People of the world, behold this news:

* Ethel Rohan’s CUT THROUGH THE BONE releases 12/1. You can pre-order now. Before you do, watch the latest trailer:

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Today Shya Scanlon talks to us about his forthcoming novel Forecast, how denial can become electricity, and what it was like to serialize his book across forty-two Web sites.

Tell us about the first story you remember writing.

I remember writing bits of stories in college — though at the time I still wrote quite a bit more poetry — but I don’t really remember much about the stories. One was about a guy who develops a crush on a male friend of his, and it kind of looked at the protagonist’s confusion about these feelings. I showed it to a friend and got the perplexed response that “nothing happened” in the story. I remember not knowing what he meant, exactly. Emotions happened! This was before I’d read much of anything within the great American tradition of fiction-where-nothing-happens.

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David James Keaton is a writer I’ve known for years. He writes work that I admire, and he can bullshit with the best of them. One time we flew to Vegas together and the woman sitting next to him threw up. Dave’s response? He took pictures of her puking on his phone and texted them to me even though we were in the middle of a flight.

So when I agreed to blog for DSM, and it just happened to coincide with the publication of Dave’s second novella, “Zee Bee and Bee (A.K.A. Propeller Hats for the Dead)” in the anthology Deadcore published by Comet Press, I knew I wanted to interview him on a podcast and share with everyone his drunken, practically incoherent ramblings.

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It’s of the whiteness between Ishmael and Queequeg, what it’s all about. Of Hester’s heavy A and Mithrandir’s staff and the seas of volumes at Sylvia Beach’s in Paris. Of Whitman’s baseball and leaves, and Costain’s salt and chalices, and of war and peace and Ivan Denisovich’s one dreary day. It’s of Oscar Wao, too, and old, tired men with enormous wings. It’s of Dubliners, even cuckoo’s nests on the road. It’s of odysseys and deaths in Venice and the earth not devouring you whole. On a streetcar, it’s of Jesus’ son. All of these it is, and yet so much more.

– Bridget stands close to the speakers, too close, feels the bass of them pound through her chest, a drumbeat, a makeshift heart. Owen stands next to her, tall pine, a foot above her. She feels the jersey-soft brush of his shirt against her skin as they move, sway below strobe lights, as the DJ before them builds a beat, drives a pulse into the space where she should feel one. – Anne Valente in Hobart

– They zapped the clay and hair mixture and the change happened immediately. Seated on the table was a big, bulbous animal of brownish skin tone. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before–though once I thought about it, my wife bore a resemblance. Had they really done it this time? I kind of hoped so and I kind of hoped not. It would mean the end of the series and there were so few good educational shows. – James Valvis in Metazen

– I glanced up to see Esmeralda roll her eyes. She moved around me, picking up our area while balancing the two-year old on her hip. The crayons Frankie was scribbling with, the toy truck she brought to keep him occupied when he became disinterested in me, his ABC book with Elmo on the cover. She picked up a bottle of juice, the rubber nipple fairly chewed on, and handed it to him. His whimpering stopped as he slipped the nipple between his lips and sucked on it. – Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz in The Linnet’s Wings

– In a bout of anger, Chang’e—the woman on the moon—killed her rabbit companion and made a stew out of it. The rabbit had been with her for a long time, ever since she was forced to leave her mortal life against her will. It was getting on her nerves, littering the ground with food leftovers and pellets of droppings wherever it went. She was tired of cleaning after it, like how she got tired of being the wife of the legendary archer, Hou-yi. – O Thiam Chin in Walnut Literary Review

– I don’t remember if he promised me we’d have children some day, when we were ready. It seems he must have; we were always talking about the future, imagining for ourselves the kind of life that only seems possible if you are young and privileged. A house with turrets, dormer windows, crystal chandeliers, and, oddly, composting toilets. I would be a writer, Neil a brilliant engineer. And so, with that impossible life shining brightly on the horizon, we never considered allowing the pregnancy to go to term. – Sarah Einstein in PANK

The race is run. I’m buzzed on blood pressure and outrage.  I threw a brick. That didn’t solve anything. I swung my fists — ditto. At 15 you see how you ride. At 30 you raise your hand. At 45 you get your prostate checked and at 60 you swallow Viagra. Sometimes I want to dress like someone else. When’s Halloween? Damn, missed it. No matter, the question remains: Should Americans dress up as William Blake? Of course there will always be Gabo. And of course he has another book in the works. 2009 Booker Prize in her pocket, Hilary Mantel faces a far greater challenge, surgery. Yikes. Staying in the Isles, The Asylum revisits Kevin Barry’s collection, There Are Little Kingdoms. And the London Times looks at Bruce Chatwin’s letters. To all the scribes out there, who are your muses? Muses alone won’t make you cash anymore, just like records. But what about Cash Money Books? Ponder that while I smash dry rocks in the hot sun.