Monthly Archive: June 2019

Articles / Reviews

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Epeolatry Book Review: Alien: The Cold Forge

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Title: Alien: The Cold Forge
Author: Alex White
Genre: Horror
Publisher: Titan Books
Release Date: 24 April 2018
Synopsis: With the failure of Hadley’s Hope, Weyland-Yutani has suffered a devastating setback—the loss of the Aliens they aggressively sought to exploit. Yet there’s a reason the Company has risen to the top of the food chain. True to form, they have a redundancy already in place… the facility known as The Cold Forge.

Remote station RB-232 has become their greatest asset in weaponizing the Xenomorphs. However, when Dorian Sudler is sent to RB-232 to assess their progress, he discovers that there’s a spy aboard—someone who doesn’t necessarily act in the company’s best interest. For Dorian, this is the most unforgivable of sins. When found, the perpetrator will be eliminated with extreme prejudice. If unmasked, though, this person may be forced to destroy the entire station… and everyone on board. That is, if the Xenomorphs don’t do the job first…

Dorian Sudler knows he shouldn’t smoke.

When I was given this book to review, I got excited. It was the kind of excited that only horror fans could recognize. This wasn’t any run-of-the-mill space horror book; this was an expanded universe novel in THE space horror franchise: Alien. This is the franchise that has left an incontrovertible mark on popular culture since the 1979 release of the first film, not to mention the veritable scar that H. R. Geiger’s grotesque and unnerving alien designs has left on our collective psyche.

Alien: The Cold Forge by Alex White is not only rooted in this lore, it has expertly incubated inside the franchise itself, bursting through its chest as a dramatic, horrific, and harrowing narrative experience.

Firstly, readers who know of at least the first movie will get the most out of this book, however it is not exclusively limited to fans. White clearly has a deep well of knowledge of the lore and draws upon it extensively for his novel. Fans of Alien will be able to see each of the environments and objects—from the retro futuristic computers to the dirty, industrial space station—using only a few but choice words. The Xenomorphs and associated creatures appear in all their gruesome and suggestively phallic glory. Even people picking up an expanded universe book for the first time should be able to imagine the stage upon which all of this is playing.

However, more important than the physical is how the book feels psychologically. What makes an Alien type of narrative is something beyond a few hissy, dribbly, penis-monsters; what makes it is the predatory type of environment. The ultra-capitalist company Weyland-Yutani is the top of the food chain that is the world and everything beyond, and everyone is trying to find their place within that power structure. Lives are lost or ruined, trust is betrayed, and any humanity is abandoned all in pursuit of a profit.

This destruction, as expected, has something to do with the iconic Xenomorphs. The book does not deviate from the seeming obsession that Weyland-Yutani has with these aliens. It is still baffling when company executives, the people that have risen to the top of a world where one’s job longevity is always in question, greenlight alien related projects that continually result in slaughter and property destruction on a tremendous scale, all in the name of making a few bucks off. How this is supposed to happen is still vague. But perhaps it’s more than that; perhaps those in control of the company see a kindred spirit in the aliens, as one of the main characters eventually does. When the faeces rockets toward the fan with speed and inevitability regarding the Xenomorphs (that is not a spoiler at all, it is expected to happen in an Alien story), it strips away the suit-and-tie façade that people have put on and reveals that the world is inescapably nothing more than those that can survive and those that cannot; brutality is not only encouraged, it is rewarded. It can be refreshing when one’s allowed to be one’s true self.

Though White’s expertise at the rendering of the Alien franchise is not where this book shines its brightest. What makes The Cold Forge a stand-out work is its characters, their interactions, as well as their reactions to the growing madness around them. The “good news, bad news” situations occur at a break-neck speed, and the characters’ increasingly desperate and atrocious actions simply makes the reader more intrigued to know that happens next. This is embodied in the two protagonists.

What makes these two protagonists—Blue Marsalis, the genus geneticist with a death sentence from an incurable disease, and Dorian Sudler, the cutthroat and predatory company auditor—such great characters are that they are completely unlikable yet compelling at the same time. They fit perfectly within, and are a product of, the world around them. Even though Blue Marsalis’ medical condition, which has given her a pronouncement of doom, should make the reader sympathetic with her, she reacts to her condition in such a way that turns her into more of a monster than the Xenomorphs. But, here’s the important part, the reader is still able to empathize with her. Even if we don’t agree with her actions, we can see why.

Dorian Sudler is the worst idea of an upwardly mobile company man, and an auditor at that. He has no sympathy towards those he audits and takes an almost sexual pleasure in destroying peoples’ lives. This is a person one would enjoy, and be justified in, punching in the mouth. And yet, he is interesting, and intelligent. His machinations are a main driving axle of the story, especially as his mental condition fails throughout the book and he becomes an increasingly unstable psychopath.             

When it comes down to it, each story in the Alien franchise is not about any chitinous monster, it’s about people. Alex White’s The Cold Forge shows in the most page-turning way that the cold void of space is not only incapable of supporting life, but a person’s humanity as well.

You can order ‘Alien: The Cold Forge’ on Amazon

Trembling With Fear

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Trembling With Fear 06/09/2019

I have developed a twitch just below my eye, it manifested over the past week or so, and I have worked out it is linked to my current submissions status which seems to be set at ‘permanently waiting for an answer’. I have a fair few works out, and a number of those should be feeding back about now but so far the silence is deafening. It’s always that last bit of waiting that seems to stretch out longer than all the months leading up to it and is the hardest bit, for me to cope with. Or perhaps the twitch is the sign of something more sinister …

Part of me figured stress might be the underlying cause, the combination of real life work and writing life becoming a bit much so I allowed myself a little time off and spent last Friday binge-watching Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens. It is terrific and I can’t recommend it highly enough (and yes I’ve got the book). Then I rewatched the original The Omen on Sunday. I haven’t seen it for a good thirty odd years – and writing that I now feel old so I’ll shut up.

This week’s stories in Trembling with Fear start with Find the World’s Center with Feelers by Donna J. W. Munro. This is one of the most beautiful pieces of writing I have read for some time. Her use of language is fantastic, the imagery startlingly apt for the atmosphere generated. Elegant and descriptive, the story feels almost gentle on that quiet night as the main character takes what turns out to be his last walk. This tranquillity is in contrast to the horror of what is to come, the sheer acceptance of it. And then at the end, the reader, is directly addressed, is warned ‘As she flows toward you, here and not here, fascinating and terrible, as her lips press the eternity of love and hate she holds for us all into your little, finite mind, you’ll burn away.’ A powerful sentence which does ‘burn’ itself into your mind. In truth, I could I have picked out many examples of the quality of the writing but I’ll just say go and read it for yourself. Powerful, emotive, and with gorgeous imagery, this may be a horror story, but it is also a poem.

Don’t Open the Door by Les Talma brings back, literally, a serial killer’s past when the dead rise, this is his day of reckoning. The idea of the killer being surrounded by his victims knocking at walls, windows and doors to get in immediately conveys an overwhelming sense of being trapped, of no way out. Simple but effective.

Playground by Patrick Wynn is a perfect description of a normal afternoon. Children are playing, parents are nearby and all is right with the world … until the last sentence which completely flips the reader’s perception as to what is going in. The art of the twist is alive and well.

Rainy Afternoon by Scarlet Berry written with a child’s voice is a recognizable story of sibling arguments, the viciousness bubbling below the surface, the dare … Then it finishes with a sense of underlying evil, the hint of worse to come, an ending which I love. Children behaving like this is a horrible thought, they should be sweet and innocent, not murderous.

Stephanie Ellis

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Still slammed at the day job. That being said, Steph and I (MOSTLY STEPH!) were able to finish up the print copies of the next Trembling With Fear anthologies! I’ve got proof copies on order, and while everything looks good online I’m just waiting for them to come in at this point before we can unleash them upon the world! 

*Insert evil laugh here.*

With my time being extremely limited, getting these out into the wild will clear up some of it so I can hopefully keep everything on the site flowing better (I’ve been sitting on a book review for nearly two weeks just from a lack of time of being able to schedule it!) 

On a side note, I also join Steph above in recommending ‘Good Omens.’ I was fortunate to get an advanced copy (my first early review from Amazon Studios!) to review and as I’m on my fifth copy of the book can attest that it lives up to the high quality of the novel. 

As always, we’re looking for more Unholy Trinities, serials, and anything else you’ve been writing as of late. I hope you all have a great weekend! 

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

Find the World’s Center With Feelers

            It was evening. Just before the sky turns that deep grey of the dying day where the yellow moon shines pale and the stars begin to peek through the gathering of night’s darkness. I walked at this time every day. Nerves. A sour stomach and shaking fingers overcame the peace of ending every day, so my feet found the street. As I walked through my neighborhood, my heart lurching and nerves firing, my eyes took in every light, every movement, every threat.  Others walked from pool of light reflecting on the wet pavement, cast from the sheer lamp above to pool of light, steps slacking and shuffling in the cottony night’s humidity. They smiled with a sweetness, a calm that belied a lack of alarm. A lack of knowing.

            They didn’t worry like me.

            They didn’t shake in the corner of their room after every contact with another person.

            They didn’t lay awake all night, eyes wide with terror thinking about the next day.

            Why?

            Why didn’t they see how the world peeled back at every edge? Every corner.

            And what was underneath, breathed poison through the cracks and sipped in our scents. Eating the blind fools stumbling from trap to trap. Things with rows of teeth. Things with too many eyes. Things that moved in insectile jitters, cretinous shells scraping. How could the others not hear it?

            My walking made the monsters within lay down, rest in the shade of forest. Watching but not stalking.

            I turned and went into the park, hoping the stew of green might soothe my pain. The velvet of the breeze settled on my face and for a moment, I felt relief wash into my belly. For a moment, I believed I could make another day.

            Every night I made this turn to feel human again.

            Because no others took that turn. I stood beneath the sky, line of dark trees encircling me in the field like the walls of Jericho. Someday they’d fall. Someday everything fails. But for now, the monsters hadn’t found the note to shatter our defenses. Still they marched, taloned feet scraping, claws skittering across the wall looking for holds and cracks. How did the others not know?

            I lay in the center of the field, staring up at the stars.

            The eyes of the beasts stared back. Searching.

            Behind me, shuffling steps, light as a flower’s kiss. My stomach’s calm turned as I did into a swirling, clenching fist.

            There, at the edge of the trees, a lovely woman smiled a Mona Lisa question. Brown hair tumbled with a shimmer of moon on moving water. She stood, though she was never still. Hair fluttering, body rocking side to side like a hooded serpent. Beautiful in a way that shattered my peace. And her eyes.

            They locked on me. Black orbs set in tan skin, shining with tears. Black as the vault of the sky between stars. Spider eyes.

            I moaned then, from some place in me so old and deep, I didn’t recognize it as myself until my chest rattled in time.

            The breeze stopped and shifted then, cool to hot as a summer storm, wet and full of promises. She took a step toward me.

            The movement halted in a way that made little sense. As if her two beautiful legs didn’t move at all, but some other legs I didn’t see shuffled her forward— a hunching gate, hard as a horse’s trot. Like there were six or eight legs carrying her along.

            My moan turned to a scream then. I didn’t want to. Didn’t want to attract her more than I had. Didn’t want my fear to spill out in the gasping, raving cry that filled the meadow and bounced off the trees.

            She stopped for a moment, tilting her head. Her beautiful face took on the mocking expression of care a mother might cast at a fallen child. Mocking because something like her couldn’t care. Something so not human.

            Her steps, now audible with clicks of joints made of something other than skin and bone, resumed and she drew nearer. Such a beautiful false face, smiling beatifically down at me, hands spread and arms out in a gesture of welcome. She looked so human. So perfectly lovely but for the eyes, how she moved, and now I could see, the horns that sprouted from her clavicles. Horn not like something on a deer or rhino, that might have comforted me. These were the horns you see on scarabs. Stylized hands feeling the world. Antennae reaching for information. For me.

            I couldn’t help but scream, all the fear pouring from my mouth, all the horror I’d ever known.

            She kept coming, because why would a scream stop her?

            She settled in the grass in front of me, a flowing movement that folded her legs neatly in a triangle under her, though she floated above the ground.

            Her arms came up around me and enfolded me in their softness, hands gentling me as they fluttered across my cheeks.

            “Quiet, little one,” she said, though her mouth didn’t move. The smile locked her lips into a pleasant fiction. The antennae moved and turned toward me.

            I felt like she could see through me, light falling on every cell, though the light’s warmth didn’t brighten my eyes. I felt it inside. And the minute the gaze of those horns perched on her chest shifted, my stomach calmed. The fear didn’t settle or dissipate. It ceased to be. In that moment, staring in the black of her predator eyes, I was lost.

            “My queen.” Words without thought. Words older than the ring of trees. Maybe older than the stars.

            They’d found a crack and sent in the mother of them all.

            In her black eyes, I knew we’d named her.

            Mother of Demons. Lilith.

            Only now, with her locked on my soul, hands gentling me and rewriting my knowing, I saw that she wasn’t Lilith at all. What she was couldn’t be known completely here. Only pieces of her glory might be seen in this limited light, this limited sight.

            I sighed with my cheek in her hands, ready for destruction.

            “I am yours,” I said to her, lost in the ancient gaze. Lost in the clutch of her beautiful claws.

            “Ah little one, you will be my favorite toy,” she said. Then her lips, frozen things on her masterpiece of a mask found me.

            What you see is only defined by the three dimensions of our eyes. But what you feel expands.

            In that touch, I knew her.

            I knew her and all my fears burned away.

            Burned away because knowing hell is accepting it.

            She ate my innocence, my shelter, in that kiss and opened me to the universe.

            And now, I am to do the same for you.

            Do you feel her approach in your guts? Soon you’ll hear the clicking of her dainty claws coming for you. The others hum from the void, a swan song for their queen. A song that sinks your feet into the earth as she presses through. Coming for you washed in beauty that cuts. In her black eyes shines the heaviness of history that brings you to your knees, screaming. Screams are her feast. As she flows toward you, here and not here, fascinating and terrible, as her lips press the eternity of love and hate she holds for us all into your little, finite mind, you’ll burn away. Those feelers will gather your pieces up and you’ll know.

            She’ll eat us all and rip open the sky.

            I’m not afraid. Soon you won’t be either.

Donna J. W. Munro

Donna J. W. Munro has spent the last nineteen years teaching high school social studies. Her students inspire her every day. An alumni of the Seton Hill Writing Popular Fiction program, she published pieces in Every Day Fiction, Syntax and Salt, Dark Matter Journal, the Haunted Traveler, Flash Fiction Magazine, Astounding Outpost, Door=Jar, Spectators and Spooks Magazine, Nothing’s Sacred Magazine IV and V, Hazard Yet Forward (2012), Enter the Apocalypse (2017), Killing It Softly 2 (2017), Beautiful Lies, Painful Truths II (2018), Terror Politico (2019), and several Thirteen O’Clock Press anthologies. Contact her at https://www.donnajwmunro.com

Don’t Open The Door

There was a knock at the door. 

It was a little girl.

Weird. How’d she get out there?

Wait, dirt on her dress, the deteriorated pallor of her face, the hollow stare…was she fresh from the grave? Or just lost in the woods?

No, he recognized her, he’d just buried her yesterday.

She sensed him behind the door, and started to claw, then pound it down like a maniac. 

He backed away. But now there were knocks at the windows, the walls and the basement door. He had been busy, and now they were all coming back to get him.

Les Talma

Les Talma lives in NY. He’s drawn to quiet places, works in a library, and once did some of his best writing in a Dunkin’ Donuts at 2 am in NJ. Now he looks for similar quiet and productive places.

He also likes: horror movies, amusingly strange TV shows, comic books, fairy tales that are dark and delicious.

He scribbles things in notebooks, sometimes they end up as finished works.

He’s working on finishing a lot of things right now.

https://lestalma.wordpress.com/

Playground

Sitting on the bench Lowell watched as the kids ran, screamed and laughed their way around the playground. Seeing the kids run and jump chasing each other brought back memories of his youth and it always brought a smile to his face. The boys pushed and shoved taking turns fighting for who would be first down the slide. Girls gathered around the swings giggling and laughing as they took polite turns on who was pushing and who was swinging. Lowell loved the playground and with the moms’ attention on their phones, it was the perfect place to pick out dinner.

Patrick Wynn

Patrick J Wynn is an author of short stories that contain shades of horror, humor and are just a touch weird. You can follow him on his Facebook page and look for his short story collections on Amazon.

Rainy Afternoon

            It was a rainy afternoon.  I was bored.  I sat on the couch, watching my sister sew.

 

            “That blouse is uglier than you,” I said.

 

            “If you don’t stop teasing me, I’ll stick this pin in your forehead!” yelled my sister.

 

            “Go ahead and try!” I taunted.  “You’d probably miss!”

 

            She lunged at me with the pin, aiming for my forehead and stuck it in.

 

            At first, we were astonished that she did it.  Then she started laughing.  “Go look in the mirror!  You look so funny!”

 

            I did and I laughed too.  “Now let’s try it with the scissors!”

Scarlet Berry

Scarlet Berry is a Yooper. She’s been married forty years to the same man and they raised four children together. She is a mystery wrapped up in a conundrum, and loves to laugh; both evilly and happily.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Call The Exterminator

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

One Fearless Night

The camping-trip honeymoon had been Agnes’ idea, to help Kyle confront his unmanly phobia of insects. First, her smiling, nude form had helped ease his terror of chirping crickets. Second, the brief shock of a tick-sighting had proved to be a harmless skin mole. Third, after making love to the pitter-patter of raindrops on their tent, he had drifted blissfully to sleep beneath loving caresses employing insect repellent lotion.

When Kyle awoke the next morning, he rolled over to kiss Agnes, only to discover her eyes and tongue bulging and blood-swollen ticks blanketing every inch of her clammy, white skin.

Dreams of Revenge

Months after his wife’s grisly death in the woods, Kyle still suffered from horrific nightmares.  The theme was always the same: ubiquitous, invasive ticks. Every time he pulled off his socks or lifted his chin to shave: ticks.  Every time he brushed his teeth or sat on the toilet: more ticks.  He typically awoke to the pounding of his heart and an echoing whisper: “Revenge! Revenge!”

Hypnotherapy and anti-anxiety medications helped only slightly. Ultimately, it was the haunting whisper, which finally began to give him peace. “Revenge!” he agreed, squashing a bug. “Revenge,” he agreed, setting fire to the forest.

A Job with No Boss

Employing ex-cons was risky, but subsidized.

The exterminator twisted open the jar on his desk, extracted a wiggling cockroach, and held it near the job applicant’s face. “Do insects bother you?” he tested.

Kyle squished the pest in his fist and then wiped the jelly on his pants. “Ticks killed my wife,” he growled. “I hate insects.”

Marty smiled uncomfortably. Seeking to recover high status, he pointed out that ticks, like spiders, are “arachnids”, not insects.

Picking up the glass jar, Kyle smashed it into Marty’s face and then ground the shards into the exterminator’s arteries.

“Die, insect,” he said.    

Shawn Klimek

Shawn M. Klimek’s microfiction can be found in anthologies and online by the score, including Black Hare Press’ “Dark Drabbles” anthologies (blackharepress.com/publications/ ), Blood Song Books’ “Tiny Tales” anthologies: (bloodsongbooks.com/publications/), CafeLit, (CafeLit), and more. Find him on Amazon, Facebook @shawnklimekauthor or a complete index of his published works at jotinthedark.blogspot.com.

Closed Markets

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CLOSED MARKET: Mura

This Market’s website no longer loads.

Payment: Flash Fiction: $1 CAD per 100 words., $5 CAD per poem

The email address for all submissions is [email protected]. Include a short biographical statement at the end of your email. You may also include any relevant social media links. A query letter is not necessary.

Flash fiction, poetry, and art will all be posted on Fridays. Generally, Mura will only publish a maximum of three pieces (of any medium) a week, but that is not a hard and fast rule.

Simultaneous submissions of your work are allowed, but please inform us if your work is accepted elsewhere.

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Flash Fiction

Flash fiction stories (<1000 words) should be pasted in the body of your email. Make sure the indentations are correct and the font is legible. Include ‘flash fiction’, word count, your name, and your story’s title in the subject line of your email. For example, if your story is called The Storm, your subject line might look like this:

flash fiction The Storm by A. B. Smith 890 Words

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Please only submit one story at a time. You may submit another story once you receive a reply.

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Writers will be paid $1 CAD per 100 words.

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Poetry

You may submit up to 5 poems. Poems should be in a single Word document (.docx, .doc, or .rtf). Poems should be titled and each poem must start on a new page. This document cannot exceed 10 pages. Use single line spacing and a readable, 12-point font. We do not accept concrete/shape poems or poems that have words scattered artistically across the page. Include ‘poetry’ and your name in the subject line of your email.

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Please only submit 5 or fewer poems at a time. You may submit more once you receive a reply.

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There is no set theme for poetry, though we are partial to poetry that sticks closer to the quiet, understated vision of Mura.

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Poets will be paid $5 CAD per poem published on Mura.

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Visual Art

You may submit up to 5 pieces of visual art. Art should be a high quality .jpg or .png, and these files should be attached to your email. Include a statement to accompany your work(s). Include ‘visual art’ and your name in the subject line of your email.

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Please only submit 5 or fewer pieces at a time. You may submit more once you receive a reply.

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Artists will be paid $7 CAD per piece published on Mura.

Via: Mura.

Trembling With Fear

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Trembling With Fear 06/02/2019

Man’s history is scattered with instances of real horror. People and events who performed deeds you couldn’t even dream up in your worst nightmares (see Remembrance below). My youngest went on a college trip to Auschwitz recently, sent me pictures, told me of what she saw, how she was affected. It was a trip we gladly supported, believing as strongly as we do that it is our duty to remember and ensure such a thing does not happen again. Amongst her anecdotes, she also described how others viewed the site. Most were respectful but she couldn’t get over how some attended carrying glittery backpacks, wearing clothes and colours more suited to a fun day out than a visit to the site of one of history’s most notorious war crimes. She also told me of people smiling for selfies on the railway tracks, turning someone else’s suffering to their own attention-seeking ends. Has society really become that self-centred and self-obsessed? It makes me despair …

On a happier note, I’ve enjoyed my week off from school. I’ve been able to pace my writing and get a couple of short stories done, critiqued others, read a few books and reviewed them and still had time to watch a bit of tv, do a little housework AND start compiling the 2019 anthology!

Now to this week’s stories:

Trembling With Fear’s lead story this week is Like Mother … Like Son by Ruschelle Dillon examines the strength of the mother/son bond. No one is good enough for this woman’s son and his closeness to his mother causes him to believe her, to accept that no girl was going to hang around for him, that they will all leave in the end … but do they? Great Hitchcockian (if that’s a word) feel to this.

No Happy Endings by Arthur Unk brings us the Easter Bunny, that lovely cute fluffy creature which we all loved when we were little … and completely destroys the innocent image, coating it with alcoholic fumes and giving it a gun. It does not end well. An enjoyable noir subversion.

Remembrance by RJ Meldrum is horror in its real form, a reality which existed and which we humans created. Sometimes you don’t need to make things up, only remind us of the dark deed’s of man’s past. Short, direct and hard-hitting.

Smile More by Kevin M. Folliard relentlessly forces you to read on with each repetition of the word ‘Smile’, it is at times protection, a mask and ultimately a bringer of death. The rhythm and repetition brings to mind the ‘Choose Life’ quote from Trainspotting.

Stephanie Ellis

Editor, Trembling With Fear

It has been a bit of a crazy week! Outside of the huge project at my day job which still looms over all of my waking thoughts, we’re closing in on the Trembling With Fear anthologies! Covers have been approved, things have started to be created on KDP for publishing, progress is being made! 

On top of this, I had a chance to give a first round set of edits on a story being worked on by one of our Patreons. It is a fun read and I’m looking forward to seeing where he is able to end up placing it as I’m pretty sure he’ll be able to once it is finished! 

As always, we’re open for more shorts, drabble, Unholy Trinities, serials, and more! 🙂 

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

Like Mother… Like Son

Momma kept me safe. She taught me to read and write among other things. She raised me to be a proper gentleman. A simple ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ kept me in God’s good graces as well as Momma’s.

Momma always said she was a good judge of character. She knew when my friends were using me. And they were always using me. When I brought a girl home, before she even stepped through the door into the living room Momma knew if she was dirty. She kept the dirty girls away.

My momma left me on a Wednesday. She was sick. For years momma hid it; using mascara and red lipstick to paint on a lovely face. I had inklings, but I could never bring myself to discuss it with her. Maybe part of me didn’t want to know.

One evening, I peeked in her room and caught her washing specks of blood from her flushed cheeks and scrubbing the reek of piss from her clothes.

I mustered up the nerve to confront her.

She didn’t deny it.

Her tiny frame crumpled to the floor, bawling like a newborn. Grabbing my hand she said she wanted nothing more than to spare me from pain and heartache.

It wasn’t long afterwards that momma died. I would like to think she didn’t suffer but her sickness brought with it a lot of pain. In the end, I tried my best to comfort her. I wiped the dried blood from her mouth and nose and untangled her hair with her favorite comb. She deserved to look pretty to meet Jesus. I kissed her forehead and folded her hands to her chest. She looked peaceful.

Putting her in the ground was pure hell. There were no mourners or friends to give me comfort. Momma said we were all we needed, her and I. And now she was gone.

Through my grief and tears, I almost didn’t see the sweet face of my last girlfriend. Momma hated her; she said she was one of the “dirty girls.” But, as the old saying goes, “the heart wants what the heart wants.”

Eventually, my girl stopped coming around. It hurt real bad. I thought she liked me but Momma said, she was a no good whore; definitely not the girl for me.

It didn’t matter any longer. Momma was gone and here was my lost love ready to comfort me.

I wiped away my tears and took her hand in mine. It snapped off at the elbow as I pulled her from the soft dirt.

I chuckled at the surrealness of the moment. Our mother-son moment. Oh Momma, what are the odds we’d pick the same plot of earth in the acres of pine and laurels behind our home to bury our dead.

Ruschelle Dillon

Ruschelle Dillon is a freelance writer whose efforts focus on the dark humor and the horror genres.  Ms. Dillon’s brand of humor has been incorporated in a wide variety of projects, including the irreverent blog Puppets Don’t Wear Pants and novelette “Bone-sai”, published through Black Bed Sheet Books as well as the live-action video shorts “Don’t Punch the Corpse” and “Mothman”.  She also interviews authors for the Horror Tree website.

Her short stories have appeared in various anthologies and online zines such as Strangely Funny III, Story Shack, Siren’s Call, Weird Ales- Another Round and Women in Horror Vol 2, Dark Voices Charity Anthology, Deadcades and Sanitarium Magazine. Her collection of short stories, Arithmophobia, published by Mystery and Horror LLC is available through Amazon & Barnes and Noble.  

 

Stalk her on-

https:www.ruschelledillon.net

No Happy Endings

The Easter Bunny walked drunkenly down the back alley with a gun in hand. The wolves were chasing him again. He stumbled into a wall leaving a long smear of blood on the dirty brick wall. The growling behind him grew louder. A dead end at the end of the alley greated Easter Bunny with a dull flickering grin. One bullet left. Fangs and teeth showed through the dark as the pack inched closer.

“Who wants it first?” Easter Bunny said.

The uncaring demons continued their deadly path. A single shot tore through the night followed by howls and screams.

Arthur Unk

Arthur Unk lives and works in the United States, but dreams of a tropical, zombie-free island. He hones his drabble skills via the Horror Tree Trembling With Fear (Dead Wrong, Flesh of My Flesh, The Tale of Fear Itself, and others yet to come) and writes micro/flash fiction daily. His influences include H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, and life experience. You can follow his work from all around the web via his blog at http://arthurunk.com or read his many, many micro-stories on Twitter @ArthurUnkTweets

Remembrance

He left the tour and headed out by himself into a wooded area. There’d been a building here at some point, bricks were scattered all around. He bent and picked one up. Suddenly, there were voices in his head.

They choked us, naked, standing in our own filth

They killed our children

They stole the gold from our teeth

They burned us

He dropped the brick, his head pounding. He ran back to the tour group, seeking sanctuary. He passed through a metal gate, the words above were still visible. Arbeit Macht Frei.  The voices of the dead followed him.

RJ Meldrum

R.J. Meldrum is an author and academic.  Born in Scotland, he moved to Ontario, Canada in 2010.  He has had stories published by Sirens Call Publications, Horrified Press, Trembling with Fear, Darkhouse Books, Smoking Pen Press and James Ward Kirk Fiction.  He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

Facebook profile: https://www.facebook.com/richard.meldrum.79

Website: http://wolfstarpublishing.com/meldrum/

https://twitter.com/RichardJMeldru1

Smile More

You need to smile more.

Smile because the sun is shining.

Smile so boys will like you.

Smile so girls will like you.

Smile with your heart.

Smile in your brain.

Smile deep inside your guts.

Smile because you’re free to clench your teeth and keep smiling!

Smile more than everyone else.

Smile because life is a great big smiling contest.

Smile until your face hurts.

Until your eyes water.

Until you’re terrified to stop smiling.

Until your smile infects everyone.

Smile at them until smiles slice into their flesh.

Smile until they’re dying from a killer smile like yours.

Kevin M. Folliard

Kevin M. Folliard is a Chicagoland writer whose published fiction includes scary stories collections Christmas Terror Tales and Valentine Terror Tales, as well as adventure novels such as Matt Palmer and the Komodo Uprising. His work has also been collected by The Horror Tree, Flame Tree Publishing, Hinnom Magazine, and more. Kevin currently resides in La Grange, IL, where he enjoys his day job as an academic writing advisor. When not writing or working, he’s usually reading Stephen King, playing Street Fighter, or traveling the U.S.A.

 

Author Website: www.KevinFolliard.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kevinfolliard

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Kmfollia

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kmfollia/

Articles / Interviews

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A Talk About Terror, with Chris Mason and Tabatha Wood

Australian author, Chris Mason, lives in Adelaide, often dubbed “the murder capital of Australia.” Her stories have won a number of awards over the years —
“The Stairwell” (Below the Stairs – Tales from the Cellar) won the best horror novella for 2017 in the Aurealis awards, and “The Black Sea” (Beneath the Waves – Tales from the Deep) was shortlisted for the Aurealis best horror novella for 2018.

Most recently “The Black Sea” has been nominated for three prestigious literary awards. Here she talks to Wellington author, Tabatha Wood, about her journey into writing horror, what inspires her to write and what she believes we can learn from the horror genre today.

TW. Your story, “The Black Sea” has been nominated for the Shirley Jackson Award, the Australian Shadows Award, and the Aurealis Award. That is an outstanding achievement. Congratulations! Tell me more about the story and how it came to be.

CM. Thank you. I wrote “The Black Sea” specifically for a submission callout for the “Things in the Well” anthology, “Beneath the Waves – Tales from the Deep.” I was actually going to submit something else but that ended up being a much bigger story so I put it aside. All I had left was a title – “The Black Sea”- and the idea of a family being trapped on an island by a catastrophic event.

I’m a pantser not a planner, and must admit I was surprised where the characters led me. I didn’t see most of what was coming until it was down on the page. Towards the end I had to stop and ask myself what I was actually writing about. In my mind there were a lot of layers to the story. When I figured out guilt featured heavily in the equation, it all fell into place. I did groan a couple of times as I was writing it. But then I looked on the bright side. If I felt uncomfortable, maybe I was doing my job as a horror writer.

TW. Have you always considered yourself a writer, and what prompted you to start writing scary stories?

CM. No, not at all. I’ve always thought of myself as a storyteller, though. I’m a bit of a daydreamer, and I can spin a yarn reasonably well, but I never had much confidence in my writing skills so turning what was in my head into words on a page, came quite late for me. I was well into my 40s before I wrote anything down. It took me another decade to start sending my stories out. I think I’m living proof that it’s never too late to start! The day after the Shirley Jackson finalists were announced I had to fill in a form that asked for my occupation. I lingered on the blank space for far too long, eventually smiled, and put down writer. It felt good!

I’ve always liked scary stuff, the more creepy and weird the better. It feels natural to write those kinds of stories.

TW. Who would you consider your influences — from any genre — and what was the first horror story you can remember reading?

CM. Stephen King has been a huge influence. I started off with “Carrie” when I was sixteen and never stopped. I also love the work of Peter Straub, Joe Hill, Clive Barker, Ray Bradbury, and Shirley Jackson. “The Haunting of Hill House” is a story I often return to. John Fowles “The Magus” I’ve also read over and over. More recently, I’ve been reading Joe Lansdale. I’ve just binged five Hap and Leonard books. There is so much to learn from Joe. “The Thicket” is a huge favourite. The list could go on and on. I’m probably influenced by everything I read.
First horror story? Hmm… I read lots of ghost stories when I was a kid and loved Daphne du Maurier books, but the first book I remember really frightening the hell out of me was “The Sentinel” by Jeffrey Konvitz.

TW. What sort of things interest and inspire you outside of writing?

CM. I love to travel and explore new places. There is so much to see – the different cultures, the people, the history, the food, and the architecture. The world is full of fascinating stories.

I also like to spend time outdoors, either in the garden or taking long walks. One of my favourite walks is around the bays in Wellington, your hometown, Tabby. New Zealand has stunning scenery. I can’t wait to get back there again.

TW. We will have to meet up for a coffee when you do! Tell, me what scares you?

CM. Humans! We can be nasty little creatures at times. We seem to be hell bent on wrecking the planet at the moment, and that terrifies me.

TW. I totally agree. Monsters under the bed are nothing compared to what human beings can do. Are there any topics which you wouldn’t feel comfortable writing about?

CM. I try not to censor myself too much. Horror is meant to be disturbing. Having said that, I’m not into excessive violence, descriptive scenes of rape and torture, or gratuitous sex. I don’t like reading it and I wouldn’t write it. I’m also very careful with my younger characters, and what I put them through. I generally defer to ambiguity and let the reader fill in the blanks when it comes to horrific scenes.

Blood and gore doesn’t bother me if it’s done with a bit of humour. I’m a big fan of “Z Nation” and I thought Chuck Palahniuk’s “Guts” was absolutely hilarious. I think Jack Ketchum’s “The Girl Next Door” is a great example of how to cover a really difficult topic. He gives enough detail for the story to be disturbing without it ever being graphic. By the time you get to the end you know what’s going to happen without it being described. It’s a powerful and unsettling book. Stephen Graham Jones’ “Chicken” is another story that comes to mind. You need serious skills to pull off stories about sensitive topics. I admire anyone who can do it well.

TW. I agree with you again. I have to admit I’m also a bit of a wuss when it comes to blood and gore. I prefer my horror more psychological, but that’s just my personal taste. Is there anything that you want to read or watch, but are too scared to?

CM. I’ll read pretty much anything. It’s the visual medium that I sometimes need a viewing buddy to get me through. I want to watch “The Exorcist” again but have been putting it off as the movie terrified me when it first came out. Maybe it will be a different experience with the passage of time. I watched “The Autopsy of Jane Doe” alone, late one night. That was a mistake. Boy, did that have some jump scares! The second season of “American Horror Story” I skipped after the first couple of episodes. I loved all the other seasons, but that one really got to me for some reason.

TW. I really enjoyed AHS, but I have to admit that Season 4 got under my skin a bit. The conjoined twins and the clown creeped me out too much! Do you think there are any books or topics you wouldn’t want your own children/nieces & nephews (if you have any) reading or watching?

CM. I think it all depends on the age and maturity of the child, and their life experiences. Something I might recommend for one child would be completely wrong for another. Having said that, there is nothing wrong with books that challenge the reader to think. Obviously, I would steer away from anything of a violent or sexual nature, but in terms of horror, a ghost or two and some creepiness never hurt anyone. But then I’m of a generation that was brought up on Grimms’ fairy tales. Have you checked out “Little Red Riding Hood” or “Hansel and Gretel” lately?

TW. Gosh, yes. Most fairy tales are dark and bleak when you look at them more closely. Kids being cooked. Parents being murdered. Disney might have sanitised a lot of the stories in their movies, but the original books are quite disturbing.
My family has always been somewhat bemused by my love for the macabre. What kind of responses and support do you get from friends and family to your work?

CW. Apart from a couple of dear friends, most people close to me haven’t read any of my work — and that’s fine! I don’t push my weirdness on them. My husband is my first reader and he’s always been supportive of my writing. It’s always good to see him having a quiet chuckle over what I’ve written.

TW. My husband does that too. He’s always my first reader and I trust him to be honest with me. My eldest son is an excellent proof-reader. He can spot a typo from ten pages away. Heh! Are there any stories you’ve written that you’ve purposely hidden from those close to you and why?

CM. No. There are a few ideas I’ve shelved though. I probably need to be braver on that score.

TW. I understand that. It can be really hard knowing what to put out there to represent your best work too. Do you ever use events or experiences (or people) from your own life in your stories?

CM. Events and experiences, yes. Individual people, not directly, mainly because their story is not mine to tell. Some of my characters are different versions of me, or who I’d like to be. Others are hybrids, bits and pieces of a whole lot of people. My stories, although completely fictional, are littered with emotional truths.

TW. I like that — it’s a bit of the old “write what you know” but also “write what you like”. Good writing, even if it focuses on fantasy and the impossible should still feel “real”.
You live in Adelaide, a place which is often dubbed “the murder capital of Australia”. Do you feel like that has influenced your writing in any way — perhaps you’ve felt pulled towards the weird and grisly or found inspiration in true-life events?

CM. Yes, we do punch above our weight, unfortunately. I was about eight when the Beaumont children went missing. The mystery surrounding the case still haunts me as it does for most, older South Australians. It marked the end of leaving our doors unlocked and letting children roam the streets from sunup to sundown. As yet, the case hasn’t directly influenced my writing, but there are elements of my work that hark back to simpler times and the loss of innocence.
I’m currently procrastinating over a novel I’ve written set around the same time and involving a group of children. There is so much of my childhood in there I’m finding it difficult deciding what actually is serving the story and what has to go. The Somerton man is another fascinating piece of our history and I’d love to work elements of that case into a storyline at some point. The case involving the Snowtown bodies in the barrels is intriguing, but I tend to gravitate towards the cases that are shrouded in mystery rather than ones full of gory details.

TW. It just shows, yet again, how monstrous human beings can be. Much more terrifying than ghouls and vampires. Where do you think modern horror as a genre fits into society today? What do you think — if anything — it can teach us?

CM. I think we are living in an era where reality is increasingly becoming stranger than fiction. I keep looking at news headlines and saying, “you just can’t make this stuff up.” Horror is a safe way to escape. At the end of the day, no matter how hard our heart is pumping, we can tell ourselves monsters aren’t real. Well, the fictional ones anyway! Does horror teach us anything? Yes I think it does in the same way a lot of old legends are basically cautionary tales.

Horror can be a reflection on society, pointing to how we behave under stress or when faced with dire circumstances. I love zombie stories. They are basically survival manuals. “The Walking Dead” is full of tips on what not to do when rebuilding a community. To this day I still think of Stephen King’s “The Mist” whenever I go into a supermarket. I look at people and mentally choose the ones I’d want on my team in a crisis. Is that weird?

TW. Not at all! Although as an slightly paranoid introvert, I’d probably end up as a lone wolf in that kind of situation, distrusting everyone like the father in “The Road” (Cormac McCarthy).
Genres such as sci-fi and horror have always been very typically dominated by men. What sort of issues do you think modern female horror writers face which men don’t? Do you believe there are any, or is it a more level playing field now?

CM. That’s a hard question to answer, especially as I’m so new to the game. I don’t doubt female writers are experiencing the same problems women have in any other field. When I look back at my favourite horror writers of the past they were predominantly all white men. Do I hold that against them? No, they were/are exceptional writers, but I do wish there had been a lot more Shirley Jacksons in the mix. Perhaps it would have encouraged me to start writing earlier, who knows?

In my opinion, the internet and social media has certainly changed the landscape. I’m reading more work from female writers — and indeed writers from a whole range of backgrounds — than ever before, simply because I have better access. I can go from seeing a new name in a Twitter feed to ordering their books on Amazon or wherever in minutes. In the past I was limited to what was stocked in the bookshop or local library.

TW. That’s definitely one reason why I love ebooks. I have such a more diverse reading list than I ever had and I’m finding some amazing new voices — yours included.
You said a lot of your earlier influences were make. Do you feel like your idea of horror as a woman is any different to that of a male writer?

CM. I’d like to think gender isn’t an issue and its got more to do with individual preferences and our own life experiences informing our choices.

TW. That’s a good answer, and very true. I’ve always felt that diversity and representation are always important in any genre. How do you approach these issues in your writing?

CM. I’m certainly mindful of including a diverse range of characters in my work, but it is something I grapple with, and need to get better at. It’s difficult to get right, I don’t want my characters to appear tokenistic. I also don’t want them to be stereotypical or misrepresented either. It’s always good when I watch a show or read a book where diversity is the norm.

TW. That also goes back to what you said earlier about being mindful that some stories are simply not ours to tell. We always need to make sure that there is space for other writers who are better equipped to tell those tales.
Are there any reviews of your work, positive or negative which have stayed with you?

CM. I haven’t read any reviews of my work. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

TW. What piece of advice would you give to any new and upcoming writer right now? What advice do you wish you’d been given?

CM. My advice is to READ, READ, READ. And then read some more!

The advice I wish I’d been given is easy. Just. Start. Writing. And study the craft. Knowing where to put commas comes in handy.

TW. That’s great advice. And I have to admit, sometimes I still have no idea where to put the commas in!

Who else do you think is “big” in Australasian horror right now, and what books are in your To Be Read pile?

CM. Kaaron Warren is an inspiration. Did you see the Locus Awards finalists? She is up there with the best of the best. Her work has the ability to sit with you long after you put it down. I still think about “The Grief Hole.” Lee Murray is no slouch when it comes to picking up awards either. I really enjoyed “Into the Mist.” Her work has a unique Kiwi flavour. Deborah Sheldon is another female writer who puts out great work. Her short story “The Sand” in “Beside the Seaside – Tales from the Daytripper” is an absolute ripper – I don’t think I’ll ever walk on a beach again without it in mind.

Matthew R. Davis, a fellow Adelaidian who also has stories published in the “Things in the Well” anthologies, was shortlisted for a 2018 Aurealis Award. His work is deliciously dark and layered.

At the moment I’m reading John Ajvide Lindqvists “Handling the Undead.”
My current TBR pile is a treasure trove from the charity bookshop: Joyce Carol Oates “Jack of Spades”, Richard Laymon “The Lake”, “The Hungry Moon” by Ramsey Campbell, Clive Barker “Mister B. Gone,” John Scalzi “Agent to the Stars,” and an old Ellen Datlow anthology, “The Dark.” I’m also looking forward to reading the new Paul Tremblay collection “Growing Things,” and of course Stephen King’s “The Institute” when it’s released later in the year. Oh, and on Kindle I’m reading “Coyote Songs” by Gabino Iglesias, which is hard to put down.

TW. That’s a great list of good books. There are some of my favourites listed there too.
So, to finish: If you were trapped in a lift with a character from one of your stories, who would you choose, and why?

CM. My protagonists are all in the company of monsters. I don’t want to be trapped with any of them!

* * *

Chris Mason lives in the Adelaide Hills, South Australia, with her husband, a cat, and five goldfish. Her stories have appeared in numerous publications, including the Things in the Well series of anthologies, and the Australasian Horror Writers Association’s magazine Midnight Echo #12. Chris’s ‘The Stairwell’ from the anthology Below the Stairs-Tales from the Cellar won the 2017 Aurealis Award for Best Horror Novella.

Her story ‘The Black Sea’ from Beneath the Waves- Tales from the Deep has been shortlisted for the 2018 Shirley Jackson Awards, the Aurealis Awards, and the AHWA Australian Shadows Awards.

You can visit Chris at facebook.com/chrismasonhorrorwriter or on twitter @Chris_A_Mason.