Mark Douglas West

I'm at mark@westinbrevard.com

"Remainders"

The first of the dead people that Ardel saw on his way to work the midnight shift, psych, at Spartanburg Memorial was down on East Main right across from Vic Bailey Ford. It was a hot night, but the air was busted on Ardel's old 323 and the driver-side window was stuck from some crackhead jamming into him with a F-150 flying two Confederate flags like it was an aircraft carrier or some shit. So when he spilled the forty-forty down in the floorboard he was about to suffocate so he was trying to crank the passenger window down and he nearly ran over the dead guy, who was walking across the road, coming up from Nasty Branch where it ran up under the Norfolk Southern at the the squatter shit-hole down there.

The Mazda skidded, the tires squealing, and Ardel went sideways, the rear of the car bumping up onto the weedy median across from Arlington Street, the smell of burnt rubber thick in the damp midnight air.

The guy just looked at Ardel, then the car, then back at Ardel, eyes wide, mouth open.

"Shit. That tire's gonna go flat. And I ain't got no spare." Ardel looked back at the man, who was old and scrawny, his face still a round o of surprise. "Well, what the hell you looking at?"

"Light." The man pointed at one of the mercury vapor lights lining Pine. "How..."

"You talk funny. Where the hell you from?"

"Charles Town. I trap for fur. I got a fever. Yellow jack. Methought I was dead." He pointed at the car, the weird pelt jacket he was wearing, caked with mud, dangling as he gestured. "What is that?"

"Ninety-nine Mazda. A piece of shit."

Another car drove by, horn blaring, and the man jumped and ran, back toward the creek, and Ardel felt like he was on the Georgia Scorcher at Six Flags Atlanta, because the man's back was gone as in rotted away, gone so you could see his ribs and spine and dried-up innards flopping in the blue mercury-vapor light as he ran, and he was for sure dead.

Since like 1776.

more soon...

The Anchor Inn Castaways -- and others

I'm a member of the most disorderly writer's group in the world -- the Anchor Inn Castaways. If you haven't been to the Anchor Inn for a Kris and Dean workshop, well, you should. Anyhow, a group of attendees at the Denise Little short story workshop in early 2010 formed a writers group.

Brad Torgersen is a future Nebula winner, for sure; he can really write, and is an extremely nice guy. He's also serving our country, putting his life on the line so my sorry butt can be safe; props to him for that.

Annie Buhl is another fine writer you'll be hearing a lot about soon; check out her ongoing posts. Leslie Walker is somebody with a real personal style and fun and engaging stories to tell; you'll like her work. And don't miss Laura Ware; she's posted the first few pages of her novel-in progress, and I can't wait to buy a copy. In hardback -- and if you know how cheap I am, that tells you how good it is. Dayle Dermatis writes some really steamy stuff, and she's another of the Castaways. You've probably read her fiction without knowing it; she has more pseudonyms than a room full of mobsters. And while you're at it, go right out and buy Phantasm, by Phaedra Weldon; the description of "dark and solemn" omits the third word I'd use to describe her work -- 'compelling.'

An emeritus member of the Castaways is Ken Rand, who died in 2009. He was a hard-working journalist and a writer of cheerful fiction; it was he who told me of the workshops offered by Dean and Kris. I owe him dinner; sadly, I won't ever get to pay up.

Jeff Levin isn't a writer of sf and f; he's a good friend who writes real scholarly books about things that really matter -- religion, spirituality, health and healing. His book Divine Love is not optional; it's as close to an owner's manual for human life as you can get. You don't own a copy? I'm shocked, I tell you -- shocked! Take a look at the list of contributors! You must remedy your lack of ownership of this book -- now!