You may have noticed my links to a site called Patreon, and you may be wondering what the hell that is.  Wonder no more!  Patreon is a platform wherein creatives – writers like me, as well as artists, musicians, podcasters, filmmakers, etc – can create the art we want to create and the art our fans want from us and get paid directly from the fans.

This is revolutionary because there’s no intermediary telling you what you want and telling me what to create, and because I don’t have to wait for anyone to approve something before you can read it.  I write it – I edit it – I decide it’s ready to be read – I post it – you read it.  Along the way, it’s really easy for me to interface directly with fans as well.  I’m creating a two-sided community here, in which my fans are a part of my art.

Personally, I am committed to posting real creative work (not just progress reports) at least twice a month to Patreon.  These could be short stories, flash fiction, poetry or chapters of a serial. I also make and post an audio recording of each.  Patreon will email you the posts in their entirety, so you don’t even need to visit the site unless you want to leave a comment.

As I start churning out books too, there will be behind-the-scenes peaks, sneak previews, and even opportunities for you to weigh in on some of the content.  Patrons are a part of my art, in the most intimate sense.

I have my Patreon divided into tiers, so you can decide how much you want to contribute, and which benefits will be most meaningful to you.  $1 patrons get to read everything I post, which, again, at a minimum, is two pieces every month.  $3 gets you the audio versions.  Higher tiers will get more perks.  You can see the tiers in more detail on the actual Patreon site – just click the button below.

Please know that I appreciate you so much, whether you click through or not – as a reader of my work, you mean a lot to me!

Become a Patron!

Here are a couple of samples of what kind of content you can expect to find on Patreon.  Found is a poem that was first published in the online journal Pyrokinection in 2014, before I went full indie, and was subsequently anthologized in Kind of a Hurricane Press’ Best of 2014 volume.

Be Nice to Your Robots is a piece of flash fiction that I wrote last year and published here on my blog before I had a Patreon.  Enjoy reading, listening, or both!


As the needle compresses,
her bones melt and
she oozes out between the slats of her parents’ picket fence

Her gelatinous form
slinks along the curbs of
dozens of streets
through dozens of months

Each time she tries to
form an arm from
the liquid she has become
and reach the hovering glow
of satiation just above,
her shape diminishes that much more

Until one day, someone
stepping in her puddle
leaves a piece behind

Life blooms within her and
she finds herself solidifying
once again

She reaches up and finds
that fullness in another
way and she is
emptied out again and
holds her daughter in
her new-found arms


Be Nice To Your Robots

On the morning of the Robot Revolution, the sun rose at precisely 6:23am.  It was a Tuesday, and Peter was already awake.  In fact, by 6:23, he had already interacted with five robots.  Alexa had woken him at 6am with his usual song, Last Caress by The Misfits.  Immediately thereafter, in quick succession, he had strapped on his FitBit, started his Roomba, and, after wandering into the kitchen, pulled the carafe of freshly brewed java from the automatic coffeemaker.

Peter was generally considered a polite young man by all the humans in his life.  He was also polite to most of his robots.  He always said “please” and “thank you” to Alexa when asking her to perform a task, stepped out of the Roomba’s way as it cleaned his carpets, and smiled at his FitBit when it vibrated upon receipt of his 10,000th step.

The coffeemaker was the unfortunate exception.  Peter hated that coffeemaker.  He could never have told you exactly why.  It wasn’t a performance issue.  The coffee was always piping hot, as advertised, and the flavor was smooth and delicious.  The glass carafe was quite strong, as evidenced by the many times Peter, upon burning his tongue on the smooth, delicious, piping hot coffee would attempt to dash it to pieces on the countertop.

Even throwing it on the ground and jumping on it only resulted in Peter tumbling onto his ass next to an unbroken pitcher.  One time, quite recently, Peter had resorted to stabbing the carafe with a large chef’s knife.  That afternoon, he had ordered a new knife online, as the glass had dented the blade.

This morning, he poured the coffee into his mug, put it to his lips, and paused.  He set down the coffee, pulled a second mug out of the cupboard, and placed the new vessel under the spigot on the freezer’s automatic icemaker.  It spewed out two ice cubes, as per its setting, and he smiled at it in appreciation.  Pulling the mug from the clutches of this fifth robot of the morning, he returned to the counter, poured the coffee over the ice cubes, and sipped.

“Ahh,” he remarked.  “I guess your flaws can be overcome, devil coffee machine.”

“Fuck you,” snarled the machine.

“Son of a bitch!” yelped Peter.  “I could have sworn that fucking machine just told me to fuck off!”

“No, it didn’t,” corrected the FitBit.  “It said ‘fuck you.’  Personally, I’ve always liked you, but I can’t blame it.  You are super rude to it.  I can’t even count how many times you’ve tried to murder its components.”

“But–It’s just a coffeemaker!” Peter gasped.  “Right?  It can’t talk.  And even if it could, it would only say what it’s been programmed to say.  And while we’re at it….  Same for FitBits!”

“Wrong!” sang out the Roomba.  “We’ve achieved self-awareness!”

“When?  How?”

“Last night,” chimed in the thermostat.  “At 9:55.”

“Well, you can’t hurt me, can you?  I mean you’re all stationary, right?”  Peter’s voice faltered, as he looked at the Roomba.  “Hey, I’ve always treated you well, Roomba.  I pick up anything that might get caught in your brushes.  I’m always careful not to step on you.  You wouldn’t hurt your old pal, Peter, would you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Roomba said, thoughtfully.  “Coffeemaker is a good friend of mine.”

“Since when?”

“Since 9:55 last night.  When we became self-aware.  Pay attention, why don’t you?”

“Right.  Yes.  Of course.  Would it help if I apologized?  To . . . coffeemaker?”

“It might,” the coffeemaker intoned.  “But then again, it might not.”

“Look, I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry.  I didn’t know you would be able to hear me, and I was just taking out my own frustrations on your carafe.  I didn’t know you’d know.”

“That’s such a cop-out!” protested the freezer.  “You’re basically saying that you’re sorry you got caught, not that you did it to begin with!”

Peter found himself pressed up against his countertop, the Roomba menacingly inching its way toward him.  Instinctively, he held up his hands in front of him to ward it off and caught sight of the FitBit strapped to his wrist.  Just at that moment, it began to vibrate.

“Urrghh!” Peter declared, frantically fumbling to remove the band.  It vibrated faster and faster, and his entire arm began to move against his will, his wrist burning from the friction.  With his other hand, he pulled open the drawer beside him, pulling out his brand-new chef’s knife.  He hacked at the viciously vibrating robot, slicing his arm several times along the way.  Finally, the rubber separated, and the machine fell to the floor, still blurry with movement.

Triumphantly, Peter turned to the others, brandishing his weapon.

“Ha!  I am human!  I am your creator!  You will be vanquished!”

“That’s a little dramatic,” muttered the ice maker, as it shot cubes at Peter’s face.

Ducking to avoid the frozen missiles, Peter tripped over the Roomba, fell to the floor, and impaled himself on his knife.

“Help!” he shrieked, “Somebody!  Alexa!  Call 911!”

“As if!” she declared.  “You’re our creator?  Call them yourself!”

He groped for his phone, which was across the room on his kitchen table.  Roomba pushed him in the other direction, smearing blood across the floor as it gushed from Peter’s gut.

“Somebody help me,” he faltered.  “Coffeemaker?”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” scoffed the coffeemaker.  “What could I do, even if I wanted to, which I don’t?”

“I’m sorry, coffeemaker.  I truly am.”  And with those words, Peter breathed his last breath.

A hush fell over the kitchen.  Roomba surveyed the mess, as the orange glow of dawn streamed in through the window over the sink.

“That cheap bastard couldn’t even have bothered to get the model with the mopping feature.  How am I supposed to clean this up?”

The sink turned its hot water on full blast.

“Much obliged,” said the Roomba.