June 30th, 2005


The Past resurfaces - yesterday's post today. More to come

I’ll be a son of a bitch.

Okay, listen up folks. Any of you who have known me a LONG time especially. It seems that my former agent, turned crook, turned embezzler, turned multi-named FBI fugitive has lost his mind. The bastard has written a book, under yet ANOTHER pseudonym. Nothing so crazy there – he always wrote stories he claimed not to write under the pen name S. Darnbrook Colson. He called himself “The Bad Boy of Horror,” but readers will recall him as the boy of bad horror. His name, when he worked in the horror field, was Stan Tal. That, of course, was never his name. As close as I can come to one he uses constantly is Stanton D. Colson. That appears to be his real (or currently real) name.

Stan started out with a publication called Bizarre Bazaar. He liked extreme horror. He published a “six pack” of chapbooks by Ed Lee, Lucy Taylor, and some others. He put out a couple of issues of BB and then eventually he bought DEATHREALM and published it – retaining Mark Rainey as editor. They did several issues that way.

He was also an agent. (in theory) The Tal Literary Agency carried my work for a few years. He seemed like a very normal, straightforward, down-to-earth guy. I never much agreed with his extreme taste in horror, but, other than not wanting to publish it himself, he liked my work fine. Then he went insane.

I know that he stole royalties in the 6 figure range from one client. I know that at least one client (and I think two) received foreign editions of books handled by Tal that they knew nothing about selling…I guess we know where the money went.

I KNOW for a fact that when he disappeared into the woodwork the freaking snake called up Pocket Books and tried to get them to change the payment on the royalties for my Star Trek Novel from The Tal Literary Agency to Stanton D. Colson. I put a stop to that (with some difficulty). He also tried to snake off with White Wolf royalties.

I KNOW that if the FBI considered what he did important enough to waste their valuable fucking time on he’d be in prison right now, but they don’t.

Now I’ve set the stage. Not too long ago Trish and I discovered that Stan Colson was teaching creative writing to kids and his wife was teaching art. They seem to be very active in the local literary / artistic scene. We couldn’t get Stan to answer a phone call though (wonder why) and have had no contact, despite living nearby.

Well, now there’s this:


Which Trish found by visiting THIS:


The former is the book this snake has written and published through IUNIVERSE under a pseudonym. The latter is the web site that another local family runs for our town of Hertford. We have a website for Hertford as well. Every time we put something up on it, they copy it. They use our features, and they have even (in the past) used our photos. That is neither here nor there…the fact that this guy would venture back into ANY literary quarter and not expect to get slapped down really eats at me.

So…this is phase one my gutting of this bastard and “local author” fame.

Phase II will be pointing this out to all the people he ripped off so their lawyers can put some claim in on any money he might make from selling his piece of crap (which I plan to help make sure is nothing).

I’m sorry if this comes off as bitter. It’s more like incredulous. I’m flabbergasted by the man’s sheer gall…and by the fact that he apparently figures a few thousand dollars will just be forgiven and forgotten at some point. I don’t see it that way. If he paid back ALL the money he couldn’t give me back the two years he lied about representing my work…two years off the beginning of my career. Not to mention the others he pulled the same thing on.

Phew…(heh). That’s enough of that.

On a more pleasant note: Week two of filming for Godhead is complete. Final primary filming will be complete on the 12th of July. This puppy is HAPPENING! For better, or for worse, I’m going to have my name in the credits of a movie. Go me (lol).

Also, for those keeping track, THE ORFFYREUS WHEEL is going to be the next novel project. That will complete the cycle, and all of last years annoying unfinished books will be complete. ONWARD…

  • Current Mood
    grumpy grumpy


I just received the cover flat and galleys for a story I have upcoming, and I thought I’d share a little about it. The story will appear in the DAW anthology “All Hell Breaking Loose,” edited by Martin H. Greenberg (though I know at least one other person who was heavily involved). I don’t want to talk about the package I received, though, but about the story behind the story. It’s an odd one, but it’s as good an answer as any to that old question about where writers get their ideas.

The story in question is titled “Burning Bridges.” I don’t remember exactly when I wrote the first draft of it, but it was a long time ago. I was definitely still in the US Navy at the time. I know this because it was during my stint in the Navy that the recurring dream I was having began.

In the dream, I’m working in a huge basement warehouse. I’m cleaning behind floor-to-ceiling shelving units. In some versions of this dream I’m with a woman I can never remember later, and in others I’m alone until later in the dream. I’m wearing one of those helmets with the light on it – like miners or sewer workers wear. I don’t know why I’m cleaning, and there doesn’t seem to be anything TO clean, until I reach a particular shelf. Behind this there are lumps.

Being as stupid in my dream (I say this particularly bout the recurrences of the dream, during which I was aware I was dreaming, and that I’d dreamed it before and had the sensation I was digging deeper to find out why) I crawled in behind that shelf as well and trained my helmet-light on what waited in the shadows.

The lumps were all covered with cloth. There was something disturbing about the shape of them, but no one else was around. In fact, I recall specifically that, at that particular moment, I became VERY aware of how alone I was.

Anyway, under those white cloths were bodies. Very small bodies. Children – except – there was something wrong. There were defects. They were in various stages of decomposition. Some had horns. Some had extra eyes. Some had extra limbs and tails. All had been discarded. That word seemed important to me, for some reason – discarded. At this point I start hearing voices. People are approaching. I’m frantically trying to figure out who would do this, kill all these babies – even if they do have horns – and then suddenly the dream shifts.

I’m no longer behind the shelf, and I’m no longer cleaning. I have no lighted helmet, and usually at this point the aforementioned woman is there. We are fleeing from beneath a huge complex. There are government drones chasing us, and we have to make it into the outside world. The problem is, the outside world has been overrun by George Romero style zombies. We’ll have to first escape the drones, and the underground complex, and then fight our way through the zombies to some un-named safe haven beyond. All of this has happened because I discovered the experimental children’s corpses…though I never figure out why.

Then, usually in the middle of fighting zombies, I wake up. Every time this dream occurred, I was certain that what I’d just dreamed would make a killer story. Every time I tried to sort it in my head and create any kind of plot out of the original dream sequence, I realized it was disjointed, not that original, and in no way coherent enough to be a story. Still, it stuck with me.

One day I started out to just write down the description of the warehouse. That was my plan. It got away from me. I think I might have watched that Stephen King movie (I think it was several shorts) where they have the basement and the rats just prior to writing that long-ago draft. What I ended up with was an ex-soldier named Stan who was carrying on his own war with rats in my own oft-visited city of San Valencez, California.

Stan, of course, finds more than rats. He finds the, in the words of Detective Tommy Doyle, “double-D Goddam defects” on the children, but flees the scene. Enter Tommy and his partner, Big Mack Marcum. This became the introduction to Detective Doyle, about whom I’ve written several novels now – he and his cousin Patrick, in any case. Tommy Doyle, the “Psychos-r-Us” cop who would draw the case file of a sociopath or anything worse available from a stack containing one such file and a hundred normal cases. It’s just the way his life goes. His comment? “Swell.”

Anyway…I wont’ give away the whole story. At some point there was a themed anthology and I wrote a bad story around the rat sequence to try and get into it. I didn’t get in, and the file sat – and sat – and sat. I pulled it out not too long ago and read it – completely revised it – and fixed the rest of the plot. I was about to start sending it out again, just to see what would come of it, when I got invited to “All Hell Breaking Loose,” and realized I already had the perfect story. The editors agreed, and now – very soon -- you can all go and buy the book and tell me if I wasted my dream.

I’ve only had a handful of recurring nightmares / dreams. I haven’t yet used the one where I was protecting an Egyptian Mummy Princess from Abbott & Costello – and snakes. Sometimes the walls need to stay in place, you know?


  • Current Mood
    contemplative contemplative


I've been talking this guy up (heh) I thought I'd show off a couple of his pieces of art. I'm not showing ANY of the amazing art he's doing for my book yet - that's up to the publisher...but I'll show you this:

  • Current Mood
    creative creative