Yellow Mama Archives

Anthony Knott
Adhikari, Sudeep
Ahern, Edward
Aldrich, Janet M.
Allan, T. N.
Allen, M. G.
Ammonds, Phillip J.
Anderson, Peter
Andreopoulos, Elliott
Arab, Bint
Augustyn, P. K.
Aymar, E. A.
Babbs, James
Baber, Bill
Bagwell, Dennis
Bailey, Ashley
Baird, Meg
Bakala, Brendan
Baker, Nathan
Balaz, Joe
Barber, Shannon
Barker, Tom
Barlow, Tom
Bates, Jack
Bayly, Karen
Baugh, Darlene
Bauman, Michael
Baumgartner, Jessica Marie
Beale, Jonathan
Beck, George
Beckman, Paul
Benet, Esme
Bennett, Brett
Bennett, Charlie
Bennett, D. V.
Berg, Carly
Berman, Daniel
Bernardara, Will Jr.
Berriozabal, Luis
Beveridge, Robert
Bickerstaff, Russ
Bigney, Tyler
Bladon, Henry
Blake, Steven
Bohem, Charlie Keys and Les
Booth, Brenton
Boski, David
Bougger, Jason
Boyd, A. V.
Boyd, Morgan
Bracey, DG
Brewka-Clark, Nancy
Britt, Alan
Brooke, j
Brown, R. Thomas
Brown, Sam
Burton, Michael
Bushtalov, Denis
Butkowski, Jason
Butler, Simon Hardy
Cameron, W. B.
Campbell, J. J.
Campbell, Jack Jr.
Cano, Valentina
Cardinale, Samuel
Carlton, Bob
Carr, Jennifer
Cartwright, Steve
Carver, Marc
Castle, Chris
Catlin, Alan
Chesler, Adam
Clausen, Daniel
Clevenger, Victor
Clifton, Gary
Coffey, James
Colasuonno, Alfonso
Conley, Jen
Connor, Tod
Cooper, Malcolm Graham
Coral, Jay
Cosby, S. A.
Costello, Bruce
Cotton, Mark
Crandall, Rob
Criscuolo, Carla
Crist, Kenneth
Crouch & Woods
D., Jack
Dallett, Cassandra
Danoski, Joseph V.
Daly, Sean
Davis, Christopher
Davis, Michael D.
Day, Holly
de Bruler, Connor
Degani, Gay
De France, Steve
De La Garza, Lela Marie
Deming, Ruth Z.
Demmer, Calvin
De Neve, M. A.
Dennehy, John W.
DeVeau, Spencer
Di Chellis, Peter
Dick, Earl
Dick, Paul "Deadeye"
DiLorenzo, Ciro
Dionne, Ron
Dobson, Melissa
Domenichini, John
Dominelli, Rob
Doran, Phil
Doreski, William
Dorman, Roy
Doherty, Rachel
Dosser, Jeff
Doyle, John
Draime, Doug
Drake, Lena Judith
Dromey, John H.
Dubal, Paul Michael
Duke, Jason
Duncan, Gary
Dunham, T. Fox
Duschesneau, Pauline
Dunn, Robin Wyatt
Duxbury, Karen
Duy, Michelle
Eade, Kevin
Elliott, Garnett
Ellman, Neil
England, Kristina
Erianne, John
Espinosa, Maria
Esterholm, Jeff
Fallow, Jeff
Farren, Jim
Fenster, Timothy
Ferraro, Diana
Filas, Cameron
Fillion, Tom
Fisher, Miles Ryan
Flanagan, Daniel N.
Flanagan, Ryan Quinn
Francisco, Edward
Funk, Matthew C.
Gann, Alan
Gardner, Cheryl Ann
Garvey, Kevin Z.
Gentile, Angelo
Genz, Brian
Giersbach, Walter
Gladeview, Lawrence
Glass, Donald
Goddard, L. B.
Godwin, Richard
Goff, Christopher
Goss, Christopher
Gradowski, Janel
Graham, Sam
Grant, Christopher
Grant, Stewart
Greenberg, K.J. Hannah
Greenberg, Paul
Grey, John
Gunn, Johnny
Gurney, Kenneth P.
Haglund, Tobias
Halleck, Robert
Hamlin, Mason
Hanson, Christopher Kenneth
Hanson, Kip
Harrington, Jim
Harris, Bruce
Hart, GJ
Hartman, Michelle
Haskins, Chad
Hawley, Doug
Haycock, Brian
Hayes, A. J.
Hayes, John
Hayes, Peter W. J.
Heatley, Paul
Heimler, Heidi
Helmsley, Fiona
Hendry, Mark
Heslop, Karen
Heyns, Heather
Hilary, Sarah
Hill, Richard
Hivner, Christopher
Hockey, Matthew J.
Hogan, Andrew J.
Holderfield, Culley
Holton, Dave
Howells, Ann
Hoy, J. L.
Huchu, Tendai
Hudson, Rick
Huffman, A. J.
Huguenin, Timothy G.
Huskey, Jason L.
Irascible, Dr. I. M.
Jaggers, J. David
James, Christopher
Johnson, Beau
Johnson, Moctezuma
Johnson, Zakariah
Jones, D. S.
Jones, Erin J.
Jones, Mark
Kabel, Dana
Kaplan, Barry Jay
Kay, S.
Keaton, David James
Kempka, Hal
Kerins, Mike
Keshigian, Michael
Kevlock, Mark Joseph
King, Michelle Ann
Kirk, D.
Knott, Anthony
Koenig, Michael
Korpon, Nik
Kovacs, Norbert
Kovacs, Sandor
Kowalcyzk, Alec
Krafft, E. K.
Lacks, Lee Todd
Lang, Preston
Larkham, Jack
La Rosa, F. Michael
Leasure, Colt
Leatherwood, Roger
Lees, Arlette
Lees, Lonni
Leins, Tom
Lemieux, Michael
Lemming, Jennifer
Lerner, Steven M
Lewis, Cynthia Ruth
Lewis, LuAnn
Lifshin, Lyn
Liskey, Tom Darin
Lodge, Oliver
Lopez, Aurelio Rico III
Lorca, Aurelia
Lovisi, Gary
Lucas, Gregory E.
Lukas, Anthony
Lynch, Nulty
Lyon, Hillary
Lyons, Matthew
Mac, David
MacArthur, Jodi
Malone, Joe
Mann, Aiki
Manzolillo, Nicholas
Marcius, Cal
Marrotti, Michael
Mason, Wayne
Mattila, Matt
McAdams, Liz
McCartney, Chris
McDaris, Catfish
McFarlane, Adam Beau
McGinley, Chris
McGinley, Jerry
McElhiney, Sean
McKim, Marci
McMannus, Jack
McQuiston, Rick
Mellon, Mark
Memi, Samantha
Miles, Marietta
Miller, Max
Minihan, Jeremiah
Montagna, Mitchel
Monson, Mike
Mooney, Christopher P.
Morgan, Bill W.
Moss, David Harry
Mullins, Ian
Mulvihill, Michael
Muslim, Kristine Ong
Nardolilli, Ben
Nelson, Trevor
Nessly, Ray
Nester, Steven
Neuda, M. C.
Newell, Ben
Newman, Paul
Nielsen, Ayaz
Ogurek, Douglas J.
O'Keefe, Sean
Ortiz, Sergio
Pagel, Briane
Park, Jon
Parr, Rodger
Parrish, Rhonda
Partin-Nielsen, Judith
Peralez, R.
Perez, Juan M.
Perez, Robert Aguon
Peterson, Ross
Petroziello, Brian
Pettie, Jack
Petyo, Robert
Phillips, Matt
Picher, Gabrielle
Pierce, Rob
Pietrzykowski, Marc
Plath, Rob
Pointer, David
Post, John
Powell, David
Power, Jed
Powers, M. P.
Praseth, Ram
Prusky, Steve
Pruitt, Eryk
Purfield, M. E.
Purkis, Gordon
Quinlan, Joseph R.
Quinn, Frank
Rabas, Kevin
Ram, Sri
Rapth, Sam
Ravindra, Rudy
Renney, Mark
reutter, g emil
Rhatigan, Chris
Richardson, Travis
Richey, John Lunar
Ridgeway, Kevin
Rihlmann, Brian
Ritchie, Salvadore
Robinson, John D.
Robinson, Kent
Rodgers, K. M.
Roger, Frank
Rose, Mandi
Rose, Mick
Rosenberger, Brian
Rosenblum, Mark
Rosmus, Cindy
Ruhlman, Walter
Rutherford, Scotch
Salinas, Alex
Sanders, Isabelle
Sanders, Sebnem
Santo, Heather
Savage, Jack
Sayles, Betty J.
Schauber, Karen
Schneeweiss, Jonathan
Schraeder, E. F.
Schumejda, Rebecca
See, Tom
Sethi, Sanjeev
Sexton, Rex
Seymour, J. E.
Shaikh, Aftab Yusuf
Sheagren, Gerald E.
Shepherd, Robert
Shirey, D. L.
Short, John
Sim, Anton
Simmler, T. Maxim
Simpson, Henry
Sinisi, J. J.
Sixsmith, JD
Slagle, Cutter
Slaviero, Susan
Sloan, Frank
Small, Alan Edward
Smith, Brian J.
Smith, Ben
Smith, C.R.J.
Smith, Copper
Smith, Greg
Smith, Paul
Smith, Stephanie
Smith, Willie
Smuts, Carolyn
Snethen, Daniel G.
Snoody, Elmore
Sojka, Carol
Solender, Michael J.
Sortwell, Pete
Sparling, George
Spicer, David
Squirrell, William
Stanton, Henry G.
Stewart, Michael S.
Stickel, Anne
Stolec, Trina
Stoll, Don
Stryker, Joseph H.
Stucchio, Chris
Succre, Ray
Sullivan, Thomas
Swanson, Peter
Swartz, Justin A.
Sweet, John
Tarbard, Grant
Taylor, J. M.
Thompson, John L.
Thompson, Phillip
Tillman, Stephen
Titus, Lori
Tivey, Lauren
Tobin, Tim
Tu, Andy
Ullerich, Eric
Valent, Raymond A.
Valvis, James
Vilhotti, Jerry
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Walsh, Patricia
Walters, Luke
Ward, Emma
Washburn, Joseph
Watt, Max
Weber, R.O.
Weil, Lester L.
White, Judy Friedman
White, Robb
White, Terry
Wilsky, Jim
Wilson, Robley
Wilson, Tabitha
Woodland, Francis
Young, Mark
Yuan, Changming
Zackel, Fred
Zafiro, Frank
Zapata, Angel
Zee, Carly
Zimmerman, Thomas

Illustration by Kenneth James Crist 2018

The Ten Ten

By A.F. Knott


Merle jerked the Impala door open and swung the canvas bag into the back. He peeled up his purple ski mask and as soon as it cleared his mouth, he started to chatter.

“OK, I’m ready. The guard was being all Hero-Sheegie, so I had to bust him.”

Francine wrung the steering wheel. She’d dyed her hair pink the night before and looked like a match stick. Francine stopped trying to explain her art pictures to Merle because he never took what she said seriously and ended up spouting off some shit that wasn’t even funny like the Hiroshige reference; it wasn’t anything.

“Is that our pizza pan you’re sitting on?”

Francine dragged it out from under her seat while he’d been in the bank. Merle was going to say something more but his door hadn’t shut. He turned and pulled it in harder; it bounced out again so he had to lean over the top and jerk. He’d been doing that the last couple of weeks and had made a mental note to fix the latch before the bank but forgot. The 85 Impala’s engine ran smooth, but the locks and rusty frame were ready for the nursing home. Merle wasn’t sure if he heard the lock click. The door was staying shut so he looked down at his watch.

“See that?”

He pushed his wrist under Francine’s nose. She moved her head away. He brought it back down to his lap and focussed: 10:07. He left the bank at 10:06 and 30 seconds.

“To the fucking minute.”

Merle leaned over again and squinted at the dash board. The car was in Park. They should have been at the end of the block and half way down Elmford.

“We need to fucking go.”

Francine half turned. Merle recognized the posture, what he called her box of Corn Flakes and she was giving him the full unopened version, on top of that, tapping the steering wheel. Merle’s head jerked to one side as if she’d stuck a fork in one of his ears. He knew how much time it took to unravel one of her moods; like waiting for a pizza delivery on a Friday night. He looked into the side view. The bank doors were still closed. The guard had been sprawled on the floor after he hit him with the coin bag but began moving a little right before Merle left. He had turned to make sure everybody was still lying down with hands over their heads like he told them and that’s when he saw the guard, looking like a sleepy dog rubbing a paw over one ear.

Merle kicked the glove compartment.

“So it seems like I’m getting it from both sides. On one side Hero Sheegie, on the other side, you. You might as well be a guard too, a goddamn prison guard accusing me of something I didn’t do. You know I can’t stand that. And I know you have no clue what I just went through in there.”

Merle realized at that moment he’d better reel himself in or they weren’t going anywhere. He looked at his watch and couldn’t see the numbers. His hand was shaking. Merle started speaking fast, like a squirrel.

“I got more than we planned for. I got bills, I got a bag of coins and six wallets. We need to talk but we need to do that talking in the goddamn trailer!”

He couldn’t stop himself from bellowing and looked into the side view a second time. The doors were still closed. He took a deep breath.

“The guard tried to be Yul Brynner so I yelled at him, ‘Stay down, Yul!’ You would have liked that one.” Francine gripped the wheel tighter: She knew Merle was going to start spouting what he thought was intellectual. It wasn’t; it was garbage. “The truth was, that guard couldn’t be King of Siam in that uniform. I could tell right away he didn’t know me. He could never know anything about me or my philosophies. He didn’t know the whys and was judging me for things I never did.”

Merle parroted a lot of what Francine had told him as if they were his own thoughts.

“The guard wasn’t going to get my whys and there are always whys. He’s not going to get them because he’s a guard in a bank, not living the hand-crafted life of his choosing. He’s not a free man like me.”

When he swung the bag of coins, the guard’s head cracked against the edge of the manager’s desk and sounded more like a cantaloupe than a watermelon to Merle.

Merle tried looking at his watch again, but the shaking still hadn’t stopped. All he knew, they should have been around the corner and down two blocks already turned onto Commercial heading toward the left turn three lights up that would lead them past the railroad crossing. He told Francine the night before they needed to be on Commercial by 10:08 and 30 seconds. He told her three times as it was that important. The train came through at 10:10 on the dot every Wednesday morning.

“OK. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You don’t?”


“You’ve been talking to her.”

Merle turned beet red: He knew the “her” she was talking about.

“Now that’s one of those things .  .  .”

Merle couldn’t speak for a moment and kicked the glove compartment. The little door swung open and he kept coming down on it with his heel until it snapped off.

“. . . being accused of something I didn’t do. This is one of those times I’m being accused of something I didn’t do, and this isn’t a good time to be accused of that, I’m telling you right now.”

“When would be a good time then, Merle?”

She was using her calm voice and Merle felt like he was suffocating inside the same old paper bag, trying to punch his way out. He knew right off what had happened: She’d seen the torn picture. He laid it out on top of the TV then had to go in the kitchen and forgot all about it. When he remembered he hadn’t put it back in his box of saved shit, he almost crapped himself. She asked him to throw it out months ago, but he never did. Two days before the robbery he’d been looking for his watch with the second hand and found the picture sandwiched between some receipts and old lottery tickets. He’d been surprised to see her face – the woman had fucked him evil, real evil, while they lay on all of Francine’s shit. She even held him down by his throat. The woman scared Merle more than Francine did but last he heard, she’d been bitched at Mable Bassett in Oklahoma.

“I haven’t talked to her.”

“I know how you get.”

Merle heard Francine’s tone drift down a notch and wasn’t sure which way it was all going. He knew why he hadn’t thrown the picture away and knew Francine knew as well. Merle looked at his watch again. This time he could see the face: 10:08.

“The train crosses at 10:10. I told you that. This whole thing is . . . “ 

Merle told Francine over and over it was all about the freight train what he called his thing of beauty. The ten-ten pulled one hundred seventy cars, was more than a mile and a half long, and took ten sometimes fifteen minutes to pass by that particular crossing gate. Merle had timed it. Francine cut him off:

“I don’t care about your train.”

Merle looked in the sideview for the third time, took a hard swallow and could barely speak.

“I got ten thousand in bills, three hundred in coins and at least six wallets.”

“We didn’t discuss the route. I’m the one driving and you didn’t ask me about the route.”

Merle knew this was “that” discussion: Merle didn’t listen and couples discussed things. Merle started bellowing.

“OK. Look at me.  I don’t fucking listen. I admit that. I should have asked you about the route. And the other thing was I hate that fucking cunt worse than I hate you. I fucking hate you but I would cut off her head off and stick it on a post in the middle of the street. Or stick it on a flag pole and wave it through the air, have Lady Liberty carry her head on top of her flag pole. But I wouldn’t stick your head on a flagpole. I wouldn’t do that to you but would to her.”

Merle had been looking over her shoulder at the Delacroix painting the night before after Francine had come out of the bathroom with her haired dyed pink. She told Merle she did it because she was wanting a change.  Merle hadn’t even asked her what kind of change and shrugged. While they sat there, Francine pointed out Gavroche, the kid running beside Lady Liberty. She said Gavroche looked like her brother when he was that age. Her brother lived over in Fresno.

Francine yanked the gear stick into reverse, stamped down on the gas and said,

“You really need to start editing yourself, Merle.”

Merle’s head jerked, smacking against the dashboard. He pointed and chirped, “We should be going that way. . . “

“No, we shouldn’t.”

Francine dragged the right side of the steering wheel down, swerving the Impala backwards into the alley beside the bank, throwing Merle against the door which swung all the way open. He had to reach out and grab for the handle, pulling it in right before the car careened into the narrow lane and she mashed down on the gas again. The Impala swerved and swiveled from side to side like a steel ball moving through a pin ball machine, garbage cans slamming into the bumper one after another. Merle reached for his seat belt. It jerked up short. He tried tugging it a little softer, but it jerked again, and he slammed the buckle against the door. The buckle ricocheted and cracked Merle in the temple, right about where he had smacked the guard with the coin sack. After that, he gripped the handle above the passenger window and turned to look out the back window at road getting bigger in the rectangle at the end of the alley. Sun was shining on a sliver of sidewalk. Francine was doing fifty in reverse.

“Sidewalk, sidewalk, sidewalk,” he spoke through his clenched teeth, shoulders rising and practically touching his ears.

The Impala hit the concrete lip at the end of the alley and launched three inches over the pavement and into the road, missing a dump truck passing within a hair of the rear bumper. She yanked the left side of the wheel, spun the Impala again and Merle heard the train whistle as well as the sirens. They’d ended up on Sutpin, not Commercial, jammed the accelerator and ran the next intersection. Merle giraffe-necked and saw the train behind them. He tried to hold up his watch but couldn’t focus. She shot across the next intersection, the car becoming airborne again. His head bounced against the roof when they landed, and his door creaked open a little, swinging back and forth.

When Merle heard the “ding ding ding,” he understood her shortcut. The Impala was headed straight for the train crossing with about four seconds to spare. Francine floored it as the conductor saw the car and laid on his air horn. Merle started whooping and yelling at the top of his lungs, knowing they were going to make it. The Impala hit the little incline of asphalt at seventy just as the crossing gates were coming down. Francine swiveled on the pizza pan, like the BMX mid-air bike trick she watched her brother do, brought both knees up to her chest, and mule kicked Merle out the door and onto the tracks. She swiveled back, both hands still on the wheel. The Impala’s shocks crunched as the car came down, the muffler scraping and sparking against the concrete.

Francine reached up and twisted the rear view, so she could watch the train cars passing, one after another, all filled with coal or gravel. The conductor sat on his horn, the air brakes squealing like a hundred pigs were being slaughtered at the same time. She knew twenty cars would pass before the train came to a stop. Merle had been right about his thing of beauty: The ten-ten was the best cover they could have asked for.

In twenty minutes, she turned onto the farm road, puffing her e-cig and knew she’d be at the barn in another five to swap cars. They wouldn’t have even gotten around to looking under the train by then and she’d be in Fresno by the time they started putting Merle into bags.

        Francine had stuck all her shit in the Impala’s trunk the night before, all her art books which was everything that mattered to her. She was looking forward to a couple months of peace and quiet, really looking forward to it.


Art by John Thompson 2018


A.F. Knott

Ensenada sprawled to my left, the Pacific to my right; blue, like he described it, but darker blue, grey even, with low cloud cover: Page one four one of Brown’s Requiem, James Ellroy. Hadn’t been there before, on that page, that is, until I stepped out of the car. Brought the book to keep me company. Never been to Ensenada, either. Only border crossing I’d ever done was Brownsville into Matamoras. Wanted to try Pulque. Ended up spitting it out, ordered a cerveza instead, then several more cervezas.

In the book, detective parks by a wooden railing. His view was my view. Like me, he’d been waiting for the Sandoval widow to come out of her house.

She had lost weight; described as ‘troubled’ in the book. When I saw her, if anything, she had gained: Fluid retention, legs like sausages. The widow addressed my presence right away. Took off her sunglasses and glared. I was standing on the edge of the bluff, above her house, interrupting her privacy. Someone in town mentioned she used to be a bombshell; now more of a crater. I felt for her.

Why did she skewer me with those bloodshot eyes? John Dillinger was living in her house was why, the John Dillinger: One hundred fourteen years old. That’s right. She told the postmaster he was trying to break the Ukrainian record; deliberately, she said: One hundred and sixteen. Only ate yogurt and drank vodka. Little known fact.

Dillinger’s body double had been shot in the lobby of the Biograph by Melvin Purvis, in the back of the head: Cowardly if you ask me. Everybody knew it wasn’t Dillinger. Face in the Cook County morgue didn’t fit Dillinger’s: Missing a dimple. Kind of like the Kennedy single shooter theory. People lie. More common than you’d think.

Dillinger ended up at the Sandoval widow’s place with a nice view of the Pacific. Took me ten years to track him. That was too long. By the time I arrived, couldn’t give a rat’s ass. Had lost my lust for life.

Dillinger was bedbound: Pressure sores, pissing himself, all the shit we look forward to. Told the widow to smother him if it ever got that bad. She didn’t. He was John Dillinger. Americans idolize their criminals, at least the successful ones. And she may have been in love. Who knows. Didn’t mention love to the postmaster, though.

What I heard was one Saturday afternoon, in the middle of a three-day tear, tequila and gin, not necessarily in that order, the widow felt chatty. Ended up at the Ensenada post office, leaning on the counter. Held up the line for twenty minutes. Postmaster wasn’t paying attention. Some writer down from San Diego was. Waiting to buy Mexican stamps. Story ended up in the LA tabloids: John Dillinger living at the Sandoval widow’s house. Everybody figured it was bullshit. Dillinger lead a hard life and wouldn’t have lasted much past sixty let alone one hundred fourteen. Nobody came down to check; nobody except me.

I could see into their bedroom from the bluff; saw the long lump under a pink and red checkered quilt, Foley bag on the bed post, ready to pop. She hadn’t been emptying it.

Widow told the postmaster, John yells ‘Whore!’ at me, and a lot worse. That’s why I drink, she said. Wake up at one every day to make my first Bloody Mary, she said. Sounded a little whiney to me. But that’s just me.

Old man Sandoval owned a field of derricks up in Long Beach back in the fifties. Made his money then got drunk one night. Had a snooze on the Southern Pacific railroad tracks. Run over by the three-nineteen out of Fresno. Left it all to the wife. She took in Dillinger two years later. He’d been staying in a hotel on Tecate, few blocks from the brewery. They met at the bar. She recognized him. Big true crime fan.

I was packing when I pulled onto the bluff: Two forty-four magnums. Got the permit easy, Gun Emporium, in Pasadena: Told the man I wanted to hunt geese. Real reason? These tanks were loud. I wanted to wake Dillinger: His brand of alarm clock.

When the widow finally opened her door and staggered onto the terrace, I popped both toasters off into the air. Curtain fluttered and whoever was in that bed jumped. Foley bag fell. Smacked the floor. Heard a splash. Mission accomplished.

That’s when she took off her sunglasses and caught me in her sights, gripping the Bloody Mary with two hands as if it were a jackhammer: Water glass filled to the brim, three celery sticks. Didn’t even flinch when the guns went off.

I slid both magnums back into their holsters, crossing my arms over one another. Did it slow: Wild west move. Practiced in the mirror. If either had gone off, I would have lost a leg. I’m a risk taker.

The widow squinted, trying to read my license plate. That’s when I waved, one of those opening and closing your hand kind of waves, my idea. She curtsied and went inside. Slammed the door. Endearing. I got in my car and drove back up the coast, glad it was over. Border crossing, bumper to bumper nightmare, the whole thing anticlimactic.

Returned the guns. Store owner was surprised. First time anybody done that, he said. I watched him examine me over the counter, holding his wad of Double Bubble still for a moment before starting to chew again.

Anthony Knott is a burned-out individual who gave up everything to write stories of mayhem and do collage— so that's what he’s doing. Novel Number Two was published in 2016 by Hekate: Ramonst, the dark story of an East Tennessee teenage serial killer's summer of 1970. The way Knott sees it, it's a matter of finding your voice in life; although he'll have to die first to confirm that. Writing site: Collage site:

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