Sorry, you must be a member of this group to do that.
Stephanie Ellis's Blog, page 11
June 26, 2019
Book Review: Coyote Rage by Owl Goingback
5/5 stars
My first introduction to Owl Goingback’s writings was his collection Tribal Screams, which I loved. This book also contained a taster to Coyote Rage and I was pretty certain I would read the novel when it came out. Here I am, some months later and the book lies finished at my side. Goingback weave’s his story between the modern world and Native American mythology, creating a unique blend of fantasy and horror.
As the last human member of the Great Council of Galun’lati lives out his remaining days in a nursing home, Coyote hatches a plot to eliminate him and also the daughter who would take his place. He tells the other creatures it is time for those of ‘fur and feather’ to take back control of their world. His target, Luther Watie, evades him and so the hunt begins for both Watie and his daughter…
View original post 60 more words
June 24, 2019
Review: Coil by Ren Warom
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Surprised myself at the rating for this. When I first started reading, it felt a bit too sci-fi for my tastes but that all vanished as I read on. The combination noir, sci-fi and post-apocalyptic feel created an extraordinary world and the characters, though hard-boiled, show their vulnerable side enough to make you care. As to what Warom has put one of its main characters, Bone Adams through, is completely absorbing. Very gruesome, amazing imagery, body horror in heaps, it puts you through the wringer as you race to the end to discover who, or what, Bone really is. But you don’t get an answer, that appears to be for another book which I hope will not be long forthcoming. Absolutely loved this.
June 19, 2019
Guest Post: Kill Switch – New Release from HorrorAddicts.Net
HorrorAddicts.net Press presents…Kill Switch
As technology takes over more of our lives, what will it mean to be human, and will we fear what we’ve created? What horrors will our technological hubris bring us in the future?
Join us as we walk the line between progressive convenience and the nightmares these advancements can breed. From faulty medical nanos and AI gone berserk to ghost-attracting audio-tech and one very ambitious Mow-Bot, we bring you tech horror that will keep you up at night. Will you reach the Kill Switch in time?
******************************************************
A sneak peek inside…
Go Gently
GARRETT ROWLAN
A loudspeaker called Enid’s name. She stood in the waiting room, unsure if she would be hired or fired. To the other old folks waiting in the lounge of the Grandparent Experience, she wanted to look confident, so she headed to Mr. Lick’s office swinging her arms and taking long strides.
Entering Mr. Lick’s office she relaxed into a slump. He sat behind the desk and gestured toward a chair. As she sat, he rummaged in a file. He looked fit. She put his age at thirty-five or so, twenty years at least before he’d have to worry about retirement.
“Enid,” he said, and she drew in a breath, fearing his next words would release her from the Grandparent Experience and the limited protection it gave her. “Here is your next job.”
Enid sighed with relief. Not only was she not being fired, she had a job, an assignment. Her last evaluation had been poor, very poor. Her only defense had been that when playing “Happy Grandma” she’d taken it a little too far. Everyone knew “Happy Grandmas” sometimes drank. She hadn’t worked since then.
He handed her a battered folder labeled “Pearson.” Repressing a display of mawkish gratitude, she opened the folder. The photo showed a red-haired woman in her late thirties.
“That’s Tina Fisher. Tina has hired you to be the mother she never knew.”
“I’ve never played a mother,” Enid said. “Or been one.” Usually, Enid played her role for little brats whose parents wanted a reasonable facsimile of their vanished grandmother.
“She wants you for an afternoon. It’s some sort of family thing, a reunion. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Enid read the dossier on May Pearson, the woman she was to impersonate. Six months ago, the police spotted May walking at night using a cane. An ID check showed she was two years over legal age. Her subsequent objection to her arrest and her disorientation indicated as the report stated, probable early-stage dementia, even though the malady tended to be over-diagnosed. The picture of May showed a woman with short-cropped gray hair, lipstick, and beads at the wrinkled base of her throat. May Pearson was classified Not to be Resurrected (NTBR) and she was needled.
Management said death by “needling” was a good death. The ampoule delivered a warm chemical wash bliss, “A way to die when the life had exhausted its use.”
“The daughter was raised an orphan,” Mr. Lick added. “You’ll fill in the gaps.”
Enid frowned. She supposed she could play some variation on the various grandmothers she recreated: “Foxy Grandma” who told dirty jokes, “Prude Grandmother” full of euphemisms for body parts and blushing at off-color remarks, “Bible-Quoting Grandmother” who knew her Ecclesiastes, “Wacky Grandma” whose speech was characterized by non sequiturs from early drug use, and lately there was “Happy Grandma” who had gotten her into trouble.
“She looked at our pictures and said you were the closest thing we had to the woman in the photograph. That’s about it. She wants to know about her father.”
“And so I’m supposed to tell her about a man I never knew?”
“Nothing says home like a grandmother,” he said. “That’s what we’re selling here.”
“But, I’m supposed to be a grandmother,” she objected. “Not a mother.”
“Do you want the job or not?”
It wasn’t right to refuse, so she didn’t. As he completed the paperwork, she settled back and looked at the picture on the wall behind him. It was a picture of Jack Carl, the founder of the GPE. His face was nearly obscured behind a hat pulled low, a thick beard, and sunglasses. “Nothing says home like a grandparent,” was printed below him.
“Apparently, she was a bit of a free-spirit in her youth,” Mr. Lick said, standing to show Enid out. “You might work with that.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will,” Mr. Lick said. She thought she heard a subtext in his voice, Don’t screw this up.
*
The next day, Enid waited in a frock coat, beads, and silver-rimmed glasses. She carried a wooden cane. It was the Traditional Grandma look, right out of the company’s manual.
Standing beside a small, neatly tended plot of grass and a white picket fence, she looked out over a gently-sloping valley with a freeway running through its middle, the concrete white as bone. In the old days, which she vaguely remembered, dripped oil had stained the lanes. Her first husband, Roger, had celebrated the spoor as the last remnant of the old technological civilization. He’d been a funny kind of person, an entrepreneur with a quaint nostalgia for old technologies and terminologies, and yet a merciless eye for the economic realities ahead.
Two young people passed, looking at her curiously. You didn’t see many old people. If not employed by the GPE, they tended to be reclusive, fearing the door knock of health professionals about to do a checkup. Enid was sixty-eight, three years past retirement, a nervous age. Last spring she’d caught the flu and had feared going to the hospital. She might’ve received the NTBR label if a prohibitively long treatment loomed, especially if the GPE withdrew her protected status. Fortunately, she recovered. Since then, her morning regiment included a plethora of pills designed to strengthen, immunize, and bolster.
Turning, she saw the Sycorax model car and heard the whoosh of its electric engine, a sound like wind through the pines. As the car neared, Enid touched her powdered hair, shifted her weight against the wrap-around back support that made her look stout and matronly, though indeed her back had begun to bother her of late. She approached the car as the window rolled down.
“May?” She recognized the girl, Tina Fisher, from the photo. Enid was supposed to be her long-lost mother.
“I’m May Pearson,” Enid said. Her smile was sponsored by the GPE, the polished implants almost a company logo.
******************************************************
[image error]
EDITED BY:
DAN SHAURETTE
& EMERIAN RICH
STORIES BY:
H.E. ROULO, TIM O’NEAL, JERRY J. DAVIS, EMERIAN RICH, BILL DAVIDSON,
DANA HAMMER, NACHING T. KASSA, GARRETT ROWLAN, DAPHNE STRASERT
PHILLIP T. STEVENS, LAUREL ANNE HILL, CHANTAL BOUDREAU, GARTH VON BUCHHOLZ
May 17, 2019
Coming Soon: Fable : an Altered Fairytale Anthology
5th July sees the release of Fable : an Altered Fairytale anthology from Iron Faerie Publishing but today allows you to get a sneak preview of the cover.
The anthology features a short story of mine, They Wore Red, which is a somewhat different, and perhaps slightly more gruesome tale of the origins of Red Riding Hood. If you read it – which I hope you will – you might find that perhaps Red Riding Hood does not exist, that the stories of the little girl in the red cloak were created to hide a barbaric ritual.
I had written the story before the submission call for the anthology as I wanted to revisit the idea of Red Riding Hood as more of a folk legend. Yes, there is a Grandma and the Woodcutter but who is the real evil and who is the force for good in the story? Why not twist accepted versions of a traditional tale and subvert them, go back to the darker side of our fairytale heritage, in other words, lose the Disney and be more Grimm. Sometimes the darkness hides a greater truth.
I can’t wait to get my own copy to see how the other contributors have changed the stories we all know and love, so that we can learn to love them all over again.
Find out a bit more about all the authors in Fable here. A full table of contents will be revealed at the end of May.
May 7, 2019
The Sirens Call – free stories
Free stories and poems are always a bonus and I can give you two such opportunities (although the ezine itself provides these every single month and you should go and read it).
The Sirens Call, Issue 44, features 3 of my poems: The Deceiver, Creak and Walk with Me. These are just a sample of what you can read in my collection of verse, Dark is my Playground. The latter is also available in print format, here.
The Sirens Call, Issue 43, contains a new piece of flash fiction from me, Deliverance. This is not the story of mountain folk and banjo duels but a rethink of the Wicker Man theme.
May 6, 2019
The Dark Bites – a Collection of Flash Fiction
This project is something I’ve been working on, off and on, for a few months. I’ve taken part in many flash fiction competitions online over the years, particularly as part of the group known as the FlashDogs – you may see some of them still on twitter taking part in #vss365, the microfiction challenge – and I thought it was about time I compiled them in one place.
I think I started in the flash fiction community way back in 2014, discovering MicroBookends first and from there moved on to Flash Friday, The Angry Hourglass, Three Line Thursday, FlashMoBWrites and occasional dips into others that were around at the time. I found it a great way to hone and develop my writing skills as well as getting to know other writers online – some I have even met in real life. This book is dedicated to the FlashDogs (literally, some might even spot their name inside.)
I no longer have the time to write flash as much as I used to, my efforts these days very much in the opposite direction of novellas and novel but I value the form and will try, when I can to have a go at something, even if it is #vss365 or #horrorprompt on twitter.
However, what these years have led to is a huge amount of flash lurking on my computer which I often forget about and which I’m sure will vanish into the ether one day when the hard drive dies or we get a magnetic storm or some other catastrophe (always optimistic!). I don’t want to lose all these stories and so have gathered most of the darkest of my writings into one place. It is available on amazon, should you so wish to buy it, but it is not there for the sales. It’s there for me. (I tried to get the price down on the print copy but the number of pages means amazon won’t allow it.) The Kindle version is already live and can be purchased here and is only £1.99. The print version has been uploaded and is waiting to be approved to go live.
I would also like to thank my daughter Rhonwen Ellis, who provided the image and did a lot of techy stuff with the picture to create the cover. She also chose the font and colour as she doesn’t trust me(!).
April 19, 2019
March 24, 2019
What I’ve Achieved Lately – Or Not!
In between the battle of the plague which decided to go 2 rounds with me – it fooled me into thinking I was getting better then sneakily came back and hit me all over again – I have been able to continue reading, writing and submitting. This post is really written as a note to myself to remind me of what I have actually done with my time lately, a little taking stock if you will. Sometimes you can feel as if you’ve not actually done anything.
Reading. This has focussed on my fellow authors at Demain Publishing’s Short Sharp Shock’s Series. I wanted to see the nature of the works amongst which my Asylum of Shadows had been included and I wasn’t disappointed. Whilst some styles of horror were more to my taste than others, they were all extremely well-written and none were a disappointment. I have posted reviews for each of these on amazon and goodreads (when I read a book from smaller presses I do try and give a review, even a short one rather than just a rating). I am quite pleased that editor Dean Drinkel is publishing a variety of takes on the horror genre as it means there is definitely something for everyone with a taste for the darker side of life. I am looking forward to the next batch which should be published soon. With life being so fast-paced, these are great stories to read in those precious moments of downtime.
I’ve also tried reducing my TBR pile – a continued fail I must say as the pile has now increased again with my purchase of Tim Lebbon’s The Silence. I had watched The Quiet Place but had never heard of Lebbon’s book. When I read the blurb I honestly thought TQP had been based on it although there was no apparent acknowledgement. I’m looking forward to reading it and seeing the film when it comes on to Netflix.
Writing. I’ve now joined a sort of subset of HWA’s Fright Club where a small handful of writers submit one story a month and critique two others. I’m hoping this will keep the short story writing aspect of my life disciplined and productive(!!).
In terms of the Waiting Game for responses I have:
One novel out chasing agents
Another novel sent to a publisher for consideration
A novella with yet another publisher
8 short stories with different publications
I have fingers-crossed on all the above but who knows …
In the meantime, I’m just carrying on … like we all do. And I managed to get back to the gym so things are looking up.
February 27, 2019
Short Sharp Shocks and an Even Shorter Story
As an antidote to some rejections of late, it’s been nice to see two publications appear in February. The first is my gothic horror, Asylum of Shadows, published as part of Demain Publishing’s new Short Sharp Shocks! venture. The stories in this series range from 5k-10,000k with my own coming in at just over 9000 words. Seeing this length of story as standalones is something different in a market which normally focusses on anthologies, novellas and novels. Will 2019 be the year we see the growth of the novelette? It’d be nice to think so as they’re perfect short reads for those on the go.
About Asylum of Shadows:
Amongst the slums of Limehouse stands a new hospital, a monument to Victorian philanthropy. Marian, destitute and about to be orphaned as her father succumbs to the ravages of syphilis, is taken there by Dr. Janssen. This eminent physician offers her work and a roof over her head. Employed as a seamstress, she stitches shrouds for the dead and hoods for the hangman. Marian is taken to the ward of St. Carcifex. This shadowy ward receives the recently deceased, particularly those who have hung from the gallows. Her task in this gloomy place is to watch over them, make sure the dead stay dead. On Marian’s first night, she is charged with the care of two murderers, who, despite their hanging, do not appear to have the expected deathly pallor. On the second night, these guests are joined by innocent, hard-working men, victims of an unfortunate dock accident. Marian is enraged that such should be forced to share the ward. As her own mind falls victim to the ravages of the disease which killed her father, she metes out her own justice, her own vengeance – on dead and alive alike.
The story is currently available for pre-order and will be out on 1st March. Initially it will be ebook only but hopefully will make it into print in some form in the not too distant future. If you decide to take a read, please consider leaving a review – positive or negative, all feedback is welcome. I know I’m looking forward to reading the stories of my fellow authors and I’m loving the covers and branding.
The Siren’s Call ezine WIHM Special
I have been lucky enough to get a short piece of flash, Deliverance, accepted in this month’s WIHM special. Inspired by the Wicker Man, it doesn’t quite end as expected. This is a free ezine with many wonderful writers and stories within its pages. Read it and enjoy what women can bring to horror.
[image error]
February 2, 2019
Flash Back: Blue Sky Thinking
I often sky write these days, trace letters in the shapes of twigs and branches, see what words they form. It is a hobby, one I practise in secret. I keep myself to myself since the edict went out banning our language from being written – or even worse – read. We are only allowed to listen to the Scholars. Theirs is the only message that carries truth, they say.
When the world ended the first time, it was because of religion based on words in a book. Words misinterpreted by many.
When the world ended the second time, it was because of weapons triggered by an exchange of words. Words misinterpreted by many.
The world will not end a third time, they say, because they have banned words, the most dangerous weapon of all.
We have been told that to survive we must avoid communicating, avoid words. And so speech has also been banned. The latest edict demands the cutting of vocal chords, rendering us mute.
But my parents secretly taught me to read and write without books or paper, tracing letters in the sand, words in stone. They drew pictures for me with their words; pictures from a time long gone. Today I see Monet and I imagine a tranquillity of water-lilies where I float peacefully, serene.
When I open my eyes again, I imprint the artist’s name on my mind knowing I will never be able to teach my own children as I was taught. Tomorrow my vocal chords will be cut and I will no longer have a voice.
There are so few of us left now, it never ceases to amaze me how many ways man seeks to destroy himself – even when extinction is staring him in the face. We cannot help ourselves.
If only we had known the right words, we could have been saved.
