Born under a bald and steaming moon in the grimy alleys of 1980s Oakland, California, Michael J. Riser began his eager ascent up the cruel ladder of history, in ongoing battle with an endless stream of deadline-wielding clocks, the wretched machinations of his great adversary: Time. Avoiding the 89,000 Sacred Deaths he’s dreamed himself dying in tea parties with elder gods and picnics under the Apocalypse, perhaps he will at last confront Time in the grand spire of its clockwork chamber. Perhaps he will live to thrust a stake through that wicked heart.


In December of 2010, Mikey expurgated The Flying Monkey Apparatus from an unknown orifice. The shiny new website signaled his departure from a soul-sucking professional world into a soul-crushing one. When perpetually accosted for an explanation regarding the site’s strange name, he choked out the following:

It’d existed in my head as a gag, I guess. A funny image. But it wasn’t until I was walking back from the BART station one night that it occurred to me what it actually meant. I’d always thought I’d call my collected work The Flying Monkey Apparatus just because it seemed like an amusing thing to call it, but at this point I realized that’s actually what my work is. I mean, doesn’t Man strive to be like God whenever he brings those inner things to life? Every time he puts his pen to paper, his brush to canvas, or his voice to song—those acts of creation. I think my work, and the work of the great many artists to whom I’m so indebted, is an unconscious homage to the divine in some form or other, an apparatus built from many pieces by the hands of land-bound mammals who wish with all their might to fly.

After getting hit by a ridiculous number of hack attempts, TFMA was absorbed in gruesome ritual by Bookruptcy, the site where you now find yourself.

What more may come as Mikey continues to age, like a fine wine, or perhaps a good cashew cheese, none can say for certain. He hopes he will in some small way inspire and instruct others as so many skilled purveyors of the written word have done for him.

Mikey is a lifelong Californian currently living in the Chico area with his wife, a rescued pit bull, and a black Halloween cat, not to mention a collection of musical instruments, books, video games, and piles of quasi-sentient dust bunnies. He sometimes cuddles with his Chicago Manual of Style and makes disturbing kissy noises at it. He’s a vegan and Buddhist who reads incessantly, studies Japanese way more than his language proficiency would indicate, loves jazz and heavy metal, and politely asks that you not confuse him with Michael Riser, the dubious pop/rock hack who got to the domain first.

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