Showing posts with label zombie writer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label zombie writer. Show all posts

Monday, November 30, 2015

Winter of Zombie 2015: Brice J Chandler

You're reading Books, Beer and BLOGshit! Its the only blog on the internet that is ludacris enough to ride this blog tour out for the whole ride! I am your sore fingered host, Mr. Frank!

This, the next-to-last interview for the Winter of Zombie 2015 Blog Tour, features Brice J Chandler. He's quite handsome. Unless he is a she, in which case, she's quite pretty. But if she is a he well I mean he could be pretty too, you know? I've heard men labeled as pretty before. They are the type of men who are extremely secure in their masculinity too. Unless of course their masculinity is a farce and they are totally feminine, in which case it would be wholely appropriate to call them pretty as well.

Wait, what's going on? Oh ya! Interview with Brice J Chandler! Read his/her interview now!



The Blogshit: Let’s cut to the chase, what are you promoting for the Winter of Zombie?

Brice J Chandler:  I’m promoting alcohol, violence, and tearing shit up… wait, sorry, I thought you meant what kind of writing process do I promote/use. I’m here to promote my novel Whiskey Jack, which has many of the previously mentioned qualities. 

The Blogshit: It’s rarely ever talked about, but how do you envision the outcome of the zombie world you have created? Is there hope? Will humanity succumb to the new world order? What is the outcome of all this horrible zombie business?

Brice J Chandler:   The zombies in my story are probably not going to decompose, at least not any time soon. So the outcome doesn’t look good for humanity.
Even with that bleak forecast, there’s always hope. Without hope, there’s no reason to have a story because no one is going to care about the outcome. If the reader doesn’t think that the protagonists have a shot at making it, then they won’t want to keep reading to see what happens in the end. Besides who the hell wants to read a story where the zombies walk around moaning and grunting because there aren’t any humans to eat.
As far as the outcome for humanity in Whiskey Jack, I’ve contemplated a sequel to the book where I would explore the world after the apocalypse (maybe 25-50 years later). I think humans will still be around, but they’ll need new heroes to help reestablish their place in that world. I might have a returning protagonist, but it’s tough to bring back my heavy drinking, main character from the first novel 25 years later. I’m a writer and a factory worker, and I can barely get up some mornings because my knees, back, or some new pain is killing me. Forget going on a drunken zombie killing spree.

The Blogshit: As a writer of zombie fiction, do you feel you can sustain your career writing about zombies only or do you feel you will need to write outside the sub-genre to continue? What avenues will you branch out to if you do feel a need to expand?

Brice J Chandler:   I initially started writing Whiskey Jack in 2001, when I was on a deployment with the 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit. So, the zombie sub-genre is where I started my career and my first love, but I’ve already branched out into other genres.
I don’t think that all of my writing will be in the genre. I really love the zombie genre, but I have a lot of other worlds I’d like to explore. I’ve had a couple literary short stories published in different places, and I’m currently working on a cross genre zombie/literary and also a post-apocalyptic series with a sci-fi/steampunk basis.



The Blogshit: What is more important to the story: A sympathetic human survivor or a zombie with an interesting storyline?

Brice J Chandler:   That’s an interesting question. Normally, I’d say a sympathetic human, because I think readers will better relate to another human.
As a writer, I’m interested in the zombie’s point of view, especially if they have an interesting story. Like, what if the culprit of the zombie apocalypse – the person who started it (assuming that it was some kind of biological weapon… something like that) – thought that they were doing something to better humanity.
What if that that zombie could tell its story? It might not be much as far as dialogue (some moans and clacking of teeth). Unless they could speak. I think that would make for an interesting story.
What would be really interesting is if such a zombie came face to face with a sympathetic human. How could that zombie justify being the catalyst of the apocalypse to a guy or gal who was forced to kill their loved ones because they turned? That would be really interesting. I’m sure it’s been done. I briefly touched on that idea in Whiskey Jack.  

The Blogshit: For you, who are the most important writers in zombie fiction at this moment?

Brice J Chandler:   The political answer would be to say, “all of the authors on the Winter of Zombie blog tour,” or better, “Armand Rosamilla,” but that really isn’t trying to stay on everyone’s good side or kissing ass. It’s the truth. The indie authors are the people out there fighting in the trenches for readers’ attention. They’re out there saying “hey check this book out. Please give it a chance.” That’s really hard to do as a writer in any genre, but the amazing thing about zompoc authors (and a lot of indie authors in general) is that they work together as a group so that everyone benefits. Armand goes out of his way to help promote the genre and indie authors. There’s also a lot of Facebook groups such as All Things Zombie and Band of Dystopian Authors and Fans that are making huge strives for authors. It’s pretty cool to be a part of that. It’s too bad that I’m sort of a social media introvert, but I’m going to try my best to pull my weight.

The Blogshit: Is there room for sex in the zombie apocalypse?

Brice J Chandler:  Gotta repopulate the Earth somehow. Look back at human history and you’ll find that even in our darkest points of despair there was room for sex. Wars, disease, depression, famine… doesn’t matter. Somewhere in the midst of it all, people were having consensual sex. Why should the zombie apocalypse be any different?



The Blogshit:  How much consideration do you give to the seasons in your zombie stories?

Brice J Chandler:  I’ve written zombie stories set in every season, and I make sure to consider the effects of season on the survivors and the zombies. I’ve been that guy out running around in the desert in summer in full gear with weapons and a heavy pack. Even when you’re in pretty good shape, running a hundred yards in the heat isn’t easy. You have to consider how people are going to operate in the different weather extremes. You also have to consider if a zombie’s brain will freeze in below freezing temps.
Although, to be fair, the seasons and weather are not my number one priorities when I write. I’m generally too focused on trying to create a story I think kicks ass and that my small fan base will love. I think that if I can entertain one reader then I’ve succeeded, regardless if something defies logic and science. It’s the zombie apocalypse after all.

The Blogshit: Our final question always revolves around zombie themed food. This Winter of Zombie, Books, Beer and BLOGshit wants you to consider setting up a food truck to cater to a zombie clientele. What would you name your Zombie Food Truck?


Brice J Chandler:  Brice’s Bloody Burritos and Body Shots. I can make a pretty mean burrito, and I’ve made too many trips to Chipotle or Moe’s where I could barely walk after eating so much. I figure that if I can entice the zombies to eat to the point of being bloated, it’ll make escaping easier after I’ve run out of food. Also every food truck needs to serve alcohol. What zombie wouldn’t love a body shot where they can take a chunk out of a body, just as long as it’s not mine.    


Brice J Chandler on Twitter: https://twitter.com/thewritebrice

Monday, June 22, 2015

Summer of Zombie Blog Tour 2015: Mark Tufo

You're reading Books, Beer and BLOGshit! Its the only blog that has big guns! I am your high caliber blog host, Mr. Frank!

Today is a super special day on the BLOGshit. We have a Mark Tufo EXCLUSIVE! That's right, you're only going to be able to read this right here on Books, Beer and BLOGshit! One of the options we gave to the blog tour participants was to write a short piece about, "What I Did On My Zombie Summer Vacation." This was the option we were most hoping the writers would go with. Not many did but the ones we got are magnificent!

So here and here only, I present to you, Mark Tufo's What I Did On My Zombie Summer Vacation as told by Mark's nefarious zombie clown, Timmy!

Let 'er rip!



Timmy’s Summer Apocalypse

“Timmy? Timmy? Wake up! This is class not your tomb where only hell knows what you do!”
Mrs. Grimestein shrieked, shredding through her taut vocal chords. Timmy’s classmates giggled in a
deep groaning manner befitting of the newly teenaged dead. “It is your turn to speak.” Her tongue
peeked and poked out through the hole in the side of her cheek sometimes she would bite down on it
hard enough to draw blood and would pause as her eyes rolled up and she drank deeply of the brackish fluid. Timmy stood, he was enormous for thirteen, already well over six feet tall and two hundred pounds, he’d used his size advantage to his benefit for as long as he could remember, intimidating his classmates and sometimes his teachers.

Of them all it was Mrs. Grimestein with her gray rotting flesh that had never been able to see his
vastly superior size as scary. She would mock him at every turn, he would later learn that this was her way of keeping him ‘small’ but for now he went to the head of the class to deliver his Summer
Apocalypse report. He was all too aware of the condition his umm rigor mortis was causing, the front of his pants stuck out like he had a narwhal tucked down there. His classmates moaned in derision as his member preceded him. Timmy turned and faced the room, his face twisted up in strain as he let loose the build of up of gaseous pressure within his colon, ribbons of Bob the janitor’s undigested lower intestines fell from Timmy’s rectum pooling up in the seat of his pants, making the tight clothes that much more uncomfortable. Wendy Walker wrinkled up her nose from the offending smell then began to lick at the air like a snake sampling a scent. Timmy cleared his throat, a wet bloody ball of phlegm and fibrous material shot out from his mouth and fell with a squishing sound to the floor. Don Deader and Sara Shambler fought for the food ort.

“What I did for my summer apocalypse.” He started, his voice sounding like he had tiny bits of razor sharp coral shoved down his throat causing the vocalized air to be thick and coated in fluid. “Her name was Vivian.” There was a sneering snicker rippling throughout the class until he gazed at each and every one of his classmates threatening to stuff their heads into long unflushed toilets. “Vivian
Deneaux.” He continued. “She tried to kill me, had a gun pressed to my forehead. The joke was on her though it was empty. I bit her outstretched hand so hard I ripped her thumb clean off!” The front of Timmy’s pants which had been deflating, once again began to inflate with the thought. “The crunch of her brittle bones was heavenly the burst of marrow like a cream filled snack.” His eyes took on a dreamy expression. “I stripped her thumb of meat like a chicken bone, her screams of pain and shock like a deep am...am (he struggled with the unfamiliar word) am...”

“Ambrosia.” Mrs. Grimestein said leaning around his side to look at his paper.

“Yeah ambrosia. I moved up the length of her arm, the loose flesh from her upper arm pulled away with only some slight tugging I knew it was going to be tender.” He was drooling slightly now. “I
held her up as I chewed through the fatty wriggly meat. I slurped every delicious morsel. She was still screaming which I found amazing for someone so old. Usually they die pretty quickly, not this one though she was a tough old bird, I mean in the head not in the body that was as tender as fine
steakhouse aged steak. When I was done on her arm there wasn’t meat enough for a maggot and still the bitch wouldn’t die. Then I got an idea.” He pointed to his head like he was amazed something other than ‘eat...shit’ passed through there.

“Really?” Mrs. Grimestein also seemed surprised.

“She wouldn’t die so I saved her.”

There was an audible gasp from his classmates who were now rapt with his report.

“Yeah I saved her for later!” And then he laughed a wild maniacal thing. “She tasted so good I didn’t want to eat her in just one sitting, so I would bring another meal home and eat in front of her. She
would look at me sometimes wondering why I was doing that but I didn’t care. I like my food to be
aware of what is going to happen to them. When I was done with the little girl, I grabbed the old biddy’s lower calf, she struggled pretty hard for someone with one arm and about three thousand years behind her. Didn’t matter I bit through the bottom of her heel and ripped a chunk of flesh easily an inch...”

“Timmy!” Mrs. Grimestein started.

“Sorry, two point five three centimeters thick.’

“That’s better.”

“She had fat callouses and a few plantars warts that...I mean I just can’t describe how good it was. I mean even better than the first eyeball I ever ate.”

The class sighed thinking of their first times.

“Oh and the screams, it was an added am...am...”

“Ambience.” Mrs. Grimestein prodded. “Go on.” Seemed she was interested as well.

“I thought for sure she’d die but I think maybe she’s too mean for that. So on and on it went the entire summer, I would kill and eat someone and then take a portion of Deneaux as an after dinner mint, her calves, the sallow flesh of her thighs, just last week I ate her sex, have to admit that wasn’t the best part, sort of moldy but still better than most.”

“Is that it?” Mrs. Grimestein asked.

“Not quite I wanted to finish with a show and tell.” Timmy shuffled out of the room, he came back in pulling a chain. A furious old woman whose eyes blazed red was being dragged behind him, the chain wrapped tightly around her neck. Her arms and legs reduced to yellow bone as they scraped against the flooring. The class eyed her hungrily as she left a slimy trail of pus behind her.

“She is not one of us yet she is still alive?” Mrs. Grimestein had come closer. “I thought perhaps your story a fabricated tale Timmy, then I remembered you lacked the imagination.”

Timmy hadn’t heard a word his teacher said. “I present to you class, a gift. You can eat what remains though it will spoil it for every other meal you will ever have.” Chairs started moving backwards as his classmates arose. “First though! First Grimestein must die.”

There had never been a zombie on zombie killing before that day but never had something as special as that old crone ever been offered up as a motive. The rest of the day the class lazily ripped meat from Deneaux’s torso all the while she cursed and spat at them and finally begged for a cigarette before her eyes dimmed and closed.

“I cannot wait for school tomorrow. I have another surprise.” Timmy said as he walked out of the room. “I wonder what table wine goes with a Tal...” The door closed behind him and the rest was lost to the wind.

Thank you for having me on your blog and I hope you guys enjoy the short! -Mark Tufo

Zombie Author Mark Tufo


Woo! I think we all need a cigarette after that bit of juicy Tufo! While you're inhaling carcinogens, why not take a look at the links to all things Mark Tufo. Its equally orgasmic we assure you!

Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=mark+tufo

email
mark@marktufo.com

website
www.marktufo.com

Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mark-Tufo/133954330009843?ref=hl

Twitter
@zombiefallout

Here's a shameless promotion for no particular reason