As always, I'll ask you to forgive my tardiness on the board: I just spent another two weeks up north shoveilng ice. My God,why does anyone live there? But please know how grateful I am to you all for your support. I'm back in FL now, back to work, on Witch-Water (working title only). I'm pleased as punch, also, to know that Going Monstering is shipping; I hope you dig it. Sometime I reread part of it and laugh out loud. On a part-time basis, I'm working on a new novella, another Lovecraft pastiche, called THE DUNWICH LOVE STORY. Below, I've pasted the first 1000 words for your amusement. I'll be in town till March 10th; hence, I'll try to tend to the board regularly. Thanks, and take care!
Best,
Edward Lee

THE DUNWICH LOVE STORY

(I)
The end of the Dunwich affair left it granted that the entirety of Wilbur Whateley’s hand-written records had been directed into the possession of the renown Dr. Henry Armitage of Miskatonic University. Dr. Armitage is due considerable credit for having broken quite a complex acrostic/substitution code into which these records were enciphered; and the nature of the information gleaned makes it more than reasonable that said data was never publicly released. Instead, a counterfeit explanation devised by authorities spuriously stated that the records were but gobbledygook, an account much more easily digested by all who might be interested.
To reiterate: the existence of these records is granted. What is not granted, however, is this: not quite all of Wilbur Whateley’s records found their way to Dr. Armitage.

(II)

Sary Sladder was being molested, quite creatively, behind a briar-bordered stone fence which paralleled some unwholesome pasturage on the westerly outskirts of Dunwich, when her dismal and quite mediocre life changed forever. Though attractive in body by most local judgment, the unkempt twenty-three-year-old had long-since resigned to an existence of questionable nutrition (of which semen played a depressingly large part) and poverty so absolute it was better left undetailed. Any world-view or personal doctrine that her grey matter may have engendered will remain equally undetailed; however, it might be relevant to delegate a few words to her physical aspect: very long, tar-hued hair; curvesome in contour to a voluptuous degree, while yet hardily lean; adequately bosomed and tumescently nippled; with skin that was, as goes the cliche, alabaster-white. Lips–if anything, overly full–adorned a mouth bereft of front teeth thanks to a father whose explosive psychological climate was all too commonplace amongst Dunwich men; yet this misfortune reversed as Sary soon identified the act of prostitution as her only feasible mode of income-production (more than half of her engagements in this sad yet aeonian trade consisted of “oral succor,” and the aforesaid missing incisors to quite a degree magnified the effectiveness of the service). All of her physical enticements, however, ended with the remainder of her visage: a mastiff attack when very young had left her minus one ear and scarred on both cheeks; she had a hopelessly collapsed nose (thanks, also, to her toper of a father); and an absolutely unvarying facial dermatological outbreak. (Less kind Dunwichers referred to her as “Stew Face.”) But another disability that (like the knocked out teeth) took a turn for the better was a grievous sinus infection during infancy which completely obliterated her sense of smell; hence, without ever even knowing it, Sary’s destitute existence was brightened, as the groins of Dunwichers were not known for their olfactory immaculateness.
Sary at this moment found herself on the less-advantageous end of an awry business proposition. Ten cents was all she charged, yet the target of her commerce today, the burly, hare-lipped Rufus Hutchins, son of an alcoholic well-digger named Elam, made an alternative offer:
“Wal, I got ten cents, Sary, but I also got ten suthin’ else.”
“Ten...what?” Sary asked, not in reception of his meaning.
Whack! came the meaty sound of both fists slamming into her face. “Ten knuckles, ya dutty whore!” Rufus replied, pronouncing “whore” as “hoo-ah” in his mushy backwater dialect. He laughed and watched Sary topple to the grassy verge next to the fence. Her senses skewed; she saw proverbial stars as big sandpaper hands hauled her flannel dress up and roved her nude body. Fingertips pliered her nipples; a fist clenched her pubic thatch and yanked, and she yelped. “Gonna bust this hoo-ah pussy up with my dick, ee-yuh,” assured Rufus, as the organ to which his vernacular referred had already been extracted. It dangled half-limp but when–whack!–he struck her once more in the head, the organ erected with an instantaneousness so thorough one would’ve taken it to be spring-loaded. Sary’s vision smeared; she managed vocal incoherencies through the fist-induced stupor, and when she attempted to strike Rufus’s contorted face, her arm only flopped about. “My pa fucked yew onct,” Rufus reminded her. “Said yer cum-hole smelt wuss than a moose-gut pile ben in the woods a month,” and then pushed her face to one side, exposed the unattractive aperture where her ear had been bitten off, and, for some reason knowable only to one as demented as Rufus, expectorated liberally into that aperture. These few moments of outrage sufficed to revive some of Sary’s vitality; she whipped her head back and forth as if to jettison the sputum from her ear-hole, and shrieked, “Yew’re right, yer daddy fucked me but his dick was so little, I didn’t even feel it! And I also heerd yew suck dog dick!” Sary, in truth, had heard no such thing, but felt the invention appropriate.
Rufus tensed. “Oh, so’s I suck dog dick, yew say?” and then the well-digger’s son brought two index fingers to his mouth, whistled quite piercingly, and called out, “Heer, Brooter! Heer, boy!” after which Sary’s guts shriveled as she recalled a bit too latently that the Hutchinses owned a collie named Brooter, and a vicious collie at that.
Over the fence bounded the mangy, yellow-fanged collie, its insane eyes keen with interest. Rufus snapped his fingers, commanded, “Roll oh-vuh, boy!” whereupon the animal (curiously, as if used to this command) circumducted itself upon the ground and spread its hind legs. Testicles large as a human’s lolled in their fleshy sac, and a glistening pink tip of flesh had already begun to extrude from the penile sheath. Sary did not require notice as to what she would next be required to do.

Damn, more twisted bestiality. How long do I have to wait to have this book in my hand? I shouldn't have read it because now I have to wait forever to finish it. lol. Thanks, Ed. Long live the king of Splatterspunk!

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Dr Seuss Is Dead

I should have known better than to read an E. Lee story excerpt while sipping coffee. It required four paper towels to clean the mess off my monitor--er, spewed coffee that is, not, um.... yeah well, never mind.

Looks like it'll be yet another story to offend at least two sensibilities in every person. You rock, my man

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"The most bitter remorse is for the sins one did not commit."

Sounds awesome Ed. Very much anticipating reading the rest of this one. Just received Going Monstering and LOVING it so far. You sir, are THE MAN!!

Thanks tremendously, folks. I'm glad you got a kick out of it, and I'm dying to finish it. That may take a while, however, cos I just started my next novel for Leisure which will consume a good deal of my writing time till August 1st. Take care and be well!

Edward Lee

That was great. One of my favourite traits of Ed's writing is the use of such colourful wordplay in passages, to describe the heinus acts therein.

John: there will be more, I promise. I just wish I could get back to work on it now! Thanks for your interest and take care,

Best,
Edward Lee