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New Release: White Death


January 12, 1888

When a day dawns warm and mild in the middle of a long cold winter, it’s greeted as a blessing, a reprieve. A chance for those who’ve been cooped up indoors to get out, do chores, run errands, send the children to school… little knowing that they’re only seeing the calm before the storm.

The blizzard hits out of nowhere, screaming across the Great Plains like a runaway train. It brings slicing winds, blinding snow, plummeting temperatures. Livestock will be found frozen in the fields, their heads encased in blocks of ice formed from their own steaming breath. Frostbite and hypothermia wait for anyone caught without shelter.

For the hardy settlers of Far Enough, in the Montana Territory, it’s about to get worse. Something else has arrived with the blizzard. Something sleek and savage and hungry. Wild animal or vengeful spirit from native legend, it blends into the snow and bites with sharper teeth than the wind.

It is called the wanageeska. It is the White Death

Get it here

Interactive Book Trailer for POLYMER

Caleb Wilson’s Polymer is making waves with a new book trailer! And not just any book trailer, an INTERACTIVE book trailer.


Head over to POLYMERVANIA to get started! And purchase Polymer HERE

Flash Fiction Friday: Sign Here, and Here, and Here

by: Andrew Wayne Adams

“I need to eat to be happy. I need to eat souls like yours. I also like cold cuts and ice cubes. I am remorseless.”

That was what the garbage disposal said to Ian on his third night in his new apartment. Two nights before, when he turned on the shower for the first time (he had neglected to check it before signing the lease), ground beef came out.

The tub drained into the apartment below, where a hungry man lived, but Ian ignored that. He called his landlord on a rotary phone, and when he put the receiver to his ear, ground beef came out.

“The cracks in the walls are a map. Have you any porridge to pour down here? Imitation grits?” Fingers reached up through the garbage disposal. Ian turned on the hot water, blistering hot, and hammered at the fingers with a giant spoon. He flicked the switch that worked the garbage disposal, but this only lowered a disco ball in the closet.

The fingers retreated back down the drain, and a mouth took their place. It had two rows of teeth. Ian remembered his landlord, the sole time they met. The man had been chewing bubblegum, the pink rubber strung between two rows of teeth. Ian had signed the lease.

The hungry man was his landlord.

“I must have comfort food,” said the garbage disposal. “My food the comfort of others.” Ian thought you could interpret that in two ways.

Maybe three.

He put a dirty plate over top of the drain.

Going for a beer, he remembered that the refrigerator was full of cake, every cubic inch of space, so that when he opened the door, it was just a wall of cake facing him. A wedding cake, to judge by its frosting.

The dirty plate on top of the drain was dirty with ketchup and soap suds.

Pissed at not having a beer, Ian went to his “office” and dug through his papers on the floor until he found his lease. He combed through it, trying to find some loophole out of this shit.

The lease said: “I agree to live in this shit for one (1) year and not complain. I agree to marry one (1) of your daughters and not complain. I, the undersigned, agree to live the Good Life and never, ever complain.”

He had signed it.

She came up behind him, put the cold beer on his neck playfully. He winced at the chill, and she slid her arm around his shoulders. He took the beer from her and opened it with his teeth, of which he had two rows.

The bottle was full of ground beef.

She said, “How are you?”

He said, “I can’t complain.”

She suggested they shower. In the shower, he soaped her breasts, and the showerhead bled ketchup and cold cuts.

The hungry man in the apartment below screwed his mouth to the ceiling, sucking down what drained from their shower. He ate well—grew huge—filled his apartment, so that when you opened the door, it was just a wall of him facing you. A Lonely man, to judge by his moaning.


Andrew Wayne Adams is an Amerikan-Kanadian writer and artist. His first book, Janitor of Planet Analingus, came out in 2012. The above is an excerpt from his new collection I Have No Idea What I’m Doing, which you should buy, and was previously published in Strange Edge Magazine.


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JOHN WAYNE LIED TO YOU: Episode 40 – The Day I Used Up All My White Privilege



REVIEW ME PLEASE: S02 E02A Ayalew Mesfin – Hasabe (My Worries) Unboxing



Eraserhead Press & Deadite Press are OPEN TO SUBMISSIONS!

All submissions received by the end of June will receive a response by July 31, 2018.

What we are looking for:

  • Eraserhead Press is seeking original novellas and novels of 20,000 to 100,000 words in length that fit into the Bizarro Fiction category.
  • We want surprising, unique, well-crafted weird stories with compelling plots, eccentric characters, and never-before-seen concepts.
  • We want a balance of both plot and character – we love weird characters with weird problems in weird places. We are looking for exciting concepts that make people say “I have to read that!” and well-developed characters they can fall in love with along the way.
  • We’re most drawn to darkly absurd tales that are addictive to read and contain a strong emotional core. We love fiction that is both heart-rending and fun. While it may or may not be funny, we are interested in more than just a joke. If you can make us both laugh and cry or creep us out and draw us in, we will love your book.
  • We are looking for entertaining and accessible stories that speak to a specific audience. Will your book appeal to vegan punks? Riot grrls? Overworked airline pilots? Cos-players? Fans of 80s New Wave?  If you’ve identified the audience for your work, please tell us in your book description.
  • Multiple submissions are okay – during our open submission period we are open to reading as many manuscripts as you feel would meet our criteria but we are only interested in your best work. Bring it on!
  • We have high standards – we have been the leading publisher of Bizarro Fiction since 1999 and have worked with everyone from brand new authors to established heavy hitters. We have gained a cult following for our high-quality boundary-pushing weird fiction and are looking for books that will top everything else we’ve ever published. The best way to understand what we are looking for is to familiarize yourself with our catalog. If you feel you’ve written something completely unique that stands apart from everything being published today, then we want to see it!

What we are not looking for:

  • No simultaneous submissions – During the time that we are open for submissions we prefer that you do not simultaneously submit your manuscript elsewhere.
  • We are not accepting short story collections, poetry, non-fiction or comics at this time
  • No experimental formatting – while we appreciate visual poetry, epistolary novels, and playful formatting, we are currently only interested in publishing conventional formats.
  • No reprints – We want to bring our readers fresh new stories that they can’t find anywhere else. If your book has previously been published by another publisher or has been self-published, we will still consider it, but your chance of the book being accepted for publication by Eraserhead Press is less likely than submissions that have not previously appeared in print.

How to submit

  • Email your submission to
  • In the body of your email message please include an author bio and a 3-5 sentence summary to pique our interest (worded like a back cover description).
  • Attached to the email include your full manuscript
    • Please include a one-page synopsis of your book on the first page of your manuscript or attach as a separate document. Writing a good synopsis is important because if we are not interested in your synopsis, we may not read any further into your manuscript.
  • Format your manuscript as follows:
    • Word document .doc or .docx or Rich Text File .rtf (no .pdfs please).
    • Times New Roman or Arial 11-12 pt font.
    • Your author name, email address, book title and word count should appear on the first page of your manuscript. All subsequent pages should have your name, title, and page number in the header.
    • Your manuscript should be well edited and free of grammatical errors.

Failure to follow these guidelines may result in automatic rejection.   

What we pay:

  • Our standard royalty arrangement for both print and digital is 50% of net revenue.

What rights does that give you:

  • Our contract covers the rights to publish your work in paperback and ebook formats, worldwide, in English. All other rights (e.g. audiobook, film, hardcover) are retained by the author.



Deadite Press is dedicated to publishing the very best in extreme horror and splatterpunk fiction. We have given a home to some of the top writers in the genre including Brian Keene, Edward Lee, Bryan Smith, J.F. Gonzalez, Wrath James White, Robert Devereaux, and Shane McKenzie. And for the first time in almost a decade, we are opening our doors to general submissions!

APRIL 1, 2018 to JUNE 30, 2018.

All submissions received by June 30th will receive a response by July 31, 2018.

What we are looking for:

  • Deadite Press is seeking original novellas and novels 20,000 to 100,000 words in length that fit into the extreme horror and splatterpunk fiction categories.
  • We want striking, well-crafted manuscripts with original horror themes. Our readers expect unconventional stories that surprise, entertain, and frighten them in new ways. We are not afraid of topics that are risky, violent or unrelentingly horrific. On the contrary, we crave those things! Look at our catalog of books to see what we mean.
  • Multiple submissions are okay – during our open submission period we are open to reading as many manuscripts as you feel would meet our criteria but we are only interested in your best work. Bring it on!

What we are not looking for:

  • We are not accepting short story collections, poetry, non-fiction or comics at this time
  • No simultaneous submissions – During the time that we are open for submissions we prefer that you do not simultaneously submit your manuscript elsewhere.

How to submit:

  • Email your submission to
  • In the body of your email message please include an author bio and a 3-5 sentence summary description of the book written like a back cover description in order to pique our interest.
  • As a separate document attached to the email include a one-page synopsis of your book describing all the main plot points and revealing the ending. Writing a good synopsis is important, because if we are not interested in your synopsis, we may not read your manuscript.
  • Also attached to the email, include your full manuscript. Format your manuscript as follows:
    • Word document .doc or .docx or Rich Text File .rtf (no .pdfs please).
    • Times New Roman or Arial 11-12 pt font.
    • Your author name, email address, book title and word count should appear on the first page of your manuscript. All subsequent pages should have your name, title, and page number in the header.
    • Your manuscript should be well edited and free of grammatical errors.

Failure to follow these guidelines may result in automatic rejection.  

What we pay:
Our standard royalty arrangement for both print and digital is 50% of net revenue.

What rights does that give you:
Our contract covers the rights to publish your work in paperback and ebook formats, worldwide, in English. All other rights (e.g. audiobook, film, hardcover) are retained by the author.

New Release: Unlanguage


From Michael Cisco, one of the most innovative and subversive writers working today, comes the long-awaited, ground-breaking novel of a suicide survivor trying in vain to write himself back into existence.

Unlanguage is the story of a man transformed by death and by language change. The language, once understood, transforms him, and transforms learning itself. One day, he looks down at the hand resting on his thigh and sees that it’s just an ordinary hand. What had been composed of colored light made solid goes back to being meat and blood. His body reverts to the ordinary sloshing heaviness of a regular body. The exalted vision of his eyes becomes the filmy, blurred vision of the usual kind. He slumps back into his former self. Whirlwinds of shame close on him. With a violent, monkey-like energy he wracks his brains for a way back. Then it occurs to him, he can still write that language. He must write his way back.

Told as a structural guide to impossible grammar, Michael Cisco’s Unlanguage is a brilliant, thought-provoking novel that not only pushes the boundaries of literature but of language itself.

Get it here

Flash Fiction Friday: Snuff Theatre

by: S.T. Cartledge

Leonard is up all night rehearsing his one-man play. The script in hand is only one page and has only three words on it. The first is big and bold:


which is promptly followed by

ad lib.

This is his magnum opus. He had put out a press release the day before, calling it a tour-de-force, a truly avant garde theatrical experience.

“Establishing shot, actor’s apartment building, exterior, day. Birds on power lines, singing,” he says. “Cut to actor’s bedroom, filthy, interior, day. Curtains drawn, lights off. Can’t tell if it’s day or night. Close-up of actor’s face, actor is a handsome, straight white male, twenty-four years old. Single. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. His bank account is overdrawn. He is the every man. Downtrodden, underappreciated, frequently misunderstood. He represents the underclass. He really…understands people. And they understand him. He’s been kicked down too many times to count. Here he stands, no friends, no job, no family, at the end of his rope. He has a note prepared,” Leonard pulls an envelope from his coat pocket, “for the authorities to find upon discovering his body. The world will lament the day that Leonard slipped through their fingers.” He sighs heavily.

Audience laughter floods the apartment. “What a crack-up,” an audience member wheezes out through fits of laughter.

“What? No,” he says. “This is not a comedy. This is drama. Theatre. I’ve got my heart on my sleeve here.”

More laughter. He turns in circles, looking for the audience. Someone calls out, “you’re shit!”

“Be quiet, damn you! Have some respect!” He paces the apartment as the laughter rolls on. “I’m producing the world’s first theatrical snuff production. I’ve been planning this for months. Don’t ruin this!”

The laughter builds up to a crescendo and stops immediately with a bang. Leonard stands in the middle of his room with gun drawn, smoke whisping out of the barrel. “Silence!” he roars. He fires into the wall several times more.

“Oooooh,” the audience whispers.

Leonard paces the room in search of the audience. They make shh noises to try to hide their location from him. He points his gun and roams around.

“Warmer,” a single audience member calls out. “Warmer,” he repeats. “Brr…cold. Ice cold.”

Leonard stops and moves back to the warm area.

“Getting warmer.”

Leonard approaches a blank part of the wall to exclamations of “hot, hot!” He taps the wall with the barrel of the gun and hears scurrying within the wall. He fires into the wall.

“Missed us,” the audience chants in unison.

He fires into a different part of the wall, and another and another. Each time the audience calls out that he missed. He screams and throws the gun at the opposite wall, bouncing off it and landing on the bed. It fires the last bullet which passes through his left hand, leaving it somehow completely intact, ricochets off a lamp, bed post, and doorknob, before passing through the window, no shatter, no hole, vanishing into the cool night air without a trace, leaving Leonard wondering if the bullet even existed at all. He touches the spot on his hand where he felt the bullet pass through. He wipes sweat off his brow, and somewhere near the ground, an audience member coughs.

Leonard crouches down on hands and knees and sees the eyes of audience members peering out at him through the electrical socket. He reaches his hand out and the socket shocks him.

“Ow!” he pulls back his hand. “Why did you do that?!” he yells.

“You were shooting at us,” they reply in unison.

“You were ruining my performance,” he says. “I’m not continuing until you agree to behave.”

He stares through the holes in the electrical socket. The audience is silent. A humming sound starts building up from the electrical socket. Lightning cracks, striking from the socket to Leonard’s head.

“Ow, motherf—why did you shock me again?” He leaps up and throws his arms up in frustration. “I wasn’t going to shoot you again.”

Electricity arcs from the socket onto the carpet.

“You are the absolute worst audience I’ve ever had!” He jumps up onto the bed, watching the electricity dancing on the carpet.

The audience laughs. “Dance, monkey,” they say in unison.

“You know what? Fuck this. Show’s over.” He leaps from the bed through the window out into the open air, with twenty stories of nothing beneath him.

Except the twenty stories come up way too fast and feel more like a studio floor just outside the set. He lays on a bed of fake glass, sore from the ache of concrete slapping his body hard. The audience roars with raucous laughter.

“Cut!” the director yells. “Take fifteen while we reset the window and go again from the top. Audience, you were fantastic.” The director is a seven-foot-tall android wearing a black turtleneck and beret. No pants covering its chrome legs and genderless crotch. “Leonard, Leonard, Leonard,” the director walks over to the actor and lifts him effortlessly with one hand. “This is your big scene, the one that’s going to really take you places. Cut the actor-vs-audience schlock and embrace them. Remember the script, Leonard.” The director flicks his hand against a single piece of paper that matches Leonard’s. “This is all about the actor-vs-self. You can do it, I believe in you.”

Leonard brushes broken glass from his clothes then walks off to the prop room. When he comes back, the stage has been reset, the director waiting for him, as is the audience.

“And…action!” the director calls.

Instead of taking the door into the set, Leonard leaps through the newly mended stage window, axe in hand. He roars loud and mighty and the audience screams.

“Cut!” the director calls. “Leonard, what the fuck are you doing?”

Leonard ignores the director and swings his axe at the wall. The audience is freaking out. Electricity sparks wild and erratic from the socket. So much that the carpet catches fire.

“No, Leonard, stop!” the director yells, getting up from his chair to intervene.

Leonard hacks a massive hole in the wall and rips the plaster away with his bare hands. He reaches in. He can hear the audience scurrying through the wall to avoid him. He clutches on to something and rips it out.

A baby turtle.

“Put me down!” it screams.

He tosses it out the window and cuts a bigger hole in the wall, rips giant chunks of it away, exposing hundreds of baby turtles scurrying away from him.

“No!” they scream.

He grabs a handful of turtles and shovels them into his mouth, crunching down on their softened shells. His mouth fills with their blood and guts and screams.

He reaches in for more, but a cold steel arm wraps around his neck, blocking off oxygen to his brain, causing him to choke and spit masticated turtle out onto the set. He loses consciousness at the director’s hand, going limp and sliding to the floor, the room going up in flames around them.

The fire sprinklers come on, and in the smoke and fire and rain, Leonard’s body on the floor begins to move.

He comes to on a completely different set, the skylights burning into his eyes as he lays on his back, moving against his will, as the hundreds of remaining audience turtles carry him away. He turns his head from side to side and sees that this stage is huge. The biggest he’s ever seen. He is in a massive field, with trees that stretch hundreds of meters towards the ceiling, and the horizon is a distant wall he can hardly even see. He tries to get up but can’t. He is entirely at his audience’s mercy.

He can hear birds and crickets and the breeze rustling through trees and flowers and rushing water growing louder. The rustling sound of little turtle feet dragging through grass, and then little turtle feet sliding on stone. An incline. A bridge. They stop in the middle of the bridge, the sound of rushing water at its loudest. And a new sound to the scene.

*snap snap*

He feels sweat rolling down his forehead to his neck. The audience turtles drop him onto the hard stone ground and bustle away.

*snap snap*

He stands up and stares at a full-grown adult snapping audience turtle, as tall as he is and wide and round like a spaceship, surrounded by her darling audience turtle babies. She shuffles forward and snaps at his genitals. He falls over backwards, blood fountaining from his crotch, the hero of this tour-de-force bleeding out and spitting profanities at the mother turtle while the audience laughs the hardest they ever have. The mother chews her meal, blood dribbling down her chin to dry a maroon-brown, darkening the stains that were already there.

Leonard rolls into the river, landing on decomposed flesh, and the mother turtle ambles back across the bridge and starts walking downstream, where the water tastes the most delicious.


S.T. Cartledge is a weird fiction author, poet, and book blogger. His books include The Orphanarium, Girl in the Glass Planet, Kaiju Canyon, and Beautiful Madness, amongst others. You can follow him on his blog, facebook, twitter, Instagram, and patreon.


Send your weird little stories to