Joke from the Old Tonight Show

Last night, I was watching reruns of the old Tonight Show with Johnny Carson on YouTube, when Carson told a joke that I feel obligated to share with the modern, more politically correct world to help them lighten up. Do take into consideration that I have had 4-5 margaritas at this ponit and I am old enought to remember episodes of the Tonight Show from the 70’s.

A man went to Mars and when he returned to Earth a friend asked him what Martian women are like. He replied that they are the same as Earth women except their breasts are on their backs.

“That’s really strange,” said his friend.

“Yeah, but it’s great for dancing,” he replied,

Hasta luego.

Off on a tangent for a moment…

I saw this on Twitter and just had to share it, if for no other reason, than to caution the younger generation not to judge a book by its worn and tattered cover.

https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js 

YouTube Video: Edgar Allan Poe vs. Stephen King in Epic Rap Battles of History

After how many years of doing this and watching YouTube, I have finally found that I can post YouTube videos here. I hope to be using them for a lot of my Saturday Night Specials. These will be a lot easier for me to post than writing an article or copying and pasting a story. It should make things more entertaining for you as well. Tomorrow’s Saturday Night Special will be an animated version of “Dagon” by H.P. Lovecraft. Be sure to join me for the fun. I will explore other media I can include in my posts as well and bring the blog into the 21st century. This newly recognized capability intrigues me. I may make a few videos of my own and post them here. You will finally be able to hear my voice.

So let’s start this off with a fun video.  Epic Rap Battles of History: Stephen King vs. Edgar Allan Poe.

Epic Rap Battles of History is one of my favorite YouTube channels. They square off famous figures from a wide variety of fields in rap battles like the one you are about to see.

Let me know what you think.

I apologize for any commercials, but that’s YouTube. You should be able to wait them out or skip them if they are over five seconds long.

 

The Saturday Night Special: “A Ghost Story” by Mark Twain (1870)

Mark Twain February 7, 1871

Mark Twain
February 7, 1871

I TOOK a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whose upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years, until I came. The place had long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and silence. I seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead, that first night I climbed up to my quarters. For the first time in my life a superstitious dread came over me; and as I turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its lazy woof in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom.

I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mould and the darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before it with a comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat there, thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half-forgotten faces out of the mists of the past; listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie softened down to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranquil patter, and one by one the noises in the street subsided, until the hurrying foot-steps of the last belated straggler died away in the distance and left no sound behind.

The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I arose and undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily what I had to do, as if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it would be fatal to break. I covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant shutters, till they lulled me to sleep.

I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I found myself awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. All was still. All but my own heart — I could hear it beat. Presently the bed-clothes began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were pulling them! I could not stir; I could not speak. Still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast was uncovered. Then with a great effort I seized them and drew them over my head. I waited, listened, waited.

Once more that steady pull began, and once more I lay torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked again. At last I roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place and held them with a strong grip. I waited. By and by I felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip. The tug strengthened to a steady strain — it grew stronger and stronger. My hold parted, and for the third time the blankets slid away. I groaned.

An answering groan came from the foot of the bed! Beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. I was more dead than alive. Presently I heard a heavy footstep in my room — the step of an elephant, it seemed to me — it was not like anything human. But it was moving FROM me — there was relief in that. I heard it approach the door — pass out without moving bolt or lock — and wander away among the dismal corridors, straining the floors and joists till they creaked again as it passed — and then silence reigned once more.

When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, “This is a dream — simply a hideous dream.” And so I lay thinking it over until I convinced myself that it WAS a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips and I was happy again. I got up and struck a light; and when I found that the locks and bolts were just as I had left them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my lips. I took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the fire, when — down went the pipe out of my nerveless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp! In the ashes on the hearth, side by side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison mine was but an infant’s’! Then I had HAD a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained.

I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. I lay a long time, peering into the darkness, and listening. Then I heard a grating noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor; then the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my windows in response to the concussion. In distant parts of the building I heard the muffled slamming of doors. I heard, at intervals, stealthy footsteps creeping in and out among the corridors, and up and down the stairs. Sometimes these noises approached my door, hesitated, and went away again. I heard the clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the clanking grew nearer — while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking each move by the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle upon each succeeding step as the goblin that bore it advanced. I heard muttered sentences; half-uttered screams that seemed smothered violently; and the swish of invisible garments, the rush of invisible wings. Then I became conscious that my chamber was invaded — that I was not alone. I heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious whisperings. Three little spheres of soft phosphorescent light appeared on the ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped — two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow. They spattered, liquidly, and felt warm.

Intuition told me they had turned to gouts of blood as they fell — I needed no light to satisfy myself of that. Then I saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and white uplifted hands, floating bodiless in the air — floating a moment and then disappearing. The whispering ceased, and the voices and the sounds, and a solemn stillness followed. I waited and listened. I felt that I must have light or die. I was weak with fear. I slowly raised myself toward a sitting posture, and my face came in contact with a clammy hand! All strength went from me apparently, and I fell back like a stricken invalid. Then I heard the rustle of a garment — it seemed to pass to the door and go out.

When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and feeble, and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged with a hundred years. The light brought some little cheer to my spirits. I sat down and fell into a dreamy contemplation of that great footprint in the ashes. By and by its outlines began to waver and grow dim. I glanced up and the broad gas flame was slowly wilting away. In the same moment I heard that elephantine tread again. I noted its approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the light waned. The tread reached my very door and paused — the light had dwindled to a sickly blue, and all things about me lay in a spectral twilight. The door did not open, and yet I felt a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious of a huge, cloudy presence before me. I watched it with fascinated eyes. A pale glow stole over the Thing; gradually its cloudy folds took shape — an arm appeared, then legs, then a body, and last a great sad face looked out of the vapor. Stripped of its filmy housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant loomed above me!

All my misery vanished — for a child might know that no harm could come with that benignant countenance. My cheerful spirits returned at once, and in sympathy with them the gas flamed up brightly again. Never a lonely outcast was so glad to welcome company as I was to greet the friendly giant. I said:

“Why, is it nobody but you? Do you know, I have been scared to death for the last two or three hours? I am most honestly glad to see you. I wish I had a chair — Here, here, don’t try to sit down in that thing!

But it was too late. He was in it before I could stop him, and down he went — I never saw a chair shivered so in my life. “Stop, stop, You’ll ruin ev–”

Too late again. There was another crash, and another chair was resolved into its original elements.

“Confound it, haven’t you got any judgment at all? Do you want to ruin all the furniture on the place? Here, here, you petrified fool–”

But it was no use. Before I could arrest him he had sat down on the bed, and it was a melancholy ruin.

“Now what sort of a way is that to do? First you come lumbering about the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry me to death, and then when I overlook an indelicacy of costume which would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated people except in a respectable theater, and not even there if the nudity were of YOUR sex, you repay me by wrecking all the furniture you can find to sit down on. And why will you? You damage yourself as much as you do me. You have broken off the end of your spinal column, and littered up the floor with chips of your hams till the place looks like a marble yard. You ought to be ashamed of yourself — you are big enough to know better.”

“Well, I will not break any more furniture. But what am I to do? I have not had a chance to sit down for a century.” And the tears came into his eyes.

“Poor devil,” I said, “I should not have been so harsh with you. And you are an orphan, too, no doubt. But sit down on the floor here — nothing else can stand your weight — and besides, we cannot be sociable with you away up there above me; I want you down where I can perch on this high counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face.”

So he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him, threw one of my red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet fashion, and made himself picturesque and comfortable. Then he crossed his ankles, while I renewed the fire, and exposed the flat, honey-combed bottoms of his prodigious feet to the grateful warmth.

“What is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your legs, that they are gouged up so?”

“Infernal chillblains — I caught them clear up to the back of my head, roosting out there under Newell’s farm. But I love the place; I love it as one loves his old home. There is no peace for me like the peace I feel when I am there.”

We talked along for half an hour, and then I noticed that he looked tired, and spoke of it. “Tired?” he said. “Well, I should think so. And now I will tell you all about it, since you have treated me so well. I am the spirit of the Petrified Man that lies across the street there in the Museum. I am the ghost of the Cardiff Giant. I can have no rest, no peace, till they have given that poor body burial again. Now what was the most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish? Terrify them into it! — haunt the place where the body lay! So I haunted the museum night after night. I even got other spirits to help me. But it did no good, for nobody ever came to the museum at midnight. Then it occurred to me to come over the way and haunt this place a little. I felt that if I ever got a hearing I must succeed, for I had the most efficient company that perdition could furnish. Night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed halls, dragging chains, groaning, whispering, tramping up and down stairs, till, to tell you the truth, I am almost worn out. But when I saw a light in your room to-night I roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness. But I am tired out — entirely fagged out. Give me, I beseech you, give me some hope!”

I lit off my perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed:

“This transcends everything — everything that ever did occur! Why you poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for nothing — you have been haunting a PLASTER CAST of your- self — the real Cardiff Giant is in Albany!

[Footnote by Twain: A fact. The original fraud was ingeniously and fraudfully duplicated, and exhibited in New York as the “only genuine” Cardiff Giant (to the unspeakable disgust of the owners of the real colossus) at the very same time that the latter was drawing crowds at a museum in Albany.]

Confound it, don’t you know your own remains?”

I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread a countenance before.

The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said:

“Honestly, IS that true?”

“As true as I am sitting here.”

He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping his chin on his breast), and finally said:

“Well — I NEVER felt so absurd before. The Petrified Man has sold everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own ghost! My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendless phantom like me, don’t let this get out. Think how YOU would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself.”

I heard his, stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone, poor fellow — and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath tub.

###

From Wikisource

The Saturday Night Special: “A Ghost Story” by Mark Twain (1870)

Mark Twain February 7, 1871

Mark Twain
February 7, 1871

I TOOK a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whose upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years, until I came. The place had long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and silence. I seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead, that first night I climbed up to my quarters. For the first time in my life a superstitious dread came over me; and as I turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its lazy woof in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom.

I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mould and the darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before it with a comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat there, thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half-forgotten faces out of the mists of the past; listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie softened down to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranquil patter, and one by one the noises in the street subsided, until the hurrying foot-steps of the last belated straggler died away in the distance and left no sound behind.

The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I arose and undressed, moving on tiptoe about the room, doing stealthily what I had to do, as if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it would be fatal to break. I covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant shutters, till they lulled me to sleep.

I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I found myself awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. All was still. All but my own heart — I could hear it beat. Presently the bed-clothes began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were pulling them! I could not stir; I could not speak. Still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast was uncovered. Then with a great effort I seized them and drew them over my head. I waited, listened, waited.

Once more that steady pull began, and once more I lay torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked again. At last I roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place and held them with a strong grip. I waited. By and by I felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip. The tug strengthened to a steady strain — it grew stronger and stronger. My hold parted, and for the third time the blankets slid away. I groaned.

An answering groan came from the foot of the bed! Beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. I was more dead than alive. Presently I heard a heavy footstep in my room — the step of an elephant, it seemed to me — it was not like anything human. But it was moving FROM me — there was relief in that. I heard it approach the door — pass out without moving bolt or lock — and wander away among the dismal corridors, straining the floors and joists till they creaked again as it passed — and then silence reigned once more.

When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, “This is a dream — simply a hideous dream.” And so I lay thinking it over until I convinced myself that it WAS a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips and I was happy again. I got up and struck a light; and when I found that the locks and bolts were just as I had left them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my lips. I took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the fire, when — down went the pipe out of my nerveless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp! In the ashes on the hearth, side by side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison mine was but an infant’s’! Then I had HAD a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained.

I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. I lay a long time, peering into the darkness, and listening. Then I heard a grating noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor; then the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my windows in response to the concussion. In distant parts of the building I heard the muffled slamming of doors. I heard, at intervals, stealthy footsteps creeping in and out among the corridors, and up and down the stairs. Sometimes these noises approached my door, hesitated, and went away again. I heard the clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the clanking grew nearer — while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking each move by the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle upon each succeeding step as the goblin that bore it advanced. I heard muttered sentences; half-uttered screams that seemed smothered violently; and the swish of invisible garments, the rush of invisible wings. Then I became conscious that my chamber was invaded — that I was not alone. I heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious whisperings. Three little spheres of soft phosphorescent light appeared on the ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped — two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow. They spattered, liquidly, and felt warm.

Intuition told me they had turned to gouts of blood as they fell — I needed no light to satisfy myself of that. Then I saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and white uplifted hands, floating bodiless in the air — floating a moment and then disappearing. The whispering ceased, and the voices and the sounds, and a solemn stillness followed. I waited and listened. I felt that I must have light or die. I was weak with fear. I slowly raised myself toward a sitting posture, and my face came in contact with a clammy hand! All strength went from me apparently, and I fell back like a stricken invalid. Then I heard the rustle of a garment — it seemed to pass to the door and go out.

When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and feeble, and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged with a hundred years. The light brought some little cheer to my spirits. I sat down and fell into a dreamy contemplation of that great footprint in the ashes. By and by its outlines began to waver and grow dim. I glanced up and the broad gas flame was slowly wilting away. In the same moment I heard that elephantine tread again. I noted its approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the light waned. The tread reached my very door and paused — the light had dwindled to a sickly blue, and all things about me lay in a spectral twilight. The door did not open, and yet I felt a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious of a huge, cloudy presence before me. I watched it with fascinated eyes. A pale glow stole over the Thing; gradually its cloudy folds took shape — an arm appeared, then legs, then a body, and last a great sad face looked out of the vapor. Stripped of its filmy housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant loomed above me!

All my misery vanished — for a child might know that no harm could come with that benignant countenance. My cheerful spirits returned at once, and in sympathy with them the gas flamed up brightly again. Never a lonely outcast was so glad to welcome company as I was to greet the friendly giant. I said:

“Why, is it nobody but you? Do you know, I have been scared to death for the last two or three hours? I am most honestly glad to see you. I wish I had a chair — Here, here, don’t try to sit down in that thing!

But it was too late. He was in it before I could stop him, and down he went — I never saw a chair shivered so in my life. “Stop, stop, You’ll ruin ev–”

Too late again. There was another crash, and another chair was resolved into its original elements.

“Confound it, haven’t you got any judgment at all? Do you want to ruin all the furniture on the place? Here, here, you petrified fool–”

But it was no use. Before I could arrest him he had sat down on the bed, and it was a melancholy ruin.

“Now what sort of a way is that to do? First you come lumbering about the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry me to death, and then when I overlook an indelicacy of costume which would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated people except in a respectable theater, and not even there if the nudity were of YOUR sex, you repay me by wrecking all the furniture you can find to sit down on. And why will you? You damage yourself as much as you do me. You have broken off the end of your spinal column, and littered up the floor with chips of your hams till the place looks like a marble yard. You ought to be ashamed of yourself — you are big enough to know better.”

“Well, I will not break any more furniture. But what am I to do? I have not had a chance to sit down for a century.” And the tears came into his eyes.

“Poor devil,” I said, “I should not have been so harsh with you. And you are an orphan, too, no doubt. But sit down on the floor here — nothing else can stand your weight — and besides, we cannot be sociable with you away up there above me; I want you down where I can perch on this high counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face.”

So he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him, threw one of my red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet fashion, and made himself picturesque and comfortable. Then he crossed his ankles, while I renewed the fire, and exposed the flat, honey-combed bottoms of his prodigious feet to the grateful warmth.

“What is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your legs, that they are gouged up so?”

“Infernal chillblains — I caught them clear up to the back of my head, roosting out there under Newell’s farm. But I love the place; I love it as one loves his old home. There is no peace for me like the peace I feel when I am there.”

We talked along for half an hour, and then I noticed that he looked tired, and spoke of it. “Tired?” he said. “Well, I should think so. And now I will tell you all about it, since you have treated me so well. I am the spirit of the Petrified Man that lies across the street there in the Museum. I am the ghost of the Cardiff Giant. I can have no rest, no peace, till they have given that poor body burial again. Now what was the most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish? Terrify them into it! — haunt the place where the body lay! So I haunted the museum night after night. I even got other spirits to help me. But it did no good, for nobody ever came to the museum at midnight. Then it occurred to me to come over the way and haunt this place a little. I felt that if I ever got a hearing I must succeed, for I had the most efficient company that perdition could furnish. Night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed halls, dragging chains, groaning, whispering, tramping up and down stairs, till, to tell you the truth, I am almost worn out. But when I saw a light in your room to-night I roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness. But I am tired out — entirely fagged out. Give me, I beseech you, give me some hope!”

I lit off my perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed:

“This transcends everything — everything that ever did occur! Why you poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for nothing — you have been haunting a PLASTER CAST of your- self — the real Cardiff Giant is in Albany!

[Footnote by Twain: A fact. The original fraud was ingeniously and fraudfully duplicated, and exhibited in New York as the “only genuine” Cardiff Giant (to the unspeakable disgust of the owners of the real colossus) at the very same time that the latter was drawing crowds at a museum in Albany.]

Confound it, don’t you know your own remains?”

I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread a countenance before.

The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said:

“Honestly, IS that true?”

“As true as I am sitting here.”

He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping his chin on his breast), and finally said:

“Well — I NEVER felt so absurd before. The Petrified Man has sold everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own ghost! My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendless phantom like me, don’t let this get out. Think how YOU would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself.”

I heard his, stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone, poor fellow — and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath tub.

###

From Wikisource

Question of the Day from Ben Huberman at The Daily Post

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Truth Serum”:

Phil Slattery at a literary costume part for charity in 2015, dressed as Lovecraft's Herbert West, Re-animator

Phil Slattery at a literary costume part for charity in 2015, dressed as Lovecraft’s Herbert West, Re-animator

Ben Huberman poses an interesting question:  “You’ve come into possession of one vial of truth serum.  Who would you give it to (with the person’s consent, of course) — and what questions would you ask?”

I would not give it to anyone with their consent.  Their permission implies they are telling me the truth anyway or would if I asked for it.

For a blog specializing in horror, It would be better to ask the following:

Who would you give it to without their knowledge, and by implication, without their consent?

Who would you give it to, without their consent, but with their knowledge?  For example, the s.o.b. you hold in the most contempt is duct-taped in a chair or is strapped onto a surgical table under blinding lights.

Now, under these conditions, what questions would you ask?

Thoughts?  Comments?

Nano Horror from @tweetsthecreeps

Today on Twitter I stumbled on a good source of nano horror:  https://twitter.com/tweetsthecreeps.   Their tagline reads “For when

Grand Guignol poster from grandguignol.com

Grand Guignol poster
from grandguignol.com

horror flash fiction isn’t quite short enough, these tweets seek to elicit a shudder, shock, or wicked laugh within the strict limit of 140 characters.”  I look forward to @tweetsthecreeps submitting to this blog.   Here are four samples:

 

The smell of death was something the neighbors got used to. When an arm came unearthed, everyone assumed it was a Halloween decoration.

 

I’m applying for a job at the blood bank but #MyResumeDoesntMention any of my early job history covering the period from 1837 until 1972.

 

I finally decided who I want to be for Halloween. Her skin will fit me beautifully if I get it off in one piece.

 

I always thought my bed’s warmth was just a matter of quality, ’til I turned in early & saw someone scramble out of it, into the crawlspace.

 

Thoughts?  Comments?

 

“Behind the Curtain” at Jersey Devil Press

At "A Literary Affair" charity dinner in Farmington, NM, as Herbert West, September 12, 2015.

At “A Literary Affair” charity dinner in Farmington, NM, as Herbert West, September 12, 2015.

This I share with you tonight for entertainment and because it addresses one or two issues affecting writers in general.

I was searching for somewhere to publish a very short work (probably nanofiction) of mine tonight and I came across the submission guidelines at Jersey Devil Press.  I love guidelines that show a sense of humor and a free spirit while being straightforward and honest and theirs does just that.   They also offered more detailed guidelines, which I found a quite enjoyable read.  I also found that these guidelines do not provide just good advice for their own publication, they provide good advice that any author submitting to any publication would be wise to heed:  advice on formatting, staying away from overused topics, good taste, sensitive subjects, etc.  As they use at least one or two examples that touch on horror, I thought I would post the part on their selection process tonight for your perusal.   If you have a chance and the time, check out their guidelines on their website and the rest of the publication as well…and maybe submit something as well…and maybe give them a pat on the back for a job well done.

By the way, I ended up not submitting to them, because my story did not meet a requirement.  That’s why I read guidelines.

Thoughts?  Comments?

 

Behind the Curtain

We thought we’d take a moment to shore up our submissions guidelines and give you a little peek into our selection process.

First, our goal: To publish stories non-writers would actually want to read. We prefer funny, weird, and, above all, entertaining; sober melodramas generally don’t fly so well with us. There are certainly exceptions, but that’s largely because they’re exceptional.

Second, previously published works: We accept them, but we want to clarify that a bit. By “previously,” we literally mean “previously.” If it’s currently published, i.e. something that is available online elsewhere, or if it’s part of the book you just released, that seems a little greedy to us. If it’s only on your own personal website or a forum or something, though, don’t sweat it.

Accepting and rejecting story submissions is, by nature, subjective. Short of grading them entirely on quantifiable variables, like the number of adverbs or something, there’s not much we can do to change that. So, to level the playing field a bit, we thought we’d give you a little heads up regarding our own personal peeves and predilections.

Also, a pre-emptive apology to anyone who thinks we’re singling out their story: We’re not. Not a single theme mentioned below is a one-off. These are all popular, repeat offenders that we’re simply not that fond of.

Eirik’s list of things that should be stopped forever:

Vampires. I think Twilight is stupid. I’m sorry, but I haven’t been even moderately interested in vampires since “Angel” got cancelled.

Mob stories. If the entire story is just two guys talking in “goomba” speak, please don’t. I’ve met people with mob ties in real life and they’re generally assholes. And, honestly, you’re never going to out-Soprano the Sopranos.

College professors seducing/being seduced by young, nubile co-eds. What college did you go to where this was actually happening? In general, any regularly used plot line in a porno is a no-no.

Thinly veiled drug metaphors. You think drugs are bad. We get it. We don’t care. At the very least get a thicker veil.

Monica’s justifiable grounds for homicide:

Male writers writing female narrators. While it’s not impossible to do this, the vast majority of men writing women don’t seem to have ever talked to a woman before in their life. If your female narrator is shallow, stupid, and unable to do anything in her life that does not revolve around men, don’t send it.

And if you’re reading this thinking, “Well, of course she’d think this, she’s a woman,” then YOU’RE THE FUCKING PROBLEM. You can keep trying, though, if you really want to. Interesting side note, Monica once stared at a man with such disdain that he actually BURST INTO FLAMES. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Stereotypical minority characters. This kind of goes hand in hand with the above. If you’re writing a black man, try actually talking to one. It’s 2010, people. We shouldn’t be getting offended anywhere near as often as we do by the way people are treating characters of various backgrounds.

Unanimously awful topics:

Erotica. Actually, this one doesn’t bother us, but we’re never going to publish it. If you want to keep sending it though, for our own personal amusement, knock yourself out.

Rape. No. Bad. We don’t really need there to be any more rape in the world than there already is. Monica would also like to clarify that any sort of sexual act perpetrated without both parties’ consent is rape. Again, we’re surprised how often people don’t seem to know what the fuck they’re writing.

Relationship drama. While this seems to be a staple of literature, it is also very often boring as all hell. If your story’s just two people moping around, maybe find somewhere else to send it. If they’re doing it while juggling cats, though, you’ve got our attention.

On the flip side, here are a few things we wouldn’t mind seeing more of:

Strong female voices. We know you’re out there.

A light-hearted view of the world. Fiction does not have to be so God damned grim.

Truly bat-shit insane fiction. If you’re worried that what you just wrote is too ridiculous to be published, send it.

Again, please don’t take any of the above personally. We’re simply giving you a glimpse into our own tastes. We’re not saying that the themes mentioned above are bad or shouldn’t be written about (well, we’re not saying it about most of them anyway), but simply that we’re really not that interested in them. Your story about a bunch of mobsters being raped by vampires may very well be the best story about mobsters getting raped by vampires ever written. It may deserve to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. And we may even say as much. But it doesn’t mean we have to like it.

Besides, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. Of course, you better make damn sure you read THEIR submission guidelines before you start sending shit. I don’t want to get blamed for a rash of vampire stories getting sent to a site looking for memoirs and poetry.

But if your heart’s still set on submitting to JDP, head on over to submishmash