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Spiders in the Daffodils

At long last, my second novel is out in the world! SPIDERS IN THE DAFFODILS has been unleashed in all it’s horrifying western wrapped glory!

Look at this cover-This cover was created by the amazing Jeanette Andromeda. I was her first book cover, and based on the reactions, it’s certainly not going to be the last for her. I love it!

Once I saw the finished cover, I hoped the words behind it would live up to how good it looks on the outside.

I think it does.

A million thanks to Gary Vincent, the HMFIC at Burning Bulb Publishing for taking an enthusiastic chance on this book.

There is a giveaway coming up very soon. Be ready!!

Thank all of you for your support of the years. Things are really going to start popping over here!!


“The Final Interview” A Review

When you mention Fred Vogel’s name in certain circles, you’ll often hear a repeated phrase; “Man, that guy makes some brutal films.” This is not a slur against him. He truly does make brutal films. Films like “Mordum,” “The Redsin Tower” and “Maskhead” to name a few, brutal, violent horror films directed by a man who knows his craft and his audience well. Vogel’s newest film is still brutal but in a much different way.

In his first film since 2009’s “Sella Turcica,” Vogel returns with something that is in some ways, vastly different than what the fans of his previous work are accustomed. “The Final Interview” isn’t drenched in onscreen blood and viscera. This doesn’t make it any less brutal however; Vogel’s other films almost flat out dare you to keep watching uncomfortable scenes.

This time around, it’s almost like he dares you to look away. And you can’t. You don’t look away.  It’s that compelling.

The Final Interview” set up is simple; Washed up, alcoholic reporter Oliver Ross (Grainger Hines) is set to interview  murderer Darius Tidman (Damien Maruscak) live on television on the night of his execution. It’s not an ideal situation since the murderer wasn’t his first choice to interview and it’s also a job scored by his ex-wife Rhonda (Diane Franklin.) He’s a very troubled man at war with alcohol, pills and ultimately himself. It’s obvious from the outset, it’s a war he’s been losing; even before the subject of the interview is brought into the film, you already know who Ross is and he’s not someone you can like. He’s miserable and arrogant. By the time Tidman is brought in chains to be seated in front of Ross, you’re ready to see sparks.

The rest of the film becomes a taut, tense dance between Ross and Tidman. The films pivots skillfully as both the “Live” broadcast (complete with a great old Pepperidge Farm cookie commercial) and as the “secret version’ complete with commentary from Rhonda as she desperately tries to keep the interview from veering too far off course. Throughout these scenes, you hear Rhonda giving direction (and occasionally, a verbal shellacking) to Ross via his earpiece. I expected this to get annoying after a while, but Franklin’s off screen voice presence adds a texture to the interview that kept it from becoming trite. There are cuts to Rhonda (who is relegated to directing the live feed from a van) expressively reacting to what she is seeing and hearing and at times becomes the voice of the audience. She becomes the glue that holds Ross together for most of the interview (and frankly, the glue that keeps these scenes from feeling too long.)

That is, until Ross makes that impossible.

As Ross interviews Tidman, there is an entire relationship that forms before our eyes. The ‘getting to know you phase,’ the ‘fun’ phase, etcetera. It develops so subtly, you nearly forget you’re watching a film. Vogel and screenwriter Scott Swan hold a lot of the credit for this; it’s not easy to pretend to build a rapport between two fundamentally unlikable characters, but they had two things on their side.

Namely, Hines and Maruscak.

If there were more furniture in this film, they would both have left teeth marks on nearly everything. Hines delivers a solid, swarthy performance as Ross. Maruscak is eerily convincing as a serial killer without resorting to over acting, or falling back on the millionth Anthony Hopkins impression.  This film could be, for the most part, performed as a stage play if it weren’t for the absolutely necessary “Greek Chorus” of Franklin’s Rhonda.

What strikes me most about this film is how subtle it is; Vogel said after the showing at the Hollywood Theater in Dormont PA that he wanted to make a different film. He certainly did. From the music, to the slow, tense build to the actual interview, this film holds your attention tightly. It’s not flashy, it’s not blood and guts, but it is compelling and it remains emotionally brutal.

Fred Vogel has made a tightly wound thriller with a fantastic payoff. He made a smart, gripping yet subtle film that should do well in the independent film circuit with both audiences and critics.

In the post film Q and A, a fan asked him point blank if this film was the end of his violent movie making. His response left no doubt.

“No,” he said simply and directly at which point the audience erupted in applause.

I believe him.  But, I also believe that he should also make more films like “The Final Interview.” This is a solid movie made by a solid filmmaker reaching his stride. This movie shows a promise of things to come for Vogel that maybe even he didn’t expect. And I think he’s more than ready for it.




Links For My Stuff

Here are some of the other places you can find my stuff…

My Author Page on Amazon!

The interactive af Author Page on Facebook

Twitter … cos, you know, Twitter….

Instagram cos it’s fun

The Wicked Library remains a proud achievement for me and is in excellent hands with my friend and partner in crime Dan Foytik. (More links for this guy in the other links page)

Novus my band where I perform stunt vocals and song-smithing with the Prog-Squatch, Tony Rowsick! Also, here as well.

You can find my first solo album here.


灯台の手紙 (The Letter in the Lighthouse)


This is a short story written for a project that sadly, fell apart under the weight of anticipation. The lighthouse in the story actually exists. That is the only factual thing about it; the rest is a festival of speculation and gore. Currently, one of the goriest stories I’ve written thus far.  It found a home in my first short story collection, EVERYTHING HERE IS A NIGHTMARE from Burning Bulb Publishing.

So yeah, it’s fun. Enjoy!


(The Letter in the Lighthouse)



To Whom It May Concern,

My name Alexi Bazhanov. I am an Engineer Major for the Red Army. I am writing this in English as it seems likely that this letter may be discovered by an English-speaking explorer. There is also a shorter letter in Russian in the off-chance there is a search party dispatched to retrieve me.

If you are reading this, I am already dead.

Very sad to say, you might be soon as well. There isn’t anything you can do about it now. Stop looking around you; there’s no one else here. But be assured, you are being watched.

I am writing this, knowing what is about to happen to me and honestly, what may possibly happen to you.

Hopefully, it will end with me. I am a Soviet officer…excuse me, a Russian officer; I no longer with to think of myself as Soviet.

I am a man.

But, sadly, it is why I am marked to die and possibly you as well.

It’s not going to happen to you right now. You have time, but not a lot of it. Neither do I, so pardon me if I skip some things.

It was built by the Japanese. They blasted rock in this forsaken part of the world and built the lighthouse. For all intents and purposes, it was a good idea; a generous idea. As you have noticed, it isn’t very easy to get here by boat. So many ships have wrecked, that the lighthouse was a blessing.

But that’s not why they built it.

They sensed the coming war. They knew what was coming-they’ve always known what was coming and this was their response.

This was their weapon.

This was their revenge.

After the war came and went, the Japanese were defeated in a violent and severe manner as were the Germans and of course, the Italians. The world was safe again.

And, of course, Russia, carried on. We reclaimed this area and of course, the lighthouse which at the time, seemed like a fantastic idea. It was part of a string of other lighthouses on a fifty mile stretch along the coast line. The commission came down to retro fit the lighthouses with small atomic reactors to function without a full-time keeper. This idea too was a good one. What kind of life could one expect manning a lighthouse for weeks, months on end?

I am laughing as I write this. The end is soon for me.

So, as a major engineer, I was sent to oversee the construction. It was quite simple, really. The lens of the light would rest in a mercury pool for ease of rotation while the reactor would ensure the light would not extinguish. Marvelous plan, really. I was, at the time proud to be a part of it.

The crewmen and I had been here a single day when it all started.

Our first order of business was to relieve the lighthouse keeper. He was an older man named Yuri Denisof. Life long bachelor with minimal family; ideal for the long stretches of solitude. There was a small boat poised to collect him and his meager belongings, bring him back to the larger ship and transport him back to Russia.

He was not here to greet us.

My crew scoured the lighthouse to search for him. And in less than an hour, we had discovered what was left of him.

At first glance, he appeared to be sleeping by the giant lens in the highest point of the tower; seated, facing the ocean. As we moved closer, we saw that he had torn open his midsection with a small knife and tossed his entrails out of the window. What was left, were being eaten by the birds that were all over the area. The look on his face was one of resolve. Almost, relief. I assigned three men to take care of Mr. Denisof and made the decision to bury him at sea. Certainly, not an ideal circumstance.

After that decidedly bad start, the crew made it possible to live in the lighthouse until the reactors were installed. The lamp was improved enough so the lighthouse would function without occupancy.

But, the lighthouse had occupants and always will I dare say.

I will jump ahead for the sake of time-my time specifically; it is running short at this point.

In a record three weeks, the reactors were installed and the mercury poured for the new swiveling lens. There isn’t a reason this lighthouse shouldn’t run for years unattended. It was a spectacular show of workmanship, and I am proud of the men who completed the work.

They should have fared better.

The reactors were, of course, in the lowest level of the lighthouse and, as the saying goes, out of sight, out of mind. This wasn’t hard to achieve because the problems stated almost immediately upon completion. The crew had broken out vodka, wine and bread to celebrate the completion of the reactors and they had done a very good job of incapacitating themselves. The lighthouse was lit up and the men were being loud and reckless. And who could blame them? They did an amazing job as I knew they would. We were set to leave in the morning to return home, so I allowed them to relax.

The lighthouse is quiet, you see. Even with the reactors, the only sound is the ocean. It’s calming and soothing even when in a storm. So when the scream came, it was more than just apparent. It was terrifying.

The scream came from everywhere at once. Someone dropped a bottle and it shattered, but not as shattered as the crew, who looked all around them.

It was a scream of pure agony and the men huddled together. No one said a word, even as the scream began to subside. The lights went dim-not out, but it was darker than it should have been. There was a gaping silence that was becoming louder than that scream. They looked to me, as I was the officer in charge. I tried to remain as calm as possible until the scraping began.

It sounded like someone raking a metal pipe against the curved wall in front of us. Huddled as we were, it was hard to move, but I was able to take one of the torches and scoured the wall for the sound source.

There was nothing, but a symbol on the wall-one that had not been there previously.

No one knew what that symbol meant.

No one but me, of course. It was Japanese for death. I did not tell the crew this, as they were already in a panic.

A sound of metal scraping once more began, but this time from the center where the crew were now all clutched together. One of the men screamed and the group separated quickly, making a circle. The men turned and looked as a young man howled with agony; he had a metal pipe impaling him from the top of his chest and onto the concrete floor. But it wasn’t just a pipe.

It was one of the rods from the reactors.

The pipe began to move, drawing another symbol on the floor, scraping and grinding as the young crewman shrieked. No one dared move or say a word beyond gasping. When the symbol was complete, the rod dropped with the young dying man onto the floor. Blood spilled onto the symbol, covering it, but I saw it. I knew it, too.


This symbol was HATE.

Again, I said nothing about it, but instead urged the men to make haste to the outside of the lighthouse, to which they all agreed.

And of course, the door…

It wouldn’t open.

Every light in the entire lighthouse snapped back on to full and the men reacted.

“Open the door!” they began to yell.

“Let us out!”

The scream returned and the metal scraping sound began anew. He men and I turned to see the rod pulling itself out of the dead young man and hovered in the air. Then, it straightened itself horizontally and flew at the nearest crew men near it. It skewered three of them and lifted them up, screaming. It flipped them over quickly, and they slid off, howling until they collided into the wall on the opposite end of the room. They made a sickening sound and crumpled broken, dead and bleeding on the floor.

The men shoved me aside-I was staring in disbelief-and tried to break down the door. While they were panicking, the rod came back and repeated its previous actions twice more with similar results. The men were so obsessed with the door, they hardly noticed that they were being picked apart by an unseen force bent on killing them all.

The twenty men that had come to this forsaken lighthouse was now halved and the culling continued.

The rod claimed another two, but this time they were flung at the men trying to open the door. Three of them men were struck dead upon impact while the other three were knocked over-myself included.

The rod suddenly dropped loudly onto the floor and one of the last remaining men was lifted off from the floor and slammed into the wall with crushing force. His limp broken body was then manipulated up and down against the wall in random patterns. The two men left screamed in terror, but I did not.

I watched the message being scraped in blood on the wall. It was a larger symbol this time.

ウィジャ ボード

The body was hurled to the ground with a sickening thud and the door opened. The two remaining men bolted through the door and I quickly followed them out. The two men ran outside toward the ship, but I went to the entrance to the basement level.

The symbol was for kokkurisan, or Ouija. That’s when I understood. There was a small chance I could do something about it.

I ran down to the basement and opened the door. Everything worked fine and hummed perfectly. I looked at the floor…really looked at the hard concrete floor.

There weren’t just cracks in them, there were symbols. Japanese symbols etched into the floor. I scoured the floor where I could and it was covering the entire floor; and now under the reactors as well.

The lighthouse was a giant conduit for malicious entities; a gateway to the other side.

And it was not only open, but angry.

Very angry.

I backed slowly out of the basement and climbed the stairs. I walked toward the small makeshift dock, where I assumed the two men had already left. And they had tried.

The boat was there, but in broken pieces.

As were both men; the appeared to have been torn into shreds and left in random strips on the rocks.

The birds were already feasting.

And so here I am.

You are reading this and you’re likely to die, but perhaps my confession will save you. It’s all that’s left to do.

That’s what this is now; a confession.

Although not personally involved, I am a Russian, not a Soviet and due to my lineage, I am guilty of crimes against the Japanese empire dating back to the Russo-Japanese War in 1904. I am also guilty of similar crimes during that last Great War for atrocities against the late Empire of Japan.

These crimes I am guilty of I’m ashamed to say.

I was a translator for the European forces as I endeavored to learn the language and culture in 1932 as a mere underling for the Red Army. My interceptions of transmissions led to the capture of forces in the Pacific which lead to horrible deaths in the gulags and prisons.

I don’t know if this will work to break this curse for whoever travels to this godforsaken place.

The removed head of one of the young men decimated earlier has just been flung in though the open window of the lens room.

Death beckons.

May it be swift.

Alexi Bazhanov

Engineer Major

November 19th, 1946






Dear Mike,

The curious letter left by the late Alexi Bazhanov appears to be authentic, although there is no actual evidence at this point to verify the deaths of the men or the symbols that were claimed to have been written on the walls and floors.

What is fact is that the reactors no longer work and there is the possibility of a radiation leak albeit, a low one. This lighthouse is structurally intact and the possibility that it may be brought back into service is rather exciting.

However, the idea that a “vengeful” Japanese spirit lurks in this lighthouse to exact revenge on those who have done the Empire wrong, are just simply absurd.

I will be at this installation until January, so wish me luck!

Say hi to the good old US of A!

Let’s hope the little spirits aren’t too mad about Hiroshima!



© 2015 Nelson W Pyles



Part of what’s great about being an author isn’t getting rejection letters. In fact, it sort of ranks up there with stepping on a nail, burning yourself on the stove or getting punched in the throat.

But, make no mistake; it’s important and you need it.

You can’t grow without being told something you did isn’t “quite right” for their publication (Or “it’s not a good fit” or “It’s just not for us” or…so on and so on.) It’s easy to get down about rejections. I have always gotten them and I still do. It’s cool. That’s what happens. The only time I get down about it even a little bit is when I get the “FORM” rejection. The best rejections are the ones that tell you why they’re saying no to you. “This is not right for our publication. Here’s why…” That’s a huge stepping stone. That’s a good thing. It absolutely helps and the fact that they are taking the time from going through a pile of stories to tell you why your story didn’t work shows that there is the spark of something there in your work. Polish that sucker up and send it out again.

There are some fellow writers I see on social media who complain about rejections, because we all do sometimes. You need to blow off steam. I’m not saying don’t get mad or upset, but don’t dwell on it. You’re a writer. Get to work. Take a few hours to bitch, then hit it. But damn, some of the stuff I see as complaints is insane. I read one that said (I shit you not) “Well, no one’s telling Stephen King no.”

I hate to break it to you, but YOU ARE NOT STEPHEN KING. You aren’t the new Stephen King. You’re not even the old Stephen King. You’re you. And right now, no one is thinking that you’re going to be the next Stephen King because there isn’t going to be a next Stephen King. We already have one, thanks.

And in case you missed it, Stephen King got told no a lot when he was starting out. Maybe not so much these days, but he still has an editor whose job it is to send him his work back with red ink all over it with notes like “Steve, wtf are you trying to say here?”* (I’d like to think that every once in a while, Stephen King still gets a rejection letter. If he doesn’t, part of me likes to think that he kind of wishes he still did.)

I’m writing this not because I’m so sage with my own writing, or that I know anything other or more than anyone else. I don’t. This is as close to “cheerleading” as I get these days. I don’t always write the uplifting things my inky pals write. I don’t do the #amwriting thing (I do use “#alwayswriting” because I usually am always working on something) But, I’ve seen a lot of discouraged posts from really good writers out there. One really good writer in particular seems to have given up the pen out of disappointment.

I think we all throw down the pen now and then, but when that happens, we need pick it the hell back up.

Just keep writing and more importantly, keep sending your work out. If it doesn’t work for one publication, give it another look, clean it up and send it somewhere else. Relax. Breathe. Or even better,


* I don’t think he gets notes like that, but that would be kinda funny.

Let’s Try This…Again

It’s again, been a long time.  Almost to my own detriment really.  I mean, look at the updates that “announce” that’s I’m going to update this site on a regular basis…it’s sad.  Very sad…

But, I’ve been doing pretty okay with the good ole social media sites and since I’m actually PAYING for this website, I should use it a ton more.

So, a brief explanation for that is that the social media outlets are super easy to maintain because I can do all of it with my phone. I do updates for Facebook on a bus ride, or an Instagram video waiting for my kid to finish up yoga, or Tweeting something snarky while I’m taking a walk.

But, as I write this, I’m sitting, drinking a cup of coffee and trying to be quiet so I don’t wake everyone in the house. (Sitting and writing is usually quiet, except when I spill coffee on my shirt and exclaim “Ah, ya fucking bastard!” That wakes folks, believe me.)

There’s a bunch of stuff going on since last I posted. All of it…well, most of it cool,  but I want to take the time to thank you for coming here and reading this in the first place. The reactions from my sudden acumen in social media dancing are positive (along with the writing and music) and since I’m trying to figure out how to make all of this work including this site, I really owe you readers/listener/friends. It’s difficult to find supporters in a saturated world, and I’m really grateful for the ones I have made over the years.

I will not be promising to update on a regular basis, I’m simply going to do it.

So look around, kiddies! Thanks for your continued support!


“Where the Apple Shine Won’t Reach”



Hi friends!

Here’s the first installment of the FREE FICTION category. An oldie, but a goodie! It was the lead off story in an anthology called MON COEUR MORT and later appeared in DARK DOORWAYS along with work from Jack Ketchum and F. Paul Wilson! It also was a cool online comic book…last chapter is still pending…

Since it’s Halloweentime, and this tale takes place on Halloween, I thought it pretty appropriate.

Fun Fact: The title pays slight homage to Stephanie Meyer’s epic and sparkly saga TWILIGHT. To be honest, I was taking the piss a little with the title, and the story. I have nothing against Stephanie really. Admittedly, she wanted to make a new kind of vampire story, and goddamn, she did! We should all be so unfortunate…

For SM—no offense…

Brenda lay on her bed, three pages to go in her book. Her face was moist with tears and she was biting her lip. Seven books in, this was to be the last book for the Dark Gift romantic vampire series. The absolute last, according to the publisher; in spite of the two previous sequels that were also to have been the last. But this was to be the absolute last one. It was even called, “Last Rites.”

Brenda had waited patiently for this one book for nearly three years and she had gone to the midnight sale date. Midnight, Halloween night at Holmes and Bernard’s Bookseller and Music Superstore invitation through lottery only please, thanks so much. She stood in the small line that had begun to form the night before Halloween (but she was third in line thank goodness!) and ran to the display and grabbed her book-$34.99-no sale price for the early birds. She paid for it and bolted for her car so she could begin the long night, day and night of “Last Rites” in her apartment, all alone with the curtains closed tight and not stop reading until she was done.

Then she would take a shower.

The book itself was mammoth; nearly fifteen hundred pages long, not counting the 45-page author’s introduction. (“I love each and every single sick one of you!” the grateful author concludes.) The other books for Dark Gift ran from 300 to 675 pages throughout the run of the series. This one, though… Brenda was very intimidated by its sheer size, but was also delighted because she knew it would be worth the wait to read it. She knew that there was so much to get out of this book. And how could it be anything other than huge?

Nearly twenty-four hours later, here she was, weeping and nearly done with the entire series. It was beautiful. It was a dream how wonderful the words were so well crafted. Helen, the story’s heroine, had spent the bulk of the Dark Gift series madly in love with Kirk, a young looking vampire she met in high school. They have adventures and high romance with other vampires and human friends as well. But then there came werewolves,

ghouls, (one tried to kill, then eat Helen!) mummies, (it was awesome-they went to Egypt for a class trip) and finally, Count Dracula himself in this, the final book.

Dracula, who was actually Kirk’s uncle, tried to get between him and Helen. And Dracula nearly succeeded, but Kirk, ever resourceful, stopped a very bad union just in the nick of time. But then, Kirk was nearly destroyed by the ancestor of Van Helsing, Dracula’s old enemy, but Helen, and her latent psychic powers (found in book three, “Head Trauma,”) came to the rescue.

And that was only up to page 750!

There was more-a lot more, leading up to the last three pages in this sprawling series, where Helen and Kirk marry and where Helen agrees to finally accept Kirk’s “Dark Gift.” As she turned the last page, Brenda’s eyes went wide. She let out a very tiny ‘squeak.’

She quietly closed the book and sat on her bed for several minutes. She felt…fulfilled somehow. She shuddered slightly and sat up. She wiped her face and sighed. She was hugging the book as if it were a small child. A thousand thoughts ran through her mind; she wanted to cry, she wanted to kiss, she wanted…

She wanted. Most of all, she wanted.

She stood up and went into her bathroom. Resting the book gently on the toilet tank, she stepped into the shower and turned the cold water on strong.

Oh yes, she wanted.

Ten minutes later, she stepped from the shower and toweled off. She grabbed the book and padded into her bedroom. Tossing the book oh so carefully on the bed, she opened her vast closet and chose what she’d wear tonight. It was nearly Midnight, and still Halloween. There was always a little fun to be had and she had so much pent up energy from the book, she couldn’t contain herself.

Wouldn’t contain herself.

She wanted to explode and giggled.

She felt naïve and older than her years; she knew love like Helen and Kirk’s couldn’t exist, but oh, she wanted it so bad. It was so beautiful to her. The stories had touched her in ways she couldn’t have ever imagined.

And now she would go out, and hope in her heart of hearts that maybe, just maybe…

There would be something in the world for her.

She smiled and went out of her front door to find something.

Something she wanted very much.


Four and a half hours later, Brenda sat on her bed, crying. Her face was buried in her hands and she sobbed hard. No, there wasn’t a love like Helen and Kirk’s. There wasn’t anything close to it. No instant attraction, no doe-eyed romance, or romantic adventure. No pale skinned beautiful waif and certainly no glittering supernatural hero. There was what there always was; anger. And hate. And emptiness. Just a void that could never be filled by anyone or anything. She was alone. All alone.

She stood up angrily and walked across her room. She kicked the young man lying crumpled in a heap and unconscious on the floor. He gave a small muffled yelp. He slowly came too, and began to weep.


She kicked him again.

“Shut up!” Brenda snarled. “Just shut up!”

She began to pace, glaring at the young man. He was looking up at her now, petrified.

“Please…look, what did I…”

Brenda stopped and knelt down to him. She grabbed his neck and pulled him closer. His eyes went wide as her face turned into a snarling rictus of sharp teeth that extended from ear to ear.

“What did you do? You didn’t do anything! Absolutely nothing!”

The young man started to scream and Brenda sank her teeth quickly into the lower half of his face. He struggled briefly, but then was quiet again. She fed and fed well, but cried the entire time. When she was done, she pulled herself up off of the floor and went into the bathroom.

She looked at her face.

Vampires weren’t heroes. They weren’t romantic. They didn’t sparkle in the sun, they didn’t fall in love, they didn’t have fabulous adventures and although they could see themselves in the mirror, they were not beautiful.

They were most often covered in blood and left a trail of corpses behind them.

She hit the mirror as hard as she could. It shattered and she nearly screamed, but held it.

The books.

She wanted to destroy them.

She ran into her room and picked “Last Rites” up off of her bed. She was going to tear it in half. Brenda looked at the cover.

She looked at it carefully.

And she wanted to cry.

She sat down for a long time until finally, she opened the book and began to read.

Vampires weren’t a lot of things; nothing like how they were in the “Last Rites” books.

But, they could still dream.

Nelson W Pyles © 2011, 2016


Robert E. Howard’s Iconic “Queen of the Black Coast!”


The author and artist of THE PRINCE OF KNOCKNAFAY Bret Bouriseau and I have teamed up again with a new audio/visual version of Robert E. Howard’s iconic story, QUEEN OF THE BLACK COAST! 

Below is an audio sample of what we have in store for you with this first installment of the BOOK IN A BOTTLE SERIES. Dig the art, listen to Conan roar to life and be ready for the preorders coming soon!

Visit us at Bona Fide Outlaw Free Press!! Massive thanks to Sarah Compton for being our marketing badass (and our model!)

Interviews A Go Go!

As luck would have it, the month of April boasts me on two podcasts (in addition to my regular gig on Clan of the Cave Horse…more about that later.)

First stop was at 9th Story Studios with Dan Foytik and Jeanette Andromeda. It’s a two part interveiw with the three of us talking writing, processes, and a sneak audio preview of my new upcoming novel!  Always a good time on the 9th Story!

The next trip was to Stigmata Studios to record a very chill episode of Red Horse Radio with the iconic Jon Towers. In a drastic turn, we talk about Chuck D, comic books, possessed sharks and tons of fun stuff.

There’s more stuff coming soon, kiddies!  Thanks for reading and listening!