Rock’n’roll lives—and so does sword and sorcery—in Brian Keene’s and Steven L. Shrewsbury’s Throne of the Bastards. The title alone lets the reader know the fun’s in the fury when it comes to Rogan, barbarian king of Albion.

Throne of the Bastards is the sequel to King of the Bastards, the first installment in Keene’s and Shrewsbury’s horror-meets-sword and sorcery mash-up series. It picks up where the first slash-fest left off, with Rogan, having adventured to the land of Olmek-Tikal, returning by ship to retake the Kingdom of Albion from a usurping son. This is where the horror elements seep into the fantasy—for the king sitting on Albion’s throne still possesses Rogan’s legitimate heir Rohain’s body, but is controlled by the spirit of his bastard son, Karza.

War ensues immediately upon Rogan’s return. The narrative introduces a diversity of characters similar to an epic such as Game of Thrones, though with sleeker descriptions. Before he can confront his enemies, Rogan must balance an uneasy set of alliances. The motley and slightly monstrous rebel army comprises General Thyssen’s battle-hardened soldiers from the north, a rag-tag troop of Albion loyalists from the capital, and his bastard-daughter’s host of Pryten wildfolk, including her otherworldly and disturbing horde of tree-dwelling troglodytes. From General Thyssen’s darkly sarcastic humor to Pryten Queen Andraste’s violent lusts, the alliance is no easy beast to yoke, and there are adventures to be had in consolidating his rule of the rebellion alone.

Having secured his power at no small price, Rogan then journeys to the capital to confront Karza. He discovers his son’s minions are even more fiendish than the abominations conjured by his allies. Here the book develops a level of tension and suspense that hits the page-turning sweet-spot. By making no apologies for its homage to Robert E. Howard and what now passes for unabashed, hard-rocking ‘grimdark’ fantasy tropes, Keene and Shrewsbury achieve a certain freshness and fun not often seen in today’s more commonly encountered fantasy aesthetics.

Throughout the novel, a cast of shrewd and outlandish villains adds spice to the flavor. A wizard named Papa Bon Deux, a winged aberration of a demon called the ‘Helvectia,’ and a heavy-helping of family betrayal, tragic sacrifice, and well-described action keep the pace alive until the story reaches its climactic conclusion. This, of course, lends itself to the possibility of more installments and even prequels. Suffice it to say, if you put your money down for an action-packed ride with a smart sense of style, Throne of the Bastards will leave you satisfied yet ready for more!

Carl R. Moore is the author of Chains in the Sky and Slash of Crimson and Other Tales, published by Seventh Star Press.

Other titles by Brian Keene and Steven L. Shrewsbury:

King of the Bastards

Slayer of Giants (forthcoming from Seventh Star Press)


One week ago, I returned from Louisville, Kentucky, to Albany, New York, from the world of the Imaginarium Convention. I returned to my home, my family, and my study, exhausted but happy from another amazing trip. Most folks who attended the convention posted their after-convention thoughts and thanks in a timelier manner, but due to the pace my schedule is at these days, combined with a rather erratic sleeping pattern, I am just now putting up a blog post about last weekend.

This year, my main purpose is to express gratitude to Stephen Zimmer and Holly Phillippe of Seventh Star Press. There are many, many, many folks on their team who also deserve praise and thanks for making such a unique and dynamic convention possible, but here I want to emphasize their vision and passion as being central to the event. So, thank you, Stephen and Holly, for making this happen and for doing something that benefits all who participated.

After the last Imaginarium (or at least, the last one I attended in person in Kentucky, in 2019), I took an “urban hike” across Louisville with author Dean Harrison. The blog entry regarding that adventure is linked here.

This year was a little different, and I’m posting a photo of what, for me, the convention is ultimately really about. There were many moments of great fun, epic meetings and parties, all the informal interactions that are essential to the whole convention experience.

But I am posting here a photo of my laptop and desk in the hotel room, the little writing setup I was using to do some work each morning before the panel discussions began. However fun the parties were (and they were dang fun), I value the technical talks on the craft of writing above all else. Though I did some champion kvetching to Holly about the fact that I had a 9:00 a.m. panel on Saturday morning titled “Crackaccino and Prose” after the Facebook and Twitter posts I put up after my daily writing session, you can bet I was up and on time for that panel, and early even, so that I could get said session in before the day started.

That’s not to say drinking bourbon is not also important. The “Books and Bourbon” panel this year was epic, as was exchanging stories of youthful misadventure in the room parties and getting a chance to get to know so many talented authors, filmmakers, musicians, and artists. There are too many amazing people to name here, but I thank all who took the time to discuss the craft, buy or swap a book, sign a book, have a drink, or point me in the direction of the coffee.

All the best and see everyone next year!

Carl R. Moore is the author of Chains in the Sky and Slash of Crimson and Other Tales, published by Seventh Star Press.

Review of The Life and Death (but Mostly the Death) of Erica Flynn, by Sara Marian

Dostoevsky meets Terry Pratchett— The Life and Death (but Mostly the Death) of Erica Flynn is a surreal tale with a twisted sense of humor that makes room for emotional depth, and does so with pacing and aplomb.

But first things first—the novel tells the story of a young woman who dies in a car accident after an argument with her husband. She finds herself trapped in an anguished afterlife, having left the love of her life in the midst of a conflict.

She discovers this is doubly unfortunate, because death is not what she could have expected, with the potential to be not all so bad, had she not been cursed with unfinished business. Sara Marian paints a mural of the land of Hades that would not make Hieronymus Bosch blush so much as raise his eyebrows by positing, “I see your scary triptych, and raise you a carnival of laughing souls (albeit with some equally freaky landscapes in the background…)”

Riffing vaguely on a Greek mythology theme, she gives us a portrait of death that is a lot like life, where souls start out in the city of Hades, an urban landscape that’s sort of a Lower Manhattan meets Coney Island amusement park. A “River Styx” runs through it, and the currency among the dead is something called “joy swapping,” where each soul can recall a memory of an amazing experience and transfer it to the soul from whom they are purchasing a similar experience. For protagonist Erica, this means a wallet full of perfectly toasted marshmallows.

Without offering too many spoilers, this is just a “taste,” as it were, of the kind of surreal curveballs Marian’s prose throws readers ready to buckle up for the ride (though it’s not so much a roller coaster as it is a Ferris wheel spinning inside a room full of funhouse mirrors). That’s not to say there aren’t thrills—any novel that features a hardcore swordfight with a creature dubbed the “Pepto Bismol monster” qualifies as action-packed.

But Erica’s quest—to fool the control-freak god Hades into letting her journey back to the land of the living in order to take care of her unfinished business—delves deeper into the topics of time, experience, fear, and regret than we sometimes get from your average fantasy read. This is also where it wanders into the Dostoevsky-esque themes. The novel answers existential anguish by championing how our imperfections can sometimes be our strengths, and offers that often the best riposte to what is frightening is what is funny.

So give Life and Death of Erica Flynn a read in order to experience what it’s like to feel heavy and light at the same time, a paradox as impossible, yet pleasurable, as simultaneously being alive and dead. Don’t believe it can’t be done—Erica Flynn will show you it can.

Carl R. Moore is the author of Chains in the Sky and Slash of Crimson and Other Tales, published by Seventh Star Press


Caught the new Ken Burns/Lynn Novick documentary on Hemingway and ended up enjoying it, though it contained moments of painful bathos in the commentary. The film could have better reconciled the apparent contradiction between Hemingway’s direct “declarative” style and the subtlety of a story’s unseen action. Such insights are valid and valuable, and a part of Hemingway’s signature aesthetic, but the film repeated these motifs without explaining their coexistence. Also, at the risk of digression, I think it’s worth pointing out that the assertion “what’s left unsaid is important” is no longer a surprising truth or unusual angle in literary criticism. Whether one agrees with it or not, it is a common viewpoint championed much more often than the promotion of spectacle and detail.

I was more interested in the way the documentary presented the timeline of Hemingway’s life. They made the case a few times that he relied significantly on his second wife’s family fortune to finance his adventures. I have not read any Hemingway biographies, but having read many of his novels and their introductions, gathered that once he’d published The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms, he had become financially independent. I saw him as a figure similar to J.K. Rowling or Stephen King in his financial success, yet the film hints that this was not the case. I was intrigued by this point and wish the directors had further explored this aspect of his career.

For all my reading life, I have had a strange relationship with Hemingway’s work. I first encountered most of his stories through the lens offered by undergraduate professors. They tended to spin the myth of his life and work in a way that the Burns documentary attempts to mitigate and, to some extent, unspin. But I didn’t have a problem with what has come to be known as his “masculine” style. I did not struggle with his approach to the morality of combat, hunting, fishing, philandering, and drinking. Instead, I tended to dislike the standard interpretations of his work. And when I voiced this disdain, I encountered the second problem of being lumped in with those who saw him as an old-fashioned, violent, egotistical bully.

I’m not saying those (to the extent true) are good things, but they weren’t the main issue. I was more concerned with how Hemingway’s art was often presented as realistic and juxtaposed with writers like Algernon Blackwood, Robert E. Howard, and H.P. Lovecraft, whom many considered less able to imitate real emotions.

The idea of “Hemingway as Realist” proved problematic as, over time, I read more of his work and got really into the writing. I read For Whom the Bell Tolls a few times, and while I felt spellbound by the characters and style, the real revelation came from discovering its utterly idealistic views on love, war, and survival.

Instead of seeing Hemingway as a Realist with a sentimental touch, I began to see him as a Romantic intoxicated by earned sentiment. I saw him as an idealist who understood that you could only reach the sublime when you acknowledge stark realities. The Burns documentary purports to try and get around these issues, but with limited success. While it touched on ideas that Hemingway’s views on love and the erotic were more fluid and imaginative than classic interpretations offered, it didn’t go far beyond. With an overconcern regarding the themes of suicide and “masculine” bravado, the film made too much apology to break into new territory. I still recommend giving it a view, because as always, Burns is on his game when it comes to weaving in authentic texts—excerpts from letters, novels, and early articles—with photomontages in a way that creates a memorable and intriguing portrait of his subject.

Carl R. Moore is the author of Chains in the Sky and Slash of Crimson and Other Tales (published by Seventh Star Press)


If we consider Mandy a slasher film, I think it’s arguably the greatest yet. I first saw it at a bar where they had a Sunday evening horror showcase. The manager was somehow hooked up with the film promoters and ran an event complete with beer specials and “44” t-shirts.

A great time was had by all, and since then it’s been one of those movies that I watch from time to time like putting on a favorite album. Any thoughtful viewing will likely come to the conclusion that the film is more than an excuse to watch gratuitous violence inflicted on stock victims. And yet the same time, it doesn’t apologize for how much fun gratuitous violence can be. Director Panos Cosmotos and producer Elijah Wood pull punches on neither action nor emotional complexity. I guess that’s why Amazon’s Prime Video adds the category ‘arthouse’ to its tags.

The storyline could be called simple—man takes revenge on his lover’s murderers. A bizarro Jesus cult and a maniacally drug-addled biker gang burn her on a rope. Some would write this off as shock horror of the worse kind. But the poetry of the camera work and the couple’s life in their forest hideaway that might be California or might be a moon of Jupiter has an additional draw for those with a taste for the surreal.

I’m not aiming here for a review of the entire movie, but rather to point out what I’d consider one of its more inspired moments (there are many—the Cheddar Goblin, the chainsaw duel, the forging of the ax-hammer, to name a few). But the scene where Mandy (played by Andrea Louise Riseborough) faces her abductors while tripping on high-octane LSD is one of the most effective artistic indictments of cult psychology ever rendered.

Cults, as villains go, are popular in film and fiction, but they are not always drawn well. In this case, Jeremiah Sand (played by Linus Roache, who will always sort of be King Ecbert to me) makes quite a spectacle with his violent lunacy. But the brilliance occurs when he tries to impress Mandy while she’s tripping.

He’s already had his goons beat up Red Miller (Nicholas Cage), her ‘rough and tough’ yet ‘humble and recovering-addict’ of a mate. Now Sand tries to close the sale by playing her tunes from his old band while she’s high. He plays the hippy music and basically relates, yeah that’s me on lead flute.

This is where I would point out that burning somebody alive isn’t necessarily so bad, in fact, Riseborough does a commendable job giving a look somewhere between get me outta here and please kill me now. At first, things only get worse when Sand stares at her and tries to convince her to be his lover. Their expressions transform, and as the acid flows, we see an amazing blend of their faces. The ordeal is pretty obviously her realization of how pathetic the man is, how much he tries to elevate his ego by seeing his reflection in those he abuses and over whom he has power, as if the more beautiful his prize, the better the rush he gets from destroying it:

But she obliterates his plans to make her a victim with a single action. Though she is high on hallucinogens, her state heightens, rather than diminishes, the truth. When the cult leader follows up his pitch with exposing himself in all his full-frontal glory, Mandy laughs. At first, it’s a natural really dude? kind of laughter. It then takes on an aggressive and vengeful kind of ring, as if to say, whatever you do, you can’t change certain facts. Here Mandy’s own revenge sets in motion the violent acts that follow. You can burn a human being, but you can’t burn the truth.

I’ve often wondered how anyone could do anything but answer a cult’s sales pitch with anything but vengeful laughter. Perhaps that’s why the more successful cult leaders value their big catches, the rich and famous, politicians, business elites, and even star actors. And yet Mandy’s point remains free for the taking—you don’t have to have an eight-figure bank account to make an asshole feel small. All you have to do is laugh.

Carl R. Moore is the author of Chains in the Sky and Slash of Crimson and Other Tales (published by Seventh Star Press)


I first read Flannery O’Connor in a college course on the modern short story. The course felt hit or miss up to that point, but her work caught my attention. I was a young rocker and liked its brutality (though apparently, she did not like that word as a descriptor). Later, I came across a quote where she stated she also didn’t like it when “A Good Man is Hard to Find” is treated as a horror story. The quote occurs in a letter to Betty Hester in July 1955:

“I am mighty tired of reading reviews that call A Good Man brutal and sarcastic. The stories are hard, but they are hard because there is nothing harder or less sentimental than Christian realism. I believe that there are many rough beasts now slouching toward Bethlehem to be born and that I have reported the progress of a few of them, and when I see these stories described as horror stories I am always amused because the reviewer always has hold of the wrong horror.”

(The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O’Connor. O’Connor, Flannery (1979). Fitzgerald, Sally (ed.). Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Kindle edition, pg. 90)

What I find interesting is not her frustration with the reviewers but her claim that there is nothing less sentimental than Christian realism. I suspect that her annoyance with those who call Good Man a horror story is about over-emphasizing the violence. Many feel shocked about a short story in which an entire family gets shot by an escaped convict, as if wow, that’s just so scary. And yet, this is something every horror author has to deal with—what’s wrong with you that you would make art out of such things?

But the story’s violence must not efface the story’s real horror. The real horror lies in the torments the characters inflict on one another long before their judgment day comes at the end of a pistol. It lives in the grandmother’s incessant delusions, cruelty, and racism, her son Bailey’s fecklessness and apathy, and her daughter-in-law’s meek ignorance. It lives in Red Sammy Butts, a domineering husband and boss, as he behaves like a total asshole at his roadside grill.

The real horror exists in the ability of humans to believe their own fantasies and ignore the truth. And these fantasies tend to be selfish. When the narrative leads the family to a car full of escaped convicts led by an infamous criminal named the Misfit, any reader but the most sensitive is ready for them to be shot.

At the story’s climax, the grandmother touches the Misfit’s shoulder and calls him one of her children. The gesture tempts readers to decide whether this is an act of redemption. The Misfit himself gives a short speech on how he is tormented in wondering whether Christ is real, whether the resurrection is real, and how he cannot know because he was not there to witness Christ’s miracles.

Here it becomes useful to look at the story through a non-Christian lens. Whether O’Connor’s Christian realism has any relationship with a literal belief in the supernatural is beside the point. Redemption and salvation are at stake, and while it is important to look at the story in the context of these ideas, it is more important not to let the interpretation become stuck within these ideas.

An evaluation of Good Man’s ethics and its characters’ morals fails when examined as an all-or-nothing affair. To decide whether the grandmother’s gesture was one of sincerity and forgiveness (redemption and salvation) or a final attempt at deception (damnation) is so sentimental as to be inaccurate. While O’Connor herself calls her work “Christian realism,” I feel she asks for a great indulgence in asserting there is any work concerning itself with the possibility of salvation that is not significantly sentimental.

If we give “A Good Man is Hard to Find” an unsentimental reading, we discover that every action counts—every cruelty and every mercy, and one cannot cancel the other out. To read the story in the context of original sin (e.g., the Misfit’s original, forgotten crime), the truth is that there is no original sin, but there are inevitable mistakes. Acts of kindness might matter, but we cannot erase errors. Good works can pay the bill, but they cannot erase the charge.

June Star, the young girl who perpetually calls bullshit on the whole family from the story’s start, makes the real heroic gesture before the grandmother touches the Misfit’s shoulder. She refuses to hold her killer’s hand when the Misfit orders the thug to escort her to her execution. This gesture, unconcerned with the truth of salvation, is the real jab at sentimentality, and it has nothing to do with Christ.

Carl R. Moore is the author of Chains in the Sky (Seventh Star Press, 2020)


Happy to announce that my first book since 2017,  Chains in the Sky, is available today from Seventh Star Press. Huge thanks to Stephen Zimmer and Holly Phillippe for making this a reality. I have been writing steadily for the past three years, yet for various reasons, 2019 did not see a new book release (and in 2018, I only published one novelette, Mommy and the Satanists). However, this year is ending with a new beginning, and I hope readers will enjoy this fast-paced supernatural thriller that is also my first full-length novel:

I also look forward to returning more attention to this blog, particularly since the new release is set in the Crimes of Heaven and Hell world (after which this blog is titled). But this space isn’t just for promoting my work—it’s for reviewing some of the millions of amazing books out there. So please take a look through some of the past reviews and author interviews, and I look forward to more to come!


“The life cycles. All other cycles.

That’s what it’s all about, and it’s all forgot.”
—Gary Snyder, from poem For/From Lew (read the whole poem here)

I don’t mind watching the garden die. I never spent much time on it, though that doesn’t mean I didn’t raise it with love. In part, it serves as a reminder to use time wisely—between writing, music, family, and my corporate job, it never hurts to remember how precious the hours are. Plus, I like leaving things a little bit wild anyway. I’m terrible at training pets and not a great disciplinarian with my kids. So while my garden was caringly watered, I let the weeds grow where they may. A lot of the tomatoes will end up being next year’s volunteers, and the beans, too, will have plenty of leftovers for seeds.

I quoted Gary Snyder at the beginning of this post, but I’m also thinking of Kenny Rogers’ cloying lines, “You gotta know when to hold ’em/ Know when to fold ’em/ Know when to walk away/ Know when to run.” Some may think it odd for a horror writer to be quoting hippy poets and slightly wholesome old country singers. But if you take a moment to read the entirety of Gary Snyder’s poem, it’s about the ghost of a friend who shot himself. The things that eat at you can be a Zen poem or even corny as a radio country hit. And while some hippies are like John Lennon, others are like Charles Manson (don’t take that as autobiographical, for one thing, I have no plans of getting a swastika tattooed to my forehead).

So watching a garden die is as fun and funny as watching it grow. The seasons inflict murder every year, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Weirdly, cycles, timing, and relinquishing some control can have their place in achieving one’s goals.

But that isn’t an excuse to be lazy either. Over the past decade, I’ve been spending an increasing amount of time in the woods, and yet I’ve found myself writing a lot about the city, especially about Brooklyn. It’s like cheating on my own brain—spending summers with copious amounts of bonfires, guitar playing, hiking, and even some fishing, delving deeper into the life of upstate New York and taking long road trips to Maine—only to flick a switch once a day and work on a horror novel taking place in New York City. It’s like I’ve been carrying the city around in my head, feeding a gestating monster, a seductive and hideous place full of hunger and decay. This beautiful and aberrant creature is my own precious thing which I am nursing and nurturing and bringing to fruition.

Sometimes folks throw the word ‘eclectic’ my way, but that’s not how I feel. I don’t see writing about the woods and writing about the city as being mutually exclusive. They have in common that they are wild places, and easily haunted. Chains in the Sky is ripe now and ready for harvest—I neither rushed it, nor neglected it, and maybe that’s why it survived. I’ll see how it tastes, and afterward, I’ll raise the next crop.

But first I’ll let the seeds scatter and see what volunteers, and if it’s something unexpected, we’ll let it grow a while and see what happens.

Carl R. Moore is the author of Slash of Crimson and Other Tales, and the forthcoming Chains in the Sky, with Seventh Star Press



Four decades ago, L.A. sci-fi author Octavia Butler published Clay’s Ark with Warner Aspect. I recently re-read the novel and would say I did so on a lark, but for some reason, unstoppable diseases merged with cultural earthquakes have been on my mind lately.

A friend first introduced me to Butler’s writing around the year 2000. Her more popular works include Kindred and Parable of the Sower. Yet I didn’t start with those—I began with the Xenogensis series and Clay’s Ark, novels that seem still less well known, but I found hard-hitting in the manner I like with fantasy and sci-fi, namely the kind of works where the reader becomes privy to a revelation that the world wasn’t ever as we thought it was, and will never even be as we just discovered ever again. Though Clay’s Ark is the last published of Butler’s Patternist series, within the timelines of the stories, it does not appear in chronological order and can be understood if read before and/or apart from the other novels.

Clay’s Ark begins as an alien invasion story with a twist—the invader is a microbe that threatens to take over Earth in the form of a disease. Set in the near future in a dystopian western United States, the book opens with Eli Doyle, an astronaut, forcing his ship to crash land in the desert. He carries a microbe that gives him heightened strength and power but only for the sake of spreading the disease. He stumbles on a compound occupied by a Christian cult and spreads the disease to its occupants. The story then jumps forward to a family crossing the desert to carry a dying child to see her grandparents. The family consists of two sisters, Keira and Rane, and their father, a doctor named Blake. The sisters are of mixed racial background—a father of European ancestry and a mother of African ancestry. Keira is dying of leukemia and hopes only to see their grandmother one last time.

When their car breaks down, they encounter Eli, now the leader of the cult—though the cult is no longer religious. Instead, the infected former astronaut has been breeding half-alien children with the women of the compound. They have created an isolated society where they are committed to both perpetuating the disease by procreating and by preventing the disease from spreading by staying isolated and capturing and assimilating anyone who becomes exposed to it. Thus Keira, Rane, and Blake become their hostages with little hope of escaping.

Re-reading this story and its characters in 2020 was more intense than expected. The context of the Covid-19 pandemic and political and racial strife in the U.S. is enough to deliver a strong shiver while taking in the story. But what struck me more is how stark Butler is with her descriptions, how graphic she is when describing the inevitable violence resulting from the characters at first being unwilling to accept their new reality and then the permanent changes it brings.

The children born to those infected with the Proxi Two microbe run on all fours—they have heightened strength, speed, and senses. But they do not conform to any stereotype of being “advanced”, or even “good” or “evil”, for that matter. And though the character of Keira, who is sick with leukemia, becomes in a sense “healed” by acquiring the alien disease, it requires such a change in what it means to be human as to make one wonder if “identity” as humans once knew it can survive at all.

As I read the climactic scenes in which there are graphic depictions of rape, gun battles, desire for cannibalism (if not cannibalism outright), and threats of incest and parricide, I couldn’t help but wonder how this resonates with our current ethics when it comes to what is palatable in art and literature, and what the difference is between that which is exploitative and gratuitous and that which is pioneering and empowering. There are certainly some reviewers who have decided there is little value in what Butler is doing with this particular work (for example, here).

The fact that Keira, the terminally ill child, is the family’s only survivor and that even the cult leader Eli doesn’t achieve his ethical goal of preventing the microbe’s spread says something about what “good” really means in this author’s vision. I read the final scenes of this novel thinking that stretching my mind past good and evil, black and white, and even gray becomes necessary to try and understand its emotional reality. For in Clay’s Ark, the value and definition of survival itself is called into question—what does it mean to survive if you no longer know who you are and if you have been abused so badly that the acts of cruelty themselves lose form?

We often think of cults as evil and coercive, and in most stories, they are depicted as such. But beneath such clichés, Octavia Butler has something subtler to say about what happens when people and their world totally change and have to find a way to continue. She ends the novel with very few survivors and a scene with an alive yet infected Keira and her cult-member lover committing to stay together even after the horrors they have experienced. And even though their children won’t be human, the story points out that whatever the way forward might be, a companionship of kindred identities is all that might matter. However strange and alien, however shocking and unlikely, and however offensive to others that kinship might be, it is the closest thing many of us have to something good.


Carl R. Moore is the author of Chains in the Sky and Slash of Crimson and Other Tales, with Seventh Star Press


A Convention’s Tale

Thursday, 10/11:

A slight delay in Chicago landed me in Louisville around seven o’clock. Greeted Holly and Stephen and was pleasantly surprised that my partner-in-crime Daniel Dark was also already present. Set up my table alongside Dark and we went for dinner at a nearby Mexican restaurant and got to hear about each other’s new projects. As far as I was concerned, Imaginarium was already in full swing, as this type of exchange is what it’s all about.

After dinner we made our way back to the Ramada for a bourbon and a cigar. Ever prepared, Dark had black folding chairs with cup holders in his car. A kind of haunted midnight tailgate party ensued. Stephen, Holly, and family joined us, and all were in a good mood with the prospect of enjoying the convention ahead. Although I suck at smoking cigars, I managed to finish one this time around, and it probably also helped me set down the bourbon and say goodnight early so that I could wake up and finish the last chapter of Red December, a horror novel involving hunters and werewolves to be published with Seventh Star Press at a date to be determined. Getting the draft done “sooner the better” is a part of that determination.

Friday, 10/12

Up early and writing. I love writing in the hotel room’s spartan quietude. In many ways, basic is better. The uncluttered desk and the single functioning lamp on a dark, overcast day were the right magic. I finished the final scene, leaving only the epilogue and edits. It was pushing 11:00 a.m., so I would have to hurry to put the finishing touches on my vendor’s table. Happy though that I was disciplined enough to have rested and gotten work done.

Arrived in the dealer room and discovered that Dark and I were set up beside Steven Shrewsbury and J.L. Mulvihill. Was pretty stoked to see Shrews again and his impressive array of fantasy and weird west novels. It was also was a pleasure to meet Jen Mulvihill, and serendipitous to be among these cool folks as the convention kicked into gear in earnest and folks started coming to our tables.

Friday evening we had a fun on the Murder and Mayhem panel (moderated by Dark), followed by dinner with friend and writer Dean Harrison. We got talking and arrived a bit late at publisher Per Bastet’s room party, but had a great catch up chat with author Sara Marian Deurell of Per Bastet, along with R.J. Sullivan and many other friends old and new. By the time I made it back to the room I had a handful of books and business cards and a belly full of Kentucky bourbon. Life was good, but there was more to come, so tried to catch a few zzzz’s.

Saturday, 10/13

Was up reasonably early, made coffee and hit the writing. I had messed up the time the dealer room opened and arrived at my table at 11:00 a.m. instead of 10:00 a.m. Handed out a lot of Mommy and the Satanists flyers, and had a few people download it on the spot. Seems folks took the title in the spirit intended (so to speak) and hope those who downloaded it enjoyed the read. Also sold some copies of Slash of Crimson and Other Tales and swapped a few, too. Met and talked with Tommy B. Smith and Robb Hoff, who I hope to feature here on the blog in the future, and took a walk around to see the other tables. Highlights include the retro post-apocalyptic VW bus and getting to chat with Michael Knost, Stoker-winning author of Return of the Mothman and one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet.

Later that afternoon I saw him again at the Books and Booze panel. This was also moderated by Dark and featured several other authors and friends as panelists. Not going to say much more about this particular panel in order to, as Bon Scott once said, “protect the guilty.” Suffice it to say that the Imadjinn Awards and ensuing dance party that followed were extra-extra-festive for all who attended…

Sunday, 10/14

Wasn’t up early, but was up feeling good. Took some time to write, working on Red December’s epilogue. There’s always a bittersweet feeling on a convention’s last day, the coffee flows a little freer, wistful thoughts of the good times coming to an end mix with the excitement to roll up your sleeves and put to use all the new knowledge and inspiration. Went off to a How to Blog panel I had at 10:00 a.m. moderated by Marian Allen. There were only two of us on the panel but it was fairly well attended for a last-day mid-morning time slot. Had a lively discussion about blogging which feels a little eerie to write about while writing a blog post, like standing between a pair of mirrors and trying to see where the reflection ends…

Arrived a little late at the dealer room due to the panel. Some of the dealers had already packed up, but had a great afternoon with Dark and Jen Mulvihill. Good to keep your table open the last day if you can because a lot of folks decide which books they really want to buy that day. Sold the last of the paperback copies of Slash of Crimson that I’d brought with me and swapped a few for books I’d been eyeing over the weekend.

By evening it was time to say farewell and enjoy the traditional outting to the Troll Pub downtown Louisville. Had a great conversation with Ana Maria and Val Michael Selvaggio and family covering topics from William Gibson to how to draw forest elementals. And of course we all raised a toast to Stephen Zimmer and Holly Marie Phillippe of Seventh Star Press, the originators and organizers of Imaginarium. Without them, the convention would not be, and we thanked them with all our hearts.

Afterward, and since the convention was technically over and I wasn’t flying out until noon the next day, I recruited Dean Harrison to take an urban hike across Louisville and see a bit of the city. As an outdoorsman who has spend a fair amount of time in the woods, and someone who just likes travelling, I’ve always found the urban hike’s a great way to experience a city. Good to do them in stout company and with a certain respect for caution. But really, nothing like watching the neighborhoods and landscapes unveil themselves a block and a street at time.

Going on the good advice of Sara Marian Deurell, we set Highland Tap Room on Bardstown Road as our GPS destination. How we’d get there allowed for some improvisation. Though the “by car” directions call it 4.7 miles, on foot it’s a mere 2.4. Either way, it’s a short jaunt. We headed east out of downtown and ended up on East Jefferson Street. The walk had already taken us through some concrete landscapes dotted with the kind of trees and grass that grow wilder than expected in those corners between highway ramps and industrial lots. Once on East Jefferson, the architecture turned to a mix of historic-abandoned, historic-restored, and a few newly constructed large apartment buildings. Continuing east, we passed the original site of the St. Vincent Orphanage. The buildings had that low-roofed brick with slightly stylized cornices look I’ve taken to be somewhat trademark of southern and mid-western cities. A larger brick building loomed in back. It looked restored and repurposed, though a few of the smaller buildings look rather dark late on a Sunday night.

We moved on to pass under a railroad bridge where a graffiti-laden train slinked above us like a slow moving, tattooed serpent. Our right turn onto Baxter Street beckoned us on. Dean was great company on the urban hike, undaunted by ghosts or serpents, with his eyes on our prize of the refreshment ahead. We stopped briefly by the Bluegrass Canal which was lit up by some construction lighting. It was another spot where the vegetation and trees couldn’t be contained by the concrete and kept whatever secrets it had snug and unseen among its roots. Pressing ahead we discovered we had crossed into a neighborhood called “Nulu”, complete with an abundance of scooters and record stores. The 19th Century townhouses looked a little more restored here, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves in an exquisite distillery, Prohibition Bar, which makes “Agave” spirits in bourbon barrels. I think the bartender thought we were the ghosts when we appeared late on a Sunday night. But he was a good dude for an original take on an Old Fashioned and took us on quick tour of their distilling room. By the time we were done, the bar filled up some and we learned Louisville is undaunted by some after-hours nightlife on a Sunday, hells ya!

Another half-mile past the Eastern Cemetery and some intricate and moderately creepy churches, and we made it to Bardstown Road and the Highlands Taproom. Looked like there were a lot of great vinyl record shops we would have stopped in along the way had it been earlier. And yet despite the late hour and missing the performance of a punk band intriguingly named Nice Job, we deemed the urban hike a success. We killed off the post-convention blues as well as celebrated those electric new prospects already coursing through our veins. The shots of Old Forester and Malort, chased down with a couple glasses of ale also helped. Farewell Imaginarium and Kentucky. See you next year!

Carl R. Moore is the author of Mommy and the Satanists and Slash of Crimson and Other Tales, published by Seventh Star Press.