Mythic Picnic

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Feedback from a Dead Man

by Kenneth M. Gray / @KennethMGRAY2
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The first attendee for my new writers' workshop showed up. "Come in, you're the first to arrive."

"I'm Darla,” she said, and walked past my desk. "What a cool old typewriter. Is this what you write on?"

"Don't touch that!"

She tapped the space bar.

"Fuck me."

She made a face and said, "Sorry. My bad."

The room chilled.

"And who's this gorgeous doll? Way out of your league, Murkle. What is she, a hooker or am I interrupting a kidnapping?"

"Not now." I jerked my head toward the kitchen, signaling Chuck to meet me there. "What will it take for you to go back in the typewriter for a few hours? I'll leave Euphoria on all night. Change your typewriter ribbon. Name it.”

Chuck took a long pull on his cigarette and said, "Nah, I wouldn't miss whatever this is for a million bucks."

"I thought you said you lived alone?" Darla shouted from the living room.

"I do. I was asking Alexa to play some music. Alexa, shuffle pop songs."

"I don't think so. Alexa, play Sinatra," Chuck said.

Fly Me to the Moon started playing.

"How did you do that?"

"One of my many spooky powers, Murkle. Fun fact. I can interact with the living world. See, hear, occasionally touch, but not smell it. Weird right? But don't worry, I can still hear your Big Mac farts when you sleep."

"Wait. You watch me sleep?"

"Maybe."

I left that hanging, went to answer the door, and let the rest of my class in.

Darla told everyone, "Don't touch his typewriter. He's totally anal about it."

I set everybody up in my living room. "Welcome to Murkle's Manuscript Masterclass."

"Masterclass? Don't tell me they're paying for this. This has to be illegal, Murkle."

"I need to find a good exorcist." Shit, I said that out loud.

I ignored the group’s puzzled looks. "Let’s introduce ourselves. I'll start. I'm an award-winning author—"

"Dunkin Donuts' customer of the month doesn't count, Murkle."

I sighed and kept going, "My Tank Bronson screenplay is currently making the rounds."

Chuck laughed. "Yeah, circling round the toilet bowl. Even my edits couldn't save that turd."

"Okay, let's start on the left and tell us what you will be reading tonight."

"Hello, I'm Susan, and I'll be reading from my YA Supernatural-Romance-Murder Mystery-Time Travel novel: The Tenth Time My Cat Died.”

Chuck coughed. "Jeez, lady, pick a lane."

"Hi, Todd here. I would like to read an excerpt from my kickass sword and sorcery trilogy: Zzarloock and the Dragons of ÜÜlargblastan’n."

Chuck did a whiskey spit take. "What? This drip never met a consonant he didn’t like."

Darla curtsied and said, "My piece will be from my WIP: Fifty Shades of Ent. My sexy-erotic-romantic fantasy."

"Sexy and erotic? Wow, beauty and—well, beauty." Chuck cleared his throat and said in a condescending voice, "Hi, I'm Charles Wangford, and I'll be reading from Slow Death by Murkle."

"Not now!"

"What?" everyone asked.

"Nothing. Uh, Alexa…not now. Please continue."

"They call me Janice. I'm gonna read from my ongoing Substack series Lesbian Biker Chicks Stomp a Mudhole in a Nazi."

I felt Chuck's cold, dead breath on my ear. "I'd read that."

I shivered. "That was creepy as fuck."

"What?! Fuck you, man. I could tell you were a woman-hating, squeaky little homophobe the minute I met you."

Chuck chuckled. "She's got your number."

"What? No. I wasn't talking about your story."

"What then?"

"Um… I… um… fuck!"

"Fuck you too, man!" she said and stormed out, followed by the rest of the class.

"Well, that went well," Chuck said, and took a swig of whiskey.

"Damn it. Chuck, I needed that money."

"Look at the bright side, Murkle. Now you know there are four writers out there worse than you."

"Fuck me."

"Look, 'They Call Me Janice' left behind Biker Chicks. Let's go to bed, and you can read it to me. You think it has illustrations?"

"Yeah, right," I said, and went to my bedroom with the manuscript and locked the door.

Chuck appeared on my bed. "Like that was gonna keep me out."

He waggled his eyebrows and patted the bed. "Come on, Murkle, you know you want to read it."

"Creepy. As. Fuck." I said.

.

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Rewrites From a Dead Man

By Kenneth M. Gray / @KennethMGRAY2
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Lately, I've been working on my Tank Bronson screenplay at Dunkin Donuts. Chuck can’t manifest very far from his typewriter. Tonight's storm had me snowed in, like Jack Torrance but without the baggage.

I held my breath, flipped back my tablet cover, and went to Scrivener.

A is for Apocalypse—Z is for Zombie

By Kevin Murkle

FADE IN

INT. - BAR - NIGHT

Tank Bronson leans against the bar, talking to Moshe, the one-armed, eye-patched bartender.

Tank Bronson: Hey, look what I found, Moshe?

CAMERA ZOOMS IN

A jar of hard-boiled eggs sits on top of the bar

Moshe sighs loudly

CAMERA ZOOMS OUT

Tank Bronson is holding a hard-boiled egg up to Moshe's face

Tank Bronson: Your other eye, Moshe. Get it?

Moshe: It wasn't funny the last five times you said it.

A woman wearing an AC/DC tank top with one big ole tittie poking out puts her hand on Tank Bronson's shoulder.

Nipples Malone: I think he lost his sense of humor, along with his arm and eye.

Tank Bronson: Good one, Nipples.

CAMERA TURNS TO BAR FRONT

The bar's window explodes inward. Misshapen bodies crawl through the opening, grabbing panicked bar patrons.

Tank Bronson - Nipples Malone - Moshe: Space Zombies!

Nipples Malone leaps from the bar stool and whips out a Glock from her purse.

Tank Bronson tosses a shotgun to Moshe and fires up his trademark chainsaw.

BEGIN TITLES OVER FIGHT SCENE IN BAR

A chill entered the room, bringing with it the stink of ashtray and cheap whiskey.

"Fuck me," I said and closed out Scrivener.

Charles Wangford, the deceased author of the Jake Rattle novels The Dead Don't Snitch, Slideswipe, and The Corpse With a Hole in its Face, and my own personal pain-in-the-ass typewriter-haunting ghost, decided to make an appearance.

"Too late, Murkle, I saw that. Already given up on writing the great American crime novella? And what's with the zombie shit? It sounds like that R.L. Stine snot-nosed, pimply-faced drivel."

"Hey, Chuck." He hates it when I call him Chuck. "Nobody is reading private dick noir anymore. It's a dead genre. No offense.”

Chuck shrugged and lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of his old one. I think he enjoys being dead, drifting around my apartment and busting my balls.

“Horror sells, Chuck, and the bloodier, the better. I'm going to pitch this baby to Netflix. Netflix'll buy anything."

"And you're writing it on that little gizmo?"

"It's an iPad Pro."

"Bukowski's hairy balls! Real men write on typewriters, not a Goddamned Etch A Sketch!"

"Let me guess, you think my screenplay is horseshit."

"Yes. Go sit at my IBM Selectric while I get more whiskey and smokes."

"I always meant to ask: how do you get cigarettes and whiskey after you kick the bucket?"

"In the afterlife, you’re surrounded by all the things you love."

"Whiskey and cigarettes?'

"Yep. You think I wanted to be surrounded by my ex-wives? No, that would be hell, Murkle."

I smelled his nicotine-ghosty breath over my shoulder as I inserted paper into the typewriter.

I heard knuckles crack.

"First: the title. It's too much. Just call it Space Zombies. Keep it simple. Never underestimate how dumb your audience is.

"Second: you need a little foreshadowing. Show a spaceship crashing and these zombie assholes heading toward the city.

"Third: define your characters. What is their relationship to each other? Is the woman his partner, his girlfriend, or just a hooker with a Glock?"

The room got colder. Chuck was on a roll.

"Fourth: the main character throws a pump-action shotgun to a one-armed man. Envision the scene. Act it out. Use what little brain you haven’t destroyed with drugs."

I swear I felt his cold dead hand smack me in the back of my head.

"Fifth: what the fuck is wrong with you? Nipples Malone? 'With one big ole tittie poking out'? What're you, twelve?! Give her a classy name like Aureola Anderson. That was the name of the female private dick in my unfinished novel Death By Double Ds. You can have it."

The keys on the IBM started clacking spontaneously.

"Now let's polish this Space Zombie turd of yours."

.

Stay tuned for more Critiques From a Dead Man, coming soon!

Critiques From a Dead Man

A collection of stories by @KennethMGRAY2

Check this thread for new Dead Man stories by Kenneth M Gray

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