Okay, so it turns out "soon" is a very nebulous and relative concept. I am still planning on posting the SF journal, someday. Keep the faith.

In the meantime, enjoy this story about eleven "petrified" (actually mummified, it seems) corpses found in a ghost ship that washed up in Barbados recently. Creepy, disturbing stuff, especially for a dude who has written stories like this one and is fascinated by sea monsters. Plus, I find the anticipation of one's own death heart-rending in situations like this, not as much for the self, fearing death, as for figuring out how to say goodbye to loved ones. Anyway, discuss, and stay tuned.

Well, I've been gone a while. Work, you know, and not having anything interesting to say. However, last weekend I found myself in San Francisco at the World Horror Convention with my editor-in-chief from City Slab, hanging out with literary horror types and having a great time. I kept a journal of my experiences and plan to post some of the more interesting bits in the coming days, so keep yer eyes peeled.

Also, I wanted to announce that my MFA classmate and friend Lein Shory, the genius behind The Irate Savant and the abortive but promising Spectral City, has stepped out from behind the curtain due to a family crisis. His newborn son, Logan, was born with a heart defect and has been struggling mightily to hang on, so far with good success. Lein is keeping friends and fans posted on Logan's progress, as well as blogging his own incisive and informative interior monologues, at Ad Hoc Existence, so stop by over there and give him your good wishes. And donations, too, if you're so inclined.

And stay tuned to ScottStandridge.com. I'll post soon, I swear.

Well, I guess you're all chomping at the bit to hear how things went at this year's Pub or Perish event, especially since I blogged so entertainingly about my experience there last year. Well, the Arkansas Literary Festival that occasioned the reading was a lot of fun, and the wife and I spent too much money on books (if there's any money left over, we'll buy food), just the right amount of money on beer, and also got to hear three wonderful Arkansas-connected authors read from their stuff (Kevin Brockmeier, Donald Harington, and personal Scott-favorite and literary hero Jack Butler, all of whom you should read. Like, NOW.) But what about Pub or Perish 2006, I hear you ask breathlessly--how'd it go? Well, I'll tell you:

Meh.

I've been holding on to this bit of news until it was completely and utterly official, but now the time has come to share it with everyone--my short story, "Till the Lord Comes," has been accepted for inclusion in The Undead 2: Zombie Anthology, slated for publication by Permuted Press later this year.

This is a big deal. Not only is it the first time I've broken into print in rather a long time, but it's also the first time ever that I will be appearing in an actual honest-to-God book. Granted, Permuted Press is a small press (based, as I didn't know until my story was accepted, in Mena, Arkansas, scant hours from my pleasure-dome in Little Rock), but the first volume of The Undead received rave reviews from just about everyone in the horror biz who chanced upon a copy, so the second volume should garner more than a few curious glances.

The other day at the gym I did 4 miles on a treadmill for the first time.

The jaundiced eye of the dead man stared at Phillip dryly from the corpse's resting place under the bed, not in accusation but rather a kind of tired disappointment.

You know, I'm as skeptical as the next guy, and more willing to listen to alternative explanations of miraculous phenomena than many of my neighbors, but even even-minded rational folks like me have to admit that this little bit of extrapolation is, well, all wet:

Did Jesus Walk on Water, or Ice?

A good friend and better blogger, Rob of Realitique fame, alerted me and the rest of his readers to a fascinated burgeoning blog that will hold your attention if, like me, you enjoy the odd and slightly surreal. A bit of the Lovecraftian, a bit of the de Quincey, a bit of the Good Old Doctor. Give it a click, check it out:

SPECTRAL CITY.

I walk across the street and look up. The Transamerica Tower extends upward like a jeweled white dagger into the blue heart of the sky. Somewhere, perhaps cocealed in the braches of one of the full-sized potted trees that line the street, a bird chirps. Some say birds sing, happily, but this animal voice seems to me empty of emotion or thought--meaningless, instinctual noise. Because I cannot find its source, the bird's song seems also eerily disembodied, artificial. It occurs to me that it's quite possible there is no bird at all--that what I hear might be one of those ambient atmosphere tapes; the bird who'd sung it probably years dead. The voice of a ghost. A chill settles on the bare nape of my neck despite the May sunshine. I can't think of ghosts without shivering. Even small ones. Even birds.

Even Jessica Simpson wants to distance herself from the President.

Also, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill embarassed by Bush's Katrina Response.

Is the GOP losing the Dukes of Hazzard and Country Singing Star constituency? Boy, things are more grim than even I imagined.

Oh well, at least they've still got that paragon of artistic integrity Toby Keith driving his Ford in the cavalcade. (In case you didn't know, that's all he drives.)