CQ Magazine February by CQI Magazine

Edition 2 issue 3

Creative quarterly - February 2016

CQ International

CONTENTS Pages 3, 15, 25, 59, 75

Maria Wyrick

Page 6

Audrey Lisquit

Page 16

Ashley Davis

Page 26

Francisco Rdz. Vernet

Page 34

Dorothy Berry-Lound

Page 42

Squid McFinnigan

Page 60

Bernie Yow

Page 88

Writing Competitions

Page 76

Sefanie Iwaniuk

Page 88

Rika Inami

Page 98

Traci Bold

Due to demand this months CQ Magazine is divided into two parts. This is Part 1. (The main magazine)

Part 2 carries the CQ Special Feature Extra along with many more artists works. Please read Part 2 after this, Thank you.

Maria Wyrick Aka

LaPoetess

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La Poetess began writing poetry has a way to battle her depression with no real way of knowing that her words would bring joy and hope to others. She decided to expand in her writing and began writing on other topics other than depression, topics such as love, abuse, cancer etc. LaPoetess first artistic love is poetry however she has expanded her talents into photography and digital art work. Her favorite way to show her creativity is to combine her talents. You will see both her art and photos included into her poetry.

Read many samples of LaPoetessâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work Throughout this edition of CQ Magazine

Tales 0f Crime & Violence The collectors editions This remarkable three volume collection encompasses numerous and varied stories of acts and deeds of crime and violence. Paul White has once again woven his masterly spell of intrigue into each stories plot. Secrecy, scheming, plotting and conspiracy live hand-inhand with outrageous and shocking violence, viciousness and brutality. All three volumes of Tales of Crime & Violence are packed with carnage and bloodshed and

mayhem, while an ominous sense of sinister, physiological apprehension lingers in the dark

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shadows. Tales of Crime & Violence contains graphic acts

of violence, profanities and sexual reference. It is not recommended for reading for those under adult age.

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Dear Joaquin

By Audrey Lisquit

first saw you wearing a skirt in Gladiator, and I might as well come right out and tell you that it wasn’t Russell who tickled my fancy. It was you. Thanks to you, I climbed into bed with a devilish smile, much to my boyfriend’s bemusement. You can imagine my disappointment in the morning… The fantasy machine was running full speed. Yes, Joaquin. Before you, there were no wet dreams to liven up my nights. Rien. Nada. I like your mysterious air. Your malicious gaze, almost hypnotic. Your shy smile, and at the same time, that sulky look that drives me wild. An undefinable something that those who have experienced the unthinkable possess.

I won’t beat around the bush, Joaquin. I’ve been following your multiple lives on the big screen for years. I’ve found myself wanting to throw myself into your arms, kiss you, slap you, turn my back on you, and finally run after you and take your hand in mine. So exciting! It’s high time you knew a little more about me. We’re not getting any younger, and I want my fairy tale too. I am a woman, and courtesy demands that you not ask my age. But I’ll give you a hint: My ovaries are no longer under warranty. I could cook us some vegetables with herbs and spices, and we could enjoy them with a bottle of good wine, naked before the fireplace on a bearskin rug. No, wait, no bearskin rug. I’m an animal lover. Just like you. I’m a bit wild. No society life for me—I’d rather take a walk in the forest, hug a tree, caress the stones, talk to the birds. I have a feeling you’d like it. My chakras are balanced, and I’d love to harmonize them with yours. I’m an uncomplicated woman, passionate, exciting, with a quirky sense of humor… Yes, you’d like it. I don’t need much. A little smile, a broad shoulder, and my nipples press against my blouse.

Intrigued? Interested? I wouldn’t object to having a drink with you, either in Paris or Chicago. (I’ll explain later.) Ah, and lest I neglect to mention it, I’m French. Not unlike other French women, I appreciate discretion, but I like to be noticed. I accept compliments with a shy smile. But one thing I can’t stand is a lack of support. I don’t sulk; I pout. I don’t eat; I dine. I never get drunk; I get tipsy. Until soon, I hope.

Yours truly,

Audrey

Translated from French by Kenneth Barger

Dear Joaquin

By Audrey Lisquit

Je t’ai découvert en jupette dans Gladiator et autant te le dire tout de suite, ce n’était pas Russell qui titillait mon imagination. C’était toi. Grâce à toi, je m’étais alors mise au lit avec un sourire coquin, ce qui avait fortement étonné mon petit ami. Inutile de te dire ma déception au réveil…La machine à fantasmes était en marche. Oui Joaquin. Avant toi, aucun rêve humide n’était venu égayer mes nuits. Rien. Nada. Ce que j’aime chez toi, c’est ton mystère. Ce regard malicieux, presque hypnotique. Ce sourire timide et en même temps cette petite moue boudeuse qui me taquine. Quelque chose d’indéfinissable, propre aux personnes qui ont vécu l’impensable. Je ne vais pas y aller par quatre chemins, Joaquin. Cela fait de nombreuses années que je suis tes multiples vies sur grand écran. J’ai eu envie de te sauter au cou, de t’embrasser, de te gifler, de te tourner le dos, de te rattraper, pour enfin te prendre la main. Que d’émotions ! Il est maintenant temps que tu en saches un peu plus sur moi. Les années passent et moi aussi je veux ma belle histoire. Je suis une femme, et la courtoisie veut que tu ne me demandes pas mon âge. Mais je te mets sur une piste : mes ovaires ne sont pas de première fraicheur. Je cuisine des légumes, des herbes et des épices et nous pourrions les déguster accompagnés d’une bonne bouteille de vin, nus devant la cheminée, sur une peau de bête. Oh ! Je m’égare, pas de peau de bête, je suis l’amie des animaux. Toi aussi. Je suis un peu sauvage. Aux mondanités, je préfère les balades en forêt, câliner des arbres, caresser des pierres et parler aux oiseaux. Quelque chose me dit que tu pourrais apprécier. Mes chakras sont équilibrés et je me ferai une joie de les harmoniser aux tiens. Je suis une femme simple, passionnée (et passionnante), et j’ai un certain humour…Tu apprécieras.

Je ne prends pas beaucoup de place et je me contente de peu. Un sourire, une épaule et j’ai déjà les tétons qui pointent. Intrigué ? Intéressé ? J’accepterai volontiers de boire un verre en ta compagnie, soit à Paris, soit à Chicago (je t’expliquerai). Ah oui ! Je précise, à toutes fins utiles, que je suis française. Comme mes congénères, j’apprécie la discrétion mais j’aime être remarquée. J’accepte les compliments avec un brin de timidité. Mais l’absence d’encouragement me fâche. Je ne fais pas la gueule, je boude. Je ne mange pas, je déguste. Je ne suis jamais ivre, tout juste gaie. J’espère à très vite, Bien à toi,

Audrey

Audrey Lisquit Inlassable rêveuse, tireless dreamer. Auteur, Writer, Blogger and Community Manager. N'hésitez pas à me contacter via mon adresse mail personnelle que vous trouverez plus bas...

http://audreylisquit.com/

Elizab

She began writing w the 4th grade at P.S. 1 wanted to be an autho classes to sneak off an Beatle, Paul McCartne

Continuing to write family, divorced, set u After attending Long East Tennessee State U concentrations in Psyc thirteen years.

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/ElizabethHorton-Newton/e/B00NSET8JY/ Author Website: elizabethhorton-newtonauthor.com Twitter: @redqueenliz

She currently lives i collection of rescued d

Her first book "View October 2014; a love Kennedy on Nov. 22,

This was followed in about a Native Americ his hometown he strug or innocence. Suddenl some eyes turn suspic

She is currently at w napping, gypsy crime

beth Horton-Newton was born and raised in New York City.

when she was a child, writing stories for friends and family. In 151 in Manhattan she wrote an essay about her dream job- she or. While attending Hunter College High School she often cut nd work on writing her first novel, a love story about her favorite ey. It has long since been lost to time.

short stories over the following years, she married, raised a up housekeeping with her four children, and returned to school. Island University in Brooklyn, NY majoring in Media Arts and University earning a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies with chology and Sociology, she worked in the social work field for

in E. Tennessee with her husband, author Neil Newton, and a dogs and cats.

w From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale" was published in story that revolves around the assassination of President John 1963 and the ensuing conspiracy theories.

n June 2015 with the release of "Riddle" a romantic thriller can convicted of killing his high school girlfriend. Returning to ggles to readjust to life in a town divided in its belief of his guilt ly accidents are happening and people are dying in the town and ciously toward Kort Erikson.

work on her third novel, "Stolen", a romantic thriller about kidfamilies, and the Witness Protection Program.

Seven years ago Kort Eriksen went to prison for killing his girlfriend Desiree. Now he’s back in Riddle and some people think he got off easy. Others, including long time friend Norma, think he was railroaded because he’s the only Native American in town. Grace Donahue is running away from her past. Trapped in Riddle until her car is repaired she develops a friendship with Kort. Suddenly accidents are happening and people are dying. Is Kort adding to his list of victims or has someone else taken the reins? As mysteries from the past rise to the surface, more questions will be raised. The suspect file grows as victims fall. Is Desiree’s killer back for more or is someone trying to avenge her death? The riddle of Riddle will be solved, but how many bodies will it take

Looking into the rearview mirror again he watched as the deputy moved slowly toward the truck; hand on the butt of his holstered gun. The brim of his hat cast a dark shadow on the officer’s face but when he stepped up beside the open driver’s window Kort immediately recognized him. He said nothing, waiting for Butch to speak first. Prison lesson number three, speak only when spoken to. Butch squinted at Kort. “Good afternoon Chief. Do you know who I am?” Kort wanted to laugh. Kort wanted to say he had no idea who this pumped up Deputy Dawg was. Instead he simply nodded, all the while maintaining eye contact. Butch nodded back. “I’m Deputy Leland Parker.” It took a lot of self-control to hold back the laughter that tickled the back of his throat and the corners of his eyes. He nodded again. “I know who you are too, Kort Eriksen. I just want you to know I will be keeping an eye on you. If you so much as walk across the street on a red light I will know it. Do you understand Chief?” The humor melted out of him like snow melting on a hot stove. Kort’s eyes narrowed involuntarily. But he responded in an even tone. “Yes sir. The men stared at one another for a full minute before Butch took a deep breath. “Well now. I need to see license, registration, and proof of insurance.

Book Trailers: View From the Sixth Floor: http://bit.ly/1OQUID9 Riddle: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xi78rbM_Tlg Book Links: View From the Sixth Floor: http://amzn.to/1Nkkr2Y

https://www.createspace.com/5010415 Riddle: http://amzn.to/1drBi6a https://www.createspace.com/5439226

Author links View: https://www.facebook.com/LeeOswaldView Riddle: https://www.facebook.com/Riddlenovel Stolen: http://on.fb.me/1L7yfOk

My name is Ashl

originally studied p theatre at Perfor London. After gra had two lengthy co The Walt Disney C where I entertain guests on a

www.ashleydavis

One of my main roles was playing Tim Burton's Jack Skellingto training, I appeared on Channel four's "The Sunday Night Project tomime as Aladdin and King Rat in "Dick Whittington". More re drama "The Mill", playing a

I have always had a great interest in photography and in the ear knew right away that I wanted to specialise in portrait photogra pher, my aim is to capture the individualsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; personality and bring so offer outdoor shoots, using natural lighting to create an add highest standard. Having trained as an actor myself, I know ho help aid you at a casting or audition. Your head-sho

I am now settled in West Yorkshire and am shortly e

ley Davis and I

professional musical rmers College in aduating in 2009, I ontracts working for Company in Paris, ned thousands of daily basis.

sphotography.co.

on, from "The Nightmare before Christmas". Throughout my t", as a backing dancer for Lily Allen and also appeared in panecently I have featured in channel fours award winning period a small role called Spinner.

rly part of 2012 I graduated from the Photography Institute. I aphy, mainly focusing on head-shots for actors. As a photograg out their character, by using various lighting techniques. I alded touch. All my images are professionally retouched to the ow important it is to have a range of up to date head-shots to ot could make the difference in getting you the job.

expecting my first child with my partner Kayleigh.

MY TOWN Ashley got the idea for this project when taking his dog for a walk early in the morning. At the time he was only carrying his camera phone, which is how he captured these images. It was a beautiful clear morning and no one was about, which made it perfect for getting the right image. Ashley wanted to explore shapes and angles of buildings and how light can bounce off the subject.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Turning the images black and white adds an extra depth to each photo and really helps to highlight the shadowsâ&#x20AC;?

Francisco Rdz Vernet Is a CQ Magazine Award winner 2015 for his dual language poetry. On the following pages you can read his short story, entitled REVENANT, written in Spanish. Enjoy.

Revenant

By Francisco Rdz Vernet

Warsaw, 1500 A.C. Se ha hecho tarde… el atardecer ha caído. Al caer el atardecer ha teñido el cielo de tonos ocres, azules y púrpuras. La temperatura ha descendido considerablemente, y una densa neblina ha cubierto el camino. Difícilmente puedo ver el camino a través de las rendijas en las paredes del carruaje. Puedo ver como la neblina juguetea con las sombras de los enormes pinos a lo largo del camino. Puedo ver luces tintineantes en la distancia. Ha llovido a cántaros, el agua se ha abierto paso a través de las rendijas de las roídas paredes de madera del carruaje. Me gusta oler el aroma de la tierra húmeda tras una intensa lluvia. Extraño estar en casa. Aún en mis recuerdos, puedo ver mi villa en la noche. Recuerdo también, cuando juagábamos a corretear ovejas y cazar sapos en el patio trasero. Pero al cerrar mis ojos, aún puedo verte al despedirnos. Al momento, el carruaje ha realizado tres paradas. Desconozco el trayecto y las paradas que hemos hecho. La obscuridad y la densa neblina no me han permitido tener una vista clara de los alrededores. Sin embargo, puedo decir con certeza que hemos viajado por caminos rurales, dado lo descuidado del camino. De hecho, cada vez que el carruaje pega en un bache, inevitablemente golpeamos las paredes del mismo. Pedimos a gritos al chofer que disminuya la velocidad, y le exigimos que tenga cuidado; pero él parece simplemente ignorarnos. Silencio. Entre ratos, los quejidos de los heridos o moribundos interrumpen el silencio. Me hiere tanto escucharles como ignorarles. Hemos disminuido la velocidad… pareciera que nos detendremos. Esta vez he logrado

echar un vistazo a los alrededores, y he avistado un señalamiento que dice: Kępa Kiełpińska. Al llegar a lo que parece ser su plaza central, una muchedumbre había rodeado a nuestro carruaje. Tal parece que no somos bienvenidos aquí. De hecho, los habitantes del poblado han impedido que hagamos un alto total, exigiendo al chofer que abandonara el lugar en el acto. Algunos transeúntes y testigos han arrojado vegetales y piedras al carruaje… además de insultos y maldiciones al chofer. He escuchado que algunos testigos llamaron pos su nombre al chofer: Caleb. Su nombre me es familiar. Recuerdo una legenda en donde se describe que Caleb es un esbirro que sólo sirve a un amo. Caleb significa “aquél que es como perro”, ya que se sabe que es entrañablemente fiel a su amo. A Caleb se le conoce como un familiar de aquellos que viven en la penumbra y en las sombras. De Caleb también se dice que es el chofer fiel de los Vrolok. Caleb es quien conduce al infierno, a las almas de los condenados. Si esto es real, me temo que he muerto… o he sido colectado como un muerto - viviente; un revenant, en términos de folclore.

Las exigencias de los habitantes de Kępa Kiełpińska, nos obligaron a partir de inmediato, no hubo tiempo de parar por provisiones. Estoy hambriento. No hemos tenido una comida decente en días. Nos hemos mantenido de raciones de carne podrida, de pan y vinagre. En pocas ocasiones, Caleb nos ha arrojado las sobras de su rudimentaria dieta, la cual consta de semillas, rábanos y raíces secas de árboles y plantas diversas. En contadas ocasiones nos ha arrojado trozos de carne pasada, como sería costumbre de un cavernario. Realmente estoy hambriento, extraño mi hogar. ¿Habrán pasado semanas? No he dormido nada. Estoy agotado. Una nueva, Caleb se ha detenido para alimentar a los caballos. Esta es nuestra tercera parada. En esta ocasión, a través de las rendijas del carruaje he alcanzado a ver un letrero que decía… “Bienvenidos a Wisla.” Ahora sé que estamos cerca de la frontera checa. He podido escuchar a Caleb regatear por comida y vino a los habitantes. Una vez más, Caleb nos ha arrojado pan, algunas patatas cocidas y un odre de vino. Ésta como cada ocasión, al abrir Caleb la puerta del carruaje la luz entra de golpe lastimando incluso a la oscuridad. El resplandor de la luz lastima mis ojos, obligándome de manera instintiva a cubrirme con las manos… imposible ver el camino. En esta ocasión, al abrir la puerta, Caleb se acercó demasiado a la misma, y no pude evitar ver su rostro de cerca. Su piel me resultó tan pálida como la muerte, el

trayecto azuloso de las venas cruzada su desfigurado rostro. Sus ojos, eran tan blancos como los de aquellos que han vivido toda su existencia en cuevas alejados de la luz del Sol. Sus dientes estaban astillados, y parecían estar afilados como navajas. Caleb me miró con desolación, y se río a carcajadas, al tiempo que golpeó mi tórax con un manotazo firme para alejarme de la puerta. Aún puedo escucharle burlándose de mí, y ese recuerdo me aterroriza. Dentro del carruaje, al cerrarse las puertas, entre nosotros peleamos por un pedazo de pan, algunas papas y el ordo de vino. Peleamos y forcejeamos por nuestra vida, aquí dentro del carruaje, en donde la oscuridad es testigo mudo de nuestra bajeza y debilidad. Me aferro a mi humanidad. Me aferro a mis memorias. Quien sabe a dónde nos llevara el carruaje mañana. No logro conciliar el sueño. En cada ocasión en que trato de dormir, sólo imágenes de antaño aparecen delante de mí. En algunas de estas imágenes me veo parado frente a un bastione, . ¿Habrá pasado un mes? De entre nosotros han muerto tres; Caleb simplemente ha hecho una breve parada al lado del camino para deshacerse de sus cuerpos. Simplemente los ha aventado al lado del camino, no ha querido darse tiempo para enterrarles. Para él, sólo somos cuerpos sin alma. ¿Debería ser de otra manera? Después de

todo él solamente es el chofer… la muerte es su amo. ¿Estamos vivos? Estoy cansado. Tengo frío. Mi piel se ha tornado pálida… como de muerto; de hecho, puedo seguir el trayecto de mis venas debajo de mi piel. Mi pulso es débil. Tengo sed. Me he dormido, el cansancio me ha vencido. Estoy solo ahora, el resto de nosotros ha muerto durante la noche. Caleb se ha deshecho de los cuerpos durante el camino. Esta vez, Caleb se ha tomado el tiempo necesario para arrastrar sus cuerpos detrás de los árboles, dentro del bosque. Un cambio sustancial a su rito anterior. Incluso me ha parecido oírle cantar al tiempo en que arrastraba los cuerpos. No logré reconocer con certeza la letra de sus cánticos, pero entre líneas y su murmurar, me aterró escuchar… “El amo está por llegar…, el amo serpenteando se acerca.” Al regresar Caleb al carruaje, se aproximó a la puerta y susurró: “El amo está cerca, debes prepararte para Él…Dazon” es la primera vez que Caleb me llamó por mi nombre de pila. Ha pasado ya un rato desde la última vez que paramos. Me muero de hambre, aún no puedo dormir. Cada vez que trato de dormir, cientos de imágenes aparecen delante de mis ojos. En su mayoría ahora tratan de mi niñez. En particular predomina la imagen de un ser pálido, larguirucho, alto, de orejas puntiagudas, y de grandes profundos ojos negros, que me mira con detenimiento. Le veo reírse de mí, al tiempo que me señala con sus largos dedos de

uñas puntiagudas. Le escucho susurrar mi nombre, llamándome. “Dazon”, “Dazon”. Ya había olvidado sus visitas, éstas me habían abandonado desde la niñez. Aún recuerdo con miedo la primera vez que le vi. Ha pasado tanto tiempo… tendría diez años o menos, cuando le vi por la noche en el chalet de la abuela. Aún en mi memoria, es vivo el recuerdo de esa inusual noche lluviosa. El viento azotaba con furia las ramas de los árboles contra las ventanas, los destellos de los relámpagos dibujaban espeluznantes sombras en la pared de mi habitación... mismas que parecían danzar al ritmo de la lluvia. Fue ahí cuando le vi, después de un breve momento de total oscuridad agazapado detrás de las cortinas de mi habitación. Me miraba fijamente, al tiempo que dibujaba una maliciosa sonrisa sardónica en su rostro mientras reía. Me quedé petrificado de miedo en mi cama. Le escuché susurrar mi nombre repetidamente, y así como apareció, en un abrir y cerrar de ojos desapareció. El eco de su risa permaneció en mi cabeza por años… nadie,

excepto mi abuela, me creyó a la mañana siguiente. Aún Como Ayer: Cuando amarte era tan dulce como beber tu sangre Más tarde, en esos años, nos mudamos a las llanuras. Desde entonces no había vuelto a sentir su presencia. Estoy sediento. Tengo hambre. No he dormido. Me siento muy cansado. Caleb ha parado el carruaje. Siento en el ambiente la humedad que queda tras de una terrible lluvia. La temperatura ha descendido considerablemente… casi está helando. Hemos permanecido inmóviles aquí por mucho tiempo, pareciera que Caleb espera algo. Al transcurrir el tiempo, al acercarse el atardecer la temperatura desciende aún más. Ahora el tiempo parece correr más de prisa, o es el tedio de la espera, el hastío de la incertidumbre. A través de las rendijas en las paredes del carruaje he podido ver la llegada de la oscuridad, y con ella la noche, que al acercarse palmo a palmo, se acompaña de esta espesa neblina, que a su paso parece devorar todo aquello que osa permanecer en su camino. Es aterrador ver tal imagen, que semeja a la vida misma huir hacia las tierras altas en busca de un santuario. La oscuridad predomina, al punto en que por momentos ni el más aventurado rayo de Luna logra atravesar la espesa negrura, haciendo la visibilidad imposible. Pareciera que todo afuera del carruaje ha sido deglutido por la oscuridad y la neblina, incluso ahora, respirar me es difícil.

Me es imposible determinar cuánto tiempo ha pasado. De repente, la neblina y la oscuridad se disipan, dejando que los rayos de Luna tiñan de plata los alrededores. Puedo ver ahora hacia afuera por las rendijas de las paredes del carruaje. Caleb ha dejado la silla del conductor. Me parece haberle visto parado a unos metros del carruaje junto a una silueta, de la cual no pude identificar su naturaleza. He escuchado pasos cerca del carruaje, definitivamente no estamos solos… he escuchado tosiduras, y algo que parece haber caído en un charco cercano al carruaje. Una vez más he escuchado a Caleb hablar, aunque me ha sido imposible entender el diálogo. Únicamente puedo decir que es checo antiguo… Caleb: Zůstává jen jeden, ostatní už byly shnilé... (¡Queda sólo uno de ellos, los demás se han podrido en el camino!) Man: ¿Recuerda algo? Caleb: Como si me interesara, son sólo rebaño… Dobytek! Dobytek! (ahora Caleb ríe groseramente) Man: El amo se acerca… debemos darnos prisa, baja el equipaje del carruaje. Caleb: ¡Aye! Man: ¡Buďte připraveni! Zbytečný (¡preparate! ¡Inútil!) - en seguida, Caleb trepó al techo del carruaje y desató las maletas para dejarlas estrepitosamente caer al suelo. Era fácil oírle murmurar y despotricar maldiciones. Caleb: El amo está cerca…Él, el amo está por llegar…

Por un momento sólo el silencio reinó. Repentinamente, la puerta del carruaje se abrió de sopetón. Al pie de la misma una figura alta y desgarbada permanecía quieta. Era inevitable verle. Contraluz, pude observar su silueta, de cabeza calva y orejas puntiagudas. Inmediatamente, los recuerdos de tantas noches de terror me invadieron… ¡Vrolok! Es sin duda la misma criatura de la que mi abuela me había hablado tanto. Me dio pánico. Repentinamente pude ver sus ojos al tiempo que se acercaba a mí para sujetarme…, eran color azul intenso en un fondo pálido. Instintivamente me arrastré al fondo del carruaje en mi defensa, buscando algo a que aférrame. En la oscuridad a tientas, encontré un arillo anclado al piso. Me aferré al mismo con todas mis fuerzas al tiempo que sentía la mano huesuda y extremadamente fuerte de la criatura sujetarme por el tobillo. Pateé en mi defensa, pero todo intento por liberarme fue inútil. La bestia se aferró a mi tobillo y logró arrastrarme fuera del carruaje. El Vrolok me arrastró a placer por el lodo por un largo trecho. Finalmente me amarró a un árbol. Le enfrenté preguntando su nombre, el tan solo me miró y se río burlonamente de mí. Vrolok: Finalmente nos reencontramos, Dazon. Puedo ver en lo más profundo de tus ojos que no me has olvidado amigo mío. ¡Cómo olvidarte! Ahora no está aquí tu abuela para ayudarte… ¿Verdad? (el Vrolok me veía burlonamente) Dazon: ¿Por qué yo? ¿Por qué ahora? ¡Maldito monstruo!

Vrolok: quiero.

Simplemente…

porque

El Vrolok me tomó firmemente del cuello. En un simple chasquido de sus dedos me rompió la columna cervical, acercó su cara a centímetros de la mía para verme fijamente a los ojos. Me olió… y río estrepitosa y burlonamente, al tiempo que me asestó tremenda mordida en el cuello hundiendo sus afilados colmillos en mi piel para encontrar mis venas y chupar mi sangre hasta dejarme seco. Pude sentir la agonía de ver la vida dejarte en tan sólo la miseria del cuerpo. Fue inútil llorar o suplicar. No sentí dolor, sólo sentí miedo. El Vrolok no mostró misericordia ni remordimiento. Vrolok: Dazon, serás ahora un delicioso banquete para mis pequeños… (Frente a mí una paca de lobos salvajes se sentaba esperando su turno). Al momento en el que el monstruo se alejaba, la manada de lobos me rodeó… el tiempo pasó rápido. Al terminar de alimentarse de mí se fueron. Justo antes del amanecer los despojos que quedaban de mi fueron liberados. Desde ese día, he caminado en este mundo en las sombras. Escondido debajo de tu cama. Te he susurrado al oído tus mayores temores mientras duermes, me he alimentado de ti, he vivido contigo.

THE END

Cover

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“ ather Tom, it’s time to get up,” Jane called, while she happily washed the pots used for cooking breakfast. Soon, Father Tom came thumping down the stairs. He wasn’t cranky, or anything like that, but a man of his size thumped wherever he went. “Morning Jane,” he said, mid-yawn, enjoying an energetic stretch. Father Tom was a great stretcher. He arched his back and stuck out his substantial tummy, before crouching down like a sumo wrestler. Not fished yet, he did a three hundred and sixty degree turn on his way up, sending a box of cornflakes flying off the kitchen table.

“Oh God, Father what will we do with you!” Jane scolded, even though she was fifteen years younger than the priest, she often felt like his mother. “Sorry Jane,” he said, starting to pick up the spilled cereal. Jane shushed him away with a tea towel, cleaning up the mess herself. “Leave that Father, God knows what you’ll break next.” In reality, she enjoyed the fact he was a bit clumsy, it made her feel needed. Father Tom lowered himself into a chair, scratching through his fluffy black beard. Jane had offered to trim it before, but the only person he would let near him with a scissors, was Marco at the local barbers. His hair was getting long, nearly reaching his collar, Father Tom would soon be needing his bi -annual visit to Marco. He poured a cup of tea from the pot and flipped open the paper, as Jane dished up sausages and bacon for him. Father Tom mumbled a constant stream of nonsense, “Hum”, “Would you believe it”, “For the love of God”, “Holy Mother”. The stories could be about anything in the world, she could never guess whether they were happy or sad tales, from listening to his noises.

by Squid McFinni“By the hockey, Jane, will you look at this,” he said, shoving the paper across the table at her. Jane read the article Father Tom was pointing out, with his big man fingers. It said ‘An exhibition of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia would be going on display in Dublin, including some never before seen photos of her and John F Kennedy’. “I’d love to go see that,” said Father Tom, shovelling sausages into his mouth, washing them down with buckets of sweet tea. “Why don’t you go? It’s only two weeks away. You can book tickets in that music shop in town,” Jane said.

“Do you know, I just might do that,” Father Tom said, with a little smile. “I hope they have that white dress, from the photo.” “Which dress is that, Father?” asked Jane. “You know, the famous one. When she stood on the air vent and the wind blew up her skirt showing her – em,” he said, stopping midsentence and going a little red. “Father Tom, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Jane chided, making him go even redder. She couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth twitching upwards in a smile. “Ah! Would you go way out of that,” he said, flapping his hand at her, and going back to read the rest of the paper. *** A couple of days later, Father Tom was walking past the music shop and decided to get the tickets on the spur of the moment. He entered the shop and was greeted by long racks of CD’s. The walls were adorned with dozens of wild posters, and one whole side of the shop was filled with video games.

Behind the counter was a bored looking girl, in her twenties. Her hair was bright red, like a traffic cone, and she had a big steel hook stuck through her nose. “God all mighty, that looks sore,” said Tom. “Do you need to see a doctor?” “Are you trying to be funny?” she sneered.

“Not at all,” he said, unzipping his jacket. When she got a glimpse of his dog collar, her attitude softened like magic. “Oh, sorry, Father,” she said. “It’s only a piercing,” she added, unscrewing the lethal-looking fashion accessory. “Whatever will you young people think of next?” he asked. “I was told you can get tickets, for shows happening in Dublin?” “You sure can, Father. Who were you going to see?” the girl asked, punching keys on the computer. “I wanted to see Marilyn Monroe, next week,” he said, leaning on the counter, coming very close to knocking over a revolving rack of headphones. The girl searched on the computer for a while before saying, “I can’t see anything for that name, Father, are you sure you have it right?” “Certain my dear,” he said. “The only thing that’s even close, is Marilyn Manson, in the O2 next Friday,” she said. “That the one,” said Father Tom, thinking they must be using her married name or something. The flame haired girl tapped a few more keys, and looked at the priest with concern. “Father, are you sure this is right? This stuff is a bit sexy,” she said “Between you and me,” said the priest, leaning closer, “I always thought so, myself, but what is the harm in it?” She looked shocked, but in a good way.

“All I can say is, fair play to you, Father. What seats do you want?” she asked. “I wasn’t planning on sitting. I thought I’d walk around, and make sure I saw everything,” said Father Tom.

“The only standing tickets left are in the mosh pit,” she said. “Where is the mosh pit?” he asked. “Right at the front,” she said.

“Sounds like just the spot for me,” said Father Tom, smiling. The girls eyebrows arched so high, they nearly vanished into the thatch of red hair. “Do you want two tickets?” she asked. “Ah no, one will do. I am sure I’ll meet someone nice there, to keep me company,” said Father Tom. The red haired girl took payment, and handed over the ticket. “I must say, I admire priests not afraid to get in touch with modern culture” she said with a big smile, waving him out of the shop. *** On the morning of the show, Jane drove Father Tom to the train station. From her bag, she pulled a tartan flask of tea and a Tupperwear box of ham sandwiches. “Take these with you, Father, the prices on the train are scandalous, and they only use cheap old ham anyway,” she said. “Jane, what would I ever do without you,” he said, giving her a massive bear hug. She vanished in his trunk-like arms, when he let her go, she was blushing from top to toe.

She gave him a playful slap on the chest, “Father! Stop it will yea, people will talk,” she said, embarrassed. He smiled back at her, noticing the train pulling into the station. He tucked the containers under his arm and jumped aboard. He felt like a kid on a school trip. Father Tom loved being a priest, but sometimes he missed being just “Tom”. Today was like a holiday back to himself, back to a time when he sat in musty old movie theatres, watching Marilyn on the silver screen. Tom wondered if he would get to touch something that was actually hers, imagine that. Father Tom passed the journey by daydreaming, and remembering more innocent times. He felt like he’d only sat down, when the train pulled into Huston station. When Father Tom wandered out of the station, hemmed in by hundreds of other commuters, he found a row of taxis waiting near the gate. Father Tom got into the backseat of the first one he came to. “Where to,” the driver asked, without looking over his shoulder. “The O2,” said Father Tom, with happy authority. At this, the driver turned in his seat. “I didn’t think that would be your kind of thing, Father. Are you protesting or something?” he asked. “Goodness no, I am a big fan,” said Father Tom. “Do you know about the show?” “I’ve spent all day bringing people to it. All kinds of people,” the cabbie said, pulling into the late evening traffic. The driver spent the rest of the ride shaking his head, tutting and mumbling. “What is the world coming to?” he mumbled under his breath. The taxi pulled up outside a huge building on the quay. There was a lot of barriers and rubbish lying around the street, but the crowd going inside didn’t seem to be that big. There were a lot of young people for sure, and some were wearing the wildest clothes. It was amazing what passed for fashion these days. Tom got out of the taxi, and there was music coming from the huge building. Father Tom thought there was a great party atmosphere about the place.

At the door, several men in bright yellow vests with “Security” across the back, were lounging around, so Father Tom walked up to one of them and presented his ticket. “You’re a bit late, Father,” said the man, tearing off the ticket stub. The man insisted Father Tom open the flask of tea, he even sniffed it, as well as looking in the sandwich box. They were taking this security thing very seriously. Perhaps there had been a bomb threat. The security man studied the ticket, then with a little smirk and said, “In the mosh pit, father? Are you doing research on the other side?” “I didn’t want to miss anything, and I like being able to walk around,” said Father Tom, not liking being subjected to this interrogation one bit. “Which way do I go?” “I’ll take you down there, the show is just about to start,” said the man in the vest. Father Tom found himself walking down a long aisle, bordered on both sides by thousands of people. There was so many wild costumes, it was like a fancy dress party at Halloween. He couldn’t get over some of the get-ups. As Father Tom was escorted through the crowd, he was smiled at, high fives were given, and they even cheered him, at one stage. He had to admit he was feeling a little bit like a celebrity. “Great idea, man, wish I had thought of it,” said one guy, patting him on the back as he passed. Half the man’s face was black, the other half red, and his hair was spiked. By now, it was occurring to Tom, that something had gone very wrong with his tickets. “This is your section, Father. Good luck!” shouted the security man in his ear, as he opened a crush barrier for him to enter. Father Tom was surrounded by a solid mass of humanity, dressed in the wildest costumes, the ones that were dressed at all. In front of him on the massive stage, was a huge statue of a woman, in white suspenders, bra and knickers, but also wearing a bunny rabbit’s head, of all things. Father Tom was on the verge of leaving when a black haired girl came crashing into him, knocking him flat on his back. She landed right on top of him, face to face.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “Great costume.” “Hi,” said Father Tom. “Why do you all think I’m in fancy dress?” Her eyes widened, cracking her thick black eyeliner. “Feck off! You are actually a priest,” she said, pushing herself up on her elbows to get a better look at him. “Yes I am. My name is Tom, nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand. She took it, and shook it with a huge smile. “My name is Sandy, Father, nice to meet you too.” She got to her feet, helping Father Tom to his. “Are those sandwiches?” she asked, pointing at the box. Father Tom offered to share a sandwich, which she devoured with gusto. “Cheers, Father, I have the munchies bad,” she said, blowing bread crumbs out of her mouth as she talked. Father Tom took a good look at the girl. She was wearing platform boots, laced all the way up to her thighs. Next came tiny black leather shorts, and her upper body was stuffed into a black and red corset, which could only contain half her bosom. Her pretty little face was painted powder white, with thick black eyeliner, all topped off with a mane of long black hair. Father Tom thought she looked rather well, actually. Just then a thunderous roar came from the crowd, as a band appeared on stage. Sandy grabbed Father Tom’s hand and shouted in his ear, “Come dance with me, Father.” He only hesitated for a second, before disappearing into the moving throng of humanity, hand in hand with a busty stranger. ***

As luck would have it, the same taxi driver picked up Father Tom, after the concert. He smiled as the priest got in the car and asked, “How was Marilyn, Father?” Leaning forward, Father Tom said earnestly, “She sure has let herself go.”

The End.

Hi everyone, my name is Squid McFinnigan, and when I’m not pulling pints in my pub on the wild Atlantic coast of Ireland, you’ll find me scribbling away madly on my blog. Like the pub, the door of my blog is always open, call in any time for a tale or two, but be warned, most of them are fairly tall. Have a fantastic new year and I am looking forward to chatting to you all very soon.

http://squidmcfinnigan.blogspot.ie/

Dianna Beirne Lives in a fantasy world. Okay not really, but part of her wishes she did and, since that’s technically impossible, she writes about fantasy worlds instead. Her first Young Adult novel entitled Aurelious Forty; Volume One quickly turned into her first Young Adult series with the addition of Aurelious Forty; Volume Two and, Aurelious Forty; Volume Three. When not writing, she’s generally daydreaming which morphs into wondering if that last daydream could turn into a book. She has also recently discovered podcasts, something the rest of the world discovered many years ago, but doesn’t exactly understand what they are or why they’re different from regular radio shows.

So it’s safe to assume that her next book won’t be about a podcast. Instead she’ll just keep listening to the ones that she finds that hilarious because laughing is one of her favorite pastimes and she finds way too Prior to dedicating her time to writing, Dianna taught undergraduate and graduate courses about using literacy in the elementary, middle, and high school classroom. She has a Bachelor’s degree in Elementary Education but decided to keep pursuing her education when she probably should’ve been writing something creative and continued on for a Master’s degree in Literacy and a Doctorate in Education specializing in Curriculum and Teaching. Dianna lives in New York and is the grateful mother of a son whom she misses terribly when he is away at college.

Aurelious Forty Aurelious Forty has led a lonely, troubled life. He stays disconnected from the world around him with no family and no friends. He lives merely to existâ&#x20AC;Śto survive. Aureliousâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; life changes in an instant when an impulsive decision forces him to abandon everything he has ever known. Choosing to follow strangers into a new world, he discovers he was born with a gift so strong, so unique; it could give him the power to change humanity.

But the shadows of his childhood are long and dark and run through every fiber of his soul. Can Aurelious break the chains of his past and use his gift for good? Or will the nightmare of his tormentors set him on a path of revenge so fierce it could destroy us all?

y; Volume One I like to watch people. I find people, like you, fascinating. There’s something in the way you all act, in your movements, your quirks, and your behaviors, that’s mesmerizing to me. You’re the most honest with who you are, the most real, when you think no one is watching you. But I only know this because I’ve been watching. Let me be clear here, I’m not peeping in anyone’s window at night. That’s just too creepy. I watch people in public places doing ordinary things but I always keep a safe distance so no one notices me. I’m extremely observant, often to the point of being preoccupied by my observations, so watching people is rational in my mind. When I’ve watched enough, I make up stories about the people I’ve noticed or make notes of my general observations about their behaviors. Everything I observe gets logged into documents on my laptop. The words on the page are the only dealings that I have with those around me and that’s the way I prefer it because although I’m fascinated with people, I don’t want to interact with them.

My laptop, my one true prized possession, is my only friend. It’s been my companion, my outlet, and my shrink ever since I took it out of its box. I’ve never felt any kind of connection with the people who have surrounded me in my life. I exist in the same space but that’s about it. My life hasn’t been easy, it’s been lonely, harsh, and perpetually in transition. So it was logical to never get attached to anyone else. It was safer for me that way so I stayed under the radar and made myself easily forgettable. As it turns out, that’s something that would come in handy later.

I should mention that my parents died in a car crash when I was eight weeks old. They were young and rebellious and although a drunk driver hit them, they were driving drunk at the time too. Apparently my parents had a history with issues involving drugs and alcohol. I read about it once in my file. Yes, I have a file because I’ve been in the foster care system my whole life, except the first eight weeks, of course. And I wasn’t in the good side of the foster care system, if there is one. No I was in the bad side. I learned the hard way that the best way to deal with my foster families was to keep my mouth shut and stay out of the house as much as possible. I only got moved to another family when the family I was with screwed up so badly that the social worker felt I wasn’t safe anymore.

I moved nine times. I’m telling you all of this because it’s part of the story of who I was and where I came from. When I get to the part about how my life changes you’ll wonder things like how I could just vanish from the life I knew. You might start wondering why my parents didn’t come looking for me, or if my friends missed me. But now you know that no one cared enough to look for me, there weren’t any friends, no one is home crying over my disappearance and the change was easy for me because I didn’t have anyone that I cared about enough to miss either.

So, let’s get to the part about what happens just before everything in my life turned upside down, or maybe right-side up.

Aurelious Forty

Volume Two

Volume Three

The Aurelious

Forty series are available via the following links Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/Aurelious-Forty-One-DiannaBeirne/dp/0986327107/ref=sr_1_1? ie=UTF8&qid=1453061370&sr=81&keywords=aurelious+forty Barnes and Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/aurelious-fortyvolume-one-dianna-beirne/1120892012? ean=2940046450088 Apple iBooks https://itunes.apple.com/nz/book/aurelious-forty-volumeone/id950122281?mt=11 Smashwords

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/499285 Diannaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Website: www.aureliousforty.com Twitter: @DiannaBeirne Facebook: Aurelious Forty: https://www.facebook.com/Aurelious-

Burnell Yow!

I am an intuitive artist working in the varied media of painting, collage, assemblage, art, photography and video. My studio/home, Raven's Wing, is in Philadelphia, PA in t United States. I am an active member in the Philadelphia Dumpster Divers, an inform group of 60 or so found object artists. I'm also a fan of sci-if and apocalyptic tales, latter being the inspiration for one of my ongoing projects called "Dolls of the Apoca The Last Toys of the Last Children On Earth." It features assemblage works incorpor Barbie torsos, other doll parts, costume jewelry, bits of tech salvaged from discard electronic devices, and other small found objects. Each "toy" is finished with iron ox paint and then rusted to give the appearance of an artifact.

That's the generally accepted explanation, but legend and imagination tells a differen story. In that version, I am actually a time-traveling archeologist who recently retur from the year 2349, bringing back with me what are most likely the last toys of the children on Earth. My working theory is that these objects reveal a chapter in huma history (perhaps it's final chapter) rife with mutations, genetic engineering, bioenhancements, possibly even alien/human hybrid experimentation, some of which w horribly wrong. Humanity became a mishmash of physical imperfections and failed corrections, and the toys of the time reflected that. We may never know precisely w happened to our species and why, but the Dolls of the Apocalypse do offer us food fo thought.

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More work and information can be found on the following websites: Web/Blog - http://ravenswingstudio.com Flickr - http://flickr.com/burnellyow Facebook - http://facebook.com/burnellyow Instagram - http://instagram.com/ravenswingstudio

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More work and information can be found on the following websites: Web/Blog - http://ravenswingstudio.com

Flickr - http://flickr.com/burnellyow Facebook - http://facebook.com/burnellyow Instagram - http://instagram.com/ ravenswingstudio

Burnel

ll Yow!

Magic-Price is the first installment in The Crown of Stones trilogy.

MAGIC PRICE –synopsis Ian Troy is one of the Shinree, a fallen people with an inherent addiction to magic. Scorned and reviled for the deadly side of their spells, the Shinree are bred as slaves. Their magic is suppressed by drugs and used only as it serves the purposes of the other races.

Descended from a long line of soldiers, Ian is conscripted into the Rellan army and made to fight in their longstanding conflict against the ruthless Langorian invaders. The downfall of Rella imminent, Ian goes against orders and turns to the Crown of Stones, an ancient Shinree relic of untold power. Ignorant of its true purpose, Ian uses the crown to end the war, and pays a terrible price. A decade later, still tortured by the aftermath of that day, Ian lives as a bounty hunter in self-imposed exile. Having renounced his magical heritage, he curbs his obsession with a steady stream of wine and regret. He struggles to put it all behind him, until a fateful encounter with a pretty assassin brings Ian’s past crashing into the present. Targeted by a rogue Shinree, and a ruthless old enemy, Ian is forced to use magic again. His deadly addiction is rekindled and his life of isolation is brought to a swift end. With the land he gave up everything to protect once more in jeopardy, and his people’s future at stake, Ian becomes embroiled in a violent race for control of the Crown of Stones. To save the realms and those he cares for, Ian must embrace the thing he fears most: his own power.

The Crown of Stones Magic Price The magic left me. Its departure was abrupt and excruciating, as if a hand were reaching down inside and ripping a part of me out. Pleasure came next, penetrating the pain, fusing with it until I couldn’t tell one from the other. Together they overran my nerves, sweeping over me and through me, stimulating the smallest, darkest parts of my soul. Deprived of breath and awareness, I lay helpless and trembling in the mire, as my body became a furious cyclone of energy. It was unbearable. Yet, I was smiling. I’d surrendered myself into the grip of a well-trained whore and I was reveling in her touch, letting her do as she willed to me without regret. Regret would come later, without fail. Now, I was magic-blind. I was caught in a phase that amounted to do more than a hairsbreadth of climax, an instant where it was virtually impossible to give a damn about anything. I drifted in it happily. Too long, I thought, savoring the moment. It’s been far too long. But distressingly quick, it began to swindle. With pleasure’s departure, the black aura of the obsidian rose up out of my body. It lingered in my eyes, lending them color for a little while. The color diminished my ability to see, which made the tail-end of being magic-blind not just an arbitrary term. Thankfully, my interval of sightlessness was brief, and I spent it as I always had: cold, weak, and vulnerable; unnerved by the frailty and nakedness of the moment, and trying to pretend that my utter defenselessness wasn’t as long as it felt.

I let out a quivery breath of relief as my vision returned. I refused to think about where my spell was headed, or who it was aimed at. That damage was already done. Instead, I sat and shivered, wishing I were blind again so I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see the swamp going black and withering around me. Harvesting without discrimination, my magic would steal from the birds, the lizards, and the plants. Everything within range would die, except me. As a Shinree, my donation was far less. It would weaken me, often to the point of unconsciousness. But I got to live. I got to wake up to the damage Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d done and the lives I never meant to take. The spell glided near me and I gasped. Its touch was cold and fierce. It robbed my breath like a gust of winter wind. Then it swept through me, and stole what meager bits of strength I had left on the way out. END of Excerpt

The Crown of Stones Magic Price Is available from Kindle US. http://bit.ly/COSBk1Kindle

Kindle UK. http://bit.ly/MagicPriceUK Paperback US. http://bit.ly/MagicPricePB Paperback UK. http://bit.ly/MagicpricePBUK

C. L. Schneider C. L. Schneider grew up in a small Kansas town on the Missouri River, in a house of avid readers and overflowing bookshelves. Her first full-length novel was penned at sixteen on a type-writer in her parentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s living room. Her debut novel, The Crown of Stones: MagicPrice, begins an epic journey that follows the trials of Ian Troy, a man born with an addiction to magic.

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/ CLS.Author Twitter https://twitter.com/ cl_Schneider Google+ https://www.google.com/

Currently residing in New Yorkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Hudson Valley Region with her husband and two sons, she spends her days torturing characters, drinking too much coffee, and daydreaming about the zombie apocalypse. Magic-Scars, the second book in The Crown of Stones trilogy was released early in 2015. The third and final installment is due out in February 2016.

My name is Stefanie Iwaniuk and I am a painter from Mannheim, Germany. I originally studied the History of Art and Romance languages and literature at the University of Heidelberg. Today I am working as blogger, as a freelance writer and as artisan. But painting is my great passion and has accompanied me since my childhood. Painting has always served me for meditation: While I am creating drawings I feel I would transform into another world. At the same time, painting is for me always a wonderful challenge. I have no formal artistic training, but as a self taught person I developed my painting with acrylic colours by discovering several creative methods during my studies of art history.

My other great passion are animals. They fascinated me already at a young age, so that they appeared again and again in my artwork. Because animals often have relations to human beings, in the positive as well as the negative sense, it didn't take long until I began to investigate relationship between animals and humans and in this context also with animal rights.

Today the main focus of my artwork involves the figurative representation of animals with their own identities. Just as every human being, every animal is an individual. Human or animal, both feel pain, pleasure, and fear. That is exactly what I want to express on canvas.

To see more of my work, please feel free to visit my website:

http://steffiwaniuk.blogsport.de/

Stefanie Iwaniuk

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In Death Most Wicked, Mikael Ruskoff is a successful homicide detective with a happy family and good friends. Then he catches an exceptionally horrific case, and his world is turned inside out, never to be the same again. A serial kidnapper/murderer is snatching innocent, young girls, right under the noses of their parents and teachers. When the pedophile decides that he no longer wants the girls, he leaves nothing behind but their broken bodies. Tragically, Mikael is always just a step behind but never close enough to save any of the girls. He is frustrated and desperate. And then he is offered an opportunity, a deal, one that will not only give them the killerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name but save his last victim. But if Mikael takes the deal, he will have to sacrifice himself. And his family might become vulnerable as well with any misstep he might take. What if, by saving that child, he unleashes a horrific monster into his life? Who will protect his family if that thing of evil comes hunting them? Will Mikael be able to resist the offer of an unholy alliance or will his desperation blind him to the truth?

Death Most Wicked—A Sample And then he felt it… a twitching, squiggly sensation under his eyelid. Buzz leaned closer to the mirror to inspect the twitch. He could see the black hairs of a tiny black, squirming thing peeking out. He fumbled through the vanity drawers, grasping for anything that could grab hold of it. His fingers latched onto a pair of needle nose tweezers. Jesus, let them do the job. Buzz pried his eyelid open and jammed the needle nose of tweezers around the thing’s tail. He yanked hard, sweat rolling down his forehead, blinding him. He wrenched and twisted until the thing released its pincers. He held the tweezers up to the light to inspect it. The hideous mutation squirmed and snapped at him. Buzz threw the monstrosity in the toilet and flushed, watching it swirl around the drain. Continued-

Continued from previous pageThen he had a weird sensation on his tongue. He opened his mouth wide and tried to examine his teeth and tongue. Oh shit, oh shit â&#x201D;&#x20AC; Buzz felt a crawling tickle in his throat. Something was caught in the membranes of his throat. He jammed two fingers down his throat, forcing himself to vomit. He puked until his insides felt like they might come up through his chest.

He grabbed the edges of the vanity with both hands, trying his best to keep himself from spewing any more of himself into the sink. When he looked down, several of his teeth stared back at him from the sink basin. What the â&#x201D;&#x20AC;? *** If you enjoyed this, then read it all! Death most Wicked is available from Amazon

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Suzi Albracht

I love to write horror thrillers with intense personal relationships between characters. I started reading earlier in life than most of my friends and spent many hours hidden in closets and under beds, sneaking in just another ten minutes of whatever book I was reading. As soon as I was old enough, my mother would send me to the library to pick up books for her. This delighted me because it opened up a whole new world of books not available in school. I read everything I could get my hands on but was drawn to sci-fi, horror and thrillers. As I matured, I would say my main influences became Stephen King, Dean Koontz and William Faulkner. My writing definitely reflects those influences. I can honestly say my twitter bio describes me to a T - Write, scare myself, turn all the lights on, write some more. Take a break, play pool, kick butt/get butt kicked, go write more horror, double lock door.