My first novel, now pushing 20 years old. Postmodern fantasy epic, in which chunks of entirely different fictions, including hardboiled detective stories, comic-strip narratives, recipes, encyclopedia entries, and nonsensical literary criticism come together to form a deranged fantasy universe. Soldiers, uncles, moon-men, one-legged giraffes, soft-boiled detectives, hake of inferior spawn, and the end of the world conspire to prevent Kakoskolos, the saucer-boy, from restoring Xorp to the world.
Available on Amazon or wherever forgotten nonsense is left to gather dust.
Loompaland, my newest novel. Non-published in July 2016. I hope you like your chocolate dark. The Oompa-Loompas have a lot to say about capitalism, tech tycoons, and tapioactive waste. We’re over quota on Vajazzle Paps, and all out of Fug Blusters, Gristle Twists, and Raspberry Fear.
Available now on Amazon or wherever obscure works are peddled.
Recent short stories
Last Day of the Universe (Daily Science Fiction, September 2016)
The Rude Mechanicals Vs. the Anti-Copernican Platypus (Space Squid, July 2016)
The Persistence of Tim (Sci Phi Journal, March 2016)
Face Time (Flash Fiction Online, February 2015)
The Cratch, Thy Keeper (Flash Fiction Online, January 2015)
I feel like I’ve been too busy to get anything done, but actually there are quite a few works about to debut:
- New stories forthcoming in Perihelion and Flash Fiction Online.
- Book of creepy prose poems coming in December from White Knuckle Press.
- HOW THE GLURK STOLE XMAS — the BEEFUS Xmas Special 2016 will be broadcast LIVE on WORT 89.9 FM, Madison WI. at 8 PM Thursday December 15th. Tune in as we utterly ruin Dr. Seuss with an original script, 10 brand-new original songs, voice acting, sound FX and more.
Also I’m working on too many novels at once (two is one too many).
The dead don’t return on Halloween. The dead have never left.
Do not think of the dead as inhabiting some dim afterworld.
We living beings are the outliers. We are a tiny minority. The dead outnumber us by billions. It is we who dwell in a dim antechamber to nonexistence. We are the ones temporarily stuck in a pocket universe of sentience.
The dead aren’t aware of us. We think they are but they’re not. We so desperately want them to acknowledge us. I am a writer, just like Shakespeare! I am a singer just like John Lennon! I am a revolutionary like Marx, a philosopher like Plato.
Who are you, again? The dead know you not. They don’t care what you do.
Yet we, the fleshy ghosts, we rattle our chains and howl, and hope for a response. We haunt the dead, or we attempt to. And the wind blows over the graves, and no answer ever comes out of them.
They aren’t scared of us one bit.
I’ve become a minimalist. I guess it’s a result of publishing mainly short-short fiction. In an age of multi-part million-word Game of Throats or whatever, my preference is for short. Short, with jokes.
Loompaland is only about 30,000 words. My new novel, a work of hard (or shall I say rubbery) science fiction, will be about the same.
And look, this post is over already!
LaShondra’s parents were gone and they weren’t coming back and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.
That’s what the kind woman at the Bureau Of Missing Moms, Disappeared Dads And Sundry Unfindable Uncles told LaShondra. And this woman had all the forms to prove it. She showed the forms to LaShondra. A Certificate Of Non-present Parents. A Confirmation of Mysteriously Missing Mother And Verifiably Vanished Father. A shiny brochure titled “Welcome to Orphanhood.”
What had happened…?