Author: Sarah Elliott

Articles / Interviews

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Baby, It’s Murder – It Could Be The Last One… An Interview With Max Allan Collins

Max Allan Collins Author Interview

Baby, It’s Murder – It Could Be The Last One…

By Sarah Elliott

 

People struggle to follow my train of thought on the best of days. I can’t imagine leaving unfinished manuscripts for another writer to complete. Max Allan Collins, an accomplished writer in his own right, took this on and continued the legacy of Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer. But is it now time for Mike to lay his gun and fedora down to rest? Will Baby, It’s Murder be the last we hear from our favourite hardboiled PI?  

 

“Don’t worry about being overwhelmed by sentimentality: The legendary shamus still kills and maims with the best of them.”—Kirkus Reviews

 

Mickey Spillane is the legendary crime writer of the Mike Hammer novels, selling millions of copies worldwide.

 

Max Allan Collins was hailed in 2004 by Publishers Weekly as “a new breed of writer.” A frequent Mystery Writers of America nominee in both fiction and non-fiction categories, he has earned an unprecedented eighteen Private Eye Writers of America nominations. In 2002, his graphic novel Road to Perdition was adapted into an Academy-Award winning film starring Tom Hanks. He lives in Iowa, USA.

 

 

Mike Hammer doesn’t like people. Fortunately, Max Allan Collins likes them well enough to take some time to speak with us.

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Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Murder She (W)Rote by Nic Tusa

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.

 

Murder, She (W)Rote. Season 1, Episode 1: Honey, It’s Considered Manslaughter if It Isn’t Planned (And No One Knows I Sharpened the Knife)

 

He hadn’t hidden it well; always shit with details. 

Hell, he still thought her eyes were brown.

 

Men are more likely to be stabbed on weekends.

Because they’re home annoying their wives.

 

Veronica toed off her shoes, crossing the dark house to their bedroom.

 

Fun fact: men usually stab underhanded into the stomach, but because women are more tricep-dominant, they tend to stab downward.

 

Her fingertips ached— manicured nails extending into imperfect talons.

 

Plenty of muscle mommies out there will prove you wrong!

More like muscle monsters!

 

Ten precise four-inch substernal wounds were the fastest way to a man’s heart.

 

 

Murder, She (W)Rote. Season 1, Episode 2: I’ve Got the Arsenic for That Tea (Sipping on Secrets, Choking on Confidences)

 

Trapped between the wall and his arms, Christina’s skin crawled like a thousand writhing snakes. 

 

Women kill differently from men.

I expected nothing less.

 

Her fangs had dropped during puberty. Clandestine bumps on the roof of her mouth. If she opened her mouth wide, they mobilized, sharp and deadly as a viper’s.

 

We are more subtle and patient.

Out here, dosing hubby’s morning coffee with a little poison, like “today’s the day!”

 

He leaned into her neck so she did the same, sinking her teeth into his vulnerable skin.

Two pinpricks of blood against her tongue as the venom sang.

 

 

Murder, She (W)Rote. Season 1, Episode 3: Darling, This Embrace is a Chokehold for Your Neck (And I’m Waiting For Your Final Breath)

 

A lot of women will try to make it look like an accident. 

When Shelby capsized their kayak two klicks from shore, Miranda laughed. Shelby was a strong swimmer but Miranda was the water. It would have been easier to break up.

 

So like…

Asphyxiation and strangulation.

 

Bobbing in the sea, small waves caressed her gills. Her legs had fused; scales sprouted to protect her from the cold.

 

You mean like drowning their kids in the bathtub?

Or smothering them with pillows.

That’s awful.

 

In one powerful kick, Miranda closed the distance, wrapping webbed fingers around Shelby’s ankle. 

She dove.

 

Nic Tusa

Nic Tusa spent almost a decade as a NYC paramedic and writes speculative fiction that blends the gritty chaos of reality with the strict rules of magic. She enjoys a good slice of pizza, running, and the emo music of the early aughts. Her short story An Animal Within? was recently included in BDA Publishing’s Your Body, My Rage anthology.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Before and After the Cazas by Paul Burgess

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.

 

“Cazadores de Vampiros”

Crowds cheered when President Wolf announced that the last Cazas had been deported. “Cazas”, a Righteous Eagle News correspondent’s coinage, was short for “Cazadores de Vampiros”. Some sheeple insisted the name meant “vampire hunters”, but where there were vampires, there were Cazas. Case closed.

Weeks later, President Wolf tuned in to hear his favorite talking head, Righteous Eagle’s John O’Malley, report on a recent tenfold increase in vampire attacks: “See? Our President knew the storm was coming.” “I did, indeed,” Wolf said with a grin while thinking about how much easier his nightly feeding had gotten without pesky Cazas around. 

​

 

“A Bloody Mis-stake: Perhaps We Needed the Cazas”

The frigid fingers seized Kevin’s throat before he’d had time to deliver the atrocious B-movie pun that would’ve almost justified his death. “I hope you like your ‘stake’ bloody”. He must’ve rehearsed it a hundred times, misspelling the word in his mind each time, on his way to the Count’s estate. Count Andrei, wincing as he used his free hand to pull the stake out of his right breast, suddenly chuckled as he thought of his own pre-kill quip. “Now, I’ll bet you wish you hadn’t slept through Anatomy 101,” the Count said before sinking his teeth into Kevin’s throat.

 

 

“A Reluctant Hunter”

“We’ve been through this so many times, Son. What are you going to do if something happens to me?” Count Andrei said before sinking his teeth into their prey’s throat. “Marius, drink before it gets cold, and next time, you’ll go hungry if you don’t get over this fear of the hunt.” “I’m not afraid, Dad, but it’s just…” “I know,” Andrei whispered gently, “but we didn’t choose to be what we are. Survival can be a brutal game, but we have no choice but to play it.” Marius nodded despite his doubts that the game was worth its cost.

 

Paul Burgess

Paul Burgess, an emerging poet, is the sole proprietor of a business in Lexington, Kentucky that offers ESL classes in addition to English, Japanese, and Spanish-language translation and interpretation services. He has contributed work to Blue Unicorn, The Orchards, Lighten Up Online, and several other publications and has recently begun writing short fiction.

Articles / Interviews

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Zac Thompson Interview: Cemetery Kids Don’t Die

“You’re Only Alive if You’re Online”

By Sarah Elliott

 

Why the impending feeling of doom at the thought of switching off your phone? Why does the panic-induced pounding of your heart feel like, at any moment, your insides will spew forth if you dare to disconnect?

 

Being accessible and online seems non-negotiable these days. In Zac Thompson’s graphic novel Cemetery Kids Don’t Die, it’s more than non-negotiable, it’s a matter of life and death. Gamers beware! Will you accept the same challenge as the Cemetery Kids?

 

Let’s get to know the creator of this possible future world.

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Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Dracula’s Castle by James Nemeth

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.

 

Dracula’s Castle

 

Jim Nemeth’s Journal

31 Oct. Transylvania—

The carriage dropped me at the castle at midnight. Dracula, clean shaven save for a long white mustache and clad completely in black, opened the door, bid me to enter freely and gave me a tour. 

Afterward, I presented my report. “Count, as your Airbnb rep, I have to be honest: the broken battlements, the cobwebs, remote location, lack of servants, the wolves…”

Dracula looked crestfallen. 

“Count, I think we have a real WINNER here!” I said.

The Count beamed. He approached as if to hug me, but instead bit me in the neck.

 

 

Hotep – Seth

 

The archeologist’s face turned to uncomprehending horror as he tried to stop the advance of Hotep-Seth, guardian mummy of the tomb, by thrusting and waving the blazing torch. Hotep-Seth would have laughed if he could as he lifted the defiler by the neck and repeatedly slammed his head against the stone wall. 

Hotep-Seth reached down and picked up the still blazing object that had for centuries been his greatest undoing. So many fiery deaths followed by phoenix-like resurrections. But no more. He gazed at his body, admiring the tomb priests’ work in rewrapping his form in fire-retardant gauze.

 

Nothing Under the Bed

 

Mrs. Grimes grunted as she stood erect from kneeling beside little Johnny’s bed.

“There’s nothing there, Johnny. No clawed and fanged hairy monster. Nothing. Now go to bed!”

“But mom,” Johnny started to blubber.

“No, Johnny! I’ve had it! Night after night screaming the house down! Now, come here. I want you to look.”

“Mom, no!” Johnny pleaded, tears running down his face.

“Do it, Johnny. Now. Or else.” 

Tears still streaming, Johnny kneeled down. His eyes refused to open.

“Open your eyes!” Johnny’s mother bellowed.

Johnny did and whimpered as the clawed and fanged hairy monster winked at him.

 

 

James Nemeth

I am a published author of both fiction and non-fiction. In 1993, I won 1st Prize in a national magazine’s short story writing contest for which novelists Ray Bradbury and Robert Bloch were judges. Winning held special meaning for me, as Robert Bloch remains my favorite writer and main literary influence. I have had essays, articles and reviews printed in a variety of magazines, including Filmfax, Mad About Movies, and Scary Monsters. I am the book review columnist for the revived Castle of Frankenstein magazine as well as the webmaster of the Robert Bloch Official Website (robertbloch.net). The year 2020 saw the release of my co-authored It Came From? The Stories and Novels Behind Classic Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction Films, an examination of 21 classic fantastic films, and the books/stories that inspired them.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Daniel’s Promise by Tim Law

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.

 

Whispers

 

Why didn’t I listen to those who Daniel dated before? The whispers, the rumors, those words I chose to ignore.

“I will love you until the day you die,” Daniel said.

“Until death do we part,” we echoed in the moment we wed.

 

Now Daniel is telling me it is time to move on. I’m not who he wanted, his love is all gone.

 

Daniel, I thought our love song would last forever. Now I wonder if you truly loved me ever.

 

Daniel promised until death do we part. So with his hands around my throat, he stole my heart.

 

 

Hunter

 

They begin as perfection, but somehow they fail. I’m the hunter, so I shall prevail. My dream girl is out there, you’ll see. My one and only, the perfect girl for me. Until I find her, the one who’s the very best. I won’t stop hunting, vow I’ll never rest. I shall whisper those promises girls want to hear. Sweet nothings, forever mores, into every eager ear. Then when they fail, reveal their true self. In my madness, my fury, toss their picture from my shelf. That’s when my mind plans their demise. Before they discover me, and my lies.

 

Comeuppance

 

I know you, Daniel, know you true. The wind in the trees whispers about you. I’m not the first girl you promised forever. Not the first to bring you to the end of your tether.

Marriage is a contract, made between two. Death is the only way for it to be through.

You’ve had your share of fun, leaving a trail searching for the one. Did you not realize I’ve got a trail of my own? Suitors were left in my wake, and my love was outgrown.

Ghosts whisper, they don’t lie. They say at my hand you must die.

 

Tim Law

Tim Law writes fantasy, horror, detective, general fiction and everything else that pops into his head. He hails from a little town in Southern Australia; a happily married father of three. Currently working at the local library in the role of Library Manager, he has dreamed since his early high school years of becoming a full-time author. Working for a library, surrounded by so many wonderful stories, it is difficult not to be inspired to write. All he now needs is what every author wishes for, time, a little peace and quiet and of course a willing and understanding publisher.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Gone Fishing by CJ Goldberg

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.

 

Gone Fishing

 

A perfect morning for fishing. The cattails sway in the gentle breeze. I follow the well-worn path toward the water. But then, my lungs fill with sweetness, a perfume of roses and overly ripe fruit… Larry’s been missing since last week.

I pull the collar of my T-shirt over my nose and mouth and, heart pounding, emerge from the tall grass into swarming flies on the sandy bank. There, half-submerged, its fingers clawing at the shore, is a bloated rotting corpse.

Larry?

Prodding it with my fishing pole, its skin splits, and maggots spill into the river.

A trout jumps.

 

 

The River’s Secret

 

The medical examiner covers the corpse with a white sheet and glances at the chart.

“What’s strange,” she says, chewing the end of her pen, “is he died from decompression.”

“Decompression?” the detective asks, frowning.

“It happens when a diver surfaces too fast, and nitrogen bubbles form in their bloodstream.”

“That’s not possible. He was found in the river. The water’s not deep enough.”

“Look at this.” She lifts the sheet to reveal a jagged stump where the man’s leg should have been.

“What the hell?”

“It was torn off before they surfaced.”

The color drains from the detective’s face.

 

Summer’s End

 

James’s pick-up truck bounces down the country road. He glances at Annie. Her hair is pulled up, and the strap of her tank-top hangs to the side, revealing a white line on her otherwise sunbaked red skin. A bead of sweat clings to her upper lip.

“Let’s go for a swim,” Annie says.

James can’t believe he didn’t think of it. Nothing sounds better than a plunge in the ice-cold river. He knows the perfect spot, so deep you can’t touch the bottom.

They pull over and, laughing, she tugs him toward the trail.

Cattails sway in the gentle breeze.

 

CJ Goldberg

CJ Goldberg writes horror and weird fiction steeped in crime and the uncanny. Growing up in small-town Montana, he developed a love for isolated landscapes, dark forests, and the creeping dread they evoke. Now a stay-at-home father, he spends most days exhausted, searching in vain for more time to read and write scary stories. Discover more of his work at https://www.CJGoldberg.com.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Rats by Alex Grass

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.

 

An Influx of Vermin

 

There’s a nasty dead rat on the tabletop. It’s dried out, like roadkill left on a desert road during a drought. A balloon-shaped snifter hits the table, the burning spoon goes flying, and cognac soaks the rat’s tail. The air is dense with fumes like old furniture and dried fruit. The rat’s tail fattens like a dry paper towel eating up a spill.

No one else watches, no one else notices, but fascination keeps his eyes on the rat. There’s a creaking sound like a branch groaning just before it breaks. The rat’s eyes open. The rat looks at him.

 

A Wriggling Purge

 

The woman’s flesh looked like someone took a cheese grater to it, unevenly scraped off her eyebrows, scalped her, dragged her lips from her face. I’ve seen her walking outside Emory University, and today I saw her when I pulled into the Headquarters’ parking lot off off Clifton Road. I stopped my car and rolled down the window. There aren’t that many people to talk to anymore; beggars can’t be choosers.“Afternoon,” I said.

The woman smiled. Then she started retching. I was about to perform CPR. But I was paralyzed by the sight of her mouth spewing out rats.  

 

The Bubonic Transfiguration

 

People used to kill each other over this place. There’s blood in the stones, soaked into the ground. The sun rises over the temple wall. It reminds the boy of the floating ball illusion; the sun is the magician’s ball, the limestone wall a two-thousand year old prestidigitator’s rag.

The boy thought he was the only one alive who didn’t have a tail like a worm with fur. Then, the old man came and started praying. With each day of supplication, his head worn raw from pressing it to the stones, the old man changed. He became like a vermin.

 

Alex Grass

I am a writer born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I live in Brooklyn now with my wife and kids. It’s important to me that I find the readers who I can make feel about my writing the way I feel about my favorite authors.