biffmitchell.blog

Get Published in 2012

2012-01-05T10:02:00.004-04:00

Getting published could be the hardest thing you’ll ever do—or the easiest. Get Published in 2012 prepares you to search for publishers or agents the right way, without wasting time. You’ll learn how to identify and contact the right publishers for your work (fiction or non-fiction); how to prepare a publishing toolkit, including a publisher tracking sheet, long and short synopses, query and covering letters, author bio and publication history (even if you don’t already have anything published).

You’ll learn how to prepare a marketing plan for those publishers who demand them in the submission process. You’ll also learn how to receive free critiques of your work, how to deal with rejection and how to avoid scams. We’ll look at traditional forms of publishing, self-publishing and electronic publishing.

Everyone will also receive a free copy of eMarketing Tools for Writers, 3rd Edition.

Instructor: Biff Mitchell
Date: Saturday, January14
Time: 10 AM till 4:30 PM (with a one hour break at noon)
Place: Studio4Ward, 384 Queen Street (across from City Hall)
Workshop Fee: $60
To enroll or learn more, call 455-BIFF (2433) or email biff@biffmitchell.com.

Biff Mitchell’s Writing Hurts Like Hell Two-Week Late Fall Workshop

2011-11-03T21:56:00.003-03:00

Put aside just four evenings and do something you’ve always dreamed of…start that novel. The Writing Hurts Like Hell Fall Workshop will give you the tools to start and finish your novel no matter how busy your schedule. You’ll learn how to create characters that breathe and worlds that intrigue. You’ll learn how to get your ideas out of your head and onto paper or screen where you can see them and turn them into a story. You’ll defeat personal demons and use them to put fire in the bellies of your charactrers. Plus, you’ll have fun! Classes will be in malls, bars, studios – everywhere. No experience needed…we start from scratch.

Though the emphasis will be on fiction, whether you want to write a novel, short stories, poetry, business or technical documents or just write emails that will leave your friends in awe…this workshop will get your creative juices flowing. Try your first class free before you decide if this is really for you.

November 14 – November 25
Tuesdays and Thursdays
6:30 PM till 8:30 PM
Price: $75

To enrol, or for more information:
Email: biff@biffmitchell.com
Phone: 455-BIFF
Or, show up at the first session (November 14) for free at Starbucks, Regent Mall

Biff Mitchell's novels have been published in Canada, Australia and the United States. His blend of off-beat humor and surrealism make him one of Canada’s most obscure writers. Besides being a regular contributor to the award-winning Twisted Tails anthologies, his short fiction and not-poetry has appeared in anthologies, collections, ezines, magazines and on CBC Radio. Biff has instructed at the Maritime Writers’ Workshop since 2006.

Biff Mitchell's 2nd Fall Writing Hurts Like Hell Workshp

2011-10-22T17:02:00.002-03:00

October 31 – November 10
Mondays and Wednesdays
6:30 PM till 8:30 PM
Price: $75

To enrol, or for more information:
Email: biff@biffmitchell.com
Phone: 455-BIFF
Or, show up at the first session (Oct 30) for free at Starbucks, Regent Mall

Biff Mitchell's novels have been published in Canada, Australia and the United States. His blend of off-beat humor and surrealism make him one of Canada’s most obscure writers. Besides being a regular contributor to the award-winning Twisted Tails anthologies, his short fiction and not-poetry has appeared in anthologies, collections, ezines, magazines and on CBC Radio. Biff has also been a returning writing instructor at the Maritime Writers’ Workshop since 2006.

Biff Mitchell’s Writing Hurts Like Hell Fall Workshop

2011-10-03T22:53:00.002-03:00

Put aside just four evenings and do something you’ve always dreamed of…start that novel. The Writing Hurts Like Hell Fall Workshop will give you the tools to start and finish your novel no matter how busy your schedule. You’ll learn how to create characters that breathe and worlds that intrigue. You’ll learn how to get your ideas out of your head and onto paper or screen where you can see them and turn them into a story. You’ll defeat personal demons. Plus, you’ll have fun! Classes will be in malls, bars, outdoors (weather permitting) – everywhere. No experience needed…we start from scratch.

October 11 – October 20
Tuesdays and Thursdays
6:30 PM till 8:30 PM
Price: $75

To enrol, or for more information:
Email: biff@biffmitchell.com
Phone: 455-BIFF
Or, show up at the first session (Oct 11) for free at Starbucks, Regent Mall

How to Finally Get Published Workshop

2011-08-18T14:32:00.001-03:00

Do you have a novel or a non-fiction book, finished or in progress…or a great idea? Do you have ideas for articles based on your work or interests? Whether you want to make money or just build credibility in your field, getting published has never been more possible than it is today. If you know how.

This one-day workshop begins with an exploration of the realities of today’s publishing world and the opportunities created by new technologies and approaches to getting published. You’ll learn how to research and approach publishers successfully, how to avoid publishing scams, where to get ideas for non-fiction articles, how to get free critiques of fiction works, how to write a covering/query letter, where to send articles with guaranteed publication, how to deal with rejection and how to market your work when it’s published.

You’ll also receive a free critique of your first query letter and a free copy of eMarketing Tools for Writers, 3rd Edition.

Date and time: Saturday, August 27, 10 am till 4 pm (one hour for lunch)
Place: StudioASAP (on Queen Street across from City Hall)
Price: $60
Instructor: Biff Mitchell
To enrol: Call 455-2433 or email biff@biffmitchell.com or show up at StudioASAP

Last Summer Writing Hurts Like Hell Workshop Starts This Monday

2011-07-25T13:11:00.010-03:00

Put aside just four evenings and do something you’ve always dreamed of…start that novel. The Writing Hurts Like Hell Hot August Workshops gives you the tools to start and finish your novel no matter how busy your schedule. You’ll learn how to create characters that breathe and worlds that intrigue. Plus, you’ll have fun! Classes will be in malls, bars, outdoors – everywhere. No experience needed…we start from scratch.

Though the emphasis will be on fiction, whether you want to write a novel, short stories, poetry, business or technical documents or just write emails that will leave your friends in awe…this workshop will get your creative juices flowing. Drop in for the first class of each workshop and try it out for free before deciding if this is really for you. The last summer workshop is:

August 15 – August 24
Mondays and Wednesdays
6:30 PM till 8:30 PM

Price: $75

To enrol or learn more:
Call 455-BIFF, or
Email: biff@biffmitchell.com, or
Just show up at Starbucks at the Regent Mall for the first class and remember, the first class is free.

Writing Hurts Like Hell Sizzling Summer Workshop

2011-07-20T15:45:00.002-03:00

Put aside just four evenings and do something for yourself that you’ve always dreamed of…become a writer. The Writing Hurts Like Hell Sizzling Summer Workshop will take place all over Freddie Beach this July and August.

You’ll learn how to steal identities and use them to populate amazing fictional worlds that you’ll also learn to create. You’ll learn how to overcome writers’ block, turn your ideas into novels through mind dumping and storyboarding, and how to handle subjects like sex, foul language, violence and humor.

The first class, at Starbucks in the Regent Mall, is free.

On top of all this…you’ll have fun! Classes will be in malls, coffee shops, outdoors – everywhere. You don’t need any experience, discussion of grammar will not be tolerated, and you don’t even need any particular story or novel in mind…we’ll be starting from scratch.

July 26 – August 4
Tuesdays and Thursdays
6:30 PM till 8:30 PM

Price: $75

To enrol or learn more:
Call 455-BIFF, or
Email: biff@biffmitchell.com, or just show up at Starbucks at the Regent Mall at 6:30 on Tuesday, July 26.

Biff Mitchell’s Murder and Mayhem Mystery Writing Workshop

2011-06-26T22:14:00.002-03:00

The Murder and Mayhem Mystery Writing Workshop is an exploration into the art of creating compelling fiction that perplexes, intrigues, puzzles and entertains with special attention to creating suspense and atmosphere, building believable worlds for murder and mayhem and populating those worlds with mysterious characters. You’ll learn how to plot the perfect murder kill off your friends and loved ones – and your enemies – without going to jail.

This is not a course. It’s a workshop. You will be required to write. It’s what mystery writers do.

Biff Mitchell's novels have been published in Canada, Australia and the United States. His blend of off-beat humor and surrealism make him one of Canada’s most obscure writers. Besides being a regular contributor to the award-winning Twisted Tails anthologies, his short fiction and not-poetry has appeared in anthologies, collections, ezines and magazines. Biff is the creator of the notorious Writing Hurts Like Hell workshop.

Date: Wednesday, July 6
Time: 9:00 AM till 4:00 PM
Cost: $125 (students $75)
Place: UNB Campus (exact location TBD)

Contact:
Beth Paynter,
Coordinator Maritime Writers' Workshop
bpaynter@unb.ca, 458-7106

Or sign up online.

Review of Boston Jonson in Murder by Coffee

2011-05-09T16:15:00.005-03:00

Boston Jonson in Murder by Coffee
Reviewed by: Tony-Paul de Vissage
Rating: 4 stars
Publisher: Double Dragon Publishing Inc
ISBN: 978-1-55404-822-9

In this latest adventure of Biff Mitchell’s futuristic sleuth, it’s just another day for Boston Jonson, CI (Consultative Investigator) for CI Central when he’s called to The Tenth Cup coffee shop to investigate a mysterious death and make a referral to the proper authorities. The victim is Brandy Williams, a Gutensaur—lover of print books—and registered caffeine addict. Seems Brandy was addicted to the hard stuff—pumped caffeine, genetically engineered coffee with ten times the amount of stimulation of the regular kind. It could’ve been a natural death. The human body can’t stand that much shock at one time and has to become acclimated to so much caffeine being poured into it, except for one thing…today Brandy was drinking regular coffee—and she’s been turned to stone. Now, she’s nothing more than a white stone statue, clutching a coffee cup in one hand and a print book in the other.

Boston barely has time to absorb these facts, and make a futile attempt to utilize his ability to become one with the Universe by absorbing all the vibes floating around the crime scene, when he’s interrupted by Laurel, his CIC contact—sending him to another coffee shop and another crime scene, this one involving two patrons…also addicts, also turned to stone.

So what’s going on?

Boston’s only supposed to investigate, then refer the crime to the proper authorities—the police, conflict resolution, community service—whatever, but as usual, he delays making a decision. Deciding to investigate further, and becoming deeper and deeper involved in finding out what really happened sends his investigations into unwanted places. One of the victims was a nano-chemist for Chaney Pharmaceuticals, a leading producer of altered coffee beans, reportedly owned by a certain South American cartel. Not only that, but the victims’ coffee is found to be laced with nanobots designed to transform the most harmless cup into the nearly-lethal Columbian Red, the most potent and addictive coffee in the world, and the oddest thing of all—the victims apparently put the nanobots into their coffee on purpose.

Why would they do that, knowing what would happen? And who’s the mysterious Dannyg, the supposed supplier of the lethal addition to their morning cup of java?

Now, Boston has more than CIC on his case. Headquarters merely wants him to get on with it and make his referral, but a more sinister character would prefer to have him just plain dead and out of the way. Jane Wayne, president of Coffee Consultants and Coffee Shop Union—connected to coffee cartels, politicians, and international unions—has ordered a hit on the CI, and if he doesn’t move fast, he may end up just as dead as Brandy Williams and all the others…

…and there are more bodies-turned-statues to come…

MY JAUNDICED OPINION: Don’t know whether to term this a novella or a novelette but it’s an entertaining little piece whichever. I’ve read quite a few of Boston Jonson’s adventures and enjoyed each one. The futuristic CI with the shoulder-length tangerine hair and a penchant for Hawaiian shirts always gets involved in some of the oddest crimes imaginable. And this one is no different. The descriptions of the coffee shops, the music, the evolution of the ebook and the downfall of print…all blend into a world which could, quite possibly, become a real one in a few years. The registering of coffee drinkers as caffeine addicts with prescriptions for the drug of their choice certainly is an amusing—and chilling—possibility.

Read Murder by Coffee while you’re enjoying a cup of coffee. It’s only appropriate. Available from Amazon, Fictionwise, Chapters and iTunes.

What's Really Disgusting About the Election

2011-05-03T14:00:00.003-03:00

I've been a Liberal supporter for as long as I can remember but, seeing what's happened to the party for the last few disappointing years, I can only say that I'm disgusted with them.

They have no leaders. They have no vision. They have no integrity.

They ran a smear campaign and focused on the negatives of the Tories instead of offering an alternative that the people of this country could believe in.

They've become a party of desperation, grabbing for power from a place of confusion and weakness.

Sad.

This was the party that gave us a national pension plan and Medicare. This was the party honored us with a nobel laureate. This was the party that inspired us to believe that government could work for the people.

This is the party that now offers us no credible alternatives at a time when they are so desperately needed.

It breaks my heart to think about what they were, and what they've become.

Mobile Service Providers Need to Stop the Scammers

2011-04-26T13:48:00.002-03:00

Did some reading on the Net about these "Premium" messages. Apparently, just by giving the scammers your cell number, you're subscribing to their service (which includes text message alerts that cost a fortune...five bucks each in my daughter's case). Problem is...you don't even know about the texts you're about to receive when you release your number, and you may not know that you're "joining" something.

It's a big problem, and it has a lot of people pissed off...and helpless. Helpless, because it's not illegal, but especially helpless because the service providers (like Bell, Rogers, Telus and, in my case, Koodo) won't do anything about it. But then, of course, they're making money off it. Koodo is collecting $15 from me this month on behalf of the scammers. Now, here's something interesting...

On Ellen Roseman's "On Your Side" blog, a Roger's employee wrote in response to complaints others had sent into the blog: "As agents, we have access to information regarding the origin of these texts and can help the customers contact those companies themselves."

Access to information regarding the origin of these texts. In other words, they know who the scammers are. They know where to find them. They know how to contact them. They know what the scammers are doing.

So why are they doing business with them?

The Premium Text Scam

2011-04-26T12:00:00.005-03:00

Just got my daughter's cell phone bill and it has a nasty little surprise. There was a $15 dollar charge for 3 "Premium" text messages. Yep, five bucks for each message. I called my daughter and asked her if she had sent any text with video, images...whatever, but she hasn't changed the way she sends texts since she got the phone months ago

So, I went to the Koodo kiosk at the Regent Mall and asked about this. According to them, scam companies get your cell phone number and send you texts...whether you want them or not. And charge you five bucks for each one they send you.

Somebody please tell me how this could possibly be legal. First, a text message costs less than a cent to transmit. Second, why are these people allowed to charge you for something you never authorized? And I'll get to a third point shortly.

But first, here's what likely happened. My daughter either entered a contest or replied to a special deal...like, "GET A FREE iPOD!" All you have to do is send in your name and you could win. But wait! How are they going to notify you of your winnings? Simple...they'll call you on your cell phone. So you have to give them your number. And that's what the contest is all about (if there is, in fact, a prize that's ever awarded). They're gathering cell phone numbers. And they're either using them to send you "Premium" messages or, more likely, they're putting your number into a list that they sell to people who will be charging you five bucks a message.

Lesson: Don't ever give your cell phone number out to anybody who isn't family, a friend or a business associate. If you come across a contest or other event in which they want your cell phone number, don't enter, don't participate...especially if the only contact information they want is your cell number. And for those of you with business cards (with your cell number on it, of course) who may be asked to throw your card into a bucket at a convention or other event so that you can win a new iPod: Don't do it.

And now to that third point I mentioned above.

I'm not sure exactly how these people make their money off sending us their texts and then charging five bucks for them. I mean, who gives them the five bucks? Well, I know who's sending me the bill for the five bucks...Koodo. I'm giving Koodo fifteen bucks for three scam messages sent to my duaghter through their service.

In other words, Koodo is collecting money on behalf of the scammers. Koodo is where the scammers are getting the money for ripping you off. I'll be taking this up with them.

Boston Jonson in Murder by Coffee

2011-04-13T16:40:00.006-03:00

When a nasty little plague of people turning into stone in coffee shops around the city threatens the bottom line of the Coffee Cartels and their highly addictive designer coffees, investigative consultant, Boston Jonson, is tossed into a world where everyone is out to either admire him or kill him, a world of annoying weirdoes who are probably better off turned into stone.

Excerpt:

It was a bustling place, crowded by late-night coffee swillers with throats like pipelines running high octane caffeine, but somehow they found a way to talk through the flow of java and they were all talking at the same time, drowning out the re-mixed jazz tunes from musicians who were mostly dried bones, which was mostly a good thing since they couldn’t hear what the late 21st Century had done to their music. He guessed that most of the crowd were college students, meeting here with their holotops to work in groups on assignments from professors they’d never met in real life, eProfs who appeared as talking heads on their students’ computers. The rest of the crowd looked like artists, writers and musicians who thought the digitally squeezed music actually said something. And then there were the coffee shop spooks, the ones who sat night after night guzzling into the wee hours because that’s what they did. A few of them read books-print books, with paper pages.

Boston Jonson was looking at one of them now. She was a heavy woman, at least two hundred pounds, bent forward on a coffee high, book in one hand, the other grasping a porcelain cup between a massive thumb and index finger. She had that look of intensity that comes from reading too much, living in a world constructed by everybody but herself. And a connoisseur obviously-the print book in her plump hand was a hard bound with a glossy cover. They were rare. Most people used ereaders and holotops for interactive reading. She had a withdrawn intellectual aura, ragged clothing, and brush-lonely hair. Her skin was white. Pure white. White face. White neck. White hands. White enough to be dead. Not surprising though.

She was dead.

She’d turned into stone, white stone. Her hair, eyelashes and nails seemed normal. He ran is fingers over her forehead-smooth stone. He knocked lightly on her forehead-hard white stone. People strolled by on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows peering curiously at the guy with the shoulder length tangerine hair and Hawaiian hula hula shirt knocking on the overly white woman’s head.

"She was a regular," said the short good-looking woman standing beside him. "She was here every night." Her name was Julie-not the stiff, the good-looking woman. She was the owner of the Tenth Cup. Brunette hair flowed over her shoulders, stopping just short of some interesting cleavage. She noticed Boston noticing the cleavage and smiled. "Her name was Brandy. She was a librarian."

Librarian, thought Boston. That would explain the print book.

"She didn’t speak much, just drank coffee and read a different book every day." She put a sympathetic hand on Brandy’s shoulder. "We found her like this an hour ago. One of the coffee consultants noticed that she wasn’t turning pages." Julie gave her a wistful look. "She read quickly. She did a lot of page-turning."

"But not anymore, I guess," said Boston with what he hoped was the appropriate amount of inflected regret. He was sure that Brandy had been a good person, coffee addiction, print books, tattered clothing and all. "Did she have any enemies?"

A spark of suspicion ignited for an instant in Julie’s brown eyes and Boston felt her mood chill a degree or two. He had that effect on people. "Just a standard question. I have to ask it."

The chill ducked into a warm place, the smile was back full-faced. "Of course. It’s just, you know, strange... finding a regular customer suddenly turned to stone for no obvious reason. Do you think it was deliberate?"

"I’ve never heard of anyone turning to stone before. It’s too early to even make a guess."

Julie looked at Brandy sadly. "We’re going to miss her around here."

Two women sitting at the table directly behind Brandy’s seemed to be frowning pointedly in Brandy’s direction. Was that animosity in their eyes? "Did you ever notice anyone giving her a hard time, any arguments?"

She pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, trying to remember. "No... no. She was a loner. Kept to herself. When she was here, she drank coffee and read books. She never actually talked to anybody except the coffee consultants and me. I can’t think of anyone doing something like this on purpose." She ran her hand across Brandy’s cheek. "I can’t imagine anyone doing this, period." She looked over at the counter where a dozen people had materialized out of nowhere. She turned back to Boston, put a hand on his arm, smiling, big brown eyes professional but playful. "I really should get back with the girls. This is one of our busy periods."

Boston smiled and nodded and scoped out her ass as she walked back to the counter. Nice sway.

A silver ID bracelet dangled on Brandy’s wrist. He took out his wallet, opened it and tapped it against the bracelet. The screen in his wallet brought up her picture and ID. Brandy Williams. Born April 7, 2034. Occupation: Librarian. That was all. No address. No phone. No email. He snapped a picture of her with his wallet and looked around. No one seemed to be watching him.

It was time. The vibrations surrounding Brandy had a story to tell. That was their way. Everything was vibrations and when vibrations came into contact with each other, they left an indelible impression, a story that could be read of past events if you just opened yourself to their tale. He closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. He let his awareness sink slowly into his tan dien, the center of his psychic gravity. He slowed his breathing, letting the air glide through his nostrils and into his lungs, visualizing the energy of the universe flowing in through his head, down through his chest and deep into his stomach. He let the air drift up into his throat and seep out of his mouth as the energy of the earth flowed up his legs and into his stomach. After three breaths, he was in the zone, charged with energy and relaxed. He listened with his inner ear, waiting for the vibrations to speak to him about Brandy.

As usual, the vibrations said nothing. Somebody else did the talking.

"She was a pain in the ass." Surfacing back into the world, Boston focused his eyes on a woman with blond-streaked brunette hair with bouncy curls cascading down to her shoulders. Wide, dark-rimmed glasses gave her an air of smart and sharp. She was a knockout. "She was disruptive," she said with a sonorous voice that might carry to the ends of a large room without jarring a single eardrum. "She got into her books and forgot where she was, reading out loud half the time, and I mean out loud."

"Sometimes she’d yell," said the woman sitting across from her, another beauty with pitch black hair and matching eyes and skin lustrously pale, like something caressed by the moon. "I mean, she’d be reading, lip-mouthing with a low rumble, and then she’d suddenly yell ’NO! YOU DAMN FOOL!’ She made me pour half a cup of coffee into my lap one night."

Available at: Double Dragon Publishing or Amazon.

From Falling Apart

2010-10-30T16:43:00.004-03:00

Jason flicked the light switch and his other thumb fell off. So much for opposable thumbs, he thought. Does this redefine me in some evolutionary sense as less than human? Probably not, he decided, but it had been a week for redefining his anatomy: two thumbs, one foot, half an ear, and one testicle. All gone.

He was starting to worry in spite of Al’s assurances that it was just a passing thing as Jason spooned an ear lobe out of his coffee. “Bit of sleep, proper exercise, you’ll be fine,” Al had said. “These things have a way of righting themselves.”

But eight hours later, his ear was showing no signs of righting itself, and the image of his left testicle plopped on top of a deodorant cake in the urinal was still disturbingly clear in his mind.

He hopped into his apartment and tossed his right foot, still shoed, into the pile of slippers and boots outside the hall closet. It had come off on the bus home from work. A woman standing next to him had said, “You should probably get that looked at.”

He left his other thumb on the floor. Strange, he thought. Shouldn’t there be blood or something?

Five minutes later, sitting on the couch, cold beer in thumbless hand, he pondered the day’s events. Things had started normally: up at six, pee, ten pushups, ten sit ups, multivitamin, shave, shower, towel, groom, dress, bagel and coffee, off to work.

Things are simple when you live alone and have a routine, and that’s the way he liked it at home, simple. He had all the complications he needed in his life from his job. He had few friends and he rarely went out. Friends had a way of complicating things when their lives collided with your own, and the outside world was too prone to events and rules made by others.

His office was on the third floor of the Bonnano Tower building, the headquarters for ErectSoft Inc, the largest software company in the world. He wasn’t sure exactly what kind of software the company produced, but for him it didn’t matter. He wrote high level product development procedures documents, and the product development procedures he documented were so high level they could be applied to anything and everything. For instance:

4.6 Project Compliance Form – The Project Compliance Form (ESI/Form978/PC) contains specific project information, including Client and ErectSoft contact personnel, system requirements, project resources, media resources, and media depth. If the target market has been defined, then a Target Market Profile Form (ESI/Form349/TMP) will be attached to the Project Compliance Form; if not, then the Target Market Profile Form will be completed in step 4.9 Target Population Analysis, below.

So high that the details were devoid of information. And they changed constantly. But Jason’s life remained the same. At work, he kept himself busy documenting processes for projects that might not even exist for all he knew. At home, he followed his routine of eating at the appropriate times, watching sitcoms and reality show re-runs, watching the news before bed for confirmation that the outside world was definitely full of routines he wanted to avoid, and sleeping dreamlessly. It was a comfortable life and he couldn’t think of anything he would change.

Until now.

Now he’d like to change his life into one with all his body parts properly attached to his body. Manipulating the remote for his TV was clumsy with no thumbs but he managed tuning into the early evening news. Stories about robberies, storms, political scandals and troubles in the Middle East flashed across the screen, but there was nothing about missing body parts, no reports of appendages mysteriously falling off.

It must be an isolated event, something isolated to Jason Betts, maybe something he’d eaten just before the first isolated occurrence three days earlier when his left thumb had fallen off in the shower. He remembered thinking it was odd at the time, but since he used only two fingers on his keyboard at work, it didn’t seem all that urgent.

But then today happened – one foot, one ear lobe, the other thumb, a testicle. Something’s not right, he thought as he swilled back a mouthful of beer.

And swallowed his tongue.

Well he thought so much for complaining about all this. He downed his beer and pulled another from the cooler by his chair. He was prepared in the event his legs fell off.

He thought back to the shower three days earlier. Maybe the soap? The quality of the water? A contaminant of some sort? But that would have traveled through the water mains to other homes and something would have cropped up on the news by now. Chemicals in his clothing? Nothing was new. Nothing was different. Everything in his life was at it was and had always been. Nobody could pin anything on him. Nobody could say, “Jason Betts has done something … and now … all his body parts are going to fall off.”

There was absolutely no reason for him to be falling apart.

Except …

(He pushed back uncomfortably in his chair and felt something loosen up in his chest. Oh great he thought now I’m falling apart inside?)

… that day last week … when he’d stepped on an angel.

God, it’d been gross. Angel parts everywhere. Not at first when the little booger had screamed, “Ouch!”

He’d looked down and there it was all shiny and small and pissed off. He’d always thought that angels would be, you know, bigger. Its halo had floated askew over perfect blond waves. Bits of red had flashed from its blue eyes as it stood, arms crossed, staring up at him, tiny Michelangelo foot tapping feverishly on the sidewalk.

Jason did the only thing that seemed to make sense at the time. He stepped on it again. Harder this time. It had made a squeaky scrunching sound and felt weird, like stepping on a plastic bag of fast food with bones.

“OUCH!”

When he lifted his foot, the angel was still standing, foot tapping, minus one arm, the remaining one crossing its chest.

“I’m just a small man,” Jason had said. “I can’t have something like you reporting me to who ever it is you report. I can’t handle having to take responsibility for something like this.”

He stepped on the angel again and almost threw up. It felt nasty, like stepping on crunchy pigeon crap. “That hurts!” yelped the angel. “You stop that!”

But he stepped on the tiny angel again and again, harder and harder, until there was nothing but broken angel bits scattered on the sidewalk. There he thought that’s that. And he began immediately to feel better about himself.

Until he saw the itsy-bitsy skewed eyes glaring up from a piece of angel bit. The eyes smoldered and Jason shuddered. He wasn’t feeling better about himself anymore, and he wasn’t the least prepared to see the anger in the eyes soften and lighten and twitch slowly into a look of sad compassion. Jason could almost have shed a tear looking into those I’ve-got-the-blues-because-I’m-all-over-the-sidewalk deep blue eyes, but he didn’t. “Hey, you!” called the angel’s voice from lips scrambled willy-nilly throughout the angel bits strewn on the sidewalk. “I forgive you,” said the voice.

“You what?” replied Jason.

“I forgive you,” repeated the angel’s busted mouth parts. “Hey, we all make mistakes and life sometimes leads us along unexpected paths. I’m going to die now, but I just want you to know that I forgive you and I love you.”

The voice stopped. None of the angel parts glared, talked, or looked sad-eyed and compassionate. They littered the sidewalk without movement or sound.

That was easy, thought Jason.

From Twisted Tails 3: Pure Fear

2010-10-27T21:43:00.001-03:00

I can’t find my locker. Where the hell is it? Have I been away from here that long that I don’t remember where my locker is? But where have I been? And I don’t recognize any of the students in these halls. There’s nobody who knows me, nobody I can ask, “Where’s my locker?” I know this place, but I don’t know it. I know I have a locker here somewhere—a place where I store my crap—but why can’t I find it? And what am I doing here in the first place? I finished with this place years ago. I’m not supposed to be here. But I am. And I can’t find my locker.

The bell rings. The commotion swells. Hordes of students herd furiously to their next class, stampeding in step with their schedules. They all know where they’re going and move with the collective mind of a well-timed institution. Except me. I can’t find my locker. I know I have one by the sense that this is where I am and this is where everyone here has a locker.

Like magic or dream, I’m standing in front of my locker and the door is open and the halls are empty and I’m alone facing a pile of books and binders and I have no idea where I’m supposed to go next. I notice a red fire extinguisher on the wall, freestanding, no wooden case with glass. The panic builds on the emptiness of the hall. I need to be somewhere right now or I’ll be late. But where? I’m going to be the odd one out. They all moved to their classes, smiling, talking, certain. And I’m standing here wondering where I’m supposed to take these books and binders, which ones am I to take? There’s no schedule here, nothing posted. I’ve been away too long. Where have I been?

The fear is growing. It’s been there for how long? Just growing. Where am I supposed to be? Where are the signs? What class have I been missing all this time that I need to be in right now? What room? What subject? What teacher? I don’t know! I don’t have a clue. Nothing is familiar except the place, this hall, this locker, this moment in time. But even these seem strange in a way that sends bumps across my skin and strangles my stomach on the bile of its own fear. I look to my left, to my right, behind me, expecting some horrible truth to pounce suddenly and devour me in the chill of my own ignorance. My stomach is ice. My heart is mercury.

I’m fucked.

A Touch of Time

2010-10-25T07:33:00.004-03:00

She was much prettier than he’d imagined. Dusty brown bangs floated around her forehead with long waves splashing against the air around her neck. Her lips were two waves of flesh on the crest of a kiss. Her figure fit everyman’s calendar dream—not overly undersized, not overly muscular or plump or buxom or plank-like. He could have sworn that her eyes glowed blue. She was just right. As he knew she would be.

So much for the warnings about Internet dating. He’d just hit the World Wide Jackpot and he wasn’t about to wonder how he’d become this lucky.

Her name was Persephone. He didn’t find it strange at all. His own name was Mordecai. Mordecai Morris. And he hadn’t spoken to his parents in a long time. He couldn’t remember Persephone mentioning her parents in any of their chats. He wondered if they were scholars or teachers or just well-read average Joes who thought they might wrest a name out of time and bounce it off the walls of the modern world. But he liked it. It suited her. She seemed to know a lot about history and the classics, and had described some of her favorite historical events in minute detail, as if she’d been on a movie set, designing the costumes and directing the course of action, much like a technical consultant drawing from personal memory.

He thought it was pretty damn cool that she looked as good as she did. This was just about the best thing that ever happened to him, or likely ever would.

“You’re Persephone?” he asked, smiling a little mischievously, knowing the answer.

“I don’t think so,” she said with a devilish smile. “What makes you think so?”

God, she was just like in her chats.

“Oh, the fact that you’re wearing a black turtleneck, red tartan skirt, black leggings, and you’re sitting at the table I reserved for us.”

“Nice guessing, Morry.” It was what she called him. He loved it. It sounded even better than it read. “Hope you can read Manchurian,” she said.

“This is a Manchurian restaurant?”

“You made the reservations.”

“Oh, yeah.” He pulled his chin lightly between two fingers. “I guess that would explain the name: The Frozen Horde. I thought it had something to do with iced desserts and lots and lots of blueberries or something.”

“Blueberries!” she squealed and grabbed his hand.

They were sitting in a café outdoors, in what looked to be a medieval French city overlooking a cobblestone street busy with men in tight knickers and long white wigs, and women with gowns flowing into the horizon. He thought he’d seen this place in very old prints and paintings. After a bowl of Bluet en Glace, they were sitting in The Frozen Horde relieved the menu had pictures of the meals.

Strange, though, he wasn’t hungry anymore.

***

She was drop dead gorgeous with the kind of lips a man could sink a kiss into and smother in lipstick with the tip of her tongue running along the edge of his soul. Big blue eyes peered through chocolate bangs, and her body could have been whittled from a stone of pure desire. She wore a skintight red gown plunging between spectacular mounds of white flesh. His eyes sizzled, his groin smoldered, his brain nearly snapped in half. She knew how to make an impression on a second date. Or was it their third? Who cared? She was drop dead gorgeous and he was the luckiest man on earth.

“Been waiting long?” he asked.

“And who might you be?” she replied.

He loved this game. “I’m the one who made the reservations for the table you’re sitting at.”

“Oh, him … the one who can’t read Manchurian.”

“We weren’t hungry anyway.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said. “Iced blueberries do not a meal make.” Blueberries. Ice. Something rattled at the back of his head, but evaporated into the Lost Regions of his gray matter at the sound of her voice. “So, do you speak Italian?” she asked.

“Everybody speaks Italian,” he said, picking up the menu. “Spaghetti. Lasagna. Linguini …”

She cut him off with the most amazing laugh ever to tickle his eardrums and her voice slid over the table like a spilled bowl of honey stew. “How did you know I love Italian food?”

“Everybody loves Italian food,” he said, and quickly regretted his words. “I mean, not that you have common tastes or anything . . . I mean . . .”

His ears buzzed with joy at the sound of her laugh. “It’s OK. You’re right. Everybody loves Italian, but I especially like it . . . I guess, for its historical content.”

“Historical content?” he asked. “That’s a strange reason to love food, but, if you say so . . .”

She reached across the table and took his hand and they were sitting across the table from Galileo Galilei as he tore off a chunk of Cabot while just around the corner in the kitchen Miro Sorvino sliced a wedge of Brushchetta and Luigi Pirandello twisted his fork into a mound of Spaghetti alla Bologna and Michelangelo Buonarroti gazed up from his wooden table as he chewed a mouthful of Tortellini di zucca and Frank Zamboni brushed ice from his jacket as his mouth watered thinking of Pizzette e Salatin and Federico Fellini scooped a steaming portion of Cannelloni al Ragu . . . and he still wasn’t getting it as he dipped a garlic stick into a pool of spaghetti sauce and wondered about the wooden bowl just as it turned to porcelain and Persephone smiled at him and asked if they should order another bottle of wine.

Another bottle? How many had they had? He tried to focus his thoughts but he was caught in the glow from her eyes and that was all that mattered and he said yes, another bottle of wine. Something red and Italian.

***

She was amazing. Life danced in her eyes. She was as fresh as the first time he’d met her and fallen in love on the spot, or had he already been in love after their weeks of sending and receiving over the Internet? He didn’t care. She was timeless and he told her so, “You’re timeless.”

She smiled bouquets and heartbreak and took his hand. “Something like that,” she said as they strolled past a heavily armored Samurai warrior outside a Japanese palace stretching into an ancient Far East sunset.

“But why me?” he asked.

“Why not?” she replied.

“There’s nothing special about me,” he said.

“Need there be?” she asked.

But you’re so … perfect,” he said. “So out of my league. Why me?”

“I have a different perspective.”

He decided to leave it alone as their walk took them along a pedestrian bridge made of a single giant piece of plastic spanning two magnificent skyscrapers surrounded by flying cars and people streaking through the air in jetpacks.

Their walk finished in front of the coffee shop around the corner from where he lived. He asked if she’d like to go in for a coffee. They walked through the door and he noticed immediately that she was much prettier than he’d imagined with her dusty brown bangs floating around her face, her hair splashing against the air around her neck.

He suddenly had a craving for frozen blueberries.

***

His hand was wrinkled and liver-spotted, his nails cracked and dried. His eyes beamed youthfully, but the pinched gray skin around red-veined whites looked like something from the Bin of Ages. His legs wobbled whether he was standing still or walking. His head shook when he talked as though trying to shake the words out of his mouth.

She sat across from him, young and beautiful as her eyes enveloped him with their blue glow. His voice cracked as he spoke. “We’ve had a wonderful life together.”

She smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, we have.”

“I’ve loved you from the beginning,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “And right to the end.” She took his hand and they were standing in total darkness until, an instant later, the darkness exploded with color and fire rushing light years in every direction, populating the emptiness with stars.

And he was in the Frozen Horde, sitting across from the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He looked at his watch and smiled. He wasn’t surprised. Not a bit. Just happy for the fraction of a second she’d spent with him.

He looked one last time into the blue glow of her eyes and winked happily as he turned to dust.

From The Baton (currently out of print)

2010-10-20T22:07:00.001-03:00

I'm not a bad person. Not really. I pay my bills on time. Like, I'm a goddamn fanatic when it comes to paying bills. I mean, I'm not one of those dickheads who runs up a tab and then says "screw it, I got better things to do with my time and money than pay for something I already used". I don't do that shit. I pay my bills. My parents did. I do. It runs in the family, like almost a genetic thing…you owe money, you pay it off. And I'm a considerate driver. I mean, I don't take any shit when I'm driving. I mean, some asswipe cuts me off, I give him the finger. It's a woman…hey, I'm all for equal rights...I give her the finger too. But when I had my license, I stopped for pedestrians. I stopped and let people out at intersections, even if it meant that the prick behind me honked his horn and I had to give him the finger. Or her the finger. Makes no difference to me. I'm that fucking considerate.

I'm not some kind've sexual deviate. I haven't had it in a long time and, you know, like I've done some arm wrestling with the Big Snake, but I don't bop hard bellies…nineteen's my cutoff and no younger no matter how big their tits are. When a lady says back off, I back off. No's no in my book, same as hers. And I don't watch porno flicks or read those expensive hardcore magazines.

Playboy and Penthouse. That's my limit.

I don't cheat on my tax forms, even if I knew how to do that. I don't steal. I don't lie, at least unless I really have to and then it's okay because I really have to. You know…life's gray sometimes. I don't talk about my friends behind their backs. I don't do that ever, and I've smacked a couple of dicks in the head for doing that in the past. No excuse for backstabbing your friends. No excuse at all. I don't cut into lines if I see somebody I know near the front of the line. I hate it when people do that! I don't play my music loud. I figure my music is my choice and it might not be my neighbor's choice, so I keep it to myself. That's kind've a choice I make for everybody so, like, being considerate can even be empowering sometimes. I don't give the check-out people in grocery stores or department stores a hard time when their computerized cash machines fuck up or the bar thing on the merchandise isn't working and makes the computer fritz out. I don't give innocent people a hard time. Innocent people get a hard time from every direction…but not from me. I don't do that.

But there's one thing I do…and I gotta say that I really love doing it.

I kill assholes.

About one a month.

From The War Bug

2010-10-17T21:23:00.003-03:00

My Baby, She Dumped Me

A crystal tube, tinted rose, stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Inside the tube, standing on an amethyst platform, stood a naked man, muscles still wet with lovemaking. His blue eyes emanated adoration as he watched Bella across the room. She leaned seductively in the quartz doorway, her nipples flaring hard pink against the smooth gold of her breasts. He smiled shyly, even though they’d been intimate for days. That was the way she liked them, muscular and shy, right to the end.

She smiled and pressed the button.

It happened instantly.

The amethyst platform disappeared and he fell.

***

It was suddenly breezy and hot. He was moving downward. The shadow over his head was moving away from him. No. No, he was moving away from it. He was falling, falling into an immense green and blue surface far below. His arms flew away from his body. He looked up. Acres of polished green crystal reflected the roiling mass of water into which he was descending. His hair fluttered crazily as his body accelerated toward the mass of water that stretched from one horizon to the other a thousand feet below.

Then he knew.

And a scream wrapped and wrapped around the small brown object plummeting from under the five acres of synthetic emerald that was Bella Bjork’s floating palace in the center of the Pacific Ocean.

***

A circular screen in the tourmaline wall flickered. “And none of them ever suspects?” said a dry voice. A mass of gray flesh and white robe appeared on the screen. Something like the end of a German sausage with a face etched into its center. Orange spikes protruded from the top of the mass. Microchips in the spikes caused them to curl and twist to reflect Jeemo’s excitement.

“You watched?” said Bella. Her voice was deep and disinterested.

“How could I not,” said the thick pink lips in the center of the sausage.

Bella stood straight and strolled slowly into the room as the amethyst platform reappeared. “They think it’s an ion bath, something to relax them and prepare them for more sex.”

Around the pink mouth, rolls of gray flesh curled upward into a strange smiling shape and Jeemo Roosenvelt laughed. “Your sexclone bill must be in the millions.”

Bella stared at the sausage face. Bio-chips transformed her hair into a dazzling waterfall of chestnut water splashing over the tops of her breasts. Jeemo’s narrow black eyes squinted as he stared directly at her engorged nipples. “Killing them turns you on, doesn’t it?”

Bella smiled coldly and then dropped the smile in an instant. “From now on you stay out of viewing mode until I say that you can watch me. What I do with my clones is my business. Now, have you finished working out your trail of smell, or whatever it is?”

“Digital scent trail.” His voice was flat and sluggish. “It’s called a digital scent trail, and, yes, it’s finished.”

“I still don’t see the need.” Bella sat down on a quartz pedestal. Her back and legs formed a perfect ninety-degree angle as she crossed one long golden leg over the other. Jeemo’s eyes followed the movement of her legs. He said: “With normal VPs, it’s not an issue. With sentient VPs, it’s different. Their programs interact with the programs and code around them, like a human brain emanates waves that interact with the surrounding air. That interaction lingers after the sentient VP leaves, like perfume, only longer. Our targets are cloaked to hide the interaction from the City Central detectors, but when I spring the capture program, the cloak will crash. That’s why it has to be done quickly … so that City Central won’t be able to track them. But there will still be some residual interactivity traces. To this end, I’ve…”

“But it’s all finished now?”

“It would take years for anyone to trace the paths I’ve programmed into the capture application. And even then, the physical location of the server would stop them cold.”

“And the server is ready as well?”

Jeemo sighed. “Yes, it’s ready. It’s been ready for weeks.”

Bella recrossed her legs, exposing a patch of firey pubic hair that sent a flush of pale red across Jeemo’s face. “And you’re sure that you’ll capture both of them? All the modules and links?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ve worked out every …”

“I’m sure you have, but I’ve heard this before from programmers: ‘We’ve worked it all out and everything’s going to be just fine’. But look around Atlantiscity. It’s crashing … just like the other city states. Everything is not just fine. Everything is falling apart and it’s the programmers who made it that way!”

“It wasn’t the programmers who went to war …”

“It was the programmers who designed the war tools and … oh damn it … let’s not get into this again. I want every line of programming from both of them to be captured. It has to be both of them. There may be code links between them and breaking those links would make the girl useless by herself.”

“I’ve set up the capture for both of them.” Sections of flesh drooped from the lower part of his face as though his chin were melting into the air around him. “We’ll have both of them within minutes of each other.”

Bella looked suspiciously at the massive figure on the screen. “I need them. I need both of them. This is important. Now … one last time … can you really pull this off?”

Jeemo’s small black eyes stared at Bella’s breasts. “Yes,” he said. “I can do it. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not the one who needs to worry about this not coming off right.” Bella glared into the folds around Jeemo’s eyes. Jeemo looked at something off screen and said: “Time to do it.”

Bella uncrossed her legs and stood up slowly, bringing Jeemo’s gaze back into the screen.

“And yes, Jeemo. It does. Very much.”

Jeemo spoke calmly, refusing to show his confusion. “I beg your …”

“It turns me on. Killing them. It’s the best part.”

Jeemo flushed deeply.

Bella narrowed her eyes on him: “And will it turn you on, Jeemo, darling, when I have you in the tube?”

A thin line of drool slid out of Jeemo’s fish-like mouth and was about to drip onto his pudgy chin when the screen flickered and his face disappeared.

From Murder by Art

2010-10-14T18:54:00.003-03:00

“True art is immune to the viewer,” she said. Her name was WhiteFeather. Just WhiteFeather. She was an artist, a fiber artist to be precise, who used an unusual combination of fibers in her art – bones, animal skulls, human hair, menstrual blood, souls of found objects, unusual stuff. The three hundred pound corpse nailed to the wall was also an artist. He painted beer cans, but that wasn’t his real art. WhiteFeather looked disgustedly at the big man hanging on the wall. “He’d get drunk and go on and on about his life itself being a work of art in progress.” She shook her head. “Well, thank God he finally finished it.”

She walked back to her studio, ducking under a snakeskin chandelier, real snakeskin. Boston couldn’t help noticing that she had a nice ass. After all, it was his job to notice things. She also had a wide mouth lit up with the brightest red lipstick he’d ever seen, but it suited her dark hair and eyes. He was tempted to tell her that she was a fine work of art, but he was here on business. He had a referral to make, and it looked like he was going to be up to his neck in shit again, but that was his choice. This was just the kind of referral he loved – weird, like him. Like, how often did you get a referral for a three hundred pound work of human art hanging on the wall of the most notorious art studio in the city, infamous for wild parties and wilder artists. Juicy.

“More like somebody finished it for him,” said Boston. The dead guy’s name was Art Cranbury. He owned the century and half old building that housed Studio4Ward, a former dance hall, now broken into four open studios shared by three hot stuff comers in the art world and one cold stiff that was soon to be hot stuff in the webloids. Apparently, the stiff had been a pain in the ass. “How long has he owned the building?”

WhiteFeather looked up from a leather moccasin from which she was extracting metal staples with a pair of pliers. “For the last six months. We thought it would be cool at first, having the building owner in here as one of us.” She tugged a particularly stubborn staple. It came out with a small tearing sound. “As one of us, maybe he’d lower the rent, put in air conditioning.” She pointed up to the ceiling at a circular opening about eight feet in diameter with ornate wooden struts radiating from the center. There was one in each corner of the studio. “Those fans just push the hot air around. On a hot day, this place is a furnace.” She pulled out another stubborn piece of metal with a loud chunk sound. “Who the hell makes moccasins with staples?” she asked herself angrily.

“But having him here didn’t work out?”

“The opposite.” She rested the pliers and moccasin in her lap and looked up at Boston. “He lied about being an artist. That’s his studio over there.” She pointed to a corner with what looked like a custom-made beach chair surrounded by beer cans, empty pizza boxes, and stains that looked like dried barf. An easel holding a child-like painting of a beer can faced out from his studio. All of Studio4Ward was cluttered, but Cranbury’s corner was filthy. “He was here almost every night, getting drunk, belching, farting, leering. The other two artists are women. We made a point of never being alone when he was here, and he was here most of the time. He passed out in his chair a lot, and stayed the night. He did that for nearly a week once. Went downstairs once or twice a day for beer and pizza deliveries. We had to plant air fresheners all over the place because the smell of him was sickening.”

“Karma,” said Boston.

“Beg your pardon?” She looked puzzled. After thinking a moment, she looked at Boson irritably. “Even if we’d told him he couldn’t move in…he owned the building. He could have moved in without our permission, or raised the rent, or just make life miserable for us in other ways.” She went back to pulling staples, but now with strong, angry tugs.

Boston turned back to the man on the wall. Art Cranbury was massive. He was nailed up Christ-like, hands open and nailed pretty much where Boston assumed the nails in Christ’s hands would have been. His head was propped by another nail, more accurately, a spike. Same for his feet – crossed at the ankles and spiked together. The only difference between Cranbury and Christ – besides size and sainthood – was that Art Cranbury had been nailed up backwards. And he was naked. Two enormous mounds of ass fat drooped from the center of his body, which had been painted with red and white stripes, barber pole style.

It was time to get into the vibes of this place. Boston had a theory about vibrations. They were at the core of all being, the building blocks of Creation. Come into contact with the vibrations of a place and your imprint would be left on them like aftershave in a breezeless hall, which meant that Art Cranbury’s last minutes on Earth lurked in the vibrations in this room. Boston closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, taking the air deep into his tan dien – the area behind his belly button that served as a powerhouse of spiritual and psychic energy – expelling it slowly, evenly. He dropped his shoulders and let his awareness sink into his belly button. He cleared his mind of clutter and entered the void. A deep low hum originating in his throat moved up into his sinus cavity, emanated from his nostrils. He stood by the body, ignoring its stench, and searched the stuff of Creation for information.

As usual, nothing happened.

WhiteFeather watched him, still tugging staples. Her expression said it all: she’d rather be extracting wisdom teeth from his jaws.

He had that effect on people. After all, he was Boston Jonson, Crème de la Crop of the CI fold – a Consultative Investigator, society’s filter between crime and the cops. His job was to be first in, check it out, and make a referral for anything from a full scale murder investigation to no further action required, or somewhere in between, like bring in the social workers and shamans or let the media handle this one. They sent him to snoop and refer – something he rarely did, being notorious for outstaying his welcome and acting the proverbial shit stirrer. But the webloids loved him – with eye-catching shoulder length tangerine hair, aqua eyes, square movie star jaw and a penchant for colorful Hawaiian hula-hula shirts, he looked just offbeat enough to capture the public’s imagination.

He stood on his toes and craned his neck around the dead man’s head. Having never met anyone weirder than himself, Boston was seldom shaken by anything he saw on the job, but what he saw now raised his eyebrows. The dead man’s eyes were wide open, but not with horror. The zany smile on his face suggested joy, happiness, bliss – like he’d died getting his jollies off. This was getting weirder by the minute. He loved it.

Boston’s wallet buzzed. It was Laurel from Central CI. He snapped his wallet open and saw the familiar woman’s head on the tiny screen. “Boston,” she said. “They want quick and dirtless on this one. The skinny is, Arthur Cranbury was an asshole, but a very rich asshole. Old money. Old family. He was the black sheep. The family would like his memory to just pass away with him. These people are powerful, Boston.”

“They’re always powerful,” said Boston into his wallet.

The face in the wallet looked annoyed. “Who’s always powerful, Boston?”

“Old moneyed families.”

“That has nothing to do with anything except you need to just make your referral and get the hell out of there. Even the police are going to cooperate on this one – maybe call it suicide.”

“Laurel,” said Boston, staring at the body on the wall. “He was nailed face-first to a wall with spikes and nails in his hands, head, and ankles. Then he was painted like a candy cane.”

“Some people like to get creative with their suicides. Make your referral.”

“Just a couple of things I have to check out.”

“Boston!”

“I’ll get back to you.” He snapped his wallet shut, cutting off a loud “Bost…!” and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. It buzzed immediately, but he ignored it. He noticed several dolls on the wall behind WhiteFeather. The heads appeared to be skulls of small animals and the hair flowing down from their heads looked human. “Into the death thing?” he asked, pointing at the dolls.

WhiteFeather glared at him. “Into the life thing. The dolls are reminders of the cycle of life. It includes death. Shouldn’t you just be following orders like the woman in your wallet said, and make your referral so that we can all just go back to normal?”

He ignored her question. “Did he have enemies?”

She cocked her head in the question mark pose, eyes and mouth wide, but instead of saying ‘duh’ she said, “Haven’t you heard anything anybody’s told you? The woman on the phone said his entire family wants him forgotten. She called him an asshole. I told you what he’s been doing to the artists here. Everybody in the building wants him gone!”

Boston raised an eyebrow. “Everybody in the building?”

She pushed out a loud sigh. “See that stereo system behind his chair?” Boston looked where she was pointing and saw an old pre-2020 nano-enhanced mini-system. The get-up would fit into your cupped hands, but it blasted out a thousand watts of ear splitting sound. “He cranked it so loud that everybody in the building could hear, and all he ever played was Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music. He played it over and over and over. Eric threatened to kill him once.” She stopped short. “But he didn’t really mean it. It was just rhetorical.”

“What did he say?”

“Keep it up and I’ll kill you.”

“Hmm,” mused Boston. “Rhetorical.”

“Eric can be gruff at times,” said WhiteFeather, picking up the pliers and moccasin again. “But he’s not a murderer. He would never kill anybody.”

“And just who is Eric?” said Boston nonchalantly, but feeling like a bloodhound catching a whiff of prey. Could it be this easy?

“Just because you say you’re going to kill somebody, doesn’t mean that you mean it,” she said, snapping a staple angrily.

“Then he’ll be OK. Who is he?”

“Eric Hill. He owns a music store downstairs.” She pointed the pliers in a direction through the floor and off to Boston’s left. “Backstreet records. He sells plastic records to audiophiles.” She let go of the moccasin and pliers, clasped her hands and let them settle in her lap. “He’s had to come up here over and over to tell Art to turn the music down. I mean, Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music. Eric’s customers are serious audiophiles. They come in and hear that garbage blasting down the stairs, and they turn around and leave. Eric said that Art was driving his customers away, putting him out of business.”

“So why didn’t he just leave? Set up business somewhere else?”

“This building is special,” said WhiteFeather. “We all love this place. There isn’t anything like it anywhere else in the city. To get in here, we all had to sign five-year leases, and we have two more years to go. If we move out before then, we lose our deposits.”

“How much are the deposits?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Boston whistled. “Big deposits.”

“They let us pay on them over the first two years.”

“Is Hill in now?”

“He’s always in,” said WhiteFeather, picking up her work again. “He practically lives in his shop. It’s down the stairs, to your right. Oh, and from now on…” She closed the pliers on a staple tightly and twisted it out of the moccasin almost violently. “…keep your eyes off my ass.”

From Murder by Burger

2010-10-06T18:24:00.003-03:00

Eat It

It was the kind of place of which question marks are made. The ceiling disappeared into shadows high above several hundred square feet of buffed oak floor that formed a giant circular checkerboard. A leather chair in the center of the room faced a wall of tall windows with thick fog curling outside the panes. Each of the other walls had dark wooden doors framed by stone arches with vague coats of arms in their centers. Dozens of eight-pronged chandeliers dropped from the ceiling and hung a dozen feet from the floor like big bronze spiders with electric butts. Fifteen feet above the floor, and surrounding the entire inside of the room, a balcony that appeared to be carved from a solid chunk of mahogany posed its own little mystery. There were no stairs to the balcony, and no doors.

It was one hell of an ornament.

White marble statues of what looked like ancient Greek and Roman gods were pushed up against the walls. Most were naked. Some wore robes. They all smiled and winked. A four-legged creature with bat-like wings and an ugly half-dog-half-pig face bit into a marble cigar.

A man lay on the floor, his back propped against the wall. Beside him a marble breasted woman winked at nothing and nobody in particular. Around the man the air trembled with the smell of fear and food. His eyes protruded under horn-rimmed glasses as he watched his hand slide across his bare belly where his shirt was torn open. Bits of foodstuff spattered his navy blue dress jacket. More of the stuff, mixed with saliva, splotched his white beard. His face glistened with sweat as his hand moved slowly across his chest. He whimpered as it pushed what looked like the most perfect hamburger in the world against his lips. His jaw shook and his mouth quivered and his face twisted, but his lips parted and his hand pushed the burger in. He chewed and he swallowed, chewed and swallowed and whimpered and chewed some more until his hand was empty.

Then his hand fell to his side and grabbed another cold but perfect burger from the packing box and slid it over his stomach. As he watched the hand, a scream pushed through the masticated burger oozing down his throat and broke from his lips like a muffled belch. Blood spurted from his bloated stomach, sprinkling red spots on his hand, marring the golden perfection of the burger bun. Blood poured over his stomach and into the fabric of his white shirt. Blood gurgled out as the rip in his stomach lengthened painfully, and still his hand moved toward his mouth with the bloody burger.

***

Somewhere else, someone was thinking: A promise is a promise.

The Complete Ditch Death Experience

2010-09-21T18:11:00.003-03:00

When I was a kid, I worried about dying. I used to pray every night to live forever. “God, spare me. Don’t let me die. Take…my brother. My hamster. But let me alone.” Since then, I’ve seen almost everyone I know die, leaving only those in a race to outlive me.

Unlike them, I sleep in ditches.

I’ve found that sleeping in ditches puts me in a spiritual pocket similar to the one into which you would reach your hand and pull out a nicely wrapped packet of death. Nothing to be afraid of or concerned about. Look at the cool wrapping. In fact, it becomes as natural as waking up with a caterpillar wiggling across your nose just as you begin to realize how hungry you are.

One night, I had a Complete Death Experience in one of my favorite ditches, one I usually save for the weekends only, just so its certain vivre whatever never wears off. It’s a great ditch—not much garbage, no really offensive odors, bugs with only mildly irritating bites and nothing sharp or pointy.

I had just eased into the weeds and dirt like insulation settling in the walls of an old house when I heard it.

It was a faint rustling of weed leafage, a miniscule shift of a tin can, a slight rise of a milk carton with the picture of a child fading away on its surface. My ears twitched. It was moving toward me, quickly, deliberately, possibly attracted by the warmth of my body or the glow of my aura. I felt a vague sense of danger but, damn it, settling into one of your favorite ditches is no small thing and I wasn’t going to let that rustling and shifting scare me out of my composure.

Composure is something rare these days, generally relegated to the dead and the comatose. Sometimes sleeping babies display amazing composure but then they grow and the schools go to violent lengths to teach it out of them. So when you achieve composure, it’s worth hanging onto if only for a few moments more, even if you sense something in the dark.

A cat screeched abruptly somewhere several ditches away. A dog whined. A car honked. The usual stuff I get in my ditches. But tonight, right beside me, something slithered. It had come to that—slithering. I wondered if there were any poisonous snakes in the area. I didn’t think so, but I could have been wrong.

I was.

It bit me. For no reason I could fathom, it bit me. It wasn’t like it was going to eat me after poisoning me to death, and I hadn’t threatened it. It bit me for the pure hell of causing havoc. I grabbed it by what I guessed was its snake throat and squeezed hard. Its evil little eyes bulged and its tongue zipped in and out like a tiny leather fork. It opened its mouth and showed me its teeth. I pushed them into the bite marks on my already swelling arm and said, “Care to try that again?” It did. But its bite didn’t generate that same exquisite pain it did the first time, so I squeezed the life out of it with its fangs still in my arm.

That might have been a bit hasty on my part. I must have taken a triple shot of venom and it didn’t take long before my head started to spin and bright bursts of pain exploded in my chest and abdomen. My empty stomach squeezed liquids from its walls and tossed them through my mouth. My arms and legs shivered and twitched. Beads of sweat popped out of my face. Convulsions bounced around in my torso. Under the moonlight, my legs went all spasmodic as though I was lying on my back doing an obscenely weird kick dance. My head banged against an outcropping of feldspar and I fell into a deep dark place where everything was quiet and surprisingly warm for a dark place. It was peaceful and quiet, liquid, like floating in black coffee. Then somebody poured in the cream and I was dancing on my back again and my arms were flailing in the air and fluids were dripping from my nose. My tongue slid into my throat and I coughed it back into my mouth. The f ditch began to spin around the culvert about twenty feet away. I was in the air over the ditch watching myself spinning around the culvert.

I blacked out.

It wasn’t the same as passing out. I didn’t actually lose consciousness, more like being in black so black that I couldn’t even say it was nothingness. It was black, thick black, bulletproof black. It scared the shit out of me. I thought, No wonder death is so one-way.

But it wasn’t. I’m not sure how long I was stuck in the black—probably a day or two—but eventually the black splintered and cracked and melted and my eyes were open and I was lying in my ditch still holding that damn snake in my arm.

Nothing wrong with that, though. After a couple of days of death, I was hungry.

Artists and Writers Make New Myths Together

2010-08-24T20:11:00.002-03:00

August 15, 2010
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

What happens when a group of artists joins forces with a group of writers to figure out what myths define life in the 21st Century? The answer is coming this September, when re:myth will be on display for three weeks at Gallery ConneXion.

It started with an idea from Amanda Saulnier, artist and spokesperson for Fredericton’s Emerge Artists Collective. “The idea came to me in an Emerge brainstorming session,” said Ms. Saulnier. “We’ve never collaborated outside of our group and I thought we needed to branch out. Fredericton has a thriving artistic community, but rarely do we work together to create something like this multidisciplinary exhibition.”

Amanda, contacted Fredericton’s notorious writers’ collective, the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang (BTMG), and the fun began. Thirteen members of the BTMG wrote 16 pieces on what they felt were the new mythologies of the 21st Century, from consumer branding gods to re-enlightened Buddhas. The writers ranged from aspiring amateurs to locally and internationally acclaimed writers like Beth Powning. The pieces ranged from traditional poetry to experimental fiction and even a story told in Twitter tweets.

“I was amazed and instantly enthused when I first heard the idea in January of this year,” said Joe Blades. “I immediately wrote to my fellow poetic hog riders and tarmac bums in the BTMG to get their responses.

“We were told to write whatever we wanted, in whatever style we wanted,” said BTMG member Biff Mitchell. “Some members wrote more than one piece … and still wanted to write more.”

A similar thing happened with the Emerge artists. “The response was overwhelming,” said Amanda. “Some of the artists were asking for more pieces from the writers.”

Emerge artist, Joss Richer said, “I was rather excited when I heard that my group of artists, Emerge, would be collaborating with members of the Black Top Motorcycle Gang—a group of writers I am quite fond of. I was assigned two writings to respond to. To this day, I do not know the author of each submission. I could have found out already, but decided that I would wait as long as possible before satisfying my curiosity. Above all, I wanted my response to be based on the writings alone, and not on my knowledge of the personality of the authors.”

During a BTMG reading last winter at Gallery ConneXion, one of the writers announced the project and mentioned they were looking for a gallery to exhibit the show. Meredith Snider, curator of the gallery immediately called out, “Have your show here!”

“This collaboration between the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang and Emerge is a wonderful example of exchange and dialogue between artists,” said Ms. Snider. “I’m really looking forward to seeing this exhibition and encourage others to come out to the opening reception to see the work and speak with the artists.”

BTMG member Andrea Kikuchi, after struggling for months with writer’s block, was inspired by the project. “I was immediately excited and felt the inspiration I haven't felt in months flow back. I decided to finish the story and submit it, anxious to see how the artists will interpret it,” said Ms Kikuchi. “I am so grateful to be a part of this original concept. It promotes a new wave of creativity that bridges all forms of art and continues to inspire us all.”

“I look forward to seeing all the work and the artists in the same space,” said Ms. Saulnier. “It will be interesting to see how the writers respond to the visual work. This truly is the beginning of a dialogue that I hope will continue in the future.

The re:myth exhibition will open on September 2 at 5:00 PM in Gallery ConneXion’s 1922 Gallery, 440 York Street (in the Chestnut Complex), Fredericton, NB. There will be opening remarks and readings from members of the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang.

—30—

Contacts:

Amanda Saulnier
Email: chocolattelos@gmail.com

Joe Blades
Phone: 506.454.5127
Email: joeblades@nb.aibn.com

Biff Mitchell
Phone: 506.455.2433
Email: biff@biffmitchell.com

After Four Years, eBay Murder Victim’s Identity Finally Revealed

2009-03-18T20:39:00.004-03:00

“I always wondered what it would be like to be murdered,” said Beth Ashton, a computer technician from Fredericton, New Brunswick. “And this gave me the opportunity to be murdered on my own terms.”

And the terms? Death by chocolate-coated coffee beans.

That’s how “Beth Petersen” dies in Biff Mitchell’s Boston Jonson in Murder by Burger. She eats herself to death on chocolate-coated coffee beans—a fitting death for a computer geek.

“I had to pay big bucks for my murder, though,” said Ashton the winning eBay bidder on an auction to be murdered in Biff Mitchell’s cyberpunk mystery novel.

“I needed an extra victim,” said Mitchell. “Rather than create a new character, I thought it would be interesting to see what kind of response I’d get through eBay.”

And interesting it was. The auction roared off to a great start with bids topping three hundred dollars in the first few days. Mitchell also attracted the attention of the media and was interviewed on morning radio shows across the US.

“Normally, the bids don’t really start to move until the last day, and especially the last few hours,” said Mitchell. “But the auction never made it that far. eBay pulled the plug on me, citing an illegal link to my website and keyword manipulation—I included a list of my publishers to prove to bidders that the book they would appear in had a good chance of being published. It was meant to establish credibility, but somebody at eBay said I was trying to manipulate keywords. They cancelled the auction just when the bids were started to get interesting.”

Rankled, but undiscouraged, Mitchell ran the auction again—this time without a link to his website and without a list of publishers.

“I sent out a media release the first time around,” said Mitchell. “It had a link to the auction page, which no longer existed, but the second auction still attracted some bidders, and by the end of the week, the winning bid was $54.”

Mitchell had his victim.

“We decided to keep her real identity a secret until Murder by Burger was published,” said Mitchell. “I started a blog to promote the book and peppered it with teaser pictures of the victim, none of which showed her true identity.” Boston Jonson in Murder by Burger was published by Double Dragon Publishing in November and is available from the publisher in ebook format and from Amazon in Kindle format.

The novel takes place in the near future after global warming has swamped an Atlantic seaboard city with year-round fog, hiding most of the 700 foot high newly built Gothic cathedral used as headquarters for the world’s biggest fast food franchise, Barto Burgers. The product: cloned hamburgers. The victim: Barto himself, having eaten himself to death on his own burgers. Boston Jonson is called in to nose around and make a recommendation: bring in the police, or bring in a shaman? However, Boston stumbles into something bigger than just murder by burger and he teams up with a rubbing alcohol-swilling beauty to uncover an insidious plot to take over the world’s eating habits. Descending deep into the underground bowels of the Barto Burger building, they come face-to-face with terrifying revelations and become targets for murder.

Murder by Burger is Mitchell’s second Boston Jonson story. His first, Boston Jonson in Murder by Art is set in Studio4Ward, an artists’ studio in his home base, Fredericton, New Brunswick.

In the meantime, murder victim Beth Ashton is alive and well. “Unfortunately after reading the novel, I’ve developed an intense fear of coffee beans…but my love of chocolate has not been affected. Biff writes a fantastic detective book, complete with twist ending.”

About Murder by Burger
In the late 21st Century, A body is found in the headquarters of the world’s largest fast food franchise, Barto Burger, creators of the world’s first completely cloned hamburger. The president of the company, Gansheng Barto, has apparently eaten himself to death on his own burgers. Is it really suicide, or is it murder by burger. It’s time to bring in Boston Jonson, crime consultant extraordinaire, to use his unorthodox mixture of Zen, insults, and hula hula shirts to unravel a startling mystery. With this rubbing alcohol-swilling sidekick, the beautiful dark-eyed Marlee Dunn, Boston dives into a jungle of underground catacombs, mad scientists, homicidal public relations managers, gargoyles, and a corporate world gone mad with genetic engineering, cloning and cruelty to old people. Boston Jonson in Murder by Burger is available in a variety of ebooks formats from Double Dragon Publishing at http://tinyurl.com/55jtwr or in Kindle format from Amazon at http://tinyurl.com/dk5te9.

ISBN-10: 1-55404-617-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-617-1
Genre: Mystery/Speculative Fiction
eBook Length: 194 Pages
Imprint: Double Dragon Publishing

The CBC Poetry Face Off

2009-03-03T19:56:00.003-04:00

Haven't got a clue why they would include me in something like this, unless it has something to do with me being what's commonly referred to in common circles as one of those "not-poets."

Here's from the site: "The Poetry Face-Off takes Flight for 2009

Starting February 6 in Regina, the poetic pugilists battle it out in CBC Radio's national competition.

CBC Radio is pleased to announce the eighth annual Poetry Face-Off! The popular Canada-wide competition brings together 45 poets in peak form to sound off in 11 cities stretching from Victoria to St. John's.

From January to March, five poets in each locale, commissioned by CBC regional producers to reflect local voices and traditions, will face-off before a live audience and deliver their words on this year's theme - 'Flight'. At each event, the spectators vote for their favourite poem, and the winner goes on to the National Poetry Face-Off, airing in April on CBC Radio One.

From its inception seven years ago, the Poetry Face-Off has been a cross-country event. This year, face-offs are being held in:

Yellowknife - TBA
Vancouver - March 20th
Edmonton - March 5th
Calgary - March 12th
Regina - February 6th
Winnipeg - March 11th
Toronto - March 3rd
Fredericton - March 12th
Halifax - February 25th
Sydney - February 23rd
St. John's - March 12th"

The Fredericton Face Off takes place at the Garrison District Ale House on Queen Street at 6:30 PM. Get there early if you want a good seat.

Click here to learn more about the Fredericton team.

Murder in Queen Street Art Studio

2008-09-25T21:51:00.002-03:00

It’s murder at Studio4Ward on the capital’s main street – murder with a 300 pound corpse nailed to the wall.

(Cover photo by Andrea Crabbe)

“I came into the studio and noticed that Mr. Cranbury was naked and nailed to the wall. Then painted in candy cane red and white stripes,” said WhiteFeather, one of four artists with studios at Studio4Ward on Queen Street. “Apparently, I’m a suspect.”

The murder of Art Cranbury, beer can artist and fictitious owner of the building that houses Studio4Ward and Backstreet Records, is the subject of Biff Mitchell’s mystery “Boston Jonson in Murder by Art,” which was released as an ebook novella earlier this week by Double Dragon Publishing.

“I wrote the story to promote my next novel ‘Boston Jonson in Murder by Burger,’ to be released this November from Double Dragon,” said Mitchell. “The building housing Studio4Ward and Backstreet Records has exactly the kind of otherworldly mood that fits into the Boston Jonson stories, and the people there are among the most fascinating in the city.”

“So, why create new characters,” said Mitchell, “when I know people with the kind of charismatic personalities to make the story work. With their permission, I even used their real names.”

“The lead character in ‘Murder by Art’ is an investigative consultant in the year 2060 who uses insults and Zen to solve murders,” said Mitchell. “I’m certain that by then the world will be taken over by consultants.”

“I changed the personalities of the characters somewhat to fit the story,” said Mitchell. “For instance, WhiteFeather is one of the most compassionate humans I know, but not in the story, especially with the 300 pound body of one of the worst people she’s ever met hanging on the wall.”

“I sent copies of the story to all the characters, WhiteFeather, Marie Fox, Andrea Crabbe and Eric Hill, from Backstreet Records,” said Mitchell. “They all got a kick out of the story and, amazingly, they’re still my friends.”

“Eric isn’t an artist at the studio,” said Mitchell. “He’s the owner of Backstreet Records, which plays a key role in providing clues to the murder. Plus, the atmosphere in Backstreet provides exactly the kind of juxtaposition of time that fits into the kind of cyberpunk that I write.”

"I haven't killed as many people as I've been accused of,” said Hill. “ I'm not that much of a workaholic. More of a hobby than a calling, really."

“The photo used on the cover was taken by Andrea Crabbe,” said Mitchell. “It shows a collection of animal skulls from WhiteFeather’s studio. She uses them in her art.”

Mitchell is working on a second Boston Jonson novella, this one set in coffee shops around the city.

About the Book
“Boston Jonson in Murder by Art” is available as an ebook download from Double Dragon Publishing (www.double-dragon-ebooks.com)
ISBN-10: 1-894841-26-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-894841-26-9
Genre: Mystery
eBook Length: 37 Pages
Published: September 2008
Imprint: Double Dragon Publishing
Link to Book: http://tinyurl.com/6youc8

About Biff Mitchell
Biff Mitchell is the author of three novels and numerous short stories, many of which appear in the award-winning Twisted Tails anthologies. Originally from Toronto, he lives in Fredericton, where he writes novels at the Second Cup Coffee Shop and short fiction at the Harriet Irving Library. Mitchell’s next novel, “Boston Jonson in Murder by Burger,” a satire on big business, is set in Saint John 70 years in the future. Double Dragon Publishing in Ontario will release it this November. Mitchell as a website at www.biffmitchell.com.

About WhiteFeather
WhiteFeather wants to get the hell out of Fredericton, with all of this weird stuff going on, especially in her own studio. She'll be leaving in 2009 to complete her Master of Fine Arts at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Until then, you can bet she'll be making more of the disturbing art she's known for, out of human hair and bone. None of this is fiction.

About Eric Hill
Eric Hill likes music, flightless birds and the letter S.
http://backstreetrecords.blogspot.com

About Marie Fox
Marie Fox is a painter who draws inspiration from fashion, nature and her dreams.She also passionately adores many shades of red.

About Andrea Crabbe
Andrea Crabbe is a visual artist living and studying in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Buttery oil paint, scrumptious words, and vintage, previously chewed treasures are just a few of the bits of life that thrill her.

Contact:

Biff Mitchell
Phone: 506-455-BIFF (2433)
Email: biff@biffmitchell.com (preferred)

Biff Mitchell’s Writing Hurts Like Hell Workshop

2008-05-20T09:33:00.003-03:00

Biff Mitchell’s Writing Hurts Like Hell is a four-week workshop that will give you the tools you need to stop talking about writing that novel you’ve always dreamed of and start writing it. Through field trips around the city, brutal discussions and writing exercises, you’ll learn how to get the words flowing, how to turn off the inner critic, where to start, what to do, how to do it and how to keep the steam up until your book is finished. This workshop is intended specifically for busy people–people with full-time jobs, families to raise, or classes to attend. This is not a workshop on how to write–it’s a workshop on how to become a writer. (BONUS: one two hour one-on-one by arrangement with each student after the workshop)

Sessions will be held Tuesday and Thursday evenings starting June 3 and ending June 26
Time: 6:30 to 8:30
Locations will vary
Price $199 plus GST
Limited to 10 students
For more information call: 455-BIFF (2433) or email: biff@biffmitchell.com
Visit Biff at www.biffmitchell.com

Spammed!

2008-04-18T14:39:00.002-03:00

Got these in my inbox today - one following in the digital heels of the other:

Sender: Leigh Mccain
Subject: "You deserve to be a giant."

Sender: Lacey Joiner
Subject: "Improbable things happen, too."

I think I'll take the large view on this one.

And then, of course, there's early preparation ... got this one later in the afternoon ...

Sender: Elmer Bridges (obviously his real name)
Subject: "Enjoy giving pleasure for women for Christmas!"

BTW, it's April 18 where I live.

A Touch of Time in the Rose & Thorn

2008-04-15T19:10:00.002-03:00

Just had a romantic little science fiction story published in the Spring edition of the Rose & Thorn Literary eZine. It's called A Touch of Time. Click the cover pic to enter the zine.

Twisted Once Again

2008-04-15T12:39:00.005-03:00

The weirdest group of writers on the planet have done it again ... Twisted Tails 3: Pure Fear just came out in ebook format from Double Dragon Publishing. The paperback should be available soon. (BTW, I have two stories in this one School Dayzed and Arachnotail.)

And by-the-way, Twisted Tails 2 just one this year's EPPIE Award for Best Science Fiction.

And Twisted Tails: An Anthology to Surprise and Delight copped a Dream Realm Award.

Laugh Free, Or Die Hard

2008-03-30T18:19:00.005-03:00

The Happy Shell - Writing Humor (CCOM 1019)

Biff Mitchell's The Happy Shell is a four week foray into the funny bone of life. Merciless flash fiction writing exercises will drain your soul and leave you an empty shell ... but a happy shell ... a shell immersed in the fine art of neither overtelling nor undertelling. Your shell will know how to incorporate humor into a work of fiction, a poem, a speech, a marriage proposal.

Your shell will be invited to parties and encouraged to say funny things. Your shell will learn the Five Ways to Bring the House Down, and the Ten Deadly Sins that Kill a Good Joke.

Note: The desire to make 'em laugh might help a lot in this workshop.

Instructor: Biff Mitchell

Date and duration: Tuesdays, May 6 – 27 (4 weeks)
Time: 6:30 - 8:30 p.m.
Location: TBA

Course fee: $100 (+HST)

Change of Grand Finale Venue for Words of the People

2008-03-26T10:13:00.002-03:00

The grand finale venue for Words of the People has been changed from Memorial Hall to Windsor Castle (formerly Alden Nowlan House) at 676 Windsor Street. There will still be a BlackTop MotorCycle Gang reading raid and a poetry slam.

Schedule for Words of the People 12 Hour Read-a-Thon

2008-03-25T11:10:00.005-03:00

Here's the schedule so far …

All of these events are open to anyone except the special event readings: Lloyd Salomone's script reading and the Qwerty readings. If you want to register for a reading (which means you get to read first) send an email to wordsofthepeople@gmail.com specifying which venue(s) in which you want to read.

Steps of Science East (9 am) Readings from letters, diaries and postcards (bring out the family lore and your own personal experiences) (this will be an outdoor Freeze & Read)

Officer's Square (10 am) This will be an outdoor Freeze & Read where anything goes … poetry, singing, prose, if you can read it or sing it, then bring it.

Trinitea's Cup (11 am) Readings on the topic of tea (poems, stories, tea lore) including a reading from "The Book of Tea."

Doodles (1 pm) Children's readings featuring artist and children's author Kim Vose Jones (open mic readings from children and adults)

Fredericton Public Library (2 pm) Children's readings (from children and adults)

Fredericton Public Library (1:30 pm ) Filmmaker Lloyd Salomone reads the script to his upcoming documentary followed with Q&A

Read's Coffee Shop and Bookstore (1 pm) Blogs, Facebook, anything Internet

Crumbs (2 pm) Coffee shop lit (stories and poems set in coffee shops, cafes, coffee houses)

Savages Bike Shop (1 pm) Sports lit (skateboarding stories, biking, hockey, sports biographies, all things sports)

Art + Concepts (3 pm) featuring author, artist and educator WhiteFeather. Various artist on what inspires their art

Molly's Coffee Shop (2 pm) River and nature lit featuring Nanook of the Nashwaak and Dino Kubik

Green Turtle Clothing (2 pm) Readings from the Changing Room (read anything you want, but you'll be in a changing room while you read)

Gallery Connexion (2 pm) The six word short story ("Found him. Married him. Oh shit!" from Margaret Atwood) and revenge romance (someone breaks your heart? Send a postcard telling about your new love … from the Bahamas ending with "glad you're not here" or just a story about your ex boiling in oil)

Westminster Books (2 pm) Readings from the Qwerty folks

Owl's Nest Book Store (2 pm) Grab & Read (just take a book off on of the many shelves, take it to the reading area, and read)

Alden Nowlan House (aka Windsor Castle) 676 Windsor Street (9 pm) BlackTop MotorCycle Gang reading raid and poetry slam, with special guest Beth Powning (http://www.powning.com/beth/index.php) (the BTMG will be accepting new members with the main qualifier that you must be weird) (the poetry slam will be open to the public)

The Maritime Writers’ Workshop Hosts the Words of the People 12 Hour Read-a-Thon

2008-03-12T09:34:00.002-03:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

March 7, 2008

The Maritime Writers’ Workshop Hosts the Words of the People 12 Hour Read-a-Thon

Summary: On March 29, the Maritime Writers’ Workshop and Literary Festival will host the second annual Words of the People 12 Hour Read-a-Thon in Fredericton. The event will begin at 9 AM and continue at venues throughout the city with a grand finale poetry slam, beginning at 9 PM at Windsor Castle.

(Fredericton, March 5, 2008) Freddie Beach is in for an explosion of words and literature of every possible type from poetry and songs to blogs and six word short stories as galleries, coffee shops, bars, restaurants, and parks around the city host readers and writers of every type. The event is the Words of the People 12 Hour Read-a-Thon sponsored by the Maritime Writers’ Workshop and Literary Festival.

Held in April of 2007 as the No Limits 12 Hour Read-a-Thon, the event will be held in 2008 on Saturday, March 29 with an expanded offering of reading categories for both amateur and professional writers – and for anyone who just wants to get out and read in front of an audience from their favorite book or television ad.

“We want this to be a day when the people of Fredericton can have a voice with whatever type of literature turns them on the most,” said event organizer Biff Mitchell. “We’ll have venues for children’s literature, blogging, humor, emails, letters from home, postcards, screenplays, poetry, short fiction, river stories, favorite Facebook status updates, sports writing … everything.”

The Read-a-Thon made its debut last year with over 30 readers and over 100 listeners meeting in art galleries, bars, coffee shops, the Fredericton Public Library, and outdoors throughout the city.

“We had people reading from book marks and coffee cans at one point,” said Mr. Mitchell. “This year, we’ll have a catch-all venue for literary genres that defy description. For instance, has anyone done a formal reading on tattoo literature? This is their chance.”

The readings will start at 9 AM by the Brunswick Street entrance to the Boise Farmers Market, continue throughout the day, and end at Windsor Castle (aka Alden Nowlan House) on Windsor Street with a BlackTop MotorCycle Gang reading raid followed by a poetry slam open to the public.

The Words of the People 12 Hour Read-a-Thon will promote the Maritime Writers’ Workshop and Literary Festival. “This year, we’re doing something different with the Writers’ Workshop,” said Alison Howells, Program Development Officer at the UNB Art Centre. “We're reaching out to local talent so that we can offer more variety with shorter and more topical workshops, such as cyber punk fiction and writing humor. We want the Workshop to be more accessible to the general public and more responsive to their interests."

Categories of reading so far include poetry, prose fiction, prose non-fiction, journalism, art talks, letters, journals, postcard and diaries, the six word short story, blogs and Facebook, essays, river literature, sports writing, children’s writing, humor, business writing, favorite emails, café and coffee shop writing, screenplays and theatre scripts, favorite ads from TV, the Web, radio, magazines, newspapers, monologues, musical lyrics, ballads, science fiction and fantasy, and a catch-all event where anything goes.

Readers can sign up by sending an email to wordsofthepeople@gmail.com with their name and what category (or categories) they would like to enter. Local businesses, galleries, cafes, bars, bookstores, or other organizations can use this email or call 455-2433 and leave a message if they wish to sponsor a reading.

Contact:

Words of the People 12 Hour Read-a-Thon
Biff Mitchell
455-BIFF (2433)
biff@biffmitchell.com

The Maritime Writers' Workshop and Literary Festival
Alison Howells
UNB Art Centre
452-6360
ahowells@unb.ca

The Sparkling Truth

2008-03-08T12:24:00.003-04:00

This is a sparkle ...

It will never go away. It will always be with me. I'll vacuum it up. I'll dust it up. I'll pick it up. I'll wash it out. I foam it away. I'll buy a goddam flame thrower and burn the fucking thing out.

The next day, the little prick will be back.

This sparkle came from a party I went to on New Years. Here's what happened. It was early in the evening. Everybody was excited about the new year ... and the party. It was festive. And what better companion to "festive" than "sparkle," close cousin to "glitter." The hostesses became literally fountains of sparkle, spewing forth the glitter and shine onto the ornaments, the walls, the works of art, the floors ... and the people.

They sparkle-washed their guests' faces. No one was safe. They waited in hiding, fists clenched around balls of compressed sparkles ready to explode into unwary faces ... and the unwary were many.

The sparkles made their way into the 2008 New Year on the guests' clothing, in their hair (where, I swear, they propagated faster than head lice on steroids), in their ears, in their noses and eye lashes, in their shoes, on their shoes, under their shoes ... in their crotches. Never underestimate the penetration power of sparkles.

They made their way into the homes, the cars, the workplaces of the guests. I noticed my first sparkles New Years Day, littering a section of my bed. I smiled. Quaint, I thought. My bed's sparkling. Next, I saw the trail of sparkles leading from my bed, down the hall and out the door. There were sparkles in the kitchen. The washroom. On the walls. How did they get on the walls? They were in my clothing, They were in my hair (not for long though ... I had my hair cut down to the scalp that night). I found them under my fingernails, lodged in my teeth, dangling from my ears, embedded in my belly button. I staggered to the washroom to empty out the three bottles of wine I'd drunk the night before. Yep, it sparkled.

Over the following weeks, I found sparkles in my car, in my keyboard at work, in the elevator where I work, in my mailbox ... they were everywhere. They permeated my life. A month after the party, I blew my nose. There on the Kleenex ... a sparkle.

I swear, everyone who went to that party will be shitting sparkles for the rest of their lives. Next New Years, I'm going to a party where they just drop a ten thousand pound weight on your head and get on with it.

Seen ...

2008-02-14T17:39:00.002-04:00

Right out back ... iced trees ...

Seen ...

2008-02-14T00:41:00.001-04:00

... on Brunswick Street ...

Sent ...

2008-02-08T11:41:00.000-04:00

Ian sends this to his vacationing friends in Maui as he waits for the snow to melt before surfing ...

PS ... this is what happens to writers in Winter. It's actually normal. Well ... maybe not.

Seen ...

2008-02-07T16:44:00.000-04:00

After the strike ...

Seen ...

2008-01-27T22:46:00.000-04:00

Just outside my window ...

Marilyn's Watercolor Workshop

2007-11-17T19:39:00.000-04:00

It was a cold and stormy day with lots of sun and earthquakes, but in Mem Hall, there was Christmas music and watercolor. I relived my days as a kindergarten student, when I drew things and painted. And Marilyn was so kind and encouraging.

Here's the class ...

Nope, sorry, that wasn't the class ... here's the class ...

Seen ...

2007-11-12T23:50:00.000-04:00

My former 250 pound psychotic gay cat Pico ... who everyone thinks is so cool. Whaddaya think now?

Seen ...

2007-11-12T22:11:00.000-04:00

On the highway ...

The Kassel Connection

2007-11-12T09:59:00.000-04:00

Got an email from a teacher in Germany a couple of weeks ago. He mercilessly punished his students by making them study one of my stories and translate it into German.

The teacher's name is Horst Kuhley and the school is the Friedrichsgymnasium in Kassel. The class seems to have survived the ordeal in good spirits.

You can read more ... and download the translated story ... by clicking here.

How Lucky Do You Feel?

2007-11-09T10:57:00.000-04:00

Columns and rows ... and when the bill is payable ... ... watch and see for yourself.

East Meets West at Gallery Connexion

2007-10-24T14:59:00.000-03:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Gallery Connexion is pleased to present its next exhibition, East Meets West - a juried members' exchange between Gallery Connexion and aceartinc in Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Gallery Connexion members sent proposals to aceartinc, and five Fredericton artists were selected for a group exhibition; Sarah Petite, Stephen May, Stephanie Weirathmueller, Carol Taylor, and Janice Wright Cheney. Their exhibition at aceartinc is opening Friday, the 26th of October. Janice Wright Cheney will be travelling to Winnipeg for the opening and giving an artist talk on Saturday, the 27th of October.

Gallery Connexion chose a group show of ten artists from Winnipeg, including; Cyrus Smith, Michael Benjamin Brown, Sylvia Matas, Veronica Preweda, maclean, Collin Zipp, Mélanie Rocan, Martin Finkenzeller, Doug Melnyk, and Rob Fordyce. The exhibition includes a video by Zipp, a sound piece by Melnyk, paintings, drawings, photography and installation. Eight of the ten Winnipeg artists will be present for the opening on Friday, October 26th from 7 to 9pm. On Saturday, the 27th of October, Gallery Connexion is hosting a panel discussion with the visiting Winnipeg artists and with local participating artists. The topic is on making art in Canada, regional differences, and challenges an artist may face at different points in his/her career. Robin Peck, a sculptor and teacher in the Fine Arts department at Saint Thomas University will moderate the panel discussion. Everyone is welcome to attend both events.

Thanks to the generous support of The New Brunswick Arts Board and The Manitoba Arts Council we were able to produce a catalogue, in which East truly meets West. This documentation serves to bring together the simultaneous exhibition of Winnipeg artists at Gallery Connexion, and Fredericton artists at aceartinc. in Winnipeg. Ray Cronin has contributed greatly to the catalogue with an insightful text on artist-run culture and on the work involved in the exchange.

"The two exhibitions in this exchange program have been prompted by a desire on the parts of two communities of artists to reach out, to break down some of the regional barriers that mar our ongoing conversations. But what happens, in terms of art making, with exchange? Perhaps the most important thing is that communities of artists expose themselves to different approaches, to different notions about what art making is or can be."
- Ray Cronin, excerpt from the catalogue essay East Meets West; Artist-Run Centers, Exchanges, and Other Strategies for Survival

For more information, contact Meredith Snider, Director of Gallery Connexion, at 506.454.1433 or connex@nbnet.nb.ca.

The Writing Hurts Like Hell Workshop Raid On Studio4ward

2007-10-15T21:57:00.000-03:00

It was an overcast evening and pre-Halloween zombies were howling in the back alleys when when the Writing Hurts Like Hell workshop descended on Studio4ward to poke around, listen to the sights, hear the colors, smell the contours, and touch the magic of a place of where miracles are born.

Words were written and words were recited, and in the end, something happened.

Writers took another step towards becoming writers.

From left to right are Bill, Fiona, Jilanna, Jolene, Judy, Ian, and Claire. Seated is WhiteFeather, a brilliant crafter, artist, singer, writer and incredibly special person, thinking wonderful thoughts about writer soup, similar to tourist soup (which can trigger recipe searches), but with a little more imagery.

Missing from the pic is Jenn, but she was there in spirit.

BlackTop MotorCycle Gang Reading Raid at Odd Sundays at Molly's This Sunday (Oct 21)

2007-10-15T15:37:00.001-03:00

Spread the word ... this is going to be the most rockin' Odd Sunday at Molly's ever. It starts at 2 this Sunday afternoon. Don't be the one who says years from now ... "Yep, me daddy missed Woodstock ... an' I missed the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang reading raid on Odd Sundays at Molly's."

Don't let that happen ...

This is my latest BlackTop MotorCycle Gang reading raid shirt ... designed by secret weavers and clothiers especially for the reading raid at Molly's this Sunday. After my reading, I'll be giving it away, buttons and all.

BlackTop MotorCycle Gang at Studio4ward

2007-10-14T18:05:00.000-03:00

It was a fiercely non-stormy day about to break with rain and fire when four members of the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang converged on Studio4ward for a reading raid.

The audience was quiet, still ...

You might even say ... up against the wall. We have that effect on our audiences.

Biff (hey, that's me!) read K-Mart Uterus, a piece written by WhiteFeather and read live a few weeks ago on Joe Blades' radio show. But nobody liked the way I read it, or my aftershave, so they didn't take pictures. Instead, they took this picture of Andrea saying to WhiteFeather, "What the hell is Biff doing to your wonderful story?"

To which she replied, "It's OK, I'm looking up an anti-Biff formula on the Internet. He'll not mess with my stories again."

John sprayed Essence de Mot all over the ceiling when he read about boxes and other stuff from his post-hippie graduate student days.

Andrea read a beautiful poem with shocking images. And I always thought she was such a nice girl. Maybe we can get her to read it again at Molly's next Sunday.

WhiteFeather read a beautifully humorous piece about her grandfather ... only slightly fictionalized. This was the first time she'd ever read to an audience from her computer.

All seven members of the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang (and possibly one or two new members) will be appearing at Molly's Coffee House on Queen Street next Sunday (October 21) for Odd Sunday's at Molly's. Everyone is invited. Bring an open mind.

Art Talk with Deanna Musgrave

2007-10-14T00:08:00.000-03:00

It was a somewhat temperate day in Freddie Beach before the road trip to Saint John and Deanna Musgrave’s Art Talk following on the heals of her exhibit opening a few weeks ago at the Saint John Museum.

Deanna is this year’s Studio Watch Emerging Artist.

Deanna and Ingrid relaxing at Art+Concepts before the road trip to Saint John.

“So, Deanna,” said Ingrid. “You seem calm. Not nervous, or anything.”

“I’m calm,” said Deanna. “Thanks for mentioning it, Ingrid. Yes, I’m calm. Calm. I am. Calm. Thanks for bring it up. No, not nervous. NOT nervous … CALM …”

“See I’m calm. I just bit the tops of my fingers off and didn’t feel a thing.”

“Oh look,” said Ingrid. “This time we have the car with the steering wheel. And just when I was getting used to using the force.”

“Oh hell, let’s go for the gusto,” said Ingrid. “I’m driving the whole way with my eyes closed.”

“Oh look,” said Deanna. “There’s where I get off. Right there at the end of the alley.”

“Sit! I do this all the time.”

We went to Vito’s for a pre-Talk dinner. “I just want a little bit,” said Deanna. “Because I’m so calm. I think I’ll have the sixteen inch lobster pizza, spaghetti with meatballs and mushrooms, a steak, medium rare, four turtle doves, roasted …”

“And I thought these people spent their money on paint,” thought Ingrid.

As people started to arrive for the Art Talk in the auditorium at the Museum, they were greeted by one of the artist’s larger pieces, which was more than the camera could handle, apparently.

The Musgrave family was out in full force to support the budding artist.

The talk went beautifully, smoothly, intelligently and gracefully. (Christmas gift suggestions: water bottles with straws thingys in them … or a hat with water bottles and straws – an inscription on it I Love Art)

At the end, the artist played music for the audience as her work stepped across the screen.

And then she ended with a question period. “Go ahead and ask questions. I won’t bite.”

A strange looking woman wearing a ball cap inscribed with I LOVE ART asked, “So, where do you get your inspiration from?

The artist took a deep breath and answered, “What do you mean, where does it come from? What do you think I’ve been talking about for the last 45 minutes? What kind of question is that? Sit down or I’ll bite you!”

“No, Ingrid,” said Deanna, “I wouldn’t really have bitten her. Well, not hard anyway.”

“Good,” said Ingrid, “because she’s coming this way now.”

“Can I bite her just once?”

“No!”

“Nibble?”

The artist posed with a member of the Saint John Art Club. “Who is that strange woman with the ball cap?” said Deanna.

“Oh, her,” he said. “She used to come into the Art Club and ask us where we got our inspiration. We bit her a few times and she went away.”

Watch Out ... Visual Artists!

2007-10-04T15:26:00.000-03:00

ALERT – VISUAL ARTISTS!

Library and Archives Canada is presently contacting a large number of visual artists with the goal of having them sign a contract in which they are asked to cede their copyright to the Canadian government in perpetuity.

The pretext for this is the supposed need, for a specific project, to provide Library and Archives Canada, free of charge, with the right to make certain works that are in their collections available to students, researchers and the general public. The letter asks these artists to sign the contract and to return it as soon as possible - for some, the deadline is October 8th.

WE DO NOT ADVISE YOU TO SIGN THIS CONTRACT, since it allows the federal government to strip you of what rightfully belongs to you.

In fact, by signing this contract, not only are you signing away your copyright ownership on these works to the Canadian government and even renouncing part of your moral rights, but you will receive no financial compensation.

In other words, by signing this contract, you would authorize the government to reproduce your works in any context they see fit, to exhibit them in public, or to present them on the Internet without paying you copyright royalties. In addition, by renouncing part of your moral rights, as is being requested, you would expose yourself to the possibility of seeing your works modified, distorted or mutilated, depending on the whim of a graphic designer employed by the federal government or a communications agency under contract with the government.

Another atrocious aspect of the contract, as written, is that it would permit the government, which would become legal holder of part of your rights, to authorize educational institutions to present your works in a multitude of contexts. Here again, you would not receive one cent for the use of your work!

Library and Archives Canada: One example among many

In the professional visual arts field, there are predators that do not hesitate to appropriate copyright or neglect to respect it. The money made with your copyright, or the money saved at your expense, is the result of tampering with the financial royalties that should go, by right, to creators.

These predators may be government agencies, as is the case with Library and Archives Canada, or public or private presenters, corporate purchasers, or dishonest agents. They may appeal to your generosity, or to your sense of civic duty, or they may threaten you with the loss of an exhibition or a sale.

The myth of “exposure” as justification

One of the main justifications invoked by copyright predators in making this kind of request is to claim that in exchange for your copyrights, they will distribute your works widely and that you will have more exposure, which is good for your career. Artists often sign contracts that are disadvantageous to them in the hope of gaining more visibility. You should not have to pay this price for a future career and it does nothing but harm the rights that should be respected for all artists in the visual arts community. We must act together to defend visual artists’ rights to obtain better socio-economic conditions and show solidarity in our field of practice by supporting the efforts made by our associations, CARFAC and RAAV.

The signature of such a contract negates the efforts made by CARFAC-RAAV and the copyright collectives to ensure that government agencies and public and private presenters respect artists’ copyright.

The benefits of collective copyright management

CARCC is a collective society for copyright management that was founded by CARFAC for the purpose, among others, of enabling visual artists to negotiate with presenters on your behalf. In Quebec, RAAV has similarly formed a copyright collective, SODART, which works in tandem with CARCC.

Because CARCC and SODART are familiar with copyright and act on your behalf, you don’t have to negotiate for yourself the conditions under which you give permission for your works. These collectives represent a large number of artists, and as part of a collective you are able to benefit from equitable treatment. Isolated, you may be at the mercy of abusive practices, and by joining CARCC or SODART you can be sure that your copyright will be respected.

Presenters often first ask artists to either completely or partially waive their copyrights with no financial compensation. All too often, presenters strip artists of their rights with no benefit paid, by asking them to waive their exhibition and reproduction rights in their contracts. However, when a presenter deals with a collective society, permissions for presentation of the works are clearly given under conditions that are much more equitable for artists. In fact, rather than surrendering your rights, a collective society negotiates a user licence that it writes to be adapted to a specific project, under respectful conditions, and in return for payment of royalties.

Along with your art, your copyright is among your most valuable assets

Some of the best sources of income that visual artists have are the sale or rental of their works and their copyright, which, during their lifetime (and their estate, up to fifty years after their death), enables them to collect royalties for the presentation of their artworks. This is a not inconsiderable value, and that is why it is important to protect not only your works but the copyright that is attached to them.

Unless you are a copyright specialist, know the law, and are a very experienced negotiator, wheeling and dealing with your copyright exposes you to many risks, loss of income, and the anxiety and tension that often accompanies this type of transaction.

Entrusting management of your rights to a collective society is thus your best option, and CARCC and SODART were created to enable you to benefit from what, by all rights, is coming to you. CARCC and SODART can offer you the peace of mind that you need to pursue your creative work. Joining a collective also gives you a means of acting collectively against copyright predators. This is worth serious thought.

What to do with the Library and Archives Canada contract

If you have not yet joined CARCC or SODART, thereby allowing them the ability to handle this situation on your behalf, inform the person who sent you the letter and contract that you want more time to think about the agreement. Above all, it is important not to cede your rights without fair financial compensation. As for the moral rights that are attached to all of your works, it is important not to waive them, because you might see your work cropped, improperly manipulated, or used without your consent to convey messages that you may not agree with.

In solidarity,

Christian Bédard April Britski
Executive Director Executive Director
RAAV CARFAC

For more information, contact:

CARFAC: carfac@carfac.ca, toll-free: 1.866.344.6161

RAAV: christian.bedard@raav.org, 1.514.866.7101

CARCC: carcc@carcc.ca, toll-free: 1.866.502.2722

SODART: sodart@sodart.org, toll-free: 1.866.906.0230

The Side by Side Multilingual Reading

2007-10-03T23:07:00.000-03:00

It was a warm and balmy Fall evening at the Charlotte Street Art Center when writers of nationality, culture, language and love for people gathered to read theirs and others’ poems to a special gathering. It was the Multilingual Reading to top off the Side by Side Festival of Literary Translation … and unfortunately, my camera was acting stranger than usual so the pictorial is less than usual. But I think I salvaged the cream.

Featured writers were Mark Allaby, Joe Blades, Roger Moore, Giovanni Merlini, Nela Rio, Jo-Anne Elder and others …

Mother and son delivering a beautiful poem of song, drumming and magic.

Nela Rio (organizer of the event along with Jo-Anne Elder) captured and captured.

My family on Brunswick Street.

This is what happens to a poet who tries to commit 50 acts of random poetry in one week.

The Mystery of the Last Painting and the Magic of a Small Gallery

2007-10-02T00:08:00.000-03:00

It was a quiet, beautiful day for a change in the streets of downtown Freddie Beach, and something wonderful was happening at 116 York Street in a little gallery with a huge heart. The gallery was Ingrid Mueller’s Art+Concepts and the occasion was the launch of the Marion McCain 2007 Artists (it runs till October 30).

As soon as I walked through the door, it was obvious who’s art dominated the show. Phillip Iverson … and his parents, Elizabeth and Nelson were there to talk to people about their son and his work.

I’d met Elizabeth a few times over the years, most notably when she and her son came to my table at a flea market and bought half the art books I had for sale. The sale of those books allowed me to take my kids to the movies at a time when things were tough financially.

What impressed me most, though, was the dynamic between these two wonderful people as they lifted this art book and that art book and talked about them and weighed the pluses and minuses of buying any of them. Fortunately for me and my kids, the pluses out-weighed the minuses on half of them.

I talked to her about that day at the launch. I’m not sure if she really remembered it or if she was just trying to be polite, but we had a wonderful conversation about her son and his art … and she talked about something that I’d never heard of before.

Apparently, Phillip told her once that his best painting would be his last. I asked what painting that was and she told me that she didn’t know. He’d moved to Montreal and the last time she and Nelson had visited him, his studio was full of paintings all over the place, and it was impossible to tell which was first and which was last.

A mystery that will linger, possibly forever, over the work of one of our greatest artists.

This is Nelson and Elizabeth with their son, Phillip.

This is JC (Bartender Extaordinaire and Friend Without Equal … and the most flamboyant pourer of wine on Earth), Ingrid and Elizabeth.

This is Deanna Musgrave (framed by Phillip’s greatness and her own budding greatness just behind JC’s shoulder) … and JC.

This is Ingrid, her husband Peter (the final authority on how a culture crawl should be performed) and Jennifer Pazienza (still another rising star on the Art+Concepts horizon).

Too moved to be humorous. I’ll let this one ride as is.

Seen ...

2007-09-20T10:56:00.000-03:00

... on Queen Street ...

Chris’s Cake and Steak and Chicken Birthday Party Complete with Fire

2007-09-13T00:33:00.000-03:00

It was a dark and stormy night and Chris had just turned 29 and WhiteFeather and Sophie and I met in a kitchen full of magical cooking smells to celebrate with him.

In honor of his birthday, Chris got to cook the chicken on a bed of potatoes, vegetables, spices and steak.

WhiteFeather lit the candles and presented the cake to Chris. She said, “We all know how you like to burn things down, but please don’t burn yourself down. It really makes a mess.”

Chris said: “Mmm. Cake. Mmm. Fire.”

With a might bellowing gust of birthday vigor, Chris blew a tempest over the firmament of the cake. And set himself on fire.

After the smoke and sparking shards of cinder subsided, we saw that it wasn’t really all the bad. Chris still had a head, which is a good thing to have.

So we all sang Happy Birthday To You merrily while Chris sat in his chair with a big zany smile on this face and said, “Fire.”

Then we feasted on delicious chicken and steak baked in on a bed of scrumptious everything good and tasty.

And then we painted in watercolors. WhiteFeather painted a picture of Sophie as Goddess and …

… Sophie asked Chris if he could set himself on fire again … just for a moment … so that she could capture his ignitedness in her painting of him.

Chris waved a hand over his head as he painted furiously with his other and flames shot out his hair and then subsided into a few burning embers.

“Thank you,” said Sophie. “Your commitment to art is smokin’!”

Everybody laughed and toasted and Sophie said, “Do you think you could shoot some fire out your nose?”

Chris smiled and said, “Fire.”

Studio Watch Emerging Artist Series featuring Deanna Musgrave

2007-09-09T22:10:00.001-03:00

(NOTE: Presented by Greenarm and organized by The Beaverbook Art Gallery, the Studio Watch Emerging Artist Series selected Deanna Musgrave this year. You can view the magnificent paintings in this exhibition at the New Brunswick Museum at Market Square in Saint John.)

Working at the Casemates Series this summer on those sweltering days with no air conditioning, no fans, not even a drop ice cold Champaign. I was so hot, the paint melted and sometimes wouldn’t stick to the canvas. Well, maybe not that hot. But close.

“No,” said Deanna. “It is that hot. I’ve had to glue my paint to the canvas. I just hope the glue doesn’t melt.”

The glue stuck … and this painting was destined for greatness.

At Studio4ward, Deanna worked long hours, day and night, without sleep or food. These paintings were destined for greatness.

Often, her only companionship was the music from her CD player.

A particularly large piece tried to drive her crazy. “I’m going to make this piece work, or I’m going to eat it,” she said with chilling resolve.

After a monumental three day final push, the piece was finished. She celebrated by eating a cracker. This painting, also, was destined for greatness.

On the day of destiny, Deanna was sitting by a Rick Burns painting at Ingrid Mueller’s Art+Concepts, cool as a cucumber.

And then she remembered, this is my day of destiny. Today was the opening of her exhibition: STUDIO WATCH Emerging Artist Series.

The eyes of the world would be upon her. She took this gracefully.

The exhibition was at the New Brunswick Museum in Saint John. She drove up with Ingrid, who noticed that Deanna seemed a little nervous.

“I haven’t got a clue how to drive a car with a standard transmission,” said Ingrid. “This car has a standard transmission.”

Deanna’s mind was suddenly on anything but an exhibition.

They arrived safely in Saint John and set off to the New Brunswick Museum …

… where Deanna’s family was waiting to greet her.

And from there on, it was amazing.

Double Opening at Ingrid Mueller's Art+Concepts

2007-09-06T22:14:00.000-03:00

I think this time, I'll just let the invites and the pics say it all ...

'Nuff said.

Sex, Violence and 4 Letter Language at the Muse Online Conferece (BTW, it's free)

2007-09-06T14:17:00.000-03:00

Sex, Violence and 4 Letter Language: They Don't Have To Be Gross

Are your sex scenes porno or literature? How do you know when you've gone too far, or just written it all wrong? When does violence advance the story and character development, and when does it become a bucket of blood thrown over a story that's going nowhere? When does strong language reveal character, and when does it reveal bad writing? Sex, violence and 4 letter words can enhance your story or break it. This workshop will draw on examples from both extremes and encourage open discussion. Warning: This workshop will contain explicit content. But, hey, it will be for the advancement of art.

Registration is free and it's all online. My workshop will not be at a specific time, but will be through a forum-like discussion board (details about this will be released prior to the conference).

The conference runs October 8 - 14 and this workshop will run for the duration.

Check out my workshop here:
Sex, Violence and 4 Letter Language
(you'll have to scroll about halfway down the page)

I'm also in the Double Dragon Publishing workshop (scroll down a little further)

... and in the Twisted Tails Anthology Writers' workshop (scroll down almost to the bottom)

Saw ...

2007-09-05T22:42:00.001-03:00

... and posted ... but Blogger mysteriously ate it ...

Seen ...

2007-09-05T21:18:00.001-03:00

... in the UNB SUB ...

Seen ...

2007-09-04T22:18:00.000-03:00

... on Queen Street ...

BlackTop MotorCycle Gang Reading Raid on the Nude Dude’s Stomping Grounds

2007-09-04T21:31:00.000-03:00

It was a dark and stormy sunny day by Freddie the Nude Dude when strangeness began to brew from the streets. Weirdness converged from across the street and down the street and from the promenade-like grounds in front of City Hall.

The air filled with a dangerous energy. Sparrows in the concrete stopped twitching. In the belfry, a pigeon saw God and died. Mothers herded their children indoors to safety. But nothing would ever be save again. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The BlackTop MotorCycle Gang was on a raging reading raid and even God's deepest secrets would soon be spread on the sidewalk.

Freddie the Nude Dude was much troubled by the convergence of the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang encroaching on his grounds of personal havoc (see Ladies of the Fountain someday when it’s published).

It started innocuously with WhiteFeather, Old Skull, Broken Joe, Johnny Heinstein and SaraBeth (a murder victim in one of the BTMGer’s novels).

Old Skull said, “I feeling very innocuous.”

“I felt that way once,” said Broken Joe. “The 60s cured me.”

“I’m dead,” said SaraBeth. “I’m feeling really shitty about that. And innocuous.”

“Just look at this,” said Broken Joe, showing the back of his shirt. “Instant cure for innocuous.”

And it worked.

Suddenly feeling innocuousated, Old Skull and Johnny jumped up on the fountain ledge and began reading from Johnny’s infamous Boxes poems.

WhiteFeather – not one to be fooled by pretty words and pre-bicameral thinking – said, “Johnny, I think you spelled the word “a” wrong in the piece that Old Skull just read.”

Johnny became very angry about at the discovery of his “a” literacy, and read so impassionedly that he didn’t notice Chris punching him in the side of the head in the hopes that it would shake his brain cells up enough to recognize the proper spelling of the word “a.”

As Broken Joe watched himself on his computer being watched by the web cam across the street, SaraBeth said, “Who the hell has problems spelling the word ‘a?’ I mean, take the word 4 … now there’s a toughie.”

WhiteFeather read with passion and conviction and never once spelled the word “a” wrong. However, she did mispronounce the word 4. Twice.

But she was very Canadian with the flag flying behind her, so everyone just nodded and said, “Them Canuks, ain’t they just wunnerful people fer cryin’ out loud?”

Suddenly something grew out of WhiteFeather’s leg – something with a camera – and it started taking pictures.

This triggered a picture-taking frenzy, with Old Skull moving in for the still and showing much attitude, Broken Joe capturing pictures of the photo carnage on his laptop through the web cam, and Chris taking pictures with his eyes closed, the visual atrocigraphy being too much to bear.

Biff gave an impassioned reading with a veritable smorgasbord of vile language and literary energy. He gave himself a hernia and punctuated every second sentence with the word “ouch.”

Biff jumped around in pain so much that Chris couldn’t get a well-focused picture. “Stop moving!” he yelled at Biff.

“Ouch!” yelled Biff and jumped to the left.

“I mean it!” yelled Chris.

“Ouch!” yelled Biff and jumped to the right.

Chris threw his camera at Biff’s head.

Mireille said, “Don’t worry, Biff, I got a picture of Chris’s cruelty to poet’s by focusing right between these two fingers and … oops … I guess the camera wasn’t exactly pointing in the same direction. Would you like a picture of my chin?”

Broken Joe did his famous under over flip and shoot away thing and got an even better shot of Mireille’s chin.

Joe was up next to read and did a perfectly Canadian job of spelling the word ‘a’ correctly and never once mispronouncing the word 4.

An unidentified bald guy thought, “Every fucking one of them misspelled the word ‘b.’”

Ladies of the Fountain, Part 2: A Place of Art

2007-09-03T17:45:00.000-03:00

“Before we turn the town upside down,” said Alaia, “we should visit a place of art and find out how art has fared in over the last few hundred years.”

“Maybe we’ll meet some artists,” said Tia. “We’ll inspire the hell out of them and then …”

“Art can be so ephemeral,” said Epsy. “In fact, I think I’m going to use my penny on Ralph Fiennes. He’s so … so Gothic. I like Gothic.”

So the Ladies of the Fountain, set off in search for a place of art.

After much travel through the irrelevance of the modern art world, the ladies came across a place of true art, Ingrid Mueller’s Art+Concepts.

Ingrid greeted them with one of her warm smiles and said: “Are you sure you have the right city?”

The ladies looked somewhat disparaged and Ingrid took pity. “Come in. We’ll talk art. By the way, you all look strangely familiar. Have I met you before?”

The ladies gathered together and stood like they’d stood for hundreds of years. “Ring any bells?” said Alaia.

“Hmm,” said Ingrid. “Three … something. Something three. Three of a kind? Three partridges … oh … just sit the hell down and let’s talk.”

Ingrid sent her humble servant, Biffsteinashenblitz, for coffee and baked goods and the exploration of where art has come began.”

“You have many fine pieces of art on these walls,” said Alaia. “Do the mortals come here often to worship you?”

“No,” said Ingrid. “I think the only things people worship these days are TV, iPods, cell phones and Facebook.”

“Zounds!” said Tia. “Do you want us to wreck havoc upon the heads of these false gods?”

“Look!” said Epsy. “I’m a tree sneaking up on a false god, ready to pounce and wreak havoc.”

“No, Epsy!” said Tia. “No. No. No. Explore art first, pounce later.”

“But I think I saw an iPod,” said Epsy. “It might not be around after we’ve explored art.”

“Oh, I think there’s probably a few of them around,” said Tia. “False gods are usually everywhere.”

“Oh, stop tormenting Epsy,” said Alaia. “Let her pounce on the false gods.”

“I was just joking,” said Tia. “Just having a little fun.”

“Thank you, Alaia,” said Epsy. “I think I need a little pouncing after Matt turned out to be such a disappoint. He broke my heart, you know. Do you hear that Ralph? Matt Damon broke my heart.”

“I told you she’s from another world,” said Tia.

The ladies found a mirror with art sitting atop it. “Oh look!” said Tia. “It’s us. My god, we’re beautiful!”

“You certainly are,” said Ingrid. “Perhaps you’re art.”

“You’re not going to nail us to your walls, are you Ingrid,” said Epsy.

“No!” said Ingrid. “I have glass cases. Ha ha! Just joking.”

“You’re such a card,” said Alaia. “But go easy on Epsy. Matt Damon broke her heart.”

“How did he do that?”

“By being Matt Damon.”

“Look!” said Alaia. “I’m giving birth to an art uterus!”

“Careful with that birth,” said Ingrid. “You drop it, you buy it.”

“I feel a pounce coming on,” said Alaia.

Ingrid and the ladies converged on a painting. “You see this smudge of red, Epsy?” said Ingrid.

“Um … yes,” said Epsy.

“It reminds me of you,” said Ingrid.

“Hm … um … well,” said Epsy.

“Ingrid’s right!” said Alaia. “It’s such a beautiful smudge of red.”

“A thoughtful and intelligent smudge of red,” said Tia.

“And look at the eye with the tear coming out of it,” said Alaia. “To show your heartbreak.”

“This painting bespeaks great truths,” said Epsy.

They moved to another part of the gallery and played a game of rock-scissors-paper to decide who among the group had the closest affinity to the wolfen painting on the wall.

“Ha ha,” said Epsy. “I’ve got titanium scissors. They cut right through rock.”

“Has titanium been even invented yet?” asked Alaia.

“Yes,” said Ingrid. “But this is the first time I’ve seen it used in scissors.”

“I think they’re both from another planet,” said Tia.

And then Epsy found out that, as the winner, she had to go on a date with the model for the other painting.

Ingrid took the ladies into the reading section of Art+Concepts.

“These are some of the better magazines on art,” she said. “They may help you to catch up with what’s going on now in the art world.”

“Don’t any of these people speak Greek?” said Alaia.

Tia and Epsy studied the modern documents closely.

“You certainly have a lot of art documents,” said Alaia. “Do you read all of them?”

“Nobody reads them,” said Ingrid. “But the pictures are nice to look at.”

“I’m not seeing the art in here,” said Epsy. “It’s just pictures and words.”

“That woman is going to drive me crazy,” said Tia.

“She’ll be OK after she’s gotten a few beer into her,” said Alaia.

“These are just a guide,” said Ingrid. “You ignore what the critic says so that you don’t catch any nasty intellectual diseases like pomposity and superficiality and you look at the pictures and ask yourself if you like it.”

“So why are there more words than pictures?” said Alaia.

“Words cost less to print than pictures,” said Ingrid. “And besides, people need to be told how to think. Or they won’t think. They might actually have to come into a gallery, and think for themselves.”

“When was the last time you went into a gallery and thought for yourself,” said Epsy to the world in general.

Whereupon, Alaia lifted her hem and said, “I’ve always thought that my belly button is a work of art. It’s like a donut …”

“Don’t even go there,” said Tia.

“Now, this is a piece of real art,” said Ingrid. “I makes you pause for a moment and think. Notice the almost facial formation? That’s something to think about. It’s like it’s looking back at you.”

“Sort of in your face art?” said Alaia.

“I think I see our old buddy Pan in there,” said Tia.

“I have craft in my hand and I am observing art through craft,” said Epsy.

“Does anyone know what that hell she’s talking about?” said Tia.

“I think I see art through craft looking over art,” said Epsy.

“Oh, look, Epsy,” said Tia. “It’s Ralph Fiennes in the alley. “He’s with whatshername.”

“Do they always go on like this?” said Ingrid to Alaia.

“Wait till they’ve packed back a flagon of wine,” said Alaia.

Epsy looked at Ingrid through craft and said, “Ingrid! You’re art!”

Looking at Epsy through her own craft, Ingrid said, “Epsy, You’re art!”

“I don’t believe it,” said Tia. “The girl’s contagious!”

“Oh hell, they’re having fun,” said Alaia.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Tia. “Which reminds me … we need to be getting out there and spilling havoc on the town … and drinking beer and wine.”

The three ladies said goodbye to Ingrid and thanked her for having them in for a … sort of exploration of art.

“We’ll be back tomorrow … after we’ve turned the town upside down,” said Alaia.

Ingrid went to her office and fell immediately asleep. When she woke, she thought that the visit from the three ladies had all been a dream until she looked at the her desktop and saw ….

Art.

Coming soon: Ladies of the Fountain, Part 3

The BlackTop MotorCycle Gang on Joe’s Show

2007-09-03T13:32:00.000-03:00

It was a strange and eerily lit night when three members of the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang broke through the doors of CHSR, killing the security mouse in the process, and said, “You’re one of us. We’re taking over your show.”

Whereupon, Joe said, “I am …”

… and the rest is mythic.

Joe said, “John, could you please wear a hat or paint your head black or something. I’m much a-feared that your baldy pate may summon light demons to this hallowed studio ground.”

“Fuck off,” said John. John is our cause without a rebel. We all get chills when he says fuck off. Say it again, John.

“Fuck off.”

Ooooo…

“Nice going, vile BTMGer,” said Joe. “Light demons. If they touch nary a stick of this much prized apparatus, it’s into the bin for you.”

“Fuck off.”

Ooooo…

John suddenly sprung up and pointed to the fish bowl. “It’s YOU who summoned the light demons!” he yelled at Biff.

“Ooooo…” said Biff.

“John, you’re such a wiener,” said WhiteFeather. “Cute, but a wiener. Now, sit down and stop picking on Biff.”

“How about reading something, John,” said Joe. “This is a reading show … o … o wow! Hold that pose while I capture this moon.”

“I’m such a naughty little boy, “ said John.

John started reading, “Roses are red, violets are blue. Jeannine wears army boots, and chews tobacco too.”

“That was great, John,” said WhiteFeather. “She’s gonna sue your ass off for that, you know.”

“Yeah, John, sue your ass off,” said Biff.

It was WhiteFeather’s turn to read. She picked up her papers, took a deep breath and read: “I call this one Upon Finding the Carcass of a Womyn BTMG Member Who Isn’t Me and Incorporating It Into a Macramé Sweater.”

Joe read a prison song that turned out to be a weather forecast. For all of humanity. For the next thousand years. In Serbian. And Gaelic. And it ended in German. “Ya, das womein wearen army booten. Ya, Jeanninen. Wearen army booten.”

And then WhiteFeather broke into song:

AIN’T NO SHAVIN’
UNDER MY ARMS
O BABY
AIN’T NO SHAVIN’
GOIN’ ON
NO BABY
AIN’T NO SHAVIN’…

(to be discontinued …)

Day of the Ladies of the Fountain

2007-08-30T21:44:00.000-03:00

A short round podium with three rams’ heads jutted out the center, and three ancient Greek-looking women stood back-to-back in a circle on top of the podium. Their arms crossed their chests.

For makeup the ladies wore spider webs and dark streaks blown across their faces by the wind and the rain.

The fountain looked ancient, ancient and Greek, like the kind of thing to inspire myth and mayhem. Which was exactly what it would do.

It was an abrupt change in the splish and drip of water in the fountain, a change in delicately balanced rhythms.

The breeze dropped dead. A million blades of grass suddenly stood erect. Every leaf on every tree hushed and hung.

Time blinked for just a second, and in that second something sneaked past time’s inexhaustible logic and dipped its magical toes into the water of the fountain.

“Free!” said Alaia. “Three hundred years trapped in these statues and we’re free!”

“I can’t get my butt free,” said Tia. “This is really embarrassing. How did you do it?”

“It’s all in the wiggle,” said Alaia. “Just a little wiggle and a shake, shake, shake and … jeez, mine’s stuck too.”

Epsy tipped her head around the corner. “Hee hee … just a little wiggle and a…”

“See this foot?” said Alaia.

“It’s a very fine foot,” said Epsy.

“You’re going to wear it if you’re not careful with the wiggle shit.”

“Now ladies,” said Tia, “let’s not be grumpy now that we’re free.”

Epsy re-attached her posterior to the statue exterior and said, “Look! Look! I’m a statue again! Just watch how I detach … I wiggle and I wiggle and I sh…”

“Oh,” said Tia, “I’m getting out of here. She’s going to kick you with her wet feet! There’s no buts about it. Hee hee!”

“Oh, you’re both in such trouble!” said Alaia as she wiggled and she wiggled and she shook, shook, shook.

“Ha ha!” laughed Alaia. “It worked. I just had to throw in a half shake at the end.”

“A half shake?” said Tia. “I think I’ll re-attach and try that.”

“Oh look,” said Tia. “I’m a statue again, a statue. I think I’ll wiggle and …”

“Kiss this!” said Alaia.

“Hey,” said Epsy. “You’re not really attached. You’re just faking.”

“Let’s both kick Epsy,” said Tia.

“What is this place?” said Alaia. “It’s certainly not Olympus.”

Tia’s behind went POP. “See, Tia, I was really attached.”

“Just yankin’ you,” said Epsy. “Look. I’m an Olympian torch bearer with a fountain on my head.”

“So these are the little brown coins that mortals have been throwing in here and making wishes on us!” said Alaia.

“Zounds,” said Epsy. “Remember that loser who made all the wishes that we would come to life and fuck his brains out?”

“I have an idea,” said Tia.

“We should visit the little weirdo,” said Tia.

“Hmm?” said Alaia.

“And bring him here,” said Tia.

“Hmm?” said Epsy.

“And stick his ass against the fountain!” squealed Tia. “Watch him wiggle and shake!”

“Or maybe we could just stick his coins up his ass,” said Alaia.

“He threw a lot of coins in here,” said Tia.

“My point exactly,” said Alaia.

“Do you think Matt Damon has been born yet?” said Epsy. “I’d really like to stick coins up…”

“OK sisters,” said Alaia. “Time to get out of here and spread havoc upon the populace.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty,” said Tia.

“Here I come, Matt,” said Epsy.

“Do you think we might look a little conspicuous?” said Tia.

“Three gorgeous women dressed in red?” said Alaia. “We’ll fit right in. I mean, how much can the mortals have changed in a few hundred years?”

“I still think we should have gone with blue,” said Epsy. “I like blue. Someday, I’m going to paint something in blue.”

“Is she in the same world as us?” said Tia.

“I don’t even want to think about it,” said Alaia.

“I really really really need to do some serious partying,” said Tia as she stepped out of the fountain.

“Tia, my dear,” said Alaia, “we’re going to turn this town upside down.”

“I have a coin,” said Epsy. “I’m coming for you, Matt.”

“And I really need to have a crap,” said Tia. “It’s been a few hundred years.”

“I hear that,” said Alaia.

“I was thinking, maybe a beer first,” said Epsy. “Has beer been invented yet? I’d settle for a flask of wine.”

“Really,” said Tia, “What world are you in, girl?”

“So, this is it,” said Alaia.

“It feels so strange,” said Tia.

“Couple of flagons of beer will fix that,” said Epsy.

“Hmm,” said Alaia, “I think she just might have a point.”

“Time to turn the town upside down,” said Tia.

“Let’s pay Ingrid a visit,” said Epsy.

Coming soon: The Ladies of the Fountain visit Ingrid Meuller at Art+Concepts.

Night of the Drinking Uneaten

2007-08-27T17:15:00.000-03:00

It was a dark and stormy night at Wilser's Deck just a week after the carnage and devourment by Deanna's painting and the sudden and horrifying appearance of an artificial life form escapee from Gallery Connexions folllowed by an invasion of thousands of artificial life forms that swooped upon the revelers at Wilser's, Dolan's and somewhere in the heart of Zeeland. Pandemonium reigned. But then, a strange thing happened … the revelers transcended the carnage and joined the ranks of the Drinking Uneaten.

As usual, I was sitting in the rain, but this time, I was prepared. Since it fell off on my fortieth birthday, the only thing I like wet in my life is my beer.

“That’s a wonderfully wet beer I’m beholding on the tabletop,” I said. “By the way, has anyone noticed that the deck seems to be slipping a little toward the ground? It’s very undeckish.”

“I think that might have something to do with the depraved life you lived in the sixties,” said Joe. “And did you hear about the carnage last Friday night. I’ve heard rumors that some of those eaten by the artificial life forms and Deanna’s painting have come back to life to drink and revel as the Drinking Uneaten.”

“Hmm,” I said. “”Shouldn’t that be the Drinking Regurgitated?”

“Get out of the sixties, Biff,” said Joe.

“See the people at the table behind me?” said Beth.

“Yes,” said Joe. “They certainly look like hearty revelers.”

“Eaten,” said Beth. “Everyone of them. By the painting and the life forms.”

“But they look so alive,” said Joe.

“It’s the beer,” said Beth. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“I was eaten alive as well. In another life. But here I am … uneaten and drinking.”

Phil kept a wary eye on Deanna’s painting.

“I think those people over there are talking about us,” said Krista. “Should we eat them?”

“No,” said her drinking buddy. “But I think we should stop Biff from looking at us through those sixties tainted eyes. It’s having a strange affect on our coloration.”

“It could also be a side effect of being eaten last Friday,” said Krista. “Damn, I don’t even remember if it was the painting or the life form that got me. But it’s good to be uneaten again … and drinking. And it Biff pokes that fucking flash in my face one more time, I’m shoving my beer glass up his ass.”

John sat with two of the Drinking Uneaten and asked how it felt to be drinking again.

“I’d do it again in a minute,” said Peter. “It was all acrylicy and emulusiony and …”

“Snap out of it,” said John. “That’s not what I asked.”

Tom said, “It feels like … like … like …”

“I think I have to go pee,” said John.

“I was eaten by Tasmanian bush devils on Queen Street last night,” said The Man In The Red Coat. “It made me thirsty.”

“Well, I was eaten by sharks at Killarney Lake yesterday,” said Beth.

“There’s not sharks in Killarney Lake,” laughed Joe. “Those were piranhas.”

“Why don’t you sit a little closer to Deanna’s painting,” said Beth.

“I think the painting moved,” said Phil. “Did anybody else see that?”

“It’s all just part of an emerging Wilser’s mythology,” said Joe. “It’s done with verbs and nouns. Hmm, I think I feel a poem coming on.”

“Dare ya to write it under the painting,” said Beth.

In the distance, a beautiful maiden clipped flowers under the cover of night.

The Man In The Red And Black jacket (not to be confused with The Man In The Red Coat who was eaten by Tasmanian Bush Devils on Queen Street) said, “I sure am glad to be one of the Drinking Uneaten. That ‘eaten’ part really sucked. Who would have thought that, just by adding ‘un’ we could all be sitting here having this much fun. Oh, did you hear what I said? ‘Un’ and ‘fun.’ Hey, Joe! Wanna hear my poem!”

“Maybe next week,” said Joe. “Next Friday. Here. Under the painting.”

“Aren’t you going to be in Serbia next week?” said Beth.

“I certainly hope so,” said Joe.

“You publishers are all alike,” said Beth. “I had my heart broken by a publisher once.”

“Really,” said Phil. “What was his name?”

“Umberto Eco,” said Beth. “Umberto Eco broke my heart.”

“Umberto Eco wasn’t a publisher,” said Joe. “He was a writer.”

“You writers are all alike,” said Beth.

Down in the Tannery, WhiteFeather and Deanna waved and called up, “Don’t get eaten by the paintings and artificial life forms tonight!”

“All you have to do is give me beer for a year,” said Deanna. “Or … I’ll settle for a big party.”

Suddenly, Deanna and WhiteFeather were eaten by the SUV parked beside them.

“Did you see that?” said John. “That SUV just ate WhiteFeather and Deanna.

“That’s OK,” said Peter as he chomped on his donair … they’ll be back as the Drinking Uneaten. It’ll be fun. “We’ll all …”

In a remarkable twist of events, Peter’s supper ate him.

“Does that mean that we can have the rest of his donair?” said John.

“Knock yourself out,” said Tom. “I’m not touching that thing.”

The Man In The Red Coat turned to the beautiful woman beside him and said, “Did I tell you about the time I was eaten by a Christmas tree?”

“Drink some more beer,” said the beautiful woman. “Maybe about fifty gallons.”

Inside Wilser’s I saw Veronica Pencil and approached her in a drunken stupor and said, “My beer ate me.”

“That’s very interesting, Biff,” she said. “Maybe you should pour yourself into a glass.”

“Actually, I think I was on my way to the washroom.”

“Lot’s to pour into in there,” she said.

In a moment of compassion, Veronica introduced me to her friends, George and Heather. “I’ll never forget your names for as long as I live,” I said.

Carl said, “So, are you one of the Drinking Uneaten?”

“You’re not really one of them, are you?” said Sally.

“I heard they come back and drink,” said Theo.

“And then get eaten again,” said Mary.

“Oh, Biff,” said Veronica. “I think you’d better find a glass or a urinal really soon.”

COMING NEXT: Ladies of the Fountain ….

Barbeque and Rueful Things from Ceegars and Disrespect for Photographers

2007-08-21T10:56:00.000-03:00

It was at the tail end of a dark and stormy weekend, and everybody was wondering why it was so damn cold in August. We all felt a sense of betrayal from global warming. But that’s another story. My name is Biff. My friends, WhiteFeather and Chris were having a barbeque. I was invited. So was our mutual friend Deanna. This is our story …

No sooner had I arrived than, Chris (who had just been filmed by the CBC for burning down the house at Casemates) said, “Hey, Biff! I have a new digital camera. It takes fifty thousand pictures on one battery from the Dollar Store.”

“That’s cool,” I said. “But my new digital camera takes sixty thousand pictures using sunlight and methane from cow shit.”

“Well,” said Chris, “I have four pairs of yellow socks.”

“And I have five pairs of red socks,” I rebuffed.

“Let’s just take pictures of Deanna eating all the appetizers,” said Chris. “We’ll use our new digital cameras for evil.”

We pointed our cameras at Deanna and started using them for evil.

“This isn’t really a piece of bread in my mouth and I’m not eating the appetizers early because I’m a starving artist,” said Deanna. “It’s mollified air, shaped atmospheric phenomena … O hell … stick your cameras where the sun don’t shine!”

WhiteFeather made a delicious salad to go with the chicken and baked potatoes. It had cilantro and mint in it. It was the most delicious salad that ever was delicious. And the chicken was juicy and delicious. The baked potatoes were like balls of basalt … hard on the outside, but soft at the beginning of time. And delicious.

I made a note to self to eat more salads and experiment with cilantro and mint in my new kitchen.

Even though Chris was eating the most delicious salad that ever was delicious and was in the process of cooking up the most tender and juicy chicken that was ever tender and juicy, he was just a little despondent that Deanna should speak so harshly about our new digital cameras, even though we were using them for evil.

“You’ll rue this day,” he said to Deanna, “for making me feel despondent.”

Things would soon become strange and more than just a little stormy.

“Well, what do you expect,” said WhiteFeather. “The two of you should be using for cameras for good, not for evil. Men are such babies.”

“Yeah, babies,” said Deanna.

“By the way,” said WhiteFeather to Deanna, “how many days has it been since we watched that dumb video and got the call from that weird little girl?”

“More than seven days,” said Deanna. “I think the whole thing was probably urban legend stuff.”

“Whew!” said WhiteFeather. “I thought this fuzzy image thing was a sign.”

“No,” said Deanna, “that was just Biff farting again while he was taking a picture. Whew!”

WhiteFeather noticed that Chris was setting the table on fire.

“Stop that, Chris,” she said. “You have to get over this burning things down thing. You could have burned up our guests – the lovely Deanna (who is probably going to rue this day, thanks to you) and the evil Biff (who told me that he doesn’t really have ANY red socks, and just said that to try and out-do your six pairs of yellow socks.) You have six pairs of yellow socks?”

After eating a delicious three-course barbecue meal, we decided it was time to go to the gas station around the corner for chocolate and ceegars.

As we waited for WhiteFeather to put down the 250 pound psychotic gay dog McKenna, Deanna said, “It’s a cold dark and stormy night. You wouldn’t happen to have a Cayman Island on you, would you Chris?”

“No,” said Chris, “but I might have a match.”

On the way back from the convenience gas station with the five-dollar stale sandwiches, we were happy to have chocolate and ceegars.

“That was so easy,” said WhiteFeather. “We just walked in and they had chocolate and ceegars.”

“City life is wonderful,” said Deanna.

“I finally have a kitchen,” said Biff.

Back at WhiteFeather and Chris’s, Deanna said, “I’m going to smoke this ceegar until I turn green.”

WhiteFeather said, “Turning green is not a good thing for your complexion, Deanna. It could also have a serious impact on your horoscope. I predict a drastic change of life and a serious dose of ruefulness.”

“Go ahead and light it up,” said Chris and Biff in unison.

O, how they would regret their words.

“Hell,” said Deanna, “I’m an artist. If I turn green, I’ll just paint myself back to normal. Puff. Puff. Puff puff puff.”

Clothing and towels and stuff on the line said, “Don’t do it , Deanna, you’ll turn green.”

After several hundred puffs on the ceegar, Deanna said, “Ooo … I’m feeling very strange and rueful. I think I’m turning green.”

Chris said, “Ah ha! The rue is working!”

Suddenly, Deanna threw back her cape and said, “Look! I’m a vampire! The ceegar has turned me into a vampire.”

In a strange turn of rueful events, she closed her cape about her, became suddenly angelic and said, “No, I’m a saint. The ceegar has made me transcend the rue.”

And suddenly the cape was out and she said, “No … I’m a vampire! Ha ha! Bite! Bite!”

“Ha ha! I’m Arnold Schwartzenpire!”

And then the rue, the over-eating of appetizers, and the ceegar caught up.

“I think my world has become very colorless green,” said Deanna. “I think I’ll sit down for a while and think about Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number 2.”

A large torch burned away all that was rue, and Deanna began to return to a state that experts have labeled as … color. Some would hail this a positive thing for an artist.

In the distance, a voice was heard: “WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

Eyebrows were raised in Duckburg.

WhiteFeather showed Deanna pictures taken when she thought she was a vampire. “See,” she said, “you cast a photographic image when pictures were taken of you as a vampire, thus proving that you really aren’t one.”

“Cool,” said Deanna, “but why isn’t there a halo over my head in the angel picture?”

“Just be happy you’re not a vampire,” said WhiteFeather.

Chris puffed on a five year old European herbal cigarette and thought, “It’s been a strange and stormy night, but all is well. I guess I’ll just have to work some more on my rue-ing.”

Will You Give Deanna Beer for a Year to Keep Me Here

2007-08-18T23:10:00.000-03:00

It was an eerily lit evening in Freddie Beach. Some said the strange object in the sky was the sun. Others just nodded and glanced up warily, lest hope scare it away. And then strange things began to happen on the Wilser’s Deck, things that would stupefy and astound.

It all started when Peter said, “Did you guys hear something? I thought I heard something?”

“Yeah,” said Tom, “the bartender just asked if you’re ready to dump that Mexican shit and have a real beer … like a Moosehead. Ha ha. Just kidding. But ya gotta admit … it does smell like shit.”

“Wearing an Arlo Guthrie shirt doesn’t make you immune to a well-aimed beer bottle to the head, Tom,” said Peter. “Ha ha. Just kidding. Oops … duck! Ha ha!”

“Maybe it’s those zany people down at Dolan’s Patio,” said Tom. “Whoa! Did you see that guy just park his Lexus on top of that table? Nice job. Hey, buddy, let’s see you do it with the 4X4!”

“Shh,” said Eric. “I think I hear something.”

“Yeah,” said Tom. “He just parked that 4X4 on somebody’s head. Man, I wouldn’t want to be eating nachos and salsa down there right now.”

“No,” said Eric. “It’s something else.”

“Maybe it was Biff farting,” said Peter. “He does that a lot when he’s taking pictures, you know.”

“No,” said Eric. “It’s … listen!”

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

“Did you hear that?” said Peter. “What did it say?”

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

“Man, that’s really weird,” said Tom.

“Yep,” said Peter. “Sure as hell wasn’t Biff farting.”

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

“Where the hell is that coming from?” said Eric.

“I think it came from the painting,” said Peter. “I think the painting is trying to sell itself to us for beer for a year the artist.”

“I thought artists drank wine,” said Tom.

“No,” said Eric, “they’re like fucking musicians … they’ll drink anything.”

“You’re a musician,” said Tom.

“I rest my case,” said Eric.

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?” said the painting.

“Buy your own damn beer,” said Peter.

“You tell the painting,” said Tom. “Bad enough with all these damn telemarketers … now we’ve got paintings talking from the walls.”

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR …”

“Oh, give it a break,” said Peter.

Whereupon the painting ate Peter alive through the modern miracle of acrylic polymer osmosis.

“Stop eating, Peter!” yelled Tom. “He’s not finished his beer, even if it does smell like shit.”

The painting swallowed Peter and burped. It looked Tom straight in the eye and said, “WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

“He didn’t even get a chance to finish his …

And the painting ate Tom, Arlo Guthrie shirt and all.

“Ha ha!” said Mandy. “That’ll teach Tom and Peter to argue with art. Did you see the looks on their faces?”

“Yeah,” said Eric, “if you’re gonna go, then I guess acrylic polymer osmosis is the way to go.”

“A lot less messy than the guy down at Dolan’s with the 4X4 parked on his head,” said Mandy.

Eric noticed that Jeff and Susan were precariously close to the painting. “You guys might want to rethink your seating arrangements,” he said in a very professional manner, so as not to cause panic.

“It’s OK,” said Susan. “We watched Little Shop of Horrors three times and didn’t get eaten by any big old plant. I don’t think we have to worry about a talking painting.”

“Tom and Pete were listening to all the wrong music anyway,” said Jeff. “They were doomed.”

“Yeah, doomed,” said Susan.

Eric turned his head and said, “I can’t look. It’s too awful.” He caught a glimpse of a man at Dolan’s with a 4X4 parked on his head and said, “Well, maybe not that awful.”

“Eric, you big wuss,” said Susan. “It’s just a talking, people-eating painting.”

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

“Give it a break, asshole,” said Susan.

Three seconds later, she was acrylic polymer osmosisized, but she went out with a laugh and a few final words of wisdom, “My god, I hate that purple dinosaur.”

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?” said the painting to Jeff.

“Oh fuck it,” said Jeff. “Ever since Jim Morrison died there’s been no real music anyway. Here I come, Susan.”

“Slurp,” said the painting.

John tried to reason with the painting, but it was adamant, “WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

“How about if I stick the beer where your acrylic sun don’t shine,” said John in a startling reversal of tone. “Yes,” he said, “that’s what I said, baby … and don’t you forget it!”

Where upon the painting ate him.

“Hey, you!” said Krista. “Yeah, you, the big red flat thing hanging on the wall.”

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR …”

“Knock if off with the broken record,” said Krista, “and spit those people back out. John was just about to buy me a beer, you little motherf…”

And before Krista even had a chance to be eaten by the painting, she saw something that made the blood in her veins turn to skunky Mexican beer …

It was an artificial life form that had escaped from Gallery Connexions looking for bartenders to eat. Finding none at the moment, it ate Krista and the painting. Fearing acrylic polymer osmosis, though, it spit the painting back onto the wall.

Fueled by Krista’s passion against the painting eating her friends, the artificial life form multiplied and spread throughout the area ready to pounce on the heads of those about to revel.

What followed was grisly. Imagine Paris Hilton, naked, legs spread, upside down, spinning on her head and singing, “I’m the boogey girl, uh huh, yes I am …”

Well, maybe not that grisly. It was a mass devourment.

But no beer was spilled.

Mandy, coming out of Wilser’s indoor bar at that moment, witnessed the mass devourment. Horrified, she backed dangerously close to the painting …

“WILL YOU GIVE DEANNA BEER FOR A YEAR TO KEEP ME HERE?”

(POST NOTE: Biff Mitchell drinks Corona beer. And he likes it.)

It Came from the Sewers of Fredericton

2007-08-14T19:15:00.000-03:00

It was a weird and strangely lit day at Piper’s Lane.

Duane said, “Did you hear about the Phantom of Piper’s Lane? I heard he spirits away beautiful young women and has his way with them somewhere in the depths of the Fredericton sewage system.”

“It just goes to show you,” said Phil, “the whole world’s sliding into the handbag from Hell. By-the-way, this isn’t a cigarette in my hand, it’s lit chap.”

Behind Duane, a beautiful young woman said, “I don’t want to make it in a sewer with a phantom. That’s really gross. Don’t they have any special laws about that?”

“Shhh,” said her friend. “We don’t want to offend that which we cannot see or understand. I mean, the fool takes them into sewers. Ooops … I mean, the poor, misunderstood otherling takes them to whatever quarters an unfeeling society thrusts upon him … just because he’s not human.”

“I think you need more beer,” said the beautiful young woman.

“Oh well,” said Judy. “Shit happens. Let’s order some food and get the hell out of here.”

Duane and Judy went home to play backgammon and the rest of us moved up to Wilser’s. But first, we checked for phantoms. We’re careful drinkers. We go the extra mile to protect ourselves from unsafe paranormal phenomena.

We looked under the chairs and we looked under the tables. “No phantoms,” said Phil. So we sat down and ordered some beer.

We suddenly noticed that Mark was there. And Sharon. And Jack. Mark said, “We brought Jack along to tear the jugular out of the Phantom (notice how mark knows how to properly capitalize Phantom … I’m learning from him) in case he tries to drag us into the sewers.”

At which point, Jack jumped into Mark’s arms and started licking his face, thinking that he was the phantom.

“We’re in such shit,” said Sharon.

Then, we suddenly noticed a table full of happy shiny people.

And even more tables just packed with happy shiny people, all smiling and not worrying about some dumb old phantom.

Beth said, “They’re such happy shiny people. I really hope the phantom leaves them alone. By-the-way Phil, you said this was your 2,345th time to quit smoking. I’ve been keeping track … it’s really your 2,346th time.”

“Thanks for that useful information,” said Phil. “Do you have a match?”

Suddenly! The phantom (Phantom, according to mark) appeared, and tried to drag Krista off to the sewers of Fredericton!

“Don’t take my friend in the red shirt,” said a guy in a blue shirt. “He said he would buy my next beer.”

Mike suddenly woke up. I mean, it was just one of those “sudden” times.

He suddenly saw the phantom trying to drag Krista off to the sewers of Fredericton to have his way with her. “NO!” he whispered.

He picked up a random object and squashed the phantom’s head metaphorically. “Take that you … you phantom, you,” he said.

“And I’ll give you a double punch to the head,” said Phil. “Nobody’s taking Krista off to the sewers tonight.”

Whereupon, the phantom (Phantom) got the hell out of there, never to return because … suddenly … the people at Pipers Lane were weirder than the phantom.

“You and Mike did good, Phil,” said Beth. “The world is safe from phantoms and the sewers of Fredericton are once again places where you can take your kids and not have to worry about rude sexual behavior like on The Green.”

Chris Giles at the Barracks

2007-08-14T09:37:00.000-03:00

This is Chris Giles ...

He's one of Fredericton's leading photographers. He took the picture of the three ladies in his yard that hangs in my hall right in front of the mirror facing the door so that people entering my place have a choice of looking at themselves or looking at the three ladies. Personally, I'd rather look at the three ladies ...

Chris is also a musician who plays a variety of instruments, including the piano, which he plays from the inside (he's in the lower right corner).

Chris will be at the Barracks all this week (August 13-17). Drop by and say hello.

BTW, the Barracks are downtown on Queen Street right beside the library.

Twisted Tails Wins Dream Realm Award

2007-08-13T17:19:00.000-03:00

Just found out that Twisted Tails won the 7th Annual Dream Realm Award in the anthology division.

For those of you who were at Reads Coffee Shop during the reading crawl way back in the Spring (you know, that one hour window between Winter and Summer), the story I read, Ain't No Doc for the Falling Apart Blues, is one of four stories I have in this anthology. Three of them were written at the Second Cup Coffee Shop in King's Place.

Here's the book ...

You can read more about it - and download the free ebook telling the story behind the book - on my web site.

You can watch the trailer at YouTube.

A Strange and Unpredictable Day at the Cathedral with Deanna

2007-08-10T23:22:00.000-03:00

These are the true and factual events that befell Biff and Deanna on August 9, 2007. Reader beware – some events may be disturbing and the letter “a” may be used indiscriminately. And I’m pretty damn sure it is.

It was the kind of day of which summer is made. In fact, it was summer. It was summer with sun and blue sky and almost nauseating heat – just the way we all love it. Deanna and I were at The Green by The Ladies of the Fountain (who inspired the story the Deanna, WhiteFeather and Sophie were reading a few days earlier. And, no, it’s not dirty, it’s art. Dirty art.).

Deanna said, “Face it, Biff, it’s not art. It’s a dirty story. It uses the letter ‘a’ indiscriminately. Now let’s get your sinful ass over to the cathedral and pray for you.”

“But …” said Biff.

“Do you want to wear this fountain?”

“Let’s go to the cathedral,” said Biff.

This is what the cathedral looks like. My friend, Glenn the Goth Musician, and I tried to toss a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee over it way back at the dawn of time, but we sobered up before we got it over.

This is what part of the cathedral looks like on the temporary cover of my next novel, Murder by Burger, which isn’t published yet, but will be when I get around to it.

“Stop trying to sell a novel that hasn’t been published yet,” said Deanna, “and get inside. By the way, did you say that copies of your last novel, The War Bug, can be bought at the UNB bookstore and ordered from Chapters … you know, the one featured on your web site at biffmitchell.com.”

After this bit of shameless self-promotion, Biff and Deanna went into the cathedral and Deanna was immediately transformed into a Mary-like presence and she prayed for Biff’s godless counter-culture pre-apocalyptic writing – that he might muster enough soul to write something funny some day.

And then she took a picture. The act was so random that it brought tears to Biff’s eyes. Unfortunately for him, Deanna was taking pictures of warrior angels descending from high to devour Biff.

In an instant, the angels devoured Biff.

“If you’d been an organist instead of a writer,” said Deanna, “you wouldn’t currently be in state of devourment from angels. What was that you had to say about Christian Existentialism?”

Deanna took a picture of the angels ascending with bits of Biff dripping from their teeth.

“Yum,” said one of them, “but I suddenly feel a flashback to the 60s coming on. Maybe we should have cooked him first.”

“What?” said another angel, “and miss a free high?”

Three monkeys representing translated into Gothic symbiology and representing the three deadly but daily pitfalls of see, hear and speak no evil watched the gruesome ascension.

“Glad that’s not my ass,” said Speak No Evil.

Deanna sighed and said, “If only he’d played the organ.”

A little window said, “I liked him. He was nice in a pre-apocalyptic way. And he didn’t eat bugs.”

“Speak for yourself, little window,” said a big window. “You never did see the whole picture. He had long hair under that ponytail. He had a strange effect on the angels. He disrupted the beautiful Deanna’s Qi Gong lesson with allusions to his dirty story.”

“You’re right,” said the little window. “He was a dork from Mars. Will I ever be a wise and powerful big window like you?”

“No,” said the big window, “you’ll always be small and never really get it.”

“That was a very unkind thing to say to the little window,” said the cathedral to the big window. “Remember, we’re all big in His eyes. And also remember, big windows make big targets when the shit hits the fan.”

The big window as nothing to day about this.

Deanna took a picture of a random man walking into the light.

The big window still had nothing to say.

And then an angel disguised as a brass fixture ate Deanna.

You can email Deanna and Biff at Ilive@theplacewhereangelspoop.com

The Strange Events That Unfolded That Zany Night At Wilsers

2007-08-09T21:42:00.000-03:00

It was a strange day, a day fraught with spilled art, dirty stories, and tourist soup – a day desperately seeking a beer at Wilsers.

It all started with Mark and Sharon …

“We just moved away from Deanna’s painting,” said Sharon, “and now you want us to move home?”

“You better not be putting this on your blog, Biff,” said Mark. “I’ll stab you right through the eyes with a semi-colon if you put this on your blog.”

“Honest,” said Biff, “I’m just gonna use this in my memoirs. By the way, could you finish your beers and move home … we have guests coming.”

“You certainly are a prick, Biff,” said Mark.

“Jack, eat Biff,” said Sharon.

“Whaaaaaaa?” said Jack. “It’s hot. I’m sleeping. I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’m communicating with the floor. I’m transcending. Biff, stick your gawdamn guests where the sun don’t shine.”

Jack thought a moment and said, “Everybody happy now?”

Nobody dared say a word.

Meanwhile, a member of the Blacktop MotorCycle Gang said, “I drink this beer only while thinking about the ontological proof for the existence of intelligence in the human species. By the way, does anybody else smell dawg or maybe I should stop snorting every second beer and did anybody notice Sharon throwing her beer in Joe’s face and how come this place doesn’t have a saxophone?”

Deanna stood by the painting she did on Canada Day and thought, “I love his painting more than life itself, but I’d gladly trade it to Wilsers for beer for a year.”

Beer for a year.

Biff said, “I’ll do Qi Gong for you, Deanna, and the energy will permeate the bar and everybody will focus on beer for a year for you and the pleasure of having this painting here for all time.”

Whereupon, the painting ate Biff.

St Thomas was sitting just outside the reach of the painting.

Unfortunately, he was just within reach of Marilyn who had just arrived with a friend who had given her a bag of firecrackers and a bottle of Jack Daniels earlier.

The night was about to take a strange turn.

“I just stuffed a firecracker up St Thomas’ ass,” said Marilyn. “And he was so plastered, he didn’t notice.”

St Thomas said, “I think a firecracker just went off in my ass. Now, who would do a thing like that?”

“I can’t believe I stuck a firecracker up St Thomas’ ass,” said Marilyn. “Let me see … um … yes … that dirty little fucker Jack Daniels made me do it.”

Joe said, “Try sticking one of those up my ass and I’ll beat you to death with my journal … and then write a haiku about it. Oh shit, I think I feel a poem coming on.”

WhiteFeather said, “I can’t believe I cooked a tourist today.”

“And he sure changed his tune in the pot, didn’t he?” said WhiteFeather. “Not so ha-tee-ta in the pot, was he?”

“I think I’ll cook another tourist.”

Tourists hiding in a tower in the uncertain distance decide to stay there for the night.

“Did Daddy really taste like chicken?’ said Little Johnny.

“Quiet!” said his mother. “Or she will hear you. Do you want to be soup?”

“I’m thinking tourist ragu next time,” said Deanna. “With lots of sauce.”

“Or, we could go with a Caribbean theme,” said WhiteFeather. “With lots of sauce.”

“I think I have a recipe for Tourist a l’orange in my journal,” said Joe. “Does Marilyn still have those damn firecrackers? I can’t believe she stuffed one up St Thomas’ ass.”

“Personally, I prefer a good tourist kabob,” said Marilyn’s friend who had given her firecrackers and Jack Daniels. “Just call me old fashioned.”

“Maybe we can find a good tourist recipe on the Internet,” said WhiteFeather.

“Just as long as you don’t start any of that damn Facebooking,” said Deanna.

“Oh look!” said Deanna. “There’s a recipe for tourist tacos! I love tacos.”

“With a little tourist guacamole … might be good,” said WhiteFeather.

Just yards away, Cora said, “Have you heard about the strange disappearances of tourists in the Barracks area? Very strange indeed.”

Biff managed to escape from Deanna’s painting but was immediately confronted by her necklace. “Do you like my necklace,” she said. “WhiteFeather put real coral in it. Look deep into my necklace, Biff. Now, get the hell back into that painting.”

“Look,” said WhiteFeather, “I got a picture of Biff staring at your necklace.”

“Oh my god, he looks so clueless,” said Deanna. “I think we should …”

“No,” said WhiteFeather, “he goes in the painting or he goes in the soup.”

“You have two minutes to finish that beer, Biff, “ said Deanna. “And then it’s back in the painting for you.”

“By the way,” said Deanna, “did you know that WhiteFeather put real coral in my necklace?”

“I did not know that,” said Biff.

“Well, now you do. Back in the painting.”

Before disappearing into the painting, Biff quickly drew a picture of Deanna in Joe’s journal.

“The little bastard gave me a mustache!” said Deanna. “I’ll get him back for that.”

Deanna’s hand moved furiously, yet elegantly, over Joe’s journal. After 3.234322 seconds, she lifted the journal triumphantly and announced, “See? Robococo Cop Biff. Now, get back in the damn painting.”

Biff dissolved into the painting (and nobody noticed that he took a couple of beers with him) just as a tourist with lots of neck hardware showed up and tried to steal WhiteFeather’s necklace (see insert for details).

Boy, was he in the wrong place at the wrong time ….

“I found the perfect recipe!” exclaimed WhiteFeather. “Touriste a la Pomegranate!”

“How much do you weigh?” said Deanna to the tourist.

Art and Mayhem at the Barracks Showcase - A Story to Chill Your Aesthetics

2007-08-01T16:20:00.000-03:00

It was a quiet Thursday afternoon at the Barracks. Deanna and WhiteFeather were contentedly creating new wonders. WhiteFeather was feeling a bit off.

“I’m feeling a bit off,” she said to Deanna. “Please don’t take offense if a stray sewing needle should stick in your arm.”

“We all have our days,” said Deanna as she pulled a sewing needle out of her thumb. “Maybe you could use the sewing machine for a while.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said WhiteFeather, as she sewed merrily. “Oh, and watch the air for flying sewing machines.”

“It that Dana outside looking perplexed,” said Deanna.

“I believe it is,” said WhiteFeather. “Maybe you should check it out. I’m a bit busy making sure that this sewing machine doesn’t fly.”

Deanna went outside and saw what had perplexed Dana. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“You’ve spilled art all over the grass,” said Deanna.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” said Dana. “I had paint and brushes and found objects and some kind’ve hazy idea and I was coming over to say hello to you and WhiteFeather and suddenly I spilled it all on the grass. You wouldn’t happen to have an art scrapper, would you?”

The two spilled arts said, “No! No! Don’t scrape us, Dana. We’re an unexpected dimension of your artistic statement. Scrape us and … well … you’ll die.”

Deanna got really pissed off when she heard art threatening Dana. She walked right over to the spilled art and said, “Threaten Dana again and I’ll stomp you. I will.”

Dana said, “It’s OK, Deanna, I get this from my art all the time. You create the damn stuff and then it disses you. Damn art.”

WhiteFeather came out and said, “Having trouble with art, Dana?”

“Yeah,” said Dana. “I just spilled a bunch of it on the grass and now it’s giving me a hard time.”

“Art’s like that,” said WhiteFeather. “Or it wouldn’t be art.”

“You mean I have to put up with this for the rest of my life?” said Dana.

“You could go into accounting,” said WhiteFeather.

“What was that the art said again, Deanna?” said Dana.

“I think I may have this figured out,” said Deanna.

“Look!” said Deanna. “It peels off the grass. Dana, your spilled art peels off! Now, artists everywhere can spill art and then peel it off.”

“My God,” said Dana. “I have more art. I can spill it all over the Barracks area … all over the downtown area, all over the city, all over the province, all over …”

“How would you like a sewing machine in the head?” said WhiteFeather. “Be happy with the art that gave itself to you.”

Suddenly, a random tourist yelled, “What’s that stuff over there cluttering the beautiful green grass?”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Deanna. “He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt with mis-matching flowers.”

In an extreme moment of infinite compassion, Deanna attempted to quell the tourist’s negativity. “Hey tourist guy,” she said, “do you like my necklace? WhiteFeather put real corral in it.”

“Fuck you and your necklace,” said the tourist.

“He’s all yours, WhiteFeather,” said Deanna.

Later on, Sophie dropped by and Deanna and WhiteFeather invited her to read a story that Biff gave them. “He said it was a family story,” said Deanna. “You wouldn’t lie to me about that, now would you?” she said to the camera.

The camera said, “Click.”

“There’s a lot of fucking going on in this story,” said Sophie. “I don’t think it’s a family story.”

“Well,” said WhiteFeather, “he seems to have a good grasp on how to use the word ‘a’”

“It’s the verbs that make me wonder,” said Sophie.

“Hmm,” said Deanna, “that verb is just plain dirty. But what can you say about a man who farts when he takes pictures?”

“Biff farts when he takes picture?” said Sophie.

“We caught him,” said WhiteFeather. “He tried to blame an artificial life form, but it was him. It was him.”

But they still read the story, dirty and all.

“This dirty stuff isn’t all that bad,” said WhiteFeather.

“And it has a happy ending, sort of,” said Sophie. "Was his brain really missing?"

“He better not be taking a picture of the top of my head,” said Deanna.

After reading Three Ladies of the Fountain, Deanna, WhiteFeather and Sophie went into their residency and WhiteFeather said, “Care for some tourist soup, Sophie?”

Crawling for Culture on a Hot Summer Day

2007-07-29T10:00:00.000-03:00

There were rumors that the temperature at the King and Carleton intersection had shot up to over 40 degrees, but that didn’t stop hordes of arts and crafts lovers from swarming the downtown area, crawling from gallery to gallery and shop to shop.

It was the July Culture Crawl, a chance to showcase the work of local artists, drink beer and wine. They had Picaroons at Gallery Connexion and white and red wine served up by the immaculate JC at Art+Concepts …

I was at Ingrid Mueller’s Art+Concepts after eating a glass at Gallery Connexion. Ingrid was featuring the former Beaverbrook Gallery’s artist in residence, Jennifer Pazienza,

… who posed with fellow artist, Deanna Musgrave …

Who then posed with my daughter Cassie …

Both of whom then posed with Ingrid …

… and then got really silly …

Deanna put together a remarkable documentary on Jennifer and photographer Lindsay McKay did a pictorial on the project. That’s Lindsay on the left talking to Jennifer …

One of Jennifer’s paintings ate an art lover …

In retaliation, another art lover ate the guest book …

Jennifer said, “What an odd array of behavior.”

The turnout, as usual for Ingrid’s affairs, was intense and included the city’s cultural elite …

Smoking Art Outside Gallery Connexion

2007-07-28T23:56:00.000-03:00

Dana was sitting outside Gallery Connexion smoking pieces of his latest work. “Hi, Biff,” he said. “I’m smoking art.”

“Wow,” said Biff. “I wonder what Keirkegarde would say about that?”

“Fuck Kierkegarde,” said Dana. “Sarte ate art.”

“And I thought that was just a rumor,” said Biff. “No flies on Sarte, eh?”

“Fuck you too, Biff,” said Dana. “I’m smoking art.”

Meanwhile, inside Gallery Connexion, Meredith was getting some last minute instructions from the Picaroons guy in preparation for the culture crawl.

“They’ll be crawling by the time they get this far,” he said. “So you have to serve low. If you serve too high, you’ll confuse them and they’ll snort the beer instead of drinking it. Now, for the ones who start at the other end of the crawl, you’ll have serve high or you’ll make them look like they peed their pants.”

“Why don’t I just serve them right between the eyes?” said Meredith.

“And then there’s that,” said the guy from Picaroons.

Later on, Meredith was looking at an edible beer glass thinking, Hm … I wonder if you can really eat these or if people just choke on them, roll over and die.

I’m certainly not going to test them out on myself … I need to stay alive to find out who got Carnevale 3.0 pregnant. I’ll bet it was that little bastard, Biff. I knew he was trouble the moment I saw him.

Enter Biff.

“Oh hi,” said Meredith. “Did you have sex with Carnevale 3.0?”

“I don’t think so,” said Biff. “Does she wear red wigs and hang out at questionable bars?”

“Yes,” said Meredith. “She does. Frequently. Would you mind eating this glass for me?”

Brand Spankin’ New biffmitchell.com

2007-07-25T22:23:00.000-03:00

It took nearly a month, but the overhaul of biffmitchell.com is finished. It still has the same banner …

It still has the very strange song to all the dead bugs in the world …

and the free godawful poetry books ..

and the chance to be published …

and links to fellow writers …

and Oscar Pool reviews …

and the house of madness …

and historical stuff on Pisa …

and my first triathlon bike ..

That’s my daughter Cassie and my old friend Matt Savage from Savage's Bicycle Center.

There’s even a chance to be murdered, or at least, there was …

and lots of back story information on my books …

and stuff about ebooks …

and links to short stories for less than a buck …

and no salesperson will call.

A Dark and Forbidding Story on the Deck of Wilsers on a Friday Evening Not Too Long Ago

2007-07-21T10:38:00.000-03:00

It was a dark and forbidding evening on the deck at Wilsers on a Friday evening not too long ago and Beth and Eric and Joe and I had a strange feeling that things were in the brew. Beth was creating Beer Glass Condensation Art on the table top ...

Then we heard a voice. A voice. It was Whitefeather.

She said, "I'm on my way over to see Deanna and watch my new tape with her. It's strange, but artful. And every time I watch it a little girl calls me and reminds me that I have to do something in seven days."

We all noticed a strange lack of features in this otherwise beautiful woman's face ...

She said, "How about if I come up and play it for all of you ..."

Beth said, "Um ... I think I'll pass. I have lots more Beer Glass Condensation Art to finish before I get to watch movies?"

Joe said, "Uh ... no thanks. I think I feel a poem coming on."

Eric said, "Nope. And pass this on to the little girl who keeps phoning."

Our bartender, Ms. Picaroons, said, "I watched it six days ago and I feel just great!"

An artificial life form that escaped from Gallery Connexion jumped out and ate her.

Mirelle came right out of the blue and said, "Evil thing, get thee gone from Whitefeather's face."

Then she lambasted the evil thing a few times with no shortage of enthusiasm. And then she lambasted the video tape. And then Whitefeather was beautiful again and eating delicious strawberries.

"That was certainly exciting," said Beth. "Why don't we play a game now."

Eric said, "Just as long as it doesn't involve video tapes and girls with timetables and phones."

"How about ... can you find the pigeon?" said Beth.

Can you?

Take Me, I'm Yours

2007-07-15T15:04:00.000-03:00

My good friend lori p morse, one of the most gifted photographers I know (in addition to being a beautiful and vivacious warm-hearted human being), did something really cool this weekend. She opened an exhibition of her art at the Green Turtle Clothing store on King Street and I can't think of a more perfect setting for this particular exhibit. You'll have to drop by the store to see what I mean (it's right behind Robert Simmons).

In the artist's own words ...

"Take me, I'm yours" is a body of work from a group exhibition at the UNB Art Centre called Bearing Witness, 2006. Each artist was to examine something closely in their lives and then express their response visually.

I focused on how much space I was taking up in the world. So, I collected my garbage for a year - nothing gross...just items that helped me evaluate my lifestyle habbits: ie: gum wrappers, coffee cups, styrofoam doggie bags, packaging from gifts...Doing this really changed my life. One idea/thought led to another and then I found myself looking at all the items I had collected over the years and was not using. So, I asked people to take those items from me, but only if they would find the item useful, or if they absolutely loved it. I still have items from this project that I would like for people to take from me and will bring them with me to the opening on July 14th...All I ask is that you leave your name and what you take with you when you leave...other than that - the items are FREE!!

This photography project has led me to a new project on collections that I am working on right now and will be exhibiting in Fredericton next year.

If you are a collector, and live in New Brunswick, (traditional or unconventional) and are interested in the potential of being part of my project, let me know!! (loripmorse at hotmail.com)

The show is up until August 11.

This is lori just before people started to arrive ...

And when they did ... they did ...

Veronica Pencil even brought flowers for lori ... something we might all keep in mind the next time we go to a place to stare in wonderment at art ... we should remember the artist needs flowers.

Some guy tried to be taller than lori ...

A very scary guy tried to figure out her secret for preparing finger food art ...

An even scarier guy tried to bite her neck, claiming to be a retired vampire who was down a quart or two. He was quite surprised when lori cut his legs off with her hidden katana and said, "No, you katana bite my neck, you silly beast."

Whitefeather said, "That was cool, lori. I think Chris may be a vampire too. Let's see if he turns to smoke while I strangle him eating this delicious strawberry."

After the vampires were vanquished, everybody watched art ...

Some of it was plugged in ...

And then people took art ...

This was one of the coolest things I've seen in a gallery. By selecting a piece from the table and signing for it ... and then taking it home free (no salesman will call, offer restricted to non-vampires and sentient life forms) ... the audience becomes part of the work itself.

You have till August 11 to get your ass into Green Turtle Clothing and become art.