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Lonely Are the Dead Excerpt!

What follows is the first chapter of my upcoming novel “Lonely Are the Dead”. This is as different from anything else I’ve written as you could possibly get. The violence is mild, the vocabualry clean-well mostly clean-and far more a quiet form of horror. Keep in mind, this is from a second draft, and may change a little or lot when finally released later this year, but it will give you a good idea of the tone of the new work. I hope you enjoy it, and if you have any comments please feel free to leave them.  As per usual, this work is copyrighted by myself, and no excerpts are allowed without my concent. 

 

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My name is Eryle Harrigan, poet, madman, and a traveler of worlds. On October 31st  1899 I vanished from my cell at Bellevue Hospital in New York for the first of a multitude of times. This disappearance was as much a mystery to me at the time, as it was the rest of the world. When I reappeared that first time, I was in a small, weed ridden graveyard some miles away. I have no memory of how I got there, but I was without my clothing, shivering and confused. The caretaker, whose name I do not remember, spotted me huddled in the archway of a crumbling mausoleum. I can still hear the faint echo of his rough hewn voice, chipped away with too many cigarettes and gallons of cheap alcohol. In the darkness I could see the lantern heading closer to me, the flame whipping and threatening extinction with each hurried step he took.

I didn’t move, more from modesty than anything else. I waited until he was close enough for me to shield my eyes from the small but powerful glow of the metal contained light. He held it up in his left hand, a pistol pointed towards me in his right. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”  I tried to answer but couldn’t find my voice. More accurately it was as if I had forgotten how to speak. I certainly couldn’t remember my name, of that I am certain. “I asked you a question!”

I gave a small shrug and looked up, still unable to say anything. Though I had no feeling of sadness, I could sense a trail of tears running down my cheeks, pocketing little specks of the salty water in the corners of my closed mouth. “I’ll not ask you again.” The caretaker’s voice was low, threaded with menace.

Without knowing I was about to do so, I said, “Your accent…from Ireland?” This seemed to take him by surprise, and I couldn’t think to blame him. The last thing one would expect to hear when confronting an unclothed man crouching in a cemetery was a discussion of accents.  I could see his features relax a bit. The gun wielding hand lowered just a bit, and he nodded. “My Mother’s from Dublin. We emigrated ten years hence to New Foundland, then when my Father passed we moved here.”

I had no idea if what I had said was true, at least not then, but it took the caretaker further aback. “From Cork myself, just been here the past year and a few months give or take.” With that, he put the pistol in his pocket, and moved a bit closer. “Been drinking?”

I shook my head, and could feel shoulder length hair dance on the skin on my face. It felt brittle as the working end of a straw broom and smelled about the same. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Once more I shook my head and added a “No, I’m not,” as well. The man sighed and scratched his temple, moving his cap up enough to show that whatever hair he may have had had taken upon itself to leave. “Well what the hell are you doing here, and without your damn clothes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t know”

“What are you, mad?”

“I may well be.”

“Well you can’t stay here and freeze to death.” He set the lamp down, took his coat off, handed it to me and turned around. “Put that on and follow me, I’ve no interest in taking a gander at your manhood.”

That made me smile; I stood, put on the heavy coat lined with lamb’s wool , and walked briskly behind him across the length of the graveyard until we reached a wooden shack that seemed no bigger than an outhouse. He pulled a key from around his neck and used it to release a padlock on the door. I was ushered inside and was able to make out a table and two chairs. There was a book, some papers, as well as a plate with a half eaten chicken leg on the desk. A mug, half empty of a pungent mead scented liquid was to the left of the plate. “Sit,” he said.

I obeyed and sat on one of the rickety chairs which rocked a bit due to a weak leg. The custodian sat in the other chair, in front of the meal I obviously interrupted, reached down and brought up a bottle. He turned and grabbed another mug that had been sitting on a shelf, poured some liquor into the pewter mug and handed it to me. “This will help you warm up.”

I took a sip, grimaced, and coughed at the bitterness. “How did you know I was there?” I asked.

“I didn’t. I saw a flash of light and heard a loud noise. Went to see what it was and found you.”  He stared at me, even going so far as to lean in close enough I could smell his fetid breath. “You’re not the Devil are you?”

“If I were, I’d have dressed warmer,” I answered.  Against my better judgment I took another sip, managed not to cough, but still grimaced, and set the mug down on the table.

“Do you remember anything?”

I closed my eyes. I furrowed my brow with deep thought but for the life of me remembered nothing. It was a blank slate. Nothing but emptiness…no, not emptiness, but an absence of anything. Emptiness would have entailed that my mind was full at some point.  “No. No, I don’t.” Another slight trickle of tears.

“Here now, not to worry, we’ll get this all sorted. Perhaps you were hit on the head in a robbery and your clothes taken.” He said this with such conviction and surety I almost believed him.

I knew better though. I wasn’t sure why, simply that I knew he was wrong. It was something much darker and malevolent.

There was a period of silence, and I could see the wheels turning in the keeper’s head. He wanted to do something. To help, I surmised, but neither of us knew what form that would take. “I need to take a walk around the grounds. You should probably stay here, will you be okay?”

“I believe so.”

“I’d say t’hell with it, but with it being Halloween and kids what they are…” his voice trailed off. The apologetic inflection of his words unmistakable. I also think he really wanted to be away from me as well. My appearance, lack of memory and inability to provide him any information had started to fill him with a slowly dawning dread. I could see the sweat beading on his upper lip. The slight shake to his hand as he lit a spare lantern to leave with me. The way he carefully avoided touching even by accident was as subtle as thunderstorm.  “Shouldn’t be more than half of an hour,” he said, before opening the door to the outside world. Once I was shut in I heard the snap of the padlock, letting me know I wasn’t going anywhere even if I wanted to.

I turned the screw on the lantern to enlarge the flame a bit and looked at the book on the table. I reached out and pulled it across the table closer to me and looked at the cover. The dark green cloth felt warm to the touch. The gold colored imprinting on it was too faded to read, but I didn’t need to.

I knew the book was mine. I don’t mean to imply I owned the book, I mean to say, I had written the book. I traced my finger along the spine, and the lettering lit with a deep magma color. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes. There was a smell of smoke, but not from the lantern. This was something deeper, and far earthier than an oil soaked wick could ever hope to produce.  I place my hand palm down on the cover, and even with my eyes closed could sense the room lighting up. I pressed my hand down, feeling a surge of something electrical start to course through my body. I felt aroused, though not in a carnal nature.

I felt alive in a way I’ve never felt before or since. Opening my eyes, I looked down, the book’s cover flying open, throwing my hand off it violently, the way an unwilling wild horse will buck a rider off. The pages began to flip as if a massive wind were ripping through them. Back and forth they went, an unseen hand desperately trying to find something contained within. I placed both a hand on each side of the book, feeling a magnetic pull drawing me to the pages. I tried to resist and the more I did, the stronger it got. My head moved closer, visions of things I couldn’t begin to comprehend, swam in my consciousness. I could smell the nearby graves. Worse, I could smell the inhabitants of those graves. Some nothing but bones and rags, others recently departed and smelling of rotting flesh. A scream tried to escape my throat, but was denied. The tip of my nose was now in the crease of the book, pages on each side slapping me on each cheek, leaving superficial cuts. As blood from the wounds trickled down and dripped onto the tome, the pull became impossible to resist. The room around me disappeared, as did the book. There was nothing but the sensation of free falling and the horror of knowing I would never land.

 

A Bittersweet Moment

Today was a day of bittersweet moments.  The official cover for Fossil Lake, which includes my story, “The Day Lloyd Campbell’s Mama Came to Town”, was released. Take a gander below for a look:

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I also found out that the publisher of Fossil Lake, Janrae Frank passed away.

It’s hard to believe she’s gone to the land of the eternal, and no doubt, scribbling away at her next novel.  Not even death can slow her pen dipped in equal parts acid and love.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have known Janrae for six years or so. When I started writing again, she was one of the first people I met online, and she struck a very imposing figure. Those who know me well, know that my first published piece was a poem entitled, “Forgotten Son”, from the now out of print poetry anthology,  “Death In Common”.  And though that tomes final resting place was with another publisher, I learned a lot from her and the experience. Some good, and some…not so good. We had a falling out which instigated a couple of years of silence between us. However, I always read her comments on other blogs and forums, and never really lost my respect for her as a person and as a writer. Anything positive I was able to do with Bandersnatch Books was due to her and a couple of others. Its failings were all my own, and my unwillingness to heed her advice.

I am glad to say that over the past few months we were able to mend fences, and became friends again. I’m not always easy to get along with, yet Janrae, to her credit, never let me get in the way of friendship. I could go on, but would rather direct you to a post written by her daughter and daughter in-law, which says far more eloquently, everything you could want to know about this larger than life woman. http://www.daverana.com/blog/2014-01-13/janrae-frank

You’ll be missed ole Cuss, but you’ll never be forgotten.

 

“Fossil Lake” will be released on 1/15/2014

After a lovely two week respite from the mangy, flea infested Nikita, our little troll has come back with a 19 page (!) .pdf file explaining  why his collection of whining and egomania isn’t libelous.  While I never link to his silliness, I will in this case, as it’s breathtaking in its hypocrisy, delusions, and typical lack of coherence. http://unclefossil.files.wordpress.com/2013/10/in-defense-of-confessional.pdf

Want to save time and brain cells? Mike Brendan did a fantastic job of slaying the troll. What follows is posted with his permission and taken from the comments on the rectal fissure’s blog.

Nicky, this 19-page vomit continues to prove that you are incompetent as a writer. You’d have to work hard for years to become a tenth of a peer to anyone else, and since you don’t know how to actually work…

The HWA didn’t commit libel when they called you a stalker. You used their membership database to harass and bully people who criticized your work.

“…publication is a democracy for the people by the people.” Wrong again. And a democracy is “by the people, for the people,” not the way you said it.

“…the deed of posting every link to every story in the table of contents of my first
anthology…” That’s not illegal or piracy and you damn well know it Nicky.

“– I consider myself an average Joe…” Wrong again, Nick. You are well below average in every respect.

“…the characters in the story are in a way like the people I know in real life.” And given that they’re naught more than cardboard cut-outs with no personality, it just goes to show how you regard people in general.

“…The Pacione Collective actually put the hammer on her…” Your “Collective” consists of you and your imaginary allies. And, no, you haven’t put the hammer on anyone. In fact, your hateful actions actually help their sales.

“…then make fun of the people who actually enjoy it…” Stop deflecting, Nicky. These comments are directed at you and you alone. Take your criticism like a man, not a man-child.

“…hiding behind the mask of being a Christian to tear someone down…” You’ve directed this sentiment at me many times in the past. What’s the matter, too much a coward to call me out by name?

“The reason I was thrown off LiveJournal.com in 2003″ — is because you made many TOS violations.

“I did not lie about certain blurbs…” Yes, you did. Joe Lansdale refuted you on that one, and his integrity far outweighs yours.

“I nearly went looking for him and so I could toss the amoral faggot over the North Avenue Bridge.” I doubt you could lift a bag of dog food without a struggle…

“… I did turnabout and suggested he got excited touching…” That’s neither turnabout or an elaborate “fuck you.” THAT, is libel, plain and simple.

“If I was a racist, I wouldn’t have six authors of color…” That defense never works, especially when called one person’s kid a mongrel and another person a “wetback.”

“…I want to up and beat the shit out of them…” but you never do anything to “males” because you’re a flaccid coward who couldn’t pound cookie dough. Nicky. Yet you’ll harass women who say the same things about you constantly. Typical sexist bullying behavior.

“Well I am extremely cultured as a doctor of internal medication…” He’s probably referring to whatever is brewing in that toxic waste dump you call a mouth, as you never practice hygiene. You have no sense of artistic aesthetic at all. No culture either…

“…I need to be locked away under doctor’s care, heavily medicated and decades of therapy….” You really do, ya know.

“…those devotees you have are going to abandon you.” Not because of anything you wrote, most likely because they won’t read it.

“…refuse to be denied my proper due…” You have to earn it Nicky. You’ve yeot put in the work.

“Well to be polite here…” You don’t know how to be polite.

“The response to CONFESSIONAL, as some of you called it “libel,”” — And it is, in every. Legal. Sense of the word.

“As in I invoked a Holy War…” You have to be pious and holy to invoke that. You are neither. Nor are you a leader to be able to do such.

“…is like a 40 year old picking on a 16 year old on a social networking site.” You fail to understand perspective and age ratios. You’re in your thirties now. Calling you a liar and a lousy writer is nothing like bullying a child. Grow up.

“…my intelligence is in full display here –” this is true. You are very much acting like a person with the 79 IQ you once bragged about.

” I will be tempted to put your e-mail address on she-male hook-up sites being your future wife will be a fucking lady-boy.” You make these threats and never follow through on them. Of course most of these sorts of adult sites send confirmation emails to make sure no fraud is being committed, so double fail on you Nicky.

“As I am an Edgar Allan Poe vein author…” No. You’re not.

“I don’t like replying in comments on my blog because I like to put a lot thought into
what I am going go say…” Since when? You just delete the comments you don’t like and spew drivel at will. Stop lying, Nicky.

“…formality is too damn stuffy and makes me uncomfortable.” No, you just don’t have manners.

“Consider this as a warning – if you get this book pulled, there will be a huge backlash upon the part of groups who are diagnosis with a mental illness or have an intellectual disability as you are attacking these groups with threatening to have the book pulled.” There will be no such backlash. Getting your so-called “book” yanked for libel only reflects on you. Again you try and fail to deflect.

“… I will take this story to the press.” Another empty threat. Not like they’ll do anything with it.

“I am selective who I do an interview with.” Translation: “WAAAAH! No one interviews me.”

“Did I piss you off here? ” No.

“– it would be a perfect day for a hanging, and you are going to be on the receiving end of the gallows.” Another threat of violence, Nicky?

“I am the living breathing entity of what inspires a bad boy” No, you’re just a filthy man-child.

“…well I am detailed when it comes to writing a brawl…” Uh… no you’re not. You couldn’t write a fight scene to save your life.

“Calling a published author a plagiarist is just like calling an African-American the n-word.” Wrong. Again.

“…you fucking traitor as you peed on the First Amendment. ” You know nothing about the First Amendment. Or the Bible.

“I don’t threaten to go after the houses of your families…” You threatened to come to my house and cut off my hands once. I sent a copy of the email to St. Joe’s…

“picture palace” Who even uses this phrase any more???

“So I refute the bastards who say, “I can’t edit.” ” They’re right.

“So those of you who are saying I have no creativity –” are spot on.

“… , you lost the right to be called an adult.” You’ve yet to act like one yourself…

“He goes and bit-torrents child pornography.” More libel!

” I am published and been published respectively…” Never professionally, though.

“… I am calling that going old school.” Because you to learn anything new.

“…like what people did with Napster in 2001-2002 where they got ill-gotten copies of Metallica’s I Disappear.” Which is well after the song got released, so the demo tape analogy fails.

“Writing science fiction, for me doing it – I still consider it a parlor trick.” As someone with an actual education in writing SF, I can say you know NOTHING about working in that genre.

“I actually learned how to do this from reading a martial arts magazine – reading actually taught me how to fight” As someone with an actual black belt in Karate, I can say you know NOTHING about martial arts. Go to a dojo, don a white belt and put sweat on the floor for a few years before calling yourself an expert. (At least I know that as Shodan, my studies in karate are just beginning).

“Instead of pounding someone, as I am older – I use traits of an investigative journalist to fight back.” Meaning you’re too much a coward to face anyone in combat.

“My practice of not infringing on someone’s written content or stealing someone’s artwork” — is bullshit considering you lifted a photo from National Geographic and got busted for it.

“I like to play the role where I have the voice of reason.” That has yet to happen. You wouldn’t know reason if it fell on your face and wriggled.

“If those who got an ill-gotten copy of this…” How is it ill gotten if you made it this 19-page spew available in public for free?

“Intellectual theft and piracy can sometimes be grounds for a Jihad.” Wrong again. They are legal issues, not religious. But then again, you don’t even understand the religion you claim to follow.

“…I am not going to repeat myself…” You do that all the time, especially in this doc.

“Still think I am a fucking imbecile now?” Yes. You prove it every time you post…

“…I just took you out with the trash without even taking a physical swing at you.” No, you only think you did.

“…you are entitled to my viewpoint,” Wrong again. *I* am entitled to *my* viewpoint. *You* are entitled to *your* viewpoint.

Like I said. This is proof that you no writer, nor a peer.

Well done, Mike! And thank you for saving me from the nausea!

Wilf Nelson: New Author To Watch For

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One of the reasons I like Google+ so much is being able to discover new authors, talk to them and have a level of interaction that I don’t get from Facebook or twitter (and endless self promo spamming doesn’t count as an interaction). Wilf Nelson is one such author. I was very impressed with his intelligence, and love for writing, and when I learned he had a book coming out, I wanted to take an opportunity to interview him. What follows was conducted via email over hte past couple of days,

 Tell us about yourself

I am a psychology student at the university of Birmingham My scientific, logical passion is psychology and researching the mind; my creative passion is writing novels, making stories people enjoy and figuring out new ways to tell stories or themes. I love films and video games as well as books because they offer a more visual and sometimes more interactive art for people. When it comes to books I love the old Victorian science fiction as well as Fitzgerald and Ian McEwan to name a few.
 What can you tell us about your novel, 3 days to Earth?
It is a bit of a satire of how paranoid science fiction and crime novels can be. The blurb is the best way to get a quick view of the book, not to mention the 10% freeavailable on the Kindle store.

“3 days on Earth looks at a world we all know, a post apocalyptic disaster with the world scarred, the population crippled and aliens making contact. But it is not the end, the aliens called the Helpers rebuild the world for us and let us live in a beautiful world of tomorrow capable of supporting the millions of those blind after the radiation bloom from Earth’s destruction.

The story follows Mark Trayler, a detective versed in burglaries and household arguments, now having to solve the first murder in twenty years. With the world watching him for the answers Mark becomes one of the most important figures in the world

What drew you to science fiction as opposed to other genres?

My stepfather when I was young was the only one up as early as me on the weekends. He would watch doctor who omnibus as well as old or cult science fiction films. Once i was a bit older i began to read H.G. Wells, H. Beam Piper, Harry Harrison, Edgar Rice Burroughs. These authors showed me the future and what we were heading towards, but also how to solve the problems and if it is humanity’s nature. So when i found myself wanting to write about people, the fear of aliens, the fear of the apocalypse it felt like a natural choice.

Who are some of your favourite writers?

I guess I’ve mostly answered this but H.G. Wells, Ian McEwan, Fitzgerald. These writers create very fun, very clever novels where you have to pick apart the narrator not just the plot. Also they write (spare Ian McEwan) very short novels most of the time that I can read on the weekends between finishing one book I’m writing and starting another.

What do you hope to readers will take away from 3 days on Earth?

That literature doesn’t have to be dark to be interesting, that the villain doesn’t have to enjoy or even want to do what they are doing and really just to enjoy the nice parts of the books as they make you smile while the dark parts only make you sad in the end.

 What are you currently working on?

My new book doesn’t have a name right now. It is about an ‘Oxfam’ like company in the future where instead of going to countries in distress they go to times of distress. It is set in the Black Death where they are handing out painkillers and muscle relaxants secretively to help. It is not done for profit nor did the company cause the Black Death as friends and family have guessed; just people trying to help others. There is more but for now that is all i want to say.

Is 3 Days On Earth a stand alone novel, or the beginning of a series? Will it be ebook only or are there plans foe a paperback copy?
3 days on earth is not a stand alone book. It’s sequel is the Clockwork Men that will be out this winter
As for the paperback both 3 days on earth and clockwork men will have a paperback version on amazon by the end of the year. If you cannot get the book on kindle it will be on other ebook formats within a fortnight.

 Where can readers pick up your book?

Right now it is available on a kindle or kindle ready devices such as iOS (apple products) and Android devices.

U.S. Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/3-Days-Earth-Ambassador-ebook/dp/B00FC6V498/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1380077983&sr=8-1&keywords=wilf+nelson

UK Amazon

http://www.amazon.co.uk/3-Days-Earth-Ambassador-ebook/dp/B00FC6V498/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1379794199&sr=1-1&keywords=3+days+on+earth

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In his latest whinefest, attention whoring, incoherent rambling, Nickistiltskin regales us with his latest bad idea: his new full length non fiction piece (of tripe).

Two artists came forward to wanting to illustrate the book,

I’m not sure wanting to cover it in graffiti rife with penises is the same thing, but hey, it’s his delusion.

 I will be doing some of the illustration duties.

Yes, because his artwork is so much better than his writing. This is much like saying dog poop is better than cat poop.

The background of the body of the book is my illustration from 2000.

So he won’t even being doing anything new, but recycling past bad work. At least when the Fremen in Dune recycled their own urine it was useful.

 and taking pictures that were taken by the ex-room mate of me and pictures that were taken as I was going out to Scott Davidson’s birthday bash in 2011 as C. Pacione took the picture of me in the full denim and a leather blazer that my cousin loaned me as I was staying with them in their Ravenswood condo.

So he’s either confused about what taking pictures means, or he’s taking pictures of other pictures. In either event, nothing scream bad ass horror author like a blazer in a condo. totally goth!

 I am looking for artwork that is a balance between Tourniquet and Cradle of Filth with the dark imagery of their music and lyrics portray.

So he wants illustrators to rip off the work of other people? Yeah, that will go down well.

This is not going to be an easy project to pull off

The only thing he can pull off is…nah, that’s too easy.

I am going to introduce my name logo for this book in this post here so you get to see the ominous nature of the logo for the book.

The fact he’s writing anything is ominous enough, but want to guess what isn’t in the post like he said?

 I am doing everything via HTML here.

Geocities graphics coming right up!

The hard part is getting all the artists in tune with what I am trying to accomplish with this masterpiece.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!!!!! Masterpiece!! Wait, I need to catch my breath! He can’t even get in tune with being coherent, much less get an artist worth a lick of salt to understand his utter ineptness.

 The full length ties together Collectives, Collected, An Eye In Shadows, and Dirty Black Winter — then the anthologies will be tied together.

Oh you naughty devil, always thinking of bondage. I imagine them bound together in a sleepsack that  only shows stains under blacklight.

 It is the Nickolaus Pacione companion as written by Nickolaus Pacione himself.

lolwut? Lloyd too busy to put it together?

 As for Melany, you know nothing about my friends in Chicago.

Nicky, we all know your friends in Chicago: they consist of your left and right hand.

Branching Out

It’s not that I don’t love you all, because I do,  but I’ve been doing some posts on another blog.  In an effort to branch out a bit, I’m submitting posts over to talk backer.com. I’ll be posting about the site in a day or two, but in the meantime I have 3 articles you can check out over here.

http://talkbacker.com/author/scottcolbert

The first sale I ever made was a poem for the anthology DEATH IN COMMON.  While the antho is no longer in print, my poem is available in my sampler DETRITUS. It was probably the hardest I’d ever worked on anything in my life. There were probably 20 drafts and half as many versions.  The editor (and a friend) Rich Ristow was incredibly helpful and patient, making my contribution FORGOTTEN SON something I take much pride in.

Nikita also wrote a poem. While it’s not as bad as some other work I’ve reviewed…oh who am I kidding, it’s shit. The piss poor writing aside, it also details his feelings about 9/11. As the anniversary draws closer, I thought it appropriate to critique: THE SEASONS OF BLACK SEPTEMBER. A big thank you to Lewis for pointing this out to me.

Note: All misspellings and double commas (!) are from Nicky. 

Prologe: Reminders of Forever

no more
one more
emptiness
that I cannot ever tell,,
no more
one more

No more, yes! One more? Dammit. For someone who frequently uses expressions like I cannot ever tell, you never seem to stop babbling.

no more
one more
one more horror in the sleep
no more
one more

Patterns I am sensing. Talent, I am not.

years to come – cemetery graves,

As opposed to say,  the bakery graves.

I watch the towers fall
I watch the many die
no more, one more
one more mourning

I’m going to guess he had a rainman like obsession with one more.  Nothing wrong with repetition if it serves a point. If it’s the only words you know however…

I. Clay and Dust

I am one — yet no one, 

Can’t argue with that.

when angels cry their blood,,
only then we begin — crucified,,
impaled by our thoughts — slaved,
lead into salvations — enslaved,,

I’m not sure he knows the difference between crucifixion and impalement.  I’d settle for either rather than have him go on. And yet he does, trooper of turds that he is.

dying — this is my suffication,
horror — flames melting my flesh,,
decay — blackness of hell around me,,,

Not sure what suffication is, but it can’t be any worse than an eternity of having this read to me over and over.

melting flesh — flowing blood, clay and dust,,
full blood moon — raising brighter in black,,

Melting brain overflowing with illiterate scibblings.  full stomach about to raise and splatter.

II. Ashes and Blood Flow

when we allow all the blood flow,,
the question without the reason,, 

Blood flows, that’s what blood does (along with other amazing things but I won’t bore you with my lack of scientific tidbits), but what is with these double and triple commas? No doubt he’ll have some excuse though it still boils down to lack of knowledge of and talent.

death in the end is only the beginning,,
take the tour of hell my friend — here it is

Could have told me that in the beginning and saved me from reading this. Fucker.

III. Untold Omen

dying tomorrows, lost my sorrow,,
of what hope is sinking forever,, 

My hope of you making sense sank long ago. I know the feeling.

where our truth turned into the lie,,

Or in your case where the lie turned into a greater lie.

IV. Seasons of Rust

as it comes where I walk alone, 

I could say something really disgusting about this, but then I’d never sleep again. Suffice to say everything he does is alone.

fires — were we have no more control,,,
time — as it ticks slowly down into night,,,
horrors — as they cannot be defined,,,

Crap, we’re back to the undefined again. Though if a word could ever describe this work, undefined is as good as any.

V. Stygian Skies

do we see inside our own demise
gathering in the travels to stygian 

Umm, yeah, I got nothing for this bit of nonsense.

as it remains the memories of the day of Black September,,,

The best I can suggest is remember those who lost their lives, but forget this turgid, incomprehensible, waste of time. It does far more of a disservice than anything else in recent memory.

download

First, you start by posting a self pic giving the camera your stubby middle finger. Follow this up by making a face as if you just pooped your pants. Third, make sure it’s so low res that it appears blurry and blotchy (though in this case, it’s an improvement). Since he’ll scream if I use the picture here, go take a quick look. http://unclefossil.wordpress.com/ Note: I am not responsible for any ill effects you may succumb to by viewing said photo. Proceed at your own risk! 

Once that’s done, refer people to wikipedia because you’re too incompetent to say what you want. Assure potential submissions that it will take 5 editors to make it coherent, then confuse them by calling yourself an executive producer.

Also, make sure you let everyone know your crap will be the lead story, no matter how much better other stories may be (let’s face it, anything will be better than his).

Refer people to a social network to get ideas for characters. Since Nicky has no clue how to create a character, he thinks everyone is as ignorant as himself.

Finally, pimp your own work in a lame attempt to make sales.

Do all that, and you can be as successful as Lake Fossil Press!

Leave Ablert Alone!

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Yes, the spelling on Albert was intentional, as that’s how Nikita once spelled his own middle name on one of his poorly formatted, unreadable pile of printing he calls a book.

I got an email from a friend, a non writer , I might add, asking why it is I keep picking on Pacione.  “He’s obviously unstable and mentally unbalanced, it’s a little sad.”

To this I respond: Yes, it is a little sad. However, any sympathy I may have ever felt for him, evaporated when he continually spews his hate. There is a big difference between being mentally ill and a raging asshole. There’s a difference between being someone who needs help and someone who not only doesn’t want it, but thinks you’re persecuting him for offering any assistance. I will always sympathize with someone who has a mental illness, but not with someone who uses that as an excuse to behave the way he does. When he attacks people, calls them names, threatens them-that’s not mental illness. That’s assholism.

In 1993 I was diagnosed with Major Depression Recurrent.  I was given a prescription for antidepressants and have taken them since then.  That’s 20 years.  Not once did I ever blame anything on my depression. I’m fully cognizant of everything I say and do, and so is Nicky.  It would be so easy to blame something, anything-for my mistakes, however it all boils down to me knowing what I am doing.  I accept responsibility for my actions, and when I can, I try and rectify them. Sometimes that works, and sometimes it doesn’t.

Nikita, on the other hand, will blame everything and everyone, and not look at the real problem-himself.  In fact if it was just the rage he exhibits, or the the name calling he loves to use (albeit badly), it might be different.

But he preys on others. He’ll use and abuse unknown writers, those just starting out and don’t know any better. He’ll refuse to pay them, publish their stories without permission and then go after them relentlessly when he gets called out on it.

He calls himself a writer, yet has no clue about grammar, spelling, pacing, plotting, or any of the basic skills one needs to be an effective author.  He’ll self publish because no one in their right mind would want their name attached to any of his projects. He’s a parasite. An uncarng, unthinking, untalented blight on the horror community.  Google his name and his past doings are there for the perusing. I’ve only had to deal with him for 6 years, others have had to do it for far longer.

He will never change, and as long as he doesn’t, it’s my duty to warn people away from the type of business practices he utilizes.

As my meme above states, Nickolaus Pacione, you are NOT a writer!

And not because of the homicide, but it was typed by our favorite fan fic writer. Nicky “two kitchens” Pacione!  You may be wondering how I coulddelve into another one of his scribblings so soon, and the answer is I dipped into my kitty’s stash of catnip.  It was either that or the banana peels.

Oct 13, 1993. I remember that day as the day a friend of mine took the life of a cab driver in Itasca, Illinois.

August 15th, 2013. I remember this day because it was when my nervous system and brain activity spun out of control, near irreversible damage done by just one sentence,

 I have a lot of questions of that night of what went through his mind — and wanting to know why he threw away his life at 17 years old.

I have a lot of questions too, like why would you think you could actually write? I’d suggest basket weaving or collecting toe nails.

here I am close to ten years later writing of this horrifying crime –

Because I haven’t had an original idea since thoughts of model bound up being bombarded by Richard Matheson novels.

As it was written in our school paper

Never mind local news, television or even a pennysaver, when you need info, you go to your high school newspaper.

and there was nothing I was able to say to warn them about it.

That’s due to the fact you dodn’t know about it until long after it happened, dipshit.

Then the next thing I knew was that there was a clipping from The Daily Herold. It was almost out of the pages of a bad nightmare that I was not able to awake from

the thoughts that are still there are what would stay in the shadows wandering.

The bad writing is still there as well.

the questions as there were many when they sat in the courtroom and the horror drawn out from the drama of the jury.

What was the jury doing that was so dramatic? Shouldn’t they have been paying attention? Perhaps victims of your inability to string words together in a coherent fashion.

“You mean to tell me that you knew the murderer,” asked the Cab driver who was driving me from the sporting good store

Bwahahahahahahaha! We all know they greaseball would never go to a sporting goods store. well, unless he was picking out a new sleep sack.

 “I was supposed to do that call that night. The driver that died that night was a friend of mine,” he added.

Totally didn’t see that coming! Oh wait, yes I did.

“Holy shit,” the driver responded, “you are sure brave to write about this. I don’t think if my friend was a murderer — I would not of even tried to write about it. It would scare me so shitless that I could not even sleep at night.

Don’t worry Mr. Cabbie, Pacione is still afraid of his own shadow, and runs away screaming like a little girl.

With that I know it must be done — this narrative in the sense that I try to find the words to describe that he had done,

Well it isn’t, there’s still five more paragraphs of this crap. Don’t tease me!

I can’t. I just can’t.

Someone call me a cab.

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