Thanks for being patient with the technical issues over the past few days with this blog. I've switched hosts for Tylerknight.com a few days ago, and I've spent the last 48 hours rebuilding the site from scratch. The bugs should be worked out now, but it still may be another 24 hours for all the servers worldwide to recognize the change. This was the best and most expedient way to distance myself from the SubtleDig blog network. I'm no longer affiliated with the SubtleDig blog network in any way shape or form. I won't go into further details except to say business with SubtleDig was unsatisfactory. If you still have issues with the site please let me know. If you think it sucks, Let me know! Thanks for your patience once again, and welcome back! -Tyler

“I mean, it’s only words, right?…Harmless self expression…” He waves his hand in the air. “First Amendment and all that applies to us, too…” I shake the bottle. A Viagra tumbles into my fist. I say, “Words are powerful-–” “…which means," he continues his monologue, "we’re perfectly within our rights if it’s in context of art…” “–context?” I pop the pill and crush it between my molars. Jack and I stand knee-to-knee in a makeup room the size of a parking space. This close, I taste his menthols. He says, “You strike me as a man who understands the value of money. Seriously, what do you do, anyway? You stroll in here…You…you take out your dick and swing it around like an eleph-–” “ Jack! What the hell are you talking about?” He laughs. He laughs, flops down onto the futon. The fluorescent light from the bank of vanity mirrors bathes his skin jaundice yellow, and settles ...

The novel is done.  The capstone revisions have been put in place on August 1st. After investing three times as much work editing and revising as was used to write the novel,  I fear at this point any more revisions would be subject to diminishing returns. It's the absolute best I can possibly do with the skills and talents I have at my disposal. The manuscript sits at just over 85,000 words. Right in the 80-90,000 word sweet-spot for literary/commercial fiction. Thank you again to my beta readers that took the time to give me invaluable feedback. Any further edits and revisions will be done on the request of a literary agent or a publishing house's editor. From this point forward the effort will be to sell the work. I have a great ally connected to a very high-powered literary agency who believes in my writing and has agreed to help ...

They say the average man thinks about sex every seven seconds. Death perverts my thoughts. The women float in. Into the chamber with blacked-out walls, floor and ceiling, which renders the illusion of an expanse as infinite in all directions as space/time itself. The floorless room makes the girls’s movements seem as though they swim through space. One of them, a redhead, carries a cat o' nine tails. It’s Lana Pierce. The women stop at the foot of the bed, which is covered in red silk sheets. In the featureless room the bed drifts between dimensions of nothingness. I lie on the bed dressed in a rubber dress, eyeliner, lipstick, no underwear. Leather straps bind my hands and feet, tethering me to the bed’s posters, sprawling me spread eagle. A pillow props my head up so that I can see. The women move into position, encircling me. Their hands caress my ...

The first scene is done, so I’m in a back bedroom thumbing through a copy of Fahrenheit 451, distracted by the game I’m not really watching either. It’s the halftime break and the camera pans to Kobe’s wife, then pans to a fan holding a sign that says “THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE” before it cuts to a Buick commercial. Shylock enters. “Mindy’s gone and Jessica is cleaning her pussy. As soon as she’s done we’ll rock out that scene, then we get to yours.” I toss the book on the floor and as he’s leaving I stop him by saying, “Why doesn’t the studio use me in roles with greater significance. Shit where I actually get to act, or at least where I’m a guy that happens to be black and my race has nothing to do with the exposition of the story?” I realize the rhetorical nature of the question as soon as ...

There are no luxury cars or grip trucks lining the driveway and street, no activity of equipment carrying crew members wandering back and forth from truck to house or any of the usual signs that scream “porn shoot location”, so the driver almost circles past the house. This home, situated at the back of the cul-de-sac on the top of one of the highest hills in one of the farthest points in The Valley, is unremarkable. Since there’s no way to be sure how long this will take, I tell the driver I’ll text him when I’m done. I watch him fly down the hill to his next pick-up, the engine buzzes as the car twists along the road that snakes along the hill below me, and when the noise of the exhaust fades to nothing it’s replaced with silence and tiny red dots as he on occasion taps the brakes. My ...

It'll be on the August issue of DAnse Macabre, an online literary journal.

“Hey Honey, Shylock at VELVET just called,” she says. “They’re rescheduling tomorrow’s scene.” “Sure, what day did they have in mind?” “Today, three hours from now. Are you available?” I’m unwashed, three days growth covers my face and I’m standing knee-deep in a pile of dirty laundry at the laundromat, which is full today, so I only have one machine. The first loads of white clothes are already soaking. Fuck. “Same movie?” I ask. “Yeah, apparently there’s some drama on set and he wants to see if they can get the scene shot-out today.” “Drama? That’s never good, Cindy. What kind of drama?” She says, “I asked but he wouldn’t say. I have to call him back to let him know if you’re available right away.” Even if I only wash and dry the clothes that are already soaking I’ll have little time to get ready and make it from where I am in Hollywood to where the ...

Click here. Go into "Current Issue" to see. Read for free online, and free on your Kindle, or buy a print copy.

A dot of red light slices through the darkness and dances on the wall next to my head; the abruptness its existence from the previous nothingness skips my heart, causing me to sit up in bed with a start. The laser finds my face, and sparkles and stars of crimson light burst inside my eye; I turn to follow the beam to its source--a charred and hollow building across the street with dark, gaping windows--but the light dies with the same curtness as it started before I can determine its exact origin. My stomach protests its emptiness so I dig into the box of Graham crackers sitting on my lap. They do the job at filling the void in my belly but aren’t very satisfying so I snatch my pants off the floor and extract my wallet from it. While counting my money for a McDonald’s strawberry milkshake run, I ...