Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 14

Queen Bee

Good morning, Droogies! It certainly is a good morning for me because I just finished writing my horror novel, PINS!! There are a bunch of revisions and extensions I have to do, but I wrote the last line and that's all I care about right now. Well, that and the first poem for FauxPoWriMo!! Enjoy!

QUEEN BEE


Drones in her machine
Make music industrial
Under the pretense of
"Good clean work". 
Laughing while our ears bleed,
She buzzes, viscous and vicious,
"What a perfect day to be the Queen".
But looking down,
Still waiting for the crown,
Her command is sugar glass. 
Isn't it funny:
Even from her nest on high,
Boot bottoms taste like honey. 




OH! And congrats to Johanna for winning the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" ebook!!! Thanks to everyone who participated in the Coffin Hop!!

Maternal Instincts #CoffinHop

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! 
It's the last day of COFFIN HOP (boo hiss) and the last day to enter to win an illustrated ebook copy of " Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things ". All you have to do is COMMENT with your EMAIL ADDRESS. I'll pick a winner using random.org and post the result tomorrow! Also tomorrow, I start FauxPoWriMo since I'm too swamped to participate in NaNoWriMo. I'll be writing a poem a day, so make sure to stop by and check them out. 
Okay, onto today's offering. This selection is from my short story "Maternal Instincts", available in issue 14 of Sex & Murder Magazine. To read the full story, purchase a print copy HERE or read it online HERE. Make sure to check out all of the other fabulous stories as well!
           I heard a strange noise. At first, I thought it was some kind of music, but it was too abrasive. It sounded more like a whistle or a squeal. Then, slowly, it was accompanied by the sound of rushing wind, but it wasn't until I looked up that I recognized it as the sound of something plummeting from the sky. It was headed right for me, but I didn't budge. I was awed by it and the wonder of what it would feel like to be crushed by something traveling at that speed. Would it drive me through the concrete porch or just bash me to bits? Would I feel it hit me or would my heart give out to shock seconds before the collision? The questions exhilarated me, but the biggest question of all was, what the hell was that thing? It wasn't very important, but it would've been nice to know exactly what was about to kill me. As it fell faster and faster, I could tell that it was of metallic composition and that pieces of it were peeling away as it plunged down to earth. It squealed louder as it fell, but it also grew smaller and less menacing, and I dropped my arms in exasperation when I realized that the object was not going to hit me after all. For a split second, I thought that maybe it would at least hit the balcony stilts and send me crashing to my death, but that possibility was quickly dashed when the plummeting object changed course. When it crashed to the parking lot, pieces of debris were kicked up and smoke billowed into thick clouds that obstructed the object. I leaned over the railing and shakily smoked my cigarette, expecting a slew of dimwitted hillbilly neighbors to come running out to get a closer look at the silver thing that had fallen from heaven. I waited for the clamor and screams in gleeful, but no one came. They were too busy watching American Idol, perhaps. By the time I made my way down to the parking lot, the smoke had cleared, and the multi-hued lights from the window shone down upon me as well as the great metal beast lying defeated on the asphalt. But it was in much better shape than I expected after such an impact. The front end was a bit crumpled, but it was still at least seven feet long and nearly five feet wide and there were stumps on the sides of the object where wings might have been attached. I could make out the outline of a door but no handle or latch, and when I knelt next to the wreckage to inspect it, I heard a soft scuffling sound.         Goddamn, I needed a smoke.         I reached out to the door cautiously, afraid of the metal's temperature, and when I finally touched it, I recoiled not from heat but from the extreme cold. The scuffling grew louder. When I gave the door a girly kick, I first heard the hollow reply of the innards, but I also heard a whimper, a small, sad moan that accompanied the sound of scratching from the other side of the door. Something was inside that metal shell, something scared and something too weak to open the door by itself. I stepped back a few paces, took a deep breath, and I shot forward with my right foot primed to punt. With all of my strength, I kicked the side of the shell and the door popped ajar. A satisfied grin broke across my face, but as soon as the door swung completely open, the smile quickly disappeared upon seeing the flaccid, reeking body of a dead woman tumble out onto the pavement. I screamed so loud that the whole complex could here, but still, no one came to investigate. Her face was stretched yet sunken and the grey skin was soggy, and appeared to be only loosely attached the muscle beneath. The fingertips were only bone and the bone was chipped and split, but most frightening of all was when the corpse slid out farther onto the asphalt, I saw the entirety of the woman's deteriorated body and the large holes punched in her stomach. There were jagged slashes and unnatural fissures farther south, but I didn't care to inspect that any more closely. It hit too close to home. The stench was so overpowering that tears began to well in my eyes. It was too much. I needed a cigarette. A cigarette and police. But what would I say to the police? I'd ramble on nonsensically about a spaceship and a dead, naked lady with her nether region torn apart. They'd think I was insane. Even I was starting to think I was insane, but just as I started to walk away, I heard the whimpers again. The small cooing sound caused me to look back, but I saw only death and deterioration and prayed silently that the corpse regained its power of speech, no matter how rudimentary. But it hadn't been the dead throat that had cooed. The soft sounds and movement had come from inside the metal shell. Yes, I was sure of it; something was still inside. And though the sight and smell of rot made my stomach lurch as I moved closer to the ship, I knelt beside it and plunged my hand into the opening. At first, I felt nothing but dry air and the cold contours of the ship's interior, but when I delved deeper, something soft and warm squeezed my index finger. I pulled back slowly and towed the soft, warm something with me. The moonlight revealed its face: a cherubic rosy visage that grinned and giggled in a delightfully infantile way.         "Buh," the baby girl commented curiously and pointed a chubby finger at me.        I lifted her out of the ship and held her tighter yet gentler than anything I'd held previously and she squealed in glee and clapped her hands fervently. For a moment that felt like an eternity of moments, I was lost in her. Never mind the fact that I'd pulled her out of a metal vessel that had plummeted from the sky, a vessel out of which a rotted, ravaged corpse had tumbled only minutes before. Never mind those lights that kept flashing brighter and brighter from the window and that no one in the complex but me seemed the slightest bit interested. And never mind the fact that although the baby's mouth was open and unmoving in an endearing toothless grin, I could hear her childish attempt at speech in my mind. I hugged her to my chest and pulled my jacket closed around us, but as I walked toward my apartment, she began to whine and reached over my shoulder, opening and closing her tiny fist.          "Na na bah na. Sasa," she whimpered, but following the nonsense, I heard deep within my mind, "The ship, the ship. Hide the ship, Mommy."          Mommy. Something in my stomach turned to stone and shot up through my body, and when it smashed into my heart, it knocked down each icicle that hung from it.         "I'll take care of it," I assured her in a sappy voice and swayed her back and forth as I ascended the stairs and entered my apartment.          The interior had been altered, but it hardly fazed me. The memory of disco ball lights had intensified and become magnified. It was no longer just a spattering of color; color was splashed across my walls. So very lovely, I thought, but I was looking at her when I thought it. Of the apartment, I simply shrugged my shoulders; it was about time for a change in décor anyway. I laid the baby down on the bed and wrapped a blanket snugly around her. I'd read somewhere that babies enjoyed the feeling of constriction, that it reminded them of the comforts of the womb. But this kid seemed to hate it.          "Na! Na! The ship! The ship!" she cried to my mind as she thrashed in attempt to free herself from the blanket.         "I hear you, I hear you. What a little brat," I said affectionately.        "What a little brat," she said aloud, and I flinched in surprise.I found her sudden speech far more impressive than the telepathy skill. She was a baby no more than two months out of the womb, and she was able to speak phrases on one hearing.          "Can you say 'Mommy'?"         "Mommy," she cooed, but her voice resounded cleared in my head when she bellowed, "The ship! The ship!"        "Fine," I sighed. "Stay put."        "Stay put," she said and giggled as she continued to squirm under the blanket.         The vessel and the dead woman had remained untouched, but I had no idea where I was supposed to store them. I had a storage shed in the parking lot if I moved the ship into there, where the hell were my skis supposed to go?It had started to rain, so I couldn't dawdle. I had to get the ship under cover before it rusted or warped, or for all I knew, melted. Not to mention the fact that I'd left an infant alone, bound in a blanket and thrashing around on the bed.I'm such a good Mommy.I kicked the soggy corpse aside and began the difficult task of pushing the ship to my shed. I cringed at each sparking squeal of the metal against the pavement, but finally, after ten minutes of wrestling with the ship, I was able to force it inside, even with the skis still in place. The fit was snug but acceptable, and I tromped reluctantly back to the lady who was giving the parking lot a thick, sickly perfume. As I reached for her arm, I felt a stream of bile burn up the back of my throat, and even though I was able to swallow it, as soon as my fingers wrapped around that wrinkled, sopping wrist, it jumped back up and erupted out of my mouth. But I couldn't hold onto her for long. As quickly as one could peel the skin off of a fried chicken drumstick, the woman's skin sloughed off into my hand. I shrieked as I tried to shake it off, but the soggy, gray flesh clung to my fingers by strings of sinewy mucus. There hadn't been much in the way of hair on her head when she'd tumbled out of the ship, but what she'd had was now in a sloppy pile underneath her head. It appeared as if the rain was boring holes in her sallow face, and when I thought of how ridiculous my notion was of the ship melting in the rain, I saw there, before my eyes, the woman's body breaking up, sloughing away, and falling to gray puddles of melted flesh; even her teeth were being dissolved by the downpour. It was the most disgusting yet most intriguing sight I'd ever beheld. I probably could've watched it until the puddles of rain because indistinguishable from the puddles of person, but the sudden screams of the baby took hold of my body and pulled me upstairs.

To read "Maternal Instincts" in full, purchase a print copy HERE or read it online HERE.
Don't forget to comment with your email address for a chance to win "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things"!!
Enjoy the rest of your Coffin Hopping!!

Emlyn Chand, author of "Farsighted"

 




How much personal experience did you put into developing the main character in Farsighted, Alex Kosmitoras?
I definitely identify with Alex and his desire to be accepted but to also remain independent. His battle between the two sides of himself is another thing I understand very well. In high school, I too was that person on the periphery. I was always different, which was both a challenge and a mark of pride. And like Alex, my crush comes from the great nation of India ;-)
What famous literary character would be Alex's best friend?
You know? I think Alex would really get along well with Ginny from the Harry Potter series. First off, he doesn't really get along well with other guys. Secondly, he loves the challenge of a girl who is in turns strong and in turns the damsel in distress. He would have taken great pride in saving her from the Chamber of Secrets.

What a stand-up guy! What do you love most about being a writer?
I love getting to know my characters. They start out as vague concepts, but with time and effort, they actually begin to feel real. That process of literally bringing someone else to life is unbelievable. Yeah, it may give us writers a bit of a God-complex, but it's so much fun!

But with great power comes great responsibility too. ;) Do you read the same genres as you write?

Heck yeah! I love YA. JK Rowling, Suzanne Collins, and JD Salinger are classic faves. I'm currently reading Matched by Ally Condie and am absolutely loving it. Next up is the Tiger series by Colleen Houck, another set of books I anticipate greatly enjoying. I have a special fondness for literary fiction too, which means I have a split personality when it comes to reading.

What was your favorite book as a child? What is your favorite as an adult?
As a child, my favorite book was Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crocket Johnson. It opened my eyes to the world that could exist if only I was willing to create it—I think it's what encouraged me to be a writer in the first place.
As an adult, it's A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving, definitely. The novel has so many layers and entertains on so many levels. Also the characters in that novel seem more real than those from any other I've ever read. It's just beautiful—that's the only word for it.

If you had to be stuck on an island for a year with three literary characters, who would they be? First up, we'd obviously take Robinson Crusoe. He knows what he's doing, and he can be the provider. I'll also take Katniss Everdeen from the Hunger Games—if we get in any kind of danger, she'd be a great protector. Lastly, I'd take Ron Weasley. Ron and I can live the good life, while the other two make sure we all stay safe and well-fed. I know I would never get bored with Ron around—he's just 24/7 entertainment. 
A freak accident gave you super writing powers. Describe the accident.
It's late at night. I have to keep working, but my eyelids are rebelling against my best intentions. Determined to meet my writing deadline, I pop open a can of Monster energy drink. Suddenly, my eyes shoot open—the lids never to droop again. The Monster coupled with the 2-liter of Diet Mountain Dew and the pot of coffee from earlier in the day form some kind of toxic drug mix. It would've been enough to kill any normal person. But I'm not normal. I AM WRITER! The compound permeates my veins and causes a mutation. Lo and behold, my super writing powers have arrived.
If you've read Farsighted, this should make perfect sense. Monster energy drink gives you psychic powers—why not writerly powers as well?
WATCH THE TRAILER FOR "FARSIGHTED"

excerpt from Farsighted  
"Did Dad tell you? A new tenant moved into the old pharmacy next door.""Really?" I ask, not letting on I already know. If I feign ignorance, Mom'll divulge all the details. "What is it?""It's a psychic shop," Her voice crackles with excitement like a fire that's just beginning to burn. "The All-Seeing Miss Teak. Isn't that cute? Miss Teak, Mystic. Ha, I wonder if that's her real name."I laugh. "That is funny. Never had a psychic in town before. What's she like?""Oh, she's very friendly. Why don't you go over and say 'hi.' I'm sure she'd like to meet you.""Okay, I think I will." I'm incredible intrigued, because first off, it's a psychic shop—how weird is that?—and second, its presence made Dad super uncomfortable—also very cool. I waste no time heading next door to check out the scene.As I step cautiously into the new shop, a recording of soft, instrumental music greets me. I can make out chimes and a string instrument I don't recognize but for some reason reminds me of snake charmers. The smell of incense fills my nostrils, which explains the burning I detected earlier."Hello?" I call out into the otherwise quiet room.Nobody answers. I walk in deeper, sweeping my cane out in front of me in a metronome fashion. This place is new to me, so I need to be especially careful while moving around.Thump! Despite my precautions, I stub my toe on something hard, big, and made of wood. Just my luck to stub the same toe twice in one day. I reach down to press my fingers into my throbbing foot to alleviate some of the pain. Something teeters before rolling off of the chest and across the floor; the sound it makes indicates a curved path. Suddenly, the object stops. Somebody's stopped it."Hello?" I call again."Hello," a deep, feminine voice responds, placing more emphasis on the first syllable than the second."I- I'm sorry I knocked that thing over. I didn't mean to…" I hope she's not angry. Probably not a good idea to get on a psychic's bad side."That wasn't just a thing, it's a crystal ball," she says as she walks over, sending my blood pulsing through my veins. I sense her looking at me for a moment before she places the ball back on top of the chest."Can it see the future?" I ask, allowing my curiosity to outweigh my uneasiness."No." After a pause lasting several beats, she continues. "But I can see the future sometimes when I look into it.""Oh, okay." I tighten my hand around my cane and turn to leave. It may not be the most polite thing to do, but all of this hocus-pocus stuff is freaking me out more than I would've guess.The psychic lady speaks again, stopping me cold. "Don't run away, Alex Kosmitoras." She must've spoken to Mom earlier today. That must be how she knows my name. "I'm not running away," I say meekly. "I'm just going back over to Sweet Blossoms.""Don't run away," she repeats—this time she speaks louder and with more energy. "Don't run away from your abilities. They are gifts.""What?" I ask in confusion. What abilities is she talking about?"You already know. Watch. Listen. Be open to your gifts."I turn to face Miss Teak, but find she's already gone, returning to wherever she was before I got there.Is it safe to leave? I trail my fingers across the wooden box I ran into earlier; a thick coat of dust clings to the tips as I pull away. If this shop just opened, why is it already so dirty? I wipe my hands over my shirt to get the gritty substance off. Shivers rock my whole body. Something about this place is wrong, and I'm not sticking around to figure out what. Tapping my cane along the floor, I'm able to find the exit without knocking into anything else.


Alex Kosmitoras's life has never been easy. The only other student who will talk to him is the school bully, his parents are dead-broke and insanely overprotective, and to complicate matters even more, he's blind. Just when he thinks he'll never have a shot at a normal life, a new girl from India moves into town. Simmi is smart, nice, and actually wants to be friends with Alex. Plus she smells like an Almond Joy bar. Yes, sophomore year might not be so bad after all.

Unfortunately, Alex is in store for another new arrival—an unexpected and often embarrassing ability to "see" the future. Try as he may, Alex is unable to ignore his visions, especially when they begin to suggest that Simmi is in danger. With the help of the mysterious psychic next door and new friends who come bearing gifts of their own, Alex must embark on a journey to change his future.

In this enthralling debut novel, Emlyn Chand creates a world in which friendship, perseverance, and a handful of psychic powers come together to fight against what appears to be the inevitable and all-too dangerous future. This is a book you won't want to put down—even after you finish it!  



Blog Tour Notes
THE BOOK:  Alex Kosmitoras may be blind, but he can still "see" things others can't.  When his unwanted visions of the future begin to suggest that the girl he likes could be in danger, he has no choice but to take on destiny and demand it reconsider. Get your copy today by visiting Amazon.com's Kindle store or the eBook retailer of your choice. The paperback edition will be available on November 24 (for the author's birthday).

THE CASH PRIZES:  Guess what? You could win a $100 Amazon gift card as part of this special blog tour. That's right! Just leave a comment below saying something about the post you just read, and you'll be entered into the raffle. I could win $100 too! Please help by voting for my blog in the traffic-breaker poll. To cast your vote, visit the official Farsighted blog tour page and scroll all the way to the bottom. Thank you for your help with that.

THE GIVEAWAYS:  Win 1 of 10 autographed copies of Farsighted before its paperback release by entering the giveaway on GoodReads. Perhaps you'd like an autographed postcard from the author; you can request one on her site.

THE AUTHOR:  Emlyn Chand has always loved to hear and tell stories, having emerged from the womb with a fountain pen grasped firmly in her left hand (true story). When she's not writing, she runs a large book club in Ann Arbor and is the president of author PR firm, Novel Publicity. Emlyn loves to connect with readers and is available throughout the social media interweb. Visit www.emlynchand.com for more info. Don't forget to say "hi" to her sun conure Ducky!

About Face #CoffinHop

 
  Today's post for Coffin Hop is a poem I started writing in my sleep last night. I kept waking up with the idea and jotted it down come morning. I hope you enjoy my new poem "About Face" on your way through the Coffin Hop. As always, make sure to leave a COMMENT with your EMAIL ADDRESS to be entered into the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" illustrated ebook giveaway!!

ABOUT FACE  
Feeling mad at mirrors for reflecting a lesser you? Does your presence make your essence seem totally untrue?Do your sags or bags age your face beyond your years?Is your complexion swimming in a pool of ugly tears?Do people laugh and gossip behind your homely back?Is your face too tough to face because of what you lack?Beauty is a duty to fulfill for those with sight.Masks aren't fashion-forward, plus they're rather tight.Veils are somewhat looser, but imagine a stiff breeze.Be wary: it could carry the veil up for all to seeThe lousy hand you were dealt by Father, Mother, God.No one wants to live their life horrid, poor, and flawed.Need a lift in spirit like you need a lift in skin?Fleishman's Face Emporium will help you fit right in. With every type under the sun, we'll make it work and get 'er done.We'll match your color to a T, devoid of abnormality.Our source of skin is no mystery or hidden fact,So it's better to forget all the questions you would ask. Business is done by the letter and the books.There are no dirty dealings and no more dirty looks.Our policy is fair for donation, and quite strict.There certainly aren't any subversive little tricks.But if you're a model stranded hopeless in the red,We can help you get your footing and then help you get ahead.Come in, pageant queens and kings; you are welcome here. Make sure to sign the contract very quick and clear.Most people aren't as lucky or as beautiful as you. Think of all the good your elegance could do,By representing the excellence of the Fleishman brand. An Emporium Model's life is lucrative and grand.For faces that aren't an utter mess and wreck,For those who only want to fix eyebrow, nose, or neck:The Emporium can help even picky ones like you.For a slight extra fee, our surgeons will removeAny imperfection that you and yours can find.Even if the flaw exists solely in your mind. Some scarring is quite normal, but it in time will fade,As long as your bill is promptly and fully paid. As for the old face that earned you scorn and jeers,You needn't shed a single sentimental tear. Our guard dogs are hungry, they need food if they're to act.(Draw no conclusion; it's an unrelated fact).Disregard the tales and filthy lies you've heard. We operate on the level, you have our sincere word.Which particular level though is a tricky bit of speech.There's law and business jargon that we would have to teachSo you would understand every aspect of our talk.Most ugly people's heads are filled with dirt and rocks.Not you, of course; we know you have the smartsTo know outward beauty should match the beauty in our hearts.A little snip, a tiny rip, and you're in store for quite a trip.Pack those bags, tuck up those sags, and riches will replace your rags.Unless your body starts to reject the skin,In which case, see your waiver: section ten. We're not accountable for the shame or wasteWhen an ugly body rejects a pretty face. Fleishman's Face Emporium will answer all your prayers.
Prepare yourself for a new world, filled with different stares.
Imagine that reality: what a lovely place.Life isn't about struggling. Life is about face.

HAPPY HOPPING THROUGH THE REST OF THE LIST! http://www.coffinhop.blogspot.com/

Twilight Kills #CoffinHop

Today's Coffin Hop post is a selection from my short story " Under the Slide ", included in Issue 13 of Sex & Murder Magazine. It's a cautionary tale about what could happen when kids get caught up in the vampire craze.
You can order a print copy of the issue (which features some awesome stories!) or read the full story online HERE.

Basically, I'm a freak. And when something freaky happens, the world needs a freak.

I wasn't called into the situation immediately. It needed time to build up steam and attention before the "powers that be" would resort to calling me in. After the fourth school in Maryland was reported as having an "incident," people started to get really nervous and wonder why this epidemic hadn't been stopped or even diagnosed. I had been following the story very superficially for weeks and when the epidemic started to spread, I began preparing myself for the call. I have to admit that I was slightly offended when the call didn't come immediately after the four junior high kids were found slaughtered in the same manner as they others across the state, but as I wasn't too eager to delve into such a gory scene, I didn't kick up too much fuss. When the phone finally rang, I knew it was about the incidents; not only because I was expecting it or because my visions revealed it but because the woman's voice on the other end of the line was shaking terribly, probably half in shock from the deaths and half in apprehension of having to deal with "my kind."

"This is a very serious situation," she said as if I didn't already know. "And they say you're the best when it comes to—these things."

"I'm not the best. I'm the only."

"But you are a paranormal investigator?"

"No, I'm not, and I take offense to be referred to as such. I'm not some ghost chasing nutbar, Mrs. Willeck. I'm a preternatural detective."

"What's the difference?"

"Would you like to argue semantics or do you want me to find whatever killed these children?"

"Please, you have to find the killer. We're afraid it might happen again."

The police had crawled the crime scenes like ants searching for hidden sugar, and despite their surely flawless approaches, they had turned up no fingerprints or evidence that would lead to naming suspects, let alone finding the actual killer. I found this all very interesting. You would think that simple minds would make simple conclusions. Not so. The simpletons started making wild conclusions rather, and in a declaration that alluded to the detectives having seen the movie "Seven" one too many times, it was suggested that perhaps the killer cut or burned the skin off of the tips of his fingers; hence, no fingerprints. My theory was much simpler than that. It's even simpler than the killer wearing gloves when committing his or her vile crimes. Perhaps the killer didn't leave fingerprints because it didn't possess them. Fingerprints are a human trait, and maybe, just maybe, the killer wasn't human. One of the simpletons must've let that theory dance through their head at least once though. Otherwise, I wouldn't be walking though the horrible 1970s art deco archway of Welton Junior High.

"Seems like a pretty normal school to me," I commented as Mrs. Willeck led me through the orange halls.

"Oh, it is. We've never had anything like this happen before. It's awful, just awful. Those poor kids," she sniffled into her handkerchief.

"What kind of kids were they? The papers didn't say much and some of the parents have refused to see me."

"Refused to see a detective?"

"I'm used to it," I replied. "So, the kids?"

"Well, they were loners but always in a group, if you know what I mean."

"A group of loners, sure."

"I guess they were part of that gothic crowd. You know, always dressed in black, always brooding over their Twilight books."

"Their what?"

"They are books. Well, they're movies too. The kids can't get enough of it."

"Books about what?"

"I think vampires mostly. You know how kids are."

"The four kids that were killed," I started and Mrs. Willek whimpered into her hand. "Were they the only ones in this vampire-loving group of loners?"

"No, there's a bunch of them."

"I'd like to speak to them."

"Of course. They'd all be on the playground for recess now. I'll show you."

She led me outside where the majority of the children looked like happy, healthy pre-teens, bouncing balls and chasing each other playfully. But when I spied a little girl dressed in black sitting on a stump with her nose buried in a book, I waved the Principal away and approached the girl cautiously. She seemed to take no notice of me; even when I stood in front of her, she didn't look up from her reading.

"It's not polite to stare," she finally said.

"Sorry," I replied as I sat down next to her. "You know, it's also not polite to ignore people."

"Sorry," she said insincerely with a shrug.
"So, what are you reading: that Dusk till Dawn book, or whatever it's called?"

"It's called Twilight, and no I'm not. I don't read those books."

"Why not?"

"Because my retarded hamster could've written them," she replied. "I prefer the classics."

"Like Harry Potter?" I joked.

"Like Les Miserables," she said mockingly as she shook the Victor Hugo novel in front of my face.

"I see."

"So, are you here to investigate the murders?"

"What makes you think they were murders?"

"It's more interesting to think they were. Besides, if they weren't, why would you be here?"

"Maybe I'm just here for my own amusement."

"You came to a junior high playground for your own amusement? That's creepier than the murders," she replied with her lip curled up in disgust.

"Don't you think you're kind of young to be reading such a heavy novel?"

"So, just because I'm a kid, I'm not allowed to read anything of worth?" she spat. "Just because I'm a kid, I have to read those piece of crap Twilight books and pretend to be a vampire like those dorks that hang out under the slide?"

"What dorks?"

"The ones that Lila was friends with and those other three kids that got killed. They all hang out under the slide and pretend to be vampires. It's ridiculous."

"They're just kids playing make-believe. What's so wrong with that?"

"No, they're not playing; they totally think they are vampires. Except half of them are old-school vampires and the others are those stupid Twilight vampires."

"What's the difference?"

"Lots of stuff. Like, you know how vampires aren't supposed to go out in the sun?"

"Of course."

"Well, in Twilight, they can. When they're in the sun, they don't burn up. They just get sparkly," she said with a theatrical wave of her fingers.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I said flatly.

"That's what I'm saying."

"If you've never read these books, how do you know so much about them?"

"Because every one of those vamp-dorks does their book reports on them," she said in exasperation. "If it was Bram Stoker's Dracula or something, I don't think I would care so much. At least that's a story that stands on actual story telling."

"Wow. Alright. Obsessive, moody, hypercritical. Let me guess: you're going to be a writer when you grow up," I said with a smirk, but the little girl in black looked none too amused.

"Look, if you are here because of the murders, you shouldn't be wasting your time talking to me."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not one of those dumb vampire kids. I just like wearing black."

"Why is that?"

"Because it goes with nothing," she said dramatically.

"That's deep."

"Thanks. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my book."

"Just one more question before I brave the crypt under the slide: these kids that think they're vampires don't actually drink blood or anything, do they?"

"You're asking that because the kids' bodies were drained, aren't you?"

"You sure do know a lot about all of this."

"Standing on the outside of the circle gives you a fair view of the interior."

"Well put. So do they drink blood?"

"They might. Some of them have hickey-looking bites on their necks sometimes, but I think that's just all part of the act. I know they carry around tomato juice with "blood" written on the label, and a couple of times, I saw them carrying around red freezie-pops, and they were telling everyone that they just raided a blood bank. Pretty dorky if you ask me."

"I agree."

"Although," she began, almost musically, "I wouldn't be surprised if they did the hickey thing themselves. You know, for real. At least, Mark and Sasha."

"Which ones are they?"

"The two oldest. They're going together. She was 'turned' first and then 'turned' him so they could be together for eternity, or some such nonsense. Eternal lovers. I guess I can see the appeal."

"Aren't you kids a little young to be thinking about love? Especially eternal love?"

"No," she replied matter-of-factly as her fingers danced across the pages of her book.

"Thanks, kid. You've been really helpful," I said as I started to walk toward the playground equipment, but the little girl in black called after me.

"You know that's where they were found, right?"

"Who?"

"The four dead kids. They found them under the slide."

But even if she hadn't said so, I would have known it as soon as I drew nearer. The playground equipment was a large mass of twisted metal with several boards and poles for one to slide down from the varicolored beast, but there was one slide in particular that drew me in. For one, it was the only one capable of acting as a refuge from sun-fearing or sparkly-skinned pseudo-vamps, and two, I could smell the death wafting from it as clearly as a normal person could smell popcorn cooking from two rooms away. The stench of blood is a thick, almost metallic smell that, once your nose gets a hold of, the back of your tongue does too. I swallowed the disgusting film forming in my mouth and crouched down beside the slide to look underneath. Like something out of a cartoon, as soon as my head ducked under the slide and entered their secret lair, the youngest boy hissed at me through an oversized set of plastic fangs. I was naturally taken aback and instinctively wanted to hold my fingers up in a cross formation and shove it in the kid's face. In my mind, I did just that. 

To read the rest of "Under the Slide", click the picture below. Also, don't forget to comment with your email address to enter the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" illustrated ebook giveaway!

Bad Rabbits, Bad Garden

Today's Coffin Hop post is a selection from my novel, " Rabbits in the Garden ", voted the #1 YA Mystery/Horror novel on Goodreads, although I categorize it more as a suspense or psychological horror. As always, make sure to leave a COMMENT with your EMAIL ADDRESS to be entered into the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" illustrated ebook giveaway!!One of my favorite reviews of "Rabbits in the Garden" is this one from Ron Godfrey on Amazon:"Simply typing the name 'Faye Norton' makes me shudder. This is an ABSOLUTE must read."After this selection, you will understand a bit more why Ron feels this way about dear Faye. 
Faye took Avery's hand and led her out to the garden as if it was the first time her daughter had seen it. The bird-feeder swayed from side to side as the chickadees hopped up and down the perches. The eastern bluestars stood tallest, surrounded by a thick crop of yellow daylilies.The sun glinted across the dew-kissed skin of the tomatoes, and every blossom was opened wide to soak up each and every ray. The flowers appeared as a varied company of dancers too mesmerized by their own beauty to sense the seasonal curtain call, and the vegetables stood as a proud army in formation, awaiting the call to culinary arms. It was quite a sight to behold.As mother and daughter sat on the stone bench at the garden's core, Faye breathed in the pleasing aroma of the vegetation and sighed as if life couldn't get any better. But then she looked at Avery and realized that if the girl was open to her lessons, it could get better still."Avery, do you remember the story about Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden?""I think so.""And how it all got ruined because of evil finding its way into the Garden?""I guess.""Well, it's not actually true. It's a metaphor, you see. Do you know what a metaphor is?" she asked."Like a symbol?""Exactly. The Garden of Eden is a symbol for an ideal world. The Garden was poisoned by evil in the form of the serpent that persuaded Adam and Eve to disobey God, and likewise, there are several things that can poison our world. Water, for instance. The world is a garden and it must be given good, clean water if it's to flourish and grow.""There's bad water?""Indeed there is. The bad water makes the garden wilt and pale with disease, and sometimes it will cause the garden to sprout fat weeds that kill the healthy plants. Then the insects come and devour them, and the fruit will rot from the inside out. The beautiful garden you see before you will lose all of its beauty.""How do I know if the water is good or bad?""It's tricky, for sure. Sometimes you can tell right away: the spigot might be rusted or the water might smell funny, but sometimes, everything might look clean and pure. But once the water starts to flow, it's too late. That's why you must assume that all water is bad. The garden and the world would rather die of thirst than poison, and that goes for all of the living things that are nourished by the garden: the birds, the bees, the rabbits…""The rabbits?""Oh yes, Avery. The rabbits are very, very important. They eat from this garden more than any other creature. They are like us. The world is a garden and we are the rabbits. They nourish themselves on this garden as we nourish ourselves on the world. Do you understand?""I think so, but if the garden gets bad water and the rabbits eat from the garden, what happens to them?""They become sick, and once that happens, there is no helping them. It's best to put such pathetic creatures out of their misery," she replied and Avery cocked her head in confusion. "You must understand that the bad water isn't limited to this garden. There are many veins through which the bad water can flow. You never know exactly where or when you might find it, so you must always been on alert and avoid the places where it's most likely to run.""But there isn't any here, is there?""Not yet. Hopefully, not ever, but that depends on how well you take care of your garden," she answered."Should I get the watering can?" Avery asked."Not yet. Let's just sit a while longer. There's something I want you to see."They sat for almost an hour in silence. Avery's eyelids started to droop, and with each passing minute, she contemplated asking her mom if she could leave, but she was never able to muster the courage. Her mother remained sitting up straight, completely attentive, and Avery did her best to mimic her. Then all of a sudden, Faye flinched, and she grasped her daughter's hand."There," she whispered as she pointed at the cabbage patch. "There, do you see them?"Avery stood slowly and tiptoed over to the patch where the leaves were rustling slightly. She gingerly parted the cabbage and saw two rabbits. They stared up at her with large, red eyes but then resumed their prior activities, which appeared to be some form of rabbit wrestling."Rabbits," Avery said, puzzled."What are they doing? Eating the cabbage?"            "They might have been. There are bite marks, but they aren't eating it right now. They're playing, I guess."            "One on top of the other?""Yes. What are they doing?" she asked, but when she looked back, she found her mother standing directly behind her with one of her many paisley gardening bags in her hand. With a smile, she withdrew a pair of gardening shears, and before Avery could question her on it, the shears flew past her face and down into the cabbage patch. The blades pierced through the top rabbit's head and the bottom rabbit's back. When she pulled the shears up, the bottom rabbit slid off, but the top remained skewered with its mouth hanging agape. She screamed in horror as her mother twisted the shears and the rabbit's face turned to her, frozen in its death rattle. She tried to run away, but Faye's bloody hands held onto her daughter, staining the dress Paul had given her."Be quiet, Avery," Faye whispered harshly and plunked her down onto the bench."What did you do? Why did you do that?" Avery stammered through streaming tears."Because they were poisoning the garden. Because they deserved it.""No, no, it's not fair. It's not right.""It is right, Avery! Like I told you, they became sick from the bad water. They needed to be put out of their misery. It's the humane thing to do. What they were doing was very, very bad.""What were they doing?""Let me show you," her mother said, and with a grunt, she wrenched the skewered rabbit free and flipped it over. "Do you see the mark on its belly?""The yellow one?""Yes, and what color is the mark on the other rabbit?" she asked as she flipped it over."Blue.""Correct. You see, Avery, I've marked every rabbit I've found in this garden. When I found two rabbits playing in that certain way, I marked them with the same color: blue and blue together, yellow and yellow, and so on. If the colors don't match, it means the rabbits are switching partners. They're being brazen. They're being bad, and we can't have bad rabbits in the garden.""But the colors are on their stomachs. How did you know they didn't match?""I've been doing this long enough that I can tell, and one day, so will you.""No, I can't do it. I can't kill bunnies!""No one is asking you to kill anything, Avery. All I'm asking you to do is protect the garden from the bad water. As long as it's clean and pure, this sort of thing won't ever happen. I did this on purpose to teach you that," she said and wiped away her daughter's tears. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, but it's important for you to know what happens when rabbits, and people, get careless with their bodies. Some don't care or realize that they're getting poisoned, and that's when good people like us have to step in and help them understand the evil they're doing to themselves.""I don't think I can do it, Mom. Why can't you just tend the garden like you've been doing all along?""Because you're old enough to do it yourself now. Besides, I have bigger gardens to tend," Faye replied and kissed her daughter's forehead. "You'll do just fine, sweetie. Come on; let's get you cleaned up and throw away that dirty dress."After taking a long bath, Avery lay down on her bed to absorb the truths of the day, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the rabbits. Their red eyes burned, and as they floated lifelessly toward her, their jaws got increasingly slacker until their mouths were wide enough to swallow her whole. For several weeks, she was haunted by the mismatched rabbits, but with each day she spent tending to the garden, the nightmares faded a little more. Every morning, she would rise with the sole intention of gardening, but before she watered anything, she thoroughly checked what was being transferred from the spigot to the watering can. She'd check the color, smell, and feel, and if it was even the slightest bit cloudy, she'd pour it out and start all over again. The weeks passed and the obsession grew, but it was an obsession based more on fear than desire. She didn't want any more rabbits to die, and to ensure that the rabbits remained alive, she had to keep the garden clean and pure. But as happy as it made her mother to see her working so diligently, Avery couldn't deny her boredom and overall exhaustion. Her mind and body were strained beyond belief, and she couldn't help but think of how much of her time the garden had devoured, time she could've been climbing roofs or running up and down the streets of Oak Bluffs. Time she could've been spending with Paul. For two months, she made her mother smile without wearing one of her own, and she was tired of it. 

"Rabbits in the Garden" is available in print from Post Mortem Press, and in print and ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and more!! [image error]
At twelve years old, Avery Norton had everything: a boyfriend who was also her best friend, the entirety of Martha's Vineyard as her playground, and her very own garden to tend. By thirteen, it was all over.The discovery of a secret crypt in the basement starts the Norton family down many unexpected avenues, including one that leads to Avery's arrest for murder and her subsequent imprisonment in Taunton State Lunatic Asylum. Set in 1950s Massachusetts, Rabbits in the Garden follows Avery Norton's struggle to prove her innocence and escape Taunton with her mind intact

Watch the Trailer:

COMMENT with your EMAIL ADDRESS to enter the "Danny Marble" Giveaway! And don't forget to check out all of the awesome authors along the Coffin Hop !!

Bad Rabbits, Bad Garden #Coffin Hop

Today's Coffin Hop post is a selection from my novel, " Rabbits in the Garden ", voted the #1 YA Mystery/Horror novel on Goodreads, although I categorize it more as a suspense or psychological horror. As always, make sure to leave a COMMENT with your EMAIL ADDRESS to be entered into the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" illustrated ebook giveaway!!One of my favorite reviews of "Rabbits in the Garden" is this one from Ron Godfrey on Amazon:"Simply typing the name 'Faye Norton' makes me shudder. This is an ABSOLUTE must read."After this selection, you will understand a bit more why Ron feels this way about dear Faye. 
Faye took Avery's hand and led her out to the garden as if it was the first time her daughter had seen it. The bird-feeder swayed from side to side as the chickadees hopped up and down the perches. The eastern bluestars stood tallest, surrounded by a thick crop of yellow daylilies.The sun glinted across the dew-kissed skin of the tomatoes, and every blossom was opened wide to soak up each and every ray. The flowers appeared as a varied company of dancers too mesmerized by their own beauty to sense the seasonal curtain call, and the vegetables stood as a proud army in formation, awaiting the call to culinary arms. It was quite a sight to behold.As mother and daughter sat on the stone bench at the garden's core, Faye breathed in the pleasing aroma of the vegetation and sighed as if life couldn't get any better. But then she looked at Avery and realized that if the girl was open to her lessons, it could get better still."Avery, do you remember the story about Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden?""I think so.""And how it all got ruined because of evil finding its way into the Garden?""I guess.""Well, it's not actually true. It's a metaphor, you see. Do you know what a metaphor is?" she asked."Like a symbol?""Exactly. The Garden of Eden is a symbol for an ideal world. The Garden was poisoned by evil in the form of the serpent that persuaded Adam and Eve to disobey God, and likewise, there are several things that can poison our world. Water, for instance. The world is a garden and it must be given good, clean water if it's to flourish and grow.""There's bad water?""Indeed there is. The bad water makes the garden wilt and pale with disease, and sometimes it will cause the garden to sprout fat weeds that kill the healthy plants. Then the insects come and devour them, and the fruit will rot from the inside out. The beautiful garden you see before you will lose all of its beauty.""How do I know if the water is good or bad?""It's tricky, for sure. Sometimes you can tell right away: the spigot might be rusted or the water might smell funny, but sometimes, everything might look clean and pure. But once the water starts to flow, it's too late. That's why you must assume that all water is bad. The garden and the world would rather die of thirst than poison, and that goes for all of the living things that are nourished by the garden: the birds, the bees, the rabbits…""The rabbits?""Oh yes, Avery. The rabbits are very, very important. They eat from this garden more than any other creature. They are like us. The world is a garden and we are the rabbits. They nourish themselves on this garden as we nourish ourselves on the world. Do you understand?""I think so, but if the garden gets bad water and the rabbits eat from the garden, what happens to them?""They become sick, and once that happens, there is no helping them. It's best to put such pathetic creatures out of their misery," she replied and Avery cocked her head in confusion. "You must understand that the bad water isn't limited to this garden. There are many veins through which the bad water can flow. You never know exactly where or when you might find it, so you must always been on alert and avoid the places where it's most likely to run.""But there isn't any here, is there?""Not yet. Hopefully, not ever, but that depends on how well you take care of your garden," she answered."Should I get the watering can?" Avery asked."Not yet. Let's just sit a while longer. There's something I want you to see."They sat for almost an hour in silence. Avery's eyelids started to droop, and with each passing minute, she contemplated asking her mom if she could leave, but she was never able to muster the courage. Her mother remained sitting up straight, completely attentive, and Avery did her best to mimic her. Then all of a sudden, Faye flinched, and she grasped her daughter's hand."There," she whispered as she pointed at the cabbage patch. "There, do you see them?"Avery stood slowly and tiptoed over to the patch where the leaves were rustling slightly. She gingerly parted the cabbage and saw two rabbits. They stared up at her with large, red eyes but then resumed their prior activities, which appeared to be some form of rabbit wrestling."Rabbits," Avery said, puzzled."What are they doing? Eating the cabbage?"            "They might have been. There are bite marks, but they aren't eating it right now. They're playing, I guess."            "One on top of the other?""Yes. What are they doing?" she asked, but when she looked back, she found her mother standing directly behind her with one of her many paisley gardening bags in her hand. With a smile, she withdrew a pair of gardening shears, and before Avery could question her on it, the shears flew past her face and down into the cabbage patch. The blades pierced through the top rabbit's head and the bottom rabbit's back. When she pulled the shears up, the bottom rabbit slid off, but the top remained skewered with its mouth hanging agape. She screamed in horror as her mother twisted the shears and the rabbit's face turned to her, frozen in its death rattle. She tried to run away, but Faye's bloody hands held onto her daughter, staining the dress Paul had given her."Be quiet, Avery," Faye whispered harshly and plunked her down onto the bench."What did you do? Why did you do that?" Avery stammered through streaming tears."Because they were poisoning the garden. Because they deserved it.""No, no, it's not fair. It's not right.""It is right, Avery! Like I told you, they became sick from the bad water. They needed to be put out of their misery. It's the humane thing to do. What they were doing was very, very bad.""What were they doing?""Let me show you," her mother said, and with a grunt, she wrenched the skewered rabbit free and flipped it over. "Do you see the mark on its belly?""The yellow one?""Yes, and what color is the mark on the other rabbit?" she asked as she flipped it over."Blue.""Correct. You see, Avery, I've marked every rabbit I've found in this garden. When I found two rabbits playing in that certain way, I marked them with the same color: blue and blue together, yellow and yellow, and so on. If the colors don't match, it means the rabbits are switching partners. They're being brazen. They're being bad, and we can't have bad rabbits in the garden.""But the colors are on their stomachs. How did you know they didn't match?""I've been doing this long enough that I can tell, and one day, so will you.""No, I can't do it. I can't kill bunnies!""No one is asking you to kill anything, Avery. All I'm asking you to do is protect the garden from the bad water. As long as it's clean and pure, this sort of thing won't ever happen. I did this on purpose to teach you that," she said and wiped away her daughter's tears. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, but it's important for you to know what happens when rabbits, and people, get careless with their bodies. Some don't care or realize that they're getting poisoned, and that's when good people like us have to step in and help them understand the evil they're doing to themselves.""I don't think I can do it, Mom. Why can't you just tend the garden like you've been doing all along?""Because you're old enough to do it yourself now. Besides, I have bigger gardens to tend," Faye replied and kissed her daughter's forehead. "You'll do just fine, sweetie. Come on; let's get you cleaned up and throw away that dirty dress."After taking a long bath, Avery lay down on her bed to absorb the truths of the day, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the rabbits. Their red eyes burned, and as they floated lifelessly toward her, their jaws got increasingly slacker until their mouths were wide enough to swallow her whole. For several weeks, she was haunted by the mismatched rabbits, but with each day she spent tending to the garden, the nightmares faded a little more. Every morning, she would rise with the sole intention of gardening, but before she watered anything, she thoroughly checked what was being transferred from the spigot to the watering can. She'd check the color, smell, and feel, and if it was even the slightest bit cloudy, she'd pour it out and start all over again. The weeks passed and the obsession grew, but it was an obsession based more on fear than desire. She didn't want any more rabbits to die, and to ensure that the rabbits remained alive, she had to keep the garden clean and pure. But as happy as it made her mother to see her working so diligently, Avery couldn't deny her boredom and overall exhaustion. Her mind and body were strained beyond belief, and she couldn't help but think of how much of her time the garden had devoured, time she could've been climbing roofs or running up and down the streets of Oak Bluffs. Time she could've been spending with Paul. For two months, she made her mother smile without wearing one of her own, and she was tired of it. 

"Rabbits in the Garden" is available in print from Post Mortem Press, and in print and ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and more!! [image error]
At twelve years old, Avery Norton had everything: a boyfriend who was also her best friend, the entirety of Martha's Vineyard as her playground, and her very own garden to tend. By thirteen, it was all over.The discovery of a secret crypt in the basement starts the Norton family down many unexpected avenues, including one that leads to Avery's arrest for murder and her subsequent imprisonment in Taunton State Lunatic Asylum. Set in 1950s Massachusetts, Rabbits in the Garden follows Avery Norton's struggle to prove her innocence and escape Taunton with her mind intact

Watch the Trailer:

COMMENT with your EMAIL ADDRESS to enter the "Danny Marble" Giveaway! And don't forget to check out all of the awesome authors along the Coffin Hop !!

Zombies Don't Monkey Around #CoffinHop

Thursday's bloody-lovely Coffin Hop post is a selection from my short story "Master Marvel's Menagerie", included in the Post Mortem Press zombie anthology, DEAD SOULS. This story takes place in a Zombie Zoo of sorts, but don't let Master Marvel hear you call it that...Oh, and don't forget to leave a COMMENT with your EMAIL ADDRESS to enter to win an ebook copy of my illustrated horror novella, "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things."

...We join two young men approaching the first stop in a zombie zoo AKA Master Marvel's Menagerie....

             The monkey house was the first occupied building on the path. They knew it would smell ghastly, but the odor was so pungent that they shut the door only seconds after opening it. "Jesus, what do they feed those things?""Brains!" Jack growled again. Sam opened the door and pushed his friend so forcefully that he tripped over his feet and crashed to the monkey house floor."Gross! I think I fell in shit!" Jack whined as he wiped his hands on his pants.The interior was dim, but once Jack and Sam were front and center, a row of flood lights ignited the massive cage filled with what looked like a jungle playset. "Jeez, what did you fall in?" Sam asked, seeing the slimy crimson stains on his friend's pants.All of a sudden, a fanfare blasted from the speakers and a legion of monkeys emerged from hiding. They leapt from their burrows and swung from the branches. They screeched as they scaled the sides of the cage and shimmied down twisted vines. In equal terror and wonder, Sam snapped a picture and he and Jack leaned against the gate. There wasn't a single monkey without ratty fur. It dropped from their skin as easily as they dropped from the trees, but while some of the fur drifted down in tufts, the rest fell in sloppy chunks, weighed down by rotten flesh. The breeds were lumped together despite the fact that they obviously didn't care for the company. The baboon chased the capuchin over the face of the cage until it finally caught its tail. It ripped the capuchin from the bars and retreated to a treetop. The boys watched in horror as it tore the monkey's tail from its body. It gnashed its broken fangs and howled as it beat the capuchin against the trunk. The small black arm the baboon was holding ripped free at the shoulder and the body crashed to the bottom of the cage where the capuchin screamed and spat up frothy blood. The baboon had eaten half of the tail when a macaque flew past with its claws extended and slashed the baboon's chest open. Its black heart fell like a rotten apple to the floor, but it paid the loss no mind; it still had tail left to chew. The macaque perched on a bloodstained rock and hissed at Jack and Sam."Look out! It's gonna throw shit at us!" Sam screamed."I don't think so," Jack replied as the monkey dug its claws into the sides of its head.The sound of its face tearing free of the fascia was one that knocked out the boys' knees with a violent cringe. The face hung heavy in the monkey's paw while the moldering muscle still twisted its expression. It heaved the sloppy mass at the bars, and though a good deal was caught by the cage, several bits broke through and spattered the boys in grey and red gore."I think I'm going to be sick," Sam said, but Jack didn't have time to say anything.His stomach emptied over the monkey house floor, realizing only then what he'd fallen into earlier. Vomit, blood, chunks of flesh and fur, and even a few eyeballs decorated the concrete. He gasped and slipped on his own sick, but Sam was quick to catch him."Can we get the hell out of here now?"
            "You don't have to ask me twice."
[image error]
To read the full story, check out PostMortem-Press.com or Amazon.com to order your copy of DEAD SOULS , available in ebook and print. Please leave a comment with your email address to enter the contest. 
HAPPY COFFIN HOPPING!

Diamond is Looking Rough #CoffinHop

Today's Coffin Hop post is a selection from my WIP horror novel, "PINS":(Telemarketing is a drag and serving jobs are exhausting. Luckily, strip clubs are always looking for new blood. Eva "Birdie" Finch is fed up with the slim pickings in local employment, and PINS, a gentlemen's club/ bowling alley, seems to be the only option left. But learning how to strip for strangers isn't Birdie's only obstacle, especially when fellow dancers start turning up dead. From Jessica McHugh, the author of the steampunk adventure The Sky: The World and the psychological thriller Rabbits in the Garden, PINS is certain to titillate as much as terrify with a candid look at a dancer trying to keep her footing on a blood-drenched stage.) 
WARNING: The following is graphic, gruesome, and great. Well, graphic and gruesome, for sure. ;)

Also, anyone who leaves a COMMENT w/ an EMAIL ADDRESS will be entered into the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" ebook contest!!!
       Then, the screams began again, followed by scores of frantic voices. The crowd became animated by shock and fearful curiosity and I couldn't help but join in. Even Honey had abandoned her rage to follow the masses rushing toward the shrieking dissonance. As I drew closer, hidden sounds emerged from beneath the commotion. I heard the whirring first: a grinding squeal of malfunction followed by a series of rapid thumps. The thumps acquired new qualities with my proximity. An abrupt squelch was followed by a prolonged scrape that led into frenzied crackles and clicks. It was an auditory puzzle that pulled me forward, but when I reached the front of the crowd and the pieces fell into place, I backpedaled and fell to the maple. Through the crowd's trembling legs, I saw a thousand extra crimson markers splattered across the lane, leading to blooming puddles. The pinsetter jerked up and down in repeated malfunction, slamming the pins against the pulpy remnants of a girl's face. Her blood sprayed with each blow and bits of bone and tooth tumbled across the floor like hapless dice.
"For God's sake, someone turn it off!" someone in the crowd pleaded, but once the machine was stopped and the view of the girl unobstructed by bludgeoning pins, everyone recoiled in horror. Many fled, and I would have joined them if my legs hadn't turned to jelly, leaving me paralyzed on the floor. The damage was so much worse in an inert form. Her forehead was completely caved in with bits of gray matter seeping between the cracks of contusion. Her mouth had been stretched to an unnatural degree by the base of the pins, and any remnant teeth were reduced to shards in her flattened gums. Chunks of the girl slid down the pins and dripped back into their obliterated origins, filling the silence with nauseating plops: percussion to her body's postmortem chorus. There was no hope in identifying her by her face, but it wasn't necessary; her massive breasts might as well have been a nametag that said, "Hello. My name is Diamond."My revulsion crept up my throat, inch by burning inch, but I was able to choke it down---until Heaven disgorged her own disgust onto Lane 5. The wafting stench of blood and vomit was too much. Still tucked between the legs of gawking customers, I had no choice but to let my stomach state it's opinion. The world got bleary and I began to wilt, but before I could collapse into the amalgamating puddles of puke, strong hands wrapped around my arms and lifted me up. My feet dragged limply across the lanes and dipped into the gutters as I was pulled away from the scene, and although he probably set me down gently, I felt like I was thrown into a chair."Hey, Birdie, you okay?" he asked.I looked up woozily, expecting to see Josh's face, wanting to see Josh's face. Instead, it was James looking down at me, James still holding my arms; my arms covered in sweat and...something else. Vomit. It was vomit. It was…I caught the sickening surge at the tip of my tongue, slapped my hand over my mouth, and ran to the bathroom. I was nearly bursting by the time I was in the stall and curled myself over the toilet. As I emptied, images filled my head and called up anything and everything my stomach had left, but the images themselves wouldn't budge. Diamond's obliterated face was the most prominent. Her sweet, milky face was nothing more than a mashed motley of bone and meat and a cavernous mouth. Then there were her breasts; those gigantic twins that led men like the Pied Piper were just heavy sacks now, hanging off her ribcage like blood-spattered globs of mucus after a violent sneeze.
(Mock cover made by Bill Coffin) [image error]

Remember to leave a COMMENT w/ an EMAIL ADDRESS to be entered into the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" ebook contest!!!

"The Prettiest Girls" & CONTEST #CoffinHop

For today's Coffin Hop post, I have a new flash horror story for you, PLUS the start of the "Danny Marble & the Application for Non-Scary Things" ebook GIVEAWAY. Today, the contest entry consists of a comment with email address AND the name of one of my other short stories (published, unpublished, WIP). You can find the names of my short stories at
http://www.JessicaMcHughBooks.com, http://theliteraryunderground.org/wiki/index.php?title=Jessica_McHugh, and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jessica_McHugh.

THE PRETTIEST GIRLSHenry Young had a fondness for blonds, especially the fake ones. His height of sensuality was in watching a girl strip away the brunette until she hit the flaxen attitude beneath. He hadn't found a girl who'd let him watch yet, but he was always on the lookout for the one who wouldn't run, the one who wouldn't call the police or chase him away from the window with a pair of dull scissors. He was surprised by how many people had dull scissors laying around. How did they expect to defend themselves against someone whose scissors were as sharp as Henry's? They never could, which is why he also had a fondness for dull scissors. But he still wished for a girl who wouldn't reach for a weapon when she saw him. He'd never gotten that far and it left him with a perpetual desire for satisfaction, always hoping the next girl would be the one, then the next, and the next...However, he couldn't deny his enjoyment in the chase. Fear played with women's bodies in the most delightful way. Every heave, every shriek, every jostle of fight and flight incited Henry's hunger, even for those who were only half-bleached. The allure of blood soaking into blond was a bonus Henry cherished with every methodical snip. Those clippings never entered his collection, but they were beautiful, scattered around a bald head like a rosy halo. The girl from the tavern was more strawberry than he usually preferred, but he was willing to make an exception. He'd been watching her for nearly a month, growing more enraptured with each day he beheld the difference between the bartender and the actual girl. She was always soft at work, always polite, but through the window of her living room, she seemed softer still. She danced more than she walked and sang more than she spoke, and it solidified the truth he'd always known: blonds were the prettiest girls. And although they weren't always sweeter, they had a sweetness brunettes did not. It was an intangible thing...until Henry had their hair in hand. Feeling their beauty, he, too, felt beautiful. She was gleefully singing along to her favorite TV show and didn't hear him break the lock on the back door. He walked into the room calmly, pretending he belonged there. She didn't run until he withdrew the scissors, but she didn't get far. He grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her to the ground, dragging her into the kitchen while whistling the jaunty Journey tune she'd so recently been singing. She thrashed madly until the scissors got a taste of her. One quick slash of her Achilles tendon and the resulting shower of blood onto the linoleum stopped her flailing. But she wouldn't stop crying. It was rather unattractive the way her face scrunched up during each bawl. He tried to ignore the ugliness by repeating "blonds are the prettiest girls", but it didn't work. She wasn't who he thought she was, so there was no reason to keep her around. Her hair, however, was pretty enough for keeping. "Pretty pretty pretty" he clucked as he pressed the scissors against her throat and grabbed her hair. It felt strange: dry and wiry; somewhat plastic. All it took was a tug to realize why. The wig pulled free, revealing a short crop of dark brown hair. Henry threw it to the floor angrily and she laughed. He expected her laughter to enrage him more, but oddly, his rage diminished. She was so pretty when she laughed; even with her true brunette out in the open, she was prettier than any blond he'd seen before. The scissors froze her smile and the blades stretched it up her cheeks. Looking down at her new Glasgow grin, Henry realized his lifelong mistake. The prettiest girls didn't have to be blond. The prettiest girls laughed at death.THE END

Remember to leave a comment with the name of another one of my short stories with your email to be entered into the "Danny Marble" ebook giveaway. A winner will be selected randomly and posted on November 1st.