LOGO Contest

A while ago, we had a contest looking for an official logo for MEOW PRESS.  We are proud to announce our winner, BETHANY HILDEBRAND.

Here is her winning entry:

We thought this logo summed up everything MEOW PRESS is about.

Congrats, Bethany!

Got the cover to CONVERSION PARTY, the screenplay/novel coming out from PULPWOOD PRESS, and I wanted to share it.

Working on proofs, making sure the interior is on point, and the book will be available soon.

Acedia

… and I can’t get up…, groaned an elderly lady while clutching to her chest and flopping around on TV.  Jimbo smirked and changed channels.

“This is gonna be so awesome.”  Ted buttoned up a shirt covered in martini glasses with floating, toothpick-skewered olives and drink shakers.  “I’m gonna get so many girls this week.  I’d better go back to Chicago with at least three STDs.”

            Jimbo, sitting on the hotel room’s bed by the wall, stopped the rapid-fire channel surfing and rested the remote control in his lap.  “You’re not getting any pussy, so quit kidding yourself.”

            “Not getting any pussy?”  Ted plopped down on the bed near the window and look out at Panama City Beach’s emerald waters and sugar white shores.  “Do you see this view?  This pastel scenery is the panty pull down, Jimbo.  We didn’t drive a thousand miles and turn our backs on all that snow to watch Bible Belt TV and jerk each other off.”

            Jimbo snorted.  “You’re not sexy enough for me to jerk you off, so don’t creep into my bed when you come home drunk and horny and alone tonight.”

            Ted rolled over and faced his roommate.  “Wait, you’re not coming to La Vela with me?”

            “Afraid not.”

            “Dude, it’s the largest nightclub in the country—this is why we saved our money for the past year.  There is going to be so many chicks, no, so many HOT chicks in that place…  I bet there will be two girls for every guy.”

            “Not really interested.  I’m going to sit here, watch TV.  I might hook up the PS3 in a little bit, shoot some cowboy zombies.”  Jimbo returned his attention to flipping through the channels.

            …if erections last more than four hours, consult your doctor…

            “Not really interested…  It’s a damn shame, man.  I don’t get you.  I thought you were going to be fun.”  Ted zipped up his board shorts and put on his sandals. 

            “Hey, don’t let me spoil your good time, Ted.  Go out.  Catch syphilis.  Do what you got to do.  Spend your Spring Break whoring and whatever, but I need this time to do, ya know, nothing.”

            “You don’t do anything at home but study, work, and sleep.  Now we’re here, it’s not long until a magical Florida sunset, and you’re still being lazy.  You’re missing your life, man.”

            “I’m not missing shit.  You do your thing, I’ll do mine.  It works back in Chicago, it’ll work here.”  Jimbo stopped on the Weather Channel.  “I love watching the weather when I go on vacation.  The map looks all weird.  Look how much blue is on this one, man.  Hard to believe that there is that much ocean out there.”

            “It’s not an ocean, it’s a gulf.  All right.  Fine.  Be a stick in the mud.  I’m going to go to a seafood restaurant, eat oysters till I have a permanent hard-on.  Then, I’m gonna hit the club, get sloshed, and hit on every twirl that my eternal erection points at.  My cock is gonna be a sexual divining rod.”

            Jimbo laughed.  “Really?”

            “When I bring some hard body back here, you’d better vacate.  Are you picking up what I am putting down?”  Ted crossed his arms.

            “I feel ya.”  Jimbo sighed.  “Just not on my bed.”

            “If I get any on your sheets, I’ll let you know before you climb in and get semen between your toes.  I’ve been eating a lot of bananas lately, so there’s no telling how much coverage I’m gonna get when I explode.”

            Jimbo rolled his eyes.  “And here all my anthropology studies led me to believe that cavemen were extinct.”

            Ted bounced around the room, grunting and pounding his chest.  Jimbo turned up the volume on the television.

            “All right, I’m out of here.  There’s cocktails in the little fridge, and if you feel like getting social, I have my cell on me.  If not, when we get back, I’m telling everyone how gay you were down here.”  Ted opened the hotel door, allowing warm afternoon sunlight to spill into the darkened room.

            “Whatever,” Jimbo said.

            “Later, loser,” Ted said, slamming the door as he exited. 

            …foggy, with highs in the upper 70s.  There is only a 20 percent chance of rain this evening, but those numbers increase as we near the weekend…

            Jimbo shook his head, flipping the channel away from the weather.  An hour later of cartoons and tourist television showcasing local restaurants and bars, he still had not found something worthwhile.  He glanced over at the unhooked Playstation 3 on the dresser beside the television.  It would only take a minute to plug in the power and RCA cords, but he didn’t feel like getting up.  He stopped the channel on a cooking show and rested the remote on his chest.  His eyes began to droop…

            …for only 19.95.  And if you call now, we’ll double your order, free of charge.  But that’s not all.  Sally, tell the viewers at home what else they’ll get when they call now…

            When he roused, it was dark outside.  Car horns and spring breakers’ hoots and hollers wafted from the gridlocked main drag, Front Beach Road.  Despite offensive gas costs, cruising the strip was a Spring Break must; a longtime tradition on the World’s Most Beautiful Beaches.  Jimbo thought about walking the strip but yawned, sliding his hand down his pants and grabbing his penis.  He started imagining the pretty red head that sits next to him during American Government.  The previous week she came to class wearing a black dress that showed off her ample cleavage.  He imagined her crawling into bed with him, sliding out of the black dress and pressing her soft, pale breasts into his chest.  Flaccid flesh was giving way to an erection when Jimbo sighed and stopped.  As the urge to get off evaporated, he pulled his hands out of his pants and resumed flipping channels.

            …Try the new triple jalapeno burger with our new double beer battered potato and onion curls…

            Stomach rumbling, Jimbo rolled out of bed.  Beside the phone was a thin magazine advertising places to eat.  He flipped pages until he saw a pizza place and considered ordering his favorite—ham and pineapple—but calling the restaurant and talking with some dumb kid seemed like too much work.  In fact, a lot of things seemed like too much work for Jimbo lately.  He’d been pushing himself hard in school: 5 classes, fifteen credit hours, a full-time job flipping burgers—the past semester and a half left him burnt out.  Worse, he was uncertain how to apply the Philosophy Degree to the real world.  Jimbo feared his fate was tied to a fast food nightmare.  Serving French fries and soft drinks to ungrateful assholes was the epitome of burning in hell to Jimbo, and he had no desire to be an old man with the devil watching over his shoulder.  He needed to relax before his head exploded, so he changed into swim trunks, grabbed a towel, and headed for the hotel pool.

            It was early dark, and the pool, surrounded by a chain link fence, was deserted.  As Jimbo pushed his way past the metal gate, he read the rules posted in block red letters on a sign affixed to the fence: (1) shower first, (2) no pets, (3) no glass, (4) pool closes at 10 p.m., and (5) no running, horseplay, or yelling.  He spread out the beach towel on one of the plastic lounge chairs by the deep end before plopping on it.  Tall shrubs blocked the view of Front Beach Road’s traffic, but the mirthful sounds of students temporarily free from higher learning’s bondages reached the pool.  Jimbo wondered if the laugher and hollering were loud enough to ripple the water.

            His eyelids began to close…

            The gate slamming snapped him back to the pool.  A slender blonde wearing a black bikini and carrying a neon orange beach towel walked along the deck, choosing the closest lounge chair to roost.

            “Hi,” she said.  Jimbo could smell her perfume as she kicked off her flip flops.  “It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

            “Sure is.”

            “I just love Spring Break.  It’s, like, the best party of the year.  Did you travel far to get here?”

            “Chicago.”

            “Wow, that is a drive.  We came down from Louisville, Kentucky.  My girlfriends and I, that is.  I had to leave my cat, Belphegor, back at my apartment, but I have a neighbor taking care of him.  He’s a sweet kitty.  Do you like cats?”

            “Yeah, they take care of themselves.”  Jimbo stretched, looking back towards his room and missing his privacy.  He yawned.  “God damn, I feel so sleepy.”

            “How can you be tired at a time like this?  You should be going nucking futs.  My girlfriends, like, wanted me to go have sushi at this place we saw on the way in, but I don’t like Asian food or raw fish.  I’m more into hamburgers and fries, ya know.  I don’t even know how to hold them chopsticks.  Say, what are you doing down here all alone?  Don’t you have friends here?”

            Jimbo cleared his throat.  “Yeah, I came down here with my roommate, but he went out.  I really needed some rest.  This semester has been a bear.”

            “I hear you there, buddy.  I’m in four classes and bartending at night to make it all work.  Sometimes I’d rater just drink beer all day instead of go to class, but, ya know, college is all about pushing yourself to be better.”  She giggled.  “You should come take a dip with me.”

            Jimbo’s eyes widened and darted towards the blue water.  “In the pool?”

            “I’m too scared of sharks in the sea.” 

            “It’s a gulf, not a sea out there.”

“Whatever.  Now that it’s dark, there’s no telling how many man-eaters are swimming around, waiting for some tourist to dive in and get nommed.  I’m in no mood to be dinner for Jaws.”  She walked over to the pool and dunked her toes in.  “It feels perfect.  Let’s go for a swim.” 

            “I don’t know.  I’m not much of a swimmer.”

            “Aw, come on, Chicago.  You’re only young once.”  She stepped off the ledge and splashed into the deep end.  Jimbo wondered if hotel security noticed she didn’t bathe first.  When she resurfaced by the ledge, she brushed wet hair from her eyes and smiled.  “This feels great.  Come on, Chicago.  Come swim with me.”

            “I don’t know Kentucky.  I really don’t feel like it.”

            “You mean to say you don’t want to splash around with me?  That kind of, like, hurts my feelings.”

            “Well, I don’t mean to offend.  It’s just that I am so tired.”

            She shot him a sly look and untied her top, throwing it at him.  “How about now, Chicago?”  She pulled herself up on the pool’s ledge, flashing her breasts for a second.  “I hope you have beads…and a condom.”

            Jimbo swallowed hard.  “I—I really need to get back up to my room.  In case my roommate calls.”

            “For real?”  The blonde frowned.  “I was thinking we could have some fun this week.”

            “Maybe, if I see you around…”  Jimbo rose, gathering his towel and rolling it up in a ball. 

            She rolled her eyes.  “Whatever.  Well, I am in room 204 if you change your mind.”

            “Thanks.”  He hurried out of the pool area, letting the gate slam as he exited.

            …side effects may include: diarrhea, dry mouth, itchy eyes, and night sweats.  Ask your doctor today about the amazing healing power of…

            Once in the room, Jimbo tossed the towel on the floor before returning to his spot on the bed.  He thought about Ted and wondered where he would go if his roommate did manage to hook up with some intoxicated hussy.  Although Kentucky was attractive, he really did not feel like engaging her sexually.  Kissing, undressing, and screwing seemed like overexertion, let alone the idle banter and walk of shame following such a lurid tryst.  What if Kentucky attempted to transform the random, poolside encounter into something more substantial, like a long distance attachment or, worse, what if she made him the object of her obsessions and began stalking?  He shuddered at the notion.

            …on average, most people have no idea how to properly clean their bathrooms.  With new Miracle Bathroom Bomb, proven to eliminate 99.8 percent of all noxious bacteria and germs, you’ll never have to worry about…

            He turned the channel, ignoring an itch on his back.  Jimbo lacked motivation to scratch.  He just wanted rest, a break from reality and all of its pressures.  Solace is often found on self destructive paths, but Jimbo didn’t feel like drowning in drink, drugs, or women.  Hungover, arrested, or broken hearted sounded like too much work, and Jimbo was in a mood to do nothing.

            …and thanks to the Fat Away system, I was able to fit into those old blue jeans just in time for my reunion.  Now Cindy Lou is going to be so jealous when she sees me…

            The remote itched in his hands, but he sighed.  There is nothing you can do to combat the weather, only adapt to it.  Jimbo knew that was the sad truth to everything.  We were all stuck, one way or another.

            …as the situation became volatile, the President sent troops into the region in hopes they’ll bring a swift end to the insurrection.  In other news, recent fires in the area have been attributed to arson.  No word from the police yet on if they have a suspect, but the Bay County Fire Department has issued…

            He tried to release the remote, but his fingers wouldn’t function.  His phalanges revolted, and panic gripped Jimbo as his arm numbed.  His initial thought was that he was having a heart attack, but then he realized his whole body was tingling.  Immobile, he watched in horror as his legs melted into the hotel bed, the swim trunks and bare flesh taking on the texture and floral pattern of the bed spread.  His entire body sank—a glance down showed that his torso and arms were also dissolving into the bed.  He tried to call out for help, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out.  The bed kept swallowing as his hand fused with the remote.  Deeper and deeper he fell, until his eyes vanished within the folds where the pillows met the sheets.

            …tomorrow on the Morning Show: we will show you how to dress, eat, and think so you can be a more productive member of society.  We do the work, so you don’t have to…

Diluvium

* for KJT *

New to the group, Louis Morton wished he was driving the airboat.  Although the youngest aboard the vessel, Louis was raised maneuvering airboats through twisting Louisiana bayous during fishing excursions and gator hunting.  Being reduced to a passenger bored him, but having a job in such troubled times was a godsend.  Louis kept his mouth shut as the craft zipped south.

Ray Armstrong pushed the airboat’s right hand throttle lever back, dropping the engine’s loud growl into a grumble.  Encased in a protective metal cage to keep tree and body limbs from getting mangled, the propeller stopped and the johnboat bobbed in Lake Pontchartrain’s mellow waves.  In the distance, parting dense fog revealed crumbling skyscrapers rising from the water like jagged teeth.

“There she is, boys.  America’s first great ruins: New Orleans.”

“Man, feels like forever and an hour since we shoved off from Slidell,” said Peter Bechet.  “We’d get there faster if you let me drive the boat.”

Ray ignored him.  “We got ‘bout 20 minutes before we’re in the Old Intercoastal Canal.  We’ll take Saint Claude into the labyrinth till we hit Esplanade, then follow it down to Bourbon Street.  Sticking to the wide channels till we hit the Quarter should be the easiest, most trouble free route.  In and out shouldn’t take longer than three or four hours, so look alive.”

“I’ve seen it in pictures,” said Louis, “but I can’t believe it looks so ominous...like gravestones.”

Peter laughed.  “Wait till we get in the labyrinth.  You’ll just love all the gators, snakes, and nutrias trying to nip a piece out of your ass.”

“Nutrias?” Louis rubbed his five o’clock shadow.

“River rats, kid.  Used to be able to find them everywhere, but when everything fell apart, they were hunted for food and their pelts.  Now they just exist in New Orleans.  Place is infested with them.”  Peter cracked his knuckles and leaned on the elevated airboat seat.  “Before Hurricane Katrina destroyed the levees and flooded the city’s streets, they would pay people to kill them.  Kept the population down or at least manageable.  Since the Great Flood, they’ve bred as fast as these damned mosquitoes.  Like all the damned Swampies living in the ruins.”

“What about Ponchie?” Louis asked, looking at the dark water.  “Aren’t the Swampies afraid of getting eaten?”

“Ponchie?  The lake monster?”  Peter asked.

Ray laughed.  “No such thing, kid.  Some idiots caught sight of some oversized river catfish and cried wolf.  Stupid superstitious nonsense, all of it.”  He paused, rubbing the silver charm shaped like a feather around his neck.  “The worst thing out there is the Swampies.  Well, them and the pollution.  The whole damn place went septic after the city went under and the pump stations were abandoned.  In the old days, the ground was too damp to bury the dead proper, so all the graves were above ground.  The corpses would cook to dust in the humid air, but when the water came, they mixed with the sewage and turned poisonous.  Not to mention the fresh bodies from all the poor souls who couldn’t escape the deluge.  Like there wasn’t enough garbage floating in those inundated streets.  Now all that’s left is filth, yet the people in the labyrinth thrive.”

“How are they surviving in there?  What do they eat?” Louis asked.

 “People like that eat whatever they want.  Nutrias.  Each other.”  Peter smiled, exposing a mouthful of yellow teeth peppered with tobacco.  “Mainlanders.”

Louis started to say something, but Ray pushed the throttle lever forward, reengaging the airboat’s engine.  He sat back in his seat, silently cussing his boss and longing to drive the airboat.  The fog-clad buildings grew taller as the trio approached America’s Atlantis.

Fifteen minutes later, outside the first row of skeletal trees and housetops poking from the water above Saint Claude Avenue, Ray cut the engine.  “This is your rookie run, so before we enter the labyrinth, there’re some things we gotta get straight, Louis.  This is a salvage run—people pay a lot of money for unique artifacts.  Stay away from mass-produced tourist trap bullshit.  If I catch you even looking at Mardi Gras beads, you’re Ponchie bait, get it?  We need the bizarre, something unique that screams Crescent City.  We’re not looking for quantity, we need quality.  You find the right piece, we can leave with one thing and have good month.”

Louis nodded.  “Gotcha.”

Ray placed his arm on Louis shoulder.  “Also, keep your distance from the Swampies—if we even see any.  There was always madness in Creole blood, but now there’s no law keeping them in line.  No job is worth your life.”

“Don’t let the old man scare ya,” Peter said, flashing his holstered revolver behind his jacket.  “If the yokels give us any problems, I’ll shut them up real fast.”

“Easy, Bechet.  We’re in and out, no static.”  Ray lit a cigarette.  “Look underneath us, boys.”

Peter and Louis looked over the edge of their respective sides of the airboat.  Through murky water, the rooftop of a sunken house was visible. 

“How deep is it?” Louis asked. 

“Here it’s about…seventeen—maybe twenty feet.  As we get closer to Canal Street, that number decreases.  New Orleans is…was shaped like a cereal bowel.  The Vieux Carré was built before the levee system, on some of the highest ground, so the French Quarter was better protected from the floodwaters.  Problem is the city is constantly sinking, even still.  Nothing could save it from the ever-hungry swamp.  The storms kept coming, the lake and Mississippi River kept spilling over, and the ground kept sinking.  They say in less than twenty years the Quarter will be totally submerged. Every year more and more of it is swallowed up by the bayou.”

Louis could not take his eyes off the submerged building, imagining bodies floating silent and graceful underneath the boat, like betta fish.  “Why did they ever build here?”

“Greed,” Ray said.  “It was an inevitable city in an improbable location built on unstable ground as a port linking the center of America to the Gulf of Mexico.  This waterlogged wasteland was once considered the jewel of the South.”

“How could they let it fall if it was so important?”

Ray was amused by Louis’s naivety.  “Katrina was just the beginning of the end.  Subsequent storms made the damage worse and repairs impossible.  People remaining in the city formed gangs and kept out any attempt at order that wasn’t their own.  Eventually the government—before fracturing after the Market Crash of ’13—decided it was better to just let the city sink than to pour trillions into a lost cause.  Since then the Swampies have done a decent job of killing each other off.”

“We gonna see any today?” Louis asked.

Ray shook his head.  “Doubt it.  The real danger is Uptown, on the other side of Canal Street in what used to be called the Garden District.  Lot’s of action there.  We’re sticking with the Quarter today.  It’s safer than Uptown, but it’s still a cradle of weird.  Guess in that sense nothing’s changed since the flood.”

Ray piloted the airboat into the buildings, careful not to hit the throttle too hard.  Excess wake slamming against the buildings could draw out unwanted creatures or attention.  Deeper into the labyrinth, the ground underneath was higher, elevating the tightly lined rooftops above the water level and creating a complex maze leading to Canal Street, former downtown New Orleans.  The fog thickened.  An occasional bird call echoed through the flooded streets, and, once or twice, something splashed nearby.

The path curved before hitting Esplanade, a wide channel intersecting Saint Claude.  Ray pushed the rudder lever forward, turning the airboat left.

“We’re outside of the Quarter,” Ray said.  “When we hit Bourbon, we’re on the hunt.  If you see a place you want to check or something interesting grabs ya, we’ll stop.”

After passing three submerged streets, Ray pulled the steering lever back and the airboat turned right.  When they entered Bourbon Street’s narrow mouth, he slowed the craft.  Debris was everywhere.  As the airboat passed, flotsam clinging to the buildings bounced in the wake; a branch stuck in a wrought iron fence broke free and drifted towards Canal Street.  Many of the windows were shattered, and broken strands of Mardi Gras beads dangled from what was left of trees and fleur-de-lis fence post tops tall enough to breach the surface.  The waterline swallowed most of the buildings’ lower floors, but the second stories were dry. 

“I like that one there, with the gallery.”  Peter pointed to an ironwork balcony supported from the ground by poles.  “I think we can get up there and bust it open no problem.”

“You ready, kid?” Ray asked. 

Louis nodded. 

“All right.  Peter, you climb up first.  Louis, you’ll follow him.  You two be careful.  Sometimes there’s razor wire or broken glass on those galleries used to keep out pre-flood thieves and hobos.  You don’t want to get cut out here.  I’ll watch the skiff, make sure we don’t get stranded.  It should easy street, but,” he patted the walkie-talkie on his belt, “shout at the first sign of trouble.”

“No problem, boss,” Peter said.

Ray steered the boat to the gallery’s support.  Peter grabbed one of the posts and tied off the airboat.  Grabbing the ironwork, he had no problem lifting himself over the handrail.  After climbing on, he jumped twice, testing the gallery’s strength.

“No glass and she’s sturdy.  Come on up, kid.”

Louis swallowed hard and scrambled up the ironwork.  Slipping on the handrail, Louis saw the sinister water and panicked.  He started to tumble, but Peter grabbed him and hauled him over.

“Easy there, twinkle toes,” Peter laughed.  “I’m not swimming after you.”

“I—I—”  Louis steadied himself on the handrail. 

“You two all right?” Ray called.

“Yeah, boss.  Kid’s fine.”

“Quit wasting time up there, boys.  Sun’s gonna set, and I don’t want to be out here after dark.”

Peter gave Louis a little push.  “You heard him, let’s pop open this tomb and see how she smells.”  When a shattered glass door on the far end of the gallery wouldn’t budge, he smirked and kicked through with his steel-toe boot.  He extended an arm to Louis, waving him in.  “Baptism by fire.  Ladies first.”

Louis swallowed hard and stepped into the darkness.  Overpowering mold enveloped his senses as he cracked a long glow stick; it burst alive, radiating neon green.  Behind him, Peter cracked another, and combined they provided enough illumination to begin scavenging. 

“Looks like this building was once a house, not some dive bar,” Peter said.  “Look for bedrooms—sometimes you can score some antique jewelry or some vintage clothing.  If you find any unopened liquor bottles, grab ‘em.  They go for big ducats onshore.”  Peter looked around the room.  “You know, it’s funny.”

“What’s that?” Louis asked as he poked around a leaning bookshelf. 

“Back on the mainland, people are fighting each other just to eat, to keep roofs over their heads, and we’re in this toilet, grave robbing so some rich asshole can show off to other rich assholes.  If no one ever told you life’s a sick joke, here’s the punch line, kid.  Us.”  Peter opened a desk drawer and smiled.  “Jackpot.”

“What is it?”

Peter waved a stack of magazines in the air.  “Nudie books.”

Louis chuckled.  “You’re not serious are you?”

“Hell yeah, I am.  After riding around with you two jokers all day, these lovelies will help clear my mind.”  Peter rested them on the desk.  “Let’s check that hall.  Think I see some light.”

Leading the way, Peter followed the narrow hall until it opened into a large flooded courtyard surrounded on all sides by narrow arcades decorated with intricate ironwork railings.  In the courtyard’s center, the top of an ornate cement water fountain surrounded by withered trees reaching for salvation with crooked fingers laced with dangling beads protruded from the stagnant, brown water.  Several mildewed statues watched the visitors with emotionless scrutiny as they surveyed the area.

“Looks like a winner,” Peter said, pointing towards one of the effigies, a woman with flowing hair covering her bare breasts with her left arm.  “She’s probably heavy, but I ain’t afraid to hoist her up.  I think she’s close enough to the railing for me to reach.”

“I think it’s too much.  How are we gonna get her on the boat?”

“Watch a master, kid.”  Peter hopped over the rail.  Supporting himself with one arm, he leaned over and rested his palm on the statue’s head.  He looked back at Louis and smiled.  “I know who will be in my thoughts later when I retire with that literature I found.”

He wrapped his arm around the statue’s neck and tried to lift her up.  “Damn, she’s a tough broad.”

Louis laughed.  “Told you.”

“Look, not another word outta—”

The water underneath Peter erupted as a large alligator sprung out, grabbing him with its jaws and pulling him off the rail, both vanishing in the dark water.  Louis, stunned, saw the dark water bubble brown and then red.  When reality sank in, he ran down the arcade, screaming.

His walkie-talkie crackled.  “What in the hell is going on in there?  If this some kind of joke, I swear this is the last run you two will ever make.”

By the time the message was over, Louis was on the gallery, panting.  He looked down at Ray and stammered, “A gator got Peter.”

Ray looked at the water stretching down Bourbon Street and sighed.  “Get in the boat, kid.”

“What?  We can’t just leave him.”

“There’s nothing…there’s nothing we can do.  That gator is sticking him under something so he can rot, gonna be dinner later.  Now, get in the boat before it comes out looking for dessert.”

Louis glanced over his shoulder before climbing over the gallery and taking a seat in the boat.  He looked up at Ray and frowned. 

“Don’t give me that look, kid.  You know the score out here.  And he knew the dangers of these runs better than anyone.  Death is always a companion in the Big Easy.  New Orleans is the city of the damned.”

“Hey, you two,” a voice called.  “Stay outta there.  Stay outta that building.”  Ray and Louis saw a man wearing sunglasses and a tattered Saints ball cap leaning over an adjacent balcony.  Brown dreadlocks fashioned with hemp knots dangled past his shoulders.  He spoke with a Cajun drawl, and around his neck he wore beads with plastic crawfish dangling from them.  “There’s a monster gator in there named Ole Gus.  He don’t like visitors much.”

“Unfortunately we’ve already met him.  He got one of my men,” Ray said, his fingers touching his pistol’s butt.

“That’s too bad,” the Swampie said.  “You both pirates, eh, searching for something to bring to the mainland?  I got things, pretty things.”

“What do we do boss?” Louis whispered.

“We get out of here,” Ray answered.

“I got booze,” the Swampie said, lifting up a bottle of Absinthe.  “Liquor you can’t find on the mainland.”

“What are your terms?” Ray asked.

“Truce.  I call truce.  I want a ride out.  You get me to solid ground, and I’ll show you paradise.  All the bottles you want.”

“You gonna help us load?” Ray asked.

“Help ya load, help ya drink ‘em.  Whatever ya need.”

“All right,” Ray said, “truce.  The bottles for a ride.  Let us up.”

“Ray, I thought you said—”

Ray hissed, adding under his breath, “Shut it, kid.  Follow my lead.”

The Swampie threw down a rope ladder over the balcony as Ray piloted the airboat towards him, throwing anchor when he reached the trader.  Ray climbed up the rope, Louis close behind.  When they got to the top, the Swampie extended a hand.

“Name’s Amos.”

Ray shook his hand.  “I’m Armstrong, and this is Morton.”

“Haven’t seen you two around these parts.  Most pirates stay away from this part of town.  I guess they think it’s been picked dry, but there’s plenty left.”

“So where’s it all at?” Ray asked, crossing his arms.

“Patience, mainlander.  Follow me.”  Amos led them inside, to what used to be a bar.  Illuminated with candles, all the tables and chairs were piled up in a far corner.  Amos spit as he led them deeper.  “Just a little farther back now.”

Amos turned and started for a door.  Before he was out of the bar, Ray drew his pistol, shooting him in the back.  Amos crumbled, gurgling. 

“What did you do that for? He called truce.”

“Look, kid, I told you about the Swampies.  There was no way he was getting on my boat and turning us into a feast.”  Ray leaned over and scooped up the absinthe bottle from Amos’s twitching body.  “This is a fine start, but let’s see what else this coon ass has.  Here, hold this.” 

Ray handed Louis the bottle and, gun still in hand, opened the door.  Light poured in.  “It’s beautiful, kid.  And dry.”

The door opened into a spacious atrium, built on the second story above the waterline.  The glass ceiling remained intact; thick fog swirled overhead.  Overstuffed sofas and stand up ashtrays lined the walls.  Another door stood at the far end of room. 

“Must have been some kind of parlor,” Ray said.  “I bet this was a brothel in another life.”

“Let’s get out of here, boss,” Louis said.  “I don’t like it.”

The door opened, and Louis and Ray gasped as a woman with short black hair that stood straight up wearing a tattered grey skirt and a dingy blue blouse entered.  Crisscross stitches ran across her forehead.  Bones and feathers hung from her ears, and three decaying rats dangled from a rope belt.  A wild-eyed opossum perched on her shoulder like a parrot, and it stared, unblinking at Ray and Louis.  Barefoot, she silently sized up the two men. 

“We need to get out of here, kid.”  Ray lowered his gun.

“Just shoot her,” Louis said. 

“That’s Queen Kami, head voodoo priestess.  Offing her is bad ju-ju.”

“Bad ju-ju?  I thought you didn’t believe in any of this stuff.”

Ray gave him a desperate look and rubbed the charm around his neck.

Queen Kami motioned with her fingers.  “I see you have stolen from me before.  Don’t you know what is mine always returns?  Drop your weapon.  Come.”

Ray laid his gun on the ground, starting for her.  Louis turned to run, but another, tattooed and shirtless Swampie blocked the exit.  Ray, following Queen Kami, was already gone.  Regretting ever taking the job, Louis followed, escorted by the Swampie.

Inside, the only light came from three black candles atop an altar in the center of the room.  Queen Kami forced Ray on his knees in front of the altar.  She circled to the other side.  The Swampie vanished into a dark corner, reduced to bloodshot eyes reflecting in the candlelight.  Bloodshot eyes never taking their gaze from Louis.

“Down, Gumbo,” Queen Kami said and the opossum sprung from her shoulder and vanished in the darkness.  Queen Kami looked at both men.  “You have come to my beautiful city to steal, to bring relics of our peaceful, carefree past to your war-torn, troubled present.  Have we not sacrificed enough to the swamps?”

Ray was frozen in place.  Something big crawled across Louis’s feet.

“That is the way of nature: balance.  Something given, something taken.  You have fed my pet but killed my subject.  Although I see the balance, it’s not what I call equal.  Now, you have my absinthe.  But what do I get in return?”

“We will give you whatever you desire, your majesty,” Ray said.  “I have connections and influence on the mainland.”

The Queen smiled.  “You offer nothing.  New Orleans is everything I need.  It provides me with shelter, with food.  My friends are my family, and they are all here.  You feel the need to steal our energy, our soul, but New Orleans is not a place you can have.  New Orleans is not a place you can take with you.  It’s a place you is, no matter where you are.”

Queen Kami took off the rotting nutrias from her belt and rested it on the center of the candles.  She grasped a silver chalice from the altar and raised it in the air, chanting softly.  She took a sip from the chalice, and the candles’ flames changed colors, from orange and red to pale blue.  Ray whimpered as she picked up a gleaming athame.  With a swipe of her hand, his throat was slit.  Blood spilled on the altar, covering the nutria.  As Ray slumped over, the queen rubbed her hands in the blood and began stroking the rodent.  The nutria’s exposed ribs began rising and falling, and its legs began jerking.  As the creature rose, an eye slid out of its socket.  The rat leapt from the altar and scurried off into the darkness.

“A life for a life,” the priestess said, “and food for food.  We are even now.  Go, child.  Take the liquor to the mainland.  Do not return.  Tell others not to return, or they’ll suffer.”

Louis fled, racing through the atrium and bar.  On the balcony, he climbed down the rope ladder and pulled anchor, firing up the airboat’s engine and retreating down Bourbon Street.   Down Esplanade, following Saint Claude to the Intercoastal Canal, all he could think of was escape.  The closer to reality Lake Pontchartrain became, the thinner the fog surrounding the skiff.  Finally, Louis was out of the canal, and a great weight lifted.  He looked at the full absinthe bottle and the empty seats in the airboat and laughed.  It all seemed so worthless.

He stopped the boat and looked back.  New Orleans was no longer visible— just endless, foggy water.  He sat back and started to fire up the engine when the skiff began rocking.  He grabbed the side of his seat as tentacles broke the surface of the water and raised high above craft. 

An oblong head attached to a long slender neck emerged, and six yellow eyes locked on Louis... 

Between There: volume 2 Call for Submissions

BETWEEN THERE: volume 2

New Fiction Anthology

Title: Between There: volume 2

Edited By: Anthony S. Buoni

Publisher: Pulpwood Press

Submissions Due: 31 October 2012

Release Date: Fall 2013

Send Submissions and Questions to: meowpress@ymail.com

Ghosts are everywhere.  This upcoming anthology is a glimpse through the thin veil separating life and death, that shadowy realm BETWEEN THERE.  I am looking for fictional horror, suspense, science fiction and fantasy stories centered on intelligent or residual hauntings, the afterlife, ghost ships or haunted houses.  The ghosts in the stories may be frightening, funny, vengeful, lustful, unaware (or totally cognitive) they are deceased.  Sometimes they are just doing a job, much like the living.  The stories may contain a place or an object that is haunted—we are open to the bizarre, the macabre, anything that chills the nerves or entertains the mind.  Remember, the obvious is not always the best route.

If you would like to check out the 1st anthology, click here.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

*Deadline is noon, 31 October 2012, but depending on story quality or submission numbers, this may be extended.

*Payment is $20 and two (2) contributor copies, payable upon publication (negotiated rates for established authors.

*Suggested word count is 3,000 to 7,000 words.  A little more or a little less is acceptable, so long as the story feels at home in the anthology. 

*Original works only; AKA no reprints.

*Simultaneous submissions are OK; however, if another anthology obtains your story first, let me know so I don’t infringe. 

*Multiple submissions are OK.

*The book will be available as a trade paperback and electronic formats.

*You retain rights to your story, but I ask for first print and electronic rights for six (6) months after publication date, then you are free to resell it.

*This anthology is intended for mature audiences.  Sex and profanity are acceptable, however, not in excess.  If gory for gore’s sake, or vulgar just to be crude, your story will be rejected.  Themes must be central to plot and character.

*Send submission as attachment only.  Do no embed in body of e-mail.  Preferred file types are .doc or .rtf—if I have trouble opening the document in Word, I will let you know.

*Email subject lines and files should have the name of the anthology, the authors last name and the story title so I can keep organized.  Example: between there v2_smith_gloom house

*No headers or page numbers.

*Please use Times New Roman, Courier, Verdana, Arial or Georgia 12 point for submissions.

*Include your real name, address, phone, e-mail, story title, and word count on title page of submission.

*In submission e-mail, please include a brief bio written in 3^rd person so I may include it in the anthology if chosen for publication.

*You may withdraw your short story from consideration at any time, but this request must be made in writing (e-mail acceptable).

*I reserve the right to reject any submissions not following these guidelines.

Good luck and have fun!

  

-Anthony S. Buoni

from "Bugchaser" to "Conversion Party"

Today I submitted the manuscript for “Conversion Party” to Pulpwood Press for publication.  The work is a screenplay I began ten years ago in a Lynn Wallace class.  It has undergone so many changes over the years, but its core has remained pure: a grown man in the drug game trying to catch and spread HIV for erotic thrill.  It is a horror story rooted in counter culture, and the characters are all based on people I grew up with.  

When I was entering my twenties, the reckless actions of my teenage years haunted me.  When you are young, there are no consequences.  You just plow ahead, pushing every button hoping the damned thing doesn’t blow up in your face.  If it does, you are left with misadventure and a story.  “Conversion Party” was the summit of all my fears. 

My first HIV test was insane—these were the days when results took two weeks, and I was left biting my nails, dreading the call. When the third week began creeping in, I pulled out the flimsy business card they’d given me and faced destiny.  I was outside the office at Beach Package, waiting for them to answer, and when they did, they told me if I didn’t get a call, then I was probably OK.  I told them probably nothing, look at my results and tell me whether or not I had the bug.  I was fine, but the fear of the experience still lingers to this day.   

I read a Gregory Freeman article in Rolling Stone called “Bug Chasers: The men who long to be HIV+", and it struck a nerve.  I needed a subject for the Lynn Wallace screenplay class I was taking, and it seemed fresh enough.  I combined my own journey into substance abuse and reckless sex and combined it with the sensibilities of a horror film.  I called the story “Bugchaser”, and for many years I circulated it underground, showing it to close friends and feeling out reactions.  The response was interesting.  Many understood what I was driving at with the story.  Others were appalled at the lurid subject matter, shocking language, and honest approach to my misfit generation.  Often people cringe when I mention the topic, but I am not afraid of it.  Writing is about capturing the human experience and presenting stories in a way to make people think.  I heard Crispin Glover speak about art, film, and lit in Atlanta earlier this year, and he said that if the audience can’t question what the artist was doing or isn’t challenged by the film, book, art, than it has no real power.  I hope my story makes people think.

Over the years I have edited pieces of this tale out.  The original ending was a little far fetched, and there was some forced foreshadowing that was me playing with one of my favorite characters, Hugo.  Although the scene is now cut from the final manuscript, Hugo is still in the story, although he has been reduced to a much smaller part.  as far as the original ending, it was so deeply based in urban legend it devalued the credibility of the rest of the work.  I altered it to fit reality and the main character, and I think this “darling murder” makes for a stronger story.

Last November I began beating the hell out of “Bugchaser”, making the language as slick and natural as possible.  I knew it was time to man up and release the story, so I made it as tight as possible while still keeping in the squidspeak that makes the language pop.  One day Conrad and I will release a squidspeak dictionary, but until then, the lingo is coming out in savvy slang the characters jive to each other.  

On Christmas, I sat down and wrote out a fitting intro, and it was a gift for my facebook readers I tucked in my notes.  The essay touches on my attitudes on horror in lit and film, and how it has changed over the years as well as how “Bugchaser” fits into a genre I adore with all my soul.

On the eve of this spring break, as I was editing the intro, I discovered there was a film with the same name.  I was shocked, but I guess it was inevitable.  As I mentioned, I come from a misfit generation, and someone else stepping into this (real) world horror was going to happen.  This, however, did not hurt my feelings.  I’ve spent a decade on the story, and I think we are doing two different things with the subject.  Close friends advised I alter the name to “Anthony Buoni’s Bugchaser” or something John Carpenter-ish. I did not exactly like it, but I realized the need for a change.  

I thought hard as college kids from all over the country and world flooded Panama City Beach with two things on their minds: getting drunk and getting laid.  They were the starfighters I was writing about, the kids forgetting about the future and living in the now.  I work in a night club, the largest in the country, and living in an endless party, a land of night eternal, I knew I needed a name that was pertinent to both the story and that time of life when you change, albeit for better or worse.

“Conversion Party” has two meanings.  It is slang for the parties the bugchasers attend in order to contract disease as well as that passing from adolescence to adulthood, the moment in life you step up and take responsibility for your good deeds and carnage.  

As the book becomes closer to reality, I will post more about the process.  I may also put up some of those deleted scenes I mentioned.  There is a reason they were cut, but they exist.  Maybe they will grant some insight to the process of writing, editing, and pickikng and choosing your battles in writing world.

One last thing: happy birthday, Adelle.  She pushed me to finish this project, and realizing it has been amazing.  Submitting it on the celebration of your birth is nod to you.

Till the next, ciao, cats.