“The short story market is flat on its back, has been for years,” Jayce said. “No one but libraries buys short story magazines anymore, and literary journals won’t take anything that doesn’t involve the plight of blind lesbian nuns in Natchez.”

“No, that’s not it,” sighed Sean. “The market for sci-fi and horror is loads better than for anything else. There are sill people publishing and buying. I just don’t know why the stories aren’t selling.”

Jayce leaned across the table. “Really, Sean? You don’t have any idea? You write splatterpunk! It’s too gory for most of the people who might still read it.”

“I beg your pardon,” huffed Sean. “I wouldn’t call it splatterpunk. It defies genre classification.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jacye flipped the manuscript open. “I guess the part about the bile demon splitting the heroine open like a thanksgiving turkey for its dark rituals might have given me the wrong impression. Oh, and this part here where the dark cabal commits mass suicide through power-drill self-trephination. And let’s not forget, oh, this story about the race of sub-humans that reproduces through harvesting body parts from abducted sorority girls.”

“See? That’s not splatterpunk. Nothing punk about it; all very genteel.”