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Luminaria is up for a Darrell Award

My novelette Luminaria has been nominated for a Darrell Award. The Darrell Awards are literary awards given to science fiction, fantasy, and horror works that take place in and around Memphis and its outlying regions. And that includes eastern Arkansas, where my family hails from. Helena, to be exact. To this day if you go to the ruins of Helena (that isn’t really an over-exaggeration) you’ll see the Hornor name on certain edifices around town.

Anywho, I wrote a long story with vampires and Jason Sizemore at Apex Magazine was kind enough to buy and publish it and Jeffrey Alan Love was kind enough to work with me for a cover. And then the Darrell Awards committee was kind enough to find it has enough merit to be nominated. So, lots of kindness.

I go next weekend to MidSouthCon where I’ll see if the story wins. I’ve been honored in the past by the Darrell Awards jury – Southern Gods received the award for it in 2011 since large tracts of that novel take place in steamy, humid Memphis – and having a brace of Darrell Awards on my wall might look quite fine. But to whoever wins, I will make sure I have fun at the event.

That is all.

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Patchwork Things in Cemetery Dance

The new issue of Cemetery Dance is out and it contains my story “Patchwork Things,” a weird southern bildungsroman. The art is by Chad Savage and it looks freaking amazing. I’m hoping it gets in many hands. The best part of being a writer is seeing an audience’s reaction. At least when the reaction is good.

Anyway, you can buy the issue here by clicking right HERE.

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“George Paul” – Tales from the South – Video

Thought I’d throw this up here on its own page. This is the reading for my story “George Paul” given at The Starving Artist Cafe for Tales from the South‘s Tin Roof Project. The house was packed and I really received a lot of in-reading feedback. Having done readings where two people showed up, I really appreciate how a well-lubed audience will respond.

The story, somewhat humorous, somewhat sad, focuses around my friend George Paul Eldridge and Levon Helm and an ill fated trip to a wedding in a RV. An RV full of booze.

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Barn Burning

We walked through fields asleep with snow in the twilight of the year. Clouds skittered across the sky, pale blue and indifferent to our grief as we came upon the weathered old barn, paint scaling, where she had hung herself. Underneath the sky we diminished and shrank, down into ourselves, hunched into parkas, billowing breath into the air from mouths too dumb to speak. She had climbed into the loft, still smelling of summer hay, and shimmied out onto the rafter where she let her leaden body fall to swing by the neck until her father found her. Erik spread the gasoline along the old planks and soaked the walls while Mary and I smoked cigarettes she’d stolen from her mother and drank brandy from a plastic flask, holding the matches in our trembling hands like bright unborn sparks. When Erik finished, dead-eyed, we lit matches and threw them together, holding hands  and running away from the blast of heat only to turn and watch from the treeline as the barn turned yellow, red, and golden, drawing a long gray line from the earth to heaven.

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Six sentences.