IRREDEEMABLE: Release Event Final Call

Irredeemable_Cover800X600IRREDEEMABLE book release event! LAST CALL!!!

Where: Joseph Beth Booksellers, 161 Lexington Green Circle, Lexington, Kentucky 40503

When: 4pm – 6pm

I’ll be doing a reading, a Q&A, and a signing in support for my first collection, Irredeemable! My publisher, Seventh Star Press, will be on hand and will be giving away tons of goodies.

If you don’t have a copy of Irredeemable, plenty of copies will be on hand at the bookstore.

After the event, you’re welcome to join us at Giuseppe’s Italian Restaurant for dinner with the author (unfortunately, author is not wealthy enough to pay for the dinner). The dinner starts at 6:30pm.


A few notes…

If you’ve never been to Joseph Beth, you’re about to be impressed. It is a beautiful bookstore. Super nice staff. The coffee there is pretty darn good.

Stephen Zimmer, my publisher, said for me to bring some Apex freebies to hand out. So I’ll have some mugs and some shirts. :)

This is my first signing as an author. For some reason, I’m a bit nervous…very unlike me. It isn’t like I’ve never done signings before (I’ve edited 5 anthologies and have signed for those). If you asked me to pinpoint what it is that has me nervous I don’t think I could provide an answer.

Back when I started Apex Publications, I was a terrible public speaker. But I worked through the issues I had. Nowadays, I’m a veritable ham in front of people. I do lectures, workshops, panels, and anything else that will get me in front of people for money or marketing. It’s been years since I’ve suffered a case of pre-event jitters.

I was thinking about all this last night while trying to fall asleep. The closest thing to a reason I could come up with is that my confidence as a writer is still a work-in-progress. I expect (hope) to see in the crowd a lot of people who are important to me: family, friends (old and new), my favorite coworkers, publishing/writing colleagues, and so on. To have them reading fiction I’ve written is a bit intimidating.

Over time, I expect these type of jitters to fade away. And about 10 seconds after I’m behind the microphone, I figure I’ll be my usual hammy silly self. Despite the jitters, I can’t wait for tomorrow!

Now, let’s hope Joseph Beth doesn’t throw us out when I start reading one of my horror shorts to the crowd…

About these ads

Irredeemable — An Update

I’ve been busily promoting Irredeemable at all sorts of places. The first three can be found here:

Accents Radio on WRFL 88.1 interview — I talk about writing, editing, publishing, and I read ‘Caspar’ and an excerpt from ‘City Hall’. This is a link to an mp3 file.

Allways Unmended — An essay concerning the process of selecting cover art for Apex Publications books and Irredeemable. — My essay detailing how the book came to be.

I always try to write my guest essays and do interviews in a slightly askew fun manner. Because, let’s be frank, most interviews and essays are boring. Throwing in a bit of weirdness is my way of *trying* to be more interesting than a standard interview/essay.

Feel free to let me know if I’ve failed. Or succeeded. Positive feedback never hurt nobody.

Ben H. Winters and the Asteroid Coming to Destroy Us All

LastPolicemanBen H. Winters recently won the Philip K. Dick Award for his novel Countdown City. The PKD Award website states that award is for distinguished original science fiction published in paperback for the first time during 2013 in the USA. Well done Mr. Winters!

Countdown City is the second book in The Last Policeman trilogy. The third book, World of Trouble, is slated to drop on July 15th, 2014. The first book was The Last Policeman and it came out during May, 2013.

Post-apocalyptic books have long been a popular sub-genre in science fiction. The Earth Abides by George Stewart. On the Beach by Nevil Shute. Readers (such as myself) love ‘survivor’ fiction. What if I was able to survive a zombie apocalypse? What if I was chosen to live in a silo underground while the world above me melted? In these books, you get to imagine yourself the hard to kill hero.

But Ben H. Winters is dipping his pen in a far less trafficked sub-genre, that of pre-apocalyptic fiction.Obviously, Winters isn’t the first to do so. In fact, it seems to be a growing sub-genre.While drawing on the same tropes and plot devices as post-apocalyptic fiction, the pre-apocalyptic novel brings forth different emotions. You’re replacing desperation and survival with dread and hopelessness. I find the emotional crux of pre-apocalyptic novels to be stronger (or perhaps I’ve read so many damn zombie novels I’m growing immune to desperation and survival). Maybe this is why I enjoy Winters’ novels so much.

The first book, The Last Policeman, introduces us to the trilogy’s hero, Detective Hank Palace. Humanity has six months until a massive asteroid strikes the earth and causes a mass extinction event. The threads of society are barely clinging together. There is still a patchwork of a police force. Commerce struggles along. The rule of law still holds firm. Hank’s way of dealing with the impending doom is to dive into his work, so he investigates a suicide believing it to be a murder to the dismay of his squad.

The Last Policeman is fantastic. It is a study in building mood as tension. As the asteroid draws closer, society begins to crack. Yet Hank keeps pressing forward until he solves the case.

The second book, Countdown City, jumps forward in time. 77 days until the asteroid makes impact. By now, things are grim. The police force has disbanded. The military no longer patrols the streets to keep the peace. The threat of all out violence bubbles under the story.

countdowncityHank finds himself pulled into a missing persons hunt when his old babysit requests his help in finding her disappeared husband. Because he can’t shake his policeman urges, and the fact that he wants to help his babysitter friend, he agrees. Things are more dangerous for Hank. He no longer has authority. People are becoming less friendly. Imminent death is bringing out the worst in humans.

Winters’ second book is less tightly plotted than the first. I’ve seen that as a common complaint against the novel. I halfway feel that this was intentional. The world is becoming unraveled, after all.

By the end of the second book, we’re dealing with water shortages, escalating violence, conspiracy theories, desperate immigrants, how we deal with mortality, and family issues. Winters juggles it all deftly.

I can’t wait to see how Winters finishes the story of Hank Palace and the asteroid marked to destroy Earth. I look forward to July.

IRREDEEMABLE: Introduction by Geoffrey Girard

Irredeemable_Cover800X600On the Night the Hogs Ate Willie…

The Redemption of

Author Jason Sizemore

by Geoffrey Girard

Skip this. Really.

If, for some reason, this introduction is performing some role in your decision on whether to buy the book or not, then: BUY THIS BOOK. The eighteen stories within this collection deliver everything that good speculative fiction should. They fuse the extraordinary and the ordinary in ways both magical and dreadful; vile and hysterical; challenging and comforting. These are stories that will make you think about things you maybe didn’t want to think about, and also the things we must.

For those who’ve already purchased the book, just get straight to the stories. Go. If you want to talk about them afterward — which you will — come back.


Jason Sizemore has been a champion of dark speculative fiction going on two decades now. As founder, owner, and publisher of Apex Publications, he has directly discovered and fostered some of the brightest new stars in the genre and also published some of our biggest and most respected superstars, wooing them with his remarkable passion, vision, and personal integrity. Approaching fifty books published, more than sixty issues of Apex Magazine — work nominated for Stokers and Hugos and Nebulas — Jason stands today as one of, if not THE, most respected independent publishers in the country. A man budding publishers and seasoned artists now come to for advice. A man who has sacrificed his time, savings, and (occasionally) sanity, to bring the very best dark fiction to tens of thousands readers.

What a dumbass…

Sorry, but the thing of it is, when Jason is focused on being one of this generation’s best publishers, he isn’t writing. And, well, that’s just not cool. Hopefully, you took the advice and just now read the stories. The guy can write. The reason he’s such a damn good publisher, editor, mentor, and industry visionary is because at his core, he’s a horror writer. This man knows the value and meaning of… well, blood.

So to hell with Jason Sizemore the publisher. Let’s forget about that today and maybe even, let’s hope, longer. This is about Jason Sizemore, the author, and Irredeemable is a very fine opportunity for us to discover what that means and could mean for decades to come.

It maybe oversimplifies to place Jason in some “Southern Gothic tradition,” but it’s a pretty good place to start.

A] The guy’s a literal hillbilly: born to a coalminer father, spent the first eighteen years of his life in some Appalachian hole of four hundred people in Kentucky. Jason knows southern ways, southern people. The tobacco juice trickles warm and pungent in these pages, the dialogue is as true and enchanting as anything Faulkner or O’Connor were bringing to the party. In the last fifty years, Southern Gothic has mostly moved from the decaying plantations into the back roads, forgotten one-store towns and the darkest hollers this side of Big Creek, Kentucky. This is Jason’s foundation and, not surprisingly, where most of his stories are told. Even when those infamous “Sizemore aliens” are running about, and keeping us humans all on our toes, both sides are navigating the strange and chilling and magnificent (“knees popping like a BB gun”) backwoods of Kentucky together.

B] The gothic, apparently, Jason got from his mother. Suckled on blood and brain and quivering entrails. They’d watch horror movies together when he was a boy. Anything, everything, she could find. Raising a true aficionado of the gross and violent, revolting, hilarious, terrifying. A man who would learn to see the world in simple black and white and crimson. Visualize within these very pages Caspar’s golden crucifix, or cages filled with puppies and “dirty road strays,” or a spine furrowed in large silver rings and a “shaker of salt and a metal pick.” Evokes the earlier works of Clive Barker. Or Dante.

Combining the setting and the weird, Southern Gothic offers us macabre characters and circumstances to explore/reveal the cultural character of the South. Dark speculative fiction, in most cases, does the same wherever it’s set. But there is, of course, something inimitable about the South, something artists like Tennessee Williams, Carson McCullers, Anne Rice, Cormac McCarthy, and Poppy Z. Brite have captured for years. Something Jason Sizemore is capturing even now. Southern novelist Pat Conroy has described textbook Southern fiction as: “On the night the hogs ate Willie, Mama died when she heard what Daddy did to Sister.” Or, less drolly, what McCullers described as “the tragic with the humorous, the immense with the trivial, the sacred with the bawdy.”

Sizemore’s characters are mostly ordinary people with mostly ordinary problems: lame jobs, empty bank accounts, lonely hearts, waiting for a mother to die… The demon prancing at the end of her bed, the aliens thumping drums in the distance, the vengeful ghost with a spoonful of fresh ice cream, these are the just consequences to the original human frailties and struggles.

“The Sleeping Quartet” is a perfect example of this specific permutation. (And, if I may, now one of my favorite horror tales by anywriter.) Because it mingles an eccentric but very real/honest character with a night of horrors too challenging to ever forget. Whether Jack Taylor is dancing naked about his new room, sneaking off his wedding ring, or first dealing with his Vaderesque sleep apnea mask, the reader cannot help but later feel every single shiver and agony as quirky human Jack in due course meets the darkness, the supernatural, the world of blood.

And what is the point of all of this? What exactly is this modern Southern author telling us about the world beyond the scabby coon dogs, hellish spaceships and spurting blood?

Just before writing this intro, I emailed Jason and claimed/threatened: “I got you figured out, pal.”

He replied: “Oh, that the world is filled with bastards?”

But you’ve read the stories now too, haven’t you? So you know that Jason’s response left out the biggest piece of his world-view puzzle: The world IS filled with bastards, yes, and one day soon every single one of them fuckers is gonna pay.

Jason’s characters don’t live in some existential universe where there is no value, meaning, or moral structure. There ain’t no Lovecraft, Kafka, Burgess, Vonnegut, or Palahniuk brand of grotesque here. The monstrous creations of Jason’s fiction serve a definite purpose: retribution.

In almost every single story, there is an unseen “Boss,” “Agency,” “Mayor,” or “God” delivering sentence from afar… or (hee hee) from very, very close. His male characters, in particular, are all guilty of some moral crime; some very small offenses, some not so small. Imagine Alton McNeil getting on that elevator in City Hall, little Mason Wayne and his brother in “Pranks,” or poor Jack Taylor preparing for his special night in the “The Sleeping Quartet”. These aren’t “bad” guys by most standards, maybe just a little weak is all. Just a little crude, maybe, just a little faithless. Stories in which men lie or stray or surrender; stories where men “are human.” Jason’s universe has something coming for each one of them. And as to those men with greater offenses, men like bad daddy Torrence Giles on Christmas morning or old man Metty Crawford out in the woods, Jason’s universe has something for them too.

The title of this collection may be Irredeemable, but that is not the feeling the collection will leave you with. While many/most of the souls in the collection are, in fact, irredeemable, Jason doesn’t believe that about all of them. Or about me or you, or — for lack of a better term — the world. His main female characters, in particular, have brutal roads to traverse but a personal (and, so, universal) strength at their core which leads ultimately to triumph.

Like the best horror from any locale or era, reading the stories of Irredeemable brings fear and revulsion and reflection and, also, hope. Always just enough. The opportunity for redemption runs throughout every single story. Like the very best Twilight Zone morality tales or our oldest fairy tales, Jason presents a reality in which the right choices could have been made, but just (in most cases) weren’t. A reality where the punishers — be they ghosts, aliens, rednecks, orange-vested zombies, angels, demons, or even the small-digited darlings in Ms. Jean’s classroom — are not random in their cruelty or violence. Rather, they are merely carrying out some far-reaching responsibility, following the cosmic urgings of some all-knowing power. One which knows the value and meaning of… well, blood.

As this introduction is being written, Jason’s webpage claims/laments he has “not yet left his mark” as a writer. It’s time to delete that line. With the publication of Irredeemable, Jason Sizemore has officially left his mark as an author.

No, not a mark. It’s more of a slash…

Hopefully, the first of many.

So that all the blood, and promise, found within these pages is just a start.

Amazon —USUKCA
Seventh Star Press


Kindle — USUKCA

Friendship is hard

About two weeks ago, I spied on Facebook that two of my good friends were packing up with their kids and moving to Boston.

And by ‘good’ friends, I mean that we’ve seen them twice in the last three years, even though they live about 15 minutes away from Chez Sizemore in Lexington.

For reasons I’ve had trouble putting my fingers on, their upcoming move has greatly affected me. At one time, I was part of a large social circle here in Lexington. Heck, not just one social circle, but three. There were the remnants of my college buddies. There were my work friends. And I had a group of gaming friends. Something was always going on.

Then life happened. Slowly they trickled away (They make movies about this stuff). People find spouses, they have children, get a career, and move on. Time marches on, and if you don’t march with it, you’re left behind.

Almost all my old friends are now scattered all across the Earth. I’m connected to many by Facebook and Twitter (IMHO, one of the few redeeming qualities of social media), but few live anywhere close. They’ve moved on. And I’m still in Lexington. Not much goes on anymore.

Now two more dear friends are moving on. I will miss them. I also hope the best for them (both are awesome human beans) and hope to see them again in the future.

This thing called MoCon 9

MoCon ended this past Sunday. Today is Wednesday. Have I recovered from the weekend? No.

MoCon is the annual ‘convention’ that Maurice Broaddus throws in honor of…himself. He also talks high profile genre figures to appear as guests of MoCon. This year he had: Scott Lynch, Elizabeth Bear, Wesley Chu, John Horner Jacob, John Joseph Adams, Lucy Snyder, and Christie Yant. That list of names alone could headline a major writer’s conference. Other notable genre personalities also appearing: Blackwyrm Publishing owner Dave Mattingly, Chesya Burke, Geoffrey Girard, Jerry Gordon, Melissa Gay, Janet Harriett, and Monica Valentinelli. If I’ve forgotten to list you, and you were at the con, please write me a hate mail.

I wanted to take a bunch of photos. In the end, I took 9. Most of them with ladies, and most of them where I’m rather drunk. You can see the photos on my Facebook page (

Christie Yant and that one guy

Christie Yant and that one guy

Here’s how MoCon went down for me:
* I arrived at the church a little bit late Friday night. Almost miss out on the free chicken masala. Had I missed the chicken masala, I probably would have returned to my car and went home. It is simply that good.

* We went to the Second Story site and four authors (Geoffrey Girard, Lucy Snyder, Scott Lynch, and John Horner Jacob) engaged in a writers’ battle. Geoff found a guitar and sang his story. After 3 rounds, Scott was declared the winner. Everybody wrote hilarious stories, and I believe this battle stuff is going to be co-opted for Context.

* Arrived at Maurice’s house around 11:30pm. Had free booze. Stayed up way, way too late (roughly 3:30am).

* Saturday I attended a nice panel about writing the ‘other’ and I sat on a panel about the ‘business of writing’.

* Saturday afternoon we ate more free food. This time it was Jamaican cuisine.

* Saturday evening, we went to Maurice’s house and had more free booze. I got rather toasted. Before I got silly drunk, I had a nice discussion with JJA about the Hugos, had a great chat with Christie, and made friendly with everyone. A trio of friends kept me out of trouble (yep, took three people).

* Sunday afternoon, a bit more schmoozing at Maurice’s house. I was so tired that I was rather useless in conversation. Then the 3.5 hour drive back home.

I really like Christie's shirt.

I really like Christie’s shirt.

During the month of April, I was participating in a weight loss challenge and had dropped 10 pounds. In one weekend of MoCon, I gained 2.5 pounds of that back.

Attending MoCon, while fun, is hard on your liver AND your BMI index.

I look forward to MoCon 10!

FREE FICTION: “Caspar” by Jason Sizemore (from the collection IRREDEEMABLE)

And when they were come into the

house, they saw the young child

with Mary his mother, and fell

down, and worshipped him: and

when they had opened their treasures,

they presented unto him gifts;

gold, and frankincense and myrrh.

      King James Bible, Matthew 2:11


From his vantage point on the corner bench, Torrence Giles watched the sodium-vapor lamp cast a yellow cone over the Jesus Box resting silently at the top of Courthouse Hill. Shadows from the nearby oak tree reached out to Torrence, as if inviting him to come meet his savior.

He rubbed his grey, dirty hands together, blowing into them for warmth. Not many users at the box at 10:30 p.m. Christmas Eve. Daddies would be bringing the Santa gifts out from the garage so their little Lauras would squeal in delight when they awoke in the morning. Mommies would be stuffing stockings with socks and underwear. No wait, Torrence mused, that was my mother. Real mommies stuffed stockings with toys and candy.

A stranger emerged from the darkness of Johnson’s Tool Shop to the left of the bench. Was this a ghost of Christmas? Or a reaper to read off Torrence’s list of sins and collect his soul with one mighty swing of the scythe? Torrence didn’t care. Not tonight. He dug his hands deeper into the warmth of his pockets.

The stranger, a big black man with the tightest set of cornrows Torrence had ever seen, took a seat on the bench next to him. The man carried with him a large satchel that rattled the bench when he dropped it on the cold metal.

“I say Goddamn, it’s cold out here,” said the stranger, stamping his boots together.

Torrence nodded at the Jesus Box on the hill. “Watch what you say, you’re in the presence of the Lord.”

The stranger wore a large black overcoat with an orange Christmas scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. It was the kind of holiday scarf that fat, tacky women wore. Hanging from the stranger’s ears was a pair of earrings, solid gold crucifixes.

Torrence made an effort to scoot over, to give the man some space, but his ass was frozen to the bench.

“My name is Caspar,” said the black man. “Are you seeking salvation, my friend?”

Salvation? Torrence eyed the Jesus Box. Was this stranger trying to be cheeky? “You could say that, yes,” Torrence said.

“Done bad things?”


“Hard life?”

“Considering, yes.”

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Caspar said with a twinkle in his coal-black eyes. He spoke in that sing-song intonation of southern Baptist preachers with which Torrence was so familiar.

“Yeah, he took away my job. No gifts for my family this year.”

A moment of silence passed between the men.

“Why’re you here, Caspar?” Torrence asked.

“The Lord’s work, my friend,” Caspar said.

A confused look passed over Torrence’s face. “Why so? That Box up there lets you talk directly to the Man Himself. You’re not needed here.”

Caspar hefted the satchel between them and pulled back the flap.

“You heard the story of the three wise men?”

“Of course,” Torrence said. “Every Christmas.”

“It was prophesized in the Old Testament that a mighty star would rise over Bethlehem announcing the birth of the new messiah. These three magi, they brought to the baby Jesus three gifts.” Reaching into his satchel, he withdrew a bottle filled with many little sticks. “The first gift was frankincense.”

The sticks reminded Torrence of the kindling he used to set fires. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Like I said, I know the story. The gifts allowed passage out of Bethlehem,” he said.

Caspar chuckled and moved his head back and forth, causing the earrings to sparkle from the sodium lamps. Crucifix afterimages danced in front of Torrence’s eyes. “These days, the mighty Bible holds some nice mysteries. Now why would two of these wise men give a poor family spices and herbs when all they needed was money to escape?”

Torrence grunted. “Maybe the wise men weren’t so smart?”

“Oh no, they were smart. Back then, old healers used them to treat stomach problems. Mary gave the baby Jesus a mouthful of this medicine and the child never cried again. He stayed hidden away from the King’s soldiers.”

“I’d always heard that about baby Jesus. That he never cried. Guess frankincense did the trick.”

“Bet you wish you had some of this for your child when she last cried?”

Torrence flinched, a flush coming over his waxen, pale cheeks. Sweet little Laura cried when he told her there would be no Christmas. Daddy was a failure.

“No matter, Torrence. What’s done is done; nevermore will Laura see the sun. Amen.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Torrence made a move to leave, but Caspar held him back with a stout, massive hand.

“I’m not done with my story.”

The stranger reached into his satchel and withdrew a paper bag. “Now, the second gift was myrrh, used as an embalming ointment by the holy men of the time.” Caspar poured a powdered ruddy substance into his right hand. He closed his fingers to keep the wind from blowing the myrrh away like fine dust.

“Why would a baby need embalming ointment?”

“Some say it’s a symbol of Christ’s resurrection. Many who helped Mary and Joseph escape saw it as an affirmation of faith. Laura won’t need this, will she Torrence? Not the way you left her.” Saying that, he opened his fingers and a fire blazed in his hand that lit the myrrh. A putrid stench filled the air. A scent Torrence recognized…

Caspar grinned and waved his now empty, unblemished hand through the air. He reached into the satchel one last time, withdrawing a block of gold. Torrence gasped at the sight. He reached out to touch the smooth, shiny surface.

“The third magi, he brought the baby Jesus gold. With this money, Joseph and the holy mother Mary would be able to hide in the many houses and inns of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. Away from Herod and his evil soldiers. The gold protected the child.”

Torrence bowed his head in his hands. He saw it all again. His wife clutching Laura while he fired the .45 over and over into their bodies, the spasms and screams each shot created. Blood had blossomed over her white blouse, until both were covered with his crimson anger. The constant fights, the look of disappointment in Laura’s eyes, the pity family and friends held for him. He was an utter and complete failure. He remembered turning the gun on himself and pulling the trigger. Click. Nothing. Click. Click. Out of rounds. He spread kindling from the fireplace over their bodies and dropped a burning lighter on top of them. Their clothes burned followed soon by the smell of cooked flesh. He thought of the burnt turkey his mother always served at Christmas. “You loser,” she would say. “The turkey’s ruined and the kids have no gifts. You’re not a man.”

As he watched his wife and child turn to ashes and bone, his courage failed. He could not, would not, be able to die in such a way.

Torrence jerked up from the bench, wrenching the backside of his denim jeans from the frost-covered metal. His hands groped for Caspar’s neck, finding purchase inside the big tacky scarf, finding the man’s arteries, plunging his thumbs into the windpipe. “How do you know so much?” Torrence screamed, shaking the man with his rage-fueled strength. Caspar didn’t fight, but reached for the bar of gold. The gold melted in his hands, forming a slender crucifix that came to a dangerous point at its base.

“Christ sees all,” Caspar gasped. “Laura walks with Christ and they will discuss where your damned eternal everlasting soul will stay.” He plunged the tip of the crucifix into Torrence’s right temple, where it exploded through his skull with a flash of white light. The tip of the crucifix steamed in the night air as it stuck three inches out the other side of Torrence’s head. Blood pumped out from both wounds; slowly, with each dying heartbeat, it fell to a trickle.

“Thy work be done. Amen.”

* * * *

Caspar gathered his myrrh and frankincense and placed them in the satchel. A heavy snow started falling. Large flakes quickly covered Torrence’s freezing blood with a layer of white purity. Caspar smiled at no one in particular, appreciating the fine work of a Greater power.

He slid the satchel over his shoulder and looked up at the lonely Jesus Box.

“Time to get your salvation, Torrence.”

With that, he lifted Torrence’s head, grabbed the cross-bar of the crucifix like a handle, and pulled him up the hill.

Amazon —USUKCA
Seventh Star Press


Kindle — USUKCA

IRREDEEMABLE in the wild and at Indiebound!

Irredeemable in the wild!

Irredeemable in the wild!

My wonderful collection, Irredeemable, has been sighted in the wild! I received my comp copies from SSP yesterday. The book looks great.

Next week, promotion of Irredeemable starts in earnest. This blog is about to get a lot more active.

I’m going to MoCon this weekend. Officially, the book releases there on Friday night. There will be plenty of copies of Irredeemable available for the Indianapolis crowd to buy. :)

Finally, the book is up on Indiebound! Go here:

International readers can order Irredeemable with free shipping from The Book Depository here:

FREE First Draft Session tomorrow night

I’m teaching what is called a “First Draft Session” tomorrow night. Here is the pertinent information.

Writing Science Fiction & Fantasy Short Stories

with Jason Sizemore

Tuesday, April 29

7:00-9:00 pm


at Eagle Creek branch of the Lexington Public Library, 101 N Eagle Creek Drive

It is an exciting time to be writing sci-fi and fantasy. The market for genre work is robust and reader interest is high. Are you interested in writing genre short fiction? This fast-immersion workshop will use writing exercises, discussions, and examples of popular short fiction to help you craft a memorable and entertaining story of your own. This program is offered as a partnership between the Lexington Public Library and the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning. Call 859-231-5500 or visit to register.

Radio Appearance: Accents Radio Show on WRFL

Accents host Katerina Stoykova-Klemer

Accents host Katerina Stoykova-Klemer

I’m set to appear on the Accents Radio Show on WRFL this coming Friday at 2pm. Accents is hosted by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer and is a radio show for literature, arts, and culture. The great Maureen McHugh was a recent guest!

WRFL is located on FM 88.1 on your dial in Lexington, KY.  For those outside of Lexington, you can listen to a live stream at

I’ll be talking about Irredeemable and will read an excerpt from one of the stories.

Katerina is quite a charming host. She and I click well, so this should make for an entertaining show!


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