He was a man among legends.  He was a man born and raised in Brooklyn.  He was a major influence to many, and as someone whose been practicing the Scifi craft a long time, I’d hoped to one day shake hands with him.  He lived a good life, and he brought us LOCUS Magazine.  At least the last thing he did was the one thing he loved most. He got to see his peers at Readercon…

CHARLES N. BROWN R.I.P.

Founder of LOCUS Magazine

 DETAILS BELOW:

 http://www.locusmag.com/News/2009/07/charles-n-brown-1937-2009.html

My condolences go out to his friends, family, coworkers, peers, and those whose lives he changed in this time of grief… Push on…

DING-DING-DING! Hello and welcome, good fans.  How are you today? I’m fine, thank you.  Welcome to FREE SHORT STORY DAY!  Today I figured would be a good time to share a nice ditty.  It’s been a while since I’ve put up a work, which I often do around Halloween.  However, I decided to go this time with something a little bit absurd.  A bit of satire, if you will.  With that said, I hope you enjoy. 

The Runaway Hack

by

  Lawrence R. Dagstine     

He was moving into it all again.  It might be a few hours or a full day developing, but the mood rose in him, like compressed air in a tank.  It was a pressure that must move toward an exit.  He looked about.  He looked at the big picture: friends and peers mostly, a few fans and admirers, well-wishers who were wannabes themselves, perhaps a few enemies, and for the rest all wordsmiths.

Wordsmiths were kind of like fucksmiths.  Each had their own prominent place in this highly developed society.  Both fucked things up when the need arise.  The only difference was that the fucksmith was twofold: to have fun and to produce the works that will eventually not earn out.  They will, in turn, each have one other function: to leave the field in a little worse shape than it was or at least aspire to.  That is the history or function of each new generation: fuck it up a little bit more for the next.  Actually, wordsmiths could bleed on paper and still be criticized about the amount they donated.  In the end, they often begged for a rejection letter or a quick, painless death.

I’ve got that bit settled, Jermaine thought.

Much of his life he was looking for a kind of salvation called obscurity, which probably explained why he was always on the run from his profession.  He tended toward a gruesome and descending philosophy when he was moving into despondence.  Actually, when he wasn’t writing short stories, despondency was a chronic part of his nature.  One of the main objects of his days was to keep the subject matter of his stories concealed, for it was the very opposite of the way the world viewed him.  Off the page, audiences figured that he hadn’t a care in the world, and never did and never would have, that he lived for sensationalism alone.  He even told himself the same thing, that he had a great gift for words.  He wanted to live out of a fairy tale where, as someone had put it, there was indescribable bullshit eternally prolonged.  He said it, he tried for it.  He even sold it.  But underneath there were the ideas.  Often this showed on the page; it came out on his face, however, in a sudden set of despair.  Or, he’d fall silent a while and have nothing to say.  And the ideas drifted away from him then, fearing to cross him in all its syntactic glory.

Perhaps that was why he was looking for escape.  Perhaps that was why he was groping his way toward Something Else (and yes, with a capital S and a capital E).  Or maybe it was the repetitions of it that made it unbearable.  To be at a convention or on a panel or at a writing function, with its outer sign of sheer bragging, ostensibly even to the life of the party, and yet inside to be saying to himself that he wished he weren’t there—at all.  Not even alive. 

He was alone.  For a washed-up hack, the worst kind of aloneness in the world.  It was a feeling he experienced more and more often, of late, at these special events.  People all about were close-joined, seemingly delighted, and all was well with them.  Then he would find himself on either side, but none opposite.  Renowned as he was in smaller circles, he’d be sitting there by himself, the world moving about him, and he presumably along for the ride.  The voyeuristic kind.

Here was a legion of the destined and doomed.  He spent most of his time at the bar, watching them.  Taking a sip of his brew, he stared up at a sign.  STARCON 34 in moon-streaming colors.  They should have called it NOBODY-CON.  Some would go on to become editors or work for literary agencies.  Some would start indie presses or become poster children for RPG handbooks.  Others would die horrible deaths: being unknown.  But was that such a terrible thing? He saw one poor sap at the door of the dealer’s room wearing Vulcan ears and selling some silly never-before-done novel about space stations that could create suns with smiley faces.  The ridiculous blurbs on the back went as far as to say that the book would put a smile on your face, too.

Each convention it had been like this, sellers pacing back and forth, hours of windmilling about the dealer’s area of some hall or hotel before they could get to work or the customers would arrive to spend their hard-earned dough and pick up their usual merch.  A Star Wars book here, a Limited Edition novella there.  How the devil, Jermaine wondered, could a man in a Predator outfit have such a fat wallet and so many needs and appetites? What kind of an outfit was it that drew things into it like some absorbing tentacled underwear plant? Whatever reason, that was why the writers and dealers were here, to sell books and get insights into this strange being, in whom the rest of the public was so interested.

The man was trying to lure Jermaine further inside, to the point that he’d even give away his whole collection of Captain Carrot and his Amazing Zoo Crew if he purchased just one book.  It was depressing.  Jermaine wanted to smack some sense into him.  The hotel lobby was filled with about four hundred people: fanboys with lightsabers and battleaxes and sonic screwdrivers, English fangirls in Japanese schoolgirl clothing, age-old scream queens in cheap corsets with terrible boob jobs and God knows how many facelifts, and another poor sap who had starred in one of the Saw pictures.  There had been so many, Jermaine not only forgot the actor’s name but forgot which one. 

Then, of course, there were the writers…  Some retired, some semi-retired (which still meant retired).  There were the Grandmasters, and in-between panels, they had to take their Geritol.  There were the editors from the Age of the Flood, and they recounted tales of American Letters that had most people scratching their heads and thinking this all intoxicated drivel.  One man in a King Arthur’s outfit drank from a chalice and read from “The Death of the Old Guard.”  Industry heads disappeared upstairs to hotel rooms for hours.  When they finally returned to the lobby, they said, “That felt great! I’ll see you next convention!”

There were also the newbies.  Some weren’t published, some had a polished hand.  They had set out once with their aspirations and their energies, like young untried actors in Hollywood, and they had a story to tell, and now here they were pitching it.  Out of the two hundred or so of these fools who attended semi-regularly, only a dozen or so would go on to be anything.  Now they were spending airfare and hotel fare to tell the ‘Holier Than Thou’ communities that they’ve constructed worlds, that they’ve created unforgettable characters, that they’ve got the ultimate trilogy! And now they were flaunting it, at agents, at publishers, who smiled and nodded respectfully: “Sounds terribly interesting.  Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

And then, Jermaine knew their secret, he knew what the whole attendance of the convention was doing that day.  It was like a giant black hole swallowing everything up into a pile of computer-generated debris.  At some point he stood stock-still and asked himself, “What the hell am I doing here?” He was doing what a few others were doing: standing or sitting apart thinking.  Perhaps he was not alone after all. “I’m thinking while these other boobs are imagining that they’ve got a future or they’re having a good time.  The only difference is I’m trying to make some sense of it.”

A significant silence followed.

Jermaine no longer asked himself what he was doing there.  He frankly didn’t know, and he didn’t care anymore either.  He swallowed his drink in one gulp.  As a poor writer traveling from place to place, from editor to editor, from small publication to small publication, he discovered the world was seen from billions of varying vantage points.  Or disadvantage points, depending upon each person and what they believed.  His moment of failure just happened to come when he halted to ask himself what he was doing walking the floors of a particular convention.

He understood that writers were a sea at sea.  This convention was a wave on the surface, and only the best of the best—thinkers, wordsmiths, folks with MFAs and top degrees—or those with the right connections managed to get down under a few feet.  He tried to go under from time to time, but he didn’t see or feel much.  More often than not he found himself drowning.  He watched them at their work, for they were working at being productive and making money.  Most were actually having a good time, and that might be sufficient, for they were toiling for the maws of a great beast called legacy.

He sought the opposite now.

Jermaine was suddenly alone at the bar, lost in his reflections.  Those who had gathered about, talking with him, all at once received no answers. “I am just a mere hack,” he said, looking away shamefully, “you don’t want to know me.” After that, they sensed that the poor fellow was in deep thought, and they moved away.

Then a writer-editor he’d talked to on occasion approached. “So which is it this time?” he asked. “Science fiction, fantasy, horror, or that paranormal romance junk?”

Still looking down, Jermaine said, “I dabble.”

The writer-editor felt sorry for him. “What’s really bothering you, Jermaine?”

“Do I look distressed?”

“I’d say so.”

“I am.  I have the feeling the gift is leaving me, the inspiration and gusto just dwindling away.” He smiled, knowing that such a verbal crime would provoke other writer-editors into a fury. “The thing is I kind of like the idea.”

“I don’t get it.  Why, because of deadlines or you’re under strain?”

“Heh! What deadlines?” Jermaine laughed. “When I was a kid genre magazines used to do a lot for me.  I’d buy handfuls of them.  The moment a new issue hit the stands, I was there.  I bought them so often that the act of reading short stories had some kind of impact on me.  It comes back to me from time to time, of its own volition, when I’ve got writer’s block or I’m diddling my own asshole for a forty-dollar check.  Sometimes, late at night I tell myself I don’t want to be famous and I put the computer away.  Sometimes there’s no reason for this at all.  That I can understand.  Go figure.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s not the only thing,” he continued. “I thought it easy and satisfying work, for one thing.  Lately I’ve got a feeling of monotony out of it.  When my fingers grow tired of typing, I am seized with a great discomfort.  I want to hurry outside and do other much livelier things.  When the job is finished and the words THE END stamped, it often seems to me that my hands are still held out though.  I could still feel the puppeteer looking down at me, face contorted and strings being pulled.”

“All writers get those urges from time to time, Jermaine.  We call it the Need, or the Fix.  There are many names, but no faces.  We finish one story, we tackle the next.”

“Well, I’ve refused to go through it again! I’ve had a bitter argument with my conscience, and I’ve seen the light.  Years and years of putting myself through this.  At critical moments, the re-reflection of this pseudo-literary image of myself, typing out a manuscript, watching yet another zombie or vampire story unfold before my eyes.  Sooner or later, the depression comes back.  I saw myself staring at the genre as its prostrate enlarged.  I saw my fingers curving, away from the keyboard over and around to the back door.  And as I prepared to open it, I always felt the heaviness.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is that the same heaviness is over me now, a fatigue with the critical process.  As if the last yarn is spun.  The artform comes back to me every now and then, but it is blurred, hasty, and it’s a jarring impression.” Jermaine hesitated, then: “With time I have begun to understand what each piece of the story, from page to page, means in my own life.  It has become a twist from fear to stress, fear to stress, round and round.  After each story I write, sometimes before the story, the prostrate gets bigger and the puppeteer laughs harder.  Now I have the same feeling of monotony and pointlessness that pressed on me before the writing is done.”

“It’s an unpleasant image,” the writer-editor remarked with a consoling nod.

“It’s the key to me, my good man, it’s the key!”

“Perhaps.”

“The genre is getting very big now.”

“Bloated would be a better word, but when you’ve worked in this business for as long as I have, what can you do?” The writer-editor reflected for a moment. “You know, now that I think about it, I don’t really know anything else either.”

They drank for a time.  They were silent as they knocked down rounds.  They were thoughtful.  Then the writer-editor asked, “What I can’t understand is why you keep working and seem so anxious to get to work.  I should think you’d be a little weary of the grind.  Puppeteers and prostrates aside, do you know why you’re still writing?”

Jermaine gave him a look that concealed what he really thought.  He thought, Real writers are not smart.  Real writers are so goddamned blind and ignorant, it’s a fucking blessing.  But he said, “It’s weird.  I have to write.  If I didn’t write it would all end at once.  Writing is the root of a tree, and if you take away the root the thing on top will fall over.  I’d fall over.  So I write because I write.  Whether I need the money or not.  There is a thing we hacks call Keeping Afloat (and yes, with a capital K and a capital A).  And you do it.  You keep afloat.  I keep afloat with the short stories; the short form is a bladder that holds me up.  Maybe the only time I feel alive and dead is when I write.”

Some of it was true.  The writing ruddered Jermaine, kept him afloat in the sea which shook more and more heavily these days.  Writing was the stabilizer.  He knew it, and like a twenty dollar a day drug addiction, he even escaped from himself when he wrote.  But how long could he keep on at it.  It was not salvation.  And that was what he sought.

“So where do you go from here?” the writer-editor asked. “What now?”

“Peace of mind,” Jermaine answered.

“Ahh, now that’s impossible in this game.  You and I both know that.”

“I don’t think so.  I’ve been yearning for obscurity for quite some time now.”

“But what for?” The writer-editor was confused. “After your death you have the chance to be anthologized.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But your fiction will be archived.”

“No, it won’t.”

“But your work exists, and therefore it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The writer-editor was astonished. “Don’t let the Literary Police find out.”

“I could give a damn about Grammar Nazis!” Jermaine shouted.

The whole bar turned around; one Grandmaster spit up his drink.

“Sorry.” Jermaine began again. “I need to walk away from these writing organizations a new man.  I need to turn my back on the politics and step down from these panels once and for all.”

“But how?”

“Through fiction, how else?” He snapped his fingers as if it were that easy. “Fiction got me into this mess, and it’ll get me out.”

“You must be some storyteller then.  You know what’ll happen afterwards, don’t you?”

“Yes, I am fully aware of the consequences.”

The writer-editor shook his head worriedly. “Is this so-called salvation— Let me rephrase that, is this permanent anonymity really worth that much to you?”

“Where sanity is concerned, yes.  It could also mean new growth!”

“But you yourself even said that if you didn’t write the thing on top of the tree would come plunging down!”

“And the moment I leave this convention, my good friend, I snap my fingers and reverse the polarity of my thoughts.  Hopefully, it changes for the better.  If it doesn’t, at least I tried.”

The writer-editor felt overly sentimental.  He shook Jermaine’s hand and patted him on the back. “I wish you good luck in your new life.  I only wish I had the balls to join you.  But I’ve been in this field for over two decades.  I don’t have anything else.  I just have my words.  Flinging myself into obscurity for some kind of deliverance would be too much of a risk on my well being.” He smiled. “I guess I lack the courage of a hack.  At least let me buy you one for the road.”

Jermaine accepted.

When he finished the drink, the author said his goodbyes and headed for the hotel’s automatic sliding doors.  He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath.  He looked behind him very briefly… at the boys and girls wielding lightsabers and sonic screwdrivers… at the jolly attendees dressed in Vulcan ears and Viking’s armor… at the Grandmasters and Industry heads immersed in their readings.

Outside he whistled for a cab.  A taxi pulled up directly in front of the building.  He hopped inside.  The cabbie grinned at Jermaine’s reflection in the mirror. “You look like a Jedi Knight in that blanket.  A regular Obi Wan Kenobi.”

“I’ll give you an extra five bucks not to make any comments.”

The cabbie reset the meter. “So where to, old man?”

“Someplace far away.” 

The taxi didn’t move. “Where exactly? You’re the author of this tale.”

Jermaine stared out the passenger side window and into the hotel lobby.  All the big writers danced outside the convention hall: wonder and uncertainty, progress and decline.  The bewitcheries of status, ambition, success and poverty rose from their voices.  The goods and evils of the human competition, the demonology of lives spent, misspent, the mystique of literature’s disorder and hope.  Fear of the new, dread of the old.  They were like witches celebrating a Sabbath of chopped-up modern catechisms.

Finally the hack turned around.  He was beaming, his big handsome smile, the one that had won the hearts of amateurs everywhere. “A place called obscurity.  Now step on it.”

The End

It is with great pleasure that I announce a couple of things.   One, now that the writing population is slowly starting to embrace the digital age, this site will not only act as a homepage and plug-page for magazines and upcoming science fiction, fantasy and horror venues, but also be a store.  You will be able to buy and then download short stories, novelettes, and novellas – most brand new, no reprints – from yours truly.  I am open to further freelancing, networking, and marketing with other authors if they too would like to be a part of this store (like trading purchase info links).  I advertise you, you advertise me.  I sell your work, you sell mine.  With that said, stay tuned to this site between now and mostly 2010.  The future may be digital, but it still looks good from where I’m at.

Alas, print is dying...

This site will also act as the occasional home of the “short story review”, the science fiction media news source and, later down the road, a new and unique kind of cross-marketing, branding-upon-branding, product placement and more.  To be honest, I’m surprised most bigger houses haven’t jumped on  a similar bandwagon yet.  Who knows, maybe it’s because the economy is still shoddy.  It’s what will also hopefully help fund the new venture come 2011.  I’d have to say that 2010 will also see an end to a majority of all print-related periodicals in “genre” featuring my stories in it.  I’ve been informed that 2011 would be a sort of conversion stage.  Or a few months after Kindle 3 comes out and prices on readers drop.  Whichever comes first.  Oh well.  However…

The best part of all this is you will be able to go to places like Mobipocket, Fictionwise, and Amazon.  You will be able to own my works on such reading devices as the Sony eReader, Kindle, Jetbook, iTouch, and so much more.  Matter of fact, my first e-title will be debuting shortly.   So stay tuned to the tab at the top of this page, entitled: “eBooks & Kindle”.

Thank You,

Lawrence R. Dagstine

Edited to Add: Fresh Blood Contest also coming soon…

Press release 1 of 3, copied and pasted below:

Coming Soon to Damnation Books

Damnation Books

Trade Paperbacks, Novellas, Novelettes, e-Books and e-Stories

www.damnationbooks.com

DEBUTING AT KILLERCON 2009

25 Author Roster:

If you happen to be at Killercon in September, drop by our launch party and visit us in the dealer’s room…

Killercon 2009 info: www.killercon.org

 

Slowly catching up, slowly getting there.  My second of three Mars-related stories will appear in M-BRANE SF around the Fall.  Issue #9.  This is my 2nd appearance with them.  They’ve recently released print versions of issues #1 through #5, and No. #6 may already be out.  They are also available via PDF subscription (very affordable!), which I highly recommend checking out.  The publication features many forms of scifi, non-fiction, and analyses of the genre itself.   It has a retro-60’s feel.  Sort of like the pulps.  They’ve featured many familiar names in the SF short fiction arena. 

M-BRANE SF is not only a PDF and print publication but a regular science fiction news source, too.  One of the ideas they’re juggling around right now is a ’Shared World’ theme, which might be of interest to genre lovers.

Direct Link to Shared World Project:

http://mbranesf.blogspot.com/2009/06/shared-world-project-summary-so-far.html

Previous Issues Featuring Lawrence R. Dagstine

 ORDER HERE:

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/m-brane-sf-%232-print/6647886

SUBSCRIBE TO THE PDF/SCI-FI NEWS BLOG

www.mbranesf.blogspot.com

Other New Entries: “Magazines” 

Come join prolific short story writer, Lawrence R. Dagstine – scifi, fantasy, horror and more! — at Coney Island’s Festival by the Sea.  Books, books, and more books.

 

 LAWRENCE DAGSTINE SIGNING:

June 26th – (unconfirmed)

June 27th and June 28th

Saturday and Sunday!!!

12pm to sundown…

FRESH BLOOD: Tales From The Speculative Graveyard

http://www.fleabythesea.com/about.php

Brooklyn Author, Lawrence R.  Dagstine will be signing copies of his new short story collection FRESH BLOOD, rare hardcovers, anthologies, and obscure pulp magazines and more at FLEA BY THE SEA!

For details on transportation by subway, bus, or car, see website above.  There will be amusement park rides, entertainment, food, and thousands of people are expected to attend.  There will also be arts & crafts, photography vendors, jewelry and clothing merchants, and tons of other stuff!

Hop on the train, grab a tan, and get some books!

Other New Entries: “Books & Anthos” 

This post has… absolutely nothing to do with writing whatsoever.  I just found it to be a cute, hilarious picture.  And I just had to share it with the rest of you.  Cookie Monster’s Ball.  If it were a real movie, I wonder if there would be any nudity in it.  Two Academy Award Nominations, to boot.

Cookie Monster’s Ball

www.empireonline.com

Other New Entries: “Movies in your Mind”

I donated a spec-fic tale to a good friend’s new “start-up” webzine, entitled: Einstein’s Pocket Watch.  Edited by writer Rob Crandall, Einstein’s Pocket Watch plans to be a Christian-themed blog-zine.  That means NO horror and NO curse words.   Rob will look at science fiction and fantasy so long as it has a positive message; negative material and graphic fiction probably won’t find a home here.  Poetry is accepted.  Rob is a great guy.  I know him for a few years now, and he’s a superb writer in his own right.  He’s appeared in such publications as Doorways Magazine and Big Ole’ Face Full of Monster.   So let’s help him make this new venture a success!

EINSTEIN’S POCKET WATCH

New Christian Webzine – June/July 2009

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

www.peafant.wordpress.com

Featuring: Lawrence Dagstine, P.S. Gifford, Janis Sage, Rob Crandall, and more on the way…

Other New Entries: “Magazines”

Come join prolific short story writer, Lawrence R. Dagstine – scifi, fantasy, horror and more! — at Coney Island’s “Summer of Signings”.  Twice a week, every other week this summer at Thor Equities’ new DREAMLAND! — Festival by the Sea…

It’s no secret that over the last ten years some of my earliest science fiction works first appeared in venues such as The Fifth Di… and The Martian Wave, or on the Sam’s Dot Publishing roster in general (they’re also the publisher of my debut collection, Fresh Blood).  Over the years, The Martian Wave has provided a home to such prolific talents as Bruce Boston, Rick Novy, Kristine Ong Muslim, Aurelio Rico Lopez III, Justin Stanchfield, Scott Virtes, Terrie Leigh Relf, and David Lee Summers.  And that’s only the tip of the list. 

THE MARTIAN WAVE

Edited by J. Alan Erwine

Published by Sam’s Dot Publishing

www.samsdotpublishing.com

I’m pleased to announce that in just a few weeks from now The Martian Wave is going to finally be a print magazine focused around good, hard, interplanetary SF and space opera.  I’m talking tales of other worlds and alien life — and I’ll be in their premiere issue with… Well, what else? Something about Mars! This also begins a three-story arc of Mars-related shorts I wrote due out between 2009 and 2010.  So stay tuned!

I’ll provide ordering information and cover art when the time comes (love the new logo, by the way).  Naturally, this magazine will be available through The Genre Mall.

THE GENRE MALL:

http://www.genremall.com/contents.htm

Other New Entries: “Magazines”

No press releases, no nothing…  Everything is all very “hush-hush” since the news regarding the Doctor’s new companion for 2010 (Karen Gillan), who could pass for a younger Professor Riversong might I add.  However, there is nothing to quell these rumors at the moment… Only that Paterson Joseph may have replaced Matt Smith (or maybe the English actor was always in the driver’s seat to begin with).  Then there’s this photograph below.  What is Doctor Who writer Stephen Moffat planning? 

Official BBC Doctor Who Homepage:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho/

Supposedly Tennant already filmed the regeneration sequence.  I’ve seen the pics where he’s in a lot of pain, staggering, and a pre-2004 Billie Piper — yes, she returns for the two-part Christmas finale — along with her mother Jackie, bump into the soon-to-regenerate David Tennant.  Tennant encounters Ood Sigma at one point (again!), but it is unknown whether he makes it back to his TARDIS alone or not (according to Russell T. Davies, alone, because back in 2004 Rose Tyler would not have known the Doctor.  It’s said, however, that the ending is both a “surprise” and a real “tearjerker”. 

But how do you explain these sudden rumors of Matt Smith being replaced, and the Paterson Joseph pic? No recent photographs of Smith in his new Time Lord outfit at the very least? Nothing else leaked? Or is the pic above really bogus?

Previous Doctor Who links (related to Matt Smith):

http://lawrencedagstine.com/2009/01/05/doctor-who-matt-smith-is-not-the-eleventh-doctor/

http://lawrencedagstine.com/2009/03/16/doctor-who-series-five-monsters/

You can find an article of mine in an upcoming winter edition of Withersin Magazine.  Issue No. 3.3, published tri-annually.  Available in various Borders and B&N stores in the literary journal or fiction magazine section.  You can pre-order your copy from the direct link below.  This would be the Arsenic edition.  Withersin is also known for their award-winning art.

Edited to Add: This is a pre-order for January 2010.  

WITHERSIN MAGAZINE – Issue 3.3

PRE-ORDER BELOW (direct link):

http://www.withersin.com/withersin_arsenic.htm

HOMEPAGE (subscribe):

www.withersin.com

Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Dark Art by: Aaron Legler, Kurt Kirchmeier, Kevin Shamel, KCT Webber, M. Awren Grey and K. Sumek, Tom Hamilton, Lawrence Dagstine, Larry Roberts.  Cover by Caroline O’ Neal, other artwork by Doug Draper, B.A. Bosaiya, and Nick Rose.   Edited by Misty Gersley.

Once again, you can PRE-ORDER this now.  It officially hits January 2010.

Other New Entries: “Magazines”

I have a “weird fiction” story in the current print edition of Aoife’s Kiss.  June 2009 — Issue #29.  8th Anniversary Edition.  Published quarterly by Sam’s Dot Publishing.  Other  talented muses include Mercurio D. Rivera, Karen L. Newman, Bruce Boston and Marge Simon.  Be sure to pick up a copy; it’s a pretty thick issue.  Good stories, too.  Available through The Genre Mall and various cons.

AOIFE’S KISS #29 - June 2009

* 8th Anniversary Issue *

Aoife's Kiss #29 - June 2009 issue

ORDER BELOW (from The Genre Mall):

 http://www.genremall.com/zinesr.htm#aoife

Sam’s Dot Publishing – Aoife’s Kiss:

http://www.samsdotpublishing.com/aoife/main.htm

Fiction and Poetry by: Carol Hightshoe, Luvia Swanson, Matthew Keville, Michael John Grist, Selina Rosen, Matthew Johnson, Lawrence R. Dagstine, Melissa Mead, Michael Swaim, Mark Allan Gunnells, Mercurio D. Rivera, Jason Palmer, Lee Clark Zumpe, David Kopaska-Merkel, Elissa Malcohn, Jason D. Wittman, Bruce Boston, Marge Simon, Karen L. Newman, Shelly Bryant, Neal Wilgus, Sarah Wagner, Scott Virtes, Angel Favazza, Viridion Girl, Lubov, and Garrett Dechellis.

Other New Entries: “Magazines”

THE HORROR FICTION REVIEW is now up.  Horror author and book reviewer, Nick Cato (Novello Publishers), has now put up the book reviews for June 2009.  It’s a delightful little site and I highly recommend checking them out.  If you scroll down, you’ll find a positive review of my debut collection FRESH BLOOD in-between authors Jack Kilborn and Louise Bohmer.  The site also has an interview with Robert Dunbar.

THE HORROR FICTION REVIEW – June 2009 edition

The Horror Fiction Review

MAIN SITE: http://www.freewebs.com/hfrzine/

JUNE 2009 REVIEWS: http://www.freewebs.com/hfrzine/june09reviews.htm

Other New Entries: “Author Resources” 

I’ll be coming with my 3rd appearance to one of the longest-running horror webzines out there, Midnight Times.  In the meantime, check out their free archive.  The current story will take place in July 2009 in what I believe to be a special “zombie-themed” edition.  

MIDNIGHT TIMES – SUMMER 2009

CLICK HERE: www.midnighttimes.com

I must confess… with the upcoming signings and reviews, book fairs, bookings and new opportunities which have recently been tossed in my lap, I have not had the time to update this webpage as much as I’d like.  I must also confess I’m now behind by roughly twenty blog entries and twenty fiction pieces which, due to having a personal life besides writing, I will not entirely catch up to anytime soon.  So if you see the blog entries few and far in-between, that’s a good sign.  In the meantime, let’s embrace the digital era (take note of the new eBooks & Kindle link above – things are coming).

Other New Entries: “Magazines”

I’m pretty new at this, and since I’ll be soliciting a few more reviews over the course of the year, I decided to number them accordingly.  I also felt that would be easier.   For example, Fresh Blood Reviews 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc.   Today we have Nick Cato, reviewer, long-time horror fan and reader, and author of the soon-to-be released zombie-mafia crossover DON OF THE DEAD (www.coscomentertainment.com). 

Nick Cato REVIEWS Dagstine’s Fresh Blood…

ISBN: 978-0-981-9696-2-6

FRESH BLOOD REVIEW (click below):

http://nickcato.blogspot.com/2009/05/scifi-and-horror-meet-drugs.html

ORDER THE BOOK (from The Genre Mall):

http://www.genremall.com/anthologiesr.htm#freshblood

Fresh Blood in a nutshell: “SciFi and Horror meet… DRUGS!”

Dagstine’s writing is quick and to the point, and the stories flow quite well despite the genre jumping. A solid, entertaining collection – Nick Cato, author DON OF THE DEAD.

Author’s Note: Fresh Blood is published by Sam’s Dot Publishing.  This review will also premiere in June’s HORROR FICTION REVIEW. 

It’s the Summer of Horror! No, not just Fresh Blood signings and book promos.  If you happen to be in the Brooklyn, New York City area between now and September on a Saturday evening, hop on the subway.  You might just be interested in checking out a couple of old-school movies at The Coney Island Museum.  The Coney Island Film Society presents: “SUMMER OF HORROR!”

Dante's Inferno

The Coney Island Film Society – Schedule 2009:

http://www.coneyisland.com/films.shtml

Psycho, Army of Darkness, Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, and much more! Admission is $5.00 for non-society members, $3.00 for film society members.  Free popcorn.  Series run: May 16th thru September 26th 2009.  Doors open at 8pm, film starts at 8:30pm.

Photo Credit: Lawrence R. Dagstine, 2008.

Author of Fresh Blood: Tales from the Speculative Graveyard

To kick off the FRESH BLOOD summer 2009 tour, this post goes out to Sam’s Dot Publishing’s graphic artist, Mitchell Bentley (www.atomicflystudios.com), who did the cover for the book you see below, along with many other great Sam’s Dot authors: Lawrence R. Dagstine, Joel Arnold, Rick Novy, Armand Rosamilia, Tyree Campbell, Edward Cox, John Lance, Maggie Bonham, and MORE!

GET YOUR FRESH BLOOD MERCH TODAY!

Crafted by Mitchell Bentley

CLICK BELOW:

http://www.atomicflystudios.net/Pages/14ArtPage.html

 Fresh Blood: Tales from the Speculative Graveyard

A Collection by Lawrence R. Dagstine

ISBN: 978-0-9819696-2-6

 Order the book: http://www.genremall.com/anthologiesr.htm#freshblood

Love zombies and space stations? Whether it’s a coffee mug, a T-shirt, a tote bag or a hat, or who knows, maybe even a skateboard, Mitchell Bentley will design it for you… And he’ll do it to perfection! You can also view some of his artwork at the same link. 

All artwork and merchandise licensing copyright Mitchell Davidson Bentley, Atomic Fly Studios: http://www.zazzle.com/mitchbentley

…Or, the BEST BLOG EVAH! This made my day.  But then I think the “smart” folks out there knew this kind of thing was going to happen ages ago.   Next to go is print-on-demand; that’ll take time, and LSI will be like rare relic baseball cards in the age of the MLB steroid scandal — a specialty market.  And a collector’s pastime.  It’s more like the music industry.  Props go out to The Magazine Death Pool.  Credit given where credit is deserved.  Also, to the following comments below.

STARLOG MAGAZINE – R.I.P.

The Magazine Death Pool:

www.magazinedeathpool.com

Science Fiction Linkage:

http://www.magazinedeathpool.com/magazine_death_pool/2009/04/starlog-rip-april-2009.html#comments

Paul Riddell wrote: “I agree that the Internet is one of the reasons why “Starlog”, “Cinefantastique”, “Sci-Fi Universe”, and a plethora of other magazines went under, as their core audiences are generally so cheap that they use both sides of the toilet paper. That cheapness, though, is the real reason. Advertisers weren’t interested in buying ad space because the only response would be from “reviewers” who wanted freebies and from pocket psychotics who wanted to bitch about how they weren’t being hired for their obsessive knowledge of “Star Trek” trivia. On the newsstands, the copies would either be read and then discarded or shoplifted. Oh, and just try to get the cheap bastards to buy a subscription, even if the publisher got the subscriber copies out before the newsstand copies appeared, instead of three weeks to a month later. The only thing more pathetic than the science fiction media magazine market is the science fiction short story magazine market, which is why the few literary science fiction magazines left will probably be making the deadpool within the next year. I have money down on “The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction” being the first casualty of the season.”

Shoplifting is a little pushing it.  To be honest, with advertising aside, my money was on F&SF until about 2011-2012 tops.  I guess time will tell; after all, there are only so many infusions and bailouts.  Many old-school writers and editors who work these publishing ends will most likely be shoveling snow to pay their mortgages and make ends meet.   The Age of Freelancing is here, people, hold on.  We are now our own bosses and our own vacuum cleaner salesmen forever!  Obscurity is going to take on a whole new meaning.  In ten years time, Borders and Waldenbooks will not exist.  Hold on to your royalty checks.  Content-wise, things are about to get bumpier!

Edited to Add: Be sure to also check out the Sept. 08, 2008 entry.