How far would you go to survive?

Excerpt from the book EDEN

She started, her eyes flaring wide. The noise she heard echoed up the corridor. With her nerve failing, she jumped to her feet, allowing the broken appliance to fall to the floor. She could already hear heavy footsteps pounding up the corridor as she dashed across to the lobby.

At the exit, she slipped in a puddle of animal blood and fell, sprawling, to the ground. She began to scramble out of the doorway on her stomach, but her ankles were seized and she was whipped backwards at speed.

She was abruptly released, but the momentum caused her to roll until she hit the opposite wall. She lowered her hands, which had instinctively risen to shield her head against the impact, and peered fearfully at her attacker.

His feet, bare and soiled, were planted wide apart, and his naked chest was rising and falling rapidly. He threw something and she covered her head again. The crushed bottle caught her on the back of the hand. She stifled a shocked cry, and peered through her fingers at the alien, her stomach rolling and twisting like waves.

He reeled off a string of words, and she flinched at the tone. He bent towards her and she tried to hide within the wall, but she was lifted by the front of her suit and hung, like a ragdoll, from his hands. Her chin began to tremble.

She was deflated; all fight had fled her body.

‘I’m sorry.’ Tears fell in an endless rush. ‘I thought you’d gone. I thought you were on Taurus. Th-that’s w-why I drank it.’

She was shaken roughly, her head rocking on her shoulders, and then dropped. The instant she hit the floor she curled into the foetal position, with her arms covering her head.

Her senses were acute to sound, and her brain nagged her to flee, but she remained motionless. The old, old trick: play dead. It was miraculous how prehistoric instincts had quickly reasserted their position in her life.

Finally, the bare feet walked away. But she remained in a curled ball, the dismembered animal her neighbour, and wondered if the quality of her life would be worth the struggle to survive.


Writing confessions wanted #authors #writers #wip

Wanted: Writers!

For the summer, my theme on WWBB is ‘confessions of a writer’. 

I want articles (or a list 1 to 10 naughty confessions) of 600 to 1000 words full of confessions all through the summer (July to October).

Writing confessions can be funny, shocking, bad, silly… and they make us human. We’re all fallible to mistakes. So be proud of them and tell all!

If interested in sharing your confessions send me an email  for more info, or just send me the entire confession together with your author media (links, book art, blurb) asap and I’ll get you on the blog!

All articles on WWBB will appear on Facebook and Goodreads and shared via Triberr. Books will be sent to Book Junkies on Pinterest which will be automatically tweeted on Twitter.

In Defense of Slurs #banter @TheLoadedPen

*Warning: Please do not read if you are offended by crude language. Can’t get quality authors…


 Chris Meyer

I love slurs. A good slur is a poetic combination of the right consonants, choice syllables and a strong dose of bad-intentioned meaning.  Is there a better way to succinctly sum up your derisive opinion of another person than to call her or, especially him, a “cunt?”

Look, I’m not trying to coarsen up society; I’m not making the case that we should bandy “cunts” about needlessly.  (Although it is a sad thing that only the Brits can get away with using “cunt.”  Which reminds me of the Ricky Gervais quote, which is something like, “There are only two times you can use ‘cunt.’ When you totally mean it and when you totally don’t.”)  Slurs aren’t for everyday conversation in polite society.  But they should be the weapons of choice when a social interaction turns savagely impolite.  (And, as weapons go, verbal ones are usually far preferable to physical ones, no?) Let’s be clear, the power of a good slur is the rarity and precision of its use.  In those relatively rare moments when we want to offend, the slur is our rhetorical right cross, our semantic stun grenade, our verbal nuke.

Sadly – and even dangerously — the slur is in danger of being drummed out of society.

As a nightclub bouncer in Los Angeles, I was subjected to – and, therefore, developed a connoisseur’s appreciation for – more slurs than, I think, the average citizen.  “Cunt.”  “Faggot.”  “Spic.”  “Kike.”  “Nigger.”  I heard them every night.  (Yes, it’s a lot like starring in a Mamet play.)

When I was called a “cocksucker,” I didn’t take it to mean that the speaker hated gay people; I took it to mean that he (or she) found my erudition in the face of violent confrontation un-manly and/or unworthy of respect.  When I was called a “faggot,” I didn’t feel an urgent need to lecture the speaker on the etymology of the word.  The slurs I faced had one target – me.  Was I offended?  Of course – that’s the point of the slur!

As best as I can tell, the slur has become endangered by our HR-culture where the dispassionate third-party, the disinterested observer, the looky-loo unaffected by the heated emotions that trigger the tactical deployment of a slur rushes to politicize the slur and search for the potentially more profound offense behind it.  I find that to be a pre-programmed, mechanically academic, knee-jerk impulse that will only lead to reduce our speech to the nuanced maze of circular logic normally reserved for disgraced politicians and PR spokespeople:

Driver #1:  “I’m going to kick your ass, you big-nosed motherfucker!”

Driver #2 (turning on his iPhone camera):  “What?  Say that again!” 

Driver #1 (an anxious gulp): “Well, let me just stipulate that I misspoke. I have a long-standing record of tolerance for big-nosed people.  I was one of the first to buy Barbra Streisand’s Emotion in 1984 and I still cry every time I watch Roxanne.  I’d also like to clarify that by the unfortunate use of “motherfucker,” I meant no offense to fathers who clearly should be fucking mothers on a routine basis.  My staff will provide my DVD collection of Eight is Enough as proof that I have an abiding respect for the procreative power of fathers…”

Are we allowed to offend anymore?  Or are we comfortable policing our speech, defanging our words in a quixotic quest for a neurotic utopia?  If we are, that starts us down a very dangerous path.

Let me explain by way of a hypothetical.

You find yourself staring at the unfunny end of an unfunny .40 handgun.  “Your fucking wallet, homie!” A 5’5, 140 lb. vato  holds out his hand toward you.

Unfortunately for him, you’ve spent your lazy Saturday watching old Charles Bronson movies and you’re feeling a little feisty.  As you hand your wallet over, you affect a snarl and cling to the last shred of dignity that you have.  “Enjoy it, you little fucking spic.”

Admit it.  Reading this, you just cringed.  Hell, I did too.  From the comfort of my chair, my blood pressure just north of bradycardia, I am dispassionate and polite.  I have the luxury of disinterest – after all, it’s not my money the vato is taking and it’s not my cheek kissing the mouth of a gun.

Now let’s say you get even feistier (maybe you watched a Chuck Norris marathon as well).  You grab the vato’s gun and, pulling it away from him, beat him down.  But you go too far.  You stomp him, far exceeding your need for self-defense.  You don’t kill him necessarily, but you’ve committed a crime, no question.  Because of our hate-crime laws, calling the guy a “spic” may tack on few extra years to your sentence.  Again – not because you beat the guy up, excessively.  But because you called him a name.  Sticks and stones may break his bones, but your words will keep you in prison.  Censorship is even worse in the UK.

The crime shouldn’t be the slur.  The crime should be the cause of the slur.  If a guy rear ends me and calls me a “faggot,” I’m not going to take offense because of the slur, I’m taking offense because of the rear ending (come on, that’s funny!).  Let us judge people by the content of their actions, not the phrasing of their anger.  Let’s save our outrage for something more than semantics.

In other words, don’t be a pussy.  You donkeyfucker.

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  Icarus Falling

The True Story of a Nightclub Bouncer Who Wanted to Be a F#@king Movie Star But Settled for Being a F#@king Man

july Slide 50



The true story of a failed actor, who – still tantalized by the promise of LA – reinvents himself as a nightclub bouncer.

Working both downtown and on the Sunset Strip, he is thrust into the bloodstream of LA. Amidst the unending parade of strung-out transients, shimmering miniskirts, enraged gangbangers and unhinged party people, he avenges his history of cowardice, atones for his past infidelities and tries to become something better than another Hollywood casualty.

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july Chris Meyer's tour.Christopher Paul Meyer writes noir and nonfiction. He is a former bouncer, comic, soldier, firefighter, actor and prison chaplain.  In addition to Icarus Falling, he has written five screenplays, three of which were optioned and/or commissioned.  When not writing, he enjoys Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, improv comedy and political rants delivered in an angry mumble at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

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