Roadkill Review: American Death Songs by Jordan Harper

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“I do not believe in the Devil or the sanctity of Jesus Christ, but I’m telling you that something greater than you or me put that song on the radio at just that moment…”

Jordan Harper takes his readers from desert highways to backwoods bars and beyond. Here crime is king and these ballads of bad-ass sing about lives full of dead ends, blown deals and settled scores. Some of them have been played before, others are as yet unsung, but all are remarkable and deserve to be heard.

There is something deliciously poetic in Jordan Harper's gritty prose. Like being hit with brass knuckles while your sweetheart slips you the tongue, his words draw you in, smack you hard and leave you breathless.

You can pick any one of the stylish tales and I'll be more than happy to heap on some praise on it. ‘Plan C’ is a brilliant and brutal heads up on how things can go real bad, real quick; while ‘Heart Check’ captures the kill or be killed of the prison yard better than anything I have previously read. But I’ll take ‘Red Hair and Black Leather’ as my favorite, because when it comes down to it I’m just an old romantic and any that story starts with the line, “She had an ass like a heart turned upside down and cut in half,” automatically get’s my vote.

This review first appeared in my column at Out Of The Gutter Online. Since then two things have happened, firstly, my opinion hasn’t changed; ‘American Death Songs’ is still the best short story collection I have read this year and secondly, the opening story, ‘Midnight Rider’ has now been made into a short film starring Ryan “Opie” Hurst and if that don’t float you’re boat, you’re in the wrong place, pilgrim.

A Double-Barreled Blast

Hey, I have a new one up at Shotgun Honey this weekend, 700 words of bad-ass called Candy’s Room.  It’s really a love story and one that I’m pretty darn proud of. For one reason or another it has taken over two years to see the light of day, which makes its belated publication all the sweeter for me. I hope you’ll stop by and give it the once over. It will only take you a couple of minutes, and who knows, you might even dig it?

While we are on the subject of Shotgun Honey, I am stoked to tell you that I have got myself a slot in their second print anthology, Both Barrels – Reloaded.  The first anthology was killer and I was gutted to have missed out, but with so many great writers and only 30 slots, I wasn’t too surprised that I did.

This time around I was determined to raise my game and make the cut. My story is called Loose change and I think it is one of the best I have ever written. Congratulations are also due to my brother from another mother, Brian Panowich who also got the nod with his flat out awesome story, Set Fire To The Trees.  The anthology will be out in September, I’ll be sure to mention it here once or twice, just to remind you.  

In the meantime, get on over to SGH and show Candy a little love: Candy’s Room

Happy Fathers Day, Muthas!

No Batteries Required - FREE Analog Robots

Hey look, free shit!

One thing I've noticed recently is that 97.6% of all giveaways on Goodreads etc. are limited to those who reside in the good old US of A. So just for a change, here's one for this side of the pond (that's the side that drinks tea with milk and drives on the left).




If you live in the UK and would like to own a print copy of HEY, THAT ROBOT ATE MY BABY, but are too skint or tight to buy one then listen up, because I'm giving one away for free. 

When Orson Scott Card, author of the bestselling sci-fi novel ENDER'S GAME was asked to comment on Zelmer Pulp's science fiction magnum opus he had this to say: "This is private property, get out before I call security. And put your pants back on."

So there you have it. I'll even spring for the postage and sign the damn thing if you want me to, although I should point out that my signature will put a significant dent in any potential resale value. 

To be in with a shout of winning this magnificent tome, just leave a comment on this post. Let's make June 16th the cut off date, after which time I will pick the winner at random, possibly from a hat. In the (quite likely) event of nobody bothering to comment by the 16th, then forget about it, the deals off.  Got it? Well then, what are you waiting for?

While we are on the subject, HEY, THAT ROBOT ATE MY BABY, has received a couple of killer five star reviews recently (take a look HERE if you don't believe me). But we can always use a few more, so belly up to the bar people.

Roadkill Review: Tales from The Longcroft by Darren Sant

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Looking for something for the weekend? Well, if you haven’t done so already I can recommend checking out Tales From The Longcroft by Darren Sant.

In this collection of interwoven stories the author has created a rich tapestry of believable characters. The poor and the marginalized that inhabit his fictional council estate are vividly drawn. Their daily struggle to survive in the run-down terraces and tower blocks of the Longcroft is told with compassion, humor and no mean skill.

The writing is tight and absorbing. I found myself instantly sucked into this gritty world of chancers, wasters and small time crooks. Darren Sant handles some difficult subject matter with consummate ease. His social commentary is spot on, but he never allows the stories to wallow in self pity and lifts the narrative to another level with some clever touches and plenty of dry wit.  

All of the stories here are worthy of your time, but for me, the best of a very good bunch is “Rowan’s Folly” which tells the story of Andy and Shona and provides a harsh lesson in what happens when you rub another man’s rhubarb on the Longcroft Estate.

The Jackson Cage

I’m back at The Flash Fiction Offensive today with a little number called The Jackson Cage.

This story is my first one to be published online for quite a while. My other writing commitments have meant I’m not writing all that many flash pieces these days. I’d like to think that makes the quality of the ones I do put out that much better, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.

I’d like to thank Tom Pitts and Joe Clifford for letting me lower the tone of their virtual pages once again and also thanks are due to Ryan Sayles and Rich Osburn for running the rule over my first draft.

I hope you read it and I hope you dig it. If you do, drop me a comment.

The holding tank has its own set of rules. Jail isn’t prison and the learning curve can be a steep one. THE JACKSON CAGE

Roadkill Review: True Grit by Charles Portis

I’ve been spending a lot of time out west lately, at least inside my head. I’m currently working on a western for the next Zelmer Pulp release. I’ve also been doing a little research and toying with the idea of trying to write a western novel.

Anyway, while I was trawling through my bookshelves, (for bookshelves read: that big pile of boxes in the garage) looking for a  civil war reference book that I last remember seeing two house moves ago, I came across my copy of True Grit by Charles Portis. 

Unless you have been living under a rock for the past 40 years, you will have heard of this novel. You may not have read it, but the chances are you have seen one of the two film adaptations. My mom loved “The Duke” and Henry Hathaway’s 1969 version loomed large in my childhood. More recently and in line with the current Hollywood trend of refusing any original ideas, the Coen Brothers re-made it. In doing so they once again posed the tricky question of how many Coen brothers does it take to write a screen play?  The answer of course is two - one to read the novel aloud and the other to type it into a computer (also see No Country For Old Men.) Now to my mind that's not necessarily worthy of an Oscar nomination, but in respect to True Grit it is probably a good thing; their movie sticks a lot closer to the book than Hathaway’s did. I guess a slightly happier ending was the order of the day back in 1969, although it's strange that Hathaway saw fit to kill off one major character who survived in the book.

For those rock dwellers amongst you, True Grit is a simple story about the murder of Frank Ross by one of his hired hands, and of his daughter’s fight to bring the muderer, Tom Chaney to justice. There are two things that put Portis’ novel on a different level to the thousands other western tales out there with similar themes. The first is his 14 year old protagonist, Matti Ross. The book is written from her POV and rarely have I ever come across such a brilliantly drawn female lead. Portis somehow manages to make her both smart and neive, feisty and venerable, all at once. The only other character I have read that comes close is Daniel Woodrell’s Ree in Winter’s Bone. The second stand-out for me is the the narrative itself. It's a wonderful mix of old west colloquialisms and wry humor, overlaid with some great period dialogue.

While the Coen Brothers managed to give a much better visual rendering of the book than Hathaway did, neither movie really comes close to capturing the charm of the written work.  And as Lucky Ned Pepper said,“I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man.”

 

Nebraska - A Short Story by Chris Leek

About a year ago, Downer Magazine published a story of mine called Nebraska. Downer was a cool market that provided a home for some great flash fiction. Unfortunately it went the way of so many small literary e-zines and burned out in February this year. Nebraska is not my usual blood and guts crime stuff, it has a little more to say. I liked the story when I wrote it and reading it back now, I still do. So to preserve it for posterity and really just for my own indulgence, here it is. I have resisted the powerful urge to take the red editing pen to it and I have let it stand, warts and all. Who knows, maybe someone will dig it.

 

 

Nebraska

Hicky Thomas was always ragging on me, mostly I ignored him, but when he said my daddy was in Vietnam murdering babies, I kinda flipped. I'd never hit anyone before, not like I meant it. He was a year older than me and nearly a foot taller, but it turns out I was a natural.

It was like my fists worked all on their own, moving with a slick speed I never knew they had. Splitting lip, cracking bone, leaving Hicky in a pummelled mess on the lunch room floor. I felt fear mixed in with the anger and above them both, a crazy exhilaration. I'd never felt anything like the thrill I got from that flurry of punches.
 

Principal Howard tore a strip off me, said all farm kids were nothing but trouble and suspended me for two straight weeks. When my mother had finished her second cherry brandy and was over the worst of the shock, she grounded me, most probably for life. Worse than that, she insisted I had to go apologize to Hicky. My Uncle T-Bone, he flat out refused any part of it, said a boy had a right to defend his family honor. But momma kept on at him, knowing that sooner or later he'd cave and agree to drive us to town.

#

 

The dented Ford pick up looked furtive and uneasy, idling rough, among the sleek, modern sedans that lined Hicky's street. Uncle T stayed in the truck, keeping the motor running and the heater on high. Momma, wrapped up against the chill in her Sunday coat, marched me up the path of an expensive looking house. You could see the pool in back, covered over for winter. She straightened me up, took a deep breath and pressed the bell.

Musical chimes drifted back from somewhere inside and after what seemed like an age, Hicky came to the door, flanked by his expensive looking folks. All three of them stood waiting, expectant like, looking at Momma and me like we was nothing.

Momma jabbed me with an elbow and I started off saying how sorry I was, which I wasn't. Them words were the ones Momma wrote on the back of a hand bill and made me learn. When I was done, Hicky gave me the finger, but nobody saw him do it. Mister Thomas shook his head and went on at momma about how damn lucky she was that he hadn't called the law on me. If it was possible to die of shame, my mother would have done it right there on the front step. Her cheeks flushed a rich shade of pink and she examined her good shoes, mumbling more apologizes. I felt worse for her than anything. 

Except for Uncle T, whistling, tuneless through his dentures, we made the journey home in silence. Momma gazed intently out the window, like she'd found a sudden and all consuming interest in the railroad tracks, which kept pace along the highway. I rode bitch, sitting in between them on the sagging bench seat and watched empty Pabst cans chase one another around my feet. 

#

I came out on the back porch, and shivered at the breeze tugging on my shirt. Snow Geese filled the sky, silhouetted by a low riding sun, dipping fast behind the frozen stalks of last year's harvest. Uncle T was in the door yard, oiling a toothy bow saw and listening to KAAQ.  A sermon of country and religion; distilled with static and preached through the cracked Bakelite of an old Sears. T-Bone was never much for church. He told me once, God was behind most of the calamities in his life, said he still hoped to meet him one day though. I think maybe he's looking to get even.

“Uncle T, momma says, if you're goin' drinking at the Hanger, could you stop by the store for baking soda.” I called over, the words fogging out in front of my face.

He looked up at me and grinned, crooked teeth showing through the salt and pepper stubble that bristled along his jaw.

“Why don't you go get it yourself?” He said, knowing full well I was still grounded.

“Just 'cause.” I said and kicked at a left over seed potato, sending it bouncing off towards the chicken coop.

“Come here son.”

Ice had crept up the worn boards of the porch, covering them with a sheen of prickly frost. I half-slid, half-walked across them and picked my way, carefully down the steps.

“Rich folks like that Thomas crowd, they all think their shit don't stink.” He said, shaking out a bent Pall Mall from the crushed pack in his hip pocket.

I didn't say it, but I thought even supposing it did stink, Hicky couldn't of smelt it, not with his nose all busted.

“Don't pay no mind to what that boy says. Your daddy's serving his country, fighting them Commies for the President. You should be damn proud of him. If he were here, he'd tell ya he was proud of you too, understand?”

“Yes sir.” I said, not really understanding any of it; just wishing dad was here. Momma said he was in a place called Kay-song; I looked for hours, but I couldn't find it on no map.

“Go on now, get inside and help your mother. I got me a shoppin' list, beer and baking soda.” He said, mussing my hair.

#

I stood listening to the sound of the Ford's whipped motor, growing smaller in the gathering dusk, and wondered why Mister Johnson had never asked Hicky's dad to go fight them Commies.