Mystery Tribune publishes "Long Lost Sally"

My story "Long Lost Sally" will appear in Issue No. 7 of Mystery Tribune. I really enjoy the language in this gritty noir tale, and I am very pleased to see it find a home in what I believe is a terrific up and coming mystery/suspense x literary journal.

You have to pay to play, but the issues are thick (~240 pp.) and beautiful. Here is the first half page to whet (or kill) your appetite:

The house is warm. I melt in my pants. 

I'm hot like a red river hog going after tree fruit. My pink knees are hot and pink. It feels like I'm bleeding, but I'm not. I'm full of stallion. I'm full of viper. I need to get laid. 

The miracle worker is on the job. I can call her but I can't. She doesn't like it. 

The phone screams. 

I know who it is. No one calls but him. I let it ring. I know what he needs. 

I open the fridge. The milk is bad. 

I remember cigarettes and milk. Thick fat and smoke, the way it mingled. The way it danced on my tongue and in my lungs. Jar of pickles. Yellow mustard. The last limp radish. I ate it's brothers. Devoured, skinned, and suckled. 

The phone screams. I laugh. Just a little bit. Then I laugh like a red river hog, and I pickup the phone.

Manzano Mountain Review Issue No. 3

Manzano Mountain Review Issue No. 3 is now live.

Here is my editor note for the issue:

I wake to wild winds spitting yellow leaves against the stucco. Wind chimes scat with abandon. The garden is dry husk. The kingbirds are gone.

It is October Country in Albuquerque, and on the mind is Ray Bradbury, who grew up in the same neck of the woods as I did. I should read some Bradbury, I think, but then I remember that Manzano Mountain Review requires my full attention.

Kristian and I have been reading submissions since August. We have been reading for longer than that, but the official open date was August 1, and we have been racing ever since, making sure each piece gets our full consideration while also pushing for a quick turnaround.

And here we are, Issue No. 3.

This is our second November issue, and our first to feature assistant editor Cathy Cook, who has been a great help to us, and who recently won the 2018 Albuquerque City Poet Slam Championship, which is pretty cool.

The theme for this issue is "elemental." We provided a definition, but our want was to keep it loose. We have poems that reference mountain origami and Northern Harriers, flash floods and undersea biology, lithography and depression. We have stories about siblings and det cord and New Spain spirits. We have art that captures the raw color and movement of a wildly thriving and insatiable earth.

We planned to spotlight flash fiction written by New Mexicans, but we did not get enough flash. This led us to make some decisions about our next issue.

One is that we are taking a hiatus in Spring 2019 to make some adjustments.

Two is that our fiction submission window, like your favorite coffee shop, will be opening early and closing late. As of February 1, please send us your funniest, scariest, wittiest, wildest flash. I want to publish flash fiction that is as effective at gaining my attention as autumn's leaf-spitting winds.

Thanks to the talented writers and artists who shared their work with us this season. We hope we've done it justice.

- Justin

New fuguers cove EP -- Get it

Check it out HERE

fuguers cove gets some press!

fuguers cove got some mid-summer kudos from the Weekly Alibi​ for our sampler LP In Twenty:

Much like Bee Thousand, there’s too much delicious stuff on this recording to list all the fabulous flavas, but please put your ears into action for these, at a minimum, playaz: “Encyclopedia of Stars,” “I Choose the Moroccan Dance,” “Colonel Cactus” and “The Fuel Burners.”

alibi.com/music/56263/Sonic-Reducer-Endings-Lara-Manzanares-fuguers-c.html#story56265

Novel Excerpt

I told them my name was Big Red.

I told them my name was Gary Hunks.

I told them my name was Old T Man.

seeking reviews for new record

Folks:

I'm crowdsourcing for folks to review my new fuguers cove album, titled "Satanism." Are you, or do you know anyone in the music press, or someone who may know someone?

If you know anyone who might be interested, send me a note.

​I'll send any potential reviewer a free download link.

Justin / fuguers cove

#press #music #reviews #indierock #rock

https://fuguerscove1.bandcamp.com/album/satanism

New DOUBLE ALBUM out June 16!

New fuguers cove DOUBLE ALBUM out this Friday -- 6/16/2018.

#garagerock #psychpop #grunge #punk #indiepop

fuguerscove1.bandcamp.com

Excerpt #454

Ripe goat. Onions. Earth.

I liked to lick it up.

Manzano Mountain Review Issue #2

Issue No. 2 is live!

We received so many terrific submissions and we are very excited to share them with you.

Please head over to http://manzanomountainreview.com/no-2-summer-2018 to enjoy this seasonally apt collection of words and images.

New song / forthcoming double album

Here is the first track off of fuguers cove's forthcoming double album.

https://fuguerscove1.bandcamp.com/track/the-fuel-burners

Novel Excerpt #37

I just want to sleep cold and eat out of cans.

Rumours / excerpt

And then one day I will get eaten by a tiger shark and everyone will be sad.

Tiny Western Story Published

I have a tiny western story called "Consequence" published in 50 Word Stories. It's cute. Check it out.

Tracklist for Satanism

Tracklist for fuguers cove's Satanism LP

Satanism LP
17 songs, 2018

1 Fuel Burners
2 Second Witch
3 Manifest Satanism
4 Corks
5 Western Water Wells
6 Organizational Satanism

7 Fresh Goliaths
8 Banquet Satanism
9 Smoke and Smells
10 Tiki Satanism
11 Horseman
12 Erudite Satanism

13 Apocalyptic Satanism

14 January Sugar
15 We Aren’t Marshmen
16 Trve Satanism
17 Teeth



Due out May 17, 2018
x

Novel excerpt #6a

My father was assassinated by a terrorist organization.
They targeted him specifically.
He was handsome.
He had faith.

My mother used to say my father's favorite food was gravy.
On Christmas we would eat chicken, pork, beans -- anything and gravy.
My mother would lift the boat and swallow gravy down until the boat was empty. Like she was drinking blood. The idea of blood. Blood of my father.

The terrorists were never caught.
They paid someone off.
Or, no one cared enough to make the effort.
My father had a big mouth and he was not well-loved by the politicos or the gendarme.

I don't have a taste for gravy.

It is moon white and I sit on the fence in the front.
It is deep dark and the night is quiet, punctuated by the mournful hoot of the owl, the rustle in the dry grass.
I drink red wine, swigging from the bottle.
Swigging in memory of my mother, who died this evening.
I saw her drop.
I saw her gasp.
I reached for her, filled her with my breath, but it was done.

The police left an hour ago.
The one -- Blount -- said "I'm sorry," and it felt for real, but I have a hard time knowing the difference.
The false and the true blend.
I can't tell them apart.

I swig and I watch the stars flutter in the black murk.
I wonder what happened to the men who murdered my father.
My mother was merciful.
My mother didn't believe in vengeance.
I am not my mother.

Novel excerpt: the Roller Rink

The house is warm. I melt in my pants. I'm hot like a red river hog going after tree fruit. My pink knees are hot and pink. It feels like I'm bleeding, but I'm not. I'm tired is all. I'm full of stallion. I'm full of viper. I need to get laid.

The miracle worker is on the job. I can call her but I can't. She doesn't like it.

The phone screams.

I know who it is. No one calls but him. I let it ring. I know what he needs. It's like sex the way he needs it. AIDS and I'm the cure. His fix. I am his light. I open the fridge. The milk is bad.

I remember cigarettes and milk.

The fat and the smoke, the way it mingled. The way they danced on my tongue and in my lungs and in my pants. A jar of pickles. Yellow mustard. A radish. I bought it but I didn't want it. I ate its brothers. Devoured, skinned, and suckled while the moon hung over the mountains.

The phone screams.

I laugh.

Just a little bit.

Then I laugh like a red river hog, then I pick up the phone.