The Odious Stench Of Burning Flesh, or Summertime In The South!

I’m not sure what weather conditions are like in whatever part of the world it is that you find yourself as you read this, but things are pretty miserable around here. For those who don’t know, I live Deep In The Heart Of Texas. Well, maybe not quite so near the heart, if you want to be specific about your lyrical metaphors. If, for example, the heart is roughly around the center of the state’s anthropomorphized body, then my city would be located somewhere in its pelvic region. It would be deep, though. Very deep. Gastrointestinaly deep, along the lines of a lower intestinal blockage in the Lone Star State’s digestive tract. Deep In The Heart Of Sewage!

The summer days around here are miserably hot, and almost every exposed surface radiates its own special version of the sun’s awful intensity. Inverted mirages are everywhere, as blurry wisps rise up from the ground, the asphalt, the concrete and the metal of the world around you. They rise to gently waft and shake the background just above whatever it is you’re looking at in the foreground, and the world feels a split-second away from apocalyptic combustion. It’s as if Autumn has come early this year, only it’s killing with heat rather than cold. Plants and trees are shedding dead, brown leaves as they remain rooted in the dried and powdered cake that cements them in place. The more rural areas outlying the city have “burn bans” in effect, preventing hillbillies and hicks from setting fire to the various trash piles scattered about the land. Errant sparks from burning diapers and used condoms could spell disaster, after all, and no one wants that.

If your burning trash ignites your trailer, you have only yourself to blame.

Trey has a largish above-ground swimming pool that we placed in the backyard a few weeks ago. He fell in love with it immediately, and dubbed the blue-lined aquatic monstrosity Lake Mama. I’m not sure why he decided to call it that, but I suspect it had something to do with the fact that Brittany was the one splashing around with him beneath the glaring, unforgiving rays of the hateful sun, while I was sequestered safely away in the shade. Not that the shade is all that much better, mind you. It’s still hot. Everything is hot. Everything and everywhere. The pool lost around a third of its water to evaporation in just a couple of days. I went out to check the chlorine level, and found the cute little external filter slurping and gurgling its little heart out as it gasped for water that was no longer there. The sun is trying to murder my pool now. Where does it end?!

It’s no secret that I hate the sun, and that it hates me right back. However, when I was younger and too stupid to appreciate the horrible awfulness of the summer months in the South, I enjoyed June through August. School was out, and I was free from the tyranny of public education for a few glorious months. It was easy to fill the days, back then. Sometimes, I’d go swimming, or maybe hang out in my backyard, up in my open-roofed fort. I’d sit there for hours as the sun beat down on me, burning my skin and cooking me until I was the deep red and purple hue of a boiled lobster. I’d sit up there, reading comic books or conducting bizarre and unholy experiments with the aid of a few unlucky action figures and a chemistry set I stole from my sister. Other times, I’d ride my bicycle down forbidden pathways, deep into the hidden forest near my home, beyond the ghostly fields of creaking oil pumps and forgotten farms, where exotic dangers lied in wait along its shale-lined road. I would set up Lemonade and Kool-Aid stands, and wait for foot traffic that never came down my simple, empty street. I would run outside and play all day, but I don’t remember sweating. I’m sure I did, but I can’t remember it. I do, however, remember the burning.

I always burned. My sister would tan. My mother would tan. My father, with whom I share my fair-skinned genes, would even tan. But me? I would always, always, always burn to a crisp. Sunscreen never helped, either. Maybe I wiped it off when my mother wasn’t looking, or maybe the SPF technology of ’80s sunscreens wasn’t all that effective, for lack of space-age polymers and whatnot. Whatever the reason, I only remember the relentless burning. It didn’t slow me down back then, though. Sure, I’d be crispy for a few days, and the sticky applications of aloe vera slime that my mother would incessantly apply to my skin on an hourly basis weren’t very pleasant (but probably helped), but I would always be back outside the next day, ready for a new adventure. I…was a moron.

Maybe we had a different sun, back then. A better sun. Less hateful. Less murderous. Maybe the sun today is hotter because of global warming, or climate change, or the lack of an appropriately-sized convocation of sun-worshipping natives. Who knows? All I know is that what used to be a mild discomfort to me a few decades ago, is now a homicidal ball of yellow hate that hangs in the sky, searching for ways to kill me. Like a real-world Eye of Sauron, it watches for me, and it waits. It knows where I live, and it rises each morning, hoping for me to come outside and expose my tender flesh to the unseen lashes of its ultra-violet whip. And, it wins. It always wins.

I walk outside for five seconds, and I’m sweating. If I step out of the shade for an instant, my skin is burning. I’m like some power-deprived vampire, with all of the solar weaknesses and none of the blood-fueled strengths. Hell, I don’t even sparkle!

I’m trying to stay indoors as much as possible right now, and I will continue to do so until the terrible summer months have passed me by, once again. I don’t know how the South was ever colonized before the invention of air conditioning, but I do know that it must have been a crazed and soft-headed bunch of outcasts that ever stomped around in the Hell-Heat of this place and thought it would be a good spot to settle down. Demons wouldn’t want to live here. It’s just too damned hot!

Without air conditioning and proper shade, I’m certain that spontaneous human combustion is not only possible, but likely. In fact, the only thing good about this place in the summertime is how nice a cool blast of refrigerated air feels on slowly roasting skin. It’s not the snuggle-wuggle sort of comfort you get in the wintertime, when you escape the bitter cold by planting yourself in front of a roaring fire and cuddle up with your sweetheart. No, it’s a little more basic than that. More primal. More panicked. It all feels kind of like narrowly escaping death by dodging enemy fire on the front lines of some terrible battlefield, as you dive into the cool sanctuary of a deep and well dug trench. You check your body for damages, say a little prayer of thanks, and take a deep breath of the safer, softer air. Until, of course, the power goes out…

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
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The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
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This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
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What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.