Justin MacCormack's Blog, page 3

"Count Shagula" - Chapter One exclusive

Hey guys!
This is a special note to my Patreon supporters, to let you know that you can now access an exclusive pre-release chapter of the upcoming gay erotica horror comedy "The Castle of Count Shagula" right now, before the book is released on Halloween night.
Patreon supporters can read the pre-release chapter here - https://www.patreon.com/user?u=4282847
You can pre-order your copy of "The Castle of Count Shagula" here - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M25VO2U
Have an awesome evening, all!
Justin

"Day of the Dead" and "Dark City"

"Day of the Dead" and "Dark City"
Two anthology collections of short dark tales by the writers of Portsmouth, due out this season.
Click here for more information!You'll find one of my tales in each of these, alongside some of the best talent in the whole of Hampshire (damned if I know why I'm there, though :D). "Day of the Dead" features my beloved tale "Footprints by the Lakeside", and the "Dark City" collection contains my story "Undercurrent".They are fantastic collections and both sure to thrill those with a twisted sense of humour!

Patreon!

Hey guys, I've got a special annoucement that I'd love to let you in on: I just joined Patreon!

In case you’re wondering, Patreon is a simple way for my fans to contribute to my writing career every month, and get great rewards in return. such as advanced previews of my Fighting Fantasy blog posts, exclusive short stories and much more!

Go checkout https://www.patreon.com/user?u=4282847

"The Castle of Count Shagula" available for pre-order!

(You can follow Justin McCormack on Facebook and Twitter. You can also support Justin on Patreon and receive exclusive content. Justin is the author of two bestselling novels, a collection of horror stories - "Hush!: A Horror Anthology", and the young adult coming-of-age comedy "Diary of a gay teenage zombie".)
Pre-order is available now.

CLICK HERE TO GRAB YOUR PRE-ORDER

THE CASTLE OF COUNT SHAGULA

Here we are, everyone. The grand unveiling of the cover for the first MONSTEROTICA book, "The Castle of Count Shagula"!! Check it out.

Available for pre-order soon. Keep your eyes on this spot.

Like the cover? Share to let all your friends know about this upcoming LGBT erotic horror comedy madness.

A tale of warped sexual desires, twisted comedy and frantic naughtiness. Come, travel with the young Jonathan Woodcock to the distant realms of Transylvania, where he encounters a sinister vampire, the aristocratic Count Shagula, last in a long line of great shaggers.

Witness as poor Jonathan experiences the terrors and horrors that go bang in the night, and finds out just what mysteries lurk at the heart of THE CASTLE OF COUNT SHAGULA (hint, it's sex. Lots of sex)

TALES OF MONSTEROTICA - A new line of comical erotic romps featuring the classic and not-so-classic monsters of book, stage and screen, written by J. D. MacCormack, author of "Diary of a Gay Teenage Zombie"

"Shockingly horrific, wildly sexy and knee-slappingly funny!" - Stephen King (not that one, just a guy I met in the pub with the same name)

"Wait, who are you? A quote for what? A book? How did you get in here? Get out of my house!" - Mrs Louise Benbridge of East London

"This disgusting story takes my classic tale and turns it into nothing more than awful lewd sexual filth!" - Bram Stoker

THE CASTLE OF COUNT SHAGULA

Here we are, everyone. The grand unveiling of the cover for the first MONSTEROTICA book, "The Castle of Count Shagula"!! Check it out.
Available for pre-order soon. Keep your eyes on this spot.
Like the cover? Share to let all your friends know about this upcoming LGBT erotic horror comedy madness.
A tale of warped sexual desires, twisted comedy and frantic naughtiness. Come, travel with the young Jonathan Woodcock to the distant realms of Transylvania, where he encounters a sinister vampire, the aristocratic Count Shagula, last in a long line of great shaggers. Witness as poor Jonathan experiences the terrors and horrors that go bang in the night, and finds out just what mysteries lurk at the heart of THE CASTLE OF COUNT SHAGULA (hint, it's sex. Lots of sex) TALES OF MONSTEROTICAA new line of comical erotic romps featuring the classic and not-so-classic monsters of book, stage and screen, written by J. D. MacCormack, author of "Diary of a Gay Teenage Zombie" "Shockingly horrific, wildly sexy and knee-slappingly funny!" - Stephen King (not that one, just a guy I met in the pub with the same name) "Wait, who are you? A quote for what? A book? How did you get in here? Get out of my house!" - Mrs Louise Benbridge of East London "This disgusting story takes my classic tale and turns it into nothing more than awful lewd sexual filth!" - Bram Stoker

Sneak Preview!

A terrifying image of novels to come very soon...

Son of the Dragon - teaser chapter

This story begins, like all true stories do, at the end. Not the end of this tale, though. That end does not occur until many hundreds of years, and many hundreds of miles, and many hundreds of lives had all been lost. No, this tale begins with the end of another tale and with it the end of an era.

Cad Camlam was little more than a drenched and sodden field by the time that I arrived. The mud reached up to cake the calves of my breeches as I made my way through the charred and desolate trees that barred my path. The banks of the river had broken during the night, when the fighting had still raged, burgeoned as the torrents were by three full days of rainfall they had cascaded through the forest, washing all into a thick bog of ichorous mud and spilled blood.

The first of the fallen that I encountered was a man who was unfamiliar to me. In the choking much I nearly tripped over his body as it lay half buried beside a tree, his limbs coiled around its roots. Stumbling to regain my footing, my eyes fell upon the sight of the man’s face, his aged features and close-cropped beard flecked with grey. His collarbone had almost been heft clean in two, and the emblem upon his chest plate was foreign to me. Standing, I considered if he had been a banner man for one of our own, perhaps one of Gawain’s lot. But more than likely, he was in the employ of Mordred.

I spat. Three days that the battle had raged for, and there was no way of knowing as of yet how many of my friends had met their death. I wondered if Mordred had numbered among them, wondered if he would even have taken to the battlefield as was his duty. Had I been here, I thought, had I only been here.

My anger at Mordred was unjust, I knew. It was merely a reflection of my anger at myself. Somewhere within the depths of the forest, a raven’s cry beckoned. I left the body and trudged on, wading through the mud, with each step calling the name of my liege and hoping only to hear a reply.

I blamed myself, of course. Having served with all that I could and having pledged my life to my king. In the wars that had come before, we had brought the disparate realms of England together. We had quashed all who stood before us, quelling traitors from within and rivals from without. But it was my own failure that haunted me the most. In the months before I had returned to these shores, the rivalry that had grown between my liege and Sir Lancelot had grown to blows. Tasked as I was with bringing peace with our fallen brother, I had failed in my duty. Despite having met with Lancelot many a time since he had left England, each time striving him, pleading with him, it was in the end all for naught. It was my failure to negotiate a peace that had led Arthur to journey south to besiege his former knight. And, in doing so, left the throne to his son, to Mordred.

This war, I thought, was my failing. But as time would attest, it was not my only failing, and by the judgement of God certainly not my worst.

I found Arthur by the shore of the river. The moon was already high, although the sun had yet to dip behind the horizon, and the sky sat in a twilight that left my feeling as though I were talking through a waking dream.

Kneeling by my king’s side, he seemed to awake from his stupor. He turned his head, his breath catching on his lips. “Did you do it?” he asked. “Did you throw the sword into the lake as I commanded?”

Since I was but a young man, serving Arthur had been my dream. On the cusp of my twentieth year, he had knighted me and bequeathed to me my place at the table. I was not the youngest to do so, and the years that had passed had not been kind to me. Age weighed heavier on my shoulders than the loose armour that groaned against my joints. “I did, my liege” I whispered.

Arthur looked up at me. His eyes were smeared with mud, his hair matted into thick ropes and dampened by the rainfall until his once crimson mane was little but a grimy mess. He strained, struggling to lift himself, but the weight of his torn armour weighed him down and he collapsed weakly against the bough of the tree. “You speak the truth this time, Bedwyr?” he asked.

 “I hurled your blade into the lake with all my strength, my liege” I said, hanging my head. “I give you my word.”

His gauntleted hand clasped at my shoulder. His grip felt weaker. In his prime, he had been a towering figure, a bear of a man. Now, lying in the mud, I could scarce believe that the man before me was the same king by whose side I had rode to battle on many occasions. “And?” he insisted, his voice cracking.

I knew at the time that Arthur was dying. I could not deny it to myself, could not bury myself in the mud in order to pretend that it would not happen. With his fall, so too would fall his reign. I wondered where his son lay on this battlefield. Mordred, who had stewarded the throne in Arthur’s absence and in his treachery failed to relinquish it, Mordred the usurper. Doubtless he too had met his end in the ignobility of the field.

“I threw your blade, my liege, and a figure recovered it” I said. “A great figure, wrapped in shimmering robes, like unto an angel from the Lord above.”

Even through the haze of his pain, my king’s eyes peered at me with a fiery brightness. “You speak truly?” he asked.

I felt my lips tighten. The words came heavily to me, and I cursed myself as I spoke them. “Aye, my liege, I speak truly.”

He sighed. In his exhalation, I could all but see the weight of his woes lift and his burdens ease. “I understand” he said. “Perhaps, to your eyes, that is what you did see. I thank you, Bedwyr.”

My eyes stung. I fought back tears and pushed the conversation from my mind. I determined not to think of it now. Instead, my hand reached down to the wound that pierced Arthur’s side. His pristine armour was rent, twisted and coiled as though it were paper. Slick with blood, the tip of Mordred’s spear still held, embedded in Arthur’s side. The spear’s tip had dug deep, and broken. As I tried to clasp my fingers around it, I felt my king’s hand rise to clasp around mine. Closing my grip down upon the spear, the blood slicked it too wet to be pulled free.

“I can pull it free” I said, raising the stump of my wrist where once my left hand had been to rest beside the wound. “Let me.”

Shaking his head, Arthur brushed my attempt aside. “Nay,” he said, “It matters not. I am not long for this world.”

“Nay, my liege” I said, straining to keep my voice strong. Arthur was no stranger to the feeling of death’s impending touch, and neither was I. “You have yet so much to do. We shall send for the healers. We can dispatch the knights to find Merlin, we will search every cave to find where he has wormed his way into. Surely he will…”

Arthur turned his head and gave a grunt, choking slightly against a glob of blood-flecked spittle that pooled at the corner of his lips. “Merlin will not come” he said, “Not after what I have done. No, the old fool was right. Mordred was right.”

“Say it not so!” I snapped.

“It is” barked Arthur, the last of his strength riling up within his veins. “It is as Merlin said. The history of my reign has been one of endless wars and of countless bloodshed. I was wrong to dismiss him. And when my son took the throne…”

“Mordred stole the throne” I interjected, my impertinence at interrupting my king falling to the wayside. “He took it through treachery.”

“And held it in the hope of ending the cycle of war” said my king, his voice growing distant and sorrowful.

I fell silent. There was little that could be said to sway him. For months, Arthur’s indignity at his son’s actions had bolstered him, had given fire to his wrath. But for all of Arthur’s temperament, Mordred had always been the most diplomatic. I thought back to when Arthur had first returned to the throne, entering through the great oak gates of Camelot, and demanded that Mordred step down. “From one war you return, father” he had said, his voice smooth with youth and cool with patience, “and to how many others will you ride away to in the future? Nay. Your tale of bloodshed must be brought to an end.” It was, perhaps, no real surprise that Arthur had rebuffed him.

I did not wish to dwell on the thoughts. Yet there was no means of denying that many of the wars that we had fought had been needless. Yet if Mordred had been sincere, there was now no way to know.

“You cannot die, my liege!” Pushing the thoughts aside, I shook my head and cried. “You are Arthur, the son of the dragon. You cannot die, not here in the mud and not now, not when we have yet more work to accomplish. Remember the dream, my liege!”

Arthur seemed to deflate, and for the first time I realised that he no longer seemed to be taller than me. “The dream?” he asked, “To bring the lands together. To unite England under God. Don’t you see, Bedivere? It was a falsehood, all of it.” He looked at me, a harshness in his soft eyes. “Each war fought was to be the one that would have ended all wars. Mordred understood the folly of that. My son.” His voice trembled, and broke in a weak sob. “My son could see it. He could see all the enemies that I had left in my wake, and that is why they flocked to his banner. He would have been a better king than I, and in my arrogance we brought arms against him.”

I clutched my hand around his own. “A fever grips you, my liege. It will pass.”

“Go” he said. “Go from me now. You have served me loyally, and I give you this one final command. Forgo the dream.”

“No” I pleaded.

“Leave me” he said, “my time comes, and while strength still flows within my veins to give forth one last command, it will be this one. Find a new path with the years left to you. Do not dedicate yourself to that which has destroyed me.”

I tried to stand,  tried to rise up from my knees, but they were cold. I had barely even noticed the mist that had descended around us, enveloping the dead trees and coiling through the mud. It chilled my bones, freezing them even deeper than my king’s words. Leave him? How could I? I had failed him already; had already accepted that to be true. I would have followed him into the very mouth of Hell if he had bidden it, so was my love for him.

And so, kneeling there for time immesurable, clutching my king’s dying hand, saying not a word, I hoped beyond hope that one of Mordred’s surviving men would stumble up through the mud and strike me down. But no men came. So complete was my king’s wrath upon them.

I thought of what Arthur had said. Of all the wars that we had fought together. In each one, I had been dumbstruck, astonished to watch him in battle. We had fought side by side, but each time I had been as to nothing beside him, riding gallant and shining in polished armour and smiting his foes as if with the very vengeance of heaven. In my own way I had indeed loved him, loved him as any of my brother knights had loved him. We had followed him as surely as we had followed the dream. It had been the dream, the hope of a unified land, that had brought us together – but it was Arthur who we followed. And now the time had come for that to end.

But that was not to be so.

I had not witnessed the figure approach through the mist, not until their slender form was almost upon me. Catching sight of the figure as they emerged from behind a tree, walking without the breaking of branch underfoot, a chill passed over me. Turning my sight up, and saw at first the darkness of the robes that the stranger wore, billowing in a breeze that I could not feel.

“Who are you?” I called. The figure made no reply. Rising to my feet, my hand instinctively fell to my side. The stranger did not so much as break a step. As they drew beside the king’s form, the figure looked in my direction and lifted thin, pale hands to lower the hood from the robe.

I waited. As the hood fell back, I found myself staring into the face of a woman.

“Stand back” I told her, feeling my hand enfold around the pommel of my blade. “Take not a step closer.”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed at me, curiously, much like the expression that a cat would make towards a mouse. I noted a curious paleness to her skin. Her dark hair fell from her face, pristine and quite ebony. The sharpness of her features seemed impossible. Her eyebrows, high and stern, caused her strangely coloured eyes to seem much wider than they could possibly be. She turned her head from me, as if she truly did not consider me a threat, and looked to the body of Arthur. As she did so, I caught a glance of her ears, equally as sharp as her eyebrows.

That is when I realised who stood before me, and pulled my sword free from its scabbard.

She shot a glance back to me. “Lower your blade, knight” she said, her voice cool and soft. “I mean you no threat.”

“I know of you.” My voice was hard. “You are Morgana.”

Slowly, she nodded. A smirk brushed the corner of her lips. “My reputation precedes me, then.”

I nodded, refusing to lower my sword. “Merlin warned us well of your kind.”

A thin whip of wind caught through the air, and the woman’s hair flickered like the stars at night. “I am honoured, good Sir Bedivere. Tell me, how is my brother?”

“Brother and lover, as by his tales” I said. “We no longer keep his company. His whereabouts are unknown to me”

She drew closer. For a moment, I felt an urge to step back. “A shame” she replied. Her voice felt like an embrace. “He forsook so much of his heritage to walk among your mortal kin.”

Realisation struck me that as she had moved towards me, she had not actually taken a single step. The chill in the air intensified. I raised my sword. “What do you want?” I commanded.

Her gaze brushed over me. She looked me up and down, assessing me, her eyes running from my head to my toes. Then she turned, and slipped to the side of my fallen king.

“Get away from him” I hissed.

Steadily, she lowered herself down beside him. The brushing trails of her black robes seemed to flicker like a candle. She looked at him, and touched her hand to his brow. “Your king dies” she said, “and I come to pay my respects.”

“Respect?” I spat. “Your kind know not the meaning of the word.”

Rising, she turned to me. “You wound me, good knight” she said. “The touch of the son of the dragon has had an impact even in my realm. Do you find it so hard to believe that I would share your grief?”

 “They call you Morgana of the Fae” I replied, pursing my lips. “And it is known that the fae do not open their mouths unless to lie.”

She laughed. “You accuse me of telling a lie? No, young knight, I have not. Not yet, at least. Not while the scent of your lies still hang on your tongue. You ask why I have come, so here is your answer plain. I come to reclaim what is ours. Where is the sword?”

I snorted. “What sword is that?”

Her smile seemed intoxicating, and for a moment I found my own lips turning at the corners, as if they were catching the fire of her own. “The king’s sword” she said. “He may have believed your tale of some visitor from heaven reclaiming the blade, but I do not. The sword is ours.”

Gradually, I lowered my sword, keeping the tip raised in warning and spoke in a measured tone, “I know not of what you speak”

“How readily your kind break their vows” replied Morgana. “You stand by your king and take an oath of knighthood. To act justly, to be honourable and valorous, to chastity and to honesty.” Here she approached me again, “And no sooner are those vows taken than they are broken. Left to ruin in a frenzy of wrath and murder and lust and lies.”

Anger pulsed through me. My heart hammered in my chest, and my eyes narrow into a hateful glare. I was angry with her, but my anger at her was in truth directed at myself. At my own failings, at having let Arthur down, at having failed to defend him and to have left him to this damnable battle. But also my anger at my dishonesty. Arthur had sent me forth twice to throw his great sword into the lake. And where I had failed to do so, the third time my mind was set to deceive my king.

“The sword is hidden” I said. “You will not find it.”

Morgana’s gaze seemed to shift, shifting from a torrent of emotions. I knew not if she looked at me with malevolence or amusement, and for a moment true fear passed through me of her, fear of the magics that she could wield and of the powers at her employ. Finally, she said “You know little of what you intervene in, young knight.”

“I know enough” I retorted. “The sword is Arthur’s, and it will be a great Christian relic. It will lead his followers.”

“No” she said, “it will never be that. Hear me now, mortal man. The sword was forged by our kind and bore enchantments of my own making. Arthur bid you to fulfil the last bargain, which was the return of Excalibur to us. You have stolen it. But that,” she said, her eyes lowering to glance at the stump from where my left hand may once have grown, “is of little surprise, given your youthful misdeeds.”

Spitting, my saliva vanishing into the mud. “Leave” I said. “The king’s sword will not be yours this day.”

Morgana’s hair seemed to billow. Her robe whipped around her, thrashing wildly. I clutched my sword, clasping it until the blood pulsed through my fingers. If the witch would strike me down, I would be ready, having protected the last remnant of my king, and would be content to die by his side.

Instead, she said “Then perhaps another deal can be struck.”

“I will not say again” came my answer. “Leave me to bury my king.”

Her head turned, and she looked to Arthur. For a moment, she was silent. It appeared to me that she was perhaps lost in thought, caught in a strange and otherworldly contemplation that I could never even begin to fathom.

“If you wish it,” she said finally, “I will tell you how you may return your king to life.”

The words struck me like a sword blow. “You lie” I said.

“I do not” she said. “His soul has left his mortal form, but it is not lost to us. We can take him, if you wish it, and keep him safe for a time. Until you return with what is necessary to do the task and make the dragon rise again.”

My blade lowered. My sword felt heavy in my hand, and hung down by my side. “Witch” I hissed. “Witch, and liar.”

“We gave him the sword with which he could rule his kingdom” she said, her voice like ice, “and he did, even though his rule was one of blood and betrayal. We kept our promises, Bedivere, and we will do so again. If you wish it.”

My mind reeled. I looked at Arthur, at my king. He lay, his back slumped against a bare and rotten tree, his great mane of hair matted and bloodied, his armour rent and torn. He had been so glorious, I remembered, so glorious. And now he looked so small. The fire in him was gone, and he looked empty. My sword fell, and landed wet in the dirt.

“You speak true?” I asked.

She did not answer. She did not need to. I was certain at that time that Morgana knew what I would have done to have brought life back to my king.

I looked at her, and said “What need I do?”

She smiled. “First, you will agree. Should I tell you this, you will return to us that which is ours. You will recover Excalibur from wherever you have hidden it. If you swear this, I will tell you what it is that you require to restore life to your king.”

My anger was gone. Kneeling by Arthur, I reached out to touch his face. He was not breathing. He had not done so for many minutes.

The words came, almost unbidden but said with all my heart and all my soul. “I swear”

Morgana placed her hand upon my shoulder. Even through my armour, her touch felt chill; not cold like the bite of winter, but with an almost inhuman coolness.

Turning to look up to her, there was no way to deny that she was indeed very beautiful in her own way. “What must I do?” I asked.

“You must find Galahad” she said. “He has what you seek.”

Her words seemed bewildering and confusing to me. “Galahad?” I asked. That was impossible. I had not even heard his name for almost two summers. “But he is surely dead.”

“Not so” she said. “Not so. Galahad yet lives. Find him, and you will find what you seek.”

I understood little of what she spoke. Galahad was, doubtless, surely dead. None of we who had dwelled within the walls of Camelot had so much as heard of him since he had travelled forward, bidden on his journey by Arthur. The youngest son of Lancelot, Galahad’s coming to Arthur’s great council had been a moment that many had hoped for and had triumphed as an omen of great fortune and tidings ahead. Like many of the events that had befell us within these dark days, the loss of Galahad was one of the many great regrets that I feared that my king would have carried with him unto the grave.

Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed two other figures moving through the mist towards our gathering. Each of the two was dressed in the same shrouds as Morgana, their faces concealed by the folds of the fabric. They moved as shades across the land, leaving neither sound nor disturbance in their wake. Together, the three women were all but dressed in identical gowns, their features equally haunting and immortal. These sisters, I thought, had about them an air that told me that they were creatures more of dreaming than of flesh.

I watched as they enshrouded the king among the billows of their robes and carried him up, as though he weighed no more than the still and turgid air of the marsh. I looked to Morgana and asked, “Where are you taking him?”

“To Avalon” she replied. “To our home, where we shall care for his body. Fear not, for he is the son of the dragon, and his spirit is strong.” She looked at me, her eyes dark and haunting. “Come to us when you have found Galahad, and forget not the sword. We will do the rest.”

“How shall I find him?” I asked.

Morgana turned her gaze from me. She began to move away, seeming to fade between the encircling mists. “That is not my concern” she said. “Ask my brother, perchance. If his disgust with mortal men has not overtaken him, then mayhap he will aid you. When you are ready and you have found that which you seek, come forth to the shore of the lake. Any lake will do. Then, do as Arthur bid and throw the sword into the lake, and we hear your summons.”

“And then?” I asked. “Then the king will return to lead our country once more?”

“Perhaps” she said. “He will return, but his will may lead him on his own path untethered.”

I wished that I had understood then what she meant. But I knew not her meaning, and in truth paid her words no heed. Instead my mind filled with only the images of Arthur, of the mighty Excalibur clad once more in his powerful grip, of the enigmatic fate of Galahad. Had I the wits to realise the truth of her words, I may have recognised them for the warning that they were.

Standing there for a while more, the mist gradually began to fade, seeping its way back into the dead forest. Looking down at the tree where Arthur had lain, I found myself filled with a tumbling mix of emotions. My hand was shaking, and I knew not if it were from fear of the dark ladies or excitement at what the future may bring. Closing my eyes, I tried to picture Galahad, the young man with smooth skin, barely a boy. Maybe he yet lived. Maybe his quest had not ended in failure as we had thought. But perhaps not. It may have been madness, but it was truly a time of madness. Perhaps, I realised, the grail could still be found. And with it, Arthur could live again.

I knew not if any of this could be even possible. It was all a great confusion to me. But as I set out from the turmoil of the battlefield, traipsing over the bodies of the fallen and the slain, resolving to myself that I would put aside such dark times. A new dawn would rise. The great son of the dragon would be reborn.

I felt hope.

The Thing in the Basement chapter 7

The seventh chapter of my new book, "THE THING IN THE BASEMENT", is up for public viewing on googledocs now! Have a read, leave your thoughts, and stay tuned for chapter 8!


https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mgXkFFRmgWm_2Z__9rO8sgZzVk6ho0Xfdc5HuR0Fy7g/edit?usp=sharing

The Thing in the Basement chapter 6

The sixth chapter of my new book, "THE THING IN THE BASEMENT", is up for public viewing on googledocs now! Have a read, leave your thoughts, and stay tuned for chapter 7!
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1e...