New Anthology From Cutting Block Press - Butcher Shop Quartet II

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The Breach, by Greggard Pennance

Jared, one of the few survivors from the crash of flight 319, is visited in his dreams by one of the perished passengers. Needing answers, he is drawn to the site of the wreckage -- 140 feet deep in the Atlantic. What Jared finds there is beyond extraordinary, and it sets him on a path to make choices that will determine much more than his own fate.

Road Rash, by Simon Janus

After a botched bank robbery in which the rest of his team is lost, Straley escapes on foot. Toting the loot, he is desperate for a set of wheels. Then his luck seems to turn his way, as he finds the car he needs, but soon he learns that it has come at a terrible price - in acquiring it, he's contracted an aggressive skin rash, and soon it is ravaging his body. When he receives his diagnosis, a terrible curse, he learns that he must use up the last of his loot in attempt to rid himself of this infliction. He must journey into the depths of Central America, where he will find the answer he needs … or doesn't need.

Bodies Raining, by Rick J. Brown

As a young boy, Corey is the only witness to an atmospheric miracle that will signal the beginning of the end of civilization. Years later, after a virulent disease has ravaged the Earth, and with no safe way to dispose of the corpses, Corey must leave his wife to work in space as a 'body dropper'. While human corpses pile up on the surface of the moon, he is sent to the surface to unravel a mystery. There Corey finds that even the most unimaginable of events can be natural, up to and including personal vengeance.

Condemned, Written by Vince Churchill, Story by Ray Brown (R. Lenard Brown)

In a blink the world changes, but Quentin is too busy having illicit sex to notice. It isn't long before things in the Midwestern town of Benson become strange. People are different, neighbors violent. He learns that the Rapture has occurred, and that he was mistakenly left behind. As all Hell breaks loose, Quentin finds himself in the race of his life, and he has one chance to reclaim his salvation. Accompanied by two gun-toting preachers, he must reach the Church of the First God before sunrise, and all that stands in his way is a long night and the enraged souls of the damned.

The Portal (Free Flash Fiction)

The portal shimmered up at him and if he looked hard enough, he could see things. He could see his dead mother, gesturing for him to come to her. Looking harder, he could see his girlfriend, Summer, blowing a kiss.

They drew back from him and he cried for them to stop. If he waited, they'd be gone forever. So he pushed his face through the portal and let his body rest as Summer's face drew close to kiss him. Then he heard the muffled cries of his daughter, Annie, but it was too late.

The child could do nothing but stand there, sobbing, as her father sat on the stool, his head resting in the sink full of water.

[Published in Black Box (C) 2008 by CD Allen]

Tired. Bubbling.

Argh. Tired. Saw Jen for like two minutes after I got off work as she's doing a sleep over with a RegIV resident tonight. Otherwise I haven't seen her all day. I think I'm ready to sit down and hammer out a new novel. It's bubbling. I'm hoping for some froth. James Devon, my occult detective, is itching for something to do. I think it will be about the Rectors again (see The Rector House in Dark Distortions volume I for more details). I very much a fan of Gothic horror--not subculture gothic, but The Castle of Ontario and The Monk sort of Gothic. The Rector House was my first attempt at working in this sub-genre and the rave reviews about it made me think that that's where I need to be working right now.

Wherein Time Refuses Elasticity

Well, my new official full-time job is as a youth counselor at Springfield Academy in Springfield, South Dakota. So far it's a good job and it's great working with the kids. I usually run the Voyager group (as they call them), which are ages 14 & 15.

Jennifer and I have just sent out our invites. Our wedding is closer (September 12th), so every spare moment is spent getting things done for that special day. Jennifer is glowing and I'm excited, too.

My writing has suffered a lot from all this work. Hopefully I'll be able to pick it up after the honeymoon. There has to be stories hiding in my head somewhere...

Chickenpox Thrice?!?

What a wonderful week for me.

First, we lose Jennifer's grandmother. Then I notice that my sudden outbreak of what I thought was zits (caused by all the stress I've been having lately) isn't just on my chest and underarms, but ALL OVER MY BODY. Jennifer noticed it first after I took off my shirt. She said, "Oh my God, Charles, it's all over your back!" I looked at a full length mirror, and see that it has spread from my chest and underarms, all the way down my sides, back and legs. It's all over my arms, too.

"Did you ever have the chickenpox?" Jennifer says.

"Yeah. Twice!" I say, remembering them distinctively from when I was a child. "I thought having them twice was super-rare, so this can't be chickenpox. It can't be."

Jennifer looks at the oldest welts, saying, "Charles. These are scabbed over. This is chickenpox."

I'm dumbfounded. "No," I say, "Who has ever had them three times? Besides, I'm a little exhausted, but otherwise I feel pretty good. Doesn't the chickenpox come with fever and all that?"

Jennifer looks it up online and points out that, indeed, I have chickenpox. Besides, I've been exhausted for a few days now and that night I get a pretty high fever. I throw up and I shake, get all clammy. The next day I'm not moving much and I can't move too far away from the bathroom. Yep, chickenpox, by God. Thrice.

Today: I'm feeling a little better. But I'm due Monday at the photography studio to take pictures of a family. Now I have to cancel. It says that your infectious from 10 to 20 days, until every welt has scabbed over.

Palm on cheek, I roll my eyes and sip my chicken soup.

Winter: The Season of Cancer, Death & Diesel Trucks

Last May I was able to meet an old woman who'd just got out of chemotherapy, who was tired of the radiation and was just growing back her dark hair. She was a kind woman, my fiancé's grandmother, in point of fact. While old, she still walked, talked kindly and was always happy to talk about her life, her children and grandchildren. She still worked in her garden, did chores, the laundry and dishes, and even looked after a guy who, to me, seemed a little more than of under average intelligence, who couldn't hold down a job or even take care of himself, a guy with one glass eye and told rather silly, childish jokes that maybe only kids would find funny.

Anyway, this story isn't about him. It is about this old woman, who my fiancé loved, and who wasn't around too much longer for me to really get to know her. She worked hard and was dying of cancer—it was eating away at her as I looked upon her, as my fiancé visited with her. There wasn't anything anybody could do about it and I think it made their family feel sort of useless when it came to her health. The woman wasn't supposed to smoke, but somehow she got them anyway. If she would have quit, she would have still died. Maybe it'd take longer, but, eventually, it would have taken her.

Not too long ago, last week in fact, she was smoking a cigarette while on oxygen. Of course, you're not supposed to smoke around those machines and there's a good reason for it. My fiancé's grandmother became an example of it: she burnt her face and inhaled some of the fire when the tank exploded. We received a call only a few hours after it happened and when we were able, we went to the hospital in Yankton, South Dakota. By this time she was taken to her own room, and was conscious. We saw the burns and the inflammations, the tubes and machines connected to her, and we visited. My fiancé, understandably, was upset. Her grandmother was medicated and she wasn't finishing complete thoughts, or inquired about things that wouldn't make sense to anyone. She even asked her great-granddaughter why she didn't have her own cup of coffee.

But while she was out of it, there's something vital in her. For some reason there was a part of me that thought she still had many years in her left. This, of course, was a false assumption. You had to see behind the life that was still there to see the cancer, and, frankly, there was a part of me that didn't want to, didn't want to even acknowledge it being there at all.

Eventually, she made it home, bed-ridden. I never saw her on her feet again. Family members were considering hospices. Family some distance away started showing up to see her. Jennifer and I visited her on the last night she'd be alive. They'd rolled a bed out for her, a breathing machine was there, its tubes in her nose and her head was fallen back on the pillow as she gasped deep breaths of air. My fiancé, as strong of a woman that I've ever seen, takes a look, but finds herself unable to really look for long at what state her grandmother was currently in. I found it difficult myself, but I have to force myself away from it. There's an odd otherness I feel in such macabre moments, something that fascinates me and perplexes me. I don't want to look away because I guess there's a part of me that needs to see what happens when someone is dying. I think it's the same reason why I didn't want to see the cancer in her, the withering death eating her vitality away.

We talk for awhile. We leave. The next morning, we wake and there's already people calling us. My fiancé's grandmother passed away during the middle of the night. And I have to confront the fact that I was wrong, that she was dying, and it had happened. I wasn't surprised, really; I just had a reckoning with myself on the subject of life vs. death (is it really “life VS. death,” or “life IS death?”). I have to realize that yes, I lied to myself, knowing how fragile the vital is in all of us, how easy it is to go from animate to never-ending inanimation.

Her funeral was yesterday. There was a big blizzard, a complete white out and we traveled home. We got stuck for a couple hours behind a car accident. A diesel truck has smashed into a pick up. I'm not sure if anyone is hurt. After a couple of hours of not moving, kids complaining, calling people on my cell phone to pass time, we finally get moving again. Everyone is moving just under ten miles an hour. Another diesel truck comes crashing through the white out, going way too fast.

It makes you wonder. How much control do we have over our living and dying? How much control do we grant those around us?