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Posts tagged “d. harlan wilson

The D. Harlan Wilson Book Prize

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The D. Harlan Wilson Book Prize is presented annually by Raw Dog Screaming Press to a collection of short fiction or a novel. Sponsored by Wright State University-Lake Campus, the award takes its name from author, editor, critic and English professor D. Harlan Wilson, whose body of fiction and nonfiction engages multiple genres and styles. Submitted works should demonstrate an aesthetic of genuine innovation and originality that stands comfortably alongside RDSP’s library of titles. The award entails a cash prize of $1000 plus publication by RDSP.

Click here for more information.


D. Harlan Wilson’s THE KYOTO MAN now available for preorder

Head over to the Raw Dog Screaming site to preorder a copy of D. Harlan Wilson’s THE KYOTO MAN, part three of the Sci-Kung-Fi trilogy. You have three options for how you get your TKM copy – paperback, hardcover, or limited edition signed hardcover.

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Plot synopsis:

In the wake of the Stick Figure War, civilization lapsed into obscurity. Fallout ravaged the fabric of space and time. History digested reality and reality exhumed the future as survivors tried and failed to create a new beginning … Amid the chaos, one man experiences a terminal affliction, a revolution of the self: the chronic transformation into the city of Kyoto, Japan. Each transformation further plunges the world into darkness, but he’s helpless against the lethal clockwork of his body, his psyche, his mindscreens—and nothing, not even Fate itself, can stop him from becoming God … In the third and final installment of the Scikungfi trilogy after Dr. Identity and Codename Prague, acclaimed author D. Harlan Wilson composes a narrative grindhouse that combines elements of science fiction and horror with pop culture and literary theory. Erudite, ultraviolent, and riotously satirical, The Kyoto Man reminds us how, at every turn, reality is shaped by the forces that destroy it.


Now Available: THE BEST BIZARRO FICTION OF THE DECADE

A feeling has been tearing up the underground of the fiction world. It’s a nightmare reflection of the society you inhabit, a surreal explosion of pop, punk, and the post-apocalypse. Over the last decade, Bizarro Fiction has changed the definition of avant garde, it’s abolished the traditional prose of yesterday and established a new precedent for awesome. Collected in this anthology is some of the best weird fiction from the past decade. Award-winning writers, cult prodigies and burgeoning talents all collected together in one place. This is what you’ve done with the last ten years of your life.

With stories by:

D. Harlan Wilson, Alissa Nutting, Joe R. Lansdale, Carlton Mellick III, Kevin L. Donihe, Blake Butler, Ryan Boudinot, Vincent Sakowski, Cody Goodfellow, Amelia Gray, Robert Devereaux, Mykle Hansen, Athena Villaverde, Matthew Revert, Garrett Cook, Roy Kesey, Jeremy Robert Johnson, Aimee Bender, Ian Watson & Roberto Quaglia, Jeremy C. Shipp, Andersen Prunty, Jedediah Berry, Andrea Kneeland, Kurt Dinan, David Agranoff, Ben Loory, Kris Saknussemm, Stephen Graham Jones, Bentley Little, David W. Barbee, and Tom Piccirilli.

Published by Eraserhead Press. Edited by Cameron Pierce.

Order The Best Bizarro Fiction of the Decade today.


Flash Fiction Friday: Mummification

by D. Harlan Wilson

An eight-story mummy chases my wife and I from conurbation to conurbation.  It looks like a Victorian smokestack—tall and slender, rusted and nuanced with age.  We evade the mummy until I find the manuscripts in a gym locker, pinned to the bottom shelf by two lacquered paperweights.  They belong to the mummy.  I take the paperweights and run.

I hear a magistrate in the mall above us.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces into a microphone.  “Let us watch the slaves fuck.”

My wife pushes the tension from my spine with her knuckles and thumbs.  She minds the lumbar region.  Groaning, I make a decision to act spontaneously today.  Let the day have its way.  Whatever will be will bleed . . .

Overhead a slave cums in his partner’s mouth.  The audience becomes hysterical in the classical sense of the term, and the magistrate must summon his guard to steer the masses out of a depressive state with speculative weapons.  “People have been cuming in each other’s mouths for thousands and thousands of years,” the magistrate reminds everybody.  “We have just witnessed an act of unbridled normalcy.”

Through the blinds I see a man with a prosthetic hand amble onto the stage.  Either he is a good actor or he genuinely doesn’t know which side of the curtain he is on.  In a loud whisper, I urge him to take cover, but he doesn’t hear me, and soon he succumbs to a “violent hatred.”  I know this because the playwright has arbitrated a careless recidivism of the phrase in the man’s soliloquy.

“And now I will completely embrace this rockstar life.  I will wrap both arms around it and love it violently.  And defend it violently—through violent hatred.  I am fueled by a violent hatred for my superiors.  I am on a drug and the drug is called Me.  Through the medium of violent hatred, I will come to terms with Me.  Me is all I have, and violent hatred fills the dark, long void between a mountain and an antihill.”

I follow my wife up a fire escape.

An adjudicator has declared collective-bargaining unions unconstitutional on the rooftop.  Committee chairs stand there idly, blinking, mouths half open, moist beards and bald heads gleaming in the sun.  I see the mummy’s skull flash past the gargoyles as it jogs around the building.  It found us.  I surmise that the paperweights have been equipped with a tracking device.  I toss them aside and realize it was a tracking aura.  A solar corona defines the contours of my marriage.

Loud bell towers stain the palate of sky; my senses implode in a fit of synesthesia, and I worry about Gene Hackman, who is old, in his 80s now, and hasn’t made a movie for over six years.  He could die at any moment.

A genius loci leads me in an bewildering direction.  Taken aback, I find myself in bed with another woman, her hair spiked, her skin sour and rigid, like a sea horse.  As she pleasures me I explain that it’s only because of the trauma of the mummy, a Return of the Repressed in massive and compacted quantities, that I allow her to interpolate the fringes of my selfhood.  “My body possesses no meaning,” I say.  “Nor does the act you perform upon it.  Nothing you do will change me.  But I can’t admit to being comfortable with the demise of Gene Hackman.  And I can’t stop drinking red wine.  Eight ounces per night—I can’t stop.  And nobody will give me an intervention.

“I need to bottom out.  Danger looms.  There is a secret abuse in my past.  I’m a lesbian.  Figuratively, I mean.  I’ve never told anybody that.  I didn’t expect it to happen.  But at least I have my health.  I am very healthy.”  I cum in her mouth and slip away before I regret it.

The remarkable fever—it surges like a government-subsidized economic stimulation package.  I vomit and stop glowing.  Nobody knows where I am.  I expose myself to extreme chemicals, to freezing temperatures, then submerge my extremities in a bog.  At last, patterns of recognition flood the social bloodstream.  In order to prevent being scavenged by jackals and hyenas, I pile flagstones atop my chest and anticipate my continuance in the afterlife where the bedsheets make themselves and ritual designs to symbolize breathing fall to the wayside.  Logic fails me only when I stare into prisms.   The colors, the angles.  The redundancy.  In order to exist, one must reproduce the conditions of production at the same time and place as the act of production so that production may take place in the first place.  Thus one must shit and fuck in chorus, with simultaneous vitesse monstrueuse.  Accidents come in twos.  Whenever I total a car, I total another one within days, sometimes hours.  The metal ducts penetrate my flesh.  I can’t jump high, and I can’t dunk a basketball, but I think I should win the slam dunk contest, if only to reify my will to succeed, and if the judges could witness my dire conviction firsthand, I might have a fighting chance at unraveling these dead-end bandages and climbing out of the aquifer; the pure water obfuscates the purpose of my submersion/subversion; space swallows time, and I go missing… Slave uprising.

They kill Caligula with telekinetic death-rays, exit the Flavian Amphitheatre and use smooth wooden pegs to climb the mummy, hammering them into its gaping pores.  They gather at the top into a chthonic hairdo and wait for the mummy to bleed out.  This is the moment where mythology establishes its origin.  History and the future explode down multiple tracks from a central point of infinite semiotic compactedness.  Bodies obtain gender via the torrent of socialization and the internalization of normative glyphs and yet gender belongs to a linguistic network that precedes and fashions the self, subjectivity, desire, bodies.  What is at stake?  The chemical analysis fails to enter into a concrete, purposeful discussion… I know the drama of the arena rocker who grasps the microphone with both hands and draws out the high notes like whips cracking in outer space.  This is the thesis.  Always.  An epistemological dilemma.  A perceptual and intellectual dilemma.  Jaws open, eyes closed, I stand in the reeds and reach for the sky.

Thousands of visitors converge on Fleet Street for the Dickwerden party in celebration of continued efforts to become fatter.  In my absence, my wife has landed her own Reality TV show.  I have been cast as the antagonist despite not showing up for the audition.  Immediately the producer usurps the authority of the director and telescript writers and distributes copies of a funerary text throughout the room.  Functionaries object.  I draw my wife closer and she traces the full range of my jawline with her index fingers, concluding in a triangulation at the chin.  “It ends here.”  She whispers the instruction and then laps at my ear lobe.  We remain this way forever, unweathered by the sand and glass that flows over the intersection of our bodies.

__________

D. Harlan Wilson is the one of the founding authors of the bizarro genre. He is the author of Codename PragueDr. Identity, They Had Goat HeadsPeckinpah: An Ultraviolent Romance,  and Technologized Desire: Selfhood and the Body in Postcapitalist Science Fiction. He is an Associate Professor of English at Wright State University.


Available now: THE BIG BOOK OF BIZARRO anthology

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“Salacious – Sacrilegious – Scatalogical – Scotomizing – Strange!”

The Big Book of Bizarro brings together the peculiar prose of an international cast of the most grotesquely-gonzo, genre-grinding modern writers who ever put pen to paper (or mouse to pad), including:

NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD horror writers John Russo & George Kosana

HUSTLER MAGAZINE erotica contributors Eva Hore & Andrée Lachapelle.

Established Bizarro genre authors D. Harlan Wilson, William Pauley III, Laird Long, Richard Godwin and so many more!

From Alien abductions to Zombie sex, The Big Book of Bizarro contains OVER FIFTY STORIES of the most outrélandish transgressive fiction that you’ll ever lay your capricious and curious hands upon!

WARNING: This book may be one of the most controversial and dangerous books you’ll ever read.

Click on the picture above for a full list of authors involved with this anthology.


Brigade Exclusives

Are you a member of the Bizarro Brigade?

Then you can have an exclusive book.

Brigade members can trade their hard-earned points for three books that no one else gets. That’s right, because you’re awesome.

Trade ’em up, Troops, and get:

 

Cancer Cute by Carlton Mellick III

Docket #347ZA by Kevin L. Donihe

or

Counting Earps and Other Rejekts by D. Harlan Wilson

 

Just for YOU.

Thanks for all you do!

Not yet in the Brigade? Join up, reader! Spread the word of bizarro fiction and get FREE BOOKS. Email the Commander at Large. bizarrobrigade@gmail.com