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New Release: Strange Behaviors

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In the land of the lurid, the weird are wonderful, and the behaviors on display are at their strangest. Welcome to Strange Behaviors! An anthology of literature’s freshest and loudest voices, a new-new wave of dangerous writers – letting their words run wild with madness. The stories that melt from their minds are emotionally charged, surreal, nihilistic, grotesque, horrific, depraved, often humorous, and always with a depth that just keeps getting deeper and deeper. This is literature for the misfit minds of rebellious readers. Join us… Featuring: Sam Richard. Theresa Braun. Jordan Krall. M.P. Johnson. Nicholas Day. Donald Armfield. Austin James. Alex Karl Johnson. Charles Austin Muir. Joseph Bouthiette Jr. Michael Faun. Zak A. Ferguson. Jason Morton. Mark Zirbel. S.C. Burke. Eileen Mayhew. D.B. Spitzer. Howard Carlyle. Christopher Lesko. Ben Arzate. Rob Easton. Catfish McDaris. Dav Crabes. Dani Brown. Nicholaus Patnaude. S.E. Casey. Ross Peterson. Brendan Vidito. Justin A. Mank. Benjamin Clarke Younker. John Claude Smith. Shaun Avery. Kyle Rader. Calvin Demmer. Evelyn Joyce. Gomez Aggonia. Gentry M. Calhoun.

Get it HERE, but that’s not all!

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Limited to 100 copies and featuring alternate cover art, Strange Behaviors: Limited Edition can be purchased HERE.

New Release: He Digs A Hole

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Get a job. Get married. Buy a house. Cut off your hands and replace them with gardening tools. Dig a hole. Can you hear the worms calling? Keep digging.

“Danger Slater is fearless and should be ashamed of himself. Thank God he’s not.” — JOSH MALERMAN, author of Bird Box

“If Richard Brautigan and William S. Burroughs had a baby it would be Danger Slater” — THE HORROR REVIEW

“Bizarro horror at its best.”  — SPLATTERPUNK ZINE

Get it HERE

Super Serious Internet Interview with Autumn Christian

Clash Media has a great interview up with weird author Autumn Christian. It’s a hell of an interview where topics are covered from thots to McDojos. Read it HERE!

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Bizarro Author MP JOHNSON talks transphobia in horror films

As a trans woman, MP Johnson has a lot of thoughts on the issues affecting the trans community, and as a contributor to the horror genre, she has a ton of thoughts on how transphobia is interwoven throughout the horror scene. Horror Society was good enough to post MP’s essay on transphobia in horror films, and its a hell of a read. We here at Bizarro Central salute MP Johnson’s strong opinions and Horror Society for giving her a platform. Read the whole essay HERE.

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Podcastlandia!

This week’s roundup of podcasts incluuuuuudddeeesss….

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BIZZONG! Featuring the 2017 Recipient of the Wonderland Book of the Year Award, Danger Slater. Danger talks about his moment at BizarroCon when he won the award and how it affected him. More important, we talk about his newest book, which comes out February 14th, 2018. He Digs A Hole is chock full of symbolism and analogies. And just went you think you’ve got this clever little narrative all figure out, BOOM, in steps the world’s most explosive writer to lay down some fourth wall breaking commentary that somehow manages to weave its way into the plotline as well.

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GET LIT WITH LEZA! Rios de la Luz is a queer xicana/chapina author of the short story collection, The Pulse Between Dimensions and The Desert and the novella, Itzá. She lives in El Paso with the love of her life and her beautiful dog. Rios and Leza talk about magic, dreams, Korean dramas, & dealing with trauma through art.

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JOHN WAYNE LIED TO YOU! John Wayne Comunale says: I’m back fresh from Days of the Dead in Atlanta where I shared a table with two very delightful gentlemen: David W. Barbee and Mike Lombardo, and this week’s story is about that very trip. What a time was had in which I learned many things, gained new perspective on art and life, and turned into a big softy when it came to kids and reading. I hope you enjoy listening to these adventures as much as we did having them. In sadder new, we really miss our Uncle Charles . . .

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AND REVIEW ME PLEASE! Technically not a podcast, but this is a special two-parter! Michael and PJ have genuine celebrity guests, cocktails, and the unboxing of Fiona Apple! See Part 1 and Part 2 on their YouTube channel.

Flash Fiction Friday: Snow Globe

by: Austin James

Winter mornings like this are the deadliest.

The clouds press against the terrain, casting flat, gray light. Big, fuzzy snowflakes meander towards the ground. The atmosphere is still and quiet as the crystallized air absorbs both breeze and sound. It seems warm, too warm to be winter; chilly on your nose and cheeks, but not freezing like you would expect. Trees are decorated in deep frost; some look like frozen fishbone ribcages. Others, hunkered under the weight, look like crippled hands, the skin drizzling from the bone in hoary waves of frozen froth. Scattered pine trees are like drunken gray-green triangle smears in the fog.

“Is this a dream?” your brain asks. And that’s exactly what Winter wants you to think. “This serene, calm tundra is harmless,” it says. Yet it will not hesitate to take your toes through frostbite, nor freeze your lips to chop-sicles.

Winter mornings like this can be deadlier than the blizzardy yowl or the icy wasteland…at least then you somewhat expect to die.
Punching holes through the knee-deep snow, you track prey that doesn’t leave tracks. If not for the pink trail of blood blots scattered every so often, there would be no tracking to be had.

These woods are tranquil and peaceful, part of Winter’s trap. Visibility is low due to fog and snowfall. It’s easy to lose track of time. You could be wandering around out here for hours before realizing you’re lost, freezing, dying.

The blood stains in the snow are spaced just far enough to keep you on path towards your wounded prey.

Winter takes more than a few souls each year, out here in these very woods. You can’t see the sun, nor the mountains. It may not be coming down hard, but the snow is falling thicker than you realize and even your own tracks are quickly filled in with fresh powder. Which way is town again?

Each pink blemish of blood is a beacon directing your way.

Even the squeaky crunch of your own footsteps is muffled and distorted in the winter air: every noise is faint and fuzzy. It’s details like this that fool your brain into thinking you’re dreaming. We all know that you can’t freeze to death in a dream.

The only way to survive is to focus on the task at hand, the slow and steady pace of trudging through the snow. Focus on the kill, the harvest. It’s too easy to get taken away with the majestic beauty of these woods, and in a wonderland such as this, one step staggered in the wrong direction will surely lead to getting lost, getting frozen, getting dead.

It’s that real. It’s that dangerous.
You see the copper-colored blob in the foggy distance before you hear it, but the sizzling of snowflakes on hot metal wafts in soon after, hissing and spitting like bacon grease in a cast iron skillet. With each step it fades more into view, and you recognize it to be a rocket-powered jetpack, still hot from use, melting the snow it rests in. It’s bumped and bruised from a rough landing and will eventually rust to death before anyone else finds it.

Never mind that—where is the operator?! Were they hurt in the crash? The only thing worse than being lost in these wintery woods is being lost and injured. Something else leaks in from the fog as you gain ground on the jet pack. Not far from the crash site, you see a young girl lying among the cherry slush of bloody snow.

God, no! Are you too late?

You sprint towards her, the weight and suction of the frozen powder weighing down your stride. Hot breath evaporates from her nostrils. She’s alive!

She squirms, weak and whimpering, sounds that disappear behind you as they’re soaked up into the air’s black hole void of silence. All she’s wearing are blood-soaked pajamas—no jacket or coat—and her garlic blonde hair is already frozen. Her bruise-colored eyes barely flicker as you kneel beside her.

“Ssssshhhhhhhh.”

You pinch her mouth closed to damper the cry as you jerk the huntsman’s blade out of her femur where you left it as she rocketed away towards the woods. You wipe the frost from the polyurethane tusks sprouting from her jowls and reach for the hacksaw hanging from your belt. Even on a morning like this, you’d do best to work fast as a search party can’t be far behind.

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Austin James has caffeine in his blood, gypsy spit in his spinal fluid, and an incredibly lazy pseudonym. His prose and poetry have been published in multiple magazines (such as Pulp Metal Magazine and Bartleby Snopes), as well as a few books and anthologies.

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Send your weird little stories to flashfictionfridaysubmissions@gmail.com.

New Release: I Have No Idea What I’m Doing

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I have no idea why I’m full of tadpoles and mayonnaise. No idea why this cockroach is psychoanalyzing me. I don’t know what you’re doing with that moose on your shoulder, don’t know why you still don’t love me even after I bought you that pack of gum. I’m not sure where this elevator is going, or how I got on it. Not sure how I didn’t notice the ground beef coming out of every faucet in my new apartment. I have no idea why bagpipes and drums go so well with chainsaw murder. I have no idea what kind of sandwich I want before I commit suicide. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Containing thirty-one stories written over the past ten years, this collection chronicles the total inability of Andrew Wayne Adams to know what he is doing.

Get it here