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