A Few Updates

It’s been a busy month of May, and I wanted to share some recent writing projects that are now out in the world.

First, Daryl Sznyter and I had the honor or interviewing Xavier Neal-Burgin, director of the outstanding documentary Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror. You can read the interview over at HorrOrigins. If you haven’t seen the doc, watch it. Even if you’re a film history buff or horror fan, I promise you that you’ll learn something new.

Recently, Horror Homeroom put together a journal in honor of the 40-year anniversary of Friday the 13th. The articles address a far range of topics, including the portrayal of masculinity in the franchise and critical reception to the films. I have an article in the issue entitled “No Clowning Around: The Comedic and Gothic Elements of Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives.” Check out the journal entitled Friday the 13th at 40 and enjoy!

Lastly, I have an interview with Coralie Fargeat, director of Revenge, out in Signal Horizon Magazine. Check it out!

A Little Poem about My Favorite Slasher

JasonLives

Photo Courtesy of Paramount Pictures

About 10 years ago, Boston Literary Magazine was one of the first magazines to publish any of my work.  Prior to the acceptance, I had a few rejections  but remained persistent and kept writing and  revising, spurred on by editor Robin Stratton’s encouragement. Over the last few years, the magazine was on hiatus, but recently, it returned with a lengthy comeback issue. I’m deeply appreciative that my poem “The First Time I Watched a Friday the 13th” was included. I’ll forever be grateful to BLM for taking a chance on my work years ago, and I’m thrilled to have a new piece in the comeback issue. You can read it here or read it below.

 

The First Time I Watched a Friday the 13th

My mom kept watch on the sunflower recliner,

her brown eyes peering over pages of a paperback,

while I leaned towards the TV, inserted a VHS—

Friday the 13th Pt. 4.

 

I ran my hands over the sleeve—

the black holes of Jason’s hockey mask,

the silver knife that gleamed like moonlight

over Camp Crystal Lake.

 

I clapped at the first appearance of hulking Jason

power walking through the woods, stalking

first victims, camp counselors that guzzled beers,

traded joints back and forth like secret notes.

 

My mother said nothing about first kills—

a machete to the head, an arrow between the eyes,

the gasps of victims before the camera pulled away

and Jason dragged their bodies to the woods.

 

It wasn’t until two counselors disrobed,

reached for the buttons of each other’s shorts

that mom rose from her chair, stormed towards the TV,

seized the tape, clicked her tongue in disgust.

 

For months I searched for the VHS, like goods

thieved from me I wanted to reclaim. I never finished

that scene, the kill that always follows sex in slasher flicks.

 

My mother, too,was a moral judge,

wanting to shield my eyes from the female form,

from the mysteries of sex a 10-year-old wanted to ask.