Who are you and what do you write?
I’m Kenny Soward, and I write epic fantasy with a steampunk edge. I also dabble my toes in the horror genre on occasion.
You versus a young Stephen King in a fight to the death. Who would win?
I would beat Stephen King senseless with the icepacks I use to cool my joints after my daily runs. Although, he could invoke a demon car … it would be a good fight.
The antagonist from your most recent work shows up on your doorstep. What are they going to do to you?
Fill me full of a green slime called “churn” and sell me to the Machine Gods.
What’s the first story you can ever remember writing? Dig deep. We’re talking grade school here if there were any!
It was about a (KY) backwoods witch named Kizzy Lee. She’s still around haunting the woods with her trailer park magic.
Describe, in vivid detail, what someone just said to get this response: “You should know that people ‘round here don’t take kindly to that kind of insinuating.”
I confronted the devil worshipping hillbilly in his cluttered front yard.
“That’s right,” I said. “Sally Sue followed you, Jasper. Watched you and your bat-shit crazy brothers drag her body down through the woods just a hootin’ and hollerin’ the whole time. And then, before you weighed her down with stones and dumped her in the pond, you held her corpse up and danced with it. Took turns with it. Like some redneck Dancing with the Stars. Well, you won’t be dancing much longer.” I slowly reached back for the pistol I had tucked into my belt.
“Yeah,” I choked. “That was my sister you fucks killed.”
Jasper nervously scratched at the scruff around his neck with one hand while his other hand drifted back mirroring my movement. “You should know that people ‘round here don’t take kindly to that kind of insinuating.”
You find yourself trapped in an inescapable room with four other people from differing backgrounds. You spot a man with a rainbow Mohawk and a tracksuit. What’s his backstory?
And he had exactly fifty-nine seconds left to live, unless he …
“Hey,” I said to the man with the rainbow Mohawk and tracksuit. He looked disheveled, as did we all, and his eyes darted around with nervous ticks. I pegged him right away. “You running with the Unicorns?”
His eyes ticked to me. He nodded. “Yeah. For about two years.”
“Your bum stuffed with rainbow dust?”
He nodded again. “In a little balloon. Just got off the stellar transport when I felt a prick on my neck. Then everything went black.”
“Well, you’ve got exactly fifty-nine seconds to shit out that rainbow dust and get me high so I can powder port us out of here before this chamber fills with skin-dissolving gas.”
He looked at me doubtfully. “You can powder port?”
I smiled and tapped my temple where the special gland rested just beneath my skull bone. Of course I could.
Write 3 steps on how to be Kenny Soward.
Try to be kind.
Try to be funny.
Follow the lead of successful people.
You feel your life force fading. You have only moments left. You look up into the cloudy sky, raise your fist and yell, “I ordered stuffed crust, damn you!”