Episodes:

1 | 2 | 3 | …

Cherry rummaged through her dad’s closet looking for his baseball bat. She hated being alone in the apartment at night. Dad was out ‘at the shop,’ as he’d say. What shop that was and what he did there was unclear. Something having to do with antiques. But Cherry knew when to ask questions and when it was better to be left in the dark about certain things. They had a roof over their heads and food on the table. Wasn’t that more than some? She wrestled the chrome baseball bat from a curtain of dangling coats and shirts, and immediately felt better having the Louisville Slugger in her hands. As she closed the door, she spotted a box on the top shelf of the closet where her dad kept his hats. It was too high to reach. She moved a chair in from the kitchen, climbed up, and took it down.

It was the size of a VCR and heavier than she’d expected. She set the box on the shag carpet and lifted the lid; her heart sank. Inside was a revolver and an antique book. She picked up the gun which was so heavy she was forced to use two hands, and even then, the barrel was never completely horizontal. She set the revolver next to her on the carpet, looked down the hallway to ensure the coast was clear, and then carefully removed the book. It looked ancient. As if it would at any moment turn to dust in her hands. But she couldn’t put it down. She was too enthralled by the foreign letters and symbols on the worn leather cover. She ran a hand over the words and felt…strange. Electric.

A photograph fell out from between its pages. Cherry picked it up and felt an avalanche of emotions. It was her mom at a party. Her smile was Cherry’s smile. Her eyes, although brown and not blue, were Cherry’s eyes. The only photo she’d ever seen of her mom was in her dad’s bedside table. But this was a picture she’d never seen before.

A jangling came from the front door. It was her dad’s keys.

She slid the photograph back into the book and then set the book and revolver back into the box.

She’d just managed to put the box back on the shelf when her dad came into his room. Cherry was still standing on the chair.

“I was looking for a hat to wear,” Cherry said with an awkward smile. “Would you mind if I borrowed one?”

“Cher, I don’t want you in here while I’m out. You hear me?” Her dad frowned and helped her down from the chair. He shut the closet door and raised a brow. “And what are you doing with my bat?”

“Thinking about taking up the game.” Cherry walked out to the living room with the bat slung over her shoulder. On the coffee table was a VHS tape.

Cherry snatched the case from the table and shouted, “What did you bring us?”

Her dad took a beer from the fridge and cracked it open. “Nothing you’d like.”

“Wait—you got Jaws? Thank you! Thank you! Nothing scarier than ocean horror.”

“That right? I’ll order a pizza.”

Cherry looked at her dad’s eyes. They seemed distant.

“Dad?”

“Yeah Cher?”

Cherry paused, searching her dad’s face for more evidence of…of what? “What do you do?”

“What do I do? What do you mean?”

“For a job. You work at a shop?”

“That’s right. I work at a shop.” Her dad wiped a line of condensation off the face of his beer with his pinky. “What do you want on your pizza?”

Cherry opened the VHS case, took out the tape, and inserted it into the VCR. She wasn’t sure how far she wanted to take this conversation. Did she really want to know what her dad did for a living?

“What type of shop is it?”

“Well, we buy and sell antiques—nothing too exciting.”

“Is it safe?” She said it before she could stop herself. A silly question—of course it was safe.

Cherry’s dad put down his beer and looked into her eyes. “I’m a big dude, Dogstar. Nobody messes with me.”

Thanks for reading episode three, Seven Years Earlier <3

Next episode coming July 3rd

Cherry Kills was edited by S.E. Reid

SNAPPLE CAP FACTS

I used several mantras to help me get this book over the line: process over product, we love hills, and fuck it.

Do you have a mantra that you use for writing?

Episodes:

1 | 2 | 3 | ..

Cherry rolled her shoulders. The conversation with Mai at Black Garlic made her tense. She was always tense interacting with other people.

Much like the restaurant, downtown wasn’t crowded. It never was on weeknights. The hypnotic rhythm of her boots on the pavement, along with the ambient noise of distant traffic, relaxed Cherry. The City was hers, and she was the City’s, at least for the moment. But as at home as she was, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of panic when she thought of what they’d say to her when they woke up to find her gone. They’re going to kill me. She quickened her step and turned into the mouth of a darkened alley, but paused.

Broken shipping pallets and garbage cluttered the narrow glistening strip. She covered her nose to dull the scent of motor oil and cabbage. A single streetlamp shone down into a cone at the end of the alley. It was the quickest way to the club, but she felt that familiar feeling: someone was watching her. Waiting for her. She shrugged it off and stepped into the dimly-lit alley.

Up ahead of her, a rat scurried across Cherry’s path, and as her eyes followed the large rodent’s break for a pile of black trash bags, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the alley. She couldn’t see his face, but she recognized the man immediately from his ten-gallon gut, tree trunk arms and legs, and his hunched back that reminded Cherry of a gigantic, quill-less hedgehog. Uncle.

“Eff,” said Cherry, turning to run in the opposite direction. But there at the other end was another silhouette, this one with long, furry ears. It hopped toward her.

She turned and saw the big man trundling down the passage from the other direction. She’d known the alley was risky, but what choice did she have? Downtown was made up of long, hilly blocks, and her boots weren’t exactly in city-hike condition.

Then, from between two dumpsters, a delicate laugh. The whole crew was here.

“Okay, Daisy—come on out,” said Cherry. “I know I’ve been caught.”

A little girl in a yellow dress with orange flowers embroidered on the skirt came skipping from between the dumpsters, smiling like she’d just been given a slice of cake. White socks extended to the balls of her caramel ankles from shiny patent leather shoes. Her curly black hair in pigtail braids were tied with colorful, glittery ball bands in three places.

“Hi, Mama,” said the girl.

“Don’t call me that—I’m not your Mama. What are you doing here?” Cherry said, watching Uncle lumber down the alley.

“We woke up and you were gone.”

“I needed some alone time.”

“We needed some Cherry time,” said Daisy with a laugh. “Uncle is mad at you.”

Cherry rolled her eyes and ran her hand through her bleached hair, separating strands of tangles.

“Uncle is always mad at me. Is Elwood upset?”

Daisy put her finger to her chin and looked up. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. His face always looks the same.”

Uncle was breathing heavily as he approached. He wiped at his broad forehead with the bottom of his sleeveless white undershirt and frowned.

Elwood stood expressionless, his large white paw-hands at his side. Cherry used to think he was ridiculous, the most obvious signal that something in her brain snapped that night, but over the years she came to accept his presence more than the others; a silent friend is often the most appreciated.

“Well, here we are again,” said Cherry, taking the cigarette from behind her ear and placing it beneath her nose. “Would it kill you guys to give me one night off?”

Uncle was still catching his breath, and Daisy was playing an impromptu game of hopscotch. Cherry looked at Elwood. “Well, Elwood? Are you pissed?”

Elwood wiggled his nose and shook his head.

“Thanks, Elwood.”

“I just don’t get it,” Uncle said, leaning against the brick wall. “What the hell compels you to do these things? What if somethin’ were to happen to you?”

“As I’ve told you, I can take care of myself. I don’t need a little girl, a grouchy lug, and a goddamn giant rabbit watching over me. You’re not exactly the super team you think you are. I need to pick up something for a friend. Can I please just do this alone?”

“We’ll come with you, Cupcake.”

“Cupcake? Jesus, Uncle—you’re a remnant of those bygone years, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I am. Where we headin’? And since when do you got friends?”

“Do you remember that girl from Black Garlic with the pink hair? You said you thought you saw her smile at Daisy a few months ago, so we sent Dayz over to her table to find out, but she just kept reading her book. Then I made fun of you the rest of the night. You remember that?”

Uncle groaned. “I swear to Christ it looked like she could see her—so I was wrong, sue me.”

“I would if I could, big man. Now, I hope you brought your dancing boots—we’re going clubbing.”

Uncle closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Uncle, you’re such a baby. Do you always need to be so—” Cherry’s words were cut short as a man emerged from the shadows, rubbing his eyes like he’d just woken up.

“Hey, you okay?” said the man as he stumbled into the alley. He was wearing a clean but wrinkled tan trench coat. His hair was disheveled but groomed. His smile, expensive and sleazy.

“Fine,” she said. “Just fine.”

“Good. I thought I heard you talking to someone…?”

“Nobody here but us chickens.” Cherry turned to go, but the man grabbed her arm.

Uncle stepped forward; Cherry shot him a glance that said What are you going to do? He can’t even see you. Uncle grimaced but stayed back, pacing back and forth like an antagonized tiger, his square fists at his side.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Get your hands off me, chump!” Cherry lifted her knee into the stranger’s groin.

The man moaned and fell to the ground, where he curled into a ball of agony.

“Touch the pussy, you’re gonna get fucked! Asshole.” Cherry snarled and brushed off her arm where the man had grabbed her.

Elwood hopped over and kicked at the ground with his large white feet, pretending to cover the man in dirt.

“Alright, everyone,” said Cherry. “Let’s go. And let’s try not to make a scene, okay?”

“Touch the pussy and you’re gonna get fucked?” Uncle shook his head. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. Heard someone say it at a show one time.”

“Mama,” said Daisy. “You have to put money in the swear jar.”

“Am I able to prepay for more words?” Cherry pretended to tug on Daisy’s braid, her hand unable to grasp the imaginary hair. “And please, stop with the ‘Mama’ shit, okay?”

“That’s another quarter, Mama.”

Thanks for reading episode two, Nobody Here but us Chickens. <3

NEXT EPISODE

Cherry Kills was edited by S.E. Reid

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SNAPPLE CAP FACTS

I started the cover art process half way into writing Cherry Kills. This was a bad idea until I proved to myself that it wasn’t. I’d never written a book, so I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to finish.

It’s an investment, and as a normal human being, I’ve failed myself enough times to feel apprehensive about betting on my own success. But who else is going to make that bet?

Here is some of what I shared with Butcher Billy when I started the cover art process:

Size: This will be used for a book cover

Look: I love the Demon 69 art and texture, Hotel Reverie—really everything in your Black Mirror collection. Your T Swift collection is hot. Pretty open, but definitely love the worn movie poster look.

Inspired by shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Dollhouse, Kick Ass, Kill Bill, Raising Arizona, Roald Dahl, the 90s (Bay Area), punk, goth, mod.

I shared these photos with him as inspiration for the characters and vibe.

Psst! Paid subscribers to Automatic Writer get access to all current and past posts, plus the occasional goody. (Zines, books, stickers, music, additional content, etc.) And because I’ve learned I’m never satisfied with anything unless I’m giving a portion back to the community, 50% of the proceeds from your subscriber moola goes straight to InsideOUT Writers, a non-profit organization dedicated to reducing recidivism by providing services to young people navigating juvenile detention and life after incarceration.

When I set out to write this book, I knew I wanted it to have three things: heart, horror, and humor. I think I’ve accomplished this at some level. My hope is that you, reader, can disappear into this story, and that when you’ve finished reading the series, you feel like it was a worthy use of your time.

Stay tuned after this episode for an inside look at how the character Cherry Kills came about.

Episodes:

1 | 2 | 3 | …

Navigation

Cherry poked at her seared tofu and thought of her dad’s face. It too was seared, but not with clean black lines. Not finished with a ponzu glaze. His face was a charred mask of nightmares. It blistered, melted. Always.

Although in her dream—the one that tormented her most nights for the past seven years—his face was calm, and his expression was one she’d never seen while he was alive. It was an expression that said, Don’t cry for me, Cherry. Everything is A-okay. But then his face would melt, and the symbol, materializing, splitting the flesh on his forehead, would make her feel as if she were falling off a cliff. She’d wake up and push her thumbs into her eyes until blinding lights popped in her optic nerves. It obscured the image, but never for long enough. The glyph was always there, like the trailing light of a sparkler. Even now she could see the delicate flourishes of gold making up the intricate wings of the falcon, and the circle on top, its ever-watching eye at the center.

“Oh, Cherry. Always deep in thought.” Ramon filled Cherry’s water glass, removed a towel from his shoulder, and dabbed at the tablecloth. “You’ve hardly taken three bites. No good?”

“I’m just thinking about the economy, Ramon.” Cherry smirked. “You think I’d just sit here if it wasn’t any good? I’d give you shit—you know this.” She cut her tofu with the side of her fork and took a bite. “It’s terrible. I’ll sue.”

“And here I thought you liked my cooking.”

“I love your food, Ramon. Nobody knows my palate like you. That’s why I’m going to sue you. I’m going to own this restaurant—then I’ll be able to boss you around every night.”

“You already boss me around.” Ramon winked, then leaned in and whispered, “Would you like a brownie?”

“To go, if you don’t mind.” Cherry smiled and added, “Maybe I won’t sue you after all.”

Cherry couldn’t afford to eat out every night, but that didn’t stop her. After all, that’s what credit was for, wasn’t it? She’d told her case worker it was aspirational, motivation to live a quality life. She left out that she had never expected to live long enough to worry much about repayment. But now, at twenty-two years old, she’d come to the realization she would need to start living like someone with a future. Not a great future, but a future nonetheless. And while that might have been a comfort to most people, to Cherry it just seemed like a lot of work. It meant searching for a job—one that didn’t make her feel like jumping off a bridge. But those gigs were for people with diplomas, ambition, and let’s face it: normal brains.

If it weren’t for Ramon and his restaurant, Cherry wasn’t sure she’d have survived the past few years. He was the closest thing to a real friend she had, which would have been depressing if she had a moment to herself to think about it. But Uncle and the gang made sure that wasn’t the case. That’s why she’d snuck out—to pretend life wasn’t so messy.

Black Garlic was a clean enough restaurant with decent food, but despite this, it was never crowded. Cherry liked it that way. It was private enough to keep her from feeling overwhelmed, public enough for her to remain part of the living world. Being at the apartment too much made her feel…absent.

The first time she’d come into Black Garlic, Ramon didn’t pay her much mind, just the normal, “How do you do?” and “Would you like pepper?” and “Ma’am, please remove your feet from the seat of that booth.” But as with all relationships built from duration more than commonality, eventually the notches lined up with the pegs, and although the relationship would never work outside the confines of the restaurant, within it the two ebbed and flowed as a single body of ponzu.

In a booth directly behind her, a woman whimpered. Cherry pretended to search for something in her bag to get a better look. She recognized the woman right away, with her glossy pink bangs pinned down by a sparkly barrette with a purple cat on it, hair that had always reminded Cherry of cotton candy.

Cherry touched her own hair, dry and fried from the at-home bleach job, a failed attempt to look like Debbie Harry. Uncle said she looked more like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner.

The pink-haired woman was a regular at Black Garlic the past few months, always alone, always reading books at the back of the restaurant. They’d never spoken, just a head nod here and there, an acknowledgment of subculture, though what subculture didn’t matter; it was an other recognizing an other—two cursive letters in a print world.

Black droplets from the woman’s mascara trailed down her cheeks—leaving watercolor branches that fed directly into heavily-applied black lipstick—so that her eyes and mouth seemed connected by a stream of despair.

“Excuse me?” said the woman.

Cherry looked down at her tofu, pretending not to hear.

“Excuse me? Sorry to bother you—do you have a tissue?”

Cherry retrieved a tissue from her bag and handed it to the woman without saying a word. Cherry didn’t want the world to suffer—even if she thought maybe the world deserved it a little—but this woman wanted more than a tissue. She could feel it in the woman’s gaze. Charity wasn’t her thing, the giving or receiving of it, which was one of the many reasons she’d snuck off to be alone tonight, to get away from the nagging, overprotective enclave of Alternates back at her apartment, always trying to save her. And fix her. Still, there was something about the woman’s eyes, absent, searching for something in her mind, that made Cherry pause; they reminded her of her own eyes the night the detectives told her that her dad was dead, like she didn’t already know.

Cherry signaled to Ramon, who came over in a hurry.

“Bring the lady a shot of that stuff you gave me last Friday,” said Cherry. “Better make it a double.” Then added, “Better go ahead and bring me one, too. Make mine a triple.”

Ramon dashed off to retrieve the drinks.

The woman walked over to Cherry’s booth, plopped down on the seat, and extended her hand. “Name’s Mai.”

Cherry gathered her belongings, pretending not to see Mai’s hand. The woman seemed perfectly nice, but Cherry needed space—one night alone, for Christ’s sake. She glanced at Mai and noticed her hands were blue. She was on the verge of yelling to Ramon to call for an ambulance, but then she saw the same blue on the woman’s white boots. It was paint. “So what, you an artist?”

Mai nodded absently.

“I’ve always wished I could paint,” said Cherry, “but every time I try, it’s the same painting, a white dog in the snow. My problem…well, besides the talent thing…is coming up with a good idea. How do you come up with your ideas?”

Mai’s eyes focused as if she’d returned from whatever horrible memory had tethered her to her sadness, and although the pain still lingered in the corners of her mouth and eyes, she managed a quiet reply.

“They hide from us until we’ve given up. But they’ll find you, once you’ve stopped searching.”

“Who will find us?” asked Cherry, pulling out a compact and reapplying the new candy-red lipstick she’d swiped from the Thrifty’s on Main.

Mai’s eyes widened in momentary panic.

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay, honey,” said Cherry, noticing the fear sweeping over Mai’s face. “Whatever it is, you’re safe here. Tell me what happened—someone mess with you? Tell me where they’re at. I’ll beat their ass. I will. I took a free Krav Maga class down at the Y a year ago, learned the best move is still a swift kick to the nuts. Some things never change I guess, you know?”

Ramon set the glasses on the table and patted Cherry’s shoulder, then walked over to seat a couple well into a celebration. Cherry thanked God she wasn’t a waitress, then remembered she was nearly broke and that maybe being a waitress had some perks, money being one of them. The supplemental checks from Uncle Sam only went so far.

Mai took Cherry’s hand and squeezed. “I don’t know what to do,” she said in a desperate whisper. “It was real. It was real…it was.…” She searched Cherry’s face for confirmation that it was indeed real.

Cherry pulled her hand back.

She thought back to that night at the apartment, Elwood coming out of the flames to save her from the smoke and fire, carrying her out into the fresh night air. That wasn’t real. Psychosis, the doctor had said. But, psychosis or not, it wasn’t going away anytime soon, so she’d learned to accept it, but to keep it hidden. It wasn’t real, but it sure felt like it.

Cherry retrieved her eyeliner and pulled her lid down to apply it. Her caseworker told her to go easy on the makeup while she looked for a job, but any employer who didn’t respect a Cleopatra eye inspired by the great Vivien Leigh, or high-arched brow inspired by Claudette Colbert, was not a good fit. Also, fuck them.

“Okay, sure. I believe you,” said Cherry. “It was real. Who am I to say what’s real and what isn’t anyway? I’m the worst person to make that call, truly. Here, sip this.”

Mai downed her drink, then reached for Cherry’s glass and sipped.

“Okay…” said Cherry. “Well, I probably would have gotten shit from Uncle if I came home loopy anyway.”

Mai didn’t seem to notice this comment. Her eyes were still far away. Then she spoke, “Have you ever been to the Gut Punch?”

Cherry put her makeup back in her bag, took the cigarette from behind her ear, and placed it beneath her nose. She didn’t smoke, but she liked the smell of cigarettes, and she liked to hold them and let them hang from the corner of her mouth, just like her dad used to.

“Little punk bar a few blocks from here, right?” Cherry asked.

Mai sank into her seat and looked around nervously.

“It’s alive,” she said, her eyes welling with fresh tears. “It knew me.”

“It knew you?” Cherry said, matching Mai’s whisper. “What do you mean it knew you? Who knew you?”

“I don’t know how to explain it.” Mai’s lip quivered as she spoke. “It…you know that feeling you get when walking alone at night? Or when you’re passing by an open closet door…it’s that feeling that something’s there—something that can get you. It’s an old fear. Like it’s always been a part of us.”

“Yes. I know what you mean. Seems like there’s always something at my heels.”

Mai continued, “Well, the Gut Punch has always been a sanctuary for me. Best tots in the City, too.” She smiled briefly. “But, today it was different.”

“Different, how?”

“It’s hard to explain without sounding like a nut job. They’d hired me to paint a mural on the wall in the back room, a giant squid fighting a whale. Everything was going fine—some of my best work. Then I felt that feeling, like someone was behind me. I looked, but nobody was there, so I kept going. Then….”

Cherry moved in closer. “Go on.”

“The squid’s eye opened. I thought I was imagining it. Maybe I was too focused—like my eyes were fatigued, you know? But then I felt its tentacle arm weaving between my legs. I screamed, but when the owner came running back to help me, the painting was back on the wall. It was just a painting.”

“Interesting,” said Cherry, leaning back in her seat.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you think you saw what you saw. The mind is tricky—trust me on that one.”

“Well, I have proof,” said Mai, standing and hiking up her skirt. There on her thigh was a puckered, circular red mark, and a deep bruise in the shape of a snake climbing her leg.

“Shit,” said Cherry. “Well, that’s more than tired eyes or an overactive mind.”

“I ran out of that place without even getting paid. I didn’t even grab my bag! My portfolio, wallet—everything was in there!”

“Christ, well…”

“Could you go get it for me?” Mai said, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t go back…”

Cherry tucked the cigarette behind her ear, took the glass from Mai’s hand, and downed the brown liquid. “Sorry, no can do. Have to get home or Uncle is gonna be pissed. Maybe you can call them up, have them hold it for you until tomorrow. Or ship it—”

Mai sobbed.

Cherry wasn’t lying about needing to get back home. Uncle had probably already discovered she was missing, and when Uncky got angry, the walls shook. But more than that, she just wanted a moment of independence to prove she could handle life on her own, even if she wasn’t sure this was entirely true.

Still, Mai seemed a good egg, and whatever had happened to her at the club really shook her up. Besides, wasn’t everyone always calling her apathetic? Telling her to care more about things? Well, maybe she’d start here, with Mai. A quick way to prove to her messy brain she didn’t need any help from these hallucinations—not anymore. A way to prove she could not only take care of herself, but also other people, and that she wasn’t completely broken.

Cherry looked at Ramon, who shrugged.

“Listen, I can’t stand to see a lady crying. I’ll go—I’ll go!” Cherry stood and headed toward the door. “I’m curious about these tots anyway. They’re on you, by the way.”

“Thank you! Thank you so, so much! What’s your name?”

Cherry turned to face Mai. “Cherry Kills.”

Mai’s eyes widened. “Is that short for something?”

“Cherilyn,” said Cherry, threw out a peace sign, and walked out the door.

Thanks for reading chapter one, Normal Brains. <3

NEXT EPISODE

Cherry Kills was edited by

SNAPPLE CAP FACTS

Back in January of 2024, Macabre Monday sent out a call to join a unique event. There was to be a dinner party. Here’s the note:

“Join the Soirée:

”To RSVP (in character or not), please send your intent to participate, along with a brief 4-5 sentence outline of your character, to MacabremondayDinnerparty@gmail.com. Once RSVP’d you will gain access to the festivities.”

From this request, Cherry was born. Well, a version of her. My mind immediately went to some odd mix of Norma Desmond, Buffy Summers, and Margot Tenenbaum. Below is the full character description I gave to the MM team.

CHERRY KILLS: 30 something. Bleached hair, fried. She wears thick eyeliner, inspired by Vivien Leigh’s version of Cleopatra, and high arched brows inspired by Claudette Colbert’s Cleopatra. Her dress is as light as a kitchen curtain blowing in a summer breeze, and when she moves, the flowery dress follows her around like a needy child. She has a tattoo of a hummingbird on her right forearm, its beak travels all the way up her arm, vanishing up the sleeve of her dress. She comes off as disinterested, but she’s always watching, listening. Mulling. On the table in front of her is a cigarette case. She’s American, but she doesn't care to admit it. Hates politics. Hates religion. Loves religion. Loves to talk about music but doesn’t care for musicians. Kleptomaniac, but never keeps the stolen item for long.

The dinner party lasted three days!

The Midnight Vault Volume II : Twenty-two all new stories of the strange.
And for the first time in hardcover, The Midnight Vault Volume I.

CK Navigation Page

Introduction

Welcome to the navigation page for the serialized version of my novella, Cherry Kills. If you’re a fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Kill Bill, Jessica Jones, and—okay, the truth is, I don’t know what the fuck this book is like. I’ve been making shit up since we started marketing this lil piece o’ candy. What is punk-noir? What is punk writing? Does my prose pogo? Sometimes, sure, but it’s all rock n’ roll in the end, right? Anyway, this was my first book, and if you want to say you knew me before I made it TO THE BIG TIME, then you better at least skim this bitch.

Synopsis

Cherry Kills wants to be left alone. Unfortunately, her Alternates: an overprotective lug, a happy-go-lucky child, and a mute rabbit the size of a man, have other plans. They’ve haunted her since her father’s violent death, following her from grimy punk clubs to the TV-static halls of her apartment building. The doctor calls them hallucinations, symptoms of trauma. But when her Alternates start interacting with the world around her, Cherry realizes it might not be all in her head.

If you’re still not sold, here’s what the humans have to say about the story!

This book is a potent mix of fantasy, noir mystery, cosmic horror, and a dose of mythos. As the reader you will find yourself questioning what is real, and what is just in her head. Normal, sane, crazy, it's all the same in the world of Cherry Kills.

As a GenXer, I couldn't get enough of the '80's and early '90s pop culture references. This was just a fun read, and I zoomed through it. I've never been disappointed by this author's writing, and this was no exception.

The vibe felt to me like John Dies at the End crossed with Whalefall and dotted with the 80’s nostalgia of Ready Player One. I loved it. It was endearing, fun, well written, with horror flash-welded in, all paced well and cut up to perfectly sized bites.

McDonnell is so good at creating characters you want to fight for, and I wanted to fight for (and alongside) Cherry and her alternates from the first page.

It's pulpy in a great way, and the mystery's resolution is super satisfying.

Read more reviews on Goodreads…

Episodes

Normal Brains

Nobody Here but us Chickens

Seven Years Earlier

Gotta Start Somewhere - Coming July 3rd.

Eight Years Earlier

6666

No More Crying in the Shower

The Cherry Show

Seven Years Earlier

Oasis or Blur?

Queen of Broken Brains

Eighty-sixed

Kill Your Television

Cherry, Cherry, Quite Contrary

Eight Years Earlier

Keep It Secret

Sorry, Babe

This Might Hurt a Bit

Mama?

Real Ones

Let’s Play Rabbits and Snakes

It’s Hard To Pronounce

Family

Waste No Wish

Psst! Paid subscribers to Automatic Writer get access to all current and past posts, plus the occasional goody. (Zines, books, stickers, music, additional content, etc.) And because I’ve learned I’m never satisfied with anything unless I’m giving a portion back to the community, 50% of the proceeds from your subscriber moola goes straight to InsideOUT Writers, a non-profit organization dedicated to reducing recidivism by providing services to young people navigating juvenile detention and life after incarceration.

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