Board up the windows, push an old dresser against the door and load your shotgun. A zombie apocalypse is about to hit Wilde City, and if you want the best survival tips, six of Wilde City’s boys are here to help.
You’ll never want to exercise again as Eric Arvin and TJ Klune turn a gym full of hunks into a smorgasbord of terror in GHOUL’S GYM.
Gather your friends and fight for the man you love, as Ethan Stone and Daniel A Kaine turn Vegas into a zombie nightmare in SURVIVING SIN CITY.
And bring a date to dinner to celebrate Grumpy Grampy’s 90th birthday and introduce your family to your new zombie boyfriend in Geoffrey Knight and Ethan Day’s GUESS WHO’S COMING AT DINNER.
You’ll scream with terror and howl with laughter as Wilde City’s boys bring you our first undead anthology ZOMBIE BOYZ.
You’ll never want to exercise again as Eric Arvin and TJ Klune turn a gym full of hunks into a smorgasbord of terror in GHOUL’S GYM.
Gather your friends and fight for the man you love, as Ethan Stone and Daniel A Kaine turn Vegas into a zombie nightmare in SURVIVING SIN CITY.
And bring a date to dinner to celebrate Grumpy Grampy’s 90th birthday and introduce your family to your new zombie boyfriend in Geoffrey Knight and Ethan Day’s GUESS WHO’S COMING AT DINNER.
You’ll scream with terror and howl with laughter as Wilde City’s boys bring you our first undead anthology ZOMBIE BOYZ.
Guess Who's Coming At Dinner - Geoffrey Knight & Ethan Day
“Is that what I think it is?” Grammy Gabby shrieked, her eyes bulging so big that her gigantic, tinted 70s-style specs slipped an inch down the bridge of her nose.
And all my studly zombie boyfriend Zane could do was grin that big, stupid, handsome, kinda-undead smile of his while he pawed and tugged at the raging tentpole erection in his ripped jeans and announced to the whole table in that animalistic tone of his, “Me haaaaaawny.”
My mother dropped her fork. Clang!
My father started choking on his beans. “Blarrrk!”
My sister, Sister Mary Abigail, crossed herself several times and started talking in tongues. “Muhl-sun-lun-acka-clacka-yada-zirka-blirka!”
Grumpy Grampy cupped his hand around his ear to hear better and shouted, “What that little sonuva-bitch just say?”
My drunken Aunt Tilly just chuckled calmly with a “he-he-he” and said, “He’s a real tiger, ain’t he!”
Zane took it upon himself to confirm Tilly’s suspicions by growling at me as if he were an actual tiger before announcing loudly again, “Me horny, Chand-lerrrr!”
But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. This story doesn’t start with me wanting to curl up and die of embarrassment at my grandfather’s ninetieth birthday dinner party. It began the day a boy named Zane Addison seemingly took notice of me the first time. Before the zombie apocalypse and all the hoo-ha that followed. He was human back then, and I was in love.
I still am, actually. Even more so than before.
Some things even a heinous, zombie-making-virus plague can’t change.
Love is love, you know?
Of course, coming out to my family at my grandfather’s birthday dinner with the shocking news that I was in love with a zombie…well…that was practically an apocalypse unto itself. You’d think it was the End of the World, Part Two…or hell…maybe it was actually like Three or Four at this point?
Who the hell can keep track these days?
But I digress into my own mini-existential crisis.
So yeah, this night was not going so well, and Grumpy Grampy’s ninetieth was sure to go down in history as the night Chandler Cox died from embarrassment——or saw the first glimmer of hope for humanity’s survival.
But perhaps I should start at the beginning.
I’m Chandler, nineteen years old and should be living in a college dorm at Harvard. But instead, I still live at home or did up until a few days ago. Why? Because like most other people on the planet, any plans I had for the future totally imploded after the Pandemic Transviral Apocalypse of 2013, which was swiftly shortened to PTA for tweeting purposes.
Trust me when I tell you, the parents and teachers were no longer using it anymore. My engineering dreams had vanished faster than a pallet of flatscreens from a looted local electronics store.
So cliché, right?
The world as we know it is under siege but hey, don’t screw with our God-given right to life, liberty and our ability to access streaming content…bitches.
Along with the end of the global economy, public safety, and any chance of ever having a room to myself again – life as I’d once known it had evaporated before my very eyes.
I’d sat through all the motivational speeches about how we’re all still human—at least some of us still were—and all the BS about how we can like, totally adapt and stuff…but holy hell, as selfish as it may sound, a teenage boy has needs, damn it!
While it’s true that those needs don’t technically suck up that much time, considering your typical nineteen-year-old guy can rub one out in a matter of mere minutes, the fact is I now sleep on the floor of my own bedroom while Grumpy Grampy snores his way through the night in my bed, dribbling on my once stain-free pillow. Let’s just say that even though he can barely hear, his wheezing is a total mood killer.
He’s so noisy!
Even Grammy Gabby refuses to sleep in the same room with him, preferring the tiny-ass cupboard under the stairs over sharing space with the cranky old coot. Not that she’s a whole lot better with her constant complaining about her aches and pains. We put up with it because I guess we’d rather have them with us than out on the streets, all infected and begging for brains and shit.
Most days, anyway.
But this is what people had to do post-PTA. They started mending relationships, putting aside petty squabbles, and living in larger groups, because everybody knows that the family who hoards and boards together remains uninfected by the undead together.
To say that the PTA came out of nowhere is an understatement. Apart from Charlie Sheen, everyone else was leading a fairly normal life up until that point in modern history. I was starting my senior year in high school.
I hung out with my best friend, Dong.
I went to the movies.
I even worked my shitty part-time job, trying to save up enough money for my first year in college.
And I suffered the sling and arrows from assholes who hated my guts simply because I was gay.
Surviving Sin City - Ethan Stone & Daniel A Kaine
Counting his tips before leaving for the last delivery of the night, Kaleb Pierce grinned and pumped his fist. “Yes!”
With the money he’d made, he could afford a night at his favorite bar on the Las Vegas Strip, Krave, though he’d never tell his family that’s where he was going. He could always find plenty of guys to dance with, and if someone caught his eye, he wasn’t opposed to doing more. A night of grinding and rubbing against sweaty bodies as the music thumped was exactly what he needed. Just for those few hours, he could feel young and sexy again; something that didn’t happen often since he was always delivering greasy pizzas or covering shifts at the 7-Eleven down the street from where he lived.
Kaleb pulled up in front of the customer’s house, parking on the wrong side of the street so the driver’s side was on the curb. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed the phone number on the order slip.
“Arnie’s Pizza. I’m right outside.”
Having worked and lived in some of the worst neighborhoods in Vegas, he was extra careful not to leave the car unless absolutely necessary, and he always kept his Glock nearby just in case.
The customer stepped out of the house, and Kaleb squinted to make out the man’s face in the dim light.
“Harlan!”
“How are you doing, K?” They shook hands through the car window.
“Doing good,” Kaleb replied. “When did you and Rachel move here?”
“Last month,” he answered. “She’s been sick for a week or so. I don’t know if it’s a cold or what, but she just can’t seem to shake it. How much do I owe you?”
“Twenty seventy-five.” Kaleb pulled the pizza out of the heated bag.
Harlan fished twenty-five from his wallet and handed it to Kaleb. The front door of Harlan’s house opened, and a brunette woman stepped out. She was frail with a sunken face and empty-looking eyes, and Kaleb barely recognized her. He motioned for Harlan to turn around as she walked stiffly toward them.
Harlan turned around. “Rachel, what are you doing outside?”
She growled at Harlan. Kaleb was sure he’d heard wrong, until she did it again. Rachel stumbled forward, and Harlan dropped the pizza, reaching out to grab her.
Rachel leaned forward like she was going to kiss him, and he dodged her. Couldn’t blame the guy for getting out of the way; she looked like shit. Her lips landed on his neck for what appeared to be a gentle display of affection, but Harlan screamed and pushed her away when she made contact. Blood gushed out of the wound, and a flap of flesh dangled from Rachel’s lips.
“Ohfuckinghell!” Bile rose in the back of Kaleb’s throat, and he fought the urge to gag. He reached for his phone with one hand and the Glock with the other.
“Fucking hell!” Harlan took his hand off his neck and stared at the blood. Rachel snarled and lunged at him. He tried to push her away, but she bit his arm and pulled away with skin and blood in her mouth. Harlan fell backward, jumped back up and ran into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Rachel turned toward Kaleb, reached through the car window and grabbed his arm. He yanked it away before she could sink her teeth in, aimed the gun and shot her in the shoulder. She fell backward and landed on her ass but was back on her feet quicker than should’ve been possible. He slammed the car into drive and hit the gas pedal while calling 911 on his phone.
“What’s the nature of your emergency?” a deep, male voice asked.
“A woman just attacked her husband.”
“What’s the address?”
“4375 Sadie Street. Rachel and Harlan Barrett.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kaleb Pierce.”
“Are you at the residence as we speak?”
“Hell, no. And I ain’t going back.”
“The police will need a report, sir.”
“There’s an empty lot on the corner of Sadie and Lana,” Kaleb said. “I’ll meet them there.”
He pulled over at the empty lot, got out of his car and leaned against it for twenty minutes until a patrol car arrived.
A tall, black woman stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked up to Kaleb. “Mr. Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Moss, and this is Officer Gonsalvo.” She motioned to her partner. “Will you spell your name for us?”
“K-A-L-E-B.”
“Caleb with a C?” Officer Gosalvo asked.
Kaleb sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, with a K, as in key.”
“Key-Leb?”
“No!” he snapped.
“There is no need to raise your voice, Mr. Peirce,” Officer Moss said.
Kaleb sighed again, pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly spelled his first and last name before finally giving his report.
“I was delivering a pizza to a friend of mine, Harlan Barrett, and his wife came out of their place. She was walking all funny like she couldn’t bend her arms or something.” Kaleb demonstrated the stiff-arm movement.
“Like Frankenstein?” Officer Gonsalvo asked.
Ghoul's Gym - Eric Arvin & TJ Klune
Damn! It’s a pristine morning on Euclid Avenue. Makes a fella happy to be alive, don’t it? The grass is glistening wet in the sun from the oscillating lawn sprinklers. The trees are filled with a chorus of birds who take up the same verse every day. Neighbors’ dogs play and bark, and the children dress up their cats in pirate outfits, for every day in suburbia is Halloween.
The two story homes on Euclid are, every one, a model of taste, each looking as if it was the winner of some extreme home makeover program where the host carries around a megaphone and shouts “Get ’er done!” like an overcompensating football coach. That’s not far from the truth, actually. We all compete with each other, I’ll admit that. Everything in life is a competition. It’s instinctual, or primal, something like that. Except now, instead of fighting over who gets the biggest piece of meat, we fight over who has the nicest car, biggest house, most perfect body. It’s the twenty-first century, and this is what matters.
This is our two-story Tudor home with a large pool and a two car garage. We’re pretty lucky, I think. I had a smile on my face as big as the gosh darn moon the day Jake and me signed our lives away for it a few months ago. It’s usually a quiet neighborhood, too, but not this morning. No, sir. And that’s our fault. We’re upstairs fucking so hard we’re gonna wake the dead.
Jake Howell, that’s my man. He’s a lanky looker, and he commands my attention whenever he walks into a room. And me? I’m the gym bunny with his ankles in the air. My name is Ulysses Florence Hoak. I kid you not. I was named after a family war hero, blah, blah, blah.
Most folks just call me Uly.
I know how to get Jakey going. He’s watching the news in bed this morning. I’m feeling a bit more rambunctious, so, as usual when this occurs, I get up and parade around, picking up dirty clothes and the like from the floor while dressed in nothing but my sexiest undies. I make sure to bend over a lot. Jake is on me like a squirrel on nuts. I work out that derriere just for him, so it’s good to see he appreciates it.
The whole room is shaking as Jake plows into me. And man, does he plow! So deep I can feel it in my tummy. Most of the yelling is coming from me, but it’s what I asked for after all.
This morning, though…damn! He’s skewering me with his dick. And there’s this look on his face like he’s still listening to the news. Like I’m there but I’m not there. Don’t get me wrong. It’s still hot in its own way, but Jake seems distracted.
In between thrusts and kisses, in between my groaning and his grunting, I hear bits and pieces of the news: a strange outbreak of violence here, a startling new virus there. Everyday stuff. And Jake keeps stabbing me, like he’s fucking me to death. There’s definite passion in each thrust, but it feels more like anger than lust. And when he comes, he grabs my hair like he’s going to bash my face in. When he’s finished, he rolls off me and mumbles something about the fitness center where I work.
I, my friends, am feeling like a Twinkie—cream-filled and rejected.
Jake makes his way to the shower as if we hadn’t just had Richter scale sex. I try to hold my tongue. I try not to say a damn thing. But I’ve never been very good at that. I can hold hundreds of pounds in my hands securely, but my tongue is another matter altogether. I am still naked on the bed, and I ask him ever so polite-like, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Is that what I think it is?” Grammy Gabby shrieked, her eyes bulging so big that her gigantic, tinted 70s-style specs slipped an inch down the bridge of her nose.
And all my studly zombie boyfriend Zane could do was grin that big, stupid, handsome, kinda-undead smile of his while he pawed and tugged at the raging tentpole erection in his ripped jeans and announced to the whole table in that animalistic tone of his, “Me haaaaaawny.”
My mother dropped her fork. Clang!
My father started choking on his beans. “Blarrrk!”
My sister, Sister Mary Abigail, crossed herself several times and started talking in tongues. “Muhl-sun-lun-acka-clacka-yada-zirka-blirka!”
Grumpy Grampy cupped his hand around his ear to hear better and shouted, “What that little sonuva-bitch just say?”
My drunken Aunt Tilly just chuckled calmly with a “he-he-he” and said, “He’s a real tiger, ain’t he!”
Zane took it upon himself to confirm Tilly’s suspicions by growling at me as if he were an actual tiger before announcing loudly again, “Me horny, Chand-lerrrr!”
But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. This story doesn’t start with me wanting to curl up and die of embarrassment at my grandfather’s ninetieth birthday dinner party. It began the day a boy named Zane Addison seemingly took notice of me the first time. Before the zombie apocalypse and all the hoo-ha that followed. He was human back then, and I was in love.
I still am, actually. Even more so than before.
Some things even a heinous, zombie-making-virus plague can’t change.
Love is love, you know?
Of course, coming out to my family at my grandfather’s birthday dinner with the shocking news that I was in love with a zombie…well…that was practically an apocalypse unto itself. You’d think it was the End of the World, Part Two…or hell…maybe it was actually like Three or Four at this point?
Who the hell can keep track these days?
But I digress into my own mini-existential crisis.
So yeah, this night was not going so well, and Grumpy Grampy’s ninetieth was sure to go down in history as the night Chandler Cox died from embarrassment——or saw the first glimmer of hope for humanity’s survival.
But perhaps I should start at the beginning.
I’m Chandler, nineteen years old and should be living in a college dorm at Harvard. But instead, I still live at home or did up until a few days ago. Why? Because like most other people on the planet, any plans I had for the future totally imploded after the Pandemic Transviral Apocalypse of 2013, which was swiftly shortened to PTA for tweeting purposes.
Trust me when I tell you, the parents and teachers were no longer using it anymore. My engineering dreams had vanished faster than a pallet of flatscreens from a looted local electronics store.
So cliché, right?
The world as we know it is under siege but hey, don’t screw with our God-given right to life, liberty and our ability to access streaming content…bitches.
Along with the end of the global economy, public safety, and any chance of ever having a room to myself again – life as I’d once known it had evaporated before my very eyes.
I’d sat through all the motivational speeches about how we’re all still human—at least some of us still were—and all the BS about how we can like, totally adapt and stuff…but holy hell, as selfish as it may sound, a teenage boy has needs, damn it!
While it’s true that those needs don’t technically suck up that much time, considering your typical nineteen-year-old guy can rub one out in a matter of mere minutes, the fact is I now sleep on the floor of my own bedroom while Grumpy Grampy snores his way through the night in my bed, dribbling on my once stain-free pillow. Let’s just say that even though he can barely hear, his wheezing is a total mood killer.
He’s so noisy!
Even Grammy Gabby refuses to sleep in the same room with him, preferring the tiny-ass cupboard under the stairs over sharing space with the cranky old coot. Not that she’s a whole lot better with her constant complaining about her aches and pains. We put up with it because I guess we’d rather have them with us than out on the streets, all infected and begging for brains and shit.
Most days, anyway.
But this is what people had to do post-PTA. They started mending relationships, putting aside petty squabbles, and living in larger groups, because everybody knows that the family who hoards and boards together remains uninfected by the undead together.
To say that the PTA came out of nowhere is an understatement. Apart from Charlie Sheen, everyone else was leading a fairly normal life up until that point in modern history. I was starting my senior year in high school.
I hung out with my best friend, Dong.
I went to the movies.
I even worked my shitty part-time job, trying to save up enough money for my first year in college.
And I suffered the sling and arrows from assholes who hated my guts simply because I was gay.
Surviving Sin City - Ethan Stone & Daniel A Kaine
Counting his tips before leaving for the last delivery of the night, Kaleb Pierce grinned and pumped his fist. “Yes!”
With the money he’d made, he could afford a night at his favorite bar on the Las Vegas Strip, Krave, though he’d never tell his family that’s where he was going. He could always find plenty of guys to dance with, and if someone caught his eye, he wasn’t opposed to doing more. A night of grinding and rubbing against sweaty bodies as the music thumped was exactly what he needed. Just for those few hours, he could feel young and sexy again; something that didn’t happen often since he was always delivering greasy pizzas or covering shifts at the 7-Eleven down the street from where he lived.
Kaleb pulled up in front of the customer’s house, parking on the wrong side of the street so the driver’s side was on the curb. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed the phone number on the order slip.
“Arnie’s Pizza. I’m right outside.”
Having worked and lived in some of the worst neighborhoods in Vegas, he was extra careful not to leave the car unless absolutely necessary, and he always kept his Glock nearby just in case.
The customer stepped out of the house, and Kaleb squinted to make out the man’s face in the dim light.
“Harlan!”
“How are you doing, K?” They shook hands through the car window.
“Doing good,” Kaleb replied. “When did you and Rachel move here?”
“Last month,” he answered. “She’s been sick for a week or so. I don’t know if it’s a cold or what, but she just can’t seem to shake it. How much do I owe you?”
“Twenty seventy-five.” Kaleb pulled the pizza out of the heated bag.
Harlan fished twenty-five from his wallet and handed it to Kaleb. The front door of Harlan’s house opened, and a brunette woman stepped out. She was frail with a sunken face and empty-looking eyes, and Kaleb barely recognized her. He motioned for Harlan to turn around as she walked stiffly toward them.
Harlan turned around. “Rachel, what are you doing outside?”
She growled at Harlan. Kaleb was sure he’d heard wrong, until she did it again. Rachel stumbled forward, and Harlan dropped the pizza, reaching out to grab her.
Rachel leaned forward like she was going to kiss him, and he dodged her. Couldn’t blame the guy for getting out of the way; she looked like shit. Her lips landed on his neck for what appeared to be a gentle display of affection, but Harlan screamed and pushed her away when she made contact. Blood gushed out of the wound, and a flap of flesh dangled from Rachel’s lips.
“Ohfuckinghell!” Bile rose in the back of Kaleb’s throat, and he fought the urge to gag. He reached for his phone with one hand and the Glock with the other.
“Fucking hell!” Harlan took his hand off his neck and stared at the blood. Rachel snarled and lunged at him. He tried to push her away, but she bit his arm and pulled away with skin and blood in her mouth. Harlan fell backward, jumped back up and ran into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Rachel turned toward Kaleb, reached through the car window and grabbed his arm. He yanked it away before she could sink her teeth in, aimed the gun and shot her in the shoulder. She fell backward and landed on her ass but was back on her feet quicker than should’ve been possible. He slammed the car into drive and hit the gas pedal while calling 911 on his phone.
“What’s the nature of your emergency?” a deep, male voice asked.
“A woman just attacked her husband.”
“What’s the address?”
“4375 Sadie Street. Rachel and Harlan Barrett.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kaleb Pierce.”
“Are you at the residence as we speak?”
“Hell, no. And I ain’t going back.”
“The police will need a report, sir.”
“There’s an empty lot on the corner of Sadie and Lana,” Kaleb said. “I’ll meet them there.”
He pulled over at the empty lot, got out of his car and leaned against it for twenty minutes until a patrol car arrived.
A tall, black woman stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked up to Kaleb. “Mr. Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Moss, and this is Officer Gonsalvo.” She motioned to her partner. “Will you spell your name for us?”
“K-A-L-E-B.”
“Caleb with a C?” Officer Gosalvo asked.
Kaleb sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, with a K, as in key.”
“Key-Leb?”
“No!” he snapped.
“There is no need to raise your voice, Mr. Peirce,” Officer Moss said.
Kaleb sighed again, pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly spelled his first and last name before finally giving his report.
“I was delivering a pizza to a friend of mine, Harlan Barrett, and his wife came out of their place. She was walking all funny like she couldn’t bend her arms or something.” Kaleb demonstrated the stiff-arm movement.
“Like Frankenstein?” Officer Gonsalvo asked.
Ghoul's Gym - Eric Arvin & TJ Klune
Damn! It’s a pristine morning on Euclid Avenue. Makes a fella happy to be alive, don’t it? The grass is glistening wet in the sun from the oscillating lawn sprinklers. The trees are filled with a chorus of birds who take up the same verse every day. Neighbors’ dogs play and bark, and the children dress up their cats in pirate outfits, for every day in suburbia is Halloween.
The two story homes on Euclid are, every one, a model of taste, each looking as if it was the winner of some extreme home makeover program where the host carries around a megaphone and shouts “Get ’er done!” like an overcompensating football coach. That’s not far from the truth, actually. We all compete with each other, I’ll admit that. Everything in life is a competition. It’s instinctual, or primal, something like that. Except now, instead of fighting over who gets the biggest piece of meat, we fight over who has the nicest car, biggest house, most perfect body. It’s the twenty-first century, and this is what matters.
This is our two-story Tudor home with a large pool and a two car garage. We’re pretty lucky, I think. I had a smile on my face as big as the gosh darn moon the day Jake and me signed our lives away for it a few months ago. It’s usually a quiet neighborhood, too, but not this morning. No, sir. And that’s our fault. We’re upstairs fucking so hard we’re gonna wake the dead.
Jake Howell, that’s my man. He’s a lanky looker, and he commands my attention whenever he walks into a room. And me? I’m the gym bunny with his ankles in the air. My name is Ulysses Florence Hoak. I kid you not. I was named after a family war hero, blah, blah, blah.
Most folks just call me Uly.
I know how to get Jakey going. He’s watching the news in bed this morning. I’m feeling a bit more rambunctious, so, as usual when this occurs, I get up and parade around, picking up dirty clothes and the like from the floor while dressed in nothing but my sexiest undies. I make sure to bend over a lot. Jake is on me like a squirrel on nuts. I work out that derriere just for him, so it’s good to see he appreciates it.
The whole room is shaking as Jake plows into me. And man, does he plow! So deep I can feel it in my tummy. Most of the yelling is coming from me, but it’s what I asked for after all.
This morning, though…damn! He’s skewering me with his dick. And there’s this look on his face like he’s still listening to the news. Like I’m there but I’m not there. Don’t get me wrong. It’s still hot in its own way, but Jake seems distracted.
In between thrusts and kisses, in between my groaning and his grunting, I hear bits and pieces of the news: a strange outbreak of violence here, a startling new virus there. Everyday stuff. And Jake keeps stabbing me, like he’s fucking me to death. There’s definite passion in each thrust, but it feels more like anger than lust. And when he comes, he grabs my hair like he’s going to bash my face in. When he’s finished, he rolls off me and mumbles something about the fitness center where I work.
I, my friends, am feeling like a Twinkie—cream-filled and rejected.
Jake makes his way to the shower as if we hadn’t just had Richter scale sex. I try to hold my tongue. I try not to say a damn thing. But I’ve never been very good at that. I can hold hundreds of pounds in my hands securely, but my tongue is another matter altogether. I am still naked on the bed, and I ask him ever so polite-like, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
When TJ Klune was eight, he picked up a pen and paper and began to write his first story (which turned out to be his own sweeping epic version of the video game Super Metroid—he didn't think the game ended very well and wanted to offer his own take on it. He never heard back from the video game company, much to his chagrin). Now, two decades later, the cast of characters in his head have only gotten louder, wondering why he has to go to work as a claims examiner for an insurance company during the day when he could just stay home and write.
He lives with a neurotic cat in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. It’s hot there, but he doesn’t mind. He dreams about one day standing at Stonehenge, just so he can say he did.
"Some of [Arvin's] work is as direct as Hemingway with the sensitivity of O'Connor or Shields, and yet others nuanced as if Maupin wrote a letter to Penthouse." - Thom Fitzgerald, director THE HANGING GARDEN
Eric Arvin resides in the same sleepy Indiana river town where he grew up. He graduated from Hanover College with a Bachelors in History. He has lived, for brief periods, in Italy and Australia. He has survived brain surgery and his own loud-mouthed personal demons. Eric is the author of WOKE UP IN A STRANGE PLACE, THE MINGLED DESTINIES OF CROCODILES & MEN, SUBSURDITY, SIMPLE MEN, and various other sundry and not-so-sundry writings. He intends to live the rest of his days with tongue in cheek and eyes set to roam.
Ethan Stone lives in the soggy state of Oregon, and, yes, he does have webbed feet. He used to have a day job where he wore a sexy uniform, now he can wear whatever he wants to work as he attempts to see if this writing thing can support his Mt. Dew addiction.
Daniel Alexander Kaine, born and raised in England, makes his living working as a customer service advisor.
Daniel started writing in 2009 to alleviate boredom while searching for employment. He started out writing a cheesy fanfic for his favourite anime, Naruto, in which he paired our hero with the gorgeous Sasuke in an Anita Blake-esque world of vampire hunting. To this day he still cringes at the memory of all that cheese... *shudders*
In 2010, Daniel finally worked up the courage to start writing an original story. Thus, the idea of the 'Daeva' series was born, and with the help of the NaNoWriMo boards the story became a reality.
Now Daniel has three novels and two short story out. He has many more stories in the works, and is working hard to avoid the pitchfork-brandishing horde who want the third Daeva book yesterday!
Being an out-and-proud gay man, Daniel's main characters often fall somewhere under the LGBT spectrum, though he does not limit himself solely to stories about gay romances.
When not writing, Daniel enjoys curling up with a good book, and a glass of Jack Daniels and coke. His favourite genres include fantasy of all kinds - particularly paranormal and urban fantasy - crime and M/M romance. He also has a fatal love for video games and can often be seen pretending to be a giant cow with super healing powers on World of Warcraft, saving the world from Russian ultranationalists on Call of Duty, or slaying dragons on Skyrim. He also collects and paints Warhammer 40k models. Outside of the house, he can be found bowling, canoeing and running.
Welcome to Ethan Day's Goodreads Profile. I write mainly contemporary GLBT Romance Novels, but who knows what the future might bring and what other genres I may dive into.
Hopefully, you’ll find my books to be sexy as well as fun. Sex and romance, should be fun! If it isn’t, then perhaps you’re not doing it right.
I hope you love my characters as much as I do. With any luck they’ll inspire you the way they do me.
For a full Bio & more insight into my zany little mind, please visit my website listed above.
From palace-hopping across the Rajasthan Desert to sleeping in train stations in Bulgaria, from spinning prayer-wheels in Kathmandu to exploring the skull-gated graveyards of the indigenous Balinese tribes, Geoffrey Knight has been a traveller ever since he could scrape together enough money to buy a plane ticket. Born in Melbourne but raised and educated in countless cities and towns across Australia, Geoffrey was a nomadic boy who grew into a nomadic gay writer. When he’s not travelling the world, Geoffrey is travelling the world of his imagination—where the adventures, thrills and romance are limitless.
He currently owns his own advertising and design agency in Sydney, Australia, and can't wait to buy his next plane ticket—whether it’s real or imaginary.
TJ Klune
ARe / WILDE CITY / AMAZON
EMAIL: tjklunebooks@yahoo.com
Eric Arvin
WEBSITE / KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY
ARe / WILDE CITY / AMAZON
EMAIL: eric.arvin@gmail.com
Ethan Stone
KOBO / GOOGLE+ / GOOGLE PLAY
ARe / WILDE CITY / AMAZON
EMAIL: ethanstone.nv@gmail.com
Daniel A. Kaine
SMASHWORDS / ARe / GOOGLE PLAY
EMAIL: daniel.kaine@gmail.com
Ethan Day
ARe / WILDE CITY / GOODREADS
EMAIL: ethan@ethanday.com
Geoffrey Knight
