If I’m coming to your town (or you’re coming to mine), drop me an email. I’d love to meet you.

IHW Writers Retreat (Indianapolis)
February 17-19

Mo*Con V (Indianapolis)
May 4-6

ReaderCon (Burlington, Massachusetts)
July 12-15

GenCon (Indianapolis)
August 16-19

WorldCon (Chicago, Illinois)
August 30-September 3

The story follows a cult survivor and an unlikely prophet as they journey across post-apocalyptic America.  The book is available in print and electronic formats (I’ll even sign your Kindle).

Click on the cover to learn more…

Workshops and panels on writing.  Mass signings.  And some of the best panels discussion you’ll find.  I’ll be there promoting Dark Faith and doing a few panels:

Mass Autograph Session
Time: Sat 11:30 am – Sat 1:00 pm
Room: Cedar

Making A Living As A Writer
Time: Sat 1:00pm – 2:00pm
Room: Short North

Mistakes Beginning Writers Make
Time: Sat 7:00pm-8:00pm
Room: Short North

Christian Horror
Time: Sat 8:30pm-9:30pm
Room: German Village

Take a look around and let me know what you think.  And if you haven’t already, sign up for updates (on the sidebar) so I can keep you in the know when new fiction is released.  Thanks for dropping by.  Grab a drink from the fridge and make yourself at home.

Jerry

Part science fiction.  Part literary horror.  Check it out by clicking on the issue cover below, or scroll down for a taste of the story.  Leave me a comment over on the Apex site to let me know what you think.

City of Refuge (excerpt):

David watched from behind the crowd, as two men led a young woman up a small set of steps to the hangman’s noose. A razor-sharp wire replaced the traditional rope, ensuring a clean decapitation and a bigger spectacle of blood and death. The crowd’s palpable sense of anticipation surprised him less than the calm demeanor of the accused. She faced the gallows with such serenity stepping to the noose as if receiving Holy Communion.

The Order’s crest pinned to David’s putrefying animal hide cloak parted the crowd as effectively as its foul odor. He approached the makeshift structure, sizing up the two men standing on either side of the woman. The tall man in the bowler hat appeared to be in charge, but David focused his steely gaze on the short one with the set jaw. The little man’s face erupted with anger at the interruption.

“What can I do you for, Cardinal?” the tall man said, after looking down at the crest pinned to David’s rotting coat.

“Bring me the accused.”

“What?” the short man exclaimed, stepping forward.

“You heard me, boy.”

“She killed my father. I have a right to–”

“Unless you’d like the archbishops cutting off trade to this little haven, you will mind your place.” David stroked his unkempt beard, setting his jaw. “Do it. Now.”

The man in the bowler hurried the accused forward. On closer inspection, she was more girl than woman. Her tangled black hair and vibrant blue eyes dwarfed her petite nose and mouth. She stood with both hands tied behind her back. Deep bruises marred both sides of her face.

“Are you Jenna, the miller’s daughter?”

The girl bowed her head. “Yes, Cardinal.”

David produced a handwritten document from a pouch inside his cloak. “You petitioned the archbishops for asylum?”

“Yes, Cardinal.”

David handed the document to the short man. “The archbishops have granted Jenna an audience. If her claims are found wanting, she will be returned to you and you can continue,” David motioned around, “this exhibition.”

“Asylum?” The short man rifled through the document as though he wasn’t illiterate like the rest of the peasants. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It is an unusual request,” David admitted, “but one the archbishops have agreed to hear.”

“Then I will go with you and speak for my dead father.”

“If your testimony is needed, the church will call for you. Until then, there will be no vengeance upon this girl or her family. Understood?”

“Whatever you say, Cardinal,” the tall man in the bowler replied, stepping between David and the dead man’s son to deliver the girl. “Please give our regards to the archbishops.”

David yanked the girl toward him and turned to face the deflated crowd. People looked away, averting their gaze as he brushed past them with his prisoner. Like most havens, this one relied on the church for tools and guns. No one would question the archbishops’ judgment.

David’s mule grazed on a patch of grass near the front gate, obscured by a cloud of flies. The girl shuddered as she approached the rotting animal skins that covered the beast.

“Will I have to wear a cloak?” she asked, clearly blanching.

“Only if you want to live,” David said. “The Fallen may have little interest in this high altitude settlement, but in the lowlands they’ll pick your body clean if they think you’re alive. Get used to wearing it.”

David untied her hands and pulled a long coat of rotting flesh from the mule’s saddlebags. The girl vomited twice before she settled into the foul garment. Even then, she retched and gagged uncontrollably. David retied her hands, this time in front of her, and leashed her to the mule with enough slack to allow her to walk.

With a nod to the gatekeeper, the tall wooden doors that protected the enclave parted. David chose to walk at first, leading the mule and his prisoner down a series of treacherous mountain switchbacks.

Here, above the dark clouds, he almost felt safe. As long as the Fallen could sustain themselves in the lowlands, they had no urge to feed in the mountains. For one stray moment he closed his eyes and felt the burn of the sun on his face. One day this will all be gone, he thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Continue reading… 

IHW Writers Retreat (Indianapolis)
February 19-21

Mo*Con V (Indianapolis)
April 30 – May 2

WisCon (Madison, Wisconsin)
May 27-31

InConjunction (Indianapolis)
July 2-4

GenCon (Indianapolis)
August 5-8

Context (Columbus, Ohio)
August 27-29

World Fantasy (Columbus, Ohio)
October 28-31

Apex Day (Lexington, Kentucky)
December 11

The “Back from the Dead” edition of Coach’s Midnight Diner is now available from Amazon.  Alongside fiction from Kim Paffenroth and Bob Freeman, you’ll find my future take on the 9th Ward of New Orleans.

The story, written weeks after Hurricane Katrina nearly destroyed the city, follows a young man struggling to survive a supernatural collision of past and present in a rebuilt neighborhood very different from the one he knew as a child. Click on the cover to check it out, or scroll down for an excert…

“9th Ward” (excert):

Momma used to always tell me that Jesus was black, but after the
water poured in over those levees, I had to wonder. It seemed to me
that Katrina answered the prayers of an awful lot of rich white people. It
may have washed away my sins, but it took everything I cared about with
it.

These days there’s nothing worse than being a black kid in the 9th
Ward of New Orleans. You feel about as welcome as a gangster rapper at
a Klan rally. Never mind the fact that I finished my freshman year of high
school first in my class, now I’m the reason white people lock their doors
at night.

If you’re wondering what happened to the old 9th Ward, the one you
saw on TV after the hurricane, it’s long since gone. Sure, the redevelopment
plan made room for a few of those poor black folks you saw clinging
to the rooftops, but after years of being scattered across the fifty states
like refugees, most of them took the money and left New Orleans to the
greedy developers.

With the reconstruction almost finished, the streets are beautiful. Every
house is huge. Every car is shiny. It’s like someone swallowed the neighborhood
I once knew and vomited Disneyland in its place. Everything’s a
little too perfect, a little too clean. It’s not even my neighborhood to hate
anymore. I’m just an inconvenient reminder of the past.

“Hey Charlie! Why weren’t you at football tryouts today?”

The sound of Woody’s voice caught me off guard. Even the white kids
at school jumped when they heard him coming. Hanging out the window
of his buddy’s Land Rover, he started in on me again.

“Hey jackass! I’m talking to you!”

“S-s-s-s-stop making f-f-f-fun of me you t-t-tub of shit! You know I’m
t-t-t-t-too small to play!”

Woody’s size might have been an advantage on the football field or in
the cramped hallways at school, but out here in the open, my scrawny legs
gave me the edge. I’m not saying I could make the track team or anything,
but I don’t stutter when I run.

Continue reading…