Sunday, April 28, 2013

Joe Chili, writing stories from world's end.


Joe Chili is dislocated in time, writing about his life from the future. He likes to cook and eat chili. No beans, please. He drives a food truck, bringing a bit of joy into the lives of those left over after the world ended, serving up bowls full of Transcendental Chili.

He's a cook, a philosopher, an entrepreneur, and a survivor. It's strange out there in the future at world's end, and when Joe finds the time, he'll tell you about it. Living in La La Land isn't just wild and wooly, it's downright crazy.


Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Food Truck at World's End



New author Joe Chili and his controversial new story 'Food Truck at World's End'

Friday, April 19, 2013

The Carl Quiltman Interview and his Amazon Author Page

Carl Quiltman Amazon Author Page

It is rumored that Carl Quiltman was a man noted for his beautiful art quilts before a long arm quilting machine fell on his head while he attempted to repair it for a friend. He was rushed to neural surgery where a steel plate had to be put in his head. Major damage was done to his cerebral cortex.

He could no longer quilt. That area of his brain was mangled into a gray, lifeless jelly. Despite his handicap, he took up writing. He writes what he thinks are quilting mystery stories but are actually bizarre trips into a mind lost to random synaptic electrical storms.

Interviewer: "Carl, why do you write short stories about quilting?"

Carl Quiltman: "Because I love quilts and the folks that make them. I write in the hope that my stories will inspire originality in the art of quilting. I have a vision that beautiful quilts have power to change the world for the better."

Interviewer: "Thanks Carl. You're forever the optimist."

Carl Quiltman: "Or a fool. Some think I'm a Buddha. I change with the barometric pressure."


Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Carl Quiltman, the author, makes an appearance in one of his own stories.

Carl Quiltman makes an appearance in his own story, titled - Gray Handed Quilter. Here is an excerpt where he bares his heart to anyone that will read his story:

Candy heard the door open but didn't lift her eyes from her work. She knew it would be Carl. Natalie had a look on her face of quiet desperation. Annette and Sarah braced themselves for whatever weirdness was coming. Whatever was left of Carl's mental abilities he utilized in writing quilt mysteries. He self published his stories on the Internet. It was sad to see his damaged brain struggling to express one coherent thought. After a longarm quilting machine fell and cracked his skull open like an egg, he was never the same. He entered the room, still dressed in nothing but his food stained bathrobe, and said, 'They trashed me again.”

“What?” Sarah asked, trying to grasp what Carl was talking about. Candy, Annette, even Natalie – his own wife - tried to ignore him. Natalie had to exercise every ounce of her patience in dealing with Carl. She realized his mental problems weren't his fault. They were nobody's fault. He was a victim of chaos, a random accident that could have happened to anyone. Still, Carl annoyed her, which was her own shortcoming – and that annoyed her too.

“My last story. My heart bled to write it. My soul was in it. It was my child. My baby. And they ripped it to shreds, left my baby's body, bloody and beaten, a carcass for the vultures to swoop down and eat.” Carl began to weep. He held his head in his hands and wept with long wailing cries of agony. It annoyed the women, but out of respect for Natalie and Carl's brain damage, they tolerated the interruption.

Natalie said in soothing tones, “That's too bad, Carl. We'll talk about it tonight. Right now, go back home and try to relax.”

Annette put aside her needle. She had lost her creative flow for the moment. Her arthritis. Carl's crying. Put it all together and it was a creativity killer. Annette said, “Look, Carl, don't let it get you down. It doesn't mean anything. Everyone hates something. Everyone loves something. Maybe they don't get what it is you're doing. Some criticizers read quickly and arrogantly, like David Mitchell wrote about in Cloud Atlas.” Annette flinched from a sudden, sharp burst of arthritic pain.

When Carl took his hands from his face and let them fall to his sides, his bathrobe fell off, dropping to the floor in a heap. He didn't seem to notice his nakedness, his gaze never straying from the Lone Star quilt spread across the table. Most of his pudgy body was ignored by the women, except for his one asset - and that was of biblical proportions.