The first anthology (well, the first book) published by Smart Rhino Publications was Zippered Flesh: Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad! The book was so popular, garnering praise from the Horror Writers Association and many reviewers, that it spurred a trilogy. I'm often asked, "How did you come up with the title?" I usually sidestep the question because I suspect most people wouldn't believe the answer. Well, let's see if that's true.
One week, when I was sixteen, I suffered from extreme abdominal pain. I played soccer at the time, and the assumption was that I'd pulled a muscle during a game. Of course, it wasn't that at all. When my parents took me to the emergency room, the pain was so excruciating, I passed out. Appendicitis. I immediately went under the knife.
Apparently, the appendix had ruptured days, maybe even a week, before the appendectomy. When the surgeons opened me, they found the appendix had completely dissolved into a pool of gangrenous tissue. The primary surgeon told my parents it was a miracle I survived. I should have been dead days before the surgery. At least they caught it before sepsis set in—that would likely have been my death sentence.
I was loaded with antibiotics and in a drugged fog, and remember little of the weeks I was in the hospital. The major memory, which I can vividly picture in my mind, proved to be the genesis of Zippered Flesh.
To address the gangrene and resulting peritonitis, which had pretty much infiltrated my entire abdomen, the surgeons had to pry me open frequently to remove necrotic tissue, drain abscesses, and cauterize the affected areas. I had an incision on my left side that reached from my groin to my rib cage. The surgical team sutured surgical tubing into the incision to prevent it from healing because they had to open me each day for the "cleansing" and cauterization process. I believe the routine was every morning (I was in a drugged state, remember)—take me to surgery, remove the sutures, strip out the tubing, open me up like a briefcase, clean me up inside, and then suture in new tubing for the following day. (Keep in mind, this was in the '70s. Treatments are far more sophisticated now.)
Now, get this. They didn't anesthetize me during the procedure, except maybe a local anesthetic. I watched the whole thing each time. I guess they thought it was too dangerous to put me under daily, I don't know. Surprisingly, there was no pain that I recall, although feeling the docs probing my guts with what looked like a giant Q-tip was disconcerting. But seeing your abdomen opened repeatedly for days—well, it leaves an impression.
How did this lead to Zippered Flesh? The resulting scar is as wide as surgical tubing, and the scars of the sutures are still visible. I have a zipper on the left side of my abdomen. I have zippered flesh.
I believe much of my leaning toward reading and writing horror fiction stems from this experience in my teenage years. Kind of a "been there, done that" sort of thing. Writing horror has an element of cheating death.
Yep, been there, done that.