CQI The Horror Quarter

EDITION 4 - ISSUE 8 - NOVEMBER 2018

WELCOME

Page 4 Why Horror Should Be All T

Page 12 What was That Flas

Page 16 Halfway Up A Mountain Our regular colum

Page 20 Barlfy a shor

Page 26 Mary Shelley, Mother of H

Page 32 Monster at the Door a s

Page 38 Paradise at the Bottom of th

Page 46 Will the cavalry arrive just

Page 52 The MilkMan a sh

Page 56 A selection o

E TO CQI’s

Too Real an Article by Stewart Bint

sh fiction by Squid McFinnigan

mnist Dorothy Berry-Lound reports from Umbria, Italy.

rt story from C G Balde

Horror an article by Michael January

short story from Karen J Mossman

he Garden a short story by Jane Risdon

t in time? An article by Jane Risdon

hort story from Grun Ozean

of Tanka by Rika Inami

Why Horror Should Be All

To o Re a l

by Stewa rt Bint

Who has the most twisted, bent and dark psyche, the horror writer or the horror reader?

You’ll be pleased to hear, it’s neither. Being scared to the point of the screaming heebiejeebies by horror fiction is good for us. With my readers cravings which set a chill on their spine and a rise of their neck hairs, I see my role in giving them an intense fix as something akin to a social worker.

First off, why do we like to be scared? It seems, when we're afraid our bodies release different chemicals which can contribute to feeling good under the right circumstances…and I guess those right circumstances are when that fright, that danger, that unknown, that horror, is simply within safe boundaries. It would be very different if we were really facing those dangers.

But identifying with the fictional character we’re reading about in the comfort of our own living room or bed, should still get our heart beating and our blood coursing faster than a swiftly imbibed double Espresso.

And thereby hangs the rub. As horror writers, how do we ensure our readers identify with the character? For a scary story to be truly effective the reader has to empathise with the characters

and care about what happens to them.

Two of my four novels slot into the horror genre - In Shadows Waiting, and To Rise Again. Also, my eclectic collection of 21 short stories, Thunderlands, contains two scary tales, The Growing Thing, and my critically acclaimed horror fantasy, The Twitter Bully.

But who are you as a person, I hear you ask?

What motivates you to write? Why do you like inflicting these horrors of your mind on innocent people who stumble into your world?

Well, I’m just an ageing hippy who goes barefoot most of the time and likes to entertain people through stories. My books aren’t great art and they’re not great literature, but my readers tell me they’re entertaining, so that’s good enough for me.

I was born in the dim and distant past (under extreme torture I have been known to confess to 1956). I’ve worked for both the BBC and commercial radio as a newsreader, current affairs presenter and ‘phone-in show host. Now I’m a novelist, magazine columnist and Public Relations writer for the world’s leading industrial CAD/CAM software developer.

Family life – I’m married with two grown-up children, and an extremely charismatic budgie, called Alfie.

the end. My fictional worlds were certainly better than the real one at the time.

Looking back now, I reckon those early days of the programme showed my subconscious it was okay to feel scared shitless and planted the seed to sadistically pass the feeling on to other people.

I was bitten by the writing bug when I was seven years old in 1963, through watching the original series of what has been my favourite television show ever since: Doctor Who. Even at that young age I was enraptured by the storylines which can take place at any time in the past and future, and absolutely anywhere in the universe and beyond.

And, no, I wasn’t one of those youngsters who watched it from behind the sofa. But only because our sofa backed right up to the wall – believe me, if there’d been a gap, I’d have been behind it…it was definitely that scary. I was inspired by Doctor Who to start creating my own worlds and characters, writing my stories in little blue notebooks until my parents bought me a portable typewriter for my ninth birthday.

And those make-believe worlds became invaluable after my Dad died when I was 11. I retreated more and more into those places where I was in control of my characters’ fate, knowing whatever horrors were thrown at them, and whatever happened to them during the story I would make sure they were okay in

In my twenties, it was my ambition to become a published novelist by the time I was 30.

Hhmmm. I was 26 years too late…achieving it when I was 56 in 2012. I’d kept on writing fiction as a hobby, but it when my wife and I were on holiday with friends, bobbing up and down in the Caribbean Sea they said I ought to seriously try and get published. So I dusted down an old manuscript, gave it a thorough working over and submitted it. Now, with four novels and a collection of short stories (plus two ebook compilations of my early magazine columns) behind me, I’m mighty glad I took their advice.

Supernatural, paranormal and science fiction are the genres I love to read myself, so I guess it was inevitable they’d become the genres I’d write. Also, most of my ideas are too way out for straight-forward thrillers. I like to think my stories satisfy my readers’ thirst for the unknown, providing them with a healthy dose of sweaty palm, squeaky bum horror.

Maybe writing scary horror stories is my way of compensating for not being able to pursue my first career choice. My careers teacher at school was having none of it when I said I wanted to be an assassin. Or maybe it’s because I’ve experienced the supernatural, along with the ensuing chilling feeling it leaves in its wake, on several occasions.

For instance, the entity I describe in my 2015 novel, In Shadows Waiting, is based on something I saw in the early 1980s I was the newsreader on a BBC radio breakfast show at the time, and had to leave my digs at around 4.30 a.m.

One cold November morning I was opening the front door of the large, rather gloomy house I shared with around eight people, when I sensed something near me. Turning round and looking back up the stairs I saw a misty figure on the first floor gallery landing. There were just dim red holes where its eyes should be.

So, what are ghosts? In my opinion, they can be one

Believe me, I didn’t hang around. That evening my landlord told me the house was haunted…including my bedroom! Apparently, the previous occupant of my room had woken to see a figure floating above her bed near the ceiling. Although I didn’t see anything else in the house and never felt uncomfortable in my own room, the gallery landing always felt cold.

trapped on our Earthly plane, unable to move on

But that experience inspired my breakthrough novel…albeit it was many years later before it saw light of day. Here, if you’ll forgive a little selfindulgence, is a passage from In Shadows Waiting:

was built on the site of an old footpath on the edge

As we looked on in absolute terror, the white billowing mass drifted up the stairs to the landing where it stopped dead. At first it simply stood there, as if it were looking down on us, mocking, knowing its strength. More smoke seemed to grow from its very bowels, and before long a six-foot human form towered there. It was indistinct, without features, but where the eyes should be were two burning red holes, as if we were looking into hell itself.

of two things. First, a simple ethereal manifestation of another moment in time which defies the laws of physics as we know them. Images of the past somehow break through into today. And secondly, a ghost that interacts with us can be a tortured spirit,

until unfinished business has been concluded.

I’ve seen both types. While that red-eyed figure was definitely one of the latter, I also witnessed the “flashback” type many times at my In-Laws’ home in London during the 1980s and 1990s. Their house

of Hounslow Heath, and we lost count of the number of times a figure glided past the frostedglass door between the lounge and hall.

Then, of course, as well as ghosts, we have welldocumented demons which take possession of people or premises. They’re not nice at all. Again, as with ghosts, their existence defies the laws of currently-known physics.

Just a thought. If we did actually understand the physics behind these supernatural phenomena, ghost stories wouldn’t be ghost stories anymore.

We’d have to re-categorise them as science fiction.

But for now, it’s the thought that something may exist on a different plane, that fascinates us and keeps us coming back for more.

I’m going to give you another couple of passages from In Shadows Waiting, which demonstrate what I think is the most terrifying thing about horror – the fact that, in fiction a ghost, spirit, or entity, whatever you want to call it, is not necessarily restricted to one physical place, but can follow wherever you go.

I sucked in as much air as my lungs would take and dived into the underwater world.

My eyes swiftly grew accustomed to the strange perspective and I was able to see Mark struggling vainly to reach the surface.

He was in an upright position, kicking wildly with his left leg. The other leg was stiff, pointing straight down, and before I could reach him he bent low and was bashing at his right ankle with both fists, as if trying to free it from the grip of some unseen vice. A mass of bubbles escaped from his mouth, making their way to the surface. As I swam nearer I could see his eyes bulging in their sockets, his blond hair streaming upwards, as if vainly showing him the direction he needed to take.

He continued beating at his right ankle and started rubbing his left foot up and down his calf. What was he trying to kick away? I arrived within a few inches of his writhing body, and, taking hold of his arm, tried to steer him upwards. It appeared he was doing his best to go with me but it was like pulling a ten-ton weight. I yanked for all I was worth until I was afraid I would tear his arm from its shoulder, but he remained rooted to the spot. As I released him, he grabbed my wrist and pointed to his leg. I nodded, indicating I understood he wanted me to haul him up by his legs, and I dropped to the seabed.

His right leg was utterly and completely immobile. No amount of pulling or pushing could move it, but nothing was holding it there. Nothing that I could see, anyway.

And finally: It was a good feeling, purring along,

sometimes being overtaken by speeding cars, even occasionally overtaking slow ones myself. I’d only driven short distances previously, and as we swallowed up the miles I needed all my concentration to combat the drowsiness creeping into me. I’d had the driver’s window half-open for the last few miles but now wound it down fully, enjoying the refreshing blast of air. I could still feel my eyes closing, though, and it was a real effort to stop them from shutting.

Even shaking my head violently only brought me back to full alertness for a few seconds before the weariness returned. As if something were telling me it was okay to go to sleep. Gentle. Soothing.

Join Mark and Helen. Asleep, it seemed to be saying. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

It was like being pleasantly merry. Surely it couldn’t have been the effects of the vodka I’d drunk on the beach. Half of me kept fighting the feeling.

Wake up, for fuck’s sake, insisted one inner voice.

But the other half of me…

No, said another, much more soothing inner voice. Go to sleep. You know you want to.

You’re drowsy. You want to doze. It’s okay.

Doze. If only for a few seconds. You’ll wake refreshed.

Shaking my head, I raised my eyebrows as high as they would go in an effort to stop my eyes slipping shut. I tried to read the speedometer but the dial swam crazily around the dashboard. The road was now hurtling beneath the windscreen at a frantic

pace. But all I wanted to do was sleep.

Vaguely I saw the dot swing round the bend about 100 yards in front of us, growing rapidly all the time until it took the shape of a car. Hurtling ever nearer. Nearer. Nearer.

A single powerful and penetrating note launched a vicious assault on my ears, drowning out the insistent words that were still trying to lull me to sleep. Suddenly I saw two beams of bright light flashing angrily and constantly.

The car heading straight for us was no more than a few yards away, braking, swerving sharply.

In the split second when my senses returned and I hauled the wheel round, I caught sight of a man’s malicious face leering at me in the mirror. It was a face of utmost evil, but was

gone before I had to time to register its features. All that showed in the mirror now were Helen and Mark being jerked around by the car’s erratic spinning.

You’ve probably gathered by now my way of ensuring readers’ empathy for my character is, first of all, to make the character someone you can readily identify with, and then set them in realistic situations…again, easily identifiable, to make them think hey, this could really be me and my family.

So the main character in both my horror novels is an 18-year-old boy. I develop my characters in real-life situations, let the reader like them…love them if possible, and then build the tension slowly. What begins as simply uncertain becomes unease. Then frightening. Then dangerous. Then deadly. Then horrific. And suddenly you realise the full horror that’s been unleashed.

Welcome to my world.

Click on any book cover to read more or to buy

https://stewartbintauthor.weebly.com/

Vo o D o o K a r n ava l # K 6 For sa le https://paul znewpostbox.wixsite.com/artwo rks/ voodoo-karnaval

h t t p s : / /a m z n .t o / 2 C l H V X R

BLOODMARKED Lu J Whitley Her nightmares are real, and they're out for blood.

Greta Brandt's life is run of the mill, except for the nightmares - violent dreams of creatures that wear the skin of the people around her... and him, the man with the golden hair and incandescent red eyes.

After 800 cursed years, Jaromir Ragnarsson has finally found the violet-eyed woman with the starshaped birthmark of the BloodMarked: Greta Brandt. But he's not the only one who's been searching for her.

When terror strikes close to home, Greta must finally accept her role in a world she thought only existed in her fevered dreams, putting her wavering trust in the one man who knows the full truth about her fate.

Lu J Whitley

demonstrates her wonderful

talent for creative writing well in this, her debut book. Even though her fantasy characters are purely fictional, they’re created with remarkable skill and utterly believable. It’s the same with the

setting. A modern-day world co-existing with the living remnants of a much older one, yet, it doesn’t seem odd at all when you’re reading it.

Not even when two unlikely characters like the troll, Stein, and Jami, the 800-year-old guardian of Greta, both take a plane ride with normal

say I was hooked from the first page to the last. It was fast paced, engrossing and thoroughly enjoyable. The only let down for me was the ending which seemed abrupt and left just as many questions as the story began with. For this, I would deduct 0.5 stars but since Amazon doesn’t allow me to award 4.5 stars and the fact there will be a sequel, I’m awarding it 5 stars. I’m sure further books in the series will resolve everything.

I’ll certainly be buying the rest of the series to find out what happens.

passengers. I put that credibility down to the author’s clever writing style.

I’d recommend this book without hesitation, even if it does whet your

I won’t go into the story since it’s already explained in earlier reviews, and I couldn’t really add more without giving spoilers. It’s sufficient to

appetite for more.

I awarded it 5*****. (Carole Parkes)

I am awake, why am I awake?

Why is my heart racing?

Shhh, Listen did you hear something?

I search the darkness but all is familiar, shadows rest as they always have. I breathe in tentatively, testing the air for d

I should get up and check, my legs disagree.

I hold my breath and strain my ears.

Outside, the wind makes the leaves sing a sweet lullaby, the summer rain on the slate above my head plinks and plon

Seconds pass without incident and my breathing returns to normal. The heat in my bed seeps deep into my weary bo The creek is hushed but unmistakable.

I'm fully awake now but I can't pinpoint its origin. I lie and wait, unable to do anything else. I'm frozen by fear. It com

"Who's there," I call with more conviction than I feel. No response. I throw my feet out of bed and search the house.

All is exactly as it should be.

With nothing left to check I go back to my room, chiding myself for such childish notions. I close my door firmly and li to come. Then I hear it, rough skin slipping over timber, and my blood turns to ice. Its close and getting closer.

I lie paralyzed but I can feel my heart race inside my ribcage. A shadow shifts and glides were no shadow has ever be

sheet. It leans over me, infecting my eyes with darkness. I try to scream, but that's a mistake. The shadow rushes forw

dies in my throat as my heart explodes in my chest, and as my brain grows dim I get my first glimpse of the afterlife a

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danger but the only scent is my own. Something woke me, but what? I'm sure something is amiss. My mind says

nks with merry rhythm, otherwise the house slumbers peacefully.

ody, robbing it of its resolve, my eyes flutter and close.

mes again, this time closer, or is it just a trick of the night air. I lean out of the bed and flick on the light.

.

isten for a moment. There is nothing. I climb into my bed, only because it is where I should be and wait for sleep

een, it is distinct and hazy at once. There, but not there. It drifts over the bed, invisible talons plucking at my

ward, spilling over my teeth, stretching my jaw to breaking as it dives down to feed on my soul. My last sound

and begin screaming for real.

gan.blogspot.com/

Stone Cold Billy has been a target of bullying through her years of schooling. Exams are over but stress leads her to thoughts of suicide. It's her counsellor that suggests she volunteers to assist in an archaeological dig in Scotland.

A secluded hostel. The residents start dropping like flies.

Billy knows who the murderer is.

Shane knows he's next to die.

Karina Kantas draws a thin line between FACT & FICTION

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Halfway Up A Mountain Our regular columnist Dorothy Berry-Lound reports from Umbria, Italy.

Vampires in Italy?

bronze cauldrons filled with the ash of sacrificed puppies – crikey! The Romans, in particular,

I was surprised to see a recent article about the

would employ witchcraft to prevent someone

discovery of the burial site of a so-called ‘Vampire

coming back from the dead and spreading evil or

Child’. Eeek!

disease.

The discovery was made at the site of an archaeological dig in Teverina in Umbria, my region of Italy. The children’s burial site dates

But what if the dead look like they are alive?

back to 400AD. The body of a ten year old child

was discovered with a stone in its mouth.

Apparently this was part of an ancient funeral ritual to stop the dead from rising. The child, known locally as ‘the Vampire of Lugnano’ had died from malaria. The villagers were concerned it might rise from the dead and spread disease.

Weighing down a body with stones to prevent it

rising again has been used elsewhere in other parts of Italy but also in the UK. Other methods of preventing rising from the dead include putting a stake through the heart. We have seen that in many a gruesome vampire film.

Witchcraft At the same burial site in Teverina, there was quite a lot of evidence of witchcraft. This includes the bones of toads, talons from ravens and

GHOST of a CHILD Dorothy Berry-Lound

Mummies In Umbria

and resented any call on their religious side.

Their monastery was destroyed. But it is said that In Umbria there is a place called Ferentillo which is on many lists of spooky places to visit in Italy.

sometimes you can see ghostly forms walking the hills carrying candles, forced to rise from the dead

Below the Chiese di Santo Stefano in Ferentillo are

to perform the duties they did not do when alive.

a large number of mummies! The dead buried

Clearly no-one thought to put a stone in their

there in the usual way were attacked by a rare

mouths Locally, I have a neighbour who has seen

microfungus that preserved their bodies. There is

the ghost of a woman walk through her living room

even a Museum of Mummies you can visit.

– and her feet are cut off at the ankles because she

It doesn’t sound like my idea of a good day out. A

is walking on the old floor of the house that was

bit too spooky for me.

replaced many years ago. Nice piece of detail that I thought.

Italians Believe in Ghosts Talking of spooky, I read somewhere that 75% of Italians believe in ghosts. Certainly there are a lot of

creepy places here in Italy with tales of murders and wronged victims coming back to haunt the living. Many castles and ancient houses thrive on their ghost tales that are told to tourists with glee.

But there are also tales of ghosts being required to fix a wrong from their earthly lifetime.

In Umbria there are tales of ‘ghost monks’ wandering the hills behind Assisi. The story goes that the monks begrudged having to perform their religious duties with the local population. Instead they indulged in sex and other ‘non-godly’ pursuits

GRAVEYARD IMPRESSION Dorothy Berry-Lound

Dorothy Berry-Lound is an award winning artist, visual storyteller and writer/blogger. You can follow Dorothy’s blog and her latest art work at her website

https://dorothyberryloundart.com.

Cover designs are subjective, each person is attracted by the things which resonate within themselves.

This is why it is difficult to design an 'all appealing' book cover.

Helpfully, or not, most books fall into, or closely associate with, certain genre. This allows book cover designs to focus on styles and formats common to such a genre.

This is often good; the downside is a cover, following the same old, same old, as everyone else may simply merge and blend with all the others in that genre, basically defeating the cover prime purpose, that of attracting potential readers.

The other option is to do something a bit different, even radical. Design a cover which stands out under its own merit. A cover which can and will transcend genre.

Whatever route you decide to take, ensure your cover is an outstanding work of art in its own right. One which will cause people to pick it up, to want to know more about what your book is about because, until that point, until the potential reader looks closer at your book it is just a pile of paper on a shelf no one will buy.

I occasionally design cover for Indie Authors. I design my own covers and for most of the Electric Eclectic books.

I may be free to make your books cover too, if you would like. Paperback, Hardcover or Kindle. Email me and ask. I don't bite, (unless I'm asked to).

Displayed on the next page are a few designs. Some are gracing published books, some are samples, simple suggestions of what could or may be.

If you would like to discuss having me design your next books cover, or to upgrade a current edition, the please, email me at:

P E E J AY D E S I G N S @ M A I L . C O M

Barfly Copyright Pseudosynth Press 2018

“What did you think of the bar?” Randy excitedly shouted from the kitchen.

“It was okay. You may not know it from looking at me, but I am not much for that crowd scene anymore. I am delighted just sitting at home

enjoying an old horror flick and some popcorn.”

Daniella slipped her shoes off and sat on the edge of the couch. Reaching up she turned on a table lamp sitting on an end table. Its soft glow lit up the room with just the right amount of light. “Can I turn on the tube?”

bachelor humor as he handed her a chilled glass

“Sure go right ahead. I will be done with these

of wine. She set it down on a coaster on the

drinks in just a minute.”

coffee table in front of her. Randy did the same

Powering up the television with the remote, Daniella pressed the channel up and down button about 100 times sighing each time she whizzed past a channel that was just plain junk or the news. Finally finding a very old black and white horror movie, she grinned turning up the

sound.

“I normally don’t bring strange women back to my apartment, but for you, I will make an exception,” he told her in an attempt at

as he turned away from her moving some pillows at the end of the couch. Removing his shoes, he sat next to her admiring her flawless beauty. “So, what do you do for a living? I never had the chance to ask you back at the bar. It was so noisy back there.”

“I work at the morgue, nightshift. Tonight is my night off,” she told him focusing on the movie.

The villagers were chasing the monster through the woods with torches and pitchforks.

Flash Fiction by

C.G. Blade semi-dry nectar that was a 2018 California Merlot.

“This is some outstanding wine,” she said gulping the remainder of it down.

Shocked at her ability to put away alcohol so

fast for the past two hours, Randy took the glass from her setting his down on the coffee table. “I will fill this up and be right back,” he told her heading for the kitchen.

Gulp. “You work at the morgue, for real?” he

“Okay,” she said, “I have to use the powder

asked trying not to seem like a wuss.

room if you don’t mind.”

“Yea, I like it. It can be so peaceful and

“No, not at all, it’s the second door on the left

therapeutic.”

down the hallway.”

Picking up his glass of red wine, he proposed a

As he poured more wine into her glass, he

toast. Daniella picked up her wine and smiled at

reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a

him.

red colored capsule. Opening it up, he swished

“What are we toasting to?” she asked.

“Why don’t we toast to a long-lasting friendship

or maybe more if you are a lucky girl.”

the red powder around in her wine, making sure it was not visible and returned to the living room with her glass. Setting it down on her coaster, he plopped back down on the couch

Snickering to herself, she nodded in agreement

waiting for her to return. The movie was on a

at his gaudy chauvinism. Clanging their glasses

commercial break as he began to feel his eyelids

together with a ting, they both sipped the sweet

getting heavy

The room seemed to start spinning in circles as his

behind her as it went in and out of focus. Although

heart fluttered. Randy, panicking and sweating,

she was standing directly in front of the mirror, her

watched Daniella opened the door of the bathroom

image was missing. The real Daniella looked like

and walk in front of him as he tried to focus on her.

Morticia from The Adams Family with that black

She was wearing a long black dress with flowing

dress hugging her curves. “You’re a—?”

tails and lace embroidery. Her black hair, which was

“Oh yea, I am the oldest living Vampire in North

previously clipped upon the top of her head, was

America. I have invited a few friends from the

now flowing down over her shoulders and down

morgue over if you don’t mind that is. I didn’t think

her backside. Randy tried to push himself off the

you would.”

couch but was unable to move his heavy body with his weakening limbs.

The front door opened as the stench of embalming fluid and rotting death entered the room. Her loyal

“You bitch. You switched drinks on me didn’t you?”

and obedient five decaying servants from Hell

he asked drooling by this point.

pinned Randy down to the couch as he screamed

“I sure did you sonofabitch. You picked the wrong

aloud unable to move his limbs. Daniella opened

girl to try to date rape. You see, I can smell any

her mouth wide showing her pearly white fangs as

odor of any substance that is unnatural.”

three more of her moaning followers entered the

“How can you do that?” He asked with one eye

house, rifled through drawers in the kitchen

open.

searching for knives, forks, plates, and napkins.

“Look behind me.” She told him smiling.

Randy focused on the mirror hanging on the wall

END

"Great novels comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable."

Readers are very familiar with the "jaw-dropping, neck-snapping plot twists" in the Pseudoverse Series of novels. Lightning strikes CG Blade's powerful creative side on a regular basis, as he never stops writing between novels. The Pseudoverse novels are a “mash-up” of historical fiction, science fiction, horror, and plenty of dark humor and sarcasm. They fit into a class of several dozen genres, and maybe one day someone will give this genre a name. A love of the Universal and Hammer Sci-Fi/Horror films, and the great minds of authors such as Huxley, Orwell, Dick, Lovecraft, Nelson, Bradbury, Heinlein, Wells, and many others, are the foundation for CG’s writing. CG Blade’s style and technique is a derivative all his own turned upside-down as he takes you through a world of New Order using technology as the ultimate master race. Paying homage to the pulp writers, whose grueling life of “if you did not keep up a word count of over a million a year, you could not stay alive in this business,” is his way of paying it back to these fantastic writers of the early 20th century.

Navy veteran and pilot, Transhumanist, Pseudosynth, author, creative writer, engineer, and robot programmer, he is an avid science fiction reader and lover of twisting, ever-turning plots. Taking the reader down many thrilling cyber roads and mysterious paths, his narratives rely heavily on past and present scientific, historical research, and the human condition. Melding the past with the possible future, these novels are carefully mixed and stirred with music lyrics, real people, historical fiction, and the potential of artificial intelligence run amok. Fused with satirical commentary and the first musical “Grindhouse” intermissions in novels (Including poetry), he continues his fiction writing with Ash, Amber, Amaranth, Gold, Copper, Radium, and Turquoise, and Granite. He currently lives in Ohio with his wife Jackie, and their two rambunctious but

lovable cats, Jeri Boo, and Bullet. Pseudosynth Press

"SCIENCE FICTION'S MESSAGE SHOULD BE SUBTLE. LIKE A ROBOTIC FINGER PUSHING THROUGH YOUR SKULL, POKING AROUND, WAKING YOU UP."

CG Blade

CG Blade at Amazon CG Blade at Pseudosynth Press CG Blade at AllAuthor

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ne is a street like any other, with secrets behind every door.

Frank O’Shea is trying to hide his addiction from his family, but that’s hard to do with the lo-

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hy’s instant attraction to their sexy new neighbor.

m the Murphys, the Sweenys’ abusive patriarch, Pat, has finally pushed his wife, Mary, to the

r teenage daughter, Angie, finds escape whenever possible in the company of her boyfriend,

n danger when the neighborhood creep sets his eyes on Angie.

Honeysuckle Lane’s stories collide, their secrets spill out for the world to see . . .

Mary Shelley Mother of Horror The horror novel was born two-hundred years

hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and

ago on January 1, 1818. It was almost a crib

on the working of some powerful engine, show

death, like others of its mother, whose life was

signs of life and stir”. This has long been called a

in some ways as tragic as any horror story,

dream, but the novel would form in her mind

children lost, a husband and love of her life

from a collection of life experiences of the young

drowned, a sister who committed suicide, and

woman who would invent Science Fiction.

her own mother dead in childbirth. The first

Frankenstein the novel was more a philosophical

publication of “Frankenstein; or, the Modern

exploration of man’s connection to a creator

Prometheus”, was a failure, a false start. It was

than horror story. The horror was in the ideas of

pulled from the shelves at Lackington’s Finsbury

it rather than attempts to scare. The gathering of

Square book emporium and relaunched two

body parts, murders and other dark twists

months later on March 11, anonymously, mostly

happened almost entirely off the page. An entire

to derisive reviews. The uncredited author, Mary

section of what must have been ghoulish activity

Shelley, just twenty years old at the time, and

was simply described as “gathered materials”.

only recently married to Percy Bysshe Shelly

But it was on the stage, a visual medium, and

after the mysterious suicide death of his first

later, film, where the horror of Frankenstein

wife, left England for Italy, the day after its

came to life

official publication.

Certainly there were scary stories before Frankenstein, since the caveman around a campfire. It was indeed a collection of Gothic terror tales, “The Phantasmagoriana”, of ghosts wandering graveyards, that inspired a contest between the literary figures of Lord Byron and Percy Shelley around a fireplace in Geneva that

gloomy summer in 1816, which sparked the imagination of 18-year-old Mary Godwin to picture “a pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had created….the

substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself.”

The vision of that student of unhallowed arts was born from an incident at a castle in Germany in 1814, during the elopement trip taken by the 16-year-old Mary Godwin, Percy Shelley and Mary’s step-sister Claire Clairmont. This story is told in the book, “Secret Memoirs of Mary Shelley; Frankenstein

Diaries”, a narrative speculative biography told in the form of a memoir, where Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, in her later years, confesses that she deliberately kept some of the origins of her novel a Mary Shelley would return to England after the

secret.

drowning death of her husband in 1822 to attend an unauthorized stage version of her story. The stage

Mary Shelley was well aware of the effect on

version had become a sensation, and fascination

reputation of the too honest revelation of one’s

with the book which inspired it exploded with a

personal life. Her mother’s reputation had been

sudden popularity. Mary Shelley would issue a new

ruined by her father’s publishing of a biography after

edition in 1823, this time with her name on it, to

her death, and Mary Wollstonecraft, the author of

claim her authorship, and with it, an opening

“The Vindication of the Rights of Women”, would be

introduction to explain how she had come to write

ignored and forgotten in her time among the proper

the story, and the legend of the dream at Lake

circles of English literati. This affected the young

Geneva would be cemented.

Mary deeply, and she would not make the same

The origins of the most famous horror story in

mistake. Her first published work would be a journal

literature would come well before that summer, and

of her trip with Shelley and her precocious sister,

the dream was not a nightmare of sleep, as usually

“History of a Six Weeks Tour” but she would not

thought, but a waking reverie, that moment of

reveal the intimate secrets of two teenage girls on a

inspiration of the creative mind when a collection of

travel adventure with the 22-year old poet of “free

separate ideas suddenly form into a new idea, the

love”.

spark of a vision that takes hold and creates order from the chaos of disconnected ideas in new clarity.

Mary herself would say, “Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless

A fictionalized autobiography that bends and almost defies genre, the premise of the “Secret Memoirs” is that in later life, Mary would reveal her intimate story in an unpublished diary and in it the real vision that inspired the birth of a monster.

A fictionalized autobiography that bends and almost defies genre, the premise of the “Secret Memoirs” is that in later life, Mary would reveal her intimate story in an unpublished diary and in it the real vision that inspired the birth of a monster. The author never revealed where the name of the book came from, one of the secrets behind it she kept to herself, and many have

The “Secret

speculated who was the model of the Frankenstein “creature”. Some scholars say it was Shelley, but the answer, as offered in these “secret memoirs” is surprising and unexpected, bound in the sexual awakening of teenage girls, and deeper, in the soul of young woman developing as an author in the search for the mother who she never knew.

Memoirs of Mary Shelley: Frankenstein Diaries”

by Michael January

and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley is available in e-book, paperback and audiobook, with the “voice” of Mary Shelley, in the form of narrator Heidi Gregory, telling her own story.

Like the stage version, which brought the sensational vision of Frankenstein to life in Regency London, the audio book is perhaps the best way to experience this remarkable journey of a young woman, the girl who invented the horror novel, Frankenstein, sparked into vibrant, recreated life.

Secret Memoirs of Mary Shelley Audiobook at Audible US Secret Memoirs of Mary Shelley Audiobook at Audible UK Mary Shelley Secret Memoirs Ebook and Paperback at Amazon USA — UK

Michael January is a screenwriter, novelist and travel writer. His second historical fiction novel “Aces” a rousing action-adventure of American pilots in the Battle of Britain of WWII is now available from Winged Lion Publications. His “Favorite Castles” book series is in its fifth volume.

We are so very thrilled to bring you this ancient Greek saga handed down throughout the centuries in our family.

Scribed initially on parchment, papyrus, animal skins, and through word-of-mouth, CG Blade’s Greatgrandfather, Angelo Pappas, pieced this fable together using the tools available to him at the time. He passed away in 1974 after a long and fruitful life.

It is indeed an honour to bring this story to you in its entirety completely untouched with updated editing. A tale of love, courage, and bravery in the midst of ancient Greece, we present to you 'In The Path Of The Beast' initially published by Evangelos Pappazisis (Angelo Pappas), and translated into English by Stavroula Will, (Rose Will) in 1952.

A mere two copies of this book remained in existence until Jackie Siefert-Pappas transcribed it this past year. A HUGE debt of gratitude and a loving “thank you� to Jackie for the countless hours she put into transcribing this story from the hardbound edition.

The illustrations you see in this book were scanned from the original book because the plates no longer exist.

The images are placed into the exact spot in this book as the original printing. If you notice breaks or blank spots after a paragraph on an unfinished page, this is the reason for the continuation of the image in its

original position to the next page.

In the year 1206 A.D., Constantinople fell into the hands of the Gauls. In those days, the French Gauls to weaken the military powers of Constantinople sent a great military force to Epirus. They wished to cut off a route and thus prevent Constantinople from receiving help from any distant provinces. The military force of the French went from Santa Quaranta and proceeded toward the city of Phoenice. The Phoenicians fought bravely against the invaders, but since they were greatly outnumbered, the city fell to the Gauls. The city was destroyed, and later a village was reconstructed and named Phoenice, and it is this village that is there

today.

The notable happenings in connection with this attack by the Gauls were their religious fanaticism. When they conquered a city or village, they immediately destroyed Orthodox priests and anyone who was educated to the extent of being able to read and write.

After the subjugation of the land, a young ancestor, related to my mother’s family, was sent to Constantinople and after a four-year training period, he returned to the village to become its first priest in some time.

After that, all male members born to my mother’s ancestors became priests. They would preach in all the surrounding villages. This custom was continued for six hundred years, from the year 1200 A.D. to the year 1800 A.D. A great deal of the story I have written was by hand on skins and parchments locked away by priests. My father, who was also a priest, entrusted a great many of these parchments to my mother. My mother kept

my father’s will and these precious papers in a trunk after my revered father died at the age of twenty-seven.

This saga of love, prehistoric beasts, and a family in turmoil will keep you enthralled until the very end.

Evangelos Pappazisis (Angelos Pappas)

h t t p s : / /a m z n .t o / 2 O v s H a j

KARE

PRES

MONST It’s hard venturing out of my flat these days. Only

Frightened, I went to bed with thoughts of the

this morning I was at the counter in the Post Office

bogeyman hiding underneath or faces behind the

when someone shuffled in behind me. I could feel

curtains. Of late it was worse and sleeping tablets

their breath on my neck. The assistant handed me

were my best friend.

a receipt. I turned to shove it into my pocket and

The next day, I had a job interview. Nerves kicked

there was no one there.

in. I needed it to get me out of the flat and the rut I

Spooked, I returned to my flat and made a cup of

was in. Dressed in a smart trouser suit, I set off to

tea. As I poured water into the cup, my hand

an office block in the centre of town.

shook. This place was supposed to be my haven.

Crossing my legs, I looked across the desk at the

Now I felt eyes watching me from the darkest

interviewer. “So, what do you think you can bring

corners.

to the role Miss, erm…?” He glanced down to find

That evening I stared out of my first-floor window

my name. “Gloria,” he said almost triumphantly.

as the street lamp threw off an eerie orange glow.

“I can bring fresh eyes to the role and look for new

Beyond that blackness stretched out its long

and innovative ways of doing things,” I said trying

fingers. Nothing moved.

to sound more confident than I felt.

Pulling the curtains shut, I imagined shadows

He nodded as if he understood. Only he didn’t

moving silently behind them. Switched on the

because his eyes betrayed his boredom as I was

television, I flicked through the channels feeling

last on his list of applicants. Most of us wouldn’t

nervy.

even get a letter to say we’d been unsuccessful.

My eyes fell to the vase on the table. There was a

People were so rude these days.

crack running down the front. How had that happened?

EN J MOSSMAN

SENTS, A SHORT STORY ENTITLED

TER AT THE

DOOR

When it was over I didn’t want to return home to

arm, my leg and planting kisses in my hair. Some

the four blank walls. I wandered down to the sea

women liked that, and I once did. It became too

front instead. The waves splashed up the sea wall.

much, he was stifling me until I couldn’t breathe.

They looked like claws trying to grab hold of the

Leaving the sea to its angry ministrations I

bricks only to crash down again. My hair blew over

wandered into a café and sat by the window. It

my face as I watched the pulsating sea, wondering

was another of my delaying tactics. I didn’t want to

once again if they would ever find Craig’s body.

go home. Ordering coffee, the sea mesmerised me

Craig was my tall, handsome ex-boyfriend. We’d

as I wiped a circle in the steamed-up glass to

been together twelve months, six months too

continue watching it.

long. The constant affection and cuddles at the

"Miss?” The waitress smiled holding a coffee pot.

beginning had turned into something else,

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump. Would

something darker.

you like a top up?"

“Where’ve you been?” he’d say when I returned

“Yes, please.” I pushed my cup in her direction.

from shopping.

Looking outside again, a shadowy figure peered “You know where, I told you.”

back at me, watching, silent and unmoving. I

“You’ve been gone too long. I’ve missed you.

shivered. It was always the same shadowy figure

Come and sit by me.”

watching me at a distance still trying to command

It was useless arguing and telling him I had things

my attention. Even in death, he couldn’t leave me

to do. He was always waiting and watching, his

alone.

eyes following me around the room until I gave in.

Eventually I had to go home and heard footsteps

Sitting beside him, I let him paw me, stroking my

behind me. I didn’t want to look. Which was worse? Seeing someone or not seeing anyone?

What did he want?

My guilt over Craig was bad enough as he never accepted it was over. As I lay in the dark at night, I still felt the touch of his hand.

I was perhaps too brutal in the way I told him it was over. I’d been working up to it for so long, it just came out. I had no love left for him. Could I have been gentler? Said it in a different way?

Perhaps not been as angry when I broke the news? He took it badly. Worse than I had expected. He begged and cried for me to take it back, but I wanted out and nothing would change my mind. Then he threatened to kill himself and I didn’t believe he was serious.

One night, Craig jumped off the end of the pier.

They never found his body. Witnesses saw him go over. It was cold, dark and no way could he have survived. My nightmares increased. Had he returned to make me pay?

Stopping, I peered into a shop window. The footsteps also stopped. I walked faster, and they quickened. I ran all the way home.

Nights were the worst. I closed the lounge curtains but not before I caught sight of his reflection in the glass. Spinning round, the room behind me

Shooting upstairs, I fumbled with the door key. It dropped, hitting the floor with a loud clang. The

was empty. I ran to the bedroom hiding under the covers.

surrounding air turned cold.

Unable to settle, each noise made me tremble.

Then I heard it. It sounded like an overcoat

Taking two pills, I soon fell asleep.

scraping against the stone stairs. It became louder, nearer. Jamming the key into the lock, I pushed against the door. It flew open hitting the wall with a loud bang. Spinning around, I slammed it shut. The scraping noise stopped.

Knock, thud, knock, thud.

Waking with a start, I sat up and listened. I put my

feet on the floor hoping the bogeyman wasn’t there and went to the hallway. There was a

Fixing a strong cup of coffee, my hands trembled

shadow behind the glass of the front door. This

as my heart pounded.

had to stop. It couldn't go on

I had to face my fear. Throwing open the door I

the flap.

saw Craig. His face elongated, as if his chin was

Opening it, I scanned the first two lines. “Thank

sliding off his skull, his hair, damp and covered in

you for attending the interview. I am pleased to

winkles. The sleeves of his jacket tapered over his

inform you…” I’d got the job!

hands dripping water to the floor. His lower half was covered in seaweed.

My legs felt like lead. It was impossible to move, but I had to run from the monster at the door.

“Nooo!” I screamed.

Then I awoke with my heart racing. Shafts of sunlight came in through the curtains. Tiny motes of dust floated towards me.

My throat was so dry, I needed to get up, go to the kitchen and drink water straight from the tap. As I came back through the hallway, I glanced at the

Bang! The doorknocker crashed, startling me. My heart raced again as I saw a dark silhouette behind the glass.

“Gloria Benson?” As policemen asked when I opened it.

“Yes?” “We wanted to let you know a body has been washed up….” I barely heard the rest as I stared at the floor covered in seaweed.

END

door. The postman had pushed a letter through

Struggling with the past, Joanna can’t forget the love she lost and the man who broke her heart. During the summer at a rock festival, Joanna meets him again.

Niko is now an international rock star. Can they put the past behind them and rekindle the love they once had?

Mike stood by her when no one else did, but Niko still wants her. Joanna becomes entangled in a web of lies and deceit. Niko is the love of her life, but she cannot leave Mike in confusion and betrayal.

In Joanna’s Destiny, she has some fun times in France and mingles with the stars in Montreux. With a backdrop of music and fashion, emotions and friendships are tested. But her love for Niko never falters, showing that love can conquer all, but at what cost?

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Visit the Electric Eclectic website -

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Paradise at the Bottom of A She was not happy at all.

The privy at the bottom of her garden had served her and her Percy well for over forty years and she didn’t want a fancy coloured all singing, all dancing replacement. She was happy to walk down the garden in all weathers and rest her weary body on the freezing wooden seat, communing with nature – well, the dozens of hairy spiders who inhabited all the dark corners – whilst reading the local rag, chatting to Percy whom she missed dearly but always felt closest to whilst in her little piece of paradise.

There’s been something about our Nan’s privy for some time and although no-one ever mentions it, everyone knows something is a bit odd in there.

If she got taken short at night she had her beloved gerry under the bed – a thoughtful wedding present from a great aunt who’d never have countenanced an indoor lavatory.

It’s not it’s cold. It’s outside at the bottom of the garden and freezing all year. It’s not that there’s green mould growing up the walls – the building is ancient after-all; no, it’s nothing to do with any of that. But there is something not quite right about our privy. The weather and age of the small stone and wooden out building has nothing to do with it.

I suppose, we started to notice not long after the Council decided to modernise Nan’s house. They were going to upgrade the kitchen and bathroom, putting one of those fancy bathroom suites in what was her smallest spare bedroom.

‘It’s unhygienic having that indoors,’ said Nan belligerently as the workmen installed a lovely modern pink toilet and bath with matching sink for her. Using the gerry was hygienic apparently and she emptied it every morning before breakfast and she couldn’t see why the tin bath in front of the fire was no longer acceptable either.

She loved Sunday nights bathing to the sound of crackling logs and her favourite radio programme, a mug of Horlicks steaming next to her.

f the Garden short story by Jane Risdon ‘All this modernisation nonsense will be the death of me,’ she told her neighbour over the fence the following morning.

‘Have you been yet?’ Mrs Small asked. Secretly she loved her new facilities.

‘What?’ Nan was shocked, she had no idea what her constitution had to do with her.

keep quiet. When Mary got it into her head to go against something or someone there was no arguing with her.

She and Herbert would have to flush quietly

‘No, Mary, I meant have you used it? Not have

and exercise discretion in the kitchen until

you been. Herbert used it last night, but I

Mary cooled off.

didn’t,’ she lied and smiled secretly at the memory of the radiator heated bathroom at three in the morning. ‘Of course it will take getting used to.’

Of course, Nan didn’t cool off. She got herself into a ‘strop,’ as her late husband called her moods and stubbornness. She studiously avoided the gleaming pink bathroom and

‘I shan’t be using it - waste of money. If my

sought comfort in her gerry in the midnight

Percy was alive he’d have stopped them

hour. The kitchen could hardly be avoided, she

putting it in.’ Nan had a sneaking suspicion her

had nowhere else to cook so she bit her tongue

neighbour had gone back on her assertion that

and went about food preparation stiffly,

she’d never be seen dead using the new

without interest or enjoyment. She had to eat

bathroom. The kitchen was just as bad, all

after-all.

fitted and fancy.

Months passed and the bathroom remained ‘I’m happy with the privy and no fancy kitchen

unused. The tin bath appeared every Sunday

is going to make me vote for that stuck up

night and whenever the call of nature had to be

warthog on the Council, spending our money

answered Nan made her way down the garden

on such fripperies.’

to the privy where she’d read the rag and chat

Mrs Small sucked her teeth and decided to

to her Percy.

He understood.

All this change. It was far too much.

Winter arrived and the trek to the privy got

Nan sat on the wooden lid in the privy and wept.

harder and harder now her lumbago was getting

‘Percy, what am I going to do?’ she sobbed as

worse and as snow fell she worried about the

she scanned the classifieds in the local rag - just

pipes freezing in her little haven of peace and

in case there was a second hand Gerry for sale.

happiness, but it didn’t put her off using it.

A quick look in the charity shop and the local

Mrs Small and Herbert gave up all pretence of

antique shop was unproductive. As for a new tin

boycotting their new bathroom and Nan refused

bath, she’d no chance she knew.

to discuss using her own whenever her

‘No-one uses anything like this these days,’ said

neighbour extolled the virtues of indoor

the old lady in the charity shop. She’d been

plumbing and radiators. Traitors, is all Nan could

summoned when the young Saturday girl had to

think as she heard the flush of her neighbour’s

ask for help serving Nan.

loo. She considered them unworthy of her

‘What on earth is a gerry?’ she asked, then

friendship

wished she hadn’t. She texted her friends a

and

stopped

talking

to

them

eventually.

photo of Nan and explained what the funny old

She got up more and more in the night to use

lady had requested.

the gerry, putting it down to the extreme cold.

‘How weird,’ they’d all replied. ‘How gross.’

She refused to use the radiators, her paraffin heaters served her well over the years and she was too old to change anyway.

Emptying her gerry in the privy one freezing morning her hands were so cold she dropped the china pot on the privy floor and it smashed into tiny pieces. Nan actually cried as she picked the pieces up and threw them in the dustbin.

There wasn’t a hope of sticking it together again. Where would she get a new gerry? She was sure they weren’t manufactured any longer.

What was she going to do in the night?

Then there was the tin bath. It was ancient and

The privy was a refuge from the sounds of constant flushing and noise of the central heating system next door. It was where she felt closest to Percy. He’d loved it there as well and would spend ages reading the Racing News when he went ‘for a walk,’ as he called it, and it’s where he’d died one Saturday evening after he’d picked a winner on the horses; not a fortune, but enough to over-excite the former labourer so much he’d had a heart attack before he’d chance to collect his winnings.

Nan splashed out on a new hat with matching gloves for his funeral with his little windfall.

the last time she’d bathed it left a damp spot on

He’d know what to do.

the carpet. Upon examination she discovered a

‘Should I use the bathroom?’ she asked him

rusty patch which leaked. What was she to do?

‘Of course, you must, Mother.’ She swore he’d spoken to her out loud. She nearly fell off the wooden lid covering the ancient loo, but the familiar smell of his tobacco wafted past her face and all fear left her. ‘You mustn’t come out here at night, you’ll catch your death – you’re not getting any younger, and as for the bath, well, you have to keep clean.’

‘Percy, Percy,’ she cried. Was it really him? She moved towards the door where the tobacco was strongest. She always thought she imagined him talking to her, inside her head. But his voice was loud and strong.

‘I’ve been worried about you, Mother. I know how stubborn you can be and it won’t do you any

good, mark my words.’ Percy seemed to be sitting on the wooden seat now. He patted the seat beside him invitingly. ‘Yes, it’s really me, stop gawking like an idiot.’

‘I can see it’s you, I just don’t understand what you’re doing here, Percy, it’s not right. I mean, you’re supposed to be dead.’ Nan was shaking

badly and it wasn’t from the cold. ‘You’re dead Percy, aren’t you?’ She wanted to touch him but didn’t – just in case.

won’t you Percy? You won’t leave me now you’ve come back, will you?’ Nan whispered, her eyes pleading with her husband.

‘I’ll never leave you and I’ll always be here, Mother. I’ve always been here. It’s where you are the happiest and I love to see you happy,’ he said.

‘Now off you go and enjoy your new facilities. I’ll be here when you want a natter.’

I visited Nan not long after she’d started using her new bathroom, she was settling in well and even

‘Silly woman, of course I’m dead, don’t be daft.’

had rails fitted, so she could get in and out of the

Percy stood up offering his seat to his wife who

bath safely. The kitchen was no longer a place to

cautiously took his place. ‘Now be a good girl and

be suffered and she happily made me a cup of tea

take the plunge, use the bathroom. I would you

and a slice of homemade cake – the oven worked

know.’

all right apparently, considering it wasn’t gas.

‘Really? You would? Percy, that makes me feel

After returning from overseas, moving closer to

better.’ Nan would have to swallow her pride. ‘I

her, I visited with my family often. We’d have tea

shall still come here to be near you. You’ll still be

and the kids would play in the garden.

here

Now and again one or other of them wanted to use

the privy just as it is, promise me you’ll spare the

the privy, just for the adventure of sitting inside on

privy. Don’t let them take it down. It’s where Percy

the wooden seat in semi-darkness.

and I are our happiest.’

The door started to stick and a few times we’ve

Of course I promised, but seriously it wasn’t up to

used WD40 to open it. My youngest got stuck last

me. The house would revert to the Council and

week and screamed the place down after only a

they’d probably demolish it.

few moments inside. When we released her, she

I cleared the house out and thought I’d check the

said she’d seen an old man smoking a pipe

privy to ensure there wasn’t anything of Nan’s in

blocking the door.

there. Although I knew there wouldn’t be I felt

No-one knew about Nan’s encounters with Percy

drawn to it. I opened the door after a struggle,

in the privy, so we ignored my daughter. We

using WD40, and had the shock of my life.

brushed it off - her overactive imagination we

Sitting side by side on the long double wooden seat

decided. The kids wouldn’t go near it any longer,

I could’ve sworn I saw Nan reading the local Rag

often they’d stare at the door and Nan would

and Percy puffing on his pipe with a pencil in his

shout at them to move on.

hand making his choice in the Racing Times.

Having not been inside for years, I ventured in. It

I ran outside and took a deep breath before

was spooky. It still retained the smell of grand-

opening the door again. There wasn’t anyone in

dad’s pipe, strong and intense. I don’t like spiders

there, but the smell of tobacco was overwhelming

so didn’t linger. There was something not right

and two newspapers were laid upon the wooden

about the privy, it was as if I was intruding.

double seat.

Nan said we were all too excitable and she used

Once I got over the shock I knew I’d have to act.

the privy all the time and it was perfectly all right

in there. Yet the kids continued to avoid it and I have no impulse to go inside again.

I rang the Council and asked if it would be possible for the Privy to remain in the garden. I didn’t explain why but was relieved to be told it was

Thank goodness for the new bathroom.

about to be listed along with the neighbour’s privy.

The phone call came in the middle of the night.

They’re rare apparently, and of special interest; a

Nan had a fall, trying to get off the loo and was in

part of our county’s social history.

hospital. I left the kids with my husband and

Historians expressed an interest in visiting so they

rushed to the hospital just in time to speak to Nan

would be made available to them and that is why I

before she died. She’d hit her head on the bath

can still visit my grandparents whenever I want,

and what with her advanced age and frail physical

happily residing together again in their privy

condition, she’d no hope of surviving.

paradise at the bottom of the garden.

She rambled on incoherently for a while and then, just before she breathed her last, she said, ‘keep

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Harmony Kent This gripping, edge-of-your-seat mystery/thriller will have you thinking twice about booking that idyllic cottage in the country. Nothing in this woodland paradise within the Forest of Dean is what it seems.

The Wenstrops have it all: health, wealth, and happiness. Until everything falls apart. Helen gets arrested for murder, and yet is either unable or unwilling to give a defence. During her detention, vital evidence goes missing and tensions run high.

Meanwhile, in the woods, malignant forces gather power.

This sensational second novel by acclaimed

work that make this into an exciting, suspenseful

author Harmony Kent will have you alternately

read.

laughing, crying, and gripping the edge of your seat as this roller-coaster ride of a plot unfolds. It

I thoroughly enjoyed this fast-paced, page

will keep you guessing through its many twists

turning horror story, even though I wasn’t sure

and turns and hijack your attention right up until

what to make of the first spooky incident, laugh

you turn the final page. This book has it all:

or be terrified. It was so bizarre! The rest of the

murder, intrigue, the supernatural, a broken

story left me in no doubt. The weird goings on

marriage, a love affair, courage against impossible

The Glade were scary and horrific. A true horror

odds, suspense, and high drama.

story evocative of Stephen King’s books.

Harmony Kent does a great job of creating

The story begins in the most beautiful of settings,

believable, authentic characters. Her descriptions

deep in the forest of Dean. After a terminally ill

of the locations are superb too. A brilliantly

woman and her husband spend a week holidaying

written tale which I enjoyed so much, I will read it

there, she discovers her illness is somewhat

again.

eased. Going against local villagers’ advice about

living on the site of an old ruin in the forest, they

I’d certainly recommend ‘The Glade’ to

return, buy the old cottage and rebuild it to live

everyone who likes a little suspense in their

in. Although she continues to improve in health

lives.

while

she’s

there,

things

are

not

as

straightforward as they seem. There are forces at

5***** (Carole Parkes)

Will the cavalry arrive just in time…?

When Paul [the Editor of CQI] suggested writing

little brief description of the location when they

this piece I almost balked. I don’t think I

talk. I’m not big on flowery descriptions.

understand enough about my own writing

If I want to stir things up I get my character(s) to

process to offer it as advice to others.

do or say something ‘out of character’ perhaps.

I just write.

We have all done that from time to time; it can

Readers tell me my characters have depth and I

stop someone dead or silence a room. They’re all

create tension between them and in the plots I

shook up if you like.

devise. But how? How do I do it without knowing

So, shake the plot or characters now and again.

I do it?

You can see why I almost bulked.

All I can tell you is I write my stories as if they were movies or a TV programme playing out on paper. I see it all in my head and I try and make my characters do and say everyday things – they

speak naturally. They aren’t grammatically correct when they speak; some are ‘posh’ and others are not. I try to make them real. No-one speaks perfectly. I try to avoid slang unless the

I worked in the music business managing

character is the sort to use it and then I’ll use it

recording artists and record producers and so I

sparingly.

often see similarities between producing a single

Dialogue is important and a great tension builder

I find. Keeping sentences short and cutting words to the minimum with little ‘he said, she said,’ getting in the way, so speech flows naturally and

(record) and writing a story. With music you need to catch the listener within the first 30 seconds with something which makes them want to listen further.

fast when need be. If I need to slow it, I’ll add

Same with a story, you must grab the reader in

something about a character’s demeanour or a

the first few sentences or by the first full paragraph, I think.

…Or…

‘Creating tensiOn’ an article for CQI

by Jane

Risdon

Tension builds in a recording by making changes,

he fall or was he rescued? Did the Natives close in

sometimes subtle to the melody or the beat, and

at night when everyone was asleep around the

hooking the listener with something simple,

camp fire or would the cavalry arrive just in time?

memorable and emotional within another few seconds, ending on a high.

Make them care and wanting more.

With a story it is important to create highs and lows, to hook the reader and make them care what happens to the character(s). I love to leave a reader at the end of a chapter with the oldfashioned technique from my youth when I used to go to Saturday Morning cinema; when we watched Cowboys and Indians in a series, coming in instalments each week.

It left you anxious to know. Wanting more. Caring.

Tension can be romantic, sexual or menacing. The relationships between people are complex and the

trick is to show that tension.

Dislike,

love,

loathing,

obsession,

violence,

jealousy, admiration all need to be demonstrated through actions, interactions or words – even a look or a short reply from someone can add tension to a scene.

At the end of the morning we’d be left with the

Don’t show it all – unfold the story, titillate, and

‘cliff-hangar,’ until next week. Waiting was agony.

tease from chapter to chapter. But most of all

You know the type of thing: man hangs dangling

make the reader care what happens next, what

from a rock in Arizona as the bad guy is about to

happens to the characters and does it satisfy their

stamp on his fingers…we were left wondering; did

expectations?

Will they want to read more?

Does the book end too soon?

Is there enough to create a longing to read another book?

I try to think of this when I’m writing. I remember what I like about certain books and authors and why. Most times it is because they create all these emotions and needs in me as I read.

Then, I’ll always want more.

Jane Risdon writes mostly Crime Thrillers, often set in the music business or with an organised crime or espionage element. With a former career in the international music business managing songwriters, singers, musicians, and record producers, she often draws upon her experiences in Hollywood and SE Asia for her plots.

Jane is also the author of many short stories which have been included in 15 anthologies to date, as well as in magazines and online newsletters. She also contributes articles and writes flash fiction.

In November 2018 Jane published her first collection of short stories – Undercover: Crime Shorts – via Plaisted Publishing House.

She also has a short story – The Gift - in Ghostly Writes Anthology 2018 published 31st October 2018 via Plaisted Publishing House.

Jane is married to a musician and, with author Christina Jones, has co-authored Only

One Woman, set in

the UK Music Scene of the late 1960s and using her experiences married to a musician in the sixties, as background research. This is Jane’s first outing into writing Women’s Fiction and the paperback and was published 24th May 2018. It is also available on most good digital platforms as an e-book and in Waterstones branches.

Jane’s Amazon Author Page with all her books: https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00I3GJ2Y8 Jane’s Author Blog: https://janerisdon.wordpress.com/ Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/JaneRisdon2/

Only One Woman: UK https://amzn.to/2ynTgUx USA: https://www.amazon.com/Only-One-Woman-Christina-Jones-ebook/dp/B075D88JBP

Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/d/Only-One-Woman-Christina-Jones-ebook/B075D88JBP

Stab in the Dark Christmas Capers Anthology 2017: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Capers-Anthology-Writers-Circle-ebook/dp/B077T1MDJ7

EXCERPT for The Gift “Do you want to go with her?” Crowley insisted “No. I hate her.”

“Hate can move mountains. Wait here. Don’t move.”

Crowley released her hand and moved, blocking her from Aunt Joyce.

“Will you excuse me, sir? Lizzie, come here at once!”

He bowed. Lizzie imagined him smiling, imagined his eyes. His voice was soft and she knew he was going to betray her. “I caught her just now. A wilful girl, if you’ll allow me.”

“I’ll allow you, Mr…?”

“Crowley.”

“Crowley. She is most wilful. Most wilful indeed. The sooner we’re at sea won’t be too soon for me!”

“It’s a pity they cannot be trained…like dogs.”

Lizzie tried to run but her legs wouldn’t move. She watched Crowley bend lower as though whispering something intimate, and then her aunt drop on to all fours, barking madly and turning her head as though guarding a bone. Pedestrians stopped, some forming a loose circle around the deranged woman, and Crowley looking almost as shocked as them. Lizzie began laughing and at once her legs regained movement. Then she saw Uncle Jim, hovering uncertainly at the far end of the street.

Crowley reclaimed her hand. “I think we should go now… Did you enjoy that?”

“I did. I did.” Lizzie felt guilty but she had enjoyed it. She wanted to turn back and see more. Was it bad to hate someone so much – her own mother’s sister? Her smile faded.

“Don’t feel guilty or sad, Lizzie. Those two things will kill you.”

Liverpool born and bred, Mike

Keyton has worked in some of the dirtiest hotels in Wales, played

in a semi professional ceilidh band and taught in a warm and challenging school in Newport before getting off for good behaviour.

Mike now lives in Monmouth.

His writing has been influenced by too many to mention, though he was once inspired by Ramsey Campbell, who not only gave a great talk in a Newport Library, but also conjured up a thunderstorm without moving his hands.

The Gift can be found on, Amazon UK and on the Amazon.com website.

You can read more about Michael Keyton him on his author page

Click on any cover image to read more about that book

T h e

M i l k

Whoever finds this, please know that I’m a good

backgrounds. He said, no one person has the same

person. If anything, I’m just inquisitive. I know I

bone structure. This sounded like a fantastic science

have a problem…. I just can’t stop. I thought I was

project! What fun!

careful. I’ve been doing this for the past ten years and no one has ever suspected me.

Year after year, I’ve been delivering “my milk” to the local Starbucks, Farmer’s Markets and a few

The science project was simple, you pick your person with the outstanding bone structure, knock them out and bring them back to the dairy house.

neighbourhoods. Oh, I bet you’re wondering why I

Now, here is where the fun begins.

call it “my milk”? Well, I’ll get to that, if I’m not

This is where you get to study and admire the bone

hogtied and on the floor in cuffs by the end of this

structure. Once you peel away the skin and

confession.

tendons, you get to enjoy the high cheek bones or

Now, as I was saying, year after year of delivering

the strong, powerful curve in the neck, after you’ve

“my milk”, every missing person has had their face

hosed down all the blood, of course. You can

on my milk cartons. Every year, a new face. My

examine and feel if the bones are strong or brittle.

father taught me to pick faces of different ethnic

M a n

By Grun Ozean

Which reminds me, my latest science project, I

that gorgeous neckline and wonderful cheekbones

won’t say last, as I have plans on one more if it’s not

with her.

too late, had bones so brittle, I didn’t enjoy the

Ah, yes, she would be mine. She would make a fine

process.

add to my collection, with her surliness and crass, I

I figured she was healthy, turns out, she was just

doubt anyone would miss her. Yes, she would be

thin for no reason. I would see her early on

mine, under the moonlit sky and no prying eyes.

Saturday mornings at the farmer’s market, buying

Under the moon is where I do my best work. See,

fruit. I could never get her to buy “my milk”. She

this is when everyone is tired from the day’s events

would laugh at me and say, “People don’t drink milk

and busy typing on their phone or walking to check

these days. Everyone drinks Almond or Soy milk,

their mailboxes late at night.

don’t you know that?”

I would say, “Everybody wants to be thin, but weak bones never win.” She laughed and walked past me.

Tonight, I wait for her, my wonderful science project. I wait patiently on the outer wall of the mailroom. I hear her heels clicking rhythmically in

A week later, I was making a delivery to Starbucks and she was there. Gorgeous neck line and wonderful cheek bones, as she stood in line, looking down at her phone. She never noticed me, no one

ever does.

I was picking up a crate of “my milk” and as I turned around, she crashed right into me. She screamed a bunch of obscenities at me, told me I was clumsy, even called me a moron. She was screaming about how much she paid for her iPhone as well as her silk shirt.

cadence with her keys. I heard her laugh, that’s funny, I didn’t know she could do that. My heart began to beat faster and my hands started to sweat. I always get this excited before a new

science project.

Now was my chance. I stepped from around the mailbox wall and grabbed her arm. As I caught the terrified look in her eyes, I injected a powerful muscle relaxer into the vein of her neck. Her eyes fluttered and closed as her body went limp in my arms I looked around, all was quiet. I lifted her 120-

She said if her screen was cracked, she was going to

pound frame and tossed her over my shoulder. I

crack all my milk bottles. It didn’t seem fair to me,

carried her to my milk truck. Hmmm, how was I

she was the one who crashed into me. She grabbed

going to secure her lifeless body without all my milk

a handful of napkins and side stepped me. She was

crates sliding around her? Oh well, I’ll just have to

out the door and into the beautiful sunshine, taking

hose her off, when I get to the dairy house

I drove quickly through the city. I felt uneasy with all

eyes. I came down quick with my smooth Japanese

the open late stores and traffic cluttering the streets.

cutting knife that I loved so much. Her thigh meat

It seemed like forever, but finally, I turned down the

severed so smoothly, it fell over onto the table, like

old dirt road, heading to my dairy house. I loved it

thin deli meat.

out here, nothing but the stars, my animals and me.

Of course sometimes I get lonely out here, but I have my science projects to talk to. I look at their bone structure and remember what they use to look. I shook the lonely thoughts from my mind, I had a

new science project tonight.

Her eyes jutted out in shock, as she could not speak or move. She could only watch. Eventually, she would panic so much so that she would have a heart attack. This always happens.

What fun.

I came down quick with my smooth Japanese cutting knife that I loved so much.

I opened the door to the milk truck and just as

I looked up at her and tears were leaving her eyes. I

expected, a few of my milk bottles cracked open and

continued to sever and slice her thigh meat. I had a

half of her body was covered in milk. I knew I would

hefty pile. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and

have to hose her down. I picked up her wet body and

looked at her again. It didn’t look like she was

carried her to the slaughter room. As I was about to

watching me, but her eyes were open still. I moved

close the door, I could hear my pigs squealing. I knew

up her body and put my ear over her chest. Nothing.

what they wanted. They wanted to eat. They only

No beating and no breathing. So, I continued to

ate fresh meat, so they would have to wait a while.

sever and slice her body. After a few hours, I was finally finished.

I got started on my project. I had to do this before the sun came up and it was time to deliver “my milk”

I gathered the fresh meat, walked out to my pigs and

again. I started to hose the milk off her, then

tossed it in the pen. They ate it up within minutes. I

removed her clothes. In the middle of all this, she

hosed the blood off the bones and burned her hair.

was watching me. I wonder how long she was

Her bone structure that looked so wonderful under

watching me? Next time, I will use a stronger

her skin, was so weak and brittle, I was extremely

sedative.

disappointed! What a waste!

I looked into her eyes and remembered how she

I spent the next week grinding all her bones. See, her

screamed at me at Starbucks and how she laughed at

face appeared on my milk cartons with the bold

me at the farmer’s market. I couldn’t get lost in her

words “MISSING” under her picture.

People in the city were talking. It turns out, she was

environment. I feed the fresh meat to my pigs and

a nurse! She cared for people as a job, imagine

feed the pigs to the city people. They love my fresh

that.

pork meat.

Oh and “my milk”, well that’s special, you see. I add

As I’m writing this, I can hear the sheriff’s sirens turning down the dirt road. I must hurry. I’ll never be found guilty.

There’s no proof.

more calcium to my milk by adding the crushed bones to it. I grind the bones into a fine powder. No one has ever noticed.

Double the Calcium, I say.

They’ll never find her body, not even her bones.

Not a trace.

END

You see, everything in life is a circle. I’m helping the

GrunOzean describes herself as a "Die-hard writer of LGBT semi erotica, Humor, anything Dark and my absolute favorite, Horror."

Writing under the name of GunOzean allows her to write without her family and friends looking at her as if she has personal mental issues "Writing is how I breathes, how the real me comes to life." She says.

At the end of the day, she unzips her corporate (accountant) costume and slides into her Wonder Woman writer role!

She does this to achieve her goal of publishing many books, tv shows and films.

This story is a continuation of that journey.

GrunOzean says, "I’m on my way!"

You can read more of GrunOzean’s work in a new anthology called, Colours in Darkness Anthology: Deadly Bargain

https://www.colorsindarkness.com/

The

Electric Eclectic

App

That’s enough scary stuff for one edition of CQI, especially as it is now the time we look forward to the festive season, a time shared with family and friends rather than felons and fiends!

To finish this edition of CQI we bring to your attention the new App from Electric Eclectic.

We love this Not only does the App give you direct access to Electric Eclectic's website but also to their Amazon pages in the UK and America.

There is a news and update page to keep you in touch with what is happening, Video links to YouTube and Vimeo and, something we especially enjoy, the electric e-reader where there are some great short stories and Electric Eclectic books, all of which change from time to time, giving an ongoing choice of FREE reading material.

The Electric Eclectic App is a definite must have for 2019 and what's more… it’s FREE

Download it HERE, right now.

Supported by Android devices only.

To close Novembers CQI check out these Tanka from the amazing Japanese poet

Rika Inami The title, “HARAKO”, is named after one of Rika’s morning-walking courses from spring to the late autumn before snowfall.

The literal translation is “Fox field.”

In HARAKO, there is a Inari Shrine to the Deity Inari, God of harvest and one of Japanese Gods.

The Fox is said to be the servant of Deity Inari in Japan.

I image that, in the dim and distant past, one day, Deity Inari wearing a white costume of journey came there and brought good harvest to villagers…it is only my interpretation in dreams.

Rika Inami lives in Akita, Japan. She is a membership of ‘Tanka Association Mirai’, ‘Muro Saisei Learned Society’ and ‘Akita International Haiku, Senryu and Tanka Network.’

Rika’s work has been published on the monthly magazine of ‘Tanka Association Mirai’ and the website of ‘Akita International Haiku, Senryu and Tanka’, written in both Japanese and English.

TANKA HARAKO https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01B700SOE/

TANKA HARAKO II https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01JVWXG9Y/

TANKA HARAKO III https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B071VH2LR6/

月読(つくよみ)の秋雲超えてわたりける君いづこにと問へば便り来

I heard from you that you are going to cross the autumn cloud of the monthly reading (Tsukuyomi)

Tsukuyomi above autumn clouds crossing the sky... once I asked, "where are you?" ... your message to me Tsukuyomi is God of the Moon in Japan.

露しづく 一夜の嘆き 秋桜(こすもす)の 花びらすべり 落ちにけるかも A dewy overnight lament It may fall on the petal of a fall cherry tree

raindrops … sadness of one night slipping off the petals of cosmos flower …

隅々に光かげらふブナばやし明暗の理を見ゆるが如し Looking at the reasons of the light and darkness of the beech burning light in every corner

sunshine goes throughout

the beech forest solving the theory of light and shadow

瞬の生に高まる老葉や紅き実かげる秋深まる日

The old leaves (rising) to the instant life and the red fruit

deep autumn— an old leaf rises to high spirit in a flash … crimson fruits

山中の空き家をめぐるナナカマドくるほしきほど紅く燃えたり Burning red as it comes in the mountains Nanakamado over empty houses

on a mountain around a vacant cottage all the ash leaves fiery red like madness

寒風のけふに鳴りさぶる鳥海の五合目あたり朽葉色さえ The fifth consecutive of the Chokai ringing in the cold wind

around the fifth station of Mt. Chokai—

cold wind sounds lonely today …lucid rusting colors

Goodbye See you next time