For you

I saw a suggestion for this on twitter. Sometimes I forget I'm an erotica author as well as a horror author and need to stretch my wings and push my talent. I hope you think I pushed myself farther when you read the following.

 

A letter to my sister:  

Remembering it is a sin, but what difference does it make now? I’m going to hell for what we did and nothing I do now is going to change that. I don’t care, Karen. I don’t care how wrong or taboo our time together was. I don’t care what our parents say. I don’t care what the world thinks about it. I want you. I love you. I want to wrap my naked body up in yours and feel the heat from our passion pulling the sweat from my skin. I want to feel the need growing with my cock as I lick every inch of you. I want to feel the pressure of your cock in the back of my throat and taste the saline of your pre-come like creamy velvet on my tongue.

Do you remember how it started? Do you remember the nervousness that danced in our stomach? We both knew it was wrong, but the look in our eyes, the ravenous need that sprung up inside of us blotted out right and wrong. It deleted every thought about religion and family and societal norms. I saw you for the person you really were, the person you had been hiding for so fucking long, and instantly nothing else mattered. It was right, Karen. Everything we did was right and I want to do it again.

Being raised Catholic repressed us. Its cliché now to even acknowledge such things but the truth is the truth and I’ve promised myself I’m not going to lie. Not about this. You were forced to live a lie, one that I made you perpetuate because I was afraid. I didn’t want to admit you were actually someone else. I told you just ignore the voice inside your head. I told you to pray. I told you to just go along with things because it was what god wanted. I said the things you told me, the secrets you confided in me, the confessions you wept into your pillow were all sins. I thought the devil was at work within you. Now I know different.

They wouldn’t understand. They’d think we’re sick and twisted and maybe in some ways we are. Whatever may inflict us, whatever this disease of the soul may be actually be, I don’t care. I want you. I want your cock in me. I want my cock in you. I want to lick your tight ass, to stick my tongue inside you and fell the warmth radiate. I want to hear you moan as I push inside you. I want to whimper in that ecstasy as the pressure of your swollen dick enters me. I want it all, and I want it now and forever. Religion be damned. Our family be damned.

Oh Karen, I can’t ever forget what we did. I can’t ignore the passion that lights my heart on fire every single time I think of you and that perfect body. I never wanted to put a penis in my mouth until I saw yours.  I never understood the pain you felt at hiding your true self until that night, and now I have something to hide as well. Now I understand, if only a small portion, the hell you lived through. I should have supported you. I should have loved you unconditionally like a good brother. I should have defended you and fought beside you. Would it change things if I told you I want to do those thing now? Will you come back to me and make love to me now that I understand?

When you first came out and told our parents that you were a woman trapped in a man’s body I laughed. I thought you were crazy. I didn’t understand. What you were telling me was against god. It was a sin, an unforgivable transgression that could only be wrought upon one of the faithful by Satan himself. He had tempted you, and you had been weak. I know now that I was the weak one. After you got into the screaming match with Mom and Dad I followed you upstairs. I promised our parents I would try and talk some sense into you. I sat on the edge of your bed and chided you, prayed for you, did everything but listen to you. I felt hurt, but not an empathetic kind of hurt. I felt hurt for me and our parents that we should have to suffer your insanity. I worried about the other members of the church would say, what our neighbors and friends would say.

I got angry and said things…things I wish I could take back. I left you. I walked out of your life and hated you.

The I saw you.

That day… I’ll never forget that day. You came home after a year. You had disappeared out of our lives while you lived as the person you were born to be. I became my sister. In so many ways my brother died the day you left, and good riddance. He was a fraud, a liar. You are and always have been my sister. You were born the day you left and even though I didn’t know it at the time that was the happiest day of my life.

Back to that day. You came home to get the last few things that meant anything to you. I wasn’t one of them. I sat on the edge of your bed once again, looking at you through new eyes. I’d never have thought you could be so beautiful but there you were, sunlight shimmering in off your dark hair and lighting the incredible blue of your eyes. You smiled through full lips and looked so incredibly happy that the callouses surrounding my heart fell away. I loved you once more, but not as a sibling.

I noticed your breasts immediately. How could I not? You had had them on display in that skimpy shirt, the tight V hugging the pale mounds and showing me that perfect flesh. Your thin waist curved perfectly to feminine hips, the bulge of your cock pressing against the tight jeans. It was like getting struck by lightning, the sudden and complete lust that overtook me. I’m grateful for that lust because it gave me the strength to get off your bed, cross the room, and grab you.

The look of shock in your eyes was both alluring and sad. When I kissed you, when my tongue entered your hot mouth there was a moment of resistance, and then you melted in my arms and wrapped me in a tight embrace. I grew hard, my cock pressing to yours and throbbing with electric need. I felt you grow hard and my hand sought out the firm length, digging between your smooth skin and the rough jeans. You wore no panties and I easily found the hardness, stroking it, feeling that incredible rigid heat sheathed in loose skin.

I didn’t know what I was doing when I dropped to my knees but quickly learned. Your moans and sighs were instruction enough. Oh my beautiful sister how I loved sucking your cock.

Lone Survivor Releases Monday June 15th

 

My first Booktrope release, Lone Survivor, comes out Monday June 15^th. I’ve never spent so much time working on publicity for a book. I’ve done blogs, podcasts, radio shows, set up a thunderclap campaign, advertised on Facebook, and gotten a couple hundred mentions on various social media. I’m pushing hard to help this book be the success I know it should be, but will that result in amazing sales? I’ll let you know.

I wanted to dedicate this blog to that book because I believe in it. I believe in the words I

wrote, re-wrote, edited, re-edited, re-re-edited, proofread, polished, and finally approved. I worked with a kick ass editor, a stellar proof reader, an amazing book manager, and had a ton of support from the imprint manager. The cover was designed and polished, hand drawn and worked over and over until we got what, I believe, is a fucking amazing and captivating piece of art.

So now the work is all done and some of the reviews are coming in. What are people saying about this book?

Reviews:

 

This is a fun slant on what has become a very over-saturated sub-genre. Author Jensen wisely focuses on the zombie Sasquatch once our apocalyptic world is established but, the walking corpses still appear and appear often, to satisfy those that can't get enough of them. The story moves very fast and the author is very descriptive, though sometimes at a fault…did I really need Jim's impression of Bigfoot's manhood…not really. There is a lot of bloody action and overall it is an entertaining read.

4 Stars

this is the first book i have read by Mr Jensen and i was not disapointed ...it was such a good book i had to finish it in one evening ....i cant wait to read more by him and would hope others will try his books also

5 Stars

BADASS Mr. Jensen. I don't need anymore words than that

5 Stars

I REALLY liked this! As a huge fan of The Walking Dead, I wasn't sure how I would react to this zombie novel, but I was oh so pleasantly surprised. The writing was clear, descriptive, and engaging. Jim, the main character, was so human it hurt. Kudos for the plot twist that makes this not-your-typical-zombie novel.

5 Stars

There are others, but I’m not trying to brag or only post the best reviews. Kindle has 6 reviews, 4.6 stars. People are reading it and enjoying the hell out of it, and that’s one of the reasons I do what I do.

 

So what is this book about? Here’s the synopsis:

 

One man. One Bigfoot. One billion zombies.
In the land of the dead, reanimated corpses hunt through the shadows. Man has turned against man in an unforgiving apocalypse where only death can thrive. When there is no one left to trust, nowhere left to turn, you have to fight to make it another day just to become the Lone Survivor.
Jim has been making through the apocalypse on his own. A chance encounter with the mythical creature known as Bigfoot gives him an inadvertent ally, but Jim quickly learns that friendships made after the end of the world don’t last long.
After Bigfoot gets bitten by a zombie during a bloody fight, the man-ape begins to turn. Now there’s more dangerous things out there than the festering corpses of man, and it’s eight feet tall and weighs more than four hundred pounds.
When fate throws Jim yet another curve ball, this time in the form of two damaged female survivors, Jim must decide if he is going to help them survive, or leave them to fend for themselves. Will Jim finally become part of a group, or remain a Lone Survivor?

 

That’s great, you say. So you post some reviews and a synopsis and I’m just supposed to buy this thing? You expect me to plunk down $2.99 for your book when I’ve never read anything else by you before? How do I know if I’m going to like it?

 

Here’s an excerpt:

 

I moved as quickly as I could in the thick brush and swung my machete. The zombie reached for me, oblivious to the blade cutting through the air. It hit the neck, severing it cleanly, sending the head pin-wheeling through the air. I was on to the next corpse before the head hit the ground. I chopped through the next two easily enough, but then lost my footing swinging at the fourth one. I went down on one knee and the thing was on me in seconds. I felt the skeletal hands grabbing my hair. Bones got tangled up, and as I tried to pull away from the thing, I only succeeded in pulling it closer. The stench of death and excrement was so strong, my eyes watered. 

I got a hand under the chin and pushed as hard as I could until the fragile neck popped. The body went limp. The last four zombies were close enough to touch, but I was stuck with a corpse wrapped up in my hair like some perverted bow. I shoved as hard as I could, ripping the fingers out, along with a few good-sized chunks of my hair. Son of a bitch, it hurt. But fuck it, I needed a haircut anyway. 

I shoved the broken corpse into the next three and sent all of them falling to the ground. That gave me enough time to cut the head off the slowest one, a small female in dirty sweatpants. I moved around her, grabbed another female zombie by the head, and twisted. She went limp, but her jaw still worked, opening and closing around the four teeth she had left. A black, dried-out tongue reached for me. I stomped on the head a few times until the skull gave way and then returned to the three stooges currently falling all over each other in a desperate attempt to get back up. 

Three quick whacks with the machete finished them all off. It was too dark to do anything with the bodies, so I left them for morning. I’d burn them down the road tomorrow. 

I headed back for Veronica and took her hand. She didn’t seem to mind the gore covering my big mitt, or if it bothered her she did nothing about it. She had just stood there watching me kill the zombies, an expression of fascination on her face. I wondered what she would have done if I hadn’t come along. Would she have run away, or just stood there and let the dead do what they do? I made a conscious decision to not think about it and just get the girl back inside. 

By the time we got returned to the trailer, the other two were inside waiting for us. Alice had the desperate look of worry painted on her face, but that melted off when she saw us. She smiled and waved, calling us to the safety of the indoors. Night rushed up behind us, ready to nip at our heels and pull us into the hungry shadows, but we got into the warm light of indoors with just enough time to lock the monsters out.

 

So there you go. You get zombies in a post-apocalyptic world, a Bigfoot that may or may not get turned into Zombie Bigfoot, and a man trying his best just to survive. He meets some friends and a whole lot of enemies during my tale, but through it all he remains true to

himself and does what he knows is right. He might not be perfect, but would you be?

 

Here’s the links for the books. I sincerely hope you put your faith in me, spend the $2.99, and leave me an honest revue. Let me know what you think. I’ll post my social media contact info as well.

 

Thank you.

 

AmazonKindle

 

Barnesand Noble Nook

 

Goodreads

 

Facebook and Facebook

 

Twitter

Guest Post: Scarlet Darkwood

Today I don't just claim some kind of internet friendship with my guest blogger. I can say I actually got to meet Scarlet in person and got to spend some time talking with her about all things Booktrope, our wonderful Imprint Manager Bethany Halle, and the Edge and Entice line our publisher has out. We spoke a lot about erotica and the publishing world one hot afternoon in late May. It was a wonderful time and I got to make new friend, which doesn't happen very often. So now you can sit back, kick up your feet, and enjoy some of her words. I give you Scarlet Darkwood.

 

 

Men, Women, And The Circles Of Sex Or Celibacy

I once had a nurse practitioner comment that sex was better with friends. Really? The thought had never occurred to me, but as I stepped into the world of sexual activity, I saw it could make sense--if you knew the boundaries and what you expected. Probably what the nurse really meant was that sex between two friends equaled a safer experience psychologically, one where no one would end up with a broken heart.

What’s interesting about this is that my first time was with a gentleman I’d been friends with for three years before we actually took the step into the bedroom, and it seemed to have happened out of the blue. Never had we discussed sex during our friendship. We really didn’t even date on a regular basis, but somehow got together and attended plays or the occasional concert; we also worked at the same place, but

different departments. One night on the way to a play, he blurted out, “I wonder what it would be like to sleep with you?” It was like our hormones had been raging at the same time.

And that was it. When we got back to my place, it happened. We never saw each other again. His departure didn’t make me feel bad or cheap. I knew what I wanted, and that was an initiation into sex by someone safe, one who wouldn’t degrade me. I knew where we stood, and the role he played for me. Years later, I still have no regrets with him being the first. We were just friends, we came together one time, and that was it. Fine with me--and obviously with him too. But remember, there were three years of no sexual activity. And to be honest, I never felt the drive to do anything more with him. Enjoying simple companionship was enough for us.

When asked in a group, men and women will all agree that two people of the opposite gender can be just friends, but get those individuals apart, you might hear different stories. As a female, I say that it’s more than possible that men and women can be just friends, while my spouse gives an emphatic no. The reason for this, he says, is because men think about sex. But he offered another suggestion: it might be possible to be just friends once people are in their fifty’s or older.

Can’t disagree with my spouse where age is concerned. I would venture to say younger people, who’s bodies are running hot, probably find sex more important than older people. Appearance may play a big role, to some degree, but there are men who break

down if they’re desperate enough. So what makes a man and woman just friends? Is it age, lack of libido, no chemistry?

A lady I know admitted to me one time that she and her spouse had gone for years without sex, and for some unknown reason, didn’t seem driven by urges, nor compelled to get the sexy spark back. When asked about what happened, she stated that age, fatigue, and difficulty with joint stiffness definitely played a part. Libido didn’t run high anymore as they settled into more mature phases of life. It had been like the sex had dropped off little by little like a slow leak, until she woke up and realized that she and her spouse hadn’t been together in ages.

But she told me something interesting. Their marriage was just as solid and strong, with neither feeling like they were lacking or being denied. They talked about it at times, just to check in with each other. According to her, she and her mate enjoyed traveling, talking, and basically spending time together--all without the trappings of sex. To her sex did not a marriage make, but the enjoyment of each other to the exclusion of others did. She’d discovered she’d rather be with her mate than anyone else, and he felt the same.

They also communicated well with each other, talked out their differences, discussed odd and unusual topics, sometimes drifting into what others would consider eyebrow-raising conversations. Sex had become the least important, with other considerations taking center stage. The best part, they were more than comfortable with their lifestyle.

As far as what compels the decision to leave out sex in a relationship and still hang together, that answer could be multi-faceted, with many possibilities. Individuality, personal preferences, situations, and needs play a part too. And don’t forget religion, which can muddy the waters for some people. The most important thing to consider, whichever path you take in a relationship, don’t bind yourselves to expectations and rules. This can lead to sure disaster if someone doesn’t hold up their end of the bargain. The happiest friends, spouses, boyfriends, or girlfriends are those who go with the flow, enjoy the relationship, and the fun and security it offers.

So the answer to the question, “can men and women just be friends,” I’d say yes.

***Scarlet Darkwood is an author of erotica, romance, paranormal, horror, gothic, thriller.

You can connect with her here:

www.scarletdarkwood.com

Google+:http://google.com/+ScarletDarkwood
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Follow Me On Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/scarletdarkwood
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Guest Post: Joseph Rubas

Joseph Rubas is another fellow Horror Hooligan for the Forsaken imprint over at my publisher, Booktrope. Joseph certainly has a vision for horror, and life in general. Check out what he has to say:








The Benefits of Exposure

                                    By Joseph Rubas

 

 

May 4, 2015. The day the publishing industry rose up against the evils of non-paying markets. I was scanning my Facebook feed (as I often do, because I have no life), and I noticed a lot of my writer friends posting derogatory comments, pictures, posts, videos, and what the hell ever else, about non-paying magazines. Their argument was that a writer should get paid for his work. Alright. I can get behind that. I’m a writer. I like money. Make it rain!

 

Then I realized, after hours of watching non-paying markets being vilified (I shall forever refer to May 4, 2015 as Literarischkristallnacht, or Literary Crystal Night...look it up) that non-paying markets aren’t the Great Satan my asshole friends were making them out to be. Sure, if a market can’t pay their writers in cash money (or, at the very least, a contributor’s copy), then chances are they’re not a very good market to submit to. I mean, the owner could just be lining his own pockets. You never know. However, there are good markets out there that don’t pay.

 

I know how that sounds, but hear me out.

 

It’s industry standard for these FTL markets to pay with “exposure.” That is, your pay is the joy of knowing your work is out there being read. A lot of markets that “pay” in exposure are also markets that don’t have exposure: They’re just another .com ezine lost in the crowd. There are some, though, that can provide exposure, and despite all the snide little memes (EXPOSURE ISN’T PAYMENT, ITS SOMETHING YOU DIE FROM, LULZ!) exposure, honest-to-god exposure, does it have its benefits, especially for young, beginning, or not-well-known writers. I won’t name names, but there’s a good FTL market out there, an onlize zine, that does very well for itself. It has several thousand unique hits a week, it’s published major authors (Piers Anthony, Joe R. Lansdale, Joseph Rubas), and its anthology series has gotten some great feedback on Amazon. For the beginning writer, this type of exposure is a godsend. It get their name out, and it pairs it, as it were, with some of the biggest names in the horror/fantasy/science fiction genre. Sure, they don’t pay, but when you’re just starting out, exposure can be more important than money. It can help readers find you. And without readers, you’re just another pen scribbling in the dark.

 

If your name is Stephen King, you don’t have to worry about exposure. You have a million dollar publishing house doing that for you. But if you’re a small guy, an indie, you will find that exposure is...tops. If you don’t expose yourself, who’s gonna do it?

 

Two things that you need to know, however:

 

One: For every good “exposure only” market, there are fifty, a hundred bad ones. Ones run by greedy assholes out to make a quick buck at your expense; ones that are genuine in their love for literature, but can’t rise above the herd, and thus remain lost in the void. It’s up to you to separate the wheat from the chaff.

 

Two: The publishing industry (genre notwithstanding) is stuffed, and I mean stuffed with assholes. Imagine Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island. You know, the millionaire with the stereotypical Yale accent? You’ll find so many of those types you’ll wanna just give up. Fuck those guys. With editors, you have to be careful when listing your past markets in a cover letter: Though story should ultimately win out no matter what, a lot of them do look at where you’ve been published before, and, if your past markets are the lowest of the low (the FTL markets that can’t even give you exposure) they do hold their little brandy sniffers like flamers and say, “They’re just not our type, Lovey.” I’m friends with a lot of editors on Facebook, and I know for a fact one of them posted a brief update regarding a slight formatting error I made in a submission to him. Funny thing is, he sent me a form rejection two hours earlier that made no mention of it. Not even a quick “Whatever you did with the formatting? Don’t do it again.” Oh, but editors are SO busy. They can’t personalize your rejection. Well, they can sure as hell take the time to whip up a mocking Facebook status, now, can’t they?

 

Thankfully, the industry is changing, and writers now have the option of perusing non-traditional avenues. Those dickwad editors? Their days are numbered.

 

Anyway, yeah, FTL markets have their benefits, just make sure you find a good one. And don’t let what I said about editors scare you off. Even they can recognize a good FTL market from a bad one. If you have good ones on your resume, they’re more likely to not reject you out of hand.

 

So...uh...get crackin’.  

 

Guest post: Skip Novak

I've known Skip for about five or six years now, maybe a little longer but time flies when you're drunk and writhing in the throes of debauchery. Not that Skip would know anything about that. He's a good friend of mine, not just on Facebook but in real life as well. We've drank together, smoked cigars, and wandered drunkenly through the quiet halls of hotels. We've talked about motorcycles, books, and our lives. He's a good man with a good heart and a twisted mind. I asked him to slice open his veins and bleed on the page for me. As always, Skip has come through. Read on to find out what he thinks:

What is Horror?

May 1, 2015

          

  Honestly? I don’t know. I wish I did. Some people are afraid of snakes, some spiders, others are afraid of the boogeyman. Me? I’m not really afraid of much. Truth be told, I’m afraid of failure, but, recent events in my life have redefined what failure is.

            However; you have to ask yourself “Is horror a scary book? A Troma film? A slasher flick? Or is horror something that lives deep inside of your ID? A horror that you don’t understand why you have it?

            I know several people that are extremely afraid of being buried alive. So afraid in fact that they can’t watch a movie about it or even read a story that involves someone being buried alive. This horror is quite frightening to me yet not a real threat to my psyche. Simply because I would be put in a position where being in a dark, oxygen lacking position where I’d eventually suffocate in a preferably euphoric state. Hell, I’d get to sleep.

            Others are afraid of home invasions and serial killers invading their lives. I’d like to think I’m experienced enough with handguns and weapons where I’d be able to at least inflict serious bodily injury on the S.O.B. before he took me and my family out.

          

  I thought about a lot of different types of horror and I came to one simple conclusion. Horror is unique to each individual and what they feel is a fault in their nature. A fault that stops them from acting upon the basic “Fight or Flight” nature in our lives. It’s true. I have friends who are extremely afraid of mice and rats but have no fear whatsoever of snakes. I also have friends who are totally frozen with fear of reptiles but not of rodents. Hell, I even have a person in my life who is deathly afraid of cats. Yes, cats. Those cute, cuddly and rambunctious balls of fur that seem to break the internet every time someone posts a video about them on the web.

            I used to be afraid of heights. It’s true. Then one day, in 1976, I was forced against my will to the top of the Washington Monument. When I finally worked up enough courage to look out the windows and observe our Nations Capitol, I was astonished. I was flabbergasted and I became hungry for more. I wanted to see what everything looked like from a birds eye view. After all, everything looks different from a distance and everything looks planned and natural when viewed from afar.

            Like a prom queen. Remember prom? Where boys and girls dressed up in finery and pretended to be adults and then experimented with the emotions and physical awareness of being an adult? Yeah, I thought you would.

            That is what horror is to me. It is a complete and utter lack of knowing and the ability to act. I suppose that is why I read so much. I learn so much. I try to understand so much. So that when I’m faced with the unknown, I am prepared. Like a boyscout or a girlscout.

            For example, I spent six years working for a law enforcement agency and five years working for a government law enforcement agency and I’ve always had a knack for going through the shooting range and the obstacle course on the shooting range. So much so that some my actions were used in training films. When asked by the instructors where and when I learned how to do what I did, I simply answered “I did what I had to do to survive.”

            Fear is a tangible substance. It manifests itself in different ways for different people. Some freeze up. Some act. Some just give up and accept their fate, not truly understanding they control their own fate. After all, we are all just here for a short time and what we do influences and affects others in our lives. In other words… it’s all relative.

            Your fear, what makes you freeze up and accept the unacceptable is not what defines you as a person. It is an obstacle in your life. An obstacle that you can overcome and not be chained to. Whether psychological or physical, you can overcome it. I can’t tell you how to overcome it, but I can tell you that it can be overcome. You just need the tools and equipment to overcome it.

         

   As for why there are people drawn to horror and all its insanity… I can’t answer. I can only say that I enjoy the fantastic minds that create it. Be the stories about werewolves, vampires, zombies, unfettered power of a government or even another person who has nothing but ill intent towards another, I find grossly entertaining.

            Horror to me falls in the same file folder as religion. We each have our own and we each believe in our own saviors and monsters. When you realize that fact then you realize you have the power and the choice to pick your own path in belief and life. You can act and live or you can freeze up and die. I choose to act. I choose to live. I choose to confront my fears head on and read, watch, and listen to what others have to say and then, when confronted with something I have not been aware of… educate myself and find out how to survive it.

            I used to be afraid of spiders. Deadly spiders. Like the Recluse spider and a nest of Black Widows. Then I spent a summer working as a “Heating and Air Conditioning” installer. I quickly found out that if you don’t fuck with them, they won’t fuck with you. Not to mention the fact that there are great bug killer sprays on the market. I did my job. I encountered the bugs and I survived. Even though I was in a two foot tall space, lying on my back and with no real defense against the unknown under four tons of brick and motor, I survived.

            I survived because I taught myself how to act and what to expect. I believe that is the root of all horror. A person not knowing what to do and when to do it. If you look at all the films and books for the past one-hundred years it is all about people who don’t know what to do when the shit hits the fan. Yet the books who have survivors and are fighting the good fight are about people who have some knowledge and some experience with the end of days working together to survive.

            That is what I’d like to think about. That maybe I am one of the survivors of whatever apocalypse befalls the human race. That I’d be prepared, not in a crazy sort of way but in a normal, I go to work every day and try to do what is right sort of way. That my family, my progeny and my basic knowledge of life would help me continue my existence.

            Yet, I can’t help but believe that there are people out there, people who have been so damaged that they will never be able to act in the best interest of themselves or their family. People who have so much to offer to the world but will never be able to say it. Their voices have been stifled by negativity that they have lost the truth of who they are.

            This is my fear. You will never know how to overcome your own fears and I have the answers which will only fall upon deaf ears. Because your fears prevent you from hearing my voice and the voices of reason in your life.

            Have a great week.

Guest Post: J.G. Clay

This post was supposed to go up yesterday, but Travels with Rufus was in full effect and I just didn't have it in me to put it all together. So I sincerely apologize to Mr. Clay. Now...
J.G. Clay is another Forsaken author with a mind as warped and twisted as any of us. Just perusing his website jgclay.com gives one the willies. So pull the covers up to your chin and ignore the noises coming from under the bed. Enjoy!

 

 

I was going to give you a short story, but there's a slight problem. As my editor - the great Chris Nelson- and my proof-reader - the workhorse known as Michael-Israel Jarvis -can testify, my short stories aren't that short. I'd be rubbish at Flash Fiction, let's put it that way. So, instead, here's a slightly whimsical gonzo take on my Booktrope journey so far. Where the Crazy Carousel of Clay ends up is anyone’s guess.

Sometimes I Fantasise.....

Writing's a bit of an obsession for me. It's the closest I get to OCD in my day to day life. It has to be done, rain or shine, in sickness and health. Maybe that's why I do it. Maybe it's my way tiny bit of order and calm in a life that's borderline anarchic. Writing in itself though is only ever meaningful if there's someone out there to read it. That's strictly my point of view, by the way, before you grab your flaming torches and pitch forks.

 

 

 

 

Ever since I first put pen to paper, there's always been a desire behind the process, the desire for someone to actually read what my words and hopefully be affected by them in some fashion. Whether it's admiration, repulsion or offence, it doesn't t really matter to me. As long as there's some sort of reaction. And, as any jobbing writer knows, to get these reactions,you need to get the words out there. You need to pay obeisance to the Great God, Publishing.

Over a year ago, I self-published a little tome called 'Tales of Blood and Sulphur'. It was pretty good - a bit rough and ready with a tinge of self-consciousness but not a bad read. At least, according the six people who reviewed it anyway. It didn't exactly set the world on fire. Thoughts of yachts, flash cars and a lifelong season ticket for my beloved Birmingham City evaporated in the cold light of the Amazon Sales Rank. But optimism is the name of the game in indie publishing. As my fellow author S.E Rise says you've got to 'piss or get off the pot'. (He didn't actually say those words by the way. It's the title of a great little writing guide authored by the man himself. It's a good read).

So, anyway, as I flounder about in the unforgiving Desert of Indie, I come across that fabled citadel known in hushed tones as 'Booktrope'. There's no guards about, so I shuffle up to the door, Adidas clad feet kicking up tiny dust devils, a harsh wind blowing through what little hair is left on the top of my head. I knock on the giant wooden door fully expecting a weird contingent of mutant Monkey Guards to come gambolling through, ready to kick my sorry scruffy Indie backside into the heat and dust of Desert Indie. To my surprise and sheer delight, it doesn't happen. A hirsute but genial chap called Jesse James smiles, opens his arms, ushers me in and places my fragile creative ego under the care of a blonde pocket rocket of energy known as Maddie Von Stark. It's been a long road but the journey has just begun.

All of the above never really happened by the way. I submitted my manuscript, got accepted and picked up by Forsaken. I was still placed under Maddie’s stewardship, however.

 I haven't looked back since. My experience has been extraordinary, amazing and rewarding and I haven't even released a book yet. I'm no longer floundering around on my own. There's a community and more importantly, a team, behind me. It's a great feeling. Having other people casting an eye over your work leads to insights never before seen - ideas that would have vaporised becoming crystalline and solid and a sense of confidence almost impossible to maintain when you go it alone.

This is just the start of my Forsaken journey. The ‘Tales of Blood and Sulphur: Apocalypse Minor’ is close to release. I can only wonder just how turbo charged this ride is going to become from that point onwards.

 

 

J.G Clay is definitely a Man of Horror. There can be no doubt. Putting aside the reverence he has for the horror greats, such as King, Barker, Herbert, Carpenter, Romero and Argento, there is another fact that defines his claim for the title of the ‘Duke of Spook’. He was born on Halloween night. By a quirk fate, it was also a full moon that night. Co-incidence?

The 41 year old hails from the Midlands in the United Kingdom, is married with one step child and two dogs that bear a strong resemblance to Ewoks. Beyond the page and the written word, he is music mad and can hold down a tune on a bass guitar pretty well. He is an avid reader and also has an enduring love of British sci-fi, from the pages of the ‘2000A.D comic to the televised wanderings of Gallifrey’s most famous physician. Clay is also a long-time fan of the mighty Birmingham City Football Club and endures a lot of flak from his friends for it.

 

You can find J.G. Clay on Facebook, twitter, and his website, JGClay.com

 

 

Guest post: K.C. Harper

K. C. Harper is a Badass Horror writer with Forsaken, the horror imprint of Booktrope. I've connected with her on Facebook and gotten to know this talented author a little bit, and now is your chance to get to know her a little too. Behold and revel in all that is...K.C. Harper -

This poem is part of Whispers, Book 3 in The Lakeshore Evil Series. It gives you a glimpse of Sheriff Artie Donovan's deepest fears after the brutal murder of Deirdre Hallsey. Whispers, Book 3 will be available for purchase this fall. 

Torn

By K.C. Harper

© Copyright 2015 K.C.Harper

The darkness surrounds me, pulls me further down.

I feel myself slipping deeper.

A dark force pulls me to the depths of darkness from where I know I won’t return.

Her voice is now a whisper, a faint cry in the dark.  It was my only hope and now fades like ashes in the wind.  I close my eyes and watch as her soul dances in the embers.  The beating of her heart echoes in my ears.  I watch as she fades in and out.  I reach for her, but it’s too late.

Her eyes that once lit up are now dark and grim.  The strings of her soul are torn wide open like a flesh wound bleeding down on me.  All of her pain courses through me.  Her last breath chokes me as I watch her fade into the darkness forever.

If only I could have done something to save her, even if it was from herself.  I watched as she lay there, holding her cold body in my arms as she left the world.

Her last words ring in my ears.  The name spills from her pale mouth and replays over and over in my dreams.  Like a nightmare with no end in sight.

The shadows in the darkness return.  They lurk, feeding off my fears, my regrets . . . of not saving you.

I hold onto your soul, my hands attached to you like strings to a puppet.  Each one being torn as the darkness consumes me, pulling me further down.

Darkness surrounds me as I let go.

Every piece of you is torn from me as if you were never there.

The darkness fills the empty void you left inside of me.  It consumes, gives me a new purpose. 

Author Bio

K.C. Harper is a best-selling author, mother of four and has a degree in Psychology. She writes Contemporary Romance, Horror Mystery and Thrillers. Her Lakeshore Evil Series is an Amazon best seller in Horror and Suspense. You can find K.C Harper on social media and her books on Amazon and BN.com.

 

 

Links to purchase:

 

The Lakeshore Evil 

http://www.amazon.com/Lakeshore-Evil-K-C-Harper-ebook/dp/B00LDUGI4S/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1&qid=1427480852

Lakeshore Sanitarium 

Amazon 

http://www.amazon.com/Lakeshore-Sanitarium-The-Evil-Book-ebook/dp/B00NQOEVE8/ref=pd_sim_351_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=0F1CQEMCMQ6ZTCG1WB1A

It's love 

Amazon 

http://www.amazon.com/Its-love-K-C-Harper-ebook/dp/B00NYOHSP4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1432161851&sr=1-1&keywords=It%27s+love+by+KC+Harper

Sweet something 

Amazon 

http://www.amazon.com/Sweet-something-Series-Novels-Book-ebook/dp/B00OU6DY76/ref=pd_sim_sbs_351_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=09XRC4Q0DEGRR3Y5HH17

Social media links 

FB 

www.facebook.com/thelakeshoreevil 

Website 

www.kcharper.com 

Twitter 

@AuthorKC_Harper 

Guest post: David Paris Singer Carter

I found the man with a very long name skulking around the Forsaken page on Facebook. He's an interesting guy, as you can tell by his bio. He's also a pretty talented writer, as you'll see by the short below. He's promised to do another guest spot with all the gore attached, at a later date.

 

I had originally intended to write a short story here, but decided instead to recount one of the  strangest and most terrifying experiences in my life.

                Seven years ago, my then best friend Eric and I were tasked with interviewing past students

from the law school we attended about their experiences after university. We were given one of the
old empty storage rooms at the end of a narrow, long hall in the basement of an ancient biology building  on campus. The dingy small room had a mucus-green carpet and was illuminated by a single flickering  bulb hanging from its centre onto the rectangular table and chairs below.
                Eric and I had just finished another lengthy interview and were standing in the hallway thanking the participant for their time. As soon as she’d left, I looked down at my clipboard to see who to expect next, when he said something like, “Um, he’s already here,” in a concerned, surprised tone.
                When I turned, I saw what I guess was a man sitting on one of the three chairs around the table. I’d never seen anyone like him. A shaggy clump of hair sat atop his head and his brown skin, which was so thin and tight it appeared dessicated, was visible through the torn, dirty white shirt he wore.
               His most striking features, though, were his prominent pointed nose and perpetual grimace that stretched all the way back to his ears. His shoulders were slumped forward, his back curved, and his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere on the table.
                Eric and I looked at each other quizzically for a moment. I honestly thought it was a prank
 someone was playing. Just in case, I think, we both went in, closed the door, and sat down opposite the man.
                We welcomed him and proceeded to tell him how lon the interview would last, that he would remain anonymous, etc. Throughout the entire introduction, the man remained exactly as he’d been when I’d first seen him. I noticed then the strange intensity in his eyes, and that he wasn’t blinking.
                Eric had quite a short temper and I could see him becoming increasingly aggravated by the
 man’s unresponsiveness. All of a sudden, he stopped mid-sentence and said, “I’m sorry, but are you
 even listening?” I was feeling pretty awkward by this point. When the man didn’t respond, Eric flew off the handle and started saying that he was wasting our time, that the guy was being pathetic, etc.
                Just as he was getting up, probably to show him out, the man began giggling and muttering
under his breath. I’d known Eric a few years and knew it was never a good idea to laugh at him. “Look,Mr. Nelson – ”  
“Not Nelson. ” The man’s voice was high and nasally, but had a strange threatening tone to it.
“What d’you mean? You’re not Mr. Nelson?” Eric’s body was tense, and I knew he was about to lose it.
               Without a word, the man shifted his piercing gaze on him, his wide grin unmoving.
“Right, you little shit!” Eric had started walking around the table, when the man suddenly began
 jumping up and down in the chair with a crazy look on his face. “Oohoohooo! Ohoohoo! Oohoohooo!”
                That’s when it stopped being funny for me. I already didn’t like him, but now wanted the creep gone as soon as possible.
“What the fuck are you doing?” The look on Eric’s face reflected my own perplexity. I don’t think he
 knew what to make of him so, when instead of threatening the man he walked to the door, I knew he wanted him gone gone as much as I did. Eric reached for the handle, but when he turned it, the door was locked.
                The man became more excitable, banging his hands on the table as he continued to shout
 “Ohoohooo!”
“Why’s the door closed?” I asked him if he’d locked it. “Now why the fuck would I lock it, David?”
                I don’t know how he did it, but in the space of time it takes to blink, the man had appeared by Eric’s side, his face not an inch from his.
“Now we play my game,” the man said right before whispering something in his ear. I couldn’t hear
 what he said, but it caused Eric to become completely immobile and docile, as if hypnotized.
                I stood up, knocking the chair over, and turned with the intention of rushing up to them, not really knowing what I’d do but, no sooner had I done so, did I feel an immense pressure on my chest that caused me to fall hard on my back. Before I knew what happened, I opened my eyes to see the man leaning over me, his grimacing, dessicated face right above mine.
“We’re going to have fun,” he said in a low tone. His hot, humid breath smelled like decay.
                I think I asked him who he was, because the last words I can clearly remember him saying were,“Call me Mr. Cage.”  
Everything I have told you up to this point is as clear in my mind now as it was when it
 happened. What followed, however, is hazy. Broken. No one, including the authorities, has ever
believed me. But it happened.

 

David's Bio:

 "Despite my love of writing, I dislike doing so about myself. So here are the basics:

I was born in Brussels, Belgium. I have lived in The U.K. and in various places in Spain, where I currently reside.

At university, I studied English law and Spanish law. I didn't like it. I, then, studied translation. I didn't like it, either.
Currently, I am an English teacher in the South of Spain.
I have far too many interests, I'm told. A few are basketball, tennis, swimming, playing my old guitar, learning Japanese, painting, reading 
and writing (obviously), cooking...(See? Too many).
Not a day goes by, however, where I don't write something, be it under a palm tree or on a bench at a bus stop somewhere."
You can find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/david.singercarter
And Twitter:  @MrCage1