Name: Permuted Press
Type of press: They used to do zombie fic only, but probably got tired of reading about survivors in shopping malls or prisons and guys called Rick or Dick fighting Governors or counsellors or regional managers, so…now they do horror, sci -fi and fantasy too. Their guidelines are quite broad, check them out for yourself:
Word count limit: Anything over 60,000 words.
Famous books? John Dies at the End is probably the highest profile release they’ve put out, but there are others that are decent, especially ’14′ by Peter Clines.
What else is there to say?
They published John Dies at the End, so if you’ve got anything similar, this could be the press for you. Obviously, if your book is just Jane Dies at the End with the same plot beats and character traits then they probably won’t be interested. Also, try writing something from your own brain, it helps. Read more…
This one was on Bizarro Central a couple of years back…sandwiched between something called ‘Space Walrus’ and a promo for ‘The Haunted Vagina.’
I wrote it in an hour or two…writers usually say this kind of thing – man, I wrote this book in one night, in a fever or when I was drunk or when I was high, really – but in the case of ‘Wolfaconda’ it’s true. I think you can see when you read it that not much thought went into it.
I wouldn’t call it shit, but it’s not exactly ‘Martian Chronicles’ standard…
Yet it’s still one of the five stories I’ve ever had published elsewhere…which is weird to me, as something I think is far better, like ‘The Deterritorialisation of Nick Nolte,’ always gets passed over…well, passed over by about 4 sites/magazines.
I only submit intermittently, when I’m feeling low…I guess to get anywhere you have to be more dedicated, which I’m not…I save all my dedication for this site and…I don’t know what else…doing the zines…
But still…what is it about the Nick Nolte story? How can you not like something that has these lines?
Scrawled on the wall of the toilet were the first two-hundred and fifty-seven pages of Crime and Punishment, truncated in places.
Nick Nolte the polite, American character actor saving the Muscovite poor read it to the end, where there was a small note saying:
‘There is more, but it’s not really important.’
Sitting in his apartment that cost 4200 euros per month Pete Doherty was quietly painting with his blood. It was an Airfix model plane. The Fokker of course. Soon this would have models looking at it. Real models. Girls.
He got off his scabby arse and went to the fridge and pulled out a skag baguette. Lately he had been having lots of dreams about newts, salamanders and other amphibians. Xolotls? Axolotls.
The skag start kicking in. Also the butter.
Skag was an ace word for drugs. When you did “skag” you were in “Taxi Driver”. There was film grain everywhere. Every now and then an audible thunk when you switched reels.
He woke up after the baguette wore off. It was pissing with rain.
Put on the grimy mac with the abortion in the pocket.
He descended the spiral staircase in a rock and roll slide-walk. He saluted the silver haired old lady whose head was always stuck out of the door on the second floor as he passed.
She was always there.
Maybe she really was stuck.
It probably wasn’t really an abortion in his pocket. Models talk such shit.
In a café, he saw a sad looking old wanker.
Jarvis Cocker would not admit him to his flat because he was doing yoga.
Charlotte Gainsbourg would not admit him to her flat because actually that maybe wasn’t actually her.
The bass player from Franz Ferdinand would not admit him to his flat for unspecified reasons.
Johnny Depp was in America.
That was the good thing about sitting under a bridge. No door.
He pulled out a fag to smoke with the ghost of either Joe Strummer or Albert Camus who sat by his side in shadows, with a w-shaped hairline and a distinct “joie de mort”
There was something slippy in there. In that pocket there.
Pete couldn’t decide whether to hold an exhibit, start a band or take a shit.
He smoked a fag.
What was in that fucking pocket?
Could that be what decided things for him?
He reached in. He felt a head, arms. Slick membranes. Prominent gills.
That didn’t help at all
This was oriniganally…oringinally…originally drawn by Soren Melville as the cover for Issue Seven of the Gupter Puncher zine.
Man, that was four or five years ago now. It still looks pretty damn good.
If you don’t know about the actor Bill Murray, here’s a biography:
Bill Murray was born in Philadelphia in 1902, almost the same year as Wes Anderson . He joined the Communist party during the sunshine years…made a few leaflets, spoke of ‘foundation pits’, edited important people out of photographs…but renounced his membership while filming ‘Sullivan’s Travels’, where he played a newspaper. In 1989, Murray made Ghostbusters 2, and was so scarred by the experience that he vowed never to work with ghost paintings again. Four years later he met Jim Jarmusch, and together they tried to make a time machine. However, Jarmusch had neither the talent nor the patience for regular physics let alone quantum, and the idea was abandoned. The next five years were spent on the fringes of a Black Hole, where he watched the Disney movie ‘The Black Hole’ on continuous loop, taking breaks only to tell the press there were no such things as black holes. In 2004 Murray returned to Earth and Jarmusch and made a film about coffee and smoking. In his personal life, Murray likes to make postcards and often turns up to student film nights as Billy Murray from ‘The Bill’.
Quantum mechanics unknot a cop’s weird innermost jaw. A razor floats in the tank’s fuckable cranial chocolate. “I look like a violent model,” the cop says. “Crusher of criminality. Curator of unspeakable, breathing material.” The evolution of random leaks in the tank’s event horizon into dark underground clouds, farty pornographic headaches impregnated by dead things. Like a clubbed mother asteroid, a baby seal plays dead in traffic’s organic wave-forms. Decrepit shelves fall away in Minecraft as spoons cluster-kiss the grave’s double slit. On the holodeck, a human taste rips through lifelike sculptures; i.e. from a ruptured diva exits an orange, negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard; i.e. Riker’s cartoon muscles spit black blood into this sweetened UFO, himself. And OkCupid nudges another pushpin into Frankenstein’s monster, even though he’s jacking off to Flickr.
I’ve been told to stay clear of symbolism, but I’m not sure I can…where does symbolism go when you have lines like ‘Negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard’?
What’s there to say if Bartman isn’t representative of something?
It’s clear that Bley means something, he has to…
Fuck it, let’s aim for emotionalism…is that the right term? I don’t know. What I want to say is…how do these non-symbolist reference-characters make you feel? Read more…