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Shocking Truth About Creativity

If you’re a creative person, then you know what I’m about to say is true. Creativity is empowering and theraputic.

How do you feel when you act upon your creative impulses? Feels good, right? Get that good energy going through you, feeling like you’re accomplishing something. Even better, the good energy you feel is beneficial to your health. Do I have a study to prove this? There are several studies, but you don’t need a study to know that when you’re in the grips of a creative moment that you feel younger, happier, and just better.

So what’s the shocking truth? Creativity is not something that can be ignored. Now hold on, I know that seldom and sometimes quite frequently, it is ignored, but it shouldn’t be. As a creative mind, you probably felt the sting, the burn, whenever you DON’T act upon a creative urge. That feeling is regret, and regret is not good for your health. Regret releases chemicals in the brain associated with stress, and while in short bursts it can alert your system, activate flight or fight response, long term exposure can really wear on your body.

Much worse, long term exposure to regret can lead to seeking out ways to distract from the emotional pain such as drinking excessively, drug use, excessive masturbation, and even watching nonstop reality TV.

Not only will the regret make you a miserable person that no one would ever want to hangout with, long term exposure to regret can lead to health problems such as erectile dysfunction, obesity, clinical depression, and cancer.

I get that we have to find balance between work, family, and creative moments, and that search can even become quite a daunting task. But, one thing no creative mind should ever do is lock away their ideas in the basement of your mind, because then the regret will fester and become something ugly and corrosive.

Keep writing, my friends.

Mr Deadman

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The Meat Grinder Writing Contest

Think you’re a good writer? Think you can tell a good story? Well, then why don’t you enter your story into The Meat Grinder and put it to the test!

How does it work?

You enter a story by submitting to where it will wait for contestants. Don’t worry about word count, flash fiction, short stories, and poems are welcomed and they would compete within their category. All I ask is that you put in the subject if it’s a poem, flash fiction, or short story along with Meat Grinder. Otherwise, I might miss it.

Once the contestants are ready and understand the rules, the stories will post where they have a month to compete for the most reads, likes, and comments. The reads, likes, and comments are measured on the stories directly, not on other sites or social media apps.

Your story is subject to the opinion of the people, and if the they rain down consecutive negative comments such as this story sucks, then it’ll be pulled.

You can also pull your story at any time for any reason.

You got a month to win and earn $50 (USD) paid via PayPal. Do you got what it takes?

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Where do you write?

Where do you write? Where do you sit down to focus on your craft? An office space in your house? The attic? The backyard shed?

For me, it’s usually in the house at the computer desk. But every now and then I can be that “stereotype” and write at a coffee house. Hey, maybe a local brew for that extra sense of special. But in those situations, I make sure to have ear buds to drown out the noise around. Otherwise, I just couldn’t focus. Not at all.

What about outdoors? I’ve seen photos of writers writing outside on a patio, on the balcony, maybe actually on the beach. Patio and balcony I can understand, but the beach? Really? For me beach time is party time.

But, let me know in the comments section. Where you like to write? Where do you get the most done? What about the strangest place you’ve ever wrote at?

Leave a comment and it might be mentioned on the podcast!

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Is Spending Money On Creative Writing Courses a Waste?

Creative writing courses are everywhere and within the midst are good ones, and then there are the con artists. regardless, my thoughts are that paying someone or an organization thousands of dollars to learn how to write and how to tell a story seems overkill. There are so many other ways to learn how to write, and a lot of them don’t cost anymore than a twenty and time. For example, reading doesn’t cost anymore than the cost of a book and a cup of coffee (if you even drink coffee), and often times you can find a book for dirt cheap or even free, if you look hard enough. Read, read, and read some more to get an understanding of how to craft a narrative and how to format. If you need additional help, there are so many useful books out there on the subject. Hell, even Stephen King wrote a book on writing, and it’ll definitely direct you in the right direction.

Listen to what Marchese and Mr. Deadman have to say on the subject and let us know what you think.

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Real Vision Radio Open Mic

Deadman’s Tome podcast has been on Real Vision Radio for a while now, and people are tuning in. That warms my heart a bit, it does. Knowing that people are actually listening to the interviews, rants, conversations, and debates bolsters our drive and determination. I say our, because I know my co host would absolutely agree, and I hope he would be cool with giving back to the listeners in the form of an Open Mic. 

That’s right. Open Mic. 

An everything and anything goes open mic session during the live broadcast where YOU can recite a poem, a song, a monologue, or a short story. Each participant will have ten to fifteen minutes to use as they see fit. 

How does this work? Message me on Twitter at @mrdeadmandt or send an email at and let us know that your interested and we’ll set aside time for you. 

This is meant to be a fun experience and a place to practice your craft. Don’t be shy. 

The Deadman’s Tome podcast is a live broadcast that airs on Real Vision Radio and Spreaker on Fridays at 11pm EST/10pm CST. 

You can catch previous episodes on Spreaker, iTunes, and YouTube.

Go here to check out the prior shows 

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Language Police and Drunk Reading!

Tonight at 10PM CST, Mr. Deadman will talk about the incoming wave of language police and what it could mean for the free expression. Mr. Deadman will also partake in a drunk reading of Edgar Allan Poe’s Black Cat! Mr. Deadman will take a shot for each patron of Deadman’s Tome. Become a patron by following this link


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Best Story of 2016!

Sweet Mug

Let’s take the top story for every month and vote on the Best of 2016! You might notice that the number of stories doesn’t equal the number of months, and that’s because some were repeaters. I will not disclose which ones, but if you really want to know you can listen to the breakdown of the top horror stories on Deadman’s Tome here:


The stories chosen for consideration are The Corruption in the Deep by S. Alessandro MartinezNorth by Due North – David M. HoenigHold Me Tight – S. J. BuddBlackmouth by S. Alessandro MartinezThe Weapon Collector by Dave Hann[NSFW] Unbloom by Kristine Hall-GarciaBeached by Corey NilesUxoricide by Bob McNeilThe Boy in the Trunk – Nicola Lombardi, and The Chasm Bridged by Carson Winter

The winner will receive a free Deadman’s Tome mug




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The Blackout – Gary Buller


Enhance your coffee today

The Blackout

by Gary Buller


London had been his candle as the man plied his trade into the early hours of the morning, the prolonged wails of the sirens ensuring that he remained alert and awake. Business had been booming, but he marked out the plots and sunk the spade into the damp clod with burdened shoulders, one of his recent clients had been his wife.

His toil was disturbed by another sound that vibrated the darkness. Machinery purred overhead extinguishing the stars, and he was raising his spade in a futile gesture when he realised that the sky was falling. Before he could dive for cover the shell ploughed into the icy soil, not twenty yards from where he stood, and he felt the impact vibrate through the thin sole of his boots. He braced for an explosion but none came.

He returned to his shed tired and shaky- he would visit the warden under the safety of dawn.

Inside the diminutive retreat with a mug of tea warming his leathery hands the man’s eyes drooped as low as the blind that covered the single window. The September winds of nineteen forty were frigid and brought with them lung scratching dust and the odour of destruction. However, it was a strangely fetid stench that prompted the man to rise and pull the blind aside.

A thick unnatural mist clung low to the grass out of which the stones rose like teeth. In and around them he could see movement- silhouettes backlit in the miasma by a city on its knees. Heads emerged from the ground like poison mushrooms craving the darkness and marionettes rose on unsteady legs with arms outstretched.

The air grew heavy with a fusion of sweet decay and chemicals. Gravel scattered underfoot as the strangers encroached.

“I know it’s you, Jerry bastards!” the man cried, failing to cloak the tremble in his voice.

He picked up his trusty spade and listened for a response but received none. Fingers explored the walls like autumnal leaves scraping across granite. They tapped on the windows and pushed eagerly against the doors.

“You’ll not scare me, I’ll chop your heads off- you see if I don’t.”

With suddenness the window imploded and peeling hands explored his space from behind the undulating blind, probing the space eagerly. One of them had a gold ring into which a ring of sapphires was set.

The man wasn’t religious but he sank to his knees, dropping the spade with a clatter that only served to increase their efforts. The blind was ripped free and fell to the floor.

Framed in the jagged teeth of broken glass the Luftwaffe flew in formation over a sky that flickered amber. Beneath this his wife stood, reaching out to him with her mouth agape and white pupil-less eyes boring into his soul. The right-hand side of her face was caved in where the debris had collapsed on her, and she was biting at the air with a mouth of cracked and shattered teeth.

The man thought that he could hear the air raid siren again, but it was all too loud. Then he understood-

the sound came from his own throat.

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Plimpton – Matt Scott

“You know,” Plimpton said walking around the large rectangular wooden table, “I once knew a guy who kept his wife’s heart in the freezer next to two pieces of cake that they saved from their wedding. It was white with almond frosting- the cake, not his wife’s heart. Nope, he kept that in a small black index card box, lined in yellow velvet. Really made that heart stand out when you opened it. I mean, the frozen purple of the thing set against the bright yellow felt. It was really an attention grabber, let me tell you.” Plimpton turned and faced the double sinks. They were stainless steel, old and worn. Rust stains had begun to form around the base of the faucet that straddled both basins, and the two knobs were turning green beneath their edges. A smear like melted chocolate ran down the steel divider on both sides, like an ugly reminder that the kitchen was too hot this time of year. The kitchen was always hot. Nothing lasted in there.

Plimpton stood and ran his hands, rough and fat, under the hot water and he looked out of the kitchen window above the sink at his back yard. It was quiet this time of night and the moon hid behind the clouds in anticipation of what was to come. The moon knew his intentions, and so did she.

He turned off the water and dried his hands on a dish towel that was hanging from a hook beside the sink on the lower cabinet door to his right. He shook the towel and flung it across his shoulder and reached up to his bulbous bald head and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. He was all forehead and very little face. He wasn’t deformed nor was he what he considered to be an ugly man. On the contrary. In fact he found himself to be quite dashing and well proportioned, if only that meant that the majority of his head was above his two rather small, beady, black eyes. His hair had fallen out long ago and this, in his own estimation, just added a sophisticated look to his appearance that, up until that point, he had been lacking. Indeed, at five foot six inches tall and one hundred and ninety pounds, Plimpton looked like a small blue balloon, caught in a fan, as he wobbled this way and that, adjusting his goggles that of course immediately fogged up once he had put them on. The heat in the kitchen was almost unbearable.

He took the goggles, which were not like a chemist’s goggles but more like goggles you buy at the dollar store to swim in your back yard plastic kiddie pool, away from his eyes. He wiped the insides of them with the tip of his white butcher’s apron, though he never had the patience to properly learn a trade as skilled as that. No, Plimpton was a simple man who enjoyed the simple things in life. He liked a good cold beer in his hand, a good tune, perhaps something from the Doors playing on his record player in the living room next to his favorite chair, a lime green recliner that was moth eaten but, oh so comfortable. Plimpton also enjoyed watching his Bearded Dragon, Petunia, chase big, fat, black crickets across the kitchen floor, as she was doing now. The cricket’s chirps stopping abruptly as the chase began. She ran in an ancient manner, one that evolution had perfected, her short little legs flying out in front of her as she kept her body close to the floor. She flattened out like a sole when she was frightened, a natural but superfluous defense mechanism. Bearded Dragons have no teeth and are not aggressive. He liked that about Petunia. There was too much aggression in the world already.

He let the goggles hang below his scruffy, double chin, sparsely inhabited by long, scraggly, gray hairs that made him look like a cancerous old troll, and walked into the darkened living room from the open kitchen doorway. He lifted the soapy plastic lid to his Delco Electrolux record player and put the needle gently down onto a forty five of L.A Woman and, just as gently as he had opened it, shut the lid, turned the volume up just enough to where he thought he could hear it from the kitchen, and walked back in to continue his evening.

He approached the table and pulled two vinyl surgical gloves from out of a small cardboard box on the counter by the sink. He blew into the end of each powdered one and gingerly slipped them on his thick, stubby hands. He looked down at her, “How we doing?” He started to slowly sway with the music as it began to play.  He loved Jim Morrison and the Doors.  He loved everything about them, their music, their poetry, their youthful defiance of authority and most of all, their willingness to break on through. She mumbled something he couldn’t quite understand. “Oh goodness. I’m sorry,” he said bending over her thin, trembling naked body. “Let me get this for you.” He pulled the gauze from her mouth in a long, quick jerk. He had shoved several wadded up pieces down her throat when he had started in order to keep her from biting her tongue off, though he was very careful to make sure she could still breathe. That’s why he had put a tube in there as well. An ounce of prevention and all that, you know. He removed the tube as well.

“Why are you doing this?” She managed to whimper out. Her throat was sore and her lips were dry and cracked. Her green eyes could not focus on the details of the room. She must have been drugged and was still feeling the effects. There was no way for her to know how long she had been on his table, but it felt like hours. Her legs, though long and lean, were numb and her chest was on fire. She hoped that she was having a heart attack and all of this would be over soon. But she knew she wasn’t that lucky. If she was a lucky girl, she would never had gotten into his truck as she was walking. She would have called triple A and waited for the tow truck, but it had been a long hot day and she had just wanted to get home. She could always come back with her husband the next morning and change the flat. He would have had it done in no time, and none of this would have happened, but, she wasn’t that lucky. He looked down at her staring up at him. She was in fact quite beautiful by modern standards. She was young, not thirty years old yet. Her stomach was flat and her breasts were large. She obviously hadn’t had children yet, or at least if she had, she kept herself in good shape. Her manicured nails and styled short hair depicted a professional attitude. Perhaps she worked in an office. Maybe she was the boss. No matter. In this moment, he was God. She had the same scared, sad puppy dog look in her eyes that they all did. This is what sickened him the most. They were all beginning to be the same inside and out. One of these days he would find one that was different, but for now, he had to find out. He had to look. He just had too.

He loomed over her on the table and drew a small mark just above her eft breast with a black magic marker. He put the cap n with an assertive smack. “Why? Why? Why? Everyone asks why. Everyone wants to know why, but no one ever asks how. Nobody ever wonders how. Do you think this shit is easy? Hell no. It takes focus. It takes study. Not everybody can do a thing like this, I just make it look easy ‘cause I’ve done it so much. Why? Fuck Why. Ask me how. Go ahead, ask.” He stood back, chest heaving. That was a rant he didn’t expect to have, but it was smoldering inside the kitchen and it was late. He was getting tired and just wanted to finish up so he could go and lay down on the coolness of his bed in the darkness of his room.  He calmed briefly and continued. “You know, I ended up putting dad’s heart into the freezer right next to mom’s. I knew those two would be together forever.  They really loved each other. They were such a fun couple.

“You’re insane,” she croaked out through parched lips and a tongue covered in sawdust.

Plimpton put his goggles back on and grabbed the cleaver from the corner of the table at her feet. He smiled and winked, “Well, it’s all relative don’t ya know.”


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REJECTED – Elimination Writing Contest

HORRGASM – Six gruesome, chilling, and sexualized horror shorts.

Available on Kindle

Deadman’s Tome presents a brand new writing contest called Rejected. The idea of Rejected is to challenge seasoned and amateur writers to write a 3,000 word short story using a randomly generated plot. Each contestant will receive the same plot, and are then given a week to write. 

The short stories would be read and judged live on the Deadman’s Tome Podcast on Spreaker on Friday at 10PM. Mr. Deadman and a guest will judge the short stories and decide on which one would be rejected. 

The contestants would move on to the next round where each contestant would be given a randomly generated title. The contestant that survives both elimination rounds will receive secured placement in an upcoming anthology AND fifty dollars ($50 USD).


Rejected is intended for episodic releases and will continue as long as authors and writers wish to be challenged. It goes without saying that the point of the contest is to have fun.


If you’re interested, please fill out the contact form below.