#WinterofZombie is Coming…


This is more or less a teaser for ya…

Once again, November will be Winter of Zombie blog tour time and this year I am opening it up to not only the great zombie authors I’ve worked with in the past, but the new ones as well!

Starting September 1st (or around there) I will begin accepting zombie authors onto the list who are interested in participating in the event. A few things you need to know before you send me a message in September, though:

1. You have to have RELEASED a Zombie book. Seems common sense, but…

2. Your Zombie release has to be out before October 15th so I can get all the material for it well ahead of time. Unfortunately, I will no longer accept authors promoting books being released in November or beyond, since it’s (quite frankly) a pain in the ass to update posts, especially when you’re talking 150+ posts I put together for the month. You need to have everything ready to go as soon as I ask for it. 

3. You’ll be expected to do a Spotlight On interview, 2 (or more) Guest Posts and a teaser for your Zombie release. You’re also expected to share all of the other posts each day and spread the word. 

4. The goal is only 35 Zombie authors, and we had three times that many not able to get in during the Summer of Zombie event, so this will be a First Come First Served type of deal. I make ALL decisions and if you’ve been on previous tours you know I don’t take kindly to slackers and those who only promote themselves (those people won’t be on the tour again)

5. Got it? September 1st send me an e-mail to  armandrosamilia@gmail.com with WINTER OF ZOMBIE in the subject line and any questions you have and tell me you want in. I’ll begin putting the list together and asking for material asap. I create a secret group for the authors involved and all the info will be there, too. Deadline will be October 15th for all material to be in. Gives you plenty of time if accepted. NO EXCEPTIONS this year, either. You’re either 100% in or you’re not. 

6. The actual event page (where all the actual posts will go and people can join and read all of them) is now live ahead of time at WINTER OF ZOMBIE on Facebook. Join it and feel free to add all of your fans and friends, too! 

Armand Rosamilia



Guest Post: Joseph Falank



There was no way to know his wife was going to be murdered; the most horrific twist of irony when considering a discussion that took place on their second date some thirteen years earlier. They had been sharing stories of the worst dates they’d ever been on. The kind of thing two people talk about after too much wine.

He spent much of that night staring across the table at the woman he believed far too beautiful for him. This wasn’t Miles selling himself short, thinking she was way beyond his league; it’s just that he wasn’t a complete idiot to the fact that he was the luckiest guy sitting in Tony’s Restaurant (and made sure to pray his silent thanks when she got up to use the bathroom). To further drive this point forward came numerous sly gestures of the congratulatory kind from other patrons sitting nearby—winks and nods, even a big ol’ thumbs-up from an older man in a pink polo two tables away, he who also licked his rubbery lips suggestively at the same time. Of these silent manners of congrats directed his way Miles was appreciative; of the old man a bit weirded out. It’s always nice to know when other people think you’ve scored well beyond your means.

This girl was indeed beautiful. Stunning, even. Dressed in simple black and pinstripe slacks over leather boots that itched the curiosity as to how high they traveled up her calf, along with a turquoise wraparound sweater that matched her eyes. Her shoulder length auburn hair had been straightened. This, he learned through a prior conversation, took considerable time and patience and effort to rid the natural kink she maintained fresh out of the shower. The enticing image of her stepping out of the tub that popped in his head resulted in another considerable itch of curiosity.

Such distracting thoughts, however, needed to be shoved out of mind. If she caught him not paying attention because he was too busy picturing what she looked like naked there would be a sharp decline in the possibility of that fantasy becoming a reality. He’d already missed out on something she said about her mother having Lyme disease. Or maybe that her mother was allergic to limes. He couldn’t remember.

So instead he lingered on the beauty he could see rather than imagined. Her makeup was simple. No bold raccoon eyes, no rosy enhancement of the cheeks; her lipstick was non-existent, only a sheen layer of Blistex to keep them from chapping. She was nothing like the lineup of painted women dolled up in fishnets in the bar at the front of the restaurant, whose heavy application rivaled rodeo clowns and left behind thick residues of ruby red on their downed glasses of Chardonnay.

Those who also sported purchased tans. In the middle of winter.

Miles would not call Stephanie hot by any means. He always regarded that term as derogatory. A woman’s hotness factor was determined by the amount of add-ons and touchups; tucks here, there, everything defying gravity and age. Barely-there clothing that barely covered up what really wasn’t there underneath it all, beneath the glossy surface. Being hot never improved upon a terrible personality. And hot women tended to have more mileage on them than a New York City taxi, along with a comparable amount of work performed under the hood.

This woman, Stephanie, wasn’t supplemented, augmented, or boosted. She wasn’t fake. No Plain Jane either, she was simply beauty and comfort. From her clothes to her fair skin to the way she carried herself. Humble, casual, and confident without an air of pretentiousness. Everything he had been looking for. Everything that made him feel relaxed, feel grounded, when his anxiety wanted to skyrocket him through the paneled ceiling.

And thank God when it came time to order she gave the waiter actual items off the entrée list. If she had ordered a salad, Miles may have gone back to picturing her naked. At that point who cared if he paid attention?

The topic of their worst dates came up midway through their last refill of Pinot Noir. Both were on their fourth glass.

Miles went first.

“Well, does it count if I got stood up?”

Stephanie flashed a pouty frown full of sympathy. “Oh no, that really happened to you?”

He took a shallow gulp from his glass and shrugged in a manner that said yeah, oh well, what can you do?

“Why didn’t she show up?”

Miles explained, “I should tell you first that this girl had been divorced for a while. We went out a couple of times and things were going really well. She was an NP over at Wilson. We were going to meet up for coffee on a Sunday afternoon after her shift ended. So I got to the café, an hour passed. I tried texting, I tried calling. Nothing.”

“So she never said anything?”

“Oh she did,” Miles said. He took another sip of wine. “About four days later. She sent me a text and apologized. She said she just couldn’t go through with our date because right as she was leaving work she got really sick. Turned out she was pregnant. With her ex-husband’s baby.”

The reaction was priceless. Stephanie’s eyes doubled in size. Her mouth almost made a perfect O, the awe lowering her jaw like a shocked cartoon character. “No way!”

Full of pride, Miles lifted his glass by the stem and tipped it in his date’s direction. “Beat that, if you can.” He drained what red was left.

Before Stephanie began the story of her worst date she drained the remainder of the wine in her glass as well, about two fingers full, and said she’d need another refill on hand while telling it, but asked, “How long ago were you stood up?”

Miles got the attention of a waiter. “About three weeks ago.”

“Did you meet her on the site?” She was referring to LocalSingles.com, the online dating pool where she and Miles had begun conversing a week ago.

Miles nodded. A waiter arrived at their table with a fresh bottle of Pinot. He went through the process of unwrapping the cork and opening the bottle in front of them. Their glasses were filled three-fourths to the rim. Miles paused until the waiter was gone before resuming their conversation. “With the exception of you, that site’s been a bust.”

Stephanie smiled. “That’s nice of you to say, but I saw all the winks and pokes you got on your profile page. There were a lot of girls interested in you. What if I’m keeping you from one of them, maybe the one you’re supposed to be with?”

He waited for the rush of the wine to hit his senses. There was the feeling of slick warmth sliding down his throat. He felt a quiver in his stomach that was begging for food but fueling on red. It took a few seconds before the fog of the alcohol blossomed inside of him. “I don’t think it works that way,” he said.

After a healthy swallow of her own, Stephanie reapplied a thin layer of Blistex. “You don’t, huh?”

“There’s always a reason for things,” explained Miles. He could see it then on her face, that pretty face tinted by the burst capillaries in her cheeks. By the adorable twitch in her nose something had clicked in Stephanie’s mind. She leaned in closer, their conversation turning exclusive. Private. The remainder of those in the restaurant were cut off. It was only the two of them that existed now. Miles felt a distinct rise in the temperature around him. That likely had to do with the fact that when Stephanie leaned toward him the V in her sweater opened slightly, revealing a bit more of her skin and the top of the line that began her cleavage. He fought to keep eye contact.

“So then,” she said, “are you implying there’s a reason you and I are here right now?”

The provocative way she worded the question, the emphasis and soft tone she used made him wonder if she was feeling out their situation. She was being quite forward, and this was likely due to her own skimming under the veil of her own alcoholic haze. He liked her, definitely. A lot. But in his current state—where the lights in the room were just beginning to glow soft and puffy—he didn’t want to assume anything. This—their second meeting and first official date—had been going perfectly so far. No need to scare her off.

“I just think there’s a reason for everything,” he said. He then took up his glass in a private toast. “Even the strangest things happen for a reason.”


The Painted Lady. Excerpt courtesy of Joseph Falank (author) and Winter Goose Publishing (publisher).

All rights reserved. 2015.





Joseph Falank lives with his wife and daughter in his hometown in upstate New York. He is the author of SEEING, a quiet coming-of-age tale, and the upcoming THE PAINTED LADY, a fractured supernatural mystery/thriller that sees a widower encounter strange happenings after meeting an unusual woman. THE PAINTED LADY will be available on August 5thwherever books are sold.







Armand Rosamilia – Summer of Zombie Box Set

Armand Rosamilia #SummerofZombie #dyingdays

Life With Words

Summer of Zombie Box Set

What is the Summer of Zombie Box Set?

What authors and books are included?

Meet one of the authors and hear a tidbit about his book below:

Name: Armand Rosamilia

Author Armand Rosamilia

What is the title of your book that’s included in the Summer of Zombie Box Set? Dying Days: Origins

Dying Days: Origins by Armand Rosamilia

Who is your favorite character in that book? Definitely the lead, Tosha Shorb. She was already a standout for me and readers from Dying Days 2, and this is her prequel to explain how the zombie apocalypse began for her and her twin sister.

Are there any “author secrets” in your title (things you included or ideas you had that aren’t shared with readers in the title)? Of course! There are several characters who appear in other parts of the Dying Days world, and hints about a few long-term plot twists throughout. For instance, the Lyssa character will appear in

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Guest Post: Roger Jackson


The Song of the Counter-Intuitive


Roger Jackson

Every writer has their quirks, I think. Whether it be a constant supply of coffee chuckling blackly to itself beside them, or a place where the sunlight is perfect, or even, as Annie Wilkes suggests in Misery, a pair of handmade writing slippers, every writer has a gimmick of their own, perhaps even the smallest talisman or routine that greases the wheels of the writing process. A lot of writers need peace and quiet, absolute silence when they create, but it’s fair to say that most authors I’ve spoken to listen to music when they write, perhaps with the volume cranked up to its apex, rattling the kitchenware like a poltergeist, perhaps with their ears couched in the intimate embrace of an isolating pair of headphones. They listen to what they like, what relaxes them. They listen to what their characters like, or the music that’s playing in a particular scene. They listen to movie soundtracks, something that fits or sets the mood of the moments they’re creating.

I’ve done that, and sometimes it works, but I’ve found something else that works, too. Ones instinct is to listen to music that’s appropriate for a scene, the driving beats of a chase or a struggle, the sweeping strings of a romantic interlude. That works, but I’ve also found it useful to take a different approach, to think counter-intuitively about what music might accompany certain given moments.

To offer an example. I’ve a scene in a novel I’ve written where a character is confronted by a horribly twisted version of a deceased family member. Let’s give this character the entirely fake name of Steve, just in case the novel is ever sold, and someone reading this reads the novel and is like, “Hey, I know what happens in this part! Spoilers! This novel is DEAD to me!” (how’s that for writerly optimism?). Anyways, Steve is trapped with this apparition, and I’ve paced the scene very quickly, nice and terse, lots of breathless paragraphs as Steve’s scared companion tries to break into the room in which he’s trapped with something monstrous.

And it is monstrous. Like most Horror writers, I’m pretty proud of my twisted track record, proud of any moments I’ve written that have touched the reader with fear or disgust or dread. I’d like to think I’ve done a few of those, but this scene … it’s dark. It’s the darkest thing I’ve ever written, maybe. Hopefully, there’s a raw, visceral quality to it that’ll unsettle. There’s imagery, yes, but I don’t think that’s where the Horror comes from. I don’t think it comes from how the monster moves, or what it’s saying, or the terrible transformation that the dead family member seems to have undergone. I think the Horror of that particular moment comes from how heartbreaking it is for Steve to see what’s happened to someone so well-loved, so very missed. He’s terrified, yes, but if we’re playing a kind of psychological rock-paper-scissors game here, then in this instance heartbreak vanquishes terror, hands down.

And so the Horror is borne not from what Steve can see, but what he can feel, and what he feels is a terrible, empty grief, a moment that needs not a soundtrack of action, where there’s an apparition advancing and a concerned companion trying to break in fast enough to rescue him, but a sadder tune, one that reflects the core of the scene. That was the kind of music I listened to when I wrote it, and it seemed to give the sequence the tone that it needed.

I’d suggest giving it a try. Maybe you’re writing something and the words are flowing but the mood of the scene, the beating heart of it, is stuttering on the page. It might be because the coffee is cold, or the sunlight is fading, or even that your handmade writing slippers are pinching your toes, but it might be that your chosen music isn’t oiling the cogs of your imagination like it should.

It might be that you, and the moment your characters find themselves in, need a different song.




Roger Jackson lives in the United Kingdom, drinking tea and owning more Geeky tee-shirts than he will ever live long enough to wear, unless he lives forever, which is sort of the plan. He writes scary stories because he has to, and the most recent to scramble from the graveyard of his brain are the short story, “No-Man’s Land” in the Grey Matter Press anthology Equilibrium Overturned, and his novella, “Cradle Of The Dead” from BloodBound Books. Writing about himself in the third person really creeps him out.


Twitter: @jabe842

Blog: jabe842.wordpress.com

The Sequel Life

“Hoboken Hellmouth” is released! #horror #humor

Our Darkest Fears

hobokenSometimes a good story needs to be told…

… or in the case of Hoboken Hellmouth, four authors couldn’t leave a story alone.

Solomon, the hero and reigning Hellmouth, is back for another round of crazy supernatural shenanigans in the follow up to the wildly irreverent Hollywood Hellmouth. Why did Armand Rosamilia, Jay Wilburn, Jack Wallen, and myself return to the Hellmouth’s world to torture poor Solomon again?

Because in Hollywood, it’s all about the sequel baby! We were also bound to do it because we couldn’t write a trilogy without having a second book. I mean give us some credit…

No seriously, why would we go back and bring a down-on-his-luck Solomon cross-country to Jersey of all places?

We did because we still had something to say. The first book ended up becoming our satirical look at Hollywood and the lengths people will go to be successful in such an environment…

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Guest Post: Kevin Bond


Why You Should Carry A Rock in the Zombie Apocalypse

We’ve all seen the meme: “Quick! The first thing on your left is your weapon in the zombie apocalypse! What is it?”

It always ends up being a paperclip, a coffee cup, or a guitar pick, and unless you’re Riddick, none of those are going to be useful for killing zombies.

Of course, a kitchen knife isn’t far away, and you’ve probably got a baseball bat in the garage. Those of us who are more prepared may have an arsenal for backup, gun enthusiasts and knife collectors. You might even have a detailed plan for how to survive the zombie apocalypse.

I’m going to propose a different line of thinking, though, and I guarantee you’ve never thought of it before:

You should carry a rock in the zombie apocalypse.

Not a boulder, not a rock the size of a soccer ball. Just a simple stone that will fit into the palm of your hand. And it’s not a big deal if you lose this stone. It’s very easy to find a new one.


Because it will save your life.

You can carry a rock in the palm of your hand, out of sight, and it becomes a projectile weapon. You’ll need to train yourself to aim well, so throw a lot.

You could throw a knife too, but a knife is not necessarily expendable, and it’s harder to throw a knife straight than it is to throw a rock. And again, rocks are easy to find.

If you don’t have a spring-assisted knife or a straight blade in your hand already, then if you get a sudden surprise, you may not have enough time to get your knife out and ready. Holding on to a small stone means that you have an instant weapon for instant surprises, like zombies, or thieves.

A stone is much more dense than your hands, so bashing someone’s face in with it will do much more damage than you could do with your hands.

Plus, if you find yourself in a sudden end of the world situation, and you haven’t prepared for it, you may not have a weapon. Having a rock will give you something hard to hit with.

Thousands of years ago, it was common for people to be killed by stoning them. The blunt force trauma from multiple rock projectiles was enough to do major damage to a person.

You don’t need to have fancy weapons to kill someone if you have to. Carrying a rock can provide you with an easy way to distract a zombie or a person who wants to kill you or wants your stuff.
Even if you’re not under a sudden attack, it’s not noticeable that you’re holding something (go for a thinner, smooth rock), so as long as you have good aim, throwing it at the person should give you enough time to escape.

I guarantee this will work, because no one is thinking like this. Throwing rocks at people is just so unheard of.

Remember when you were a little kid and you were throwing rocks at other kids on the playground? No? Well then, I guess I was the weirdo. Anyway, your mom scolded you, and it’s kind of ingrained in your head not to throw things at people.

No one is going to suspect that you’re prepared to throw a rock at them. Practice throwing, and your impact will send them a very clear message.

There may be times when you don’t want to escape, but instead want to steal whatever that person has (remember, it’s the end of days, and just about anything goes) before they steal from you and leave you for dead. In that case, hitting them with that rock will hurt and distract them long enough for you to close in for the kill.

In case you run into a group of scavengers, though, your best bet is to run and live to fight another day.

For zombies, it doesn’t matter if that rock hurts them, because it won’t kill them, and it won’t send them down to the ground unless you throw a really mean rock. The distraction is what you’re after. Hit them to slow them down so you have enough time to grab your zombie-killing weapon, or to give yourself enough time to run past them.

For multiple zombies, throwing a rock won’t work. For groups of zombies I recommend just hightailing it out of there.

You can also use a rock as a noise distraction, for zombies or people. Use it to trick your pursuers into following the sound, or to distract them from your sneak attack!

I hope I’ve convinced you to add a rock to your arsenal of zombie weapons. It’s an easy item to get, and it has a couple of good uses in certain situations. Give yourself this edge against your enemies, and happy surviving!


About Kevin: Kevin Bond is the author of HelpZombies.com, a zombie-themed survivalist website. It is expanding to include makeup tutorials, survival guides, product reviews, and even a zombie shop!

Guest Post: John L. Davis IV


“Horrors” How I See It
            Something dark, slimy, gruesome crawls from below, sharp white teeth bared and ready to snap closed on an unsuspecting victim.  Those teeth will easily shred flesh; the jaws can crack bone, disturbingly sexual fleshy red lips seal around jagged shards of bone and draw out the marrow. 
            This nightmare beast isn’t something from a new horror movie, or a recent novel, it’s that thing inside the reader, that creature reveling in the dark tales of horror.  It’s one side of the bloody coin of fear we readers trade in when delving into a novel of terror. 
            The other side is the cowering thing, the one hiding from the beast, afraid of the darkness, afraid of the words. 
            When reading that truly terrifying novel and you find yourself turning on every light in the house, or pulling your feet up over the edge of the bed, that’s the cowering thing that has to draw away, to hide in the light.
            But you keep reading, crawling ever deeper into the dark pit, searching out that next thing to terrify. 
            It is in the center of this duality that the reader and writer of horror can most closely examine the human condition and in far more depth, I believe, than any other genre. 
            In horror fiction the fluff of niceties is often blown away by a throat-ripping scream.  Pomp is hacked to pieces like two horny teenagers in a backwoods cabin.  You’re left with bleak and nearly hopeless circumstance.
            In that circumstance are the dark things and the light things that make us who we are and both can be difficult to look at head on, but when you read about that zombie shuffling toward the now-weaponless hero backed into a corner with nowhere to go, in that moment you are both the zombie and the hero.  The dark and the light.
            Here the beast delights, savoring the scent of fear exuded by the small thing that hides, turns away, curling toes up beneath the covers.  Then that moment has passed, and the reader moves on.
            The cowering creature reads on in hopes that the hero wins, and it can come out of hiding.  The creature lurking in dread waits silently for the next flash of panic to leap out, claws slashing, hoping to tear something away.
            This is horror the way I see it. 
Ever since I first read Dean Koontz’ “Phantoms”, or Stephen King’s “The Shining” I’ve had a  dark love affair with every nightmare inducing permutation of horror literature.  From the splatterpunk ravings of John Skip and Craig Spector, to Shirley Jackson’s dark and brooding “We Have Always Lived in the Castle,” to the twisted brilliance of Lovecraft and Poe, I have been darkled by things that claw at the imagination.
Horror, to me, is the one form of literature that shines a blacklight on humanity, revealing those things normally not seen. Then the blades or claws come out, slashing at our perceptions, permitting the reader to view the world with the flesh peeled away, the glistening redness beneath exposing the reality of all that we are and can be, both beast and simpering coward and all that lies between.
John L. Davis, IV is an avid reader who enjoys adding to his ever-expanding home library and talking books with pretty much anyone at any time. John lives in Hannibal, MO, with his books, his wife — Erica, daughters — Astrid and Hannah, and their much-loved pooch — Pixie. He loves to hear from his readers, so stop by and converse about life, love, and the pursuit of zombies.  He is the author of the American Revenant series, available at Amazon.com