Dear Mr. President-elect Trump,
Congratulations on your victory. While you did not win the popular vote, you did succeed by the rules upon which this Republic was founded. And so, I respect that.
I will make no bones about it…you were not my choice. Your unbridled bigotry and almost passionate willingness to stoop at every turn to lower the bar of insults and mud-slinging seemed to have no filter nor check. In your race to one of—if not the—most powerful offices of this beautiful blue marble, a position that will determine the life, health, and happiness of not just the present but many generations and perhaps all generations to come, you gleefully swelled and wallowed in the putrid sty of divisions you created.
I have not come to this page to deride you or further a stance against you, however.
You, sir, are to be my nation’s President now. For better or worse. And so I can only wish you success in the former and hope we all avoid the latter.
But to my point of concern…. I opened my newspaper today to see that the Ku Klux Klan is celebrating your victory both online and publicly.
I understand that you did not seek this endorsement and have in fact have made small work of denouncing it. But, sir, a wave of hand and fleeting words of dismal are far and away not enough in this regard.
In light of the platform you ran upon, you can not look any rational man or woman in the face and say that this disgusting show of support and celebration surprises you. You planted this garden of weeds, and so it has bloomed. It is not enough for you to say you didn’t want this sick crop. You are to be our President now, sir. It is the field you cleared and tilled, the seeds you sowed.
It is upon you to step forward and plow it back into the earth to start anew before we are all left with nothing save for this foul harvest to dine upon.
From explorers discovering madness at world’s edge, to even greater insanity too easily at hand at the end of suburban cul-de-sacs, these are the strange and twisted tales whispered when the lost think they are alone.
Now on Kindle and paperback!
Cover art by Courtland Winslow
Released! Set free! It’s been loosed upon the unsuspecting public!
Cryptids and creeps. Deranged charlatans. Troubled souls seeking redemption or revenge. Strange things and weak, piddling people. Stories thick with lies. These are weird tales indeed, caught up someplace between myth and fact, without existing in either or maybe, once upon a time and place, true in both….
Kirkus Reviews did me the honor of naming my novel Cicada among their “Best Indie Books of 2012.”
Murder, sex, magic, and ancient Rome.
A serial killer preys upon those who are truly the most dangerous game…the gladiators. As the killer collects macabre trophies, it falls to the Prefect of the Night Watch to end the madness.
But this is Rome, where blood spills like wine, and dreams…they are all too often nightmares.
When he was just six years old, Conner Connley killed a man—or so his father told him. His mother, suddenly and mysteriously absent, could offer no help as young Conner tried desperately to make sense of the confusing accusation.
Abandoned alone with a war-blinded father, and tortured by the heartbreak of his mother’s inexplicable departure, the boy is soon compelled to flee his home in exchange for a runaway’s lifetime of aimless drifting and hardship.
As the ribbons of roads, rails, and decades weave together a seemingly endless stream of odd and fateful events, fashioned and populated by an equally remarkable number of friends, benefactors, and ne’er-do-wells—from the simple but fatherly Roger to the murderous Ringworm—eventually the tides of fate conspire and pull Conner home once more to ultimately discover how so much had gone so wrong, so long ago.
At turns heartbreaking and humorous, bleak and then blooming with love and hope, this is one man’s epic journey to learn the truth behind the tragedy that defined his youth and set in motion the course of his life, greatly determining the incredible man he was to become.
Tweed is the ultimate slacker. He has zilch in the way of plans. But he’s about to learn how fast zero can go negative.
High school’s out, summer’s afoot, and Tweed’s content to do the usual…hang-out with friends, drink beer, get stoned, and steady bomb the neighborhood with graffiti. Yeah, he’s got nothing much else in the works and that’s just the way he likes it.
That lasts about half a day. Soon enough Tweed is upside down and in over his head. He’s falling for Chloe, his best friend’s girl. Hot though she may be, that one has a few issues of her own. And then there’s some gang-bangers out to thump his head. Not enough? Tweed’s grandfather, the man who raised him, is getting harder and harder to keep nailed down. Until ol’ Pops goes all broken arrow and off the reservation entirely, that is.
Yup. Whether Tweed is ready for it or not, the time has come for a boy coming of age.