Monday, October 05, 2009

The Smell of Clove

I've got this friend. Really! Wayne Allen Sallee. A first-rate writer of horror and of things strange enough to be horror but are really only life as it's lived by Wayne Allen Sallee.

His mind, his body and memory, the hunting ground on which his stories snuffle, lives in those parts of the City where I rarely go: the distant, run-down, wide open, late-at-night places, areas of closed factories, rail sidings, busted bars still open, or nearly open, in dead-headed strip-malls. On his above... he's got a grand tale from his late kidhood about being picked up by what may have been a serial killer.

You can just breathe it in.

I've posted a picture, but Wayne's got them there. And they signify! Fact is...when LORD DICKENS'S DECLARATION is finished and out, I'm going to write a story that Wayne's tale resurrected from my own late adolescence. I can see it now...

Anyway, Wayne is one hell of a writer and if you don't know his work, amend your ways.

As a side-bar... LORD DICKENS progresses. I see the summit in the sun and blowing snow and am trying to figure the best route to the top.

Stop by this Wednesday. I'm on a roundtable with the people who put together the StarShipSofa Stories book. Well... We had fun recording it.

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