On boots and bars and motorbikes...

Ever had one of them days where everything goes from roses and sunshine to something much more akin to the southernmost drafts of northbound horse? I never was all that great at geography, but something about all this just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve always been a lot better at getting a story told, I always thought. And the editors over at The Ocotillo Review and Kallisto Gaia Press seemed to think so, too, because they recently notified me that they planned to publish my fourth story from my Long Gone & Lost collection, which I’ll be turning in for my MFA here in the very near future. I’m fairly certain that the two fellows from my story would know all about those ill tasting after effects I mentioned, however. They may be all fiction themselves, but they were indeed inspired by real life events in a real life newsrooms. Dave Kindred wrote about a few folks just like these two who, mere days after everybody was riding a high that only those who win six Pulitzers wil

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/opinion/the-extraordinary-life-and-times-of-george-hw-bush/ar-BBQkmwJ?ocid=spartandhp

Oldies but goodies: Got notified today that two previously published  Bobby Horecka stories will be running again, this time in the May /June 2019 Down in the Dirt literary magazine  Mr. Man Candy | The Legend of Chunk Two of our reader favorites, both on this blog and https://OutlawAuthorz.com   are now part of Down in the Dirt literary magazine!

What happens when a medically discharged combat veteran, an oddball albino and a runaway toddler all cross paths one day? Toss in a big pile of pups and you'd have the start of a character list to Lubbock 1974 , one of the newest and darkest stories from my Long Gone & Lost collection, and it went live on the East Coast today at Amarillo Bay, the University of South Carolina's online literary magazine. The story offers an unsettling glimpse at a day in the life of a bunch of misfits tossed together by chance in the Texas Panhandle during the early 1970s. I tried writing something like this almost thirty years ago now, when I first went off to the university in San Marcos. Called it the Red Rubber Ball, a truly awful piece college freshman-year poetry that I'm fairly certain the fates destroyed for me finally, in a late night house fire during the mid-1990s. Few are left who ever even saw those particular words. But the story it told is where started when I wrote th

Although I knew it would be coming soon, I can't tell you how big a kick it was finding this in my Inbox when I got back to my house yesterday. September was a rough month for me. For several reasons. Not least of which was losing Gramma and a new job within the exact same week. So, this was welcome news indeed, something I kinda needed after some true head-spinners these last few weeks...  This interview was actually put together months ago (back when my website launched in January 2018, to be precise). I figured it was lost months ago already. Until I got word from them last month, which was good because I just didn't have it in me for another Try, Try Again moment. Not then. Not with everything else. But I'll be damned if another job didn't walk up out of nowhere, one I started the exact same day this published. And other than a bit sunburnt, I can't complain in the least. It was even kinda fun. So, here's hoping for some hellova lot better weeks in st

That little light-haired kid is me, a recurrent character in the book I just finished, just behind Major, this ancient German Sheppard we had on the farm when I was young, and my Grampa driving what I thought was a jalopy of a tractor because it needed a hand crank to start (and would probably hand over what's left of my teeth to get back again as a restoration project). But like that tractor, those bright white locks are long gone. What's left of my hair is mostly gray now, and sadly, there ain't much of that. But that's not why I write today. Rather, I'm hoping perhaps some of you can help me with something... At my gramma's funeral services last week, several people commented about things remembered from the eulogies I wrote for Viola's husband, Victor Konvicka, (my grampa, someone I was very close to and the first person I ever wrote parting words for) and her daughter, Lillie Horecka (my mom, who despite seeming a healthy woman at the time of his

At the request of many of you in attendance on Tuesday at St. Mary's in Hallettsville, my eulogy for Gramma.  Father John had already begun the faith and family parts when I got in touch. He asked that I provide some color, so that's what I shot for. Oddly, he told me before the service the salesman part was a bit long, but he loved the rest. He wound up sharing the salesman part and not much else. So here's what I came up with, color and all, in my uncut, original version: Sweet. Salt of the earth. Pretty. Unique. Generous. Hardworking. Protective. Kind. Caring. Dependable. Beautiful. Special. Loving. Proud… Those are just some of the words that a few of YOU used to describe Viola, my gramma, as I shared the news of her passing last weekend on Facebook. I never thought I’d ever use those two words used in the same sentence—Grandma and Facebook, that is—unless the words “ said she never heard of ” came in between them. Technology was never one of her