Saturday, December 24, 2016

Folklore

Folklore
By S. L. Edwards

He put out so many lights around the cabin. The lights were colorful, glittering, joyous and all that good holiday bullshit. He had a snowman that waved, a reindeer with a red glowing nose and a green wreath that flickered like a pond in the sun. But there was no sun, this was the darkest time of the year, when the world seemed to hurtle through space a little longer.
            It was no coincidence the old Christians moved their holiday to this time of year. Justin had seen the true face of winter, the evil that seeps out from between the cracks of blackness between the stars, the howling monstrosities that were contained in human memories only as “legends” and etchings in old books. Every step in human civilization had culminated in the invention of the lightbulb, and Justin had been curious (or foolish) enough to try and peak behind the false security curtain of civilization. Moving Christmas was about countering, not converting.
            It had been one whole year since he lost his family last Christmas. The only thing that kept him going now was his mutinous sense of self-preservation.
            His little ten acre plot was covered in lights, strung up in brilliant spider webs through the trees to make up for the absence of nighttime stars. Everything was terribly, awfully still as snow seemed to accumulate out of nowhere on the ground. Nothing fell, and nothing spoke save for the slow, nervous tapping of an awkward clock.
            The moment dawn came he would be safe. He could go back home, no one would get hurt.
            A little lamp next to him went out. He felt sweat underneath his hair, scratching across every part of him like stinging-rat claws. He heard himself sobbing pathetically, scared to death of the prospect of living this night every year for the rest of his life. Outside, the darkness was at bay, but no dark corner would do for Justin. He took a bulb from the pile of cartons on the living room table. His hands were shaking, and with muted curses he finally managed to screw the thing in. He turned the lamp on.
            There was a loud hiss.
            Each light went out at once.
The instant change was too much; he couldn’t see his hands in front of his face! He clawed at the floor and recited every prayer spell that he had memorized since the year before, each syllable streaming together into one pitiful, meaningless mad sound.
With nothing to hold it back, the growling came from across the sightless room. There was a heavy, husky-horse breathing that filled the air. There was the scraping of something long and sharp against the floor. He could smell the wet fur, the still bleeding wound that he had given IT last year.
There was an electric hum and whirr as the lights exploded to life. Justin laughed hysterically, seeing that he was alone in his cabin.

When they went out again, he wasn’t. 

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

What You Got: Ravenwood #1

What You Got: Ravenwood Quarterly #1

Story time: Around December 2014, I decided that the world had just about told me to give up on writing fiction. I was entering a very new chapter of my life, moving and beginning what will ultimately become (I hope) a life-long profession. And I had tried, “Lord knows” I tried. I finally saw a ray of light about a year prior to giving up, when a certain publication I had day-dreamed about being accepted one of my publications and shortlisted another. It was the place of Lovecraft, Howard, Tennessee Williams. You know the one.

Well that publication abruptly shut down, and I never did hear back.

Earlier this year, I began sending in fiction once I discovered “the horror tree” run by Stuart Conover. I found Benjamin Holesapple’s Turn to Ash, and found Ravenwood through “people also like” list. I read the guidelines and thought that my story “Movie Magic” (more on that later) might fit what the editor was looking for. Like a professional, I sent the story off to “Mr. Neisler” (I was a young and naïve back then). Travis Neisler got back to me by the end of the day. He loved my story, wanted it, but could not fit it in. Unfortunately, Ravenwood #1 was full, but he wanted it for #3.

A few happy accidents later, “Movie Magic” squeezed its way into Ravenwood #1; “Skins” and “The Cthulhu Candidate” made their way into Ravenwood #2, while my poem “Carcosa” is on the outside cover with an absolutely astounding piece of art from Mutartis Boswell; and my story “Meeting the Matchmaker” will be in Ravenwood #3. There are other Ravenwood plans, things that I have sent in and things I have not, and I am eager to see these long-term projects to fruition over the years. But more than that, I have been humbled by Travis and his co-editors, especially my fellow authors.

Like many of us I suspect, I have acute self-criticism and doubt when it comes to my own work. Praise has always been difficult for me to accept, and I wish I could say it has gotten easier with acceptances and recent successes. But I don’t know if it ever does. I can say, however, that it has been an absolute thrill to be part of this very special publication.

2016 comes to a close, and it only seems fitting that I discuss the very first publication I was accepted to this year, the one that re-lit that sacred fire under my ass. What follows is a brief survey of the contents of Ravenwood Quarterly #1, some thoughts on what the Magazine will come to mean, and all around praise from yours’ truly. I’ll close out with a discussion of my story “Movie Magic.”

The Contents: Taking a glance at the names, the frequent reader of indie horror will recognize a few right away. Many have developed their own consistent and well-deserved readerships, and I am honored to be in several more issues and anthologies with them.

Reading through the stories, it is pretty apparent that the vision of Ravenwood is a brutal publication. This is not to suggest that it is gory, but rather this is horror at its bleakest. The stories range from artistically nihilistic to horrifyingly true in their themes, leaving the option of readers to take them as unsettling metaphors or more.

What I find most remarkable is the effort Travis Neisler took in organizing stories by overarching themes and tones. Between “The Proud Shall be Abased” and “Thou Shall Kill,” there are stories of corruption, contamination, grief and abasement. From “Though Shall Kill” to “Stalker” murder reigns supreme. Such threads run throughout the magazine, and I’d like to think that my own story contributes the overall picture. I think, however that mine may be an outlier amongst all of this quality literature.

As always, I will try and avoid spoilers in my discussion. Though Ravenwood #1 is sold out, I would be very surprised if these stories did not resurface in another time, in another place.

The Proud Will Be Abased by Joseph Bouthiette Jr.  I believe that placing this poem at the very beginning of the publication sends a very direct message to the reader. This is not horror due to monsters, this is not horror due to gore. This is horror due to horror, a bleak dirty and bleeding world is hurtlingly in vaguely circular patterns around a dying flame in the middle of a vast blackness. Nothing to be done about that. So shut up, and keep reading.

Cruel World by Christopher Ropes The story that Mr. Ropes presents is succinct and damning. This is a journey down a dark path, through the veil of reality and into what we can only assume is the true world which overlays that of the characters. The final line is one of the best I have ever read.

The Black Parade by John Paul Fitch Tonally and thematically, this story is quite similar to Cruel World. Rather than suffer for it, the energy one gets flows throughout the entire volume. John Paul Fitch writes like a pugilist, and a story of grief is given such profoundly tragic and horrifying imagery that the story sits at the bottom of your stomach for hours after.

Thou Shall Kill by Roger Keel This is a noir piece, though it is right at home with the horror. Reading it, I look forward to seeing what Ravenwood #3 (the noir/horror issue) has in store. As with The Black Parade, I kept thinking of the title of Boutthiette Jr.’s poem. “The proud will be abased.” This seems to ring throughout the story. Murdered girls, crooked cops, a sacrifice beyond murder.

Stalker by Dave de Burgh Rolling into the theme of murder, Dave de Burgh tells the story of obsession. The objects of the success are unnatural, but as to the what and how I will not say. Blood is aplenty in this one, as is revenge, as is the horrible truth of a dark and carnivorous world. Streets where monsters walk.

Lonely Hearts Club by Betty Rocksteady Is it body horror? Is it a metaphor? All I know is that I had a maniacal, horrified smile on my face the entire time. This is something you won’t forget.

My Mother’s Skin by Brian O’Connell I don’t think I’ll ever forget this story. There is a touch of magical realism here: a house by the sea, a disappearance. O’Connell’s use of symbolism is artful here, especially in regards to the catalysts of domestic violence. There is tone aplenty here, but rather than mere terror it is despair. Profound, lonely despair. In a house by the sea. In another’s skin.

The Horizontal Masochist by Jordan Krall A very brief demonstration of the economy of the words. The reader is taken from their comfort and firmly placed to observe the peeling of reality. Dabs of sci-fi and a giant swath of cosmic horror.

The Shaft by Roger Keel Another crime story from Mr. Keel. The story seems to have quite a lot in common with one of my favorite Saki stories “The Interloper.” The irony serves everyone but the main character well.

Saturnalia by Anthony Crowley This is one of the longer stories in the first volume. A few traditional horror motifs are twisted and made new in this one. It’s remarkable how much you come to identify with poor George, though you’re not exactly sure you should.

Oraculorum Pythonissa by Michael Faun This one rests on the border between prose poetry and short fiction. I cannot wait to read more from Michael Faun, based off of this very brief piece.

The Pit and the Void by Alex S. Johnson An excellent touch-up on Poe’s “Pit and the Pendulum.” But throw in some sci-fi, a healthy dose of the occult, torture redefined for the future. And, just for kicks, some horror-in-nothingness. The story speaks to poetry, and I don’t think anything further needs to be said.

Ink Spots by Sam Gafford Another of Ravenwood’s lengthier tales. This story is an excellent haunted house tale, and a show-stealer in Ravenwood #1. It goes through enough motions to be familiar, with enough creeping horror to subvert and overthrow reader expectations.

Christmas Eve in Arkham by Brandon Barrows Barrows kicks off the Lovecraftian portion of the anthology. His story does not disappoint, humor and coming of age against the backdrop of a dark road trip and dangerous hotel room.

The Terrible Old Friend by Matthew M. Bartlett To be honest, it does not seem at all fitting that I comment on this story. It fits in to Bartlett’s greater Leeds mythology, but I have not read enough of him yet to comment further than that. The story did, however, prompt me to immediately open Gateways to Abomination and I have not yet put it down. There is a manic horror in Bartlett’s prose, and Leeds has earned its place as an enduring horror local.

Transylvania. Innsmouth. Leeds.

The Annotation of James Ingraham Host by Peter Rawlik This one is cool. This one is REALLY cool. A faculty email at Miskatonic University unfolds into a story about horror and horror fiction. I won’t say any more than that.

Monday Morning by Russell Smeaton A board room with a very specific agenda. A meeting that you cannot miss. I’ve had the pleasure of reading a bit more of Smeaton’s work (his “The Street” is required reading, you can find it in the second issue of Ravenwood) and he does very well at mixing humor and horror. He has all the makings of one of my favorite authors, Robert Bloch.

Movie Magic by S. L. Edwards

So, then we get to me. This is hard for me, as the rest of the fiction in this volume is outstanding. No matter what is said about “Movie Magic,” it will always be one of my pieces, and thus quite dear and yet deeply flawed to me at the same time. But, it was my first accepted piece of fiction (though “I’ve Been Here a Very Long Time,” made is my first published story…I’ll give a write-up on that one later) and thus will always be special to me.

“Movie Magic” was my attempt to write a love-letter to the horror-genre in all of its forms. The story focuses on a date between the narrator and “Camilla,” a young woman who shares an interest in horror movies and Thomas Ligotti. The story is smattered with horror references, foremost amongst them being the name of the theater in which the two characters go on their special date: “The Haunted Palace,” of course named after the poem read in Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher.” It was also inspired by urban legends of “hauntings” taking place during screenings of “The Exorcist.”

It was my attempt to meditate on the importance of horror on the meanings of monsters. I cannot be sure I succeeded, but at least two people have told me they enjoy it. 


Ravenwood will become synonymous with brutal horror. I am so glad I did not miss being a part of it, and I cannot recommend that you miss out either. Right now, Travis is taking submissions for both Issue 4 (Goat Worship) and Issue 5 (Yellow). Should plans hold, you will see one of my favorite stories I have ever written appear in Issue 4, something particular and personal to me. As for beyond…well…somethings take time.

All of the best,

S. L. 

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

I've Taken Up Poetry

I’ve Taken Up Poetry
By S. L. Edwards

I cast the line out and the water ripples
Silent waves and clear-whispering riddles.
I tilt my hat, and lean back in my chair
Relaxing and foregoing all of my cares.

The straw hat is rough but I cannot feel
My nerves are beneath a skin like steel.
My purple skin soaks up the lights
As I think about long gone nights.

 You wouldn’t know it but I wasn’t so nice
With a fist like iron, and a soul of hard ice. 
From the edge of the galaxy I watched and waited
All of their moves, loves and plans were anticipated.

With my army of Darkness I sought to sweep
All of the Earth and claim the spoils for keep.


It was intolerable. Those lame, lazy louses!
Those half-hearted, dribbling idiots saved by “heroes”!
The word is bitter salt in my mouth… “heroes”!
These insects with painted up faces, going around in costumes
Plastered with initials and symbols on their chests…
Wearing their underwear outside of their pants…
My reality is tantamount to perfection!
A world ruled by me, and all suffering ended through the destruction of free will!


Sorry, I forsook my godhood and picked up a pole
And slowly but surely adjusted to a new sort of role
In which I gave my ambitions away
And simply sat and laid about all day.

I’ve noticed earth’s sun is a beautiful yellow
Unlike Titan’s cold, rusted, iron sun
Your human sun is bright, fantastically mellow
Whereas Titan’s sun, is simply done.

That was part of the reason I left Titan for dead
And began my old empire, my new name of dread.
“The Bone Empire” was a name to be feared
And my ascent into godhood gradually neared.

My name was “Volos” the vanguard of all
And one by one worlds fell fast to my call.


It is no hard thing, to kill a god.
One must simply reach the most hidden places
The brightest, sacred, hidden away spot of the mind.
There, in sanctum cerebrum a person holds their belief
Their faith. Whether this be of a god, others, or themselves
Is of little importance. Crush that faith, and the nothingness is sweet.
And in that quiet, little empty moment, a person breaks and the world
Is made stronger on a foundation of bones.


The great alien warlord Volos pulls in his line
Fishing quietly, in order to merely pass the time.
I cannot die, not in a human timeframe
And there is no one to carry on my name…

But on Tuesdays I take time to paint.
My inspiration is clear, without taint
In my lovely lonely, riverside house
I have no reason to want to go out.

I know there is nothing out there,
In the sky there is only empty air
Most cannot breathe it, it is slow-choking.
A quick death, something worth hoping.

I rode the frigid snail waves of outer space
When I left Titan, and annihilated my race.


My army was ready, the pieces strong!
Earth was just to be another battle ground…
Tokyo was clouded in infinite shadow
As I mumbled my secret prayers
And opened up a door for my god.
A being which promised me immortality.
Immortality is not all that it is cracked up to be
When you get beat by men in costumes!

Men! The thought makes my rage boil.
Old plans in my mind grow and uncoil.
A thousand serpents writhe in my heart
As I remember my old, destructive art.

I sigh, and a take out my stress ball.
I squeeze it, and slowly forget all.
Tomorrow I will be making terrible pottery
And checking the numbers for the “lottery”.

I have forsaken “Volos” and gone with “Tim”
My days of world conquering, gone and dim.
I quickly reel in my line with nothing on it.
And in my grating voice say “Dog gonnit.”

I put on my hat, scream and shake my fist.
Next week my catch will be better than this. 


Fish of earth! You think you can defy Volos?
Volos, catcher of Bass and eater of Catfish?
Volos, who eats his fish raw and whole
Between his razor teeth after tenderizing them
With nothing but 20 pound hands?
Well I wonder, fish of earth, if any of your number are like them
Any costumed heroes, swimming down there?

If so, I will go hungry.

What You'll Get: Miskatonic Dreams

What You Get: Miskatonic Dreams

Alban Lake’s Miskatonic Dreams is a mixed bag not in terms of quality, but in the variety of the stories. A common theme that runs throughout is how reality might adapt to Lovecraft’s themes and creatures. Indeed, despite several “world-changing” paradigms, mankind has either in the large part adjusted or ignored. It is no stretch then, that Lovecraft’s world would keep spending in spite of indifferent alien “gods,” mind-eating texts or commerce between aquatic races. All of the tales are high-quality, though not all are necessarily "horror." I think placing them together creates a more holistic idea of a universe, and a great way to take Lovecraft's baton and run with it.

To this end, Miskatonic Dreams assumes much of the horrors of academia and all of the drudgery and dread that this entails. We have romances in the forms of “Bridges of Arkham County,” by Guy Riessen and “How I Died,” by Jill Hand. We have what I might call “routine occurrences of horror” (unique to the Miskatonic Campus) in the stories “Residue,” by Gregory L. Norris and “Authorised Libraries Only” by DJ Tyer and “Your Special Advocate” by Chad Eagleton. These stories do a lot to emphasize how reality might adjust on a day-to-day basis in Lovecraft’s world, how mankind might move forward from knowing it is nothing but a cosmic speck. Then we have the “what happens after dark” stories such as “If these Shadows Could Talk,” by James C. Simpson and “Those were the Days” by Robert J. Krong. We have two truly terrifying tales that seem to invert Lovecraft’s themes in “They Come Crawling,” by Logan Noble and “The Accursed Lineage” by Aaron Vlek. Then there is a fun ghost story by Eric Taranago, “One Last Death.” And finally we have some unique correspondences such as “Dear Mother and Father” by Dave Schroeder and “Miskatonic University Updates” by Lyssa Wilhelm.

My meager contribution, “The Darkness Makes Us Whole,” is not as genre challenging as the others. But should you enjoy it, I will be very pleased.

Overall, this anthologies demonstrates that Lovecraft’s shadow across horror is as much a playground as a place of confinement. It is rewarding to step inside its outline, to build things up, and to watch other writers do so as well.

You can find a more extensive post about Miskatonic Dreams on Gregory L. Norris’s blog here: http://gregorylnorris.blogspot.com/2016/11/behold-miskatonic-dreams.htmlYou can also buy Miskatonic Dreams on the Amazon link here: 
https://www.amazon.com/Miskatonic-Dreams-H-David-Blalock-ebook/dp/B01N3UXBZ3/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1481047976&sr=8-1&keywords=miskatonic+dreams
Or, directly through Alban Lake: http://store.albanlake.com/product/miskatonic-dreams/

-S. > 

Monday, December 5, 2016

What You'll Get: Turn to Ash Vol. 2

The Frame Novella, Cold Call

The second volume of Turn to Ash showcases the ambition of its editor, Benjamin Holesapple. The "magazine" in this instance may also classify as a sort of collaborative novella, with Johnathan Raab taking the helm as lead writer. Raab has a penchant for dark humor, creeping horror and strong characterization. Chuck Leek is a grizzled veteran of radio, Art Bell with a cowboy hat and a fondness for whiskey. Co-host Ken and Akula also have strong personalities, both deserving of further time and consideration in future stories.

I hope that Ben returns to this format in the future, in part because I have more Chuck Leek stories ready to go, but also because I'd like to see these characters more and more.

The frame-novella has inspired me to read Raab's The Lesser Swamp Gods of Little Dixie (linked below), and it will be one of my next Kindle purchases.

The Fiction and Non Fiction:
For the fiction, I find myself in a dilemma. I don't want to spoil these stories, but I do want to tease. So, rather than describe the contents, I'll detail my reactions to these stories. I'll cap it off with a little description about how my meager contribution came to be:

The Sun Screams in Retrograde by Rebecca Allred: This story immediately sets the tone for the entire collection. It reads like a violent conspiracy, the terror not coming in the subject but the zealous tone of the caller. So wholly convinced of its own truth, the story is a fascinating conversation that cannot be escaped from. And because we cannot get away from it, we are ensnared by it.

The White Factory by Kurt Fawver: Fawver showcases a talent for imagery here. This is a beautiful story, and if I am to be perfectly honest: I'm a little jealous. By the end of the story, I was repeating a row of expletives and haunted by the notions inherent in the White Factory. As maddening as locales such as Carcosa are, I would much rather find myself there than the White Factory.

A Room With Two Views by Johanna Michal Hoyt: Speaking of imagery, this story. It creates just enough doubt to really hammer the reader with the sort of vague uncertainty that "real" horror stories invoke. It is a sort of thing you might tell around a campfire, with dreadfully cosmic implications.

When the Trees Sing by S. L. Edwards: As a certifiable dingus, I am only fortunate that editors, readers and other writers tolerate my tomfoolery. When they tire of me, all will be over. More on this story at the end.

Rails by Thomas Mavroudis: I was impressed by both how quickly and strongly Mavroudis developed his caller, and how grounded in existing cryptid/paranormal mythology it was. I confess that I was really heartbroken by the ending, as this horror ended in a tragedy.

Lullabies from the Formicary by Betty Rocksteady: Frequent readers of Betty Rocksteady have come to expect certain motifs and qualities. This is a wonderful story, mixing grotesque humor and a creeping unworldliness. I found myself laughing and shivering at the same time.

Midnight in the Desert by Joseph Pastula: A story that interacts quite well with the frame novella. I liked the strangeness of it, and a certain realness endowed by an experience which many people have documented and reported.

All that Moves Us by Evan Dickens: Oh man. This story. This story is horror with a capital "H" and a booming echo. I really won't get into the description, but I will say that I cannot stop thinking about it.

The Merger by A.P. Sessler: Sessler's story that addresses the nefarious role of technology in society. He does so deftly, providing an experience which thematically overlays the rest of the stories and the greater frame novella.

Death Run by Martin Rose: This story oozes "cool."  Like The Sun Screams in Retrograde there is a certain panic in the prose that electrifies the narrative. It's exactly the sort of thing you wanted to read at midnight.

OGRE by Joseph Bouthiette Jr: This story echoes Lullabies from the Formicary, forming a shared mythology of the Late Night Leak Universe. It is a horrifying echo, and one that provides just enough plausibility to linger.

The magazine also has several nonfiction articles which I am not qualified to comment on. However, I should point out that an interview with Matthew M. Bartlett makes me more excited than ever to finally get to his much-praised work on WXXT.

For those of you curious and patient enough to learn about my story, I will talk about it a bit below:

Developing my contribution, "When The Trees Sing." 
The idea for When The Trees Sing had been with me for about a year before the submissions call went out. I titled my blog after the proposed story idea, a take on the notion of the old "haunted woods" trope. I had a scene, a narrator running panicked through the woods as a song swallowed them whole.

Reading Ben's guidelines, the pieces sort of fell into place. I did not think I could write a story about aliens, and nothing immediately came to mind regarding cryptids and G-Men. But, an emphasis on conspiracies spoke to my knowledge and field of study. I knew that governments often go to terrifying lengths to cover up their conduct, classifying records of all-too-real horrors. 

The School of the Americas. Mai Lai. And I got to Tiger Force. To me, Tiger Force was a more real and horrifying Mr. Kurtz, and I wonder if these soldiers carried a copy of Conrad's book with them the same way Nazi soldiers were said to carry Nietzsche with them. Necklaces of severed ears. Forced participation in mutilations.

I had my conspiracy, and it was all too real.

I tried to blur the lines between good and evil in this story, creating a narrator who I ultimately is sympathetic despite everything that he did. He is dogged by his past, and it catches up with him to claim everything. It is a tragedy, one of uncertain justice and unending violence.

Relevant Links:

Pre-Order Turn to Ash:
http://turntoash.storenvy.com/products/18359891-turn-to-ash-vol-2

The Lesser Swamp Gods of Little Dixie by Johnathan Raab: https://www.amazon.com/Lesser-Swamp-Gods-Little-Dixie-ebook/dp/B01MTVG69U/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1480963716&sr=8-3&keywords=jonathan+raab

Matthew M. Bartlett's WXXT works: https://www.amazon.com/Gateways-Abomination-Matthew-M-Bartlett/dp/1500346721/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1480963663&sr=8-3&keywords=matthew+m.+bartlett

And: https://www.amazon.com/Creeping-Waves-Matthew-M-Bartlett/dp/0997080310/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1480963691&sr=8-1&keywords=matthew+m.+bartlett

More information on Tiger Force: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiger_Force

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

What you get-Ravenwood Quarterly Issue 2

Donald Armfield begins with a poem that captures the horror of fall and death. It is a tonal punch to the face.

DJ Tryrer takes you to a village that we all know, with a girl we all love. Because after all, if we didn't know the village, or for that matter love the girl, we wouldn't be there at all.
Philip Fracassi gives us a story about the most horrible day of year: the day AFTER Halloween. Hangover, the encroaching supernatural and loved scorned with a climax that will leave you with a wry, somewhat evil smile.

Tom Breen-Writes a story I REALLY enjoyed. It has all the workings of a classic Robert Bloch tale, with horror and humor being two sides of the same coin.

Calvin Demmer sets the scene at a graveyard. Insanity and a perverse idea meld into a truly horrifying scenario.

Scott Thomas: Takes us to Catherine's Hill, telling us a traditional ghost story that makes all the right chills.

Then, of all surprises, we get a comic by Brandon Barrows. This was a huge surprise, and really captures the sort of Elvira-vibe that is lacking on television with the advent of cable. No one hosts horror movie marathons anymore, it seems, but Brandon's piece captures all of the Elvira-vibe and then some. Like Tom Breen, horror and humor are workign together here.

Then...Brian O'Connell writes "The Reaping." With this poem, Brian demonstrates that he knows EXACTLY what horror is. And if you don't know, don't worry: he'll show you. Thick with atmosphere and dread, "The Reaping" stands out against its company.

Speaking of "knows what horror is," John Paul Fitch. His tale "Coronation" enters into dialog with the King in Yellow, but John makes it his own. And if earlier pieces were punches to the gut, "Coronation" is like getting sucker punched with a chair. It is truly awesome.

Then KA Opperman gives us two poems. He also has one at the very end. There is nothing more that needs saying. He's got this describing Halloween thing down. But not only that, he infuses it with enough supernatural imagery to invoke such poets as Clark Ashton Smith. The man writes weird poetry that will withstand the test of time. I won't say anything more on the matter.

Russell Smeaton provides, "The Street." I love "The Street." I don't want to spoil "The Street." It's just so well executed. You have no idea. Unless you read it, then you have an idea.

Ashley Dioses rounds out the poets in the volume. I'm having a bit of trouble describing Ashley's poetry. As all good horror (and more that matter, good POETRY) does, it doesn't hold any punches. It's brutal in showcasing Ashley's talents, were are astounding. With an impending collection from Hippocampus coming out, I'm beginning to think that maybe this is someone who has carved their own niche in Weird Verse. What I do know is this is very good poetry, and it'd be foolish to pass up. For any publisher.

Then, gentleman and high wasp-priest John Linwood Grant gives us a story about an immortal Englishman in Wyoming. John shows us that there are things more brutal than horror. War, for instance. Then, he closes out the tale leaving us oddly hopeful, but more uncertain than ever. To say it was well done is a grievous understatement.

Then there are a smattering of interviews with talented writers and artists. These subjects include Richard Gavin, Joseph Bouthiette Jr., Sam McCanna and Sam Heimer. I'll take the time here to say that Sam Heimer's covers are ASTOUNDING.

In this section we get a haunting piece of flash-fiction from Christopher Ropes. Without getting too into it, essentially Christopher Ropes takes his writing knife and goes straight for the jugular. I am really looking forward to his novella coming out from Electric Pentacle.

Then KA Opperman gives us one last poem for the road. 

All of this, along with covers from Sam Heimer and Mutartis Boswell make for a quality publication well worth the price of admission. 
My stories in Ravenwood 2:

Skins:
What I wanted to do with this story is examine what something like being a werewolf would do to you. At the end of these movies, when the head vampire or werewolf is killed, it ultimately seems like everyone picks up their lives and moves on. But I wanted to ask the question: what would being something other than your body for so long ultimately do to you? Admittedly, I took an easy out, and I think my narrator comes off as way more unreliable than I intended her to be. I don't think I'll be doing characters like her anymore. But I'm certainly not done with werewolves.

The Cthulhu Candidate: I had a great time writing this story! With my background in Political Science, I wanted to tackle a meme that makes its way around the internet every four years, "Cthulhu: Why Vote the Lesser Evil?" This election seemed to be the perfect one, as without getting into it, it seemed like not too many people were happy. Congressman Robert Marsh of Innsmouth, MA is based on a real politician, and no one has quite guessed who it is. I also believe that he may figure into another story. Namely...I'm wondering how the Congressman won his district in the first place, and about a particular group of donors out of Miskatonic University and the Arkham Valley.

http://electricpentaclepress.bigcartel.com/product/preorder-ravenwood-2

Saturday, October 29, 2016

For Making Monsters

Making Monsters
For this recipe you will need:
1. 1 mirror
2. A pen and paper (substitute for keyboard if necessary)
3. Music (any kind will do).
Go to your mirror. Look at yourself. Now, look right into your eyes. Concentrate, don’t look back. Increase the intensity of your gaze, turn it into a glare, and see the fractured red lines of thin veins letting the blood seep in. Hold for two minutes.
Go to your paper, write down what you have seen. Begin with describing your own face, the all-too familiar features of your smile, your chin, your skin. Then go to the eyes. What did you see there, inside your own eyes? Answer the question within ten minutes.
Begin playing your music.
Leave your paper, now you need to think. Do not let your mind wander, it is absolutely critical that your mind can distinctly comprehend what you have just written. Do not be shocked when you cannot recognize the words, when the person you saw in the mirror is unfamiliar. Well, perhaps they are familiar, but they are certainly not you. You will not recognize what is in those eyes, the fears, the malice, the animal hatred that looked back at you.
That is because it was not yours.
Now, back to writing. Take the eyes now and transplant them from your own body, move them on to another creature. It must have fangs, all monsters have fangs. But do not spend too much time on the physical ornamentations of your monster, begin describing them. Their thoughts, their minds, their motives. Then move onto the soul, all good monsters have souls.
It is looking more familiar, isn’t it? The creature rising out of the black ink, blinking back from your page? Yes, I suspect you realize exactly what you are looking at.
Do not be nervous, don’t stop now because you are almost there.
Deep breaths now.
Go back to the mirror. Close your eyes for a period no shorter than thirty seconds.
Do you see it? Scream if you need to, but I am afraid it will not do you any good. As you can see, it is clambering out of the mirror, complete with every horrible feature you gave it. Its’ hands are on the sink now, knocking over your toothbrush and razor. Regrettably, your feet won’t work at this point. I am sorry I did not warn you about that earlier.
As it pins you down, take careful note of the face, of the eyes.
By the time you are reading this part, it has left you, crawled back into the mirror so it can return to feed any time it needs.
Now you have made your monster. And fortunately for you, it will never be far away.

Author’s note: This recipe is repeatable, but it will not produce the same finished product each time. For variation, I recommend that you try different music during the process. Many uses are surprised at the effect that a song has on the finished product. 

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Our Modern Dracula

There is no agreement on the literary merits of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Told from a series of letters, diary entries and ship manifests and laden with hyperbolic Victorian prose, the book itself is not always welcoming or engrossing. I admit my own disappointment in my first reading, and that I have only read the novel twice now (the second time it was far more enjoyable, perhaps because I had time to think about the count).

But what cannot be disputed is the staying power of Count Dracula. It hardly seems that a year goes by without the Count showing up in a movie, hardly a month where he is not alluded in a television show or children's program. Boris Karloff's face has become synonymous with plastic, colorful Halloween directions.

For better or worse, Dracula is one of western literature's most popular characters, perhaps only rivaled by Sherlock Holmes. 

However, many are ready to disavow Dracula as the king of monsters. Certainly, the works of Lovecraft are more literary and frightening than those of Stoker. The cosmic nihilism and occultism surrounding Cthulhu and Nyarlathotep is more frightening than a mustache-twirling monarch from the eastern steppes. One can make the argument that the mythos has undergone a similar process to that experienced by the count, one in which the source material has been continuously been added to, reinterpreted and re-imagined for new generations of readers and writers. But Cthulhu has yet to permeate the zeitgeist as much as Dracula. One need not look far for a Dracula costume, but Cthulhu...well...

So, if a monster were to emerge in our time, that would hit the same cultural resonances as the count, who would it be?

It is my opinion that we only have one answer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3ZbnfXEuyc

Let me be clear about my argument:

Pennywise is clearly not a character created in a vacuum. The fear of clowns was nothing new in 1986, and the ultimate nature of the character seems to suggest no small amount of influence from Lovecraft's Great Old Ones. What makes Pennywise a groundbreaking and staying villain are his mannerisms, the drops between childlike innocence and extreme gore. His laugh, contorting in and out of the pipes that make a civilization's underbelly, and his ominous warning.

"Everything down here floats."

And then, there are thematic similarities to Dracula. Just as Dracula attacked women, a demographic which Victorian society viewed to be almost entirely helpless, Pennywise goes after children. As the Count cannot sleep without Transylvanian dirt, Pennywise is sewn into the very fabric of a small Maine town. Then, there is Henry Bowers, a sadistic bully who turns into a character quite similar to Dracula's Renfield.

Already another movie is being made. The first ruined clowns for my generation, and I cannot imagine that the remake will do anything less. Modern copyright law protects Pennywise from the sort of exploitation that made the count proliferate, but should the character ever become public domain it is hard to imagine that its legacy will end with its author. Or, leaving it to the man himself:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzC3ZZyC5Go

Saturday, May 28, 2016

A Dream about Courtaud

A Dream about Courtaud
            “Ask me your questions.” He says. His voice is thick with a muddy French accent, light tones which suggest his fatal words are lighthearted. The skin beneath his bright brown hair is pale, pulled tight over the sparse muscles of his face and hands. His shirt, neat and collared is stained brown and red. If I did not know better, I would say he is a sickly man.
            But I know better.
            “Why do you do this?”
            “Do what?” He asks.
            “Hunt them.”
            We are on the porch of a rotting wooden cabin, surrounded by dense, coniferous woods with the heavy smell of damp pine. In the fog I hear the screams from the kennels, the men and women brought forth to his ceremonial slaughtering ground, a god’s sacrifice to itself. For its own amusement.
            He smiles and pulls the cup of whiskey to his bearded face. His eyes are dark now, and shine in the right light like a dog’s. He can see in the dark, I wonder if he sense how afraid I really am. Inside, I am screaming with the sacrifices in the kennels. He sips his whiskey, letting it trickle out of the corners of his mouth to blend with the ichor and gore clogged around his face.
            He sighs.
           “You’re asking me about the very state of nature. Every day the human race irrepably damages this planet, kills a species and no one seems to mind. Sure, a few outliers, a few self-hating Homo-Mendaxes will stand up and shout, a few of them will even blow up a clinic or bulldozer to stop the path of human progress. But it’s not enough. They’re just as useless as the bulldozers, just as redundant as the dodo. But human beings have come too far because they have no natural predator. That is me…that is us.”
            In the thick of the woods, it is dark now. I hear baying and tortured howling. The mouths in that woods aren’t human. Not animal either.
            “What do you want with us?”
            He laughs and I feel the monstrous eyes staring from just behind me.
            “You are the very portrait of human arrogance, boy. You act as if there is something special about your species, as if I need to have a reason or a special grudge against you in order to justify doing what I do. Can I not simply do as I please? After all, there is nothing alive that can stop me. Human beings are no different from anything else on this planet. They are meat. Just like everything else.”
            The revulsion on my face must show because he continues, “Oh don’t be that way! You know what? A few homo necans get a taste for a fellow and the rest of them act just the way you are, as if some ancient code has been broken and some damn treason has been committed against the whole world. Well I have news for you, that’s the type of world we are: we are a world in which things eat each other, constantly, ceaselessly. Life is a cycle of teeth and claw. The best way is to end it young, while the meat is still tender.”
            My stomach sinks as he says this. I look down on my own cup, trembling and sloshing in my palms. The tears are right behind my eyes, scraping to escape but hiding behind their white prison so that he does not smell my fear.
            “Please,” he seems to know. “As if I would waste my time. My stock back there, those good people, they are my veal. Trained to perfection, star athletes all of them. And it is not as if I am denying them a chance. They may use any weapon they are able, though it would do them little good.” From my sudden memory I recall that Courtaud has revived from machine gun wounds, that he has swallowed fire and consumed lethal amounts of cyanide, as a display of his divinity. My hands come together.
            “Then why am I here?”
            His smile breaks and I see his teeth, sharp and inches long.
            …
            I wake in the darkness of 3 a.m. I am cold, covered in sweat and slime. Outside dogs are barking in panic and frenzy. There are no dogs in my neighborhood, none that I have ever seen before. A pack of strays would need to be an army for this chorus.

            As I glance back at the window shades I see the outline of a man, and two voice speak inside me. And I know that the rational, awake voice is my head is right, that I am dreaming still and must return to sleep at any cost. But the half-asleep voice speaks a partial truth that I cannot shake: That he is standing outside. He is out there and no matter how much I dream, or do not, he is there. 

Saturday, May 21, 2016

The Code of Hector Barros

The Code of Hector Barros
            “I never get the killers I ask for.
            “They send me these men and women from ‘war’, straight out of the desert and expect some clean transition into their new war. But that’s not war. You gringos…you go somewhere else, fire missiles from the comfort of the sky and you call it ‘war.’ You attack with all the fury of heaven and thunder, outnumber and outflank your enemy immediately. And you call it ‘war.’
            “It’s not though.
            “No. No ‘war’ is your neighbor’s house burning. War is the enemy fighting from room to room, your family hiding beneath the floorboards with soldier’s boots right above their heads. War is when you have a stake in the dirt you’re fighting on, when it’s watered with the blood of your brothers and sisters, your fathers and mothers and all of your friends.
            “It’s no wonder you gringos lost Iraq. No one wanted that dirt but the Iraqis. Now look, and you see that exactly who wants that dirt is what’s keeping it.
            “But we’re not just interested in dirt here.
            “I don’t care what your body count is, hijo. All you’ve killed are soldiers. Soldados…all they have are thumbs and bones. There’s very little to killing soldiers. Just one moment, that’s all it takes. It’s especially easy when you think they’re monsters, if you truly believe that what they believe is too dangerous to survive. Not to mention that for all of their muscle, armor and training, a solider is just a man in a shell.
            “They’re only human.
            “So, it’s not surprising to me that you can’t kill a monster.
            “I don’t blame you, or anyone else. I’ll never forget my first time seeing one. Only it wasn’t in a cage, not chained up and waiting for an execution, sedated so that you can become familiar with the concept that yes, in fact, they are real. No, the first time I saw a monster was in war. Real war. And…he…was faster, more ruthless and quick than I hope you’ll ever see out there in the field. And inexplicably, fire follows him when he walks. You may think it a myth, but I cannot recall a time I’ve faced him and the world hasn’t been burning.
            “But, I was like you. I froze up. What do you do, against all of that? They tower over us, walls of muscle and teeth. All of the horror movies you’ve laughed at, and they’re so much worse than Lon Chaney in make-up. They’re demons in the skins of men, women, even children. And they’ll sob and scream and tell you that they can’t control themselves.
            “And they’re not lying. In our war, the enemy is often innocent.
            “But the only cure they’ve got is death. The alternative is worse than you can begin to know. If you don’t believe in souls…maybe you can’t grasp the horror of it, taking communion with that devil.
            “But you’ve only ever killed men.
            “Quiet your soul. Steel you heart. Clear your mind. Steady your hand. Suffer no illusion. Spare no evil.”

            “You’ve only just began. And if you’re lucky, that’ll be the only child you’ll ever need to kill.”

Saturday, April 30, 2016

IPA

IPA

            The bubbles are popping across my organs. I feel their little tendrils probe my veins in stretching, writhing movements as the bitter taste tickles the back of my mouth. Already I am reaching for the cup; the liquid parasite that I know will only destroy me further. But its roots are in my brain, whispering sweet songs in furthest parts of my mind. With another swallow I fall to the floor, stomach aching as it churns around, looking for away to escape the acid.
            There is a rupture and I scream. The cup is looking at me, a million living things with incalculable eyes looks at me from the other side of the crystal. I shouldn’t have drank it, I knew what it could do but the prospects were simply too sweet. At the time, when I had discovered the recipe in an old alchemy book I had thought I had discovered either a miracle drug or a million-dollar recipe.
            But I am drinking a homunculus.
            It is growing inside me, polluting my being and spilling corroding my bones. My femurs are the first to go, dissolving as teeth and branches pull them apart into white fragments floating around in a red pool. I know I will never walk again, and whisper prayers that my mother taught me when I was two, recalling every memory I have stacked away in the hopes that somewhere in my mind I am ready to defend myself.
            But it knows what I am doing. My eyes become golden. Brown. Then black. There is a slipping sound, flaming pain as my hands reach out to try to find my eyes. They touch the roots…sticky with what I know is my own blood and I try to scream. Something slithers up from behind my throat.
            The new limb is limp. Then it pulls, slides out and wraps itself around something cold. If I drink the last of it I will be lost forever. I move my arms, but the roots hold me back, snaking around and holding me still while the long tongue brings the glass closer to my mouth. The cool glass touches my nose, I can smell the hops and the fizzing malts which had lead me to believe I created something special.
            My only regret is that I was right.

            The last sip is the best thing I have ever tasted.