A Bad Turn

Keene throttled the Harley and felt it rumble beneath him.

Watched the people on the New York City sidewalks give him a startled glance and pick up their pace. People in this city knew the difference between crazy and bat-fuck crazy. They recognized the look in his eyes.

He grinned. The bike was chrome thunder beneath him. He nodded, the sound of his iPod blasting Maiden in his ears. He didn't know shit about this bike. Couldn't tell the difference between the carburetor and the driveline. Didn't make a shit. People scattered before him and that was all that mattered. He puffed on the stub of cigar in his mouth and bared his teeth.

behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Keene's grin grew wider.

"Zombies? Fucking zombies? I'll give you SOME GODDAMNED ZOMBIES!" He screamed it out loud, though he barely heard it over his music.

He reached out a hand and patted the saddle bag to his left, considering the contents. A glass beaker topped with a Mason jar clasp was nestled inside. A maniacal brainstorm from his 'biggest fan"; a twenty-something mad genius who worked at a government lab. Someone who'd read every shred on the zombie apocalypse. Someone who thought it'd be fun to make it happen for real.

Keene goosed the Harley, heading to the core of the city.

It had only taken several emails to other fans to find out the schematics of New York City's water supply and review the perfect spot to dump the plague. By the time the outbreak began, Keene would be back on the highway, close to red lining the Harley's engine, driving like the apocalyptic horseman he truly was to get back to Journey's End. He'd be sipping Knob Creek and smoking Cubans when the news reports began.

"Fuck 'em all!" He growled, and raced down an alley. The side street opened up into a market place and that's where things started to go wrong. Fast.

Keene roared out into the street and squeezed the brakes but got nothing in response. He steered around a homeless lady who screamed "Shel Silverstein must die!" as he clipped her shopping cart.

A dented cab blew its horn at Keene as he drove between it and a produce delivery truck and still the Harley wouldn't slow.

He tried to avoid three blonde powersuited women sipping lattes and that's when he saw the business end of the mounted policeman riding one of the biggest horses he'd ever seen.

The front wheel of the Harley hit dead center of a fire hydrant and over the crunch of metal as the bike crashed, Keene felt himself lift off the bike and fly forward. He had a split second to see the glass beaker fly free of the saddle bag, bursting in a silver spray against the street curb, before realizing he was making a bulls eye for the ass of the horse in front of him.

He plunged head first into the horse's sphincter, a sound like a boot being pulled from wet mud, and Keene was immediately surrounded by damp mucus. His arms were clamped down at his sides. His body dangled freely in mid-air.

From outside, Keene heard the horse give a startled neigh, the cop utter an angry "What the fuck?", and the horse began to gallop. Every heavy trot sent jolts through his body, constricting his ribs and cutting off his air. He could feel himself begin to shut down.

The odor, Keene thought, slipping away, it's familiar. It smells just like... the small press.

••••


Today is Brian Keene Must Die day. Brian will be killed in dozens of horrifying ways in blogs across the blogosphere for a very good cause. If you enjoyed this humorous little vignette, please consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards.

Pleasing Marlena

My one and only zombie story, Pleasing Marlena is live at

Tales of World War Z

Beautiful Monster

Recently I was part of a conversation discussing what we, as humans, are really capable of.

What would I do in a plane crash in the Andes Mountains type of situation. Answer: Sorry Doug... I get hungry enough, and you're already dead, I'm carving up a slice of your thigh with a side of Caracaras eggs for breakfast. Yes... I would eat you to survive. And y'know what? If I'm dead and good meat... eat away, my fine friend. Just cut away my hippie locks and use it to scare the buzzards away. I'm cool with that, capiche?

What would I do to someone who hurt my loved ones in a very violent way; eg., rape, murder, etc.?
Answer: After thoughtful consideration, I've decided it's best I DON'T answer this one in a public forum. Suffice to say, my revenge would be served cold and there would be prolonged periods of tremendous agony that I would take great joy in inflicting upon the individual responsible. All of which involve a fun assortment of modern power tools and old farming implements. See me at a con sometime and keep the tape recorder off and we'll share a beer and talk. Until then... naah.

So... emergency situation or not, what are we truly capable of?

Look around you. Driving in traffic. Sitting on the bus. Beside you in the oak pews of church. Those people. That skinny guy over in the corner buying a dirty magazine. The old woman with the faded flower-print dress, flicking a cantaloupe to see if it's ripe. That timid coffee shop girl who smiles sweetly as she pours you a third refill.

They're all monsters.

Given the right circumstances, those people would do whatever the hell they had to in order to survive. Oh sure, there are lots who would mentally crumple into a ball of rubbish and that would be that. The ones that are left... well honey... those are the ones that feed and live. They're the ones that do whatever they have to do in order to keep breathing and looking at the sun one more day.

I'm capable of the worst actions a person can do, and also for finding the wonder in the tiniest of things. Capable of devising and creating beautiful things, and of self destruction at the highest levels possible.

I'm capable of committing the worst atrocities and breaking all manner of sins against God... but also shattering the emotional confines humans have to show what our hearts can truly deliver.

I'm empathetic and sympathetic and selfish and greedy and I share my cookies and hide my gold all in the same day.

I am Brahma the Creator and Shiva the Destroyer wrapped up in a recyclable cellophane wrapper with an indefinite shelf life.

I crave revenge and thrive on peace and I envy and lust and am prideful sometimes. I want to unleash my wrath and sic Richard Simmons on my gluttony and yet I still sing my children to sleep.

I'm loyal and brave and I betray and cower and even though I know my direction, I still wander like a child lost in a cornfield.

I give and I take and I open my heart and then skirt its borders with sky high walls.

I am ugly and beautiful and am a stewed mix of good and evil.

I weep at certain songs and my mind hardens at times and I still long for tender moments. I trust almost no one and open my heart to many and have kissed new life and held the hand of old death and am haunted by the memory of both.

I walk in darkness and light and among the shadows in between and come out whistling dixie on the other side.

I do all these things and more... and less. But I know and accept what I'm capable of. It's a choice. It's always a choice. But we're all capable. It's our own individual pendulums we have to pay attention to in order to administer balance.

It's the human condition. Accept it or don't. But you are what you are.

My name is Bob Ford and like all of you, I am a beautiful monster.

Cherry Blossoms

In and out
through the little gate
to the cherry blossoms.

-- Basho


I don't recall exactly when, but at some point I learned about the tern "hanami". I suspect it came from reading one of Eric Van Lustbader's novels years ago. I devoured them when they came out and re-read them several times.

Since I was little, I've been in love with all things Asian. I once had the nickname "ninja Bob" and was told I was probably a samurai in a past life. I don't know about all that shit, but I do know that I've watched hanami ever since I knew the meaning behind it.

This year, even though there was turmoil beyond belief in my life at the time, I sat in the cemetery I used to live next to and watched the trees for a few hours one day. Later that week, I watched them on a hillside elsewhere.

Hanami is the time of year when the cherry blossoms bloom. It's a festival of sorts - in Japan, people have outdoor parties during daytime or at night.

Thousands of people participate and observe it. Many openly weep, because of the beauty to be certain, but mainly because of the larger metaphor behind it the event.

Hanami is beautiful. Even in a light breeze, the blossoms rain down in a blush of pink to cover the ground. Their scent a light fragrance; the tender skin of a girl's neck, the subtle smell of a child's tears, and nothing more.

But hanami is mournful too. It lasts for a week or two at most, and in that time, the cherry blossoms bloom, show their extraordinary beauty, and die. It's the nature and cycle of our life in condensed form.

I've been to many funerals over the course of my life and even so, at 38, I find myself lucky to have avoided more.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table as a child and watching my grandfather - who lived with us - receiving phone calls about this friend or that who passed away.

He'd get this look in his eyes after he hung up the phone; this faraway look in his steely pre-cataract eyes, as he stared outside for a while and clicked his fingernails absently.

I didn't know what that look meant when I was younger but it bothered me. He was sitting still, but it looked like he was trying to hold onto something and I hadn't the faintest idea of what.

Over the years, his friends died one by one and each time it seemed as if he took it a little better than the last, but now I don't really think so. With a couple more decades under my belt and gray hair creeping at my temples, I think a little differently now.

I don't think my grandfather got better at accepting the deaths of his friends. I think he simply got better at accepting his own mortality.

I've brushed against the overcoat of death a few times in my life. Twice as a child, more as an adult. Those are the instances I can't argue with. There are a few that I just consider myself lucky. If things had turned a fraction here, a fraction there... well. Doesn't matter much either way, I'm here for the moment.

I remember the first funeral I ever went to. It was my great grandmother's. I honestly don't remember her age when she died, but I know she lived to a great old age. She used to smell like cinnamon all the time and feed me Sun-Maid raisins as snacks. She used to make the most amazing baked goods. She was a little hard of hearing and when you spoke to her, she moved her lips like she was whispering; some odd habit she'd picked up while trying to make out what you were saying.

I was fairly young, only about nine or ten I believe, when Granny died. At her funeral, there were lots of men and boys dressed in suits and women and girls in their sunday best, and I had no idea who most of them were.

A writer's mind is a messed up thing - as many an ex-spouse will tell you - but I remember so many little details from Granny's funeral. The fleur de lis wallpaper in two-tone gray... the smell of the flowers... my grandmother walking around holding a tissue... the sign-in book at the front with a fluffy white feather...
Stupid little things that just stuck.

As I grew older, I went to many other funerals. My best friend's grandparents. My wife's grandparents. A co-worker. An up and coming writer who was a great friend. My own grandmother.

No death is easy, and some I took harder than others, but over time, my perception and reaction to them changed. Maybe it was because I was getting older, viewing death in a different way. Maybe because I was starting to feel the tickle of my own mortality at the back of my brain.

I don't know, but the grief behind their deaths didn't get easier. But it became acceptable to a degree.

If we're going to live, then we're going to die. That's a given.

But in the same token... if we're going to die... then we'd damn well better live while we're here. There's having life... and there's living life.

Big difference between the two.

We all have our own beliefs or disbeliefs, but the truth is, none of us really know what lies beyond our own mortal coil. The only thing we know is that if someone is in pain, once they've passed on, they don't hurt anymore. They're no longer suffering.

They've gone through the little gates and beyond, falling like cherry blossoms in a warm spring breeze.

That's all most of us can ask for.

Isn't it?

Rest in Peace, Linda.

Dying on the Vine

Hey love. It's been a while, I know. Lots going on lately, so you may as pull up a rock and sit down. Grab a glass and pour a finger or two of your favorite poison in it. You'll probably want to sip and savor as we go.

For years I've been posting on New Year's Eve that there was change coming. Ka like the wind, to steal a phrase from King. Until last year when I stopped mentioning it.

Which is exactly why it all happened.

My life has taken on a surreal sort of quality... most times I walk around in a dreamy sort of state, floating along... little whispers in the back of my head chanting David Byrne's chorus from Once in a Lifetime.

Yes love, a lot's been going on.

Over the past months, my wife and I have separated and will be getting divorced. I share almost everything with you, but there's some things that are too raw and bloody for me to talk about. All I can say is that I truly don't wish the emotional pain on any of you. It doesn't matter if you come to the realization you've drifted apart, or your heart's not in it or you simply don't have enough energy to try. It's agonizing and brutal no matter which side you're on... making the decision to end a marriage with someone you love and care about and in many cases, still do. There's nothing else that compares.

Would I have done things differently, knowing what I know now? Yep... you bet. But sometimes life catches you when you least expect it and things just... are the way they are.

I'm finding a happier place in life though. I've lost things I didn't know i had and found things I didn't know I was looking for. My muse is back and she's got a bullwhip at the ready. I'm afraid of her for the first time because she's full of faith and fire like I've never seen her before. I don't know if I'm ready for her to unleash her rage but I suppose I'd better find a way because it's time. It's long past time and she's got a lot to tell me since I've seen her last.

Now on to other news... you'll want to take a sip out of that glass... maybe refresh with some more.

Anyone who's been paying attention has learned about a screenplay of mine - The Pink Room - getting picked up by a production company called Saints and Sinners our of Philadelphia.

It started off fast and furious. I saw an online post from S & S seeking gritty city screenplays. They were an indie production company looking for something different than the mainstream crap Hollywood has been pumping out. They were looking for a calling card to build to bigger and better things.

All right, I thought to myself. I've got nothing to lose here. I'll send them a synopsis of The Pink Room. It's gritty all right. Story was based in Philly. Was a rock star of a script for HBO's Project Greenlight competition a few years ago but because of the topic matter I knew damn well would never make it to the finals.

(See, The Pink Room centers around a porn shop and it's owner, Smooth. It's got murder in it, a few of them actually, along with the first ever appearance of my character Free Ride Angie. It's also got a pair of home made Siamese twins and a lady seeking a vibrator for her dog, an old man ordering a sex doll so he can relive his last moments with his wife (no, you perverts.. not that. It's much worse, believe me) and all sorts of other chewy goodness.)

So... I sent the synopsis.

And got an email ten minutes later. The email was polite and professional and asked with lots of excitement to read the script, which I promptly sent.

The script was met with as much excitement about a project as I've ever seen. This was PERFECT for their calling card project. They'd read a few hundred scripts and hadn't read anything close to this. There were laugh out loud moments and phone calls from the two producers asking "Have you gotten to the old lady with the dog yet? Oh my God! Who writes like this?"

The following week they drove down from Philly to my Harrisburg office to meet and review. It was an incredible meeting. In the week since, the girl had done her homework. She knew the script inside and out. Knew the characters, and by that, I don't just mean she knew their names. She KNEW the characters. She got them. She'd investigated head shots for actors and actresses and nailed every damn one of them. She asked about the "baby of the script... Free Ride Angie."

Holy shit, I thought. She's really the person for this. She gets this script, big time. Her partner had designed a poster for the script - not too shabby - and was already laying out ideas for a web site.

She'd lightly contacted venues for filming, and Adult World out of Philly wanted us to film in their location. Condom Nation was on board to donate giveaways for a pre-shoot fundraising event. Bands were donating music for the score.

A young up and coming director with a great eye had pushed away another project because he loved the idea of working on this script.

She was creating an investment package to send out to raise funds - which... according to her... was her area of expertise.

They left full of enthusiasm and excitement and it was contagious.

It appeared they really had their shit together. This... as I found out... couldn't be farther from the truth.

Two weeks went by and I hadn't heard anything at all. She was probably tied up discussing things with investors. All right. No sweat.

Then an email: She and her partner had a falling out and were done. He'd sent out an email without her approval and had possibly screwed up a big investor. Not good, but okay. She was hard nosed and a perfectionist and did what she felt was right as Executive Producer. Business is business. Moving on.

Another two weeks without anything and I was twitchy. I shot off an email with no response. Hmmmm.

Three more days and I received a call that her mother had passed away. I spoke with her and gave her my sympathies and explained that I couldn't begin to understand what she was going through. I told her to take some time to do what she needed to do and let me know when she was ready to proceed.

Another month. Nothing.

I shot an email off and... got a bounceback. Her email account no longer existed.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON! DANGER!

The following weeks consisted of repeated calls to her psychotic boyfriend trying to get hold of her. Things were falling apart on this project and I reached a point where I just decided the hell with it... if it was falling apart, I was going to throw gas on the fire to make the flames sky high.

Except I needed a few things. I needed them to remove the artwork and my name and any association with me from their online presence. This simply wouldn't do.

I was ignored and then yelled at by the psychotic boyfriend. I had fun with him and kept calling back until I reached his boss and had a great conversation with him explaining how he'd though the girl was a... crack pot.

I was going to call on the full resources of Keene's F.U.K.U. army. I was going to post psycho boy's cell number online and ask them all to repeatedly call his number at all hours of the night until the artwork and any association with me was removed online.

This was going to be fun for me and the F.U.K.U.

But at the last minute, a response from their My Space page... not with words, but with action. All manner of association with me was removed.

War was averted by seconds and part of me was disappointed.

I learned a lot of lessons through all of this.

Don't believe anything until cameras actually start rolling. And even then... be damned suspect.

Re-learned my most important life lesson... some of life's biggest disappointments are caused by you thinking someone will act as if you'd react in the same situation.

And no matter how attractive and lovely and exciting some things look... they can still die on the vine right in front of you, no matter how much you don't want them to.



Have a happy sunday, kids. Finish your glass. The fire's dying out and there are only embers left. Gotta go have some fun. Gotta to listen to the muse before she pulls that damned bullwhip out on me.

Gotta listen to ka.

Ink Pink, You Stink

There will be an update on the status of The Pink Room in the next day or so, tops.

There is foul play going on.

Army? Mobilize... you may be called to battle to correct an injustice in the world.

Writing for the American Idiot

This town needs an enema.
-- Jack Nicholson, as The Joker, in Batman

I was going to write up a report on what a great time I had at Necon this past weekend. I was going to blog about how incredible it was to see old friends again and how I giggled myself silly off of tequila and dirty comments as I held my Foosball championship title. Or how great it is to be around like-minded people and get my batteries recharged.

But noooooooooooo. Instead I had to do some market research this morning, and am now filled with hate and rage (insert bitter box here).

I've been reading horror and watching horror flicks for a long time. I grew up with parents who let me pursue my interests freely. Books of Blood, Monster magazine, Fangoria... not much that was really off limits.

I saw the heyday of 80's horror when anyone and everyone was jumping into the frenzy to cash in. I read and watched a lot of... well... shit is the word that comes to mind. There were lots of diamonds in the rough, mind you, but you had to dig through the mess to find them.

Brian Keene predicted a while back that things were getting ready to implode. And, not that I doubted him, but holy shit kids... taking a look around this morning at the markets has me ready to line up double-shots of Yagër bombs and start howling at the sky.

"Enough with the fucking zombies!"

I've heard this rant again and again of late. And while I tend to agree as I'm getting a bit worn out by them... the undead won't go away if the american public demands them. And the writers who are doing it are laughing themselves silly. All the way to the bank.

Zombieland.

Dead Snow.

The Carriers.

Oh hell, I'm SURE there's more, but that's just off the top of my head.

But for the sweet blue fuck of all that's holy... ZOMBIENAUTS????

As a long time self-employed businessman, I understand supply and demand. I understand you feed into the trend of what's hot. But damn...

Zombies in space... that's a bit of a stretch isn't it?

How about... a little crew of people who were out on a three hour tour and got shipwrecked on an island? There'll be a professor, a movie star, a millionaire and his wife... GILLIAN'S UNDEAD!

Wait! I know! A ship full of sailors will find a zombie mermaid and they'll drag her aboard, infecting the entire crew until the ship runs into the land of the free and the home of the brave.*

Of late, I have become increasingly convinced that the days of readers seeking out a well written book with great characters and plot are gone. It is writing for the American Idiot.

"But wait, Bob," you say. "I'm not an idiot! I like great characters! I love great dialogue! I seek them out!"

Fine, pull up a rock and sit by the fire. You're like me. I can't handle two-dimension characters in a story that has a plot line thinner than a truck stop's bathroom tissue either. But guess what? WE ARE THE MINORITY.

Most of the public seems to want their fiction and flicks with sex and explosions all bundled into a fast food container so they can get in, get out, forget it and move onto the next carton of nuggety entertainment.

Don't agree? That's fine. Take a look at the majority of what's been on the NY Times Best Seller List. Look at what's "hot" at the box office.

Mmmhmm. Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?

The literary IQ of most of the public no longer requires that things are well written. Give it a catchy bass line and a good drum rhythm, and you're off to writer rock stardom. Things have degraded to the point where it's like The Kingsmen's song "Louie, Louie."

You know the song, right? The one from National Lampoon's Animal House?

Catchy beat right? Ok, now sing any of the lyrics other than "Louie, Louie, ohhhh no!"

If you know any lyrics beyond that, you win a prize of the next zombie novel to hit the shelves.

That's our majority right now. Quick catchy bursts that are fun while you're reading/watching them, but later, you realize you really don't have any idea what the hell it was about.


I'm done grumbling for now. I'm off to brainstorm about chick-lit novels and a zombie screenplay.


*If any of you bastards steal this and sell it to Hollywood for six-figures (which... in all seriousness, I think would actually SELL RIGHT NOW), I will hunt you down and beat you with a zombie arm. Or leg. Or whatever else I can find within reach.