"Pure noir...visceral, punch to the gut tale of revenge.” That's how T.T. Zuma of Horror World described Fred Venturini’s “Detail,” included in Death Panel, a collection of short stories published by Comet Press. Bookgasm’s Rod Lott called it “Quite possibly the best in the collection.” Fatally Yours, a book review blog said, “My absolute favorite of the collection …. Precise and perfect, this short story had me by the short hairs,” while another reviewer described it as “where CSI meets Car and Driver.”
From tightly woven horror and unmitigated creepiness, to evocative literary fiction, with a few auto restorer hints thrown in for good measure, Fred’s gift for pacing and clarity—and for getting under your skin—is powerful.
Blank Slate Press is delighted to feature Fred Venturini as one of our two flagship authors. He received a B.S. in English from MacMurray College in 2002, and an MFA from Lindenwood University in 2009. He has 19 short stories published or due to be published. A few of his more recent, or soon to be released, work include:
| Title | Publication | Date |
| Punches | River Styx | April 2009 |
| Intimate Flesh | Underground Voices | September 2009 |
| Cancer | Polluto | September 2009 |
| The Meaning of Life | Morpheus Tales | October 2009 |
| Anonymous Letter in Your Mailbox | Twisted Dreams | October 2009 |
| Blades | Johnny America | December 2009 |
| Detail | The Death Panel | December 2009 |
| Strings | CC&D | January 2010 |
| Stretcher of Faces | Morpheus Tales | January 2010 |
| Hatch | Necrotic Tissue | April 2010 |
| Threshold | Sick Things | Coming Soon-Summer 2010 |
| Sports Troll | Stymie | Coming Soon-Late 2010 |
What Fred’s writing now: 
The Samaritan
A searing look at the dark side of human nature, The Samaritan follows a bright but outcast young man who, after he discovers his limbs and organs spontaneously regenerate after injury, becomes the star of a television reality show on which injured or dying patients literally win a piece of him.
The Samaritan lays bare the raw emotions and disappointments of small town life and best friends, of school bullies and first loves, of ruthless profiteers and self-aggrandizing promoters—and of having everything you know about human worth and frailty questioned under the harsh klieg lights of fame.
An excerpt from The Samaritan:
I got a piece of notebook paper and wrote on it, "Today's the first day of the rest of your life." I put it on the fridge. People believe in that shit, and if I saw the note every day, maybe I could start to believe it, that tomorrow, I'll wake up and take my vitamins, wash them down with a whole liter of mineral water. I'll eat a low fat, high protein breakfast and chase
it with a fiber shake. In the morning, the television will stay off. I'll write a few chapters of my
Earth-Shattering-Bestseller-To-Be in the morning that chronicles my ability to regrow my fingers and how, with those fingers, I could touch lives. In the afternoon I'll work one hour towards a charitable cause. All laundry will be done. I'll keep the house clean, the car clean, the lawn manicured.
After a few days, there will be little difference, but in months, the chapters to this book will swell. Agents will bump into each other, wanting to be part of something that will, as the book blurb is destined to say, "change the way we look at America, at ourselves. A chronicle of our times. Dale Sampson has his finger on the pulse of our culture, and this novel will live forever as a classic work sure to move the soul."
After years, the book will be done. I'll be thin and fit, and I'll tour the country, touching people's lives with my own unique brand of revitalization. I changed my life, you can too! I'll tell them. Late night hosts will joke with me. Stars will ask for my autograph. Audiences will gasp.
And to what end? So that when I pass, I'll have a headline on Yahoo! news. So folks can Google my name and results will pop up. So when someone sees the handwriting on the liner to my book, they become excited instead of curious.
A year later, I wrote "You're one second away from turning it around." Perhaps it was true, sure, a year had gone, but still I'm one moment away. One day, I'll go into my local Wal-Mart to sign my blockbuster book instead of buy cereal. I can still star in a blockbuster movie, or save a life, or score a touchdown in the NFL. Sing a chart topping song. Maybe win a poker tournament on ESPN. Win an Oscar. Present whatever rapper is hot at the Billboard Music Awards. What will any of that mean? Nothing. Everything. The suffering in human potential comes from the lack of a true pinnacle.
A year later, I wrote "There is no try, there is only do, or do not." I saw it on Star Wars, Yoda said it, sounded like pretty sound advice. Worked for Luke, so what the hell, right? But I would open that door up each morning and get the milk out for another bowl of Captain Crunch, seeing the note, telling myself tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
That one didn't work either, so the thing I put on my fridge was "Buy a gun as soon as possible, then take this fucking note down."
That one felt about right, as if I had finally figured things out.
What Fred's been reading lately:
