Zombie Gore Manifesto

Zombies are not desperate actors with hours of makeup applied to their faces and bodies. Zombies are not the creatures who run at you from across the television screen while your XBOX internet connection suddenly shorts out during a thunderstorm and you abandon your fellow survivors to the mercy of those creatures that are not zombies. Zombies are not a composite of seven million animated creatures climbing over a wall to get at Brad Pitt’s abs. Zombies are not shouting “trick or treat” outside your door. Zombies do not organize parades and march down the streets of major metropolitan cities. The word “zombie” is not a metaphor or an adjective.

We are surrounded by brick and grafitti, the tombstones

epitaphs of prophets, red and yellow cursive

shapes the cool air, autumnal, worthy of killing trees

freezing earth, fingers

can soften the ground from which nothing will grow

for months. Feet drag shapes across 

sodden hills, the sun is vain

vines vomited upon the brick

tree branches spilling from shattered windows

Zombies are not sleeping beneath the ground.

Hundreds of people want to gather for the convention,

but they don’t know what they want

they don’t know why they walk

they don’t know

cold brick from leaf piles

LEPER CANDLE from VILLAINOUS

Latin from Martian

they want to gather for the convention

pushing into each other, oozing through the cracks 

that border rifts of space.

Zombies do not feel inclined to run. Zombies do not feel inclined to feel inclined. Zombies do not incline. Zombies are not hungry.

Their feet slap the pavement

boots scuff

cement has been ruined by this crowd

weeds growing through cracks are trampled

if only we could escape from the brick 

into the sky

glass has fallen like snow upon this plane

Zombies do not make a sound when they plunge their fingernails into your eye sockets and peel back the flesh to expose what lies beneath the skull. Zombies do not moan or dream. Zombies do not plan to attack someone, and they have no desire to run, for they do not desire. They do not want.

The smell of a thousand garbage dumps rotting

a legion of flies has perished

the worms have starved themselves

the smell of vomit and feces in the sun

the smell of a thousand things 

Zombies do not taste when their teeth scratch across your flesh like the needle on a record player, grazing the surface and making an impression upon the object. Zombies do not acknowledge the blood that fills their mouths, nor do they stop to wipe their hands on their pants. Zombies cannot remember the names of dead presidents.

Colorless renditions of Van Gogh discoloration

gray and black and green

black and black and rot

fingernails curling over shriveling fingertips

these are the knifes that won’t let go

toothless gums in askew jaws

Zombies do not suffer pain when their jaws break upon your skull. Zombies do not stop rending your flesh when their mouths fail to encapsulate enough flesh to stuff their cheeks. Zombies do not carry sticks or learn how to talk on the phone.

Spiders roam over their skulls

leathery ropes once intestines

horror tropes once invested

sound like a rake combing the beach

dead worms dangling from open stomachs

leaking the blood and chunks

undigested man

undigested child

this is the waste they have left

Zombies do not die for they are already dead. Zombies do not eat because they are hungry. Zombies do not hunger for they are no longer aware. Zombies do not exist because they cannot acknowledge themselves. Zombies do not exist because there is nobody to acknowledge them.

“I think therefore I am”

We are enclosed in red brick

They have brought us the truth

and it is violence

icy conception of flesh and bone

the concrete is the color of blood

the caves of the first man were the color of blood

they were always here

pulling faces backward, inside out

swollen tongues expunged

carrying feces in their back pockets

a thousand variations of blank

and blue

Zombies do not care about the blood on their fingers. Zombies do not notice the rain or the snow. Zombies do not step back from flame. Zombies do not have a purpose. Zombies do not exist because they cannot be seen. Zombies do not exist because they have already ripped our hearts from our chests and shoved them down their throats, beating against thorax and vein. Zombies do not vomit your eyes into the sewers. Zombies do not know you have a name. Zombies do not have names.

This is the sewer where the rats

give praise to plague

shadows fade to gray

there is nothing here to eat

a button with a smiling monkey face

floats down the turgid river

but this we cannot see

for we are not here. 

INTERVIEW AT HORROR NEWS!

After nearly one year of editing for Bizarro Pulp Press, our little project is gaining steam. 

Here's an interview over at Horror News in which I discuss what it's like to hang out with weird people, why I decided to dabble in the bizarro genre, and what the heck an apostrophe means to the English language. 

INTERVIEW AT HORROR NEWS.NET!

BOOK REVIEW: Slipway Grey by Mark C. Scioneaux and Dane T. Hatchell

As blood stains the sugar white sands of Pensacola Beach, mysterious disappearances plague the area. But this doesn't stop a group of high school seniors from having one last blowout at an exclusive beach mansion before graduation. But Mandy, the party's host, has plans of her own. 

With a special friend, a massive bull shark she befriended as a child, Mandy plans to work through her teen angst the only way she knows how: with the help of massive jaws and an insatiable appetite for human flesh! 


CLICK HERE TO BUY






I’m a sucker for “throwback” films that remind me of an entire decade. Since horror films are made quite differently now than the ones I used to watch while growing up, I am lucky to find books that can capture the essence of the type of horror fiction that helped define what I understand as horror. I’ve had the pleasure of reading several novels in this “throwback-horror” genre, and I have to say that Slipway Grey is one of my favorites.

The book involves a shark. Teenagers (and a bunch of other people) die gruesomely. Beer and breasts are all over the place. The plot is just as plausible as anything you’d find in a B-movie. How can this book be any good? I felt like I was watching a movie rather than reading a book. The characters’ sexuality seems to ooze from the pages, and I enjoyed the role the shark played in the novel; this is hardly “Jaws.” This is a horror story, and it can’t be transformed into a theme-park ride. Think about all the horror stories that include a bunch of kids going to a secluded vacation spot, and throw a shark into the mix WITH a cold-blooded killer with serious issues, and you’ve got the recipe for an original story. 

I fell in love with the story’s premise, because the murderer was well-characterized and interesting; the psychological element that plays an integral part of a good horror story is present, and it’s worth mentioning. There is character development, something that is typically missing from the horror-film style this book seems to have been inspired by. There were moments when I found myself sympathizing and pitying Mandy, the femme-fatale whom this story focuses on.

The authors kept the story fresh by skipping backward in time on a few occasions; I understand this might frustrate one or two readers, but I needed a break from the hormonal boys to get inside Mandy’s head and learn about her motives and methods. In many ways, she seemed to be a metaphor for the shark; a beautiful creature that can be amicable, but can easily switch into the mindset of a bloodthirsty hunter. 

I didn’t expect to get anything more from this book than blood and sex; I would have been happy just to read a story about a shark that kills a bunch of people who’re stuck in the middle of the ocean somewhere. Readers who habitually pick of Nora Roberts and James Patterson aren’t interested in anything different than what they’ve read before. I wanted to be entertained, and I was pleasantly surprised.  In throwback horror, you’re interested in the kill-count in the quality of the kills, and the authors satisfied my expectations; Hatchell and Scioneaux combined their talents to provide a story that doesn’t grow stale after the first three chapters. After all, haven’t we seen all these movies before? No… not this one… 

BOOK REVIEW: Nightmares From a Lovecraftian Mind by Jordan Krall

From Jordan Krall, the author of TENTACLE DEATH TRIP and FISTFUL OF FEET comes this collection of Lovecraftian tales of horror both cosmic and personal. This is a collection of cryptic weird fiction... dreamlike and ominous in its style and subject matter. Krall goes beyond the tropes of Mythos literature and has presented the reader with an original approach to Lovecraftian fiction.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE IN THE U.S.








To suggest that literary horror has been severely lacking in new voices and talent is an understatement. With a flooded market of cheap Kindle porn and video-game zombies, underground literature is a growing genre meant for readers who enjoy art and the beauty of the imagination. This collection of nightmares is brought to you by a brain dipped in paint and smeared upon a canvas of nude Hemingway caricatures. When we think of body-painting, we should also think of brain-painting as a legitimate medium of expression that doesn't require or adhere to literary rules or conventions that serve as fodder for the social media, reality-TV junkie masses (me included).

Many of the stories in this collection have been published elsewhere; I mention this because when it comes to any type of collection or anthology, the book's composition is just as important, if not more so, than any individual story. Although many of these pieces would be interesting on their own and wouldn't suffer for it, I felt like the dynamic between the selections served as something of a psychic connection... a psychosis of artistry and spherical infinity.

Repetition is a hallmark of many a good poem or rendition of madness, and here we have images and ideas manifested through different mediums. Each piece is different than the other, yet there is a semblance of consciousness which indicates these are, indeed, nightmares from one imagination, the mental expulsion of lingering confessions or ruminations on literature that might be revealed on Freud's couch.

One has to wonder if sleep is an inspiring medium, a dream-state in which the mind can be tapped and explored, a vast ocean of stars as inescapable or oblivious to definition as outer space. There may or may not be a message or theme, a coherent plot or purpose, but rather there is the journey through breaking hallways or hallways that are seemingly repairing themselves. The prose seems an organic construction that lives and breathes, as if it were never typed but rather mentioned in a confessional in which nobody is there to hear the words.

Obviously, I feel like this work is beautiful and relevant. The afterword illustrates the progression of a Lovecraftian art-philosophy that doesn't follow the conventions of a monster mythos, but rather the idea of darkness and shadow joining forces to rape goodness and light to spawn a brain-shaped creature that is gray in color and composition. "Nightmares of a Lovecraftian Mind" is a collection that lives and breathes, an inspiration to writers everywhere who have no wish to join forces with the current ruination of vomit-lit that plagues our culture. Here is something both contemporary and ancient, something unearthed and worth burying again in a time capsule in a temple dedicated to the resurrection of the sun. Highly recommended.

DELETED SCENE FROM GRAVITY COMICS MASSACRE (Blog Exclusive)

 deleted scene



“Special edition comics are a gimmick.”

Brian looked up at Mom, wondering if the conversation between the two men was going to influence her; she might keep him from buying the Superman comic that was behind the counter. She’d promised he could have it if he saved his money from doing chores around the house. For almost a year, he saved up, dreaming of the moment he would approach the counter, beaming with a smile on his face. He couldn’t wait to tell the man behind the counter he was finally going to buy it. Finally.

The Death of Superman with the limited edition holofoil cover.

Hopefully, nobody bought it. After a year of saving, he couldn't imagine how he would feel if somebody else bought it, first.

But two guys were talking loudly, their voices carrying over the boxes that were packed with comics tucked snugly in their plastic shields, the white backboards preventing them from being bent. 

"Yeah, I don't buy special editions. A ripoff. Defeats the purpose of reading comics. I buy them for the stories, you know?"

The other man nodded.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Mom said.

No. It was happening. Brian had to have the comic. 

Gravity Comics was the best comic store in the state, even if the man behind the counter was an asshole. Nobody else had the Superman comic Brian wanted. Buying the rare book was an adventure; scrubbing dishes, cleaning up dog shit, taking out the trash. All he had to do was keep Mom convinced it was a good idea. 

And the mean guy was behind the counter. Doodling on his sketchpad like he always did. The owner of Gravity Comics.

Mom hated him.

He had to be brave. The man was going to make fun of him, maybe try to convince him that Superman was a shitty character. For too long, he’d been dreaming about this moment. The man never thought he was going to buy the comic. Not in a million years.

Mr. Shears looked up at him, a smile touching the corners of his face. His eyebrows darted up to in pyramid configurations. Mom said he looked like a fat Jack Nicholson. 

“Look who it is,” Mr. Shears dropped his pen onto the sketchpad. 

“Hello,” Mom tried to be friendly.

“I’m glad you’re here today,” Mr. Shears licked his lips and mocked them with false courtesy. “You should know we’re going to stop selling Superman comics. No more Superman. I’ve also contacted DC and told them to stop making them. Or at least, they should do another fight with Batman, because Batman always wins. If they don’t make the comic…” he drew his thumb across his neck in a mock-slash.

“Did somebody already buy it?” Mom’s voice shook like a penny in a jar. 

“Nobody buys Superman. Superman sucks. Everyone knows that.”

Brian had argued with some of his classmates about the same topic over and over again, and he could always convince them that Batman was inferior. If only he was brave enough to stand up to Mr. Shears…

“I don’t know why we keep coming back here,” Mom said.

“To please your pussy of a son,” Mr. Shears said. “You think I need your business? I’ve got the biggest comic store in Arizona. Nobody sells more Batman or X-Men than I do.”

Now was the time to strike. One day, he could write and draw his own comic about this moment, the day he bought The Death of Superman from Mr. Shears. 

“I’ve got the money.”

Mr. Shears stared at him. He straightened to his full height, his broad shoulders blocking the display of expensive, rare comics behind him. 

Brian swallowed. Mom adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose; she wasn’t going to be any help. She didn’t like Mr. Shears, and wasn’t about to stand up to him. She knew how much Brian loved coming to this store. She would never spoil this moment.  

“I’m not selling it.”

The other customers in the store weren’t talking anymore, and Brian was afraid they could hear his heart beating. How many times had Mr. Shears been nasty to them, too? They should be on his side, standing up for him. 

“I’ve got the money,” Brian said.

“I heard you the first time, you little twit,” Mr. Shears stepped back from the display behind him.

There it was. The Death of Superman, limited edition holofoil cover.

But there was something different about it this time.

It was autographed.

“In your wildest dreams,” Mr. Shears said.

***

“Brian, will you allow me to comment on the content of this piece?”

“I don’t think you’re qualified to judge art, but go ahead.”

“Not qualified?”

“You wanted to know about my mother, so then I start talking about her and you interrupted me. That’s rude.”

“That has nothing to do with my qualifications.”

“I don’t want to talk about my mother anymore.”

“We were making progress…”

“Were we?”

“I just want to figure out how this scene fits into the story. I was under the impression that you’ve been to Gravity Comics before, but at the end of the story, you meet Damien Shears and you act like you’ve never seen him before. He acts like he has no idea who you are. So are you adding a scene to your story, and throwing your mother in just to appease me?”

“Do you think she’s pretty?”

“She looks like Miko. An older Miko.”

“What do you mean? Miko’s Asian. My mom wasn’t Asian.”

“The style. I’m talking about the style.”

“Now you’re a critic. Did we already talk about your qualifications?”

“Well. This is issue number zero, right? A special edition?”

“Zero issues aren’t special editions. You don’t know anything about comics.”


***

Brian withdrew the wad of cash from his pocket.

“Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed here?” Mr. Shears asked.

The sketchpad was lying open on the counter, and Brian could see what Mr. Shears had been working on. He felt like a part of his head was opening up and an idea was being placed inside like a corner puzzle piece that had fallen onto the floor from the table, a piece that had been sought after for hours, the perpetrator of frustration and arguments about whether or not the entire puzzle should be disassembled and returned to the store, or, at the very least, the phone number on the box should be called and the piece should be sent to them for free (but, there wasn’t a number on the box to call). 

Brian wasn’t thinking about puzzles or puzzle pieces, because Mr. Shears was standing back from the counter as if inviting Brian to look upon the art. 

“I don’t kill people because I want to,” Mr. Shears said. “I kill them because I’m supposed to.”

For a moment, Brian forgot about the Superman comic, and he forgot anyone else was in the store. On the sketchpad was the rough draft of a comic that featured people browsing for comic books in a comic book store. There was enough detail for Brian to recognize the characters. In one of the panels were the two men who’d been talking about limited edition books. Another panel showed Brian standing alone with money at his feet. 

“You’re pretty good,” Brian said.

“I know I’m good. I’m the best, and that’s why I’ve been asked to kill people.”

“I draw too, but I like to do something more like Anime.”

“That shit’s too easy. You’re telling me you draw Superman comics with an Anime style?”

Mr. Shears chuckled. Both hands were on his shaking belly. Brian could see the sweat stains in the armpits of his shirt. 

The money wasn’t in Brian’s hand anymore. Did he put it back in his pocket? He tried to peer over Mr. Shears’ shoulders for another glimpse of the Superman book. The rare holofoil cover. He’d worked so hard to buy it. He wasn’t afraid of Mr. Shears; he was just another artist who couldn’t make it and treated people like dirt. He was just another dreamer.

“Why do you like Batman so much?” Brian asked. Maybe if he sucked up enough, Mr. Shears would stop acting like a jackass. Every artist had an ego.

Mr. Shears stopped laughing and his eyebrows scrunched together. “You have no idea what you’re asking, you little shit. LOOK AROUND YOU! THIS IS REAL ART!”

All the tables and their boxes full of comics were gone. Bare floorboards replaced carpet. The windows were covered in pale, leathery drapes that looked like snakeskin. 

Sunlight against the strange curtains shifted the spectrum of colors between gold and red, brown and white. The store smelled like wet cardboard. 

Brian’s worst fear was coming true. Too many times, he had nightmares about his mom pulling into a parking space in the street. They would be sitting in the car and looking at the CLOSED sign in the front window.

“No,” Brian said.

“What did you expect me to do? You would do the same thing if you were me. Listen, you little brat—I’m an artist. I decorate in my spare time. My mother usually expects me to bring my work home with me, but I’m FREE to to do the art I've always wanted to do! Mother wishes she was half the artist I am. So I had her locked up in the loony bin…”

There wasn’t a single comic in the store. Nothing behind the counter. 

“Not even the aliens can tell me what to do! And this is what happens to fools who don’t understand comics! These idiots didn’t understand ART!”

Mr. Shears pointed to his sketchpad at the two men who had been badmouthing special editions.

Brian’s hands searched his pockets for the money again. Maybe Mom had it in the car with her. 

“You wish you could draw like me,” Mr. Shears said. “This is natural talent, like I said. If mother were here, she would suggest I include you, BUT SHE’S A LUNATIC! If she had half a brain, she would have told the aliens to kill all the dumb brats who prefer to draw Anime garbage.”

Brian looked at the drapes and wondered if his mom worried about him. 

“Um, I want to buy The Death of Superman limited edition with the holofoil cover.”


***

“You were there when he killed those people? He let you live? That would explain why you wanted to go back with your friends.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Damien Shears was talking about his mother. You deflected my question, and you changed the story.”

“Shit.” 

CLICK HERE TO BUY GRAVITY COMICS MASSACRE IN THE US

CLICK HERE TO BUY GRAVITY COMICS MASSACRE IN THE UK