Your Book is Here, Readers of the Future


If you are reading these words, it means I didn’t make it out alive…

So listen carefully, Readers of the Future. Please, this is important: I Can Taste the Blood has just been released into a timid world that doesn’t want to taste anything with more than Zero Calories.

Indulge me, Readers of the Future.

What if you just follow me a moment?
Even if I stumble. If I am lost.

Readers of the Future, I am here to tell you that I CAN TASTE THE BLOOD IS HERE. That Hell’s Heaven is the Hypothetical. Demons are a legion of What-Ifs?

When we’re frightened, Dread’s lack of shadow like a whiteout concealing the height of its looming, are our brains not misfiring with unnaturally enduring lightning bolts of What-If?

When our blood runs cold, that’s What-If? tearing like a super-sized methamphetamine tornado tearing through your shoddy small-town corpuscles.

When we can sense that vague “Something Bad’s Here” in our bones, What-If? is eating your marrow alive.

We sweat What-Ifs? as from the angry breaking of New Orleans levees. Nervously mumble them into the most confined, corners of our lives, when the walls are closing in. Where no echo even goes, they don’t think it’s worth dying there.

They even get in our hearts, the What-Ifs? You ever feel that? Do you follow? Don’t they hasten the beats like an athletic swarm of hornets after your blood-pumps, shouting: “Squeal like a Pig, you Fatty Hive! Squeal like a Pig, you Fatty, Filthy Hive!”

And yet, don’t you love these What-Ifs? Or love might be the wrong word. Perhaps Need is a better fit. Yes. You need these demons. And far too often, Readers of the Future, you have sought for them in books with uncanny cover art or spine-chilling reputations, and you have been cheated, fooled, insulted.

I wrote this post and gave it to Anthony Rivera at Grey Matter Press with strict instructions not to put it online unless I didn’t return by the end of the week. Obviously I didn’t. But that doesn’t matter because I am here to spread the word that you can get all the horrifying What-Ifs you ever dreamed of, and then some.

WHAT IF . . . you want no bullshit, true from-the-tortured-heart stories good enough to reread? One of those books you lend and keep for your whole life and you have to order another one after a few years ‘cause it’s gotten all tattered from hours of enjoyable dark thoughts, that—ah, thank God—some poor bastard other than you had to spend his talent thinking up?


It’s like the Swiss Army knife of What-Ifs books. It’s the book you’ll read and think: Why didn’t anyone think of doing that before? Putting five talented writers in a single volume!? Madness!

Five Unique Voices
Five Disturbing Visions
One Nightmare

Me, My time’s up. You never know when yours is coming. So don’t waste it. Buy I Can Taste the Blood, now. Before you realize it’s always too late.

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