Every ghost story needs some constant creep factor, be it mist, moving shadows, or increasingly loud footfall. Yesterday I found one for “Louie, Louie and the Blonde Hippie”: white roses. This is the ninth ghost story in my collection-in-progress, entitled, Ghostly Demarcations.

I’ve begun a collection of ghost stories entitled, Ghostly Demarcations. It will likely contain 15 stories when completed.


My New Novel

My new novel, The Theoretics of Love, is due out from NewSouth Publications sometime next year, I believe.




After a dare from Josie Sigler, who won last year’s Tartt First Fiction Award, I’ve started a novel in verse. We also made a bet. And I bet I’m going to win. The name of the novel-in-progress is Pineapple. It takes place in present-day Los Alamos, New Mexico, and it concerns just what you might expect: scientists running amuck. It also concerns drug dealers, creeps, perverts and some very nice people pushing to stop all of them. I’ll post about two stanzas at a time. The novel is mostly being written in rhyming quatrains. First post follows and this one includes a fancy “invocation” as well as the opening chapter’s two quatrains:


Late one night as I rose up to piss,

my muse gave ambush with this sweet kiss:

“Think Chaucer,” sang she, “think Byron.”

Lord, Lord, I do keep on a-tryin’,

but something always drips amiss.

Chapter One: a blue shoe,

a blue date, a promise of fun


In fair Los Alamos where we lay our scene,

At a war—a defense think tank, I mean:

“Dude, she’s got green eyes big as two bedrooms,

black hair, sharp and trim like the aspen gets,

and”—Dave cupped his hands—“two fine round bazooms

like pineapples.”

Dave’s friend fretted that set.

The loading dock’s drink machine coughed—okay, fine.

A departing semi belched—not sublime, yet fair.

But a typist dancing Inner Sanctum’s line

with tits like pineapples? Hank grew skanky hair.