Brian Eckert

I live in a seaside motel. On nights the ocean is lively I can lie in bed and hear it murmur midnight elegies. When I’m having trouble sleeping the sounds of the sea’s salty breath draws me out into the darkness wearing my LED headlamp. I cross Route 1A, scramble over the Army Corps of Engineer-constructed berm, and stand before the Atlantic.

The ocean during the day inspires thoughts of nature’s majesty and human frailty. This does not change at night, but the darkness lends a sense that the massive, writhing body of water is sinister.

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Todd was under no illusions about the types of activities that went on in hotel rooms priced at under $60/night. But this particular Days Inn had a 7.6 (“Good”) rating on Trip Advisor, also making it a tremendous value for the budget-minded traveler. While the lobby had been modernized, the rooms mostly retained their 70’s era quirks, which were either in or out of style depending on the year, and so not worth replacing.

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“Eckert’s Into the Vortex is what is needed as some sort of plague runs rampant over the world. Some say this is a virus. The experts say this. A virus. What exactly is a virus? Is it an insect? As far as I know, it is an insect. I am not going to wiki this. If the experts said this was a satanic revenge ritual of Richard Simmons jacking off into a bonfire, I would not hesitate to accept their Science. They are never wrong.”

Read the Full Review at Terror House Magazine

My debut novel, Into The Vortex, has been published by Terror House Press. It is a darkly comic look at the emptiness of 21st century life, the yearning for something beyond Netflix and video games, and how advertisers and phony “spiritual gurus” prey on the listlessness of modern people.

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John Amaru Pinker wore a beige tactical outdoor vest over a southwestern diamond-patterned pullover, a pair of green hiking pants, and a broad-brimmed hat with a hawk feather in it, out of which dangled a white ponytail. He had a goatee and wore an iron ring on his left hand depicting a serpent swallowing its own tail.

I was joined by two women: a chubby, sexless older woman named Jan and a younger hippie chick named Tina. The Seven Ray Order website noted that “tour groups are limited to 3-4 spirit-centered people in order to foster an intimate atmosphere of discovery.”

Wearing a Panama hat, black polarized Ray Bans, sky-blue Nautica button-up with built in SPF, and Timberland sport clogs, with a Nikon D5 camera slung over my shoulder, I was by far the most fashionable group member.

Read the Full Excerpt at New Pop Lit

I.

Legs pumping and lungs burning, the man powered over a rocky section of trail and stopped to rest in the shade of a large Ponderosa Pine.

He’d climbed 2,000 feet from the gas station off the highway, through a series of Aspen grove switchbacks, to above 10,000 feet. The biggest ascent was done, but distance-wise, the bulk of the ride remained.

Two hikers greeted the man as they passed.

“That’s ambitious, going up on the bike,” said one of the hikers, an older woman.

“Ambitious or stupid,” said the man.

The hikers laughed, wished him well, and moved on.

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