands killings.  Some don’t.  Some are clearly biblical taunts.  Some are attacks at the establishment and political corruption.  All are vivid and terrifying.  London is literally covered in corpses.  (A personal note here: I am often accused of writing ‘Dark’ fiction…Godwin’s murder scenes are enough to make the darkest thing I have ever written piss itself and run in fear.  This is not a critique.  It is worth noting, though.  The murder scenes are so vivid and real that you might not want to read them if you are alone in the house.)

            The genius of this book is that Godwin plays with so many forms (and with such a light touch), that it defies cliché in what can easily become a clichéd form.  Crime novels can enter the realm of cliché very easily.  This one never does.  Godwin is undeniably well informed about religion, compulsion, corruption, and delusion, and the way he weaves them all together is truly impressive. 

            There are people who read books and want to figure out “who dun it”.  I am not that kind of reader.  I like to be surprised.  But, even if I was that type of reader, I would have been shocked at the eerily twisted conclusion to this novel. 

            If you like crime novels, you will like Apostle Rising.  If you like horror novels, you will like Apostle Rising.  If you are interested in religion and human psychology, you will like Apostle Rising.  Hell, if you like well written books, you will like this one.  Godwin is a gifted writer who knows his craft, knows when to play the right cards, and he will get inside your head…just like Karl Black.

Author Bio: Richard Godwin is a widely published crime and horror writer, whose work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies, including recently Pulp Ink. Apostle Rising, in which a serial killer is crucifying politicians and recreating the murder scenes of an unsolved case, is his first published novel. It has received excellent reviews and is under offer for two foreign rights acquisitions. You can find out more about the author at his website: http://www.richardgodwin.net/.  His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are popular interviews he conducts with other writers: http://www.richardgodwin.net/blog.