Official Website of Author Jason Beymer

Rogue's Curse and Nether available in all e-formats

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

My Interview with Sonya Clark

Sonya Clark interviewed me about Rogue's Curse. Come see! Come see! I express my undying love for maenads and all things Michelle Forbes. 

Monday, August 30, 2010

The "Name Your Pet Clovort" Contest

Rogue's Curse is available for download at Lyrical Press and, but I'm itching to email one shiny copy to someone. This is my first contest, so I'll make it simple. And no, I'm not giving away a pet clovort. That would be illegal. Clovorts are nasty monsters with a taste for human flesh. They'll eat anyone—and I mean ANYONE—which makes them efficient disposals of homicidal evidence. So yes, they come in handy. But no, you can't have mine.

What does a clovort look like? Well, Oompus is the first clovort you'll meet in Rogue's Curse. He stands 8 feet tall and weighs 600 pounds. Here's an excerpt describing his entrance:

"The clovort’s bull-like head quivered and his lips parted, revealing jagged yellow teeth. His face was bumpy, as if layered over solid bedrock. His bare, squat legs rippled with muscle at the calf, but were fleshy and gelatinous at the thigh. Oompus’s hoofed feet, obscured by long ankle hair, clopped against the floor, barely supporting the extraordinary weight of his naked frame."

Cute, huh? Here's how to enter the drawing:

STEP ONE: Comment on this blog post with an answer to "What would you name your pet clovort?"

STEP TWO: "Follow" or "Like" me on at least one of these:

If you already do, then you've already completed this step.

That's it. I may even use your pet clovort's name in the sequel to Rogue's Curse. You can comment as many times as you'd like, but you only get one entry. If you're feeling creative, tell me who you might feed to a clovort, how you would dress it, etc.

On Monday, September 13th, I'll throw all your names in a big imaginary top-hat. Either my pet clovort or my six-year old daughter will pull one out. Completely random. I'll announce the winner the same day. You tell me what format you want the eBook in and I'll email it to you.

Thanks, and please spread the word!

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

The Terrifying Clovort


This is my six-year old daughter's drawing of a clovort (the monsters from my novel Rogue's Curse). 

Scary, ain't he?

Note: I only helped a little. My daughter did most of the work and wanted to make the clovort "Look like Charlie Brown, daddy!"

Monday, August 23, 2010

The Shoe Fashionista in 101 Words

Yes, this is Jo Anna's actual foot.

Jo Anna Guerra: shoe fashionista by day, writer by night. You can find her at Go check her out. Wonderful mom and a great writer.

And If you're looking for "Hardcore Jo Anna," visit her hilarious blog: Digressions of a Mad Lesbian

She contributed the most to my 101-Word Daily Stupor And instead of digging through the comments, I thought I'd share her lovelies here. Every story is 101 words, and she used all three keywords in each one.


(Keywords: Clarinet, Wrestling, Eskimo)

They sat on the curb, arm in arm. Pinky toes wrestling on the asphalt. The sun warmed their glistening summer skin like the sugar-toasted top on a perfect crème brulee. They could hear the music blaring. Just around the corner the crowd began to stand. They leaned in at exactly the same moment to take a bite of the Eskimo Pie. Their eyes met. Their foreheads bumped. The flag girls swept by, followed swiftly by the flutes and clarinets, humming and buzzing right into their moment. The world stopped spinning. The ice cream puddled at their feet. And then they kissed.

(Keywords: Umbrella, Inebriated, Carousel)

When she asked me to dance, I immediately refused. My eyes shifted towards the floor. I stared at my gorgeous Manolos. Ooh, is that a scuffmark? I shuffled my feet. Admired my new pedicure. Then tossed my hair in that open invitation way that all girly-girls seem to know from birth…or three, when your locks are actually tossable. But when I looked up again, she was already walking away, making her way to the next pretty pony on the carousel. And they glided onto the dancefloor, circling the room in inebriated waves and swirls, like Chinatown umbrellas. And I couldn’t breathe.

(Keywords: Gobble, Milk, September)
August is National Breastfeeding Awareness Month, which really has nothing to do with September, except that it happens to be the month prior. But August is also Cataract Awareness, Children’s Eye Health & Safety, Eye Injury Prevention, Immunization Awareness, Medic Alert, Pain Awareness, Psoriasis Awareness, and Spinal Muscular Atrophy Awareness Month. Who the hell knew? And does anyone really care? Because for 30 days we can all feign enough interest, gobble up the mass distribution of regurgitated info, and allow La Leche League to preach from their breast-vs-bottled milk soapbox, but then it’s another month. And what was the point?

(Keywords: Ink, Hamburger, Koala)
Driving up El Camino Real through San Mateo County, you can’t help but notice an inordinate number of eucalyptus trees majestically lining the sides of the road. Their trunks stretching up through the soft, wet blanket of fog, branches reaching, leaves pleading, trying desperately to find their way back home. And you wonder, how the hell did you get here, in this place with no koalas without zoo parking? You with your fibrous shedding bark. Your fragrant healing oils that flow like ink and smell like rain. Australia is worlds away from California. Oooh, look, an In-and-Out, who wants a hamburger?

(Keywords: Bologna, Crater, Abstain)

He stood before the bathroom mirror. His mother’s make-up lights glaring at him unflatteringly, making him squint and illuminating the craters mapping the topography of his adolescent face. The peach fuzz above his upper lip, which had begun to tremble slightly, glistened as the tiny beads of sweat pooled at the corners of his mouth. Abstain? he thought. He unbuttoned his jeans and slid his hand inside. I can’t even get her to look at me. He wiggled his fingers, searching, reaching. What’s wrong with me? And he pulled out the wad of rolled bologna and flung it onto the floor.

(Keywords: Fungus, Pencil, Brazilian)
“What I do for you?” she yells, straddling her pedicure stool, pencil behind one ear, and up to her elbow in other people’s fungus.
“Oh, I just need a wax,” I said, kinda whispering that last word, which you only ever do when you’re not talking eyebrows.
“Your lip?” she yells back. All heads turn toward me.
“Well, no,” I respond, self-consciously raising my hand over my mouth. Heads volley back to her.
“Arms? Legs? Back?” she yells again, eyeing me up and down.
“No. No. And no, thanks.”
“Ooooh,” she says with a sadistic gleam in her eye. “Brazilian!!”

(Keywords: Marmalade, Potent, Hypnotic)

Voulez-vous coucher avec mois ce soi? wails Lady Marmalade, as the strobe lights flash in epileptic waves of hypnotic bumps and grinds. [What does it even mean?] She twirls and raises her hands towards the exposed ceiling pipes. [The speaking French, that’s totally hot.] She shimmies her shoulders and runs her hands through her hair. [And she obviously wants to do him.] She shakes her head to the potent rhythm as the fog oozes onto the floor. [But she’s a hooker.] The stranger behind her thrusting his hips into her as she instinctively pushes back. [What’s so sexy about that?]

(Keywords: Bagel, Optometrist, District)

When I walked into her office, I should’ve known what to expect. But she came highly recommended by four friends who I would definitely let buy my lingerie in the dark. “I. M. URS, OPTOMETRIST,” read the goldleaf letters on the beveled glass door. I rolled my eyes, cursed my BFFs under my breath, shoved the bagel in my mouth, and gently squeezed the tacky brass handle. The room was heavily incensed, almost as much as I was, and if I wasn’t already positive that I was nowhere near the red light district, the pow-chicka-wow-wow décor almost certainly belied that truth.

(Keywords: Counterfeit, Frog, Dirigible)

She blew out the last of her air bubbles, sat flat at the bottom of the pool, and looked up at the glassy counterfeit sky ten feet above. The ripples across the water looked like dancing hula-hoops. Or else the 7 concentric circles of Hell. She wasn’t really sure. Her lungs began to tighten and burn. A yellowgreen frog float slowly sailed overhead casting an intimidating shadow on the pool floor like a German dirigible at twilight. She swallowed what breath remained. Her heartbeat pounding now behind her eyeballs. Trying desperately to drown out the muffled sounds of her mother’s screams.

(Keywords: Boisterous, Abracadabra, Golf)

The view from the 18th hole of Half Moon Bay Golf Links is neither easily described nor easily forgotten. Standing tall amongst the cypress, hunched over and scraggly, like wise ancient women, beside the white tees, of course, driver in place, squinting against the sun so jealousy enveloped by the clouds. Surrounded, by sight and sound and smell, on the one side by nothing but water. Boisterous oceanic waves. Cliffs. Sky. Fog. And then…you swing. And it’s a magical moment. A moment that just hangs in utter silence. True suspension of disbelief. And it just disappears. The very definition of abracadabra.

(Keywords: Scone, Linebacker, Aphrodisiac)

Saturday mornings are the aphrodisiac of Sunday.
Time slows down somehow between the hours of 5 and 9am. The sun rises later. The air stays crisper longer. The sheets and blankets are suddenly the perfect combination of coolness, softness, and weight. The comforting smell of warm nutty coffee and sweet blueberry scones wafts over the entire neighborhood.
And then come the buzzing sounds of lawnmowers and weedeaters wielded by bronzed linebackers that seduce the air with the aromatic flavors of fresh cut grass and fallen flowers, teasing and wooing all five senses at once.
But Sunday mornings. Nothing short of. Heaven.

(Keywords: Sweatshirt, Cowboy, Vitriol)

She sat in the lobby of the veterinarian’s office, her grey Stanford sweatshirt stained with blood and tufts of fur, trying to ignore the stench of reptile aquariums and bird cages, and trying not to cry. The receptionist, whose vitriol could clearly not be contained, reminded her, yet again, that there were tissues in the restroom. She rose to her feet, shuffling slowly towards the exit, thinking only of her poor Beaux, his big brown eyes, his silky coat, his cowboy charm. The assistant came out from the back with a ziploc baggie. The collar inside read: My family lost me.

(Keywords: Brie, Cadence, Metallic)

Her breathing had slowed to a measured cadence. The baked brie oozed onto her plate in a rapturous puddle of rosemary and grapes. She swirled her syrah, plunged her nose into her glass, and immersed herself into the metallic twinges of clove and cardamon and pluot. She raised her eyes, flecked with gold and copper, and looked across the table at the cerulean pools staring back at her. A swift but audible sigh escaped her lips. And for just a moment she felt exactly like Sleeping Beauty. Suddenly awakened. Suddenly blinded by a beautiful bright light. Suddenly thrust back into life.

Jo Anna is available for tweeting at: @joannaguerra

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Rogue's Curse - Now With Longer Excerpt!

For those of you who still haven't purchased Rogue's Curse, here's a longer excerpt to entice you into buying it. You can get it at Amazon, or at Lyrical Press, and lots of other online distributers (a Google search shows a bunch). If you have any questions about the format, how to purchase or anything else please ask me: 


Doban scavenged the dead bodies for a replacement leather tunic. Oompus hadn’t shown much restraint with his claws, leaving the flayed flesh of his victims indistinguishable from their leather apparel. But since Doban didn’t mind the blood, his choices were numerous. He discovered the perfect tunic, one slathered with innards and clovort drool.

“Your fashion sense hasn’t changed much,” Mona said, stepping off the table. She threw the fallen cloak around her shoulders. 

Doban gave Mona a stern look. "I guess we can leave now. Tag’s horse is around back. We could take mine, but he probably starved to death by the hitching post.” 

Mona folded her arms. “I brought my own horse.” 

Doban stirred a bloody puddle on the floor with his boot. “Oh. Well, I thought we could share. But I guess if you want to do it that way--” 

Mona slapped him. It wasn’t the first time, as evidenced by a large permanent callus on his left cheek. Her palm contained a matching callus. 

“Did you actually think I would share a horse with you?” she asked. 

“Well, sort of.” 

“Could you be any more presumptuous? Stop staring at me like that. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I want you to rip off my clothes and have sex with me.” 

Doban cocked his head. “What does sharing a horse have to do with sex? Did an off-color metaphor suddenly whizz past my head?” 

“I’m not sharing a horse with you. Stop being a baby.” 

“I’m not being a baby. Besides, you’re not supposed to be alive.” 

“Would you prefer I wasn’t?” 

He didn’t answer. 

“I’m not sharing a horse with you,” Mona said. 

“Would you stop saying that? I get it already.” 

“Good.” She thrust out her chin. “Because I’m not.” 



“Does that mean you’re sharing a horse with somebody else?” 

She slapped him again. 

“Wow, your aim is a lot better.” 

“You have no right to ask me that question.” 

“At least tell me why you’re here. Why would you help me after what I…I mean, after what happened?” 

She took a while to answer. “I have my reasons.” 

"Can you share those--” 

A gut-rumbling belch cut him off. Oompus opened his mouth and expunged a finger. It bounced on the floor and rolled. The clovort grinned, then wiped his mouth. “Yum.” He lifted the ankle chains. “You take these off?” 

“Conference time,” Doban said. He summoned Mona to the corner of the bar. 


“Conference. Get your supposed-to-be-dead ass away from the toothy monster. I want to discuss him without getting eaten.” Mona joined Doban in the corner. “Do we really want to unchain him?” he whispered. 

“We can’t just leave him like that. You should ask him to come with us.” 

“Us?” Doban said. “You’re serious about helping me, aren’t you?” 

“I haven’t decided yet. Go free Oompus so we can get out of this tavern.” 

“What if he gets hungry?” 

“Then I guess we’ll feed him.” 

Doban grimaced at the chained behemoth. “What if he gets hungry for one of us? I don’t think we should chance it.” 

“Come on. Look at him. He’s cute.” Mona tilted her head. “In an ‘Ah shucks, sorry I ate the cat’ sort of way.”

Monday, August 16, 2010

Rogue's Curse Release Day is Here!


I am now a published author, though I don't feel any different. Meh. Please purchase and read the book. I spent mucho time on it and injected all my heart and soul into every sentence.

And please let me know what you think. My email is always open:

The book is available for download from several different distributers (Diesel, Borders, MobiPocket, and many more). You can get it delivered straight to your Kindle by purchasing through Amazon, or you can buy directly from my publisher, Lyrical Press, Inc.

If you buy it, let me know so I can give you a big cyber-kiss!

Embarrassed and Honored

Adrien, my editor, decided to embarrass the hell out of me today. I read this in public and turned three shades of red.
I also got choked up. Crap, I'm getting choked up right now, too.


101-Word Stupor -- "Out of the Sea"

Keywords: Brie, Cadence, Metallic 

"Oh, hell, I'll tell ya," he says in a quick cadence, "Ain't never caught a fish this big. A-yup, it'll feed the little-uns for weeks. That fish come up singing. Singing. I spat out the brie Mary packed me soon as it smiled and winked. It had this long red hair, see? Long ass metallic-green flippers. Sang 'bout walkin' where people go, seein' things out of the sea. I just a' smiled and dumped it inside mah boat. When I got home, Mary slathered it with sweet butter. Damn thing squealed the whole time I deboned it. Here, have a bite."

Sunday, August 15, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Can I Stay the Night?

Keywords: Sweatshirt, Cowboy, Vitriol

The old farmer smells turpentine and sex: like bologna and mayo sandwiches warmed in the sun. He tilts his straw hat, pulls a pickle from his pocket and munches. "A-yup," he says with vitriol. "They been diddlin' in my shed." The stained mattress tells the story. A soiled sweatshirt sits near the tractor, likely used to mop up. Old Joe loads the shotgun. It's always the same. He's filled three ditches with traveling salesmen, lawyers, cowboys. He's filled the barn with cars that "broke down" or "ran out of gas." Thinking of his three beautiful daughters, Farmer Joe whistles. It's time. 

Preview for tomorrow: Brie, Cadence, Metallic 

Saturday, August 14, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Grocery Store Torture

Keywords: Scone, Linebacker, Aphrodisiac 

Helen stops setting groceries on the conveyer belt. She stares at the magazine cover. That's me, she thinks. Well, not anymore. She glances down at her own 45-year old linebacker body, sniffs, and returns her gaze to the airbrushed blond with the high-arched cheeks. Helen grabs the bag of scones from the checker's hand. "Not those," she says, trying to exude the same Aphrodisiac Charm as the girl on the cover. I used to look like that, she thinks. I used to— "Paper or plastic, ma'am." Ma'am. Ma'am. When did people start calling me— "Do you need help to your car?"

Keyword Preview for Tomorrow: Sweatshirt, Cowboy, Vitriol

Friday, August 13, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Free Range

Keywords: Boisterous, Abracadabra, Golf 

George's wife and her lover rotate on the rotisserie pole, bare asses dipping into the fire with every turn of the spit: hers, his, hers, his… The metal growls with each rotation. Abracadabra! his friend's body disappears into the flames, then reappears. They're screaming, but not like they were when George caught them. Now his wife rasps unintelligibly. And his friend sounds like the pig they roasted after playing golf last weekend. The spit grinds, rotates, and drags his wife through the fire. Something's missing. With a boisterous "Ah-hah!", George enters the trailer and emerges with two shiny apples. Much better. 

Keyword Preview for tomorrow: Scone, Linebacker, Aphrodisiac 

Thursday, August 12, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Frog Love

Keywords: Counterfeit, Frog, Dirigible 

"I ain't no good, Clara," one frog says to the other. "I only got one leg, and the other's all busted up. That chef in Louisiana… he almost got me. I watched my own leg get beer-battered. Christ. I'm drunk on tree sap most the time, lettin' teenage humans lick my back so they'll get higher than a… whatcha call it? Di-rig-ible? I sell counterfeit fireflies to tourist frogs, sprinklin' glitter on houseflies' wings to make them sparkle. Hell, Clara. I gotta make a livin'. Go find yourself a nice frog. I'm— Oh, come here. Give an old frog a kiss." 

Preview: Boisterous, Abracadabra, Golf 

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

My Author Interview at Writing Insight

I was interviewed at Writing Insight!

101-Word Stupor -- The Eskimo Under My Bed

Keywords: Clarinet, Wrestling, Eskimo 

There's an Eskimo under my bed. No, don't peek; he hates that. Every night I put on my jammies then lull him to sleep with my clarinet ("Ode to Joy" -- he loves that one). Mommy thinks I'm practicing for music class. Sometimes I hear him sobbing; he misses the taste of baby seal. Well, I've never seen one at school or on my paper route, and my encyclopedia says they're slippery. The idea of wrestling one? Gross. Yesterday I fed him tuna and said it was baby seal. But he knew the difference. I mean, come on, he's an Eskimo. 

Preview for tomorrow: Counterfeit, Frog, Dirigible 

Romance? Yeah, it has that, too! Sort of...

I guest-blogged at Lyrical Press today.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Salt Lick

Keywords: Bagel, Optometrist, District

Life sucks. One minute you're fleeing the Hand of God, the next you're a pillar of salt. I'd turned to check out the fun bags on Lot's wife, caught a glimpse of the city and Bam! Salt. Now the wind blows through the woman's salted face;  It takes her nose and eyes until her head looks like a bagel.  I think they were siblings, but I don't judge. I'm from Sodom after all; middle-class district. Optometrist, married to three goats, a horse named Wilma, a de-toothed camel and— Uh-oh. Stay away from me Wilma. Stop licking your lips. Crap. Life sucks. 

Keyword Preview for Tomorrow: Clarinet, Wrestling, Eskimo 

Monday, August 9, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- "A Good Human Spoiled"

Keywords: Marmalade, Potent, Hypnotic 

No, I'm not spoiling her. It's called love. It's not like your kid is any… Okay, yes, my pooky gets frisky with her pet humans. She named the first one Marmalade. Fitting since it went splat underneath my shoe. The second one lasted longer (thank goodness, considering what they cost), then it fell into some potent corn liquor, buoyed about in a hypnotic stupor, and pop! its bladder burst. I made pooky clean up the— Oh, piss off! She told me about your little monster… biting the heads off her humans; making them have sex with each other. That's just sick. 

Keyword Preview for Tomorrow: Bagel, Optometrist, District

Sunday, August 8, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- The Tell-Tale Toe Tag

Keywords: Fungus, Pencil, Brazilian

"Uh, no I wasn't."
"Yes, you were. It's pretty obvious."
"They were brought in like that."
"With their sheets off? And why just the pretty ones? Why not Mrs. Pencil in the Eye, Miss Botched Autopsy, or Miss Dragged from the Lake fungus thighs?"
"Here, check out this toe tag."
"On Miss Brazilian bikini wax?"
"Yeah. It says 'Please take my sheet off.'"
"That's written in black ink."
"It's fresh black ink."
"You have black ink on your hand."
"Your point?"
"And you're not wearing pants."
"I'm…um…I'm Union."
"Oh. Union?"
"Yep. Union."
"So how are the dues?"
"Can't complain."

Keyword preview for tomorrow: Marmalade, Potent, Hypnotic 

Saturday, August 7, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Guaranteeing my Palatial Estate in Hell With Just 101 Words

Keywords: Bologna, Crater, Abstain

God munches a bologna sandwich. That's all she packed him. It's the sixth day and he's tired. Creativity hangover. Every crater filled, ready for populating. Time to make Man. This time will be different. He won't interfere. He'll abstain. And he'll make them all the same color: Green. He once saw this Star Trek that—Naw. He's got a "thing" for Asians. And his son is black. Fine. But how to keep them from fighting? Compromise. Give them all the same genitalia. Give them springy vertebrae so their mouths can reach their own—"God!" his wife calls, "Get your ass home."

Preview for tomorrow: Fungus, Pencil, Brazilian