Hello horror fans, it’s your old pal Skull with a cool new release from Gloom House Publishing! I’ve read previous works by James G. Carlson, and am looking forward to checking out The Eleventh Door. Here’s the back cover synopsis:
Madeline Sharpe, a disgraced detective turned private eye is asked by a former colleague to consult on a perplexing homicide case. She reluctantly accepts the job, but while following her quarry’s trail she encounters things she can’t explain. Things that defy reason. She then finds herself transported to a hidden realm populated by wild landscapes and strange creatures. All she can do is fight for survival and seek a way back home before the universe, and her sanity fully unravel…
Sounds intriguing, does it not? Those familiar with the work of James G. Carlson will know this is not his first foray into uncharted territory. Most recently his novella Midnight In The City Of The Carrion Kid took readers on a wild ride of a crazy underground city that is both beautiful and horrifying at the same time. Put plainly, it’s a really cool book. Carlson’s writing is also inclusive, bringing diversity to his characters that makes them OUR characters. This is really important because besides horror, James G. Carlson makes positive social statements with his work and this is something we need more than ever in our fast-paced world that seems to be trying very hard to de-humanize us.
The Eleventh Door is beckoning, so I must step inside, but your old pal Skull will be back soon with news and a review of this journey I’m looking forward to taking. For more information about this release and others, you can visit James G. Carlson and Gloom House on Facebook or visit Gloom House Publishing at: http://www.gloomhouse@yahoo.com
The wind waves a small American flag, the only moving thing on the chilly apartment balcony until a white-haired old man shuffles out the sliding door. Cigarette ready in hand, he lights it with a well-worn Zippo lighter. It’s engraved, a souvenir of his time in Vietnam. Why he re-enlisted was always a mystery. Most soldiers had more than enough of the blood, sweat, bullets, and pain during their first tour in that napalm hell. But that became his normal. In the jungle, nobody questioned his actions or why he enjoyed killing. It was more than just a job he had to do. Out in the oppressive heat of the jungles and rice paddy slogs, he was free in a way that was unavailable stateside. The dog was off the chain and running wild.
Letters from those who made it home didn’t paint many pretty pictures. Unfaithful wives and girlfriends running off to shack up with some draft-dodging longhair. Kids you barely knew stared at your scars with fearful eyes. Either that, or they didn’t understand why you weren’t a fan of playing War. Hey, you had the outfit, right? But they’d never seen their best buddy get blown to hell by a hidden mine, body fluids and pieces of flesh raining down. Not to mention your own family selling the souped-up Dodge you’d so lovingly put into storage when you got called up. The only thing left was a stupid sign you painted in High School saying “Mopar or NO CAR!” When the kid next door came home in a box, they just figured you were a goner, too. So, they slapped an ad in the paper and sold your dreams for two hundred lousy bucks. It was like being released from prison and coming home to a kennel.
The flag keeps waving as the old man lights a second cigarette from the butt of the first one. He still keeps the cherry concealed behind his hand, to avoid attracting enemy fire. Old habits die hard. As he sucks in another lungful of rich smoke, his body starts to spasm, mouth going slack. The spasms turn into deep coughs racking the man’s now frail body. He flops about like an out-of-control puppet.
A huge wad of yellow mucus lands in the wife’s potted plant but at least he can breathe again. The man quickly brings the cigarette to his lips and refills his lungs with smoke. His doctor has warned him to slow down, encouraged him to quit. But the doctor is just some kid with a mustache that looks like he drew it on with a sharpie. Always wears a pink tie, too. So what does he know about life? Back when he was in the service, cigarettes were good for you, beer had vitamins, and nobody wore a pink tie unless they were looking for a busted lip. Uncle Sam even handed out two free packs with the weekly rations, along with rubbers, candy bars, and razors. He always traded the chocolate bars for smokes.
As the night comes on, a breeze comes in from the east and makes lighting the third cigarette a challenge. But the old man’s smoked in rougher conditions than this. He looks around the crumby, post-industrial city he’s stuck in and grimaces. This isn’t where he wanted to retire, but Clarice wanted to be close to her family. Oh yay…She hates that he still smokes and makes him do it outside. Whatever, he likes being by himself anyway. Out here he doesn’t have to listen to Clarice’s sister rattle on about what surgery she’s having next or whether margarine is just as good as butter. She made her husband quit “that nasty habit.” Now good boy Ralph just sits there silently holding his hat over his crotch while the two sisters blab.
Another round of coughing rocks the old man in his flimsy plastic chair. He grimly endures it, knowing it’ll pass. In the distance, a train whistle blows as the 7:15 rumbles down the tracks just a block away. They sure didn’t mention that wonderful feature in the apartment listing! Damn it, why can’t he stop coughing? The old man fights to pull in some kind of breath, smoke, anything, but the gates are down, blocking his way, alarm bells clanging in his head. The tracks are bathed in yellow light as the huge freight train roars into view.
With his last bit of energy, the old man launches himself towards the balcony railing, hoping to dislodge the sticky blob of mucus blocking his trachea. Just a little air, a little time, a little rest. Train cars roar past, chained to each other like prisoners of war; some scream as they are dragged along. Whugguh-chuggah, wugguh-chuggah…Screee…reee…eeee! The old man appears to be dancing to the rhythm of diesel and steel. That familiar petroleum stink filling the air. A thin stringer of drool stretches down from his mouth to the asphalt below. They often lit the flamethrowers with their cigarette butts, everything bursting into dancing orange and blue flames, sucking up all the oxygen in the jungle air until there was nothing left.
The thud of the old man’s body is masked by the passing train, and no one notices that he’s not standing there when it passes. Inside, just feet away, on the other side of the sliding glass door, Clarice continues talking to her sister. Together they wonder just who will be the ten-thousand-dollar winner on this season of, “Baking With Rich Movie Stars’ Kids That Nobody Likes,” or a similarly themed reality game show. Ralph holds his hat in his lap and keeps quiet because those are his orders. Out on the balcony, the flag still waves in the wind as a thin ribbon of smoke slowly spirals skyward.
Brian James Lewis is a disabled poet and writer with PTSD who finds writing to be vastly important to his recovery. Working class to the bone, he writes inclusive, real-world stories and poetry that mirrors real life. Most recently, Brian’s work has appeared in Ill Winds and Wild Weather a speculative flash anthology from Smoking Pen Press, and the Hook of a Book Poetry Project which mixes horror poetry and mental health awareness to promote the healing power of writing. He is a frequent contributor to Trajectory Journal. Brian lives in Endicott, N.Y., with his wife Michelle, their rescue animals, and too many old typewriters. For news and independent book reviews, find him online at: damagedskullwriterandreviewer.com.
Thanks for taking a few minutes to read my flash piece! Be sure to check out THE SUNLIGHT PRESS for a wide variety of stories, poetry and artwork. You can visit them at: http://www.thesunlightpress.com for good reading, submission opportunities, and as a nonprofit they would certainly appreciate support from readers to help them do what they do.
Happy New Year all you monsters! It’s your old pal Skull with some good news for lovers of all thing speculative: A brand new Read on the Run anthology has just been released from Smoking Pen Press, and it includes a story from my mortal host Brian James Lewis! How about them poisoned apples? His short story “Too Cold For July” is one of the many great stories included in Ill Winds and Wild Weather, a collection of intriguing pieces that are just the right size for reading while one is riding the bus, waiting for food, sitting in your car while an oil change is happening, or chilling between classes. If you’ve got a few free minutes and an e-pub reader, the Smoking Pen Press has an anthology to help you escape the boring normality of the usual day. In fact, Brian’s story is about a person who likes to hit up thrift shops for cheap music to break their writer’s block. I don’t want to spill the bones, but I CAN tell you that it doesn’t take long for the blocked writer to wish they were back at their boring office. Unfortunately when one is dealing with dark magic, a quick sidestep is pretty much out of the question…
Currently, Ill Winds and Wild Weather is available from Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, Gardners, and of course Amazon. Here is the link for obtaining it there: https://www.amazon.com/Winds-Wild-Weather-Smoking-Press-ebook/dp/B0CRTCVBZG There will be a physical ink and paper option available in the next few weeks as well. As always, thanks for following your old pal Skull and his mortal Brian James Lewis at http://www.damagedskullwriterandreviewer.com . You can also catch up with us on Twitter/X @skullsnflames76 . Stay tuned for cool things happening this year, including posts about writing and mental illness, Brian’s upcoming publications in Trajectory, The Iconoclast, and Sunlight Press. There will also be book reviews, and more information about Ill Winds and Wild Weather from Smoking Pen Press.
Damaged Skull Writer 
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