TALES FROM THE LARK SIDE: An Honest Review in Two Parts

Welcome to Tales from the Lark Side!

Review in two parts. Only way to do this right. First, let me answer a question one of the editors asked in a post. Why are people not honest in reviews?

Well, we don’t want to:

Ruin ourselves. For the stuff I’m fixin’ to lay on ya, you’ll see what I mean. But I promised you honesty, and even though I fought with myself about it, I am going to deliver exactly that.

We also don’t want to:

Hurt your feelings. And I don’t. None of us, unless we’re rumbling dickbags, wants to be the reason why an artist gives up. Or piss another artist off if that is a friend. Both of you are cool with me, and I’m not generally in the business of bagging on friends.

You’re going to say you don’t care, and that it won’t, to which I’m going to say bullshit, it’ll be like someone ripping tape off of your nipples. It must be that way, because that’s how it feels for me when I get a bad review, whether I show it or not. But I dig it. Barring y’all, it’s bound to upset someone, and I’ll probably have to deal with that in the future.

Which is fine with me. I been a metaphoric rodeo clown a long time. On top of that, those who really know me or have even hired me (that’s a thing that’s happened) know that no matter what’s coming out of my mouth, unless I loathe you (And you will know. You will not have to wonder. Or wait for gossip. You will know right away.), I only say what I say because I want you to get your Stephen King on. I want you to be the best writer you can be, even at cost to myself.

Without further ado! Selah, Cazart, and other words that mean woohoo!

THE COOL PART: A woman gives birth to puppies. A Hawaiian shirt lays waste to the unsuspecting. I had a Hawaiian shirt on when I read this. Loved both of these.  

Men, don’t aggravate witches. It’s not just a cool story, it’s good advice. 

Fucking OSHA laws for Zombie safety, and the dipshit who doesn’t pay attention to them. Clown horror, who doesn't love a good clown horror, with some of the funnier nicknames I've heard. Just the premise was great. I would go to clown school. 

Also, one of the better war shorts you're likely to read is in here. The protagonist has a meditative talent I’d love to (and sometimes wondered if I don’t) possess. Not the ruthless part of it, the miraculous part. A bakery straight from a place as surreal as Tromaville and just as bloody. 

A ghost with a touch of Douchebag-Inspired Stockholm torments a cunning Karen via her poodle. I fucking adore dogs, just thought I’d throw that out there. I don’t check their poop, though. Ghost farts. Zombies and Rednecks, Rednecks and Zombies. A woman who insists on marrying a dead man in a vignette reminiscent of a Burroughs humor. This anthology gives good chuckle, and every now and again puts all the way out for a belly laugh.

I kick myself for not contributing to this. I really do. But we’re not here to talk about me, and the fact that I'm a

Without further ado...

THE DICK PART: Story was so great right until the end. WHY in the blue bloody fuck did you do that? I’m about to break a fucking denture here. I absolutely fucking hate that ending. It was like paying a hooker not to cum. Boo that you did such a great job all the way until the end. Goddammit, man.

Another story: Oh, look here, it’s the incredibly talented borrower again, let’s see if…nope, it’s another borrow. Dammit. Stop fucking doing that! (The rest has been redacted).

Another one: Jambalaya. Please watch for redundancies. I get the impression this came from a new writer. It sucks being a new writer, and I dig it, so you're good. Unless I’m wrong about this. If so, fuck. If not, you got chops, turn ‘em into melodies.

Though those three aren’t the only ones…not that you can tell who I’m talking about, which is what I want…don't think for a second I haven't been told some really harsh goddamn things about my writing. I have. I'm not a stuffy dick, but this is how y'all, if you figure who you are, made me feel. I aid nothing if I play the sycophant. "I hated this" is a letter I've gotten. And it made me dig deeper. I could actually feel this person doing everything in their power not to call me a cunting disappointment, and to their credit, they didn’t. But you know what? They’d have been right to. And it will work, the same way it worked the first time they rejected me.

Don't be mad. Get better. That’s what I try to do. I just got a rejection, right?

Or, fuck, be mad. Goddamn. It’s your cortisol.

Edit: I don't mean the editors. Both of them are welcome to pelt me with rubber chickens.

Okay! Dick part over, and like I said, I was asked. I don't believe in people being better than anyone else, so you’d be incorrect to think I think I'm better. I don't think I'm better than anyone. Unless you're Keith Jesperson. Most people are way better than that guy. If a thing is cool,  it's cool. There's no better. And everything that isn't, at least for me, goes in the same pile. 

But this is not in that pile. If you think so, go read the first part of the review again.

On the whole, I loved Tales from the Lark Side. The cover is really cute. That would be a good poster to have on your ceiling while you’re tripping gargantuan huevos. The stories I did consider gems are fucking blood diamonds. You should get it right now. That’s what I say. 8/10. Worth every penny. The stories that took me somewhere took me all the way there, and that’s what matters most to me.