Who Ho’?

Horace James writes short dark stories that have shifty eyes, sickly complexions and questionable backgrounds. His work can be found in a places with low light and sticky floors that your mother should have warned you about. In fact, if you have any respect for your mother, or yourself, you will not click this link.

Horace faces challenges. Stuck in the slow lane of the rat race, quitting his day job and going off to frolic in sun-kissed meadows dashing off sonnets ain’t too damn likely. So, he labors in obscurity, scribbling away in stolen moments of the day. (Nice imagery, huh?  Rhymes, too.)

Short on time and cursed with an attention span as long and shiny as a moth’s penis, short stories have proven to be a fertile format in which to spew his creative juices.

Horace doesn’t like labels, but finds commonality with those literary genres that confront the human condition: tales of sex, firearms, dismembered body parts, giant sloths, dead Lynyrd Skynyrd members, third-rate undertakers… the archetypes of classic literature.

Any filthy, dismal location on the globe is fair game, but he sets many of his stories in his adopted home state, Florida. The hard limestone in the southern portion makes for shallow graves. The Most Protruberant State is not a virgin literary territory, but it’s fertile as the seat of a Disney World rental stroller in August.

There are a million cracks in all that tile and stucco, and each one has a story to tell.

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