Stephanie Ellis's Blog, page 6

Coming this Autumn – Daughters of Darkness II

Black Angel Press

The inaugural Daughters of Darkness was very positively received when it was released on February 14th of this year. It’s had wonderful reviews and continues to do well. If you want to see what all the fuss is about, why not pick up a copy, available as ebook and paperback.

In line with our policy to promote women in horror, we will be repeating this exercise in the autumn (October is the aim) with a Daughters of Darkness II.

We have contacted four women writers whose work we greatly admire and invited them onboard. Like last time, we have offered each roughly 20,000 words which they can use to showcase their talents. Who are these writers? You’ll find out in the coming weeks.

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A Month of Found Poems is Almost Over

April is National Poetry Month and, never one for sitting back(!), I set myself a challenge of a poem every day. After the first day, I remembered a comment I made to Mike Arnzen last year when I created found poems based on some indie poets’ work. I said I was thinking of creating a found poem from the blurbs of books. Note this is the British context of the blurb being the description on the back of the book – not what I’ve come to realise is regarded as the comment made by another author about said work.

From the 2nd April onwards, I chose four books from my shelves and created a short poem which I posted on twitter, facebook and instagram. Here are the results so far – I’ll update to the full set in a few days time!

Spring Brings New Things

New things are happening – although that doesn’t include moving, the house sale is progressing slower than a snail on a bad day, even a sloth would move faster. So what’s new? Well, I’ve created a newsletter which will get sent out at the end of each month and I am currently training myself to remember I’ve done this so that the first isn’t the one and only! If you want to sign up for it, you can do so here: Steph’s Newsletter!

I have also made the step up to Active Member status of the Horror Writers Association, which is something I’ve been working towards for a long time. To meet the sales requirement is tough in such a competitive market. But I’ve done it – yay!

And I have also created an Instagram account – again. I was on before, deleted my account because I didn’t use it, set it up again last year, forgot about it and now I’ve set up another. If I try and delete the old one it keeps looping me to my current one so I think it is going to be there for eternity, abandoned and unloved. If you want to find me, I am stephanieellis7963.

My work over at Horror Tree on their zine, Trembling With Fear is easing a little as we have a new co-editor onboard to take over the Serials, Unholy Trinities and Specials. As a by-the-by, I’m also responsible for the Indie Bookshelf Releases post which appears each Friday. It’s a free bit of promotion for writers. If you’ve got a book due out, send us the link to order it and its cover or the cover and a link to the blogpost or similar about the book (we update to the purchase link later). This is a continually evolving page where you’ll also find a place to plug a kickstarter or event, or for those who are struggling financially and/or need a boost to their work, we can include their details to promote their services.

Amongst a few rejections (nice ones, I’ll admit), I can also announce a new story out in the Autumn in S.D. Vassallo’s Were Tales: A Shapeshifter Anthology which features my tale ‘Snowbound, Bloodbound’ revolving around the myth of the Berserker.

Steve has created a new press, Brigid’s Gate Press, which he will be running along with his wife. Having his own publishing house has been a long-held dream of theirs and it is a huge privilege to be included in one of its inaugural publications. Look out for them in the future. I wish them every success. If you’d like to see what Steve’s up to, you can connect with him here @diovassallo

This will come out next year and is still currently open to submissions. Why not have a go? Note, I only sent one poem in but you can submit up to three.

I am delighted to appear alongside some fantastic poets.

Continuing the poetry vibe – it is National Poetry Month after all – I am currently working on my submission for the HWA Poetry Showcase Volume VIII. I wonder if I can get in this year and make it a hat-trick, who knows.

This isn’t the entry, obviously, but it’s my contribution to Day 2 of National Poetry Month and is created via a challenge I set myself last year but never got round to, ie creating a found poem from the blurb of books. All these books grace my shelves and are highly recommended.

Reborn, the follow up to The Five Turns of the Wheel, is still moving along nicely. I had a vision of its ending so jumped to the final chapter and wrote that before returning to the earlier sections. My method of writing is a bit loop-the-loop rather than linear! Don’t judge me.

I’ve got a few shorts and a poem out for consideration and I’m waiting eagerly alongside the thousands who are going to submit to Crystal Lake Publishing’s Classic Monsters anthology. The weight of numbers are against me but you never know. Regardless, I enjoyed writing the story and using a classic trope. I do, however, need to remember to send it in when subs open! Good luck to everyone who’s having a go at this one!

Writing The Dream

The writing world is an uncertain place. You need resilience to keep going, to pick yourself up after yet another rejection – which happens with far greater regularity than acceptance – and put yourself out there – again.

I have been writing for several years now, building up from flash and poetry to short stories and novellas and novels and many times over that period I have felt like giving up (even as recently as last year) – but I didn’t. Instead, I kept on, regarding it as serving an apprenticeship, and it is now beginning to pay off. Please note, however, that I still feel very much like the beginner I was at the start, the one always looking at the successes of other others and thinking how far I have yet to go. I’ve climbed a few rungs since then but still regard myself as one of those looking up ‘with miles to go’ (to quote Robert Frost).

Last weekend was a particular highpoint as I was at last able to secure a home of sorts with Silver Shamrock Publishing, signing a 3-year contract with them for 2 books a year. I have a few novels in the bag already which I hope will get approval and relieve a little of that pressure but if not – well, I’m writing my follow-up to Five Turns at the minute and already know what novella I want to write when that is done. I just want to say a huge thank you to Ken McKinley of Silver Shamrock for his faith in me, and to Kenneth W. Cain for his editorial patience!

The week also saw my first podcast which you can see here:

I might not conform to the expected horror writer appearance, but hey, who says we have to be the same or follow the same paths?

As well as that, the cover for Offlimits Press anthology, Far Off Adventures has been revealed. It contains a bit of a spooky story from me, Penance and you can’t believe how privileged I feel to be included amongst this amazing lineup. You can preorder here.

Other news saw the publication of the print copy of One, Two, I See You collection of ‘Nursery Rhymes for Darker Minds’. This little paperback sits beside me and I’m quite pleased with how it’s turned out.

Other stuff? I registered for Stokercon 2021. As it’s online it gives me a chance to join in with something I wouldn’t normally be able to get to – though it’s going to play havoc with my sleeping pattern! Perhaps this is something that could be implemented going forwards – as well as the live event, they can provide this platform for those of us abroad?

Currently reading: Ozark Magic and Folklore by Vance Randolph. With Tower of Raven by Kevin M. Folliard and The Dead Boxes Archive by John F. Leonard to follow.

One, Two, I See You

My last post was quite a serious one so I thought it was time to strike a balance and touch on happier things.

A few years back I rewrote a nursery rhyme, just for fun. That rhyme was a version of The House that Jack Built which I gave a Ripper vibe. It appeared on a defunct website called Readwave and I wrote a few others. These were all well-received. Over a period of time I wrote about 25 more and gathered them with my dark verse in my collection, Dark is my Playground. I always intended to expand on these, presenting a somewhat darker edition of Mother Goose and so I’ve written another batch which allows me to gather old and new together in One, Two, I See You. This collection contains sixty twisted rhymes – although how you make some nursery rhymes darker is beyond me, I mean Three Blind Mice? Well, actually I did it but you get my drift, a lot of nursery rhymes are alreaady pretty dark and often violent.

You’ll find Humpty Dumpty digging a grave, the Muffin Man baking his cakes with a special batter, Little Boy Blue changing beneath a full moon and Bobby Shaftoe in bits on the shore. There are many more twists to be found in this collection which I created purely for the fun of it and if you want to dip in, you can get the ebook here http://mybook.to/OneTwoISeeYou. The paperback will be available soon.

Personal Loss – When the Idyll Turns to Horror

When talking about my folk horror novel, The Five Turns of the Wheel, I tend to focus on the characters of Umbra with a slight mention of that aspect of the book which is real and true and personal. This, in a way, is a disservice to my tale. It is as much about my own experience of horror and violence and blood as that portrayed in the Five Turns. If you haven’t read book, then yes, this contains spoilers to part of Megan’s story, but it has to – otherwise I can’t even touch on a topic I want to raise and which – in recent conversations is still affecting so many women. It may not be horror as men see it, but to women, well – it’s their truth. If you’re squeamish, bits of this may seem graphic, but they have to be included to convey the experience I was going through. Horror writers don’t spare the blood in fiction, I make no apologies for fact. Megan’s loss was my loss.

My idyll – the 12th of March, just over 20 years ago. A beautiful spring day. I’d taken my little boy to the local country park and we’d had a lovely time. He was sleeping, the kids in the crescent were outside playing and laughing. It was early evening on a Friday and BBC was showing highlights of Glastonbury Festival and David Gray was singing Babylon. That was the start and I have been unable to listen to that song since that time. I was about 11 weeks pregnant and had just told family and friends I was expecting. By Monday, news had travelled fast and when I took my eldest to school, people were coming up to congratulate me. I had to tell them I lost the baby.

So, the idyll – that sunny Spring day (like the Weald, it’s always a perfect day, the calm before the storm). But where is the violence? That was the miscarriage itself. A few signs something wasn’t right and I was told to go to bed. It got worse – the advice was to have a warm bath. That only works if you have hot water and I didn’t as I realised after starting the water running. At that point, the bleeding was heavy and I was looking at the bathroom floor thinking I couldn’t let my kids see that so I was on my hands and knees scrubbing. It was bizarre. Another hour or two and the locum comes out. The blood is pouring out of me and he asks if I would like to wait for office hours – it was about midnight and he meant 8.30am. Um, no. The ambulance comes and I’m asked can I walk? I’m feeling sick and shaky and still blood is pouring out of me. So, still no. My husband is looking after our two younger children and not with me for the moment and I’m on my own. I’m taken in and I lie there in a dark room waiting. It’s not until an hour later that I’m seen at which point I’m told, very casually, that I’ve been haemorrhaging and I’m put on a drip. Then taken to a ward.

I must’ve drifted off because I’m wake and find I’m being moved to a more appropriate ward. I had initially been taken to the hysterectomy section. They moved me to another bay where I was with 2 other women, each of us losing our babies. It was now Saturday morning and I was told that each time I went to the toilet I had to take this dish so they could monitor the blood loss. I can still remember handing over those bowls full of blood and then at 2.15 pm, I had some horrible cramps and I knew. The dish I handed over contained a small mass which I knew was the baby. Cue doctor and nurse visit, leaflets handed to me and I could leave. Nothing else. During that morning, I spent my time talking to the woman next to me. She was a midwife expecting twins, her womb was leaking and one had drowned. She knew the other would too, but we talked to each other, tried to reason things through, support each other. The woman opposite, never said a word, shock was written all over her face.

But you don’t just get to leave after miscarriage. You have to check it’s ‘all gone’ as they say. I went for a scan and had to sit between to hugely pregnant women awaiting their own scans. The words in Five Turns are exactly those addressed to me, whether by the doctor who examined me initially or the person who performed the scan. Kenneth W. Cain edited Five Turns and queried my word choice. Medical professionals wouldn’t speak like that, surely? Yes, they did and so the words were kept – even if people read them with disbelief, feel they don’t ring true.

On Friday evening I was pregnant, by the following Saturday afternoon, I wasn’t. When I left the hospital, life carried on around me, the wheel still turning. That Friday/Saturday was the idyll turning to horror, to blood and violent loss and that is the theme which plays out through Five Turns. The night of the Fifth Turn, when the unborn is offered, is a reflection on my miscarriage, the violence of its nature, the suddenness of loss. Time and again, the suffering of the women in the Weald is dismissed. Things just ‘are’ and should be accepted. Don’t speak out, don’t challenge, don’t try and change things.

Speaking to friends and family afterwards, many revealed their own losses, whether miscarriage or stillbirth, but all kept quiet because you don’t talk about it, because it makes people uncomfortable and so that loss becomes dismissed. Keeping the subject at a distance stops the need to look at it closely and understand a life was lost – it wasn’t seen, so it’s not real or as valid. I have always dealt with it by being pragmatic – there was something wrong with the baby, I’ve got two already, it’s one of those things – and looking at it in relative terms – it was early stages, it wasn’t born, I didn’t have to go through a stillbirth labour – all those things which help you cope with the loss itself.

And in the end, I did have a healthy child, my youngest daughter born about 18 months later.

What I didn’t realise until I wrote it into Five Turns – and also talked about it for the first time to my youngest – was how angry I was at my treatment and how I still am. And even talking to other women recently, I discover they are still being treated in exactly the same way. The care of women going through miscarriage, and their aftercare, has got to change, there has got to be more support. In recent years, as I’ve dwelt on the issue more, I’ve started to follow https://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk/ on twitter https://twitter.com/MiscarriageA and occasionally retweet the things they do, just in case someone else is going through this.

One thing most people don’t know however, including my family, is that I had always felt the baby was a girl and I’d mentally named her Megan. My character in Five Turns was named after her, in her memory.

Daughters of Darkness Steps into the Light

Black Angel Press

A labour of love, appropriately enough being released on February 14th, brings you the work of four women authors. All known in different corners of the indie industry, they have joined together to create Daughters of Darkness. Here, you will find a collection of stories from each of the contributors allowing the reader to get a proper flavour of their individual styles. Unlike most anthologies where you only get one story as a taster per contributor, three of these authors give you several.

Who are the daughters? Theresa Derwin, Ruschelle Dillon, Stephanie Ellis and Alyson Faye. You may have seen their stories in small collections and alongside big names (Ramsey Campbell, Graham Masterton, Tim Lebbon, Adam Nevill, Brian Keane). You might have noticed their names in collections and anthologies or on novellas and novels. As women in horror, they work hard to deliver the goods. With the wonderful cover art…

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Daughters of Darkness

A New Year and a new start. I’ve been working quietly in the background on a project for some months with writers Theresa Derwin, Alyson Faye and Ruschelle Dillon. Together, the four of us have combined forces and put a selection of our stories in the one book, Daughters of Darkness.

So often you pick up an anthology containing a host of authors and a range of styles and each author usually only has one story amongst the pages. By keeping to a quartet, this collection allows you to really get to know the writers properly. What do you get from this small group?

We have Alyson Faye, writing western, creepy ventiloquist puppets, gothic crypts and great poetry.

Theresa Derwin dives into themes relating to women, their bodies and their relationships, a creature feature and occult detective timeslip.

Ruschelle Dillon includes quirky humour, hauntings – of person and place – horrific murders and a wonderful childlike tale that throws you offguard.

As for me – I’ve only included two stories but one is a novellete-length ghostly gothic tale, whilst the other is my own take on the pressures put on women with regard to personal beauty and appearance.

We have also been privileged to receive a foreward from HWA stalwart, Lee Murray. A terrific writer and one of the most supportive of authors.

Cover art is by Francois Vallaincourt and donated by Theresa Derwin.

The book is slated to be published in the middle of February and more details will be given nearer the time.

Putting Up The Christmas Tree

This is a flash story I wrote a few years back and I regularly dust if off and put it up at this time of year. That’s what you do with Christmas Trees, right?

The Christmas Tree

The Christmas tree waited patiently at the bottom of the garden. It was nearly time. From behind, the others rustled their bare branches in expectation. They were old and nobody came for them anymore. It did not matter, Christmas was a time for sharing and they would still enjoy the festivities.

A new family had moved into the house in the summer and three young children had spent those distant hazy days running in and out of the trees, hiding from grown-ups and tormenting the ageing dog that had come with them. The mother had spotted the tree during one of their games and made a mental note that it would be the perfect tree for Christmas. The high-ceilinged rooms of their house demanded the presence of such a majestic specimen.

The first day of the holidays had been spent putting the finishing touches to the decorations that now hung around the house until all that was needed was the tree. She had sent the children on ahead of her whilst she gathered together the angel and the little wooden soldiers that were to adorn its branches, listening with half-an-ear to the sound of their youthful laughter echoing through the cold night air.

Her sons ran wildly in the happy beam of the moon, darting between frost-trimmed branches that glittered as brightly as any tinsel, releasing their pent-up energy into the darkness. The moon loved this time of year, when the children would come to decorate the tree.

As their mother called to them from the house, the boys dived beneath the tree’s branches, stifling their giggles, trying to ignore the scratch of needles. They loved to hide from her and the tree helped them. It curled its limbs around their waists, gripping them tightly, lifting them up, silencing them before they realised what was happening. Then the tree stilled itself, waiting as the mother approached her children’s hiding place and started to creep quietly into the darkness, ready to make them jump, not expecting the surprise in store for her as a branch dug its needles into clothes and flesh so she too was held prisoner. She struggled fiercely but the tree was obstinate and refused to give her up, piercing her body with its knife-edge leaves so she had no choice but to stay.

The mother’s protests, sung as loudly as any carol, were ignored as she was lifted higher and higher, past the bodies of her children that dangled like little wooden soldiers in their crimson coats, up and up until she cleared the topmost boughs to be placed almost reverently at its peak. The finishing touch, a dusting of frost, made her shimmer as brightly as any angel.

The others let out a gentle sigh of approval, a shared delight in the decorations that now adorned the tree. Christmas had finally come.

Free Christmas Story: Holly Night

Some of you might have read my novel, The Five Turns of the Wheel. Some of you may have read my short stories ‘The Way of the Mother’ (Fiends in the Furrows anthology) and ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’ (Diablolica Britannica) which were set in the world of Five Turns. I am continuing to write in this world and one short flash piece is this – sort of – Christmas Story (well, it does mention holly and ivy!). I hope you enjoy it.

Holly Night

“When the holly’s barren
And the berries gone
When the birds are dying
Who will sing the song?
H-O-L-L-Y, HOLLY!

When the ivy’s withered
And no leaves are left
When the birds are dying
Who’s the one who’s dead?
I-V-Y, IVY!”

The couple paused as they closed the doors of their car, watched the children in the playground.

“A grim rhyme,” said Lily.

“Isn’t it always with kids?” Ray locked the car and took his wife’s arm, guiding her into the pub. The warm light flickering out into the late afternoon gloom was welcoming and he was cold and tired and hungry. They’d had a long drive and still had miles to go.

“You know, I’d be more than happy not to move another inch,” said Ray, sinking into a chair by the open fire. He waited for the ‘I told you so’. It didn’t come, her smirk speaking for her.

The landlord came out from behind the bar. “If you’re wanting food, we’re just opening up the kitchen but it’ll take a while.”

“We’ll wait” said Ray. “We’re starving.” His stomach added its voice to the conversation and Lily laughed.

“Travelling far?” asked the landlord.

“Only a couple hundred more miles.”

The man looked sympathetic. “If you want to break the journey up, we do rooms.”

Ray glanced at Lily, who nodded agreement and they soon found themselves settled into a surprisingly comfortable bedroom.

“En-suite! Wouldn’t have expected that from its olde worlde appearance,” said Lily. “Wonder what Tripadvisor says about the place.” She pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen. Frowned. “Damn, must’ve run out charge.”

Ray checked his phone. No bars. “Out of luck,” he said. “Never mind. Let’s go back down and see if mine host has rustled up that steak he promised.”

The bar had filled slightly when they returned, the stools at the counter now all full. Farmer types, Ray guessed as he took in their soiled clothes and ruddy complexions. Sons of the soil indeed.

The landlord, identified as George, magically appeared at Ray’s side with a tray groaning under the weight of the meals and the drinks they’d ordered.

“Wow,” said Lily, eyeing her plate. “These are certainly generous portions.”

“Always is on Holly Night,” said George, beaming.

“Holly Night?”

“Oh, just a little local tradition,” said the landlord. “Come along and watch if you like. The fun starts in an hour or so.”

Lily grinned. She was fascinated by British folklore and rural ways. “I’d love to,” she said. “It’s okay, isn’t it, Ray?”

Ray nodded, his mouth full.

They ate in silence and only when they had finished, hunger sated, bodies rested, did they start to take in their surroundings, the items adorning the walls—the trophy heads with bared teeth, the traps, all sharp-toothed and vicious.

“Not quite for the vegan crowd,” murmured Lily.

“No,” agreed Ray. “And I don’t think the locals would take kindly to their opinions.”

He thought the faces of the men at the bar looked almost as dangerous as the lures chained to the walls.

A bell tolled outside and as one the customers, exited the pub. They had started chanting as they left. “It’s Holly Night, it’s Holly Night, time to put the world to rights.”

If they hadn’t been laughing and slapping each other on the back, Ray would’ve thought it sounded quite threatening. As it was, he found himself smiling at their good humour.

“Come on,” said George. “It’s Holly Night, it’s Holly Night, time to put the world to rights.”

Ray and Lily laughed, rose from their chairs and followed him out. Across on the green, it seemed as if the whole village had gathered.

A man in animal rags and a hat bearing a peacock feather stood in their midst. He was singing the song they had heard coming from the children.

“When the holly’s barren
And the berries gone
When the birds are dying
Who will sing the song?
H-O-L-L-Y, HOLLY!”

As the name was spelt out, a huge bear of a man in a woman’s dress, leaped around the crowd, grabbed the woman nearest to him on the sound of the last letter. It was Lily. She shrieked and giggled but allowed herself to be pulled to the middle of the circle.

“Go on, Tommy. Give us the next verse.”

Tommy called on Ivy, with the giant this time settling on Ray.

Once more, Ray sensed an undercurrent, felt the mood darken, become threatening. Then he saw the children from the playground and relaxed.

They formed a circle around Ray and Lily, two taking a rope which they began to swing, chanting the rhyme yet again. The crowd urged them to jump the rope.

Lily laughed and grabbed his hand. “Hey, Ray. Come on. Let’s do this together.”

Ray chuckled, it would be good to be a kid again. They moved closer to the rope, prepared to jump in. It was only as they neared it that he saw the rope for what it was, a chain of barbed wired.

The couple retreated but the crowd pushed them back. Lily’s grip on his hand tightened and he could see a flicker of fear on her face.

“Ray,” whimpered Lily. “We need to get out of here.”

“And you will,” said Tommy. “If you clear the rope.”

“You must be mad—” Ray was taller than the strange-garbed creature but the man did not seem in the least intimidated. Simply smiled at him.

“No,” said Tommy. “It’s Holly Night. It’s tradition. And we all follow tradition round here. It’s fun.”

They had no choice, were pushed into the wire rope as it spun and were forced to jump. It turned slowly at first and he felt hope rise, then he saw the children’s faces. No longer children, they looked like demons. The wire spun faster, the chanting louder. The last line he heard was “Who’s the one who’s dead?” and the sound of his wife’s scream.