subtropic topics

I entered my story, "El Dorado," in the Chizine 14th Annual Short Story contest... and I got an Honorable Mention!

They're a pro market, so I'm very psyched about it. Still no immediate plans to quit my day job, however. (Damn it!)

My violent pulp/horror short story, "The Lizard Pit," is available at Well Told Tales for download or just click and listen.

"A relationship between a low-life funeral director and a malevolent spirit turns messy … very, very messy.

"Explicit language, violence and sexuality."

http://welltoldtales.com/category/podcast/

It's absolutely free.

Hey campers, time for my semiannual post.

I hope that anyone still on my friends list is doing well. I may drift back into posting here again, don't hold your breath, though.

Some changes in the subtropics, but we're doing fine:
- my father-in-law died from colon cancer. RIP, Big Jim.
- Mrs. Sub was a victim of the mortgage meltdown and her company closed. Plenty of silver lining; she's digging the stay-at-home mom thing and is in low stress mode.
- my parents are actually living in the same house together, and it seems to be working out. These things take time (67 years of marriage, in this case.)

Now, about ME! I've started a new blog that's (supposed to be) centered around writing. I recently began using a pseudonym and decided to let this rather odd person (he's not like me at all, oh noooo...) be the man behind the words.

Why the pseudonym? Most of my stories are pretty damned weird, and I imagined the parents of one of my son's friends doing google-checks on anyone that might associate with their little darlings. Finding that the father of your kid's friend writes violent, freakazoid pulp fiction stories might not be such a good thing. I've let junior read some of my stories... he knows all the basic bad words already, and at 11 he's showing some creativity in usage himself. Not surprising, since (begin beaming) he aced -- 100% -- the writing section of the fifth grade FCAT and reads at the high school level. (End beaming)

Here's the blog: Horace James: The Web Presence ("another nutjob writes about Florida.")

Check it out!

One of my previously published stories, "The Lizard Pit," will be available as a podcast on Well Told Tales. Check it out, it's scheduled for July. They have some quality stories.

See ya on the midway, pilgrims.

See? I told you I was going to post more.

This is perhaps the best news story ever. I just couldn't keep it in.

Assuming it may disappear off the Miami Herald servers after a few days, I've pasted the text behind the cut.( Read more... )

This story has everything you'd want in a Florida news story: sex with a goat, an SGR (serial goat rapist,) the death of beloved family pet (pregnant, no less,) DNA analysis (CSI Willowes, report to Animal Services. Bring rape kit.) clueless state officials and best of all, that specialty of Florida Free Enterprise: t-shirts!

Baaaa means No!

Good thing they're making this illegal. It's not fair that two male Floridians can't get married, but anyone can fuck livestock with impunity.

Happy new year, and feliz a˜o, citizens.

I plan on posting more. Really. At least until I forget all about it.

In honor of the new leaf I've flipped over, I got rid of the colorful page theme and the fucking mangoes and have a simple white on black thing going. Nothing against mangoes, there's no fruit I'd rather have a consensual sexual relationship with, but it's time to move on.

Life updates. Some good, some not so:

1. writing's going well. Have been published three times, paid twice, for short stories. See previous entries for links. Have gotten some very positive feedback on my story, "The Lizard Pit," which was published in the first issue of Necrotic Tissue. Go to their site and download the .pdf. Registration is free, and the quality of artwork was a real surprise. Seriously, check it out. Unless you're scared.

2. writing's not going well. My attention span seems to be down to about 12 seconds. I have several million uncompleted stories - very frustrating. Maybe I should get a ritalin prescription.

3. weird year, familywise. My parents are living together after over three years. It's a long strange tale, yet somehow I'm feeling good about the situation. At least I can keep track of them when they're under one roof, and the costs are lower.

4. my in-laws are not doing as well, coping with Alzheimer's and other issues, including the hospitalization of Granddad for what we've just found out is cancer. Not a good situation, but we're hoping for the best.

5. must face facts that my kid is, well, a very smart kid. At ten, he reads at the eleventh grade level, and has tested off the scale on math and everything else. He's kind, affectionate and very, very quirky. A delightful challenge.

6. Work sucks, but it's survivable. I keep my head down and trudge forward.

7. Life in South Florida remains weird as ever. Thank the lord for that, it's a continual inspiration. (As my next post will illustrate... stay tuned.)

I seem to be on a roll.

(Actually, I taste better with butter on a croissant, but whatever...)

Just in time for the Holiday Season, you can read my story, The Sawing of the Yule Log, in the December issue of Red Pulp Underground. I promise you'll never think of Santa in quite the same way again. I can't believe anybody would actually publish this puppy. Apparently, it got the editor into the holiday spirit(s); he said, "James, keep writing. You're enough to make me want to drink, alot. hehe.. thank you..."

Another story of mine, "The Lizard Pit," was accepted for the inaugural issue of Necrotic Tissue, it's a new ezine dedicated to scary stuff, so apparently I didn't overpower the scary parts with the bizarro goofy parts. The story won't be up until next month, I'll email you a copy if you're interested. It's set in the Everglades and involves a horny third-rate undertaker, a violence-loving patch of fog and one hollow-point bullet.

Tropical storm Noel is boppin' around in the subtropics and is currently heading in our general direction. It's expected to veer east and not make landfall and, really, be rather well-behaved for a tropical system, for which I highly commend it. However, at about 7:30 EDT our power went out for about an hour.

No big deal... after Andrew we were down for three weeks. But what's interesting is that our street is apparently the electrical Great Divide of Dade county. Our side lost power, across the street did not. In previous storms, it's been a mixed bag. We lost power for five days after Wilma, but not after Katrina; for the Other Side it was the opposite.

You can tell we have a good neighborhood, because each time there were extension cords stretched across the street, neighbors sharing the grid.

Joke:

A man goes to the doctor. The doctor says, "I got bad news for you. You've got cancer, and you've got Alzheimer's."

The says, "Wow, thank God I don't have cancer."

(from a Gilbert Gottfried disk, "Dirty Jokes." Also contains a twenty-minute kick-ass version of "The Aristocrats.")

Happiness is sitting on the front edge of three-day weekend.

Taking the day off, the kid's got it off anyway so the adults decided to join in. No major plans! The best kind of weekend, just do what happens, maybe ride the bikes, watch a movie, take out a kayak, sleep, read, eat, putter around the house.

Work goes on, it sucks, it's pointless, it's stupid, but I need the money. But oh, man... if the place closed it's doors tomorrow, I would experience a blast of euphoria that wouldn't outweigh the upcoming angst of being out of work, but damn... in the end, it'd be like drugs, a hell of a rush and then you crash.

This a widget thingy that links to a site called "EditRed" where I have some of my stories up. A lot of my flash fiction stories are public, as is a new short story I put up, "El Dorado." Other stuff is 'reader' status, but you can join for free if you're interested. Like other writing-type sites, there's a lot of really crappy writing (some of it mine) and some really good writing. Worth checking out.

Okay, here's that widget:



(Did it work?)

((edit - I changed it to a regular link.)

Looks like I finally found someone with bad enough taste to publish one of my stories.

There's an outfit called Subatomic Books that liked my story, "That Smell," enough to pay me $.01 per word. Guess I can quit my day job now, this puppy's gonna net me a cool $18.93.

They're putting out an anthology of stories that combine the worlds of rock & roll and speculative fiction. Which I think is what we used to call sci-fi or horror or something, still not clear on the concept.

It's rock & roll ghost story involving high-speed death, plane crashes, open-skull brain injuries, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Here's the first couple paras:

Squinting through a massive brainfuck of a headache, Dale Barrett stared down at the remains of his car. Despite drinking a fifth of Jack Daniels and eating a couple of crude tablets his buddy Dean called "pink fuckers," he was no longer buzzed in the least.
The back of his throat twitched at the acrid smell of automotive death - fumes of gasoline, antifreeze and hot lubricants oozing out onto the asphalt. His pride and joy – his 1974 Camaro SS – was wedged like a doorstop under the back-end of an an old tanker truck, now raised off its dual tandem wheels. The truck was otherwise undamaged. Even the chrome-plated girls on the truck’s mudflaps were unscathed and maintained their bare-breasted windswept poise.

It's one of those weird internet business models where they make money by giving it away. Right. Supposedly, you buy if you like it, so you're free to read the story from their website, assuming they're still in business by then. If you'd like to see the entire mess email me and I'll send it over. Great Halloween story for the kiddies.

Although I appreciate a good perception-altering poem, I'm not a poet.

One of the few books of poetry in my collection is a book of total and complete literary awesomeness, a green-covered book I picked up many years ago for two dollars - a close out.

It's an exhaustive collection called The Limerick, edited by G. Legman. The binding is falling apart and the pages are falling out of it, but I carefully pry it open once in a while for a laugh.

These are the most obscene limericks I've ever sniggered over, and some are works of staggering... limerickiness. "1700 examples with notes, variants and index." Wowzers.  Mr. Legman clearly spent a lot of time on this work, and claims that "the bawdy limerick has held its place ... for a century, as the chosen vehicle of cultivated, if unrepressed, sexual humor in the English language."

Furthermore, sez Legman, "the limerick is, and was originally, an indecent verse-form. The "clean" sort of limerick is an obvious palliation, its content insipid, it rhyming artificially ingenuous, its whole pervaded with a frustrated nonsense ... has never been of the slightest interest to anyone."

At first I thought he was talking about one of my short stories. But really, I can't say I disagree, G-rated limericks are lame, and he's certainly backed up his claim with some classics. The book is conveniently organized by subject, including:
Organs
Strange Intercourse
Oral Irregularity
Abuses of Clergy
Excrement
Gourmands
Virginity
Diseases
Losses
Weak Sisters
Chamber of Horrors

... and so on.

For today's lesson, I have prepared a selection from the "Zoophily" section for your reading enjoyment.

A habit obscene and bizarre
Has taken ahold of papa:
    He brings home young camels
    And other odd mammals
And gives them a go at mama

Okay, maybe 'bizarre' and 'papa' only rhyme in Boston, but really - that's the kind of family values I'd like to see of in this country.

I'll leave you with this two-parter:

A spinster in Kalamazoo
Once strolled in the dark by the zoo
    She was seized by the nape
    And raped by an ape
And she murmured, "A wonderful screw."

And she added, "You're rough, yes, and hairy,
But I hope - yes I do - that I marry
    A man with a prick
    Half as stiff and as thick
As the kind that you zoo-keepers carry."

This concludes our adventures in poetry for this evening. Go home, but watch out for those zoo-keepers.

Got up at four in the AM on Monday to watch the Perseid meteor shower. The three of us climbed the ladder and got on the roof (no easy task to get Mr. Acrophobia on a ladder.) and watched the Northeast sky for an hour and saw twelve of the streaky little freaks, not bad considering we're southwest of Miami and are looking through the light pollution. It was fun, the kind of think he can tell his kids.

The day before, I had gone on the roof and sat and looked around at our beautiful yard, the oaks and mango and avocado and other mostly native trees; the birds and butterflies; the lovely blue pool, our nice suburban 4/3 ranch (with a new roof) on a half-acre in a good neighborhood and my nice pickup truck and I thought, "shit, what the hell do I have to be depressed about?"

Which makes me feel like an asshole for feeling depressed. Which I was, for the past couple of weeks, but today I seem to have risen from my ashes. It's been cyclical. I think it's a male menopause thing (no thanks, ladies, I don't want to trade my male menopause for the female version.) Or maybe I'm manic-depressive (a much cooler term than bipolar - Jimi Hendrix never wrote a song called "Bipolar".)

Speaking of maniac... have been writing like one. (Look! I'm doin' it now!) My third attempt at a novel after a few months of shorter pieces. It's about an Amelia Earhart-like character and her navigator who, like the originals, disappear without a trace during an equatorial circumnavigation. My version involves multiple universes, time travel and (naturally) a flying monkey. I wrote an inter-primate sex scene, but not sure if it works. We'll see.

I'm going to try and post more often. No, really.

Yes, kiddies, I'm still on the planet. Not sure which one it is, however. The heat and rampant fungal growth lead me to believe it may be Venus. Or the dark, unwashed side of some little used moon where they speak mostly Spanish.

(Spanish Moon - Little Feat. Great song. Tangent. Sorry.)

Kid just turned 10 today, a decade of life as a parent. So far, we haven't screwed him up too bad. He's spent the summer growing his hair, telling Bush jokes and writing stories. A chip of the old blockhead.

Really, we're all fine here in Miamuh.  The smell of rotting mangoes hovers over the back yard. The tree's so big that I can't reach them to cut them down, and the ones that fall... well, it's a long way to the ground. Splat.

Have finally resigned myself to the fact that my sister and father are lunatics. Not the pleasant kind, either.  Had back-to-back visits with sis (only because my Mom's living there,)  then with the old man and oh. my. fucking god those people are <i>out of their minds!</i> They have almost the same personalities and therefore hate each other's guts.

At least my dad is relatively quiet about it. If you don't mind depressive brooding.

In my sister's case, she's quite happy to recount every single thought she has on the subject, 65 years of stewed bile served up fresh for everyone within earshot.  Whether you want to hear it or not.

Fortunately, I take after Mom, psychologically. Lately, though, I'm beginning to wonder if the fact that we were never able to have kids via biological methods was a blessing. The thought of a new version of Dad or Sis. Oy.  Definite Antichrist potential here.

My father revealed to me that the woman he'd been seeing had Alzheimer's and has been taken out of the state by her son. Aside from the fact that Dad never told her that Mom was still alive (he told she was 'gone,' as in pushing up daisies when she was actually 200 miles up the road) he has now revealed that he was thinking about going up there to get her to sign her house over to him. He knows he could convince her. And he probably could. 

Wow. Sweet.

That's almost as bad as... oh, never mind. Don't get me started.

Hope everyone has been well,  healthy and prosperous and all that good stuff.

Last month, my son joined the drama club at school.

It's official. He's a munchkin!

Actually, he's got several roles - Oz townsperson, and possibly flying monkey.  He's a versatile dude. But really - what parental heart wouldn't swell with pride upon learning that his son was going to be a munchkin? Much more entertaining than a footballer or track star. And he gets  to demonstrate his song and choreography moves. Over and over and over...

Jay was halfway through the sports section. He switched to help-wanted as Dee walked in.

A female wrist decorated with an unfastened bracelet appeared before his eyes. “You following up on yesterday's interview, babe?’’

“Of course.’’ (snap.)

“And then?’’

“Well... got some more calls to make, saw a couple new ads in today's paper.’’

Dee stood with her back to him, waiting for him to zip her dress. “How 'bout Larry? You said you'd call him last week.’’

“Oh. (zzzzip.) Yeah. Thanks for reminding me.’’

Dee sighed. He looked up at her neck, let his eyes drift downward, tracing the familiar curve of waist to that round ass, somewhat tamed by the unseen layer of panty hose within. She was hot in work clothes.

She turned to face him. “Please... call him. He knows everybody, and I think you guys would hit it off.’’

Larry. For the past two years, they'd gone to his Christmas party. Biggest damned tree he'd ever seen, a hulking glitz-encrusted cone of green. Each attendee was bestowed with their very own handpainted ornament: “A Special Gift from Larry!!!’’ on one side and his company logo on the other.

It was the exclamation points that really pissed Jay off.

“'kay, honey.’’

She bent over and pecked his cheek. “Make my lunch?’’

“By your briefcase.’’

“Ok.’’ Another sigh. “I need to go. Love you.’’

“Love you too, babe.’’

Jay listened to her steps recede, the door to the laundry room open and...

Wait for it, wait for it...

...the scream.

“What's wrong, babe?’’

Dee returned to the kitchen, her face pale, jaws clenched in terror.

“Aww, was it... a roach?’’

Dee leaned against the wall, finger and thumb spread to indicate the intruder's size: two inches, minimum.

Jay armed himself with his left slipper and advanced, ready for battle.

He closed the door and whacked the laundry room floor a few times. Sound effects. He pulled a small wooden box from his pocket, opened it. He reached down and gently llfted the long-dead insect by its hind leg, laid it in its box and slipped the box back into his pocket.

He returned to the kitchen. “Ok. All gone now.’’

“Thanks, baby,’’ she said, shaking, in his arms. “What would I do without you?’’

Cassie fingered the blade of her knife, watching the moon’s reflection in the nickel-plating. So smooth – so sharp. She dragged her thumb across its fine edge and had to fight an urge to cut. To part skin. She used to cut the inside of her thigh, and liked how the soft skin and fat submitted to the hard blade, leaving a tiny red cunt.

Not now, not now. She’d lost enough blood – maybe, probably – it was hard to see. The blanket was wet, but not just with blood.

It was born dead, no surprise there. It hadn’t ever moved that she could tell. Born dead. It dawned on her that this was the funniest thing she’d ever thought of. Winner take all in this life, and this one had ‘em all beat from the start. She’d advanced the little fucker all the way to the finish line, cunt to grave, all in one shot.

It hadn’t hurt as bad as she’d expected. A waste of good oxy. Probably because the damn thing was so tiny. Hell, she’d taken dumps that were more painful. And that’s all this was, in the end. A dump, a human turd, just like the father - whoever he was. Wipe off and move on.

Laying under the tree, in the dark, she’d imagined it as a dark, limp Barbie doll with a big head. For a moment, she thought there was another, but remembered it was just the afterbirth. It all just lay there on the blanket, sticky death steaming in the cold night air. Momma had told her once about the smell of birthing, that it was like smelling a piece of some ancient dream. It just smelled bad to her and she covered it up.

She’d played under this tree when she was a girl. This was the counting tree for hide and seek. Later, a meeting place for high school lovers. Yesterday, she’d come out here with a shovel and dug a hole. The tree was the only shelter she could think of, no questions, no condemnation.

She was tired, sleepy. A thought came to her: she should carve the little thing’s initials into the tree. A big old oak tree like that could live for hundreds of years. But initials would require a name, and to choose a name would require information she didn’t have.

What was wrong with her? She could hardly hold her head up; clearly, she wasn’t thinking straight. But the question was now an itch she had to scratch. She reached into the bundled blanket and touched strange cool sticky flesh, fingers seeking… a foot, a leg…

Lauren. A pretty name, classy. Now she just needed to rest. It was getting cold. She pulled the bundle up next to her, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

Yeah, I'm still around.

Think about this: the worst part of being invisible is that you can see through your own eyelids. No way to block out the stuff you don't want to see except to run away.

Speaking of running away... had an accident the other day. One of those "only in Miami" accidents. I was making a turn and got slammed behind my rear right wheel. I'm driving my pickup, so no big deal, spun me around about 90 degrees, wiped out my bumper and some sheet metal. The other car, a Ford Focus, was totaled.

Now, here's where the fun starts: there were three 16 or 17-year-old girls in the car. It was a rental. They all got out of the car, and the driver (or one of them) made a call from a neighbor's house. Meanwhile, the two others had started walking down the side street (I thought maybe they lived in the neighborhood) and called to the driver, and then... they ran away!

Turns out the car was stolen. One of them left their cellphone in the car - we're obviously dealing with professional criminals here, folks - and the were able to figure out that at least one of them was a runaway.

According to the people who came out of their house after the accident, one of them had hurt her hand. Hope it wasn't serious.

My truck drives ok, less than $4k damage with a $500 deductible. I think they should have at least given me her cell phone, I figure the driver was probably talking on it when she ran into me.

El Nino weather down here today: gray skies and drizzle. Not such a bad thing for the holiday season, looks like these clouds might make some snow, if the temperature would only drop 50 degrees.

Have almost completed the Holiday Photo Card ritual, printing the last batch as I type. Just have to slap on the address labels and get 'em the hell out of here.

Looking at the addressees, we're almost nationwide. Florida and Illinois dominate, but we have the south, midwest, and western states covered. Not too many in the northeast, friends and family we had up that way seem to have either dropped off the list, died or relocated. Guess you could just consider death a relocation without a forwarding address.

I bought my kid a set of those shoes with the wheels in the heel. I saw that they now have them in adult sizes. Oh, yeah, I'm gettin' me some of those puppies. They are wicked kewl.

Also got him a skateboard. (Unlike most parents, we're actually trying to distract him from reading... he's like a machine, a digestor of the written word. He just finished reading all the Potter books a second time, has about three books open at any given time.) He didn't ask for a board, but I was like a first generation skateboarder, got my board in 1966. It was a wooden board with hard plastic roller skate wheels - still a vast improvement over my friend's metal-wheeled job, which would grind to an immediate halt upon contact with a pebble.

Helmets? Hah.

I have a feeling I may be putting more miles on it than he does.

My main excuse for not posting much is that I've been taking an online class at Gotham Writer's Workshop. It was their basic fiction class, 10 weeks. Just ended on Monday. It cost $400 but was worth it. It made me write reel good, I think.

The instructor was great, but what I was concerned about going in was: what would my fellow students be like? We would be criticizing each other's work, and I was imagining little old ladies writing about their dear departed schnauzers, or repressed teenage girls with vaguely erotic stories involving unicorns and elves and crap. I mean, it could have gotten pretty ugly.

No problem. The class was loaded with some really talented people. A couple of published writers, and some really interesting voices. None more interesting than an English gentleman named Joe in his 70's, and I'm sure that he wouldn't mind if I posted an excerpt from one of his submissions that detailed the demise of one Walter when a feat of aerial fornication went horribly, horribly wrong:

"It was agreed that Percy would operate outside the cottage by way of the open window, more for the sake of his big boots, then for any consideration of the propriety of sharing a room with naked flying lady, swooping down on a rampant dick. Walter wanted him to avert his eyes during the action, but as Percy pointed out he must watch play, to be able to synchronize the lowering of the flying lady with the raising of Walters dick. This was agreed, and then things stopped for a while while Percy dashed home for his glasses. By the cringe, he wasn't going to miss any of this.

( Read more... )

When I read this masterpiece I knew I was among kindred spirits.

Damn. Haven't been here on LJ Way for awhile, and... wait, ohgodno it's happening again... flashback... tracers...

there's a fog upon LJ
and my friends have lost their way
we'll be over soon they said
now they've lost themselves instead

please don't be long
please don't you be very long
please don't be long
or I may be asleep

Sorry.

Well, you might ask, what the hell has subtropic been doing.

1. Writing my ass off. (500 times, single spaced. "my ass off... my ass off... etc.") It's going. Not as expected, but it's going.
2. Preparing for weekend visit to see 87-year-old father. (Be strong, be strong, be strong...) May be an alcoholic by the time I get home.
3. Musical Obsession: The Drive-By Truckers. Downloading and listening to everything I can get my hands on by this band. This may sound pathetically cliched but these guys have restored my faith in rock and roll music. No fucking shit. I've melted the speakers in my pickup. I'd try to tell you why but I've decided Zappa was right: writing about music is like dancing about architecture. The album "The Dirty South" is a good place to start if you're interested.
4. Went to the Tobacco Road 94th anniversary. It's the oldest bar in Miami. Used to be a blues bar (I played there in the 80's) but now it's more of a jam rock venue. It was fun, but too crowded and my Stoner's Paranoia acted up a little.
5. I live about a mile and a half from O.J. Simpson. The comm links were sprouting like corn over there when I drove by on the way home.
6. Probably some other shit I forgot about. Oh, I was feeling kinda depressed last week. Basic middle-aged mortality whine. Really, really boring stuff. Seems to have moved off.

oh, no, another flashback....

now it's past my bed I know
and I'd really like to go
soon will be the break of day
sitting here in LJ Way................................................

You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time.

Abraham Lincoln


Finally... back to some sanity.