They Look Pretty on the Outside…


…but no so much on the inside. There are formatting errors and the type in the novels is so small as to be unreadable. But we are far from discouraged! We will get it right. In the meantime, don’t buy them.

(Well, you can. If you really want to. I can’t un-publish them at this point. But I’d warn draxfans against it. They can’t be un-published, but they can be improved.)


Oh, Button, Button…


… you will be the ruin (or glory) of me, oh Button, Button.

Old EV_Collected_Underland_BookShot

(This is of course not the real revamped edition, not this:


… and the “Collected Serial Edition” will probably not be for sale.)


But you never know…


Mighty Denis Johnson, My Hero and “Contemporary,” RIP, Part II



Hey, warning: copious name-dropping ensues in the following text. I can’t help it. This is my Denis Johnson story: fact, not fiction. Denis wrote about weirdos and losers burning at the edge of town, weirdos and losers burning at the edge of everything. I’m one of those weirdos and losers. Denis saw right through me. His sentences blasted my shadow on the concrete. Here we go.

IN THE FALL OF 1986 I was 21 years old and trying to write a dystopian novel called RUIN. (A dystopian novel! Jesus Christ, what a concept!) Anyway, my immediate readers—friends, slackers, poseurs, weirdos, losers—they all shook their heads and said, “Who the fuck is going to want to read this?”

Ruin p1005

Well, my teachers read RUIN and liked it. My teachers at the time were Peggy Rambach, onetime wife of Andre Dubus, and Robert Waukenon of The Art Institute of Boston. And they both said to me, independent of each other, “Go read Denis Johnson.”

God, I wish Denis could read this. He’d be amused.

Let me clarify: when Peggy Rambach and Robert Waukenon told me to go read Denis Johnson, they were in NO WAY likening my sentences to Denis Johnson’s. BUT they recognized what I was aiming for—the darkness, the yearning, the passion.

Peggy recommended that I should read Denis’ first novel, ANGELS. I had to special-order it. The special order took months. It was worth the wait.


“Dazzling and savage.” Indeed. Denis Johnson’s ANGELS ripped me to shreds. SHREDS. What a book. What words. Holy shit, Peggy Rambach had ushered me into an arena I wasn’t fit to enter.

Waukenon suggested I read Denis’ second novel, FISKADORO.


Like the rest of the world, I didn’t like FISKADORO. “Curse of the second novel,” which is a myth I do not buy into, it’s nonsense. For example, Iian Banks’ second novel, Walking On Glass is infinitely superior to The Wasp Factory. But at the end of the day FISKADORO just didn’t work. As much as I wanted to like it, I didn’t.

But then…


“Daring” is putting it mildly. I’ve never read a text written by a man more convincing in conjuring of the voice of a woman than The Stars at Noon. What… balls. no screwy pun intended. I wouldn’t have even tried such a feat.



JESUS’ SON hit the reading/writing community like an ELE (Extinction Level Event) slamming the planet. Suddenly, everybody fucking loved Denis Johnson! Writers, readers, and editors whom I loved and respected were all over him like Uncle’s Day at a whorehouse, an indelicate but accurate comparison. It was sick. But no one made me sicker and madder than Gordon fucking Lish.


For those not in the know, Gordon Lish’s chief claim to fame is to have “discovered” Raymond Carver— a claim Carver himself came to vehemently refute, going as far as commanding Random House to forbid Lish from editing his final books.

Lish was my editor, my publisher, and my “employer,” ha. I would show up at his office  early in the day and do all his slave work, and all the other editors in Random House (Knopf, baby) would walk by Lish’s office and shout, “GIVE BOUCHER SOME MONEY, GORDON.”

He never did.

Anyway, when Denis Johnson hit the planet like an ELE around 1991, 1992, 1993, Lish was THE BIGGEST poseur, like he was in on Denis from the start. He wasn’t. Not even close. Which really incredibly pissed me off—Lish was just following the fucking crowd, the same way way he did a year before when Cormac McCarthy made it really big with ALL THE PRETTY HORSES and Lish crowed and crowed that McCarthy made Faulkner look like “a punk.” (He didn’t. Not even close.)

Which led me to an important realization: despite Lish’s self-delusion that he was a trail-blazer, Gordon Lish revealed himself as a follower, a fucking privileged white boy coming from money and literary snobbery— a liar, a faker, a ghost.

Denis Johnson was a real man, man. He ate, bled, shat, fucked and wept like a real man.

These are all of his books:


Crying as I finish this. Goddamn it. God fucking damn it.




Jesus Christ. It’s the “Dark Queen” from the end of DOOMTOOPERS Book 1

Furio Tedeschi Dark Queen Doomtroopers

Yeah, I always imagined her as “Hel,” with giant fucking branches coming out of her head.

Image by Furio Tedeschi. Apologies for fast crappy photoshop.


Available @ evil amazon. 99 cents. Cheap!


Merrin vs Pazuzu – Exorcist II – the Heretic

I was trying to beat The Devil—or in tonight’s case, amazon—when I found this excellent little film assembled by RawIronMix which was EGGS-ZACTLY what I was looking for. It almost restores your faith!


For The Men: Featuring “The Binding of the Babe in the Backseat”

Dolly bound and gagged in her sexy lingerie- barefoot!

Model: Dolly / Photography: Restrained Elegance

YES, it’s ink. And I am very very pleased. I really wanted to be included in this anthology, and I am so grateful to Rose Caraway and all her hard work.

FOR THE MEN big.jpg

Kindle, audio, and paperback available HERE.


THE PLOT AGAINST THE GIANT Illustrations by Maxim Peter Griffin


adolftext copy

adolfdraxYes copy

Yes, yes—I’ve mentioned this project several times in the last six months and I still refuse to talk about it. But that doesn’t mean I’m able to resist sharing the gorgeous work of Maxim Peter Griffin, whose work and wanderings dazzle on a daily basis. You really should follow him; he is endlessly energetic, and he will lead you down amazing and wondrous paths.

The story? Okay, twist my arm. Here are some clues.

It is a story about Adolph Hitler. (Duh, ya think?!)

The story takes place between 1939 and 1945.

The title and source comes from a poem by Wallace Stevens.


First Girl

When this yokel comes maundering,

Whetting his hacker,

I shall run before him,

Diffusing the civilest odors

Out of geraniums and unsmelled flowers.

It will check him.

Second Girl

I shall run before him,

Arching cloths besprinkled with colors

As small as fish-eggs.

The threads

Will abash him.

Third Girl

Oh, la…le pauvre!

I shall run before him,

With a curious puffing.

He will bend his ear then.

I shall whisper

Heavenly labials in a world of gutturals.

It will undo him.

† † †

My Muse rises behind me in a swirl of smoke and ropes. Her lips kiss my neck. “Just write it, Drax. Just do it.”

Okay, okay, okay.

I will begin again.


Free For Friday: Assorted Short Fictions


Free PDF



 Free PDF

(No PDF, sorry.)

OUR HEROINE HAS GROWN BORED with the romance of bats and fangs, faces at the window, bad dreams. True, he is snappy dresser and never uses foul language—he has always been, if nothing else, a perfect gentleman—but endless midnight necking as the wolves howl satisfies for only so long, no matter how captivating his accent. It is nearly twelve and the moon hangs full of hunger in the raven sky; he will be appearing soon. She is unable to sit still; dressed in denim shorts and T-shirt and without a trace of makeup she pads from room to room, muttering half-words to herself, glancing from the clock to the window to the TV that flickers in bright rapid-fire silence. She pauses before the set and slips a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. Close-up of an extraordinarily handsome man grinding his teeth, then spinning black tires and slick neon streets. A car chase. A cop show. She watches for a moment, then looks at the clock.


Too late for any thoughts of escape.

She moves to the stereo. The Bach Partitas that Vladimir insists she spin for his arrival sit ignored in their jewel cases; the stereo is pounding full tilt with The Red Hot Chili Peppers, music he can’t stand. She turns it up. Let him flip, she thinks, finishes her ice cream, throws the empty container at the wastebasket and misses. The container rolls on the kitchen floor, stops dead center. Her lips curl in defiance; she notes how effectively she’s trashed her apartment in the course of coming to her decision. Wet towels hang from doorknobs and issues of Cosmo cover the floor, a stack of dishes in the sink, overflowing ashtrays and empty Smartfood bags. And thrown in the corner, the puffed white Victorian gown she has come to despise. She touches her neck. The curl of  her lips become a snarl.

She wonders how she ever brought herself to play his loony game night after night, wonders how she actually got into that ridiculous gown—taking care to slip one strap off her shoulder—then lay in bed and pretended to sleep and waited for him, every night, for the last four weeks. It’s all so… weird! So old-fashioned! Which is exactly what her friends said in the beginning, cooing with jealousy, Oh it’s so dark and mysterious and romantic, etc. She smiled and blushed, lapped up their attention the way Vladimir lapped at her throat and coyly shrugged at their endless questions: Does he really speak French? Isn’t he too old for you? Is he rich, do you do it in a coffin, does he bite DOWN THERE? Now she lives for their fucking phone calls, like postcards from a lost childhood. She finds herself missing the goofy, normal things: razor stubble, musk, hairy backs, beer breath. She longs for the electric din of a nightclub in the company of strangers, the feel of Bob’s fingers inside her, Jasmine’s weird trick of talking like a guy and kissing like a girl but all the while… Oh. Her tongue pushes against her teeth. Oh yeah, the good stuff, pleasures her black-clad suitor never dreamed of.

When exactly did his spell fade? When he introduced her to his friends, maybe? No, after that, she realizes, probably the night they fought, the night she suggested they order pizza and Vladimir recoiled, lips curling back over his fangs. “PeetZAAA? You seriously expect a child of secrets and shadows to dine on greasy rounded slabs splattered with noxious spices and crisped in hellish ovens until they bubble and pop and ooze slime blah blah BLAH!” He bitched for hours. So uncool. She could have had a better time with somebody’s great-grandfather. He left her that night without drawing blood, only to slither through the window the following night with murmured words of apology. He would try harder to understand her, he said, it was, after all, a strange new world. The moment she saw the pathetic bunch of flowers in his hand she knew it was finished, he had blown it. The mystery, the thrill, the passion… it had all turned to dust.

She despised him.

She notices a sudden chill in the air, a prickle at her neck, a certain musky smell. She turns. It’s midnight, exactly. A thick grey mist is churning outside her window. She sees the soft ripple of shadow bones unfolding, taking shape. The Chili Peppers are pleading If you see me getting mighty, if you see me getting high, knock me down! Our heroine draws a long, slow breath, then goes to the window and slides it up.

The vampire pours himself into the room, a swirl of smoke and claws that curls around her lovingly, brushing against her ankles, her legs, her stomach. She barely holds back the grimace. Then there is the crush of a phantom kiss against her cheek and she stiffens, turns away, and his psychic mutter of confusion is almost audible. The image of a crow flashes behind her eyes, then a wolf, then some unnamable creature with teeth like a broken picket fence. She shudders, forces back the image, and he tears away from her in a roar and a rush to materialize in the center of the room, black cloak flaring as if in a tempest, his blue eyes caught somewhere between lust and fury. She takes an instinctive step back, wondering, not for the first time, what kind of man he was when he was just that, a man. Then she realizes with a start he’s speaking to her, his lips moving in a rapid angry way but she can’t hear him, the music is so loud. She shakes her head.

“That noise!” he shouts, and it is like a knife in each ear: two windows shatter, a picture falls from the wall, the CD player spits sparks and the music, predictably, dies.

“Great,” she says, slowly lowering her hands from her ears. “That’s real good.”

He looks at the damage he’s caused. He licks his lips. His eyes narrow. Then he turns his gaze on her.

“You,” he begins, “are supposed to be in bed, pretending to be asleep.”

“Oh yeah?” she says. “Well, that’s the type of girl I am, full of surprises. Didn’t you once say you like surprises?”

“Surprises, sometimes. The timbre of your voice, no.”

“The what?” she snaps. “The timbre of my voice?” She rolls her eyes. “Listen, Vlad, we’ve got to talk.”

He draws closer but she steps out of his reach. He stops, one hand frozen before him.

“Come to me,” he says.

She shakes her head.

His fingers curl slowly into a fist. When he speaks his voice barely above a whisper. “You… dare… not!”

She laughs. “I’ll dare what I please, pal. I must have been blitzed out of my face the night I met you!”

“Do not say these things!”

She allows her mouth to become cruel. “I’m saying them. It’s been, ah,unreal, but look, it’s done. Come on, pack up those bat wings, let’s not make it any messier than it has to be.”

“I have spoken words to you that have not fallen from my lips in seven hundred years, shared secrets the manner of which undreamed of by paltry mortal minds, brought you to heights of rapture that would leave lesser women babbling and senseless!” She cuts him short by pretending to stifle a yawn. He seethes in silence for a moment, then says, “And you would throw it all away, for what?!”

She pretends to think about it. “A stiff dick?”

“Aarrgggh!” he screams, his features boiling. “I knew it!”

“Vlad,” she begins but stops; she’s laughing too hard.

“I thought you were a woman of sensitivity! Of substance!”

“Come on Vlad,” she manages to gasp around her laughter, “it’s just a joke,” but he isn’t listening, he’s a sudden blur of black and teeth and then she’s flying through the air, the wall smashes into her and she crumples to the floor.

“Is this what you want?” she hears him say through her pain-wracked skull. “This is what my lovers usually expect. It’s usually what they get. Butyou…!”

She manages to focus her vision in time to see him cross the room in a single pounce; he reaches down and yanks her up and holds her aloft. Her feet dangle above the floor.

“Is this what you want?” His once-blue eyes are burning desert yellow, his teeth jutting broken plates. “Tell me, dearest,” he says, his voice shaking. She panics. She twists against him, tries to kick him, punch him. A shudder passes through him. His mouth quivers. He slams her against the wall. Then he does it again. Then again.

Then again.

Scream! Scream! Scream! Some part of her brain thinks, but his nails are digging into her throat, she can barely breathe, she can barely think, each crack of her head against the wall is a car crash, and she thinks stupidly of the handsome man in his car on TV, she thinks of the first she saw Vladimir, how tall and unbreakable and cruel he seemed, how he wiped the steaming blood on the back of his hand and let the husk of his victim drop at his feet and how he turned, slowly, to face her, how his eyes seemed to fill with the sight of her, the need of her, and how she felt the red flood rush though her, the deep warm red pushing the single word from her lips,Yes, until it became a pulse, an ache, and she moaned it, Yes, and he came to her, wrapped his arms around her and he kissed her.

He just kissed her.

She realizes he’s released her and she’s sitting on the floor, coughing.

Vlad is crouched halfway across the room, watching her. She sees that he’s a miserable heap of shakes and blood-red tears.

“Did it,” he sputters through his sobs, “did it ever occur to you that I could break your bones in twos and threes, that I could drain you to dust?” His shoulders tremble; he spits a curse in some ancient, foreign language. “I could have!” he says. “I can! But…” his voice cracks. He reaches toward her. “I can’t make you what I am,” he says. “I… love… you…”

Something turns inside her, like over-ripe food at a summer carnival. And even through the throb of her head and ache of her throat, she manages to say, “You know, I used to wonder what kind of man you used to be.”

His eyes lock on her.

“Now I know,” she says, and forces herself to swallow. “Get out.”

He doesn’t move.

She closes her eyes and draws a long, ragged breath. Then she staggers to her feet and looks down at him. “Get out,” she says. “Get out, you fucking faggot.” He stops shaking and stares at the floor but doesn’t move. She steps toward him. “Get out of my sight, you fucking dickless wimp.”

His jaw flexes, and she thinks for a moment he’s going to cry. She sees he’s searching for something, anything to say, and she feels a momentary twinge of pity.

“Just leave,” she says.

He turns, and is gone.

A sigh rattles out of her. She rubs her throat and stands at the window for a long time, looking out into the night.

Then our heroine is tearing through her apartment, wondering where she left her fucking cigarettes.


the amazing ANDROMEDA 3 cover reveal!


Cover Design, Illustration, and Typography by Paul DiNovo

Source Material, Edward Poynter

Books are dreams.

We are lured by the cover, the copy, occasionally the endorsements, the spell of the first pages: books are dreams. They make promises that we want to believe.

Every time we take a book from the shelves or the table, dusty at the library or moldy from a flea market or yard sale, every time we open an unread book, we hope the bound paper in our hands contains the power to take us somewhere else.


So here’s to dreaming and believing in new stories and new books, from the interior dreamer to the exterior reader, here’s to an amazing artist and designer I count myself lucky to call friend and ally. We’ll meet again soon in the semi-funny pages.


Andromeda Dreaming


The Andromeda Galaxy


Andromeda, flagship of United Earth Forces, War w/ The White Comet, Yamato

Andromeda_Pencil_Poynter, Edward John

Andromeda, study by Poynter


Andromeda, finished, by Poynter

Was Eddie Poynter into it or what?




by simon drax


They arrive at the tall guy’s secret house. It’s a secluded cottage in the woods. He carries each tied up girl inside, placing them gently on the floor in front of a roaring fire, a massive stone fireplace.

 The Tall Guy takes a seat. Lights a cigarette, pours himself a drink.

“I’m going to untie you both in a minute,” he says, “and let you bathe and relax. But then—we must talk. And then I must bind you, again.”

Romana and Ali swap a desperate glance. Romana nods yes. Ali shakes her head no. Then they both tilt toward each other, friends, eyes searching. And then they slowly nod.

Bound hand and foot on the floor, they turn to their captor. “Yes.”

“Good.” The Tall Guy leans forward. “The two of you are essential to all future life in the Milky Way Galaxy. There is a super massive Black Hole in the center of our galaxy that will wreak untold havoc unless you two (and an undiscovered third) unite and use your power to subdue the black hole. Alas, this gravitational shift will cause massive grief to neighboring galaxies—especially Andromeda.”

Ali bares her teeth, her arms and feet aching from the rope. She turns to her captor. “We’re supposed to believe this shit?!”

“Yes,” he says, nonplussed. He leans forward. “I am from the future. This is recorded history. It must not go wrong at any cost. But our enemies—“

“Those soldiers?” Ramona says.

“Yes. They are soldiers from the future, from Andromeda. They’ve come here to change history, they want to kill you, stop you.”

Their captor leans back in his chair. “And then there is the matter of the third.”

On their stomachs, bound hand and foot, Ali and Romana exchange a glance. “Third?”

“Yes, the third. The lost sister, the final segment of the triad. The missing element of the Triple Goddess that will seal the Black Hole and ensure continued life in the Milky Way Galaxy.”

“Who is she? Where is she?”

Their captor sits back in his chair and draws on his cigarette. The two girls bound hand and foot under punishing coils of rope can only twist on the floor and await his answer.

Finally he says, “We don’t know where she is, but we will find her. Your lost sister is vital.”

Ali and Romana exchange a baffled glance, share a quick kiss, then both turn with venom to their captor. “WE’RE NOT SISTERS.”

“Ah, but you are. We shall find her.”

He unsheathes his knife. “I will untie you now. I will draw a bath for the both of you. But I expect you to behave.”

“Maybe,” Ali says as her wrists are freed.

“The Black Hole MUST be sealed. The strange weather, the storms you’re experiencing? It’s not what you call ‘climate change,’ it’s the Black Hole. It’s decimating the galaxy at an astonishing rate. Earth will be utterly destroyed in 2 of your years.”

“But NASA—the government—they would know!”

The Tall Guy draws a sad drag from his smoke as he cuts the rope binding the girls. “They do know.”

He stands as the girls wriggle free from the ropes. “They’re just not telling you.”

† † †


coming from a major publisher

new cover design soon


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