Truckin' June 2009, Vol. 8, Issue 6: Happy B-day Truckin!

The literary e-zine turned seven years old this month, congratulations everyone! I’ve penned three stories for Truckin’ this past week, but since they are still in editing you won’t find them online just yet. I’ll give you a heads up when they are available. Meanwhile, writes:

The June edition of Truckin’ marks the seventh anniversary of this monthly rag. I’m honored to have a stellar cast of writers this month including veterans Johnny Huges, Milton T. Burton, and May B. Yesno. And Michael Friedman makes his debut with something inspired by the Lizard King (…)

Seven years. Hard to think that we’re still alive and kicking despite the many instances when I wanted to pull the plug and give up forever. I have to sincerely thank the writers for sharing their blood work. Thanks for taking this leap of faith with me. And a special thanks goes out to you, the reader, for your loyalty and support over the years.


Pink Dragons by
Charles was skeptical and accused me of being a CIA or DEA agent, not to mention the evil offspring of George Bush. There was a strong anti-American sentiment in New Zealand and Charles epitomized that angst. When I unfurled a wad of multi-colored Australian dollars, he abruptly ended his rant and asked me how much I needed…

Holly of Houston: Google Me! by
Holly was a former board member of Houston’s chapter of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). She had donated $140,000 to the Texas Strippers for PETA tour. Her frequent comments in Texas newspapers were strongly anti-gun…

I’ll Read Your Madness Later by May B. Yesno
The agent freezes; there on that glorious bed lay two figures. The face and name was banging a woman. The woman clawing gently on the back of the face and name, eyes silted in pleasure, yet aware enough to look at the agent coming through the doorway…

The Collector by Milton T. Burton
He was questioned by two detectives from the Organized Crime Squad—one older, tall, thin and gray haired; the other younger, short, thickset and bald. Raymond Chandler said they always came paired that way. But the old man didn’t read Chandler…

Morrison’s Lament by Michael Friedman
Society no longer values the divinity of the self, so I find myself amiss all of the technology, discontent, and terror and although it takes only a moment to imagine that I am free from the nastiness that the universe leaves on my lips with every gut-wrenching soul kiss…

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