Buy all seven 2013 New Bizarro Author Series titles, write a review for each one, and get a grab-bag bonzanza.
From author Tiffany Scandal:
Something NEW: all of this year’s (Eraserhead Press) NBAS authors are contributing random gadgets/trinkets/awesome shit so that we can put together awesome grab bags for the people who review all seven of the NBAS books. You might get wind-up tit toys, a voucher to grab Bix’s junk, a handwritten love letter - who knows. The point: there will be a small gift from each author in the package. Message any one of us (Andy de Fonseca, Amanda Billings, Jamie Grefe, Bix Skahill, Daniel Vlasaty, Dustin Reade, myself) with links to the reviews. Once it’s verified, we send you what might be the best (or worst) care package you’ve ever received in your life.
This is probably the best short story I’ve ever written. It’s also the one I had the most help with from a couple highly perceptive and imaginative editors. You know who you are, Tom. It’s the story of a party gone wrong. It’s a love story. It has blobs that will annihilate you. And Shayla…
I hope you enjoy this story. If I had ten of these gems in me, I could sleep a happy man, but in the meantime, I’m still stuck at that party, probably out on the back deck watching the pontoon make ripples in the black water.
The link is embedded in the first sentence, but if you’ve made it this far: click here.
NOW AVAILABLE in PAPERBACK from Eraserhead Press:
Jamie Grefe’s THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE. ///
THE EMPRISE REVIEWhas been cast into the void, probably for quite some time now. Here is my poem, the only poem of mine that they hosted, although I never received any word of its publication, had to dig and dig and dig until finding it uploaded and, apparently published, but they remained silent and forever out of touch:Livid Men, Violent Men
They felt the slop of this city when garbled voices bellowed; - crept to the tenth floor and watched through curtained windows. Perched over the drained canal, an orb bled open the train tunnel. Earth: digging, pounding, crushing; a skull stomped on the sidewalk. One worker, on the day of the black haze, slapped men, livid men, violent men. Choking air: his boy spit into a woman’s mouth. Hounds of the Other Waste swarmed, violated bus passengers between stops. The smell of mussed hair, their dirt encrusted nails. Fingers and zipper - his wedding photograph in a stranger’s bedroom. Police officers were napping in the back on the day of the incident. One officer awoke, slumbered an apology. The cameras in this city, he said, will not help you; others might hurt you. Near dark at six. He, engulfed in dust, smoked Chinese cigarettes on the roof after dipping raw mutton slices in boiling oil. Dead adultery in Mandarin. Ah, to be adrift here, the boy said, lashed the whip at the photograph. We have passed all points of departure. The end stop is a train tunnel that will take us out of this city. There are no tickets, he tells the boy. There never were. Never.