BLOGS

Chapter 2 -Umbra

"Get up, boy." His voice was rough, like a heavy smoker, husky with a slight country twang. "Get up, we have to go now. Where is your father?" 

"He didn't make it. Who the hell are you?" I tried to sound tougher than I was. Then I threw up. He moved. 

"It will burn all night. The Light makes for fine kindling. Gives us cover." He wore a black trenchcoat made from some strangely slick matte-black leather. It was thick, coarse and had a weird animal smell. His clothes were hard to make out as if they defied my ability to focus on them. His shoes were a serviceable boot with hard metal studs all the way to the kneecap. "Get it out, because in two minutes we will be in the wind." The firefighters gathered around the fire were not having any luck putting out the fires. 

"They have my governess. My father said I had to find her." I started to feel a bit better.  

"I don't care two bits about your nanny. Your father called me and told me to come and get you. I got you. My job is to keep you alive. You are my priority now." 

I did not appreciate his tone. I grabbed his jacket and pulled myself to my feet. I leaned in close. "She is the closest thing I have to a family. I don't know you and couldn't give a damn about what your job is. So you help me or I will do this by myself." My chest hurt but I could feel this strange power trying to gather itself. 

"Alright, there is no need for that kind of talk. Do you have anything that belongs to her?" I thought about it and reached into the holster on my hip.  

"This was hers." He took off his jacket and threw it to the ground. 

"Give me that." He snatched the gun from my hand and released the clip. Then he threw the gun on the jacket. I watched him move his hands and with a ritual movement he touched his jacket. It became dark, shrouded in shadow and then the shadow stood. It had the shape of an alligator or crocodile, low to the ground long and masked completely in shadow. Except for its exceptionally white teeth. The gun was in front of it and it was sniffing the gun. It turned as if to smile, showing off its teeth floating in a shadow body, then it shot off into the dark. "If she's still here, he will find her." 

"What do we do in the meantime?" 

"We hope they don't find us first. How much do you know?" 

"About what?" 

"The Life, boy. How much did your father tell you?" 

"Nothing he didn't have to. Which was basically nothing at all." 

"Did you get any schooling at all?" 

"Yes, I got plenty of education, can speak a dozen languages, can use basic magic signs and sigils. I can fly anything, drive anything, fix anything and shoot anything." 

"Okay, so you're not a complete idiot." 

"Are you going to tell me what is going on?" 

"Eventually, but now is not the time. I reloaded your gun. Do not shoot unless I tell you so. Do you understand?" 

"Yes." 

"Let's go. He's found something." 

"Your jacket?" 

"Yeah, kid, my jacket." 

We ran out of the alley away from the fire and the only home I would ever likely care about. Once we got to the street we didn't run but maintained a brisk pace as we headed toward the local boulevard. I could feel the tension draining out of me and I felt suddenly tired. 

"You know, I don't even know your name." 

"Umbra, kid. Keep up, pay attention. If you see anything out of the corner of your eye, you tell me, right quick." 

"Okay, Mister Umbra." He pulled up short and turned toward me. He towered over me and looked me in the eyes. His eyes, previously hidden under his hat were suddenly visible. There was nothing but darkness in them. No iris, no sclera, just an sense of a never-ending night with tiny glimmerings of light.

"Umbra, no mister, no title. Just Umbra. I know you are working with a lot of stress and handicaps right now but I need you to focus. You are a man now, and you are one of us. We don't take titles, we don't use 'em. We have our name and that is the most important thing about us. Your father was Equinox. And now, that is your name. Whatever he used to call you is not important." 

He turned and kept walking up the street, focused on something far away. "He didn't used to call me anything but Boy. I think I may have had a name we used when we introduced ourselves but it changed every time we changed towns." 

I was about to say something else when I saw it. There was a flickering in the corner of my eye. When I turned my head, I couldn't see anything, but as soon as I stopped looking at it, I felt a distinct awareness of something on the side of my vision. The boulevard was almost completely quiet, with only a few people coming home from their night jobs, heads down, focused on getting home.  

"Umbra..." 

"Good, you saw them. Get ready, they are surrounding us. She is up ahead and still fighting." In this section of the Bronx there was an overhead train system and there were pillars of steel holding the train above the city streets. I was able to ride the trains a few times. It was noisy but fun. There was a station ahead and she was still alive fighting there, but I could not see her, directly, only sense her. No one else seemed to see or hear her either. 

"You can't see them can you?" He stared at me and then grabbed my head. He turned it left, than right, looking into my eyes. "You have not had it long enough." He turned and bent over to pick up his alligator-cum-jacket. "Put this on. Its the only way you will be of any use to me. Don't take it off for any reason." 

I gripped the jacket like I expected it to come to live in my hands, but it seemed to have returned to its jacket state, inert and still creepy. As I slid into it, I noticed its coldness, its seemed to suck away my heat and sweat and re-sized itself to fit my much smaller proportions. It was only then I noticed how big Umbra was. I was also aware, I could no longer see anyone on the street. Okay, that wasn't true. I couldn't easily see anyone on the street. It was if I was seeing them through a gossamer veil. 

"Stop gawking. Get your head in the game." With just a few more seconds. I became aware of them. Then I wondered how I could have missed them. They were massive, much bigger than the things that attacked the house. They had that same alien feeling about them, but they did not have wings. They made up for that by having two sets of arms. They were also surprisingly fast, much faster than their size would have you think. Their bodies had that same luminescent mother-of-pearl look to them and they did not have any kind of clothing, armor or weapons, save their wickedly clawed arms; all four of them. 

Then I saw her; Ms. Hart. She was beautiful. And she still fought with the creatures. She wore a silver body suit, similar to the one she trained me in. While she had it on, she was faster and stronger than she had any right to be. I had never seen her as fast and as deadly as she was tonight. I realized she was always taking her time with me. She could have destroyed me, at any time during our training.

She looked tired. She was covered in blood, some bright red, some black. The blood of the creatures splashed on a nearby shadow person and they dissolved into a green and gaseous cloud, accompanied by a baleful scream of sheer terror.  

She was using a metal shod spear made of the same shiny silver, with a blade at the tip and whipped it around her slicing away the limbs of the much larger creatures. But the loss of an arm did not seem to incapacitate them as well as I thought it should. But they were not asking me. I would have suggested rolling around on the ground.

She saw us approaching and instead of looking relieved she appeared to be far more angry. Her rage cost three of the glowing giants their heads. She vaulted over their bodies she strode toward us as the creatures used her break to completely surround us. 

"What do you think you are doing?" Her voice was sharp like a knife. 

"Rescuing you," I began. 

"You stupid boy, I lead them away so you could escape." Her emphasis seemed to focus her will. Her words cut me. Literally. A slash opened on my cheek. Using my sleeve, I wiped away my blood and her rage. Where Umbra's jacket touched, the injury was just as easily healed. But it hurt. 

"And you, you ought to know better." Her gaze fell on Umbra, who lit a cigarette and apparently ignored her. 

The circle closed around us. The giants began to move toward us, a light in their eyes. The streets were clear, and a chill wind blew past me. I drew my pistol. 

"Feel free to shoot any time, kid." He blew out his match.

Jump to Chapter 3

Equinox © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

Hello fellow members,
Eric and I are gearing up for the New York City Comic Con in Oct and will be releasing an updated new Trade edition of GALTOW with a brand new cover and 5 new pages which will launch into the next issue of the series!

here's the cover drawn by the very talented Jay Aquilera, which will be on sale in our online store this week!

As we are currently focusing on the Intellectual property we will also seek out five pin-ups to be added to the tradebooks and promoted on our very popular website that has followers from around the globe.
We are looking for colored character designs of our major characters:
KEYLON JIYA CAFA or WU

The first prize is $100
and the second prize will be that you get to draw yourself as a warrior in the upcoming story.
this is also one of the perks in our INDIEGOGO promotion!
http://www.indiegogo.com/Xmoor-Studios-NYC-Comic-Con
so those folks interested lets get to work... The deadline will be September1, 2011

My first attempt at poetry in years. This is really just me getting my musings about my dream girlfriend out of my head and onto something tangible for the whole world to see.

Dream Girl

Most of the time I like being alone,

Living in my own little world.

Never was that guy who needed an army of friends.

Two or three is just fine.

Yet sometimes when I’m feeling down,

When my spirits hang low over the ground,

I think about you.

I know it’s cliché to say,

But you’ve got that hourglass figure.

You may be slender,

But your curves are gentle.

Your skin is a moonless midnight,

But it shines brighter than the sun.

Your eyes twinkle like onyx gems.

To look into them steals my attention.

What could please me more than

Wrapping my arms around your warm torso,

Stroking your woolly raven crown,

Or being stunned by your kiss?

Maybe it’s your voice,

Which the nightingale envies.

Every word you say massages my temper

And brings the sun out on a cloudy day.

I don’t believe in gods or souls,

But if they were real,

Jesus would covet your inner diamond.

You know how to make this peasant feel like an emperor.

You never miss a word I give you.

And even when the hurricane comes,

You are the cave that shelters me.

If only you could be my queen.

If only we could rule a home together.

We would always watch over each other

And when our final time comes,

Our ashes would mingle.

If only you were real.

See how the black rays of the black race
Have touched the immeasurable wisdom
And therefore the unknown quantity
See how they are not understood
Because as they are is not understood
And as what they know is what they are
See the unlimited freedom of the black rays

(Sun Ra)

If the Oankali from Octavia Butler's Xenogenesis trilogy came to earth with their Ooloi and took genetic material from Butler, Prince, James Brown, Sun Ra, Grace Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Betty Davis (Miles Davis' former wife), then you would probably get Janelle Monae, a.k.a. Cindi Mayweather.

After listening to her Archandroid album for the umteenth time, I realize that I need to make a decision if I want to go back to school and study world mythology with serious intensity, or continue to cut and paste my interest with my writing and screenwriting. I would love to create my own degree in Mythological Afrofuturism. I like school for purely intellectual reasons. I don't want to pay for it or waste time on academic bullshit that has nothing to do with my interests. (I should just audit classes and pretend to be a regular student) Or, I may just write my own manifesto and just share my work like some Platonic Griot. Some outlier blogging to an omniverse that may or may not be ready for some serious Afrofuturism.

As a writer of speculative fiction (everything from Sci-fi, horror, and dark fantasy)I get really frustrated with trying to create alternative ways of seeing the world, and having to deal with people in the slow lane who want the same vanilla films and TV and music. I have my peeps at The Black Science Fiction Society, and every year I flock to Michael Davis's Black Panel at the Comic Con to find my tribe of fringe dwellers. What kills me the most are black producers I meet who want to create the same silly "black" films, with the same dull black actors. They play it safe and small. No vision, no balls (or clits in some cases.) Silly comedies. Melodramas. Unoriginal thugnasty shit. Yawn.

Maybe I'll do like Janelle and create my own alter ego. Well, I actually did awhile back. Originally when I was going to do a blog, I was going to write under another name I created. I may still do it, but I won't share it here. There are some things I need to say, but I don't want folks to know it's me just yet.

I'm getting my portfolio together for the Clarion Science Fiction Workshop to apply for next year, and I'm in dire need of cosmic inspiration to help me muddle through bland ideas and concepts. My friends over at the Black Science Fiction Society have been great supporters and cheerleaders. So it's nice to know I have Fringe Fam in the world.

I'll just be like Sun Ra, do my thing for the thing's sake and nothing else. Which I do anyway.

Chapter 1 - Equinox

Did I mention that I hated my father? 

No, I probably didn't. Lying face down in an alley would not give me much time to explain that. Okay, since we have a minute, I think I can give you the Reader's Digest version. 

I think my father was a demon or something. He did not explain everything. Okay, he didn't explain anything. He and I had not always had the best relationship, as far as I can tell we did not really have any relationship. Unless you consider pain a relationship. That was something we had in common. From as far back as I can remember, we did painful things together. I learned to walk in a week, and I remember it vividly. The whole time, he was right there pushing me. Things did not get easier as I got older. He was constantly there drilling me in everything. I didn't get to learn one language when three was better. I spoke six well by the time I was ten.  

I worked out every day of my life.  

Every day.  

On days when he was not home, he left me in the capable hands of my governess, Ms. Hart. She did not have one, though. She was even more cruel than he was. She would train me in fighting skills, endurance training, rock climbing, mountain biking, from sunrise to sunset. When he came home, battered, and bruised, she would bandage him, talk with him and once he was covered in bandages, he would see how much I had learned. By the time I was thirteen, I had broken nearly every bone in my body.  

Here is where it got strange. We never went to the hospital. They would take me into the basement, put me on a table covered with cuniforms. They would wrap my wounds and leave me there during the night. Come the dawn, I was whole again. He had no problem breaking me again the next day and would leave me with my pain until sunset. We would fight while I was broken, punishing me, pushing me until sometimes I think my mind would break as well. The Slab did nothing for that. 

My life progressed from that point forward, we trained, he broke me, he left, she trained me, she homeschooled me. I never went to a real school and rarely met the neighbors anywhere we ever lived. We would move every two years, so it was just as well I never met anyone. 

When I turned eighteen which was only a few days ago, we had been settled in New York City in the Bronx, hidden away in the poorer neighborhoods, where we were seen but not noticed. People avoided us and we avoided them. But not for the same reasons. I did not know what my father did for a living, but I began to realize it was more dangerous than I believed. I always imagined he was a secret agent or something but I never gave it much thought since we seemed to have everything we needed and while Ms. Hart was not my mother, she was the closest, scariest thing I had to one. She would occasionally even talk to me, when she was not trying to kill me or teach me to read Erdu. Life was relatively good and while my father and I rarely had long conversations, I did not think anything was out of the norm. Until today. 

He came into the house and locked the door. But when you lock our doors, we had a variety of mechanisms that needed to be activated. Deadbolts that covered all four corners of the door. Steel reinforced doors, covered in sigils. Each window was also able to be sealed with lightproof, bulletproof and layered glass. He was hurt bad. I had never seen the kind of injuries he had today before. Once he locked the door, he turned around and looked at Ms. Hart and she grabbed me and pulled me into the safe room below the primary household structure. This room also doubled as our weapons room and the walls were festooned with a variety of hand to hand and ranged weapons. A Special Forces operative would think he had died and gone to Heaven. 

"Take this." She handed me a beautiful handgun, covered in silver except for the black metallic handgrip. She pulled the clip and I saw the silver bullets, all fourteen gleaming in the clip. Driving the clip back, she pulled the slide and armed the weapon. "Take your time. Make every bullet count." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"You were my best student. Don't you dare die." 

That was the last time I saw Ms. Hart. She closed the door behind her and I could hear the muffled sounds of combat, bullets flying, explosions, and the sounds of something I have never heard before, a scream of unnatural proportions, it filled the room despite the fact it was outside of the locked space. The battle lasted for several minutes. Then it was quiet, but only for a moment.  

Then the door was being shaken. I could see the sealing sigils on my side of the door glowing brightly. And then one by one, they went out. When the last one died, I could hear the door being ripped off of its hinges by a hideous strength. I heard the footfall of something touching each step. And with each step, a flare of a sigil would flash and the creature would release a terrible sound, but it did not stop coming. As it approached I was less than fifteen feet from it. I could see it had been injured and I remember the first rule of fighting. If you can injure, you can kill it. So I waited. 

As it came down the stairs, and more of it came into view, the room grew brighter. I had always noticed, night had never been a hindrance to me. I never had a problem with darkness of any kind. When this thing came into the room, it was as if my vision was being blocked by its brightness. Would not stop me from putting a bullet in it. 

The creature saw me, turned its head as if it were surprised, roared and rushed toward me, with its strange wings flashing light, its wicked claws outstretched, its muscular but strangely proportioned body causing the ground beneath its feet to crumple with its weight. 

To me: it appeared to be moving in slow motion. 

Each shot was perfect. One in each eye. two in what ever passed for a brain, two in both sides of the chest, two in each knee. The gun was a thing of beauty, the shell casings flew through the air, hanging there as each bullet struck home. I dove to the side at the last second, holding my last six rounds. Each bullet struck the creature and when it hit, a black blood stood out against its radiant body and rained around the room. Where each drop of that blood struck, the object simply disappeared into a cloud of dust. The creature struck the wall on the other side of the room and lay still. 

Not dropping my guard or my weapon, I backed out of the stairwell and climbed to the top of the stairs. At least two dozen of these things were all over the building, ripped to shreds by bullets, or weapons or magick. I did not feel anything for them. Even dead, they caused revulsion but they reminded me of something. I just wasn't sure what. When I got to my father's study, I found him barely alive with six of the creatures lying around him. 

"You have to go. They weren't here for me. They were here for you." His breathing was ragged. His chest was ripped by the claws of these creatures down to the rib cage. I could feel his body's heat, he was like a furnace. "They were here for this." He points at his chest. 

"What?" I didn't see anything. 

"Equinox." He spits up blood.  "You have to find her. She is still alive. They can't kill her." 

"What is Equinox? Ms. Hart? I don't understand." 

"I thought we would have more time... Please forgive me. This will hurt."  He reaches into his chest, ripping past his ribcage with both hands. His scream fills me with more terror than anything I had heard this evening. Until today, I had never heard him make a sound related to pain. He pulls out a blob of darkness from his chest where his heart should have been; it felt sinister, terrible and alive. 

He grabs my neck with one hand and with the other presses the darkness against my chest. No pain I had ever felt even came close to this. It was as if everything I had ever lived though was happening at the same time. Every injury flared with renewed trauma, every break screamed a vigorous shout as if to say, "I'm back!'" I wanted to run, to push away, but there was nothing that could be done. I screamed until my voice broke and nothing but my whimpering filled the room. The last thing I remember was his warning. "Stay away from the Light." 

And that was the last thing I remembered until I woke up in this alley. The building I was in was still within my line of sight and was currently burning down. In my hand was a small black stone covered in cuneiform. It felt heavy as hell.

Jump to Chapter 2

Equinox © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

What if the primal beat in us all were activated and shared, a global flash mob, for an hour we danced, globally. The diaspora from full blooded to the meager droplet, all hear and respond. I grew up seeing the Chinese in national dance and the Africans also. What if we devised movements of African forms for health and recreation, a dance sequence basic and vital for survival. To help ease the mental and physical dis-eases we have developed. They took away our drums, we never reinstated them though we have the freedom to do so. They took away our greeting the day's sun with hope and purpose. Some have lost it all, some remember some. When ever I hear music I find the rhythm, tap, sway, humm......

The Chinese do their meditative motions and the Africans dance for spiritual communion. We diaspora have individual flexing but no flexing as a people. We are too diverse, too weighed down to dance. We dance to stir the emotions to lust at each other for ego and sex. We need to devise a sequence of motions to practice to bend the body like a reed, strengthen like a shaft, to let our minds wrap around positive things and our spirits reach across the lies we've been taught to separate us. A daily dance to center us, to focus us, to calm us, to feel the other places our energy can be drawn from. We have the liberty to make individual energy but not a people energy. Now we are a diaspora people, though we don't recognize the origins, we are too full of the lies to see the lies can not live for ever. The beat dispels the lies from the fundamental upon which we can write a riff of life. We know how to improvise you know.

I've been to weddings of friends and yet the line dance had everyone in sync, even more than singing the Blk Nat'l Anthem. First we rise, then e dance, then we get down to business. 

When I first joined the Black Science Fiction Society earlier this year, I was a looking for a home to share my speculative fiction short stories. I'm a nerdgirl from way back, and I was reading MAD magazine, Stephen King and Dean Koontz in my bedroom at age 11. I began experimenting with spec fiction in grad school, and I saw the genre as a way to tell funky and futuristic tales blended with racial politics. When I posted excerpts of my writing for feedback, BSFS members provided a constructive and supportive forum and inspired me to stretch my imagination to the limit.

I recently published a collection of short stories, Escape from Beckyville: Tales of Race, Hair and Rage that grew out of the stories I posted here as well as several that I completed in my master's program. I'm free falling into this new realm as indie author and publisher with no safety net, and I believe in my mission so much, that I walked away from a career at a top-rated talk show to become a full-time writer.

I'm selling the print copy of Escape from Beckyville exclusively on my website nicolesconiers.com. The digital version is available for immediate download on Smashwords. Because the Black Science Fiction Society always supported me and was the first place I ran to to post my stories and to build with other sci-fi and fantasy writers of color, I'm offering all my BSFS peeps a 20 percent discount on the $14.95 print copy of the book. To take advantage of the 20 percent discount, click here!

Thanks in advance for supporting my work. Continue to write and dream on!

Nicole D. Sconiers, author
Escape from Beckyville: Tales of Race, Hair and Rage
http://www.nicolesconiers.com
http://youtu.be/5ABjaDFwrjo - "Beckyville" video promo
http://www.twitter.com/nicolesconiers

I highly recommend putting this on your “next book to read” list. Definitely five star material here.

This is available for Kindle, which is great, because you will definitely want to take this book with you and steal time to read it at every opportunity until you are done. Then you will want more.

Malcolm “Rage” Petteway

Owner, Rage Books Publishing LLC

This review is posted on amazon.com and www.ragebooks.blogspot.com

Fans of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake and L.A. Banks Damali Richards will love Ivory Blaque, the new and exciting femme fatale from author John F. Allen. Ivory is a professional thief who has in her possession twin US Army Colts with extraordinary attributes that give her a significant edge in her profession. Ivory is a dynamic character whose style and charm is sure to entertain fans for years to come.

BE SURE TO PURCHASE A COPY OF IVORY, THE FAST PACED, ACTION EXTRAVAGANZA BY JOHN F. ALLEN. IVORY IS AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK THROUGH BARNES & NOBLE (www.bn.com)  FOR DOWNLOAD ON YOUR NOOK, PC OR SMARTPHONE. IT’S ALSO AVAILABLE IN PDF FORMAT AT MY BLOG: www.johnfallenwriter.blogspot.​com
DON’T WAIT, ORDER TODAY!!!

http://http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ivory-john-f-allen/1031459326?ean=2940012951953&itm=3&usri=ivory

BSFS has some of the most brilliant writers in the world. So I decided to list my favorite authors that I found right here:) Centuries from today they will still be spoken of.

Charles Saunders author of the Imaro series... his most recent release is Damballah

Edward Uzzle author of Neters and Retro-KM

Quinton Veal author of Her Black Body I Treasure

Milton Davis author of Meji I and Meji II... his most recent release is Changa's Safari

Joe Bonadonna author of Mad Shadows

B. Sharise Moore author of Taste: An Erotic Fantasy Series

Ronald Jones his most recent release is Warriors of the Four Worlds

Angela Nicole Parker her most recent release is Specter of War: Guardians of Destiny

D.K. Gaston author of The Friday House

Larry Winfield author of Banjo Strings

"Valdar is city of swordslingers and necromancers, witch cults and half-human races. It's a city in a world of darkness... This is my city. This is my world." Mad Shadows, Joe Bonadonna 

Take a wisecracking detective who's handy with both sword and dowsing rod. Take a mosaic of deadly villages with evil lurking in every alleyway. Take a hoard of supernatural villains. Take all this and more and you've got Joe Bonadonna's Mad Shadows, one of the most amazing reads of my summer! 

I had a blast matching swords with "Dorgo's" enemies, hunting down treacherous beasties and seeking out magic with his dowsing rod. In short, I give Mad Shadows an enthusiastic five stars as a thoroughly enjoyable and exciting read!!! Check it out and tell them Sister moon sent you :)! 

Pick up Mad Shadows here

This event is about bringing the Black Age to the masses.  To this end we will be at the Annual free outdoor "Back To Our Roots" Arts & Crafts Festival at the DuSable Museum in Chicago July 9th & 10th.  This will expose several thousand folks to the Black Age over the week end.  Plus Friday July 8th we will host signings at Graham Crackers and the First Aid Comic Book stores.  One in downtown Chicago the other in the same 'hood as President Obama & Minister Farrakhan's personal homes and the birthplace of the Black Age movement.

After 30 plus years of Black Aging I see that progress, profits & pride are winning in this war for minds & marketshares!!!!

Along with my 12 years of being an Art Therapist plus over twenty of being a Public School Teacher and Coach I am glad to be so honored to be in this struggle. Indie today: Black Age forever!!

What it do BSF folks?! This community is growing so quickly its beautiful to see. i could see some great things blossoming from so many minds. A Black Science Fiction event? Online store w/ books from all the members who are already there w/ their game? Maybe a distribution company? Anyways, love and light to you all. here is the 7th in a series of short stories Im working on. Please let me know what you think.

-Rob (live from the Bay Area-California!)

To see more of the process please check out my blog, and add me here on BSFS!

Hello, fellow writers! My name is Elwin Cotman. I was recommended to this site by Charles Saunders, and I can't wait to meet everybody!

I'm an author from Pittsburgh, PA currently living in California. My first short story collection, The Jack Daniels Sessions EP, was published recently by Six Gallery Press. It's a collecton of folklore, urban fantasy and horror stories. Here's the blurb:

"A Washington D.C. punk club gets a visit from very ancient--and dangerous--guests. The mythic and the mundane collide at a general store in the segregated South. A young boy becomes apprentice to the Angel of Death. In the debut collection of fantasy author Elwin Cotman, the humorous mixes with the historical and the epic mixes with the deeply personal. Cotman combines the language of high fantasy, urban fantasy, black folklore, teen angst, punk rock and horror to create American fairy tales with landscapes all their own."

And it's on Amazon! Check it out! http://www.amazon.com/Jack-Daniels-Sessions-EP/dp/1926616170/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1309718539&sr=1-1

Doing readings is one of my favorite things and I've toured across the country. I've also been a guest at several conventions. My influences are way too numerous to mention, but here's the short list: Robert E. Howard, Richard Wright, Toni Morrison, Mary Gaitskill, Clark Ashton Smith, Hans Christian Andersen, Jhumpa Lahiri, Warren Ellis, Wendy Pini, Neil Gaiman, Peter S. Beagle, Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman. I love Greek myth, African-American folklore, Japanese anime and Germanic fairy tales. I'm excited to rap with all of you.

Here's an excerpt from the second story in my book. It's a series of vignettes based on black folklore. Enjoy!

The Right Way to Worship

It came to be, sometime in the year nineteen twenty-three, when Jim wuz wukkin the gen'ral stow one morn. Jim wuz a good sort, a skinny-bone fella with gray sidewhiskers and his apron alluz dusted in flour. He carried on him the stow's smell o' wheat and garlik, so's that evuhwhar he went he left a li'l scent o' stow. Folk round them parts said Jim had wukked there a hunnerd years. You would guess he'd never been young at all.

Fact wuz, he hadn't been. Many years ago, he burst forth full-growed, right in the middle o' the gen'ral stow, in a great sploshun o' fire. It wuz a feat he'd grown tired o' talkin bout and, to evuhbody's disappointment, the ole clerk never came close to doin it agin.

He wuz stackin bags o' fertlizer when in come Miss Molly, all mad and fussed-like, draggin her son Jeremiah by the horns. Now, that boy wuz half-boy, half-bull: he had two giant horns curvin on top his head and hooves instead o' hands. They said his mama wuz right awful to a tree witch one day, so she put a hex on her that made her baby come out with horns and hooves. His face wuz red from cryin so hard.

"Mawnin, Miss Molly," sez Jim. "Wut'choo need t'day?"

"I don't know wut to git," she sez, slappin the boy's behind. "This boy done embarrassed me at revival."

"Now wut did he do?" Jim ast, smilin at the li'l fella.

"When it came time to give praise," sez Molly, sez she, "this li'l heathen pulled down his pants. Then he starts gruntin like a pig. Then, in front o' the whole congregation, he takes a piss. But that ain't the end of it! He starts screamin and throwin things at evuhbody, jumps up and lands right in the mud. He embarrassed me in front o' Reverend Hawkins and the whole town. Lawd! Why wuz I cussed with such a wicked son?"

"Well," said Jim, "that is a right strange way to worship. Why don't you 'splain y'self, young man?"

The li'l half-bull boy sniffed, tuckin his cow-tail tween his legs. "That's how you give praise, I swar! I wuz jest doin wut Mister Young over by the creek tole me to do."

"Wut Mister Young tole you to do, huh?" Jim knew all about that sinner.

"I wuz fishin," said Jeremiah, "and I sees him walk up to that yallah lady's house, and he knocks on the doh' and takes his pants off. Then he goes inside and he starts gruntin. Then he comes out and pees on a tree. I knows I shouldna been so curious, mama, but I followed him back to his cabin. He's creepin round, and Missus Young opens the doh' and starts throwin things at him, and she's screamin and hollerin. Then Mister Young runs away and falls down right in front o' me in the mud. Then he tells me that evuhthin I jess saw wuz how he and his friends give the glory, and I shouldn't tell nobody."

Jim laughed. "Boy, I don't think wut you saw wuz worshippin."

"But that's how you worship," the boy insisted. "Cuz Missus Young got the spirit at revival. When I 'splained m'self to the reverend, I went to go talk to him by the Youngs, and when she heard me she started screamin and throwin things at Mister Young all over agin. So it must be the right way!"