I wanted to put in a plug for GrubStreet.  From their website:

“GrubStreet is one of the nation’s leading creative writing centers. We believe that narrative transforms lives, builds bridges, and produces empathy. By rigorously developing voices of every type and talent and by removing barriers to entry, GrubStreet fosters the creation of meaningful stories and ensures that excellent writing remains vital and relevant.”

I’ve attended a few of their free workshops in the past. I finally decided this week to become a member.

Jeremiah’s Hearse

Does this hearse belong to Jeremiah, the mad undertaker of Helltown?


From Helltown Chronicles:

The two were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. It was situated just on the other side of the rise in the road ahead. They couldn’t see it yet, but judging by the sound of the engine, the driver was really gunning it. The car came upon them fast. The two quickly stepped off to the side of the road. Seconds later, a long, dark vehicle with only one working headlight crested the hill. Veering off the road, it headed directly for the two fifteen-year-olds.

The hearse struck Randy head-on. The impact threw him in the air and he landed almost twenty feet away. The same collision dealt Kyle only a glancing blow.

“Wh- Wha…?” When Kyle came to he saw an old, sinister-looking man standing over him. The man smiled an evil grin, and struck Kyle on the head with a club, knocking him unconscious again.



I’ve produced the third in a series of Rambo vignettes entitled “Ambush” and am shopping it around. The 1,360-word fictional piece is set in a dystopian near-future in which regional wars fought by both human and alien mercenaries abound.

… the Rambos are the meanest, orneriest, most despicable form of life in the galaxy. They fight for Black Scorpion, Limited. Unlike the human mercenaries they fight alongside with, the Rambos fight for one reason and one reason only—for blood sport. Money don’t mean shit to them.”

“Do they speak English?” a soldier asked.

“They speak better English than you, Janson.”

A few chuckled.

“Most of them are multilingual. I met one that spoke sixteen different Earth languages. They’re smart mothers. They’re big. And they’re afraid of nothing. If they kill you, they’ll take your scalps or your thumbs for souvenirs. The good news is, they bleed and die just like us. So, make sure they die first.”

After a moment, someone said, “If you call that yellow puke they have in ’em blood…”