Finalized Cover Design for "The Bayou Boys" Omnibus

Here it is: The finalized cover design for the new omnibus edition of The BAYOU BOYS, a collection of Voodoo Virus, Marsh Monster and Playhouse Phantom in one volume. Nearly 500 delightful pages of southern Louisiana adventure!

This is not the final art (still in mock-up stage), but it gives you a really good idea of what the finished product will look like. Thank you to all of you who piped in and contributed to selecting the layout and offering design ideas.

The interior, containing 80,000 words, also nears completion. Look for The BAYOU BOYS in early June!

Sick and Needing Chicken Soup Today, Also Need Some Stories for Chicken Poop

HERE’S THE DEALIO:

Eyrie Press is taking submissions for a new anthology.

Here’s how it will work:

You submit your funny farm stories.  (That’s tales from your life in the country, not stories from your stint in the asylum.)

If we like them we’ll edit them as needed and include them in our upcoming anthology. You get a free copy and you can buy additional copies at wholesale to sell for whatever you wish (wholesale is anticipated to be less than $10 and the suggested retail price will be $14.95). All authors will be credited and appreciated.

We want true (or partly true) tales of life in the country (urban farming okay). You may submit as many as you please, but we won’t print more than three from any given author.

Stories may be any length between 300 and 3,000 words, but we’re more likely to print stories between 500 and 1,500 words. All submissions need to be clean (poop is the strongest word we’ll print) and amusing (but they can be touching and meaningful, too). 

CONTEST:

We don’t yet have the title story. So, we’re holding a contest. The best story about getting “chicken poop on your sole” (you can make this one up out of thin air if you need to) will win the privilege of being the first story in the book and you’ll receive $50 plus a certificate of merit and two additional free copies of the book.

Submissions should be emailed [as Word files] to: gregory.zschomler@gmail.com

Submissions will be received through March 2016 and we hope to publish in time for summer.

Christmas Stories from Long Ago: A Martha Stewart Christmas

I'm pretty stoked for Christmas. Not only are there the presents and family gatherings, the decorations and special foods there are the "stories of long, long ago." I'm going to share some of those stories with you. These--there will be three of them (one each week now until Christmas)--come from my book Rocketman: From the Trailer Park to Insomnia and Beyond. The book is a collection of personal essays, poems, short fic and photographs "from my sleepless life and addled imagination."

There are three Christmas stories in the book, here is the last of those three:

A Martha Stewart Holiday

After weeks of preparation by scores of technicians, staff consultants, creatives and artistic directors… 

Director: “Cue music and...roll titles!”

Camera one zooms from the tabletop centerpiece of candles and greenery. “And action!” Panning slowly right it comes to rest on a neat, blond woman standing in a beautiful kitchen. Camera one takes on a slow zoom.

“Good evening and welcome to my Inn. I’m Martha Stewart. There’s nothing quite as satisfying to me as preparation for a holiday. There’s something especially exciting this evening, as we are live here in Bethlehem for what promises to be the event of the ages.

“I’ve prepared a sumptuous meal of herbed lamb, roasted garlic, toasted pita bread, and myrrhed wine. I’ve chosen the very best lamb from my flock, only my finest grapes (which were pressed under the feet of eunuchs and fermented for 36 months), freshly ground grains have been combined in just the right mixture, and only my premium garden herbs and garlic have been selected. It’s a meal fit for a king!”

Cut to camera two showing a bed of cut greens, a candle, and other trimmings on a simple wood table.

“At the start of my show you saw the beautiful centerpiece I created for this momentous occasion. Here’s how I did it…” The manicured hands flash to work as a gentle Jewish lullaby plays softly in the background. Cut to remote cam outside in a humble stable. There a newborn infant rests on a bed of straw. Standing near the babe are a beautiful young girl and her husband. Silently they ponder the child.

Voice Over: “Earlier tonight, after my inn was quite full, a lovely peasant couple came to my door in search of lodging. I had nothing to offer them except my stable. She was pregnant and near her time. They had searched throughout the town, and it was the same all over—no room. I gave them what I had. Lucky for them I am also a skilled midwife.”

Cut back to the tabletop.

“This evening I offer you my very best in holiday décor and fine dining. And that’s a very good thing. Notice the cut of these greens—meticulously harvested at their peak and beveled just so. Now, take a piece of floral wire exactly one cubit long. Twist it firmly around the stem of the greenery and insert it into the floral foam at a precise 53.7 degree angle.”

Cut to camera two; a medium shot of our hostess.

“Detail and preparation are everything. Planning ahead is the key to any successful occasion. The couple out back could have easily sent a courier for reservations had they thought ahead. You’d never catch Martha off guard like that.”

Cut to remote cam.

“Notice the child’s fair mother, Mary. She is all wrapped up in her child, just as he is wrapped up in swaddling clothes. She is entirely unprepared for this festive occasion. She has neglected to make plans for the celebration and she and her family are missing out on the best the holiday has to offer.”

A slow lapse-dissolve brings us back to camera two.

“Unlike myself, she has missed the boat, so to speak. Now set the home cast candle, gently scented with frankincense, in the center of the greenery circle. There you have it—a fragrant royal centerpiece for the entire house to enjoy. Now on to the meal. Behold the lamb, without spot or blemish…”

* * *

Buy on Amazon

“Now it came to pass...a woman named Martha received him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at Jesus’ feet, and heard his word, while Martha was busy with serving. She came to him, and said, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her to help me.’

“And Jesus answered, ‘Martha, Martha, Martha, you are so care-full and troubled about many things, but only one thing is really needful: It is Mary who has chosen that good thing, which will not be taken away from her.’” (KJV Bible, Luke 10:38-42, paraphrased)

Have yourself a Mary Christmas!

Christmas Stories from Long Ago: The Christmas Tree Tyrant

I'm pretty stoked for Christmas. Not only are there the presents and family gatherings, the decorations and special foods there are the "stories of long, long ago." I'm going to share some of those stories with you. These--there will be three of them (one each week now until Christmas)--come from my book Rocketman: From the Trailer Park to Insomnia and Beyond. The book is a collection of personal essays, poems, short fic and photographs "from my sleepless life and addled imagination."

There are three Christmas stories in the book, here is the second of those three:

The Christmas Tree Tyrant

Many families enjoy cutting their own Christmas tree. I have come to discover that such a venture for my family is seen as an ordeal. You must understand that I’m as dense as a forest, so this took years to dawn on me. 

We enjoy the look and smell of a fine Noble fir; it’s just that any form of choosing a tree — U-cut from the forest or farm, or even shopping the lots — seems to have been, well, grueling.

My wife and I have been married nearly thirty-two years; our oldest child is twenty-nine. Our eldest and her sister, being true romantics, have always loved the charm of a fresh-cut tree — both resisting all forms of trees artificial. They even threatened to leave home should we choose that option. They left home anyway and have married.

My wife, on the other hand, has long complained about the task of selecting a fresh-cut evergreen. She began by grumbling about the rising price. Truth was, she was grousing over my obsession with perfection in the matter. Seems to me that women seldom say what they mean.

One year, we lived in Florida and were unable to find decent evergreens, so we bought an artificial tree. The family seemed happy. We returned to the Pacific Northwest and again began sacrificing living trees (and cash).

Buy on Amazon

Finally, a few years ago when my wife finally came clean that I was destroying her Christmas spirit with my quest for the perfect natural tree, we bought another plastic pine. She’s been much happier. Still, I have been restless, so when our church offered Nobles at the low price of $25 each — $10 of which supported a kid for Winter Camp — I raised the idea of purchasing one. She balked. I kowtowed.

I’m not entirely dense, so I will once again, gladly keep our marriage intact, erect the plastic pine, and give $20 to a kid for camp.

And that, after all, is a perfect tradition.

Christmas Stories from Long Ago: I Believe in Santa

I'm pretty stoked for Christmas. Not only are there the presents and family gatherings, the decorations and special foods there are the "stories of long, long ago." I'm going to share some of those stories with you. These--there will be three of them (one each week now until Christmas)--come from my book Rocketman: From the Trailer Park to Insomnia and Beyond. The book is a collection of personal essays, poems, short fic and photographs "from my sleepless life and addled imagination."

There are three Christmas stories in the book, here is the first of those three:

I Believe in Santa

My mother Dolores Zschomler playing Santa Claus.

Hi, my name is Greg. I’m fifty-five years old and I believe in Santa Claus. Some would say this is delusional. Some would say it’s time I grew up. But, let me explain:

It all began when I was a child growing up in Vancouver. My parents blatantly propagated Santa’s existence (some would say they lied to me). It was a wonderful childhood of Christmases long, long ago when times were less skeptical and children had vivid imaginations. (This was before computer games, mind you.) The space age was at its height and the radio and TV news would even report sightings of The Claus by astronauts and air force pilots. So why wouldn’t I believe? And why can’t I believe now?

You see, Mom and Dad would concoct elaborate schemes to make Christmas magical for my two sisters and me. When I was about eight years old, doubt in old Saint Nick began to creep into my mind. Classmates no longer believed and were vocal. The Santa at my Dad’s company party—a family friend—laughingly pulled his beard down and almost stole the fantasy from me.

From then on those mall Santas were more than a little suspicious, if not differing from one another. The next year my Dad would play Santa at the Hough School Christmas party (we were allowed those back in the 1960’s). I knew it was him and I sat on his lap proudly. But it was that year—that very Christmas—when I was eight that my doubts and disbelief were forever banished.

It was Christmas Eve, 1966. As tradition, my family piled into the old station wagon to head out for a lazy drive around the local neighborhoods for a look at the Christmas lighting displays. Just as we were about to pull out of the drive Mom announced that she had forgot her purse. Dad said that we needed gas and he would drive up to the corner station and come back for Mom in a few minutes. Mom ran in, we drove off. Arriving back just minutes later we picked Mom up and went about ooing and aahing at the sights of Christmas around Vancouver.

Coming home that evening I was filled with even greater awe and much wonderment. Underneath our icicle-laden Christmas tree was a stack of brightly-wrapped presents! How? Could Santa be real after all? It was the best Christmas ever. I don’t remember what I got for gifts, but I do remember that I was given back the gift of belief.

Available at Amazon

Sometime later my mother revealed to me the secret of the magic. As you may have guessed, in returning for her purse, she had pulled all of the presents from assorted hiding places and scurried about in preparation while we went to the gas station and back. It was my mother who was Santa Claus!

Today I know that Santa isn’t a fat, jolly old elf who lives at the North Pole, but is real none-the-less. He is the spirit of giving, belief, magic and faith that lives in the hearts of people…

Like my Mom.

This story is dedicated to my mother who passed away April 2007.