Shotgun Horror Clips

November 11th, November 11, 20162016

Volume 1 Issue 3

Contents Flash Fiction

11 A Total of Five .......................................... Garth Pettersen 17 The Bungee Jump ............................... Christopher Powers

Short Stories

1 The Doctor's Last Procedure .................. Wallace Boothill 9 Brother's Last Call ................................... Dennis Freeman

Poetry

10 The Spider ................................................ John J. Vinacci 19 Under the Hunter's Moon ..................... Shane A. Havens

Riding Shotgun

13 Cover Artist Spotlight ............................... Warren Garnes 32 Reviews .............................................................. Grabbers

Editorial November 11th, 2016

V

eteran's Day is a day that reminds us that there are, indeed, real horrors in this world

that are hard to imagine, and, for those brave enough to see those horrors first hand so that the rest of us don't have to, all I can say is this: thank you for your service.

Deadlights Horror Fiction Magazine is a

Our Staff David M. Wilson Editor

Jesse Hart Proofreader

Mattew L. Maw Proofreader

Veteran-Owned Business, and that may surprise some. It may not. In either case, I think that it's fitting that an issue of Shotgun Horror Clips be released on this day. Horror Fiction has a way of

Want to join the team?

Contact Us: deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com

bringing us together by showing us what it is that we fear as a collective whole, and, certainly, it shows us also that fear can cross over from our fiction and into reality. For those serving, who understand this reality, we say: Thank You. And for those who have served in the past and are living with the horrors that we may only as of yet imagine, again:

Thank You.

—David

November 11th, 2016 In This Edition!

In this edition of Shotgun Horror Clips, we start out with The Doctor's Last Procedure, written

by Wallace Boothill. It's a story that takes our 'rights of humanity' on over to the edge of the well-worn morality cliff of what's good and proper, and then, naturally, it pitches us over the edge; all we are left with is the cackling of a mad scientist as we fall to our end. It's not really the end, though, because we fall into a circle of webs as we read John J. Vanacci's excellent poem: The Spider. We are then stripped from the webs and taken, once again, as a prisoner in Garth Pettersen's flash fiction piece, A Total

of Five. Once we pay our five dues, we move on to an interview with our cover artist, DarkmasterN (Warren Garnes). Christopher Powers treats us, once again, to another piece of fiction, this one sure to cause vertigo right before we come Under the Hunter's Moon, in a smart little poem written by Shane A. Havens. Dennis Freeman then entertains us with Brother's Last Call, an existential tale just before we get goofy with a review of 'Grabbers', an excellent little film!

Got opinions? Hit us with them: deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com

The Doctor's Last Procedure Wallace Boothill Wallace Boothill has a real name, an apartment in Baltimore, and a job as a teacher. Wallace has never declined to hear a campfire story and would love to hear your favorite one or anything else at wallaceboothill@ gmail.com ...

I

n the space between dreaming and opening his eyes, Josef tried to recall his dream. It was a memory, or a version of it; a party, late in the December of ‘44. First he felt his sticky fingers leaving sugary

prints on a glass of expensive Riesling. Flakes of pastry dough stuck to his lips. Then there materialized a fir tree, topped with a glittering star. The large tree dominated the room. The ceiling was absent, with a sky of rigid constellations in its place, making the air of the warm room twinkle unnaturally. Schultz’s voice sounded distant, a discordant progression of syllables, bearing only a superficial resemblance to actual speech.

Across the glittering room a girl materialized, some dream rendition of Schultz’s daughter, Fredda.

Josef made notes in his mind: age 13, approximately 1.6 meters in height and 60 kilograms in weight, blonde hair, classical Roman nose, stout legs, thoroughly a Teutonic beauty worthy of a Valkyrie, curiously well-endowed for her age (this he recalled not with his mind but with a tremor through his lower abdomen), her eyes … he struggled to recall her eyes. In a sudden flash, they returned to his memory, large, blue, and in contact with his, these eyes narrowed and blinked. Upon opening, one eye had become green while the other remained blue, and upon blinking again, the eyes disappeared, leaving raw sockets. Her upper lip curled and her eyeless faced contorted into an expression of disgust.

The party faded to darkness as she closed her eyes and turned away and a sudden coldness swallowed the warmth of his memory.

Josef opened his eyes to escape the dissolving dream and found himself in a room barely brighter

than the sleep he departed. A few things that should have been were not. There was no light or breeze coming through a window, for there was no window. There was no blanket over him, though he was not cold. There was no clock to indicate a time, and Josef could not recall what time he went to bed.

Upon examination of his memory, he could not recall going to bed at all. What did he remember?

1 Wallace Boothill

November 11th, 2016 A palm tree, nudged about the night sky by the wind. He was in the yard. His? No, Schultz’s yard, though not in Munich in 1944, but in a suburb of Asuncion in 1960. Another Christmas party. There was another glass of Riesling, a tree, strudel, and Fredda. Now he remembered; it was his first time seeing Schultz since they had left Germany. It had been years. Between Schultz’s yard and this dark chamber, though, what had transpired?

There was a sickly chemical odor clinging to the inside of his nostrils. Among other familiar smells,

comprising the odor there was one with which he was quite familiar: chloroform. Josef attempted to rise but found that his hands, feet, waist, even his neck could move no more than a few centimeters.

He felt leather straps tightened around his limbs as he struggled.

“Hello?” He asked, first in German, then in Spanish, on the edge of panic. “Where am I?” He

could think of nothing else to ask.

Light flashed into the room, blinding Josef. There was a click, and from somewhere just beyond

the barrier of darkness at the far end of the room, the whirr of a tape recorder began and a soft male voice spoke in German.

“Specimen name of Josef Mengele, height 1.74 meters, weight 81 kilograms. Awake at 9:13

in the morning, December 25, 1964. Specimen has been catheterized and colostomized in order to minimize need for movement. Vital signs are normal save for slightly elevated blood pressure. Subject is fairly healthy save for the lingering effects of the sedative. Specimen is likely dehydrated from alcohol consumption the previous night as well as partially numb from sedative. Numbness should soon subside.”

Josef did feel a slight numbness. He did not realize, for example, that he was not on a bed but

a metal table. He slowly became aware of a pulsing ache in his head.

“Where am I?”

A lean silhouette, seated in a chair, became apparent as Josef ’s eyes adjusted. He saw that the

owner of the voice was clad in a black smock. He wore thick eyeglasses, the lenses of which reflected the light so his eyes appeared as two glowing white rectangles.

“You are in a laboratory,” the man calmly replied.

Before Josef could vocalize his question “Who are you?” a recollection from the night before

came to him.

“That’s why I had to leave Buenos Aires,” Schultz had told him in a harsh whisper. “When I

heard Mossad caught up to Eichmann, things changed. I couldn’t leave my house; I couldn’t answer The Doctor's Last Procedure 2

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS

my phone. I felt the hounds at my heels. You don’t realize how lucky you’ve been. Fredda and I had to flee into the night, alone.” He drained his wine glass. “They will hang each and every one of us. And it isn’t just Mossad. Langbein and Wiesenthal? I know you never truly feared them but there are were more where they; sooner or later they’ll show up here in Paraguay.”

“Are you with Mossad?—Or Wiesenthal? Langbein?”

“No, although I found their resources useful in locating you.”

His eyes fully adjusted to the light, Josef noticed how bare the room was. There was only a chair

a few meters from the table, a large lamp, and another table with a tape recorder and a doctor’s bag on it.

“Where is this?”

“I told you, it is a laboratory …” the man replied, moving the lamp next to Josef ’s table “…

and I am a scientist.”

The word the man had used to describe him, specimen, rang in Josef ’s mind.

“And you intend to …”

“I intend to conduct an experiment.”

Putting the question of what this experiment would entail out of his mind for a moment, Josef

asked the question which sprang to the forefront of his throbbing brain.

“Why me?”

“My primary purpose is not to punish you if that is your thinking. I know who you are, and I

know what you did, so I can assume that once my intentions are clearer you might consider this some sort of Dantean contrapasso, but I assure you, Herr Mengele, you are not in Hell and I am no demon.

You are in a laboratory … and I am a scientist.”

“Then why? The city and the countryside is full of peasants whose disappearance would go

unreported.”

“Half-breeds, mestizos. I have no interest in how my formulae would affect their contaminated

physiology. Only an Aryan will do.”

“If you’ve looked at the Mossad’s files you know damn well I’m not the only German in Asuncion.”

“Of course not” the doctor replied, unperturbed. “But there are none who would be as fitting

a specimen as you. I wanted you, Herr Doctor, to make a contribution to the science of the master race that will far surpass the aimless butchery you carried on in the camps.”

“What … what the hell are you talking about?”

“Your research, of course.” The scientist replied, his voice taking on an almost gleeful tone.

3 Wallace Boothill

November 11th, 2016 “We have entered a collaboration, you see. I am to play midwife in the birth of the new Aryan, which would make you, I suppose, the mother.”

“I read your files Herr Doctor, all of them. I wish I could say they were more helpful in my

research but all they really did was reveal the profound flaw in your methodology. Although, I suppose all the researchers really worth a damn are in America, engineering bombs and plagues for the CIA to drop on the Soviets.” A smile came to the scientists face. “All of them except for myself.”

Josef recalled the spring of ’49, when the pressure to leave Germany had reached in peak. He left

so much behind, things that wouldn’t help him in South America. He could still see his dark brown leather briefcase, overstuffed with photographs, patient reports. Though they might have one day been used as evidence in Nuremberg, he could not bring himself to burn them. He had taken only one item, a photograph of the children of the kindergarten he established at Auschwitz. Looking at their faces he could recall how each of them died.

“Look here,” Josef interrupted. “I knew all the top medical researchers of the Reich. If you’re

such a genius I must have heard of you.”

“Oh I never belonged to any elite pantheon of doctors. How I wish I had been. Had I your

resources, none of this would be necessary. No, I spent the war in a military hospital in some bleak little town just outside the sphere of combat. As the war carried on the number of wounded soldiers we received far exceeded the number of available beds. It became more a charnel house than a hospital.

As you might imagine, I was not short subjects for my early, discreet experiments. No one had the time, or the interest, to distinguish one soldier’s expiration as a result of blood loss, infection, or one of my experiments.”

The fear of death rose like vomit from Josef ’s gut.

“Then I’m to die here!?”

“Not if all goes well. If my research is sound, you will live as no man has ever lived before.

This goes far beyond your crude experiments. I can’t imagine you thought you’d learn much about the master race by mutilating its inferiors.” He stood and began to pace like a professor giving a lecture. “Although I don’t suppose anyone would give you healthy German children to vivisect. As far as I can determine, you found that once dissected upon your table, there was no visible difference between Jew and German, between the blood of a dwarf and a man like yourself. A man of moderate intelligence would determine that the differences between the races of man are skin deep. But a man of my intelligence would simply look deeper, into the mind of the Aryan. Hitler never admitted it but The Doctor's Last Procedure 4

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS we are very far from our glorious ancestors, indeed”

All the fear in Josef ’s body flashed to the top of his skull. He turned his head and his eyes fixed

upon the bag, and he imagined a hand-held electrical saw inside, the sort he himself had used countless times in his own work.

“A millennium of evolution has contaminated our blood, even my own,” continued the scientist.

“It is inevitable in a world in which our genetic enemies exist. This is why we must access the superior mind and fortify it. We give the chain of evolution and great pull!”

After this flourish, silence returned to the room. The scientist walked over to his bag and opened

the latched. He withdrew a slender metal case. Returning to the table, removed his glasses. The light caught his eyes; one was blue, the other was green.

Josef gasped.

“Hm? Oh yes, my heterochromia,” muttered the scientist. “Evidence of my own degenerated

lineage. I know the condition intrigued you Herr Doctor, but I assure you it is no more significant than a cleft palate or webbed toes.”

Taking a small key from a thin chain around his neck, he opened the box.

“Some fascinating things live on this continent,” he said, pulling a glass vial of clear liquid

from the box. He held the vial to the light and inspected it closely before replacing his glasses. “For example Diplopterys cabrerana, Chaliponga to the natives. It’s an unassuming little shrub used as the key ingredient in Ayuhuasca. Their shaman use it communicate with their spirits. With the right concoction, seconds seem days under its influence. It’s a miracle, completely wasted on the rudimentary brains of the Amazonians. I have purified it, concentrated it. In the mind of an Aryan, it could unlock the genetic memory passed down by our glorious ancestors, the innate genius of the master race passed to us by the gods.”

Josef had seen passing references to Ayuhuasca in a book of anthropology. It interested him little,

but he began to feel as though he might be safe. He had heard the effects of the drug were powerful, but not fatal.

“Of course, unlocking the mind is only part of the objective. To perfect our race, we must also

improve the body. The serum, therefore, contains a stimulant for the nervous system which I have reverse engineered from the venoms of various snakes and spiders of the Amazon.”

Fear returned to Josef. Some years ago, in Buenos Aires, he treated a snake bite on the arm of

a misguided animal merchant. The man had howled for hours, vomiting from the pain before finally expiring, his face and limbs stiffly contorted in a grim rictus.

5 Wallace Boothill

November 11th, 2016

“A synthesis of the Ayuhuasca concentrate and the venom derivative, along with various other

psychoactive and components will provide the recipient with extraordinarily acute senses and reaction time. This will be the stimulant of the Fourth Reich. This ...” the scientist continued, holding up the vial so that Josef could see clearly. “... is the Yggdrasil Serum. And you will be the subject of the first test.”

Fear took the form of rage in Josef, and, finding his voice, he screamed and tugged at his

restraints.

“You’re either an idiot or completely insane! You think you have a magic potion there!? It’s

poison! It’s …”

Before he could spit out the last word of his rebuke, Josef felt the man’s hand crash across his

mouth.

When the tears drained from Josef ’s eyes, he saw the scientist hovering above him, shoulders

rising and falling with angry breath.

“I won’t have an incompetent like you question me. I already told you, I’ve read your files. They

were telling enough. You are not a scientist; you are not a physician. You are a ghoul. Vivisection?

Sticking needles full of chemicals into eyeballs? Sewing children together to create conjoined twins?

Tell me, Herr Mengele, what did you intend learn by indulging your perversions? You cannot sustain interest in anything you cannot make suffer. You never cared about the master race. You just wanted to pull the wings off of flies and see them wriggle for your amusement.”

These last words were accompanied by flecks of saliva which landed on Josef ’s face. The scientist’s

mismatched eyes radiated with contempt for a few seconds, then softened slightly. He drew himself up, cleared his throat, returned to composure.

“And after all, this is only the first test. I would never waste a perfected formulation on an

inferior mind like yours.”

He turned away and returned to his bag.

“And furthermore,” he said pulling a brown bottle from his bag. “Before the serum is administered

your system must be cleansed.”

Some foul-tasting purgative was forced down Josef ’s throat by means of a short rubber hose. He

spent some time (longer than he imagined it would take) forcefully voiding his bowels and bladder.

He was then rehydrated by an intravenous drip, and left alone in the dark room long enough to lose track of time and retreat into memory.

The Doctor's Last Procedure 6

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS

At the party Schultz led him into the den of his home. The room was a monument to Schultz’s

pathetic nostalgia, bedecked with souvenirs of the so-called “thousand year Reich.” On the far wall was Schultz’s attempted mural of Odin hanging painfully on the World Tree like an ancient Germanic Christ. Schultz’s poor rendition of the All-Father looked misshapen, with a simian brow, jaw worthy of a Habsburg, slightly asymmetrical eyes, and poorly proportioned muscles, all of it looking to Josef like he was covered in tumors. It would have impressed nobody but Schultz, who stood before it in a drunken reverie.

In the years since the war, Schultz fell deep into his own mind. During the war, he had made

the acquaintance of some of the Reich’s more eccentric thinkers, who planted these occult notions in his imagination. Now, in his isolated exile, the myths of their race’s sacred origins had festered in his mind, taking the place of the idolatry he once directed towards Hitler. Seeing him now worshipping at this idiotic altar of his own creation, Josef could not help but feel disdain for him, for his inability to leave the past, for the way he forced Josef to see their once shared dream as a joke.

“The All-Father hung for nine days upon the World Tree. He did this to bring the earth knowledge

of sacred runes” Schultz said. “Language. Poetry. From his suffering sprang the power of his people.

Our people.” With this he turned expectantly to Josef, shimmering blue eyes seeking a camaraderie he had been without for fifteen years.

Josef pursed his lips and glanced away. His eyes rested on a framed illustration from an old

children’s book: four Bavarian children in milkmaid dresses and lederhosen with bulbous red cheeks, blue saucer eyes, and golden hair frolicking in a green field. In the dim light of the den they seemed as grotesque as Schultz’s ridiculous Odin, as absurd as any cadaver splayed out on his operating table, as homely as his own sagging, aging body looked to him in the mirror.

“I should be going, it’s very late” Josef said. He placed his wine glass on the desk by the door

and walked out, calling “Happy Yule” over his shoulder without slowing down. He didn’t quite hear how Schultz responded.

He paused for a moment in the foyer, and glanced into the dimly lit living room. Fredda lay

asleep on the sofa, blond hair swept in loose strands over her tightly shut eyes. She had changed as little as is possible for a person to change over the course of fifteen years. She was beautiful to him in exactly the same way she had been all those years ago. She called to mind an illustration in a book he had as a child. Sleeping Beauty. Even in her sleep though, she retained the expression of deep melancholy that she always had since the day her father had thrown her mother out of the house. But old Schultz had had no choice about that. After all, her mother was a Jew. 7 Wallace Boothill

November 11th, 2016

Some time later Josef woke up to a bright light on his face. He heard the scientist’s voice, this

time muffled by a surgical mask, but could not see him.

“Test: One ...

“Serum formulation: One ...

“Administering first injection now at 9 in the morning, December 26, 1960.”

Josef felt a hand grab a fistful of his hair and jerk his head up, exposing the nape of his neck.

He felt the syringe prick his skin. Then a moment of pressure at the injection point, then the tiny ache dissolved.

The light above him expanded and grew in intensity until it became indistinguishable from

complete darkness. For an unknowable period of time, Josef lay perfectly still, paralyzed though it did not occur to him to try to move. He stared off into this void. Then, out of the void, came a rectangle … a table. A table bound to the floor by thick, twisting roots instead of legs. And then he saw a figure on the table. A naked human figure. Shapely, pale, blonde, eyes closed. Sleeping Beauty. Fredda.

Something of Josef hovered far enough above the rest of him to see where he was. He was back in his operating room at Auschwitz—he had his scalpel in his hand. He tried to scream as the Josef below lowered his scalpel to Fredda’s lower abdomen.

He split her open.

The skin began to roil like boiling water and out of the seam tiny children crawled, tiny Bavarian

children, plump, blond and apple-cheeked, spilling out of Fredda’s unseamed womb like newborn spiders from a burst egg. They crawled all over her, covering her completely. When the children uncovered Fredda, it was no longer her; it Josef ’s own head atop the body of Schultz’s deformed Odin, naked, split open. His cadaver form’s eyelids shot open, revealing one shining, blue eye and one deep green.

The eyes blinked and then they were his, staring down a hallway. Josef was standing. His hands

and feet were free. He was vital, strong. He dashed down the hallway, unwilling to question anything his addled senses told him. The hallway ended in a square iron door. Josef had his hand on the door handle when he recognized it.

“No. No no no no no.” His despairing voice came from somewhere outside of him. “I can’t, I

can’t, I can’t.”

The square iron door flung itself open, revealing the inferno inside. Josef turned away from the

fire and fell to his knees. He felt the heat scorching the back of his neck. Screams came out at him, out of the fire. Josef heard the screams of countless voices, men, women, children. They came from every The Doctor's Last Procedure 8

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS direction, a shrieking chorus of thousands that over time became a single voice. Josef then became aware of the soreness of his throat and realized that he too was screaming. With each passing second, the screams sounded less human, more animal, more mechanical. He felt the saliva foam form on his lips and drip down his face, and with this tiny sensation, it all became real. A deep, rippling pain radiated out from Josef ’s spine, like thousands of broken glass shards being pushed at glacial speed through every vein in his body. The screams did not stop until he felt something rupture in his upper chest and then the screams were replaced by a feeble wheezing, a sucking sound.

Time passed. It must have passed, for even though Josef felt trapped in a single moment of

agony, time does not simply stop. If time was indeed passing, it must have been days, nearly a week.

The pain had mutated, become an entity of its own existing within and around him.

From somewhere far away, Josef heard a voice he felt that he had once known but could no

longer identify.

“Test: One ...

“Serum formulation: One ...

“Administering second injection at 10 in the morning, December 26, 1960.”

9 Wallace Boothill

The Spider A Poem by John J. Vinacci Laying here in wait

Don’t mistake my nonchalance

With elegance and grace

For arrogance my friend

I’m patient as a clock

That’s the way the game is played

With a little time to waste;

At least inside my head;

I sharpen up my dagger

It’s nothing particularly personal

Oh, would you like a snack?

Fate plotted this collision

I invite inside your naïveté

This poisoning of your luscious body

With a motive to attack.

With absolute precision.

“Come into my parlor,”

Goodness, you’re still moving

Says this spider to your fly

Can I offer you a mint?

My tangled web of silkiness

I’m not good at condolences

Betrays you, it’s a lie!

Much less at being friends;

I promise not to laugh

I assure you that it’s futile

If you promise not to cry

I sense you sense the end

When eventually you realize

Hunger is consuming me

You’re my dinner guest tonight.

That’s a joke I tell the dead.

John J. Vinacci is a freelance writer who specializes in academic writing and creating website content. He is currently refining his fiction and poetry skills with an emphasis on fantasy, horror and surreal fiction. He lives on Maui, Hawaii with his wife and two hyper-intelligent cats that give him nightmares. Visit him: https://johnjvinacci.wordpress.com/

10

A Total of Five Garth Pettersen Garth Pettersen is a Canadian writer living in the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, BC. He has a Bachelor's Degree in History and a background in Education (History, English, Theatre). Garth taught Writing and English at Western Canada College once upon a time and has written children's stories, a YA novel, adult short stories, and an historical novel.

His short stories have been published widely, reaching far beyond the horror-sphere. Read his blogs on writing at www.garthpettersen.com/ or follow him on twitter @garpet011 ...

P

armenter's eyelids fluttered open. His head pounded, his skin was icy. The surface on which he lay facedown pressed hard against his bones. Groaning, he pulled himself to his knees and surveyed

his surroundings: four bare walls, a bed attached to the wall, and a matching stainless steel toilet.

Through a fog of confusion, Parmenter began to remember the arrest and the interrogation.

He winced. There would be no trial, no doubt of his guilt, no hope. As his head drooped forward, Parmenter saw the fresh tattoo on the back of his hand—in blue ink, the size of a dollar coin—a number, 5.

Parmenter touched it.

Am I prisoner number five?

Is this cell number five?

His throat constricted. The tattoo was more than a violation. It was a sentence. Five years?

Dear God …

His thoughts were cut short by the metallic clang of a bolt being shot back. The creak of rusty

hinges followed as the cell door swung open.

"Ready to face the day, Derek?"

The man's voice was warm and fatherly, but it contrasted with the solid frame, the thick neck,

and the squarish head made squarer by a military cut; it was Kramer, his interrogator, looking at him through small, deep-set eyes that were mostly pupil. He had a nose once broken and poorly healed, 11 Garth Pettersen

November 11th, 2016 and a thin, near lip-less mouth, shaped into a smile that was barely a rumor.

If he could escape, he would be running headlong, insane with fear.

“It’s time. Come along.”

"Please… Please… No…"

Kramer hoisted Parmenter to his feet. He was unsteady, but Kramer supported him with a

hand under his arm and the two of them marched out of the cell together, moving down the long hall, Kramer's grip holding him firm, Parmenter tripped and stumbled just once.

"Where are you taking me? What's going to happen?"

Kramer strode on, resolute, silent.

They came to an open door. Parmenter saw two soldiers in battle fatigues standing behind a

crude but solid table.

Parmenter tried to wrench himself free, but lost his footing. Kramer's grip was unyielding as

he dragged his prisoner into the room and deposited him on his knees before the table.

Parmenter's hands shook.

"Place your hands up on the table."

Parmenter tucked his hands under his armpits, but Kramer and one of the other soldiers forced

both hands flat onto the table and held them firmly in place.

"Derek Parmenter—Prisoner 201—present and accounted for," Kramer reported.

"How many?" asked the other soldier.

Parmenter looked to Kramer. The interrogator glanced down to the tattoo.

"Five," Kramer said.

The soldier raised a hand above his head.

Parmenter saw the cleaver.

A Total of Five 12

Cover Artist

SPOTLIGHT

Warren Garnes (Screenname DarkmasterN)

H

orror Art comes in all shapes and sizes. In the fine words of our generation: Google It. You'll see what we mean. We ran across DarkmasterN on Deviant Art, and there's a lot going on with

this guy's art; not just wierd, horror-art, mind you, but horror-comics as well. During issues prior to this, we've done a little promotional write up for our Cover Artist, and it's worked out well; it's a fun article to write, truely. But when we reached out to Mr. Garnes, we realized that his answers were thoughtful meditations, the sort that other artists would find themselves relating to, and, so, why try to adjust that down into a single page? No, instead, we decided to change it up on you fine folks, and use some of our Interview-Kung-Fu to open a bigger and better exploration, one that asks where this artist came from, and where he's going. Check it out: Shotgun Horror Clips: What got you into art and was really when my art took off. what forms do you use and love the most?

Drawing will always be my main artistic

love; it's what I do the most, and I can doodle Warren Garnes: Really, ever since I can remember, pretty much anywhere I go, any time. However, I've been into art. My dad used to draw a lot when Photoshop and digital art have been what I mainly I was young, and that really got me into the basics. focus on these days, and I combine it with my He drew a lot of comic-book-esq monsters and traditional pencil work. I also enjoy painting with super heroes, and I really started there. I also used both acrylic and water colors, I occasionally work to watch that old show, Pappy Drew It, and Bob with clay; I do most things, really, but if I had to Ross a lot when I was young, so, really, a collective choose? It'd be drawing and digital coloring. of those, combined with watching cartoons, really pushed me to want to do art. When I got older SHC: What got you into horror art and/or what and got heavily into video games and anime, that inspires your drawing(s)?

13

November 11th, 2016 WG: I've been into Horror just as long as I've been me into a new idea. into doing art. Monsters and dinosaurs were among the first few things I ever drew, and, of course, I SHC: You do Horror comics, too. What got you was inspired by the classic kid's horror shows like into that?

Goosebumps and Are You Afraid of the Dark? and as I moved on from there, I learned to draw other WG: For my comic, Slightly Above Average, I really things: cute girls, animals, and other weird things wanted to make a good Lovecraftian, Eldritch... but I always end up coming back to horror art. Horror-Tale set in the modern world, and infused

There's just ... no single definition of horror. with typical Manga/comic tropes, but twisted,

While, if you draw a person, or a car, or a building, and polymorphed into something new and weird. it's usually obvious if there's something incorrect Though I often set up typical tropes, I try to push about it, but when you're trying to draw something away from them with non-conventional means, or scary, you can keep going and pushing it, altering I embrace them fully, ready to tear them apart later. anything you see fit, until you hit a point where

I got into it because I really love to tell stories.

even shapes can be scary with the right mood and I play a lot of tabletop RPG's like Pathfinder and lighting. Horror, in my opinion, can be combined Call of Cthulhu, and loved the reactions people had with anything and has limitless artistic potential. to the stories I'd put together. I've always enjoyed

Most of what inspires my drawings, and evoking emotions with the art I share, and so I

my work in general, is a fear of the Unknown, or combined that love of art and story telling to make sometimes not even full-on fear, but a disconcerting a comic series. Making it a web comic was very or uncomfortable feeling. Sometimes it's hard to useful, too, and as I slowly gained more followers, invoke fear, but if you can make someone at least it urged me to go on so that I wouldn't disappoint uncomfortable, then you're working towards the the people whom are relying on me to update. right direction.

Really, it is the people that enjoy my work that

Inspiration comes in all shapes and forms, keep me going.

really; some of my inspirations come from simple scenarios. For example, my image (and story), The SHC: Let's talk Genre. Who're your favorite horror Thing that Lurks in the Light, was a somewhat author(s)? And what about The Movies?

Lovecraftian tale about those little floaties you see when you blink or look at the light for too WG: When it comes to Authors, of course I love long. Really, I can be inspired by anything, and I'm H.P. Lovecraft. A lot of his works are pretty dry always extremely excited when something pushes sometimes, but his descriptions of vague terror that Cover Artist Spotlight 14

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS are never fully explained really always hooks me in theme, to The Thing's quiet, synth thumping that and have inspired a lot of what I do. Other writers sounds like a slowly approaching heart-beat, the for the Cthulhu Mythos such as Lin Carter and music in his movies is always memorable along Clark Ashton Smith also weave some wonderful with the horrors they accompany. tales of the unknown and strange goings on that

When it comes to other movies I love, Mr.

really can evoke a feeling of primal fear as well as Jones is a great one; I think it's on Netflix right intrigue. The Mythos is just a very unique literary now, and it is a wonderful psycological thriller that creature in that way.

I still don't fully understand. I feel it is underrated.

My top favorite horror movie of all time is Trick or Treat is great, too, though it also seems to

John Carpenter's 1982 film, The Thing. It has that be an unknown masterpiece of horror. And another feeling of overbearing loneliness that Alien provides, classic, a horror/comedy that I love, is called Slither, setting you in the cold, bleak, arctic wilderness which is rife with jokes about it's Sci-fi/Horror with no way to contact help. The environment source material as well as having body horror galore. is inhospitable, and there is an unknown terror I'm also a big fan of the classic Evil Dead series, lurking, not only in the shadows, but within those and the most recent Evil Dead, which was amazing that you need to put your trust into to survive. The when it comes to body horror as the effects were premise is already horrifying without seeing the disgustingly beautiful. Tossing a foreign movie into creature, and once it shows up it never leaves your the mix, and a recent one at that, The Japanese Shin mind. From the first creature to explode on screen, Gojira, which depicts Godzilla in a much more ... to the lab scene when the man's head stretches off terrifying light than is usually depicted, with some of his body and grows legs, it is a feeling of horror allusions to the recent tragedies that have struck that I will NEVER forget.

Japan, as well as past visions of Hiroshima and

Really. I have to say. in general. that John Nagisaki that all blend into a single creature that

Carpenter is one of my favorite directors. as his is a literal marching embodiment of the folly of classic slasher film Halloween is another all-time mankind. A surprisingly amazing movie. favorite of mine. Though some of the other slashers out there are more powerful and have way more SHC: Much of your art focuses on Body Horror, technique or skill up their sleeve, Michael Meyers or grotesque images, such as body manipulations will always be the most intimidating and realistic or, as our cover shows, parisitism. What interests of all of them. Plus, I'm very much a believer that you in this? music can make or break a horror film, and from

Halloween's creepy music and it's simple piano WG: Body horror is among one of the top most 15 DarkmasterN

November 11th, 2016 terrifying subjects to me, as some of it is wholly an M.C. Escher Print. There's just something about believable. A car accident that crushes and twists the human (and animal) body that is so wonderful limbs, or having your flesh burned off from the and familiar, and yet so alien, when even slightly dropping of scalding liquids onto yourself, it is altered; though these alterations can hold within among the most terrifying and real forms of horror them beauty, horror, curiosity, and, on occasion, that exist, as it exists not only in the unknown, but even attraction. One of the main characters of in the random, every day events that we all take for my comic, Laila, is built using this as the main granted. An accident can occur at any time, and it design idea, by making her both an attractive girl could destroy your life.

and a twisted, fleshy abomination all at once. It's

And for the other forms of Body Horror confusing and interesting sometimes, especially

that are in my art that are much more far fetched, when you find yourself attracted to something it can be equally as disgusting as it is alluring. A that shouldn't be attractive. Creating things like mass of twisted limbs extending from a central that just feels good. It's freeing and beautiful, all body or a fleshy protoplasmic beast covered in at once. Like playing god, but without any of the eyes and tentacles and mouths and other unsightly responsibility ... protuberances can be as beautiful, and confusing, as

Get ahold of him! http://darkmastern.deviantart.com/ www.patreon.com/DarkmasterN Slightlyaboveaveragecomic@gmail.com Shotgun Horror Clips would like to thank DarkmasterN for use of "Parasites".

Cover Artist Spotlight 16

The Bungee Jump Christopher Powers Christopher Powers lives in Essex, United Kingdom, with his wife, and works full-time as a content copywriter. He began writing scary stories from an early age, and loves to scour charity shops and market stalls for horror paperbacks—the more yellowed and grimy the better! He can be reached at powers1902@yahoo.co.uk.

“Y

ou’re up, buddy.”

“Right. Yes,” Baxter says, taking a tentative step onto the metal grating. It’s cold under his bare

feet, but he doesn’t complain. After all, no one else has.

“How long does it last?” he asks.

“About half an hour,” the man replies, clasping an elastic rope around Baxter’s left ankle.

“I mean the falling.”

“Not long.” He cinches the rope tight. “Most people feel cheated, really, because the rush is

amazing, but it’s over too quick.”

“I won’t feel cheated,” Baxter says, gazing out over wide, open plains of lush green forest hugging

the lake from all sides. It reminds him of a postcard, of a scene frozen in time, captured so perfectly in all its natural beauty. “I’m just happy to be here,” he whispers.

“That’s the spirit.” The man pats Baxter on the back. “Clear day, wind speed looking good. I

think you’re ready to go, my friend.”

Baxter steps to the ledge, letting his toes slide into open space. Three-hundred feet below, the

lake shimmers like frosted glass, sunlight glinting from its placid surface.

Hoots and cheers come from the group behind him, and Baxter chances a final look over his

shoulder. Three boys and two girls, mere children compared to him, stand clapping, not in mock admiration, either, but with real enthusiasm, and one of the guys throws out a thumbs-up, which Baxter gladly returns.

A feeling of awkwardness taints the pleasure he feels, and as a sudden rush of cool wind blowing

in from the eastern hills tussles through Baxter’s thinning hair like spectral fingers, he instinctively 17 Christopher Powers

November 11th, 2016 claps a hand over the back of his head to conceal the spot where nothing grows these days.

Getting old bothers him. These young people aren’t helping.

He wonders how Maggie would react if she saw him now, clad in a pair of baggy red swim

shorts, strapped into a harness with his middle-aged spread pouring over the carabiner clips for the world to see. He wonders if she would be more shocked by this act of defiance than the route he had almost – but thankfully not – decided to head down.

People fall out of love all the time, he reminds himself, not for the first time.

Sometimes, despite every effort, people just fall out of love. It happens, and we deal with it.

And sometimes, Baxter thinks, recovery from such a loss is impossible.

He leaps from the bridge.

Feet together. Arms spread. Chin tucked. He drops through the air like a giant crucifix, twisting

and twirling, the wind whipping by like a thousand ghost kisses.

The pain he feels, all this sorrow, is falling away as he descends; breaking off in chunks and

spinning away into the lake below. His mind feels freed; his heart at its lightest for months.

Opening his eyes, Baxter sees vast blueness rushing up to greet him. And, below that, a dark

shimmery shadow spreading beneath the surface, growing wider, larger.

In his mind’s eye, he sees himself sitting on the couch, in a house he refuses to call home, a glass

of vodka in one shaky hand, small white pills cupped in the other. And then, the postman. Slipping something through the mail slot. A flyer. For bungee jumping of all things. The image of a man diving from a bridge surrounded by greenery is offset by a single proclamation: “One last ride!”

And now, finally, he’s strong enough to take that ride.

The dark shape suddenly breaks through its watery barrier and reaches up towards Baxter.

It resembles a crocodile; only far larger, with an elongated snout padded with rows of razor-

sharp teeth which splits wide as it rises into the air to snare the plunging man, who does not scream or thrash about.

His life has been over for some time now.

Since Maggie left.

Two furious yellow eyes gleam in the docile sun like twin orbs. Scaly ridges permeate its arcing,

reptilian spine. Claws wider than a monster trucks wheels slash the air.

It swallows Baxter just as the rope severs completely, dragging him down beneath the picturesque

lake, causing barely a ripple, his last ride, complete.

The Bungee Jump 18

Under The Hunter's Moon A Poem by Shane A. Havens The day fades to gray, washed of color by a glutted moon The dusk air smells of damp and fog, but he's in his own reality Fighting himself for control of his own flesh and blood His resistance wanes as the full moon waxes, wrapped in cloudy shadow The change comes, relentlessly stalking him, that awful moment of rage In which the Other comes to life He runs deep into the wood trying to escape this bitter reality But the Other follows easily, a trailing shadow It begins as an insatiable itch, a burning stirring in the blood Losing control, now he's ranting—a lunatic come to life Pounding chest and ragged panting, hard to control the rage Soon enough, he's on his knees screaming at the moon His bones are fluid, shaping to match the charnel rage Loud whine fills his ears—his own primeval scream, echoing life Pain is his only reality As man gives birth to an older soul from his earthen bed in the forest's shadow Arms spread, screaming to the night, his pores run with blood Sounds of remaking bring madness and frenzy to each as they cling to life Flesh is rent, cartilage twists, bones mend anew in this vulgar dance of blood Wolf and man writhe and embrace within the intimate shadow And two become one, reunited as rage New eyes are pierced by a silver blade—forged light of the moon Gives voice to furious anger, the awful howl erupts and shatters reality

November 11th, 2016 It licks new teeth, and runs in quest of blood Empty now of all but hunger, and hot pulsing rage There is only hunter and hunted beneath this killer's moon It can't be caged—it will be sated, feasting on the forest's life Low to the earth, loping outside the limits of reality Survival of the strongest, evolution embodied, striking from shadow Nose in the wind, all is prey to this sleek and deadly shadow Wearing only a predator's grin, it sloughs humanity and its former life Free of man's binds, there is only the hunt—all else is less than reality Free of time's yoke, it spends the endless night riding the paths of the moon Free of human inhibitions, it basks in the strength of the beast, and its thirst for blood Free of unearthly concerns, the Wolf savors its inner nature and revels in its rage This is pure life, not man's manufactured reality Pumping and spilling blood within Nature's whims, and rendering her rage Upon the shadows of her design, under the hunter's moon

Shane A. Havens lives in Northwest Arkansas, where he waits patiently with his wife, kids, and grand kids for the end of it all. He is a vaguely humanoid creature who reads and collects fantasy and horror. This is his first published work.

Under The Hunter's Moon 20

Brother's Last Call Dennis Freeman Dennis Freeman is an American Horror Fiction Writer and a Mental Health Paraprofessional. He lives in Arkansas with his wife, three sons and daughter. Dennis loves it when his privacy is invaded on Twitter @TheTerrorverse ...

“Love and miss you mom.”

T

hey’ll know who you are tomorrow, Jaylon thought to himself. He reached into his pocket, his hand brushing against a remote beneath his black overcoat, causing him to stiffen a little, and

he pulled out his pack of menthols, lit it deftly with his zippo, then made the pack and the lighter disappear with the skilled hands of a street magician. He sat, red eyed and wet faced, at a bench across the street from Last Call as the wind blew the autumn leaves in swirls around him. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke until he felt it begin to burn his lungs.

He stared at the little dive bar across the street and felt his stomach begin to churn. His excitement,

fear, and yearning seemed to create a volatile, although not unpleasant, feeling inside him. Jaylon got to his feet and checked to make sure the road was clear before he crossed the street. Jason had told him that it would be alright for him to indulge a little beforehand and that God would understand, so Jaylon intended to have a few drinks before the deed was done. Jason always seemed to know the will of God. He had led Jaylon and the twenty-five other members of Lord’s Army for the last several years. Jaylon had followed Jason since day one, when it was just a prayer circle at the local community college. Jason had shown himself a natural leader and it seemed that God sometimes spoke to him directly.

Jaylon tossed his cigarette aside as he crossed the street and pulled his backpack over his shoulder

as he prepared to enter what he and the Army had referred to as the “Sin Bin”, his attention momentarily drawn to a young couple walking into a local diner down the street, the couple hand in hand. Before he could turn back around, he ran into a large, hulking figure. He jumped back instinctively and beheld a tall, slender man. His skin was dark, his hair neatly waved, and his eyes were shiny black diamonds 21 Dennis Freeman

November 11th, 2016 in the light of the falling sun.

“Sorry about that, young man,” Jaylon gave a nod and cast his eyes down, entering the Last

Call; the Sin Bin as Jaylon and his people called it. “Nice backpack.” Jaylon stiffened at this a bit, but quickly made his way inside, heading to the back of the bar.

He sat alone at a booth.

Rae watched the pasty mouse of a man walk inside and followed after him. Instead of going

to back booth, though, Rae went to the bar. With his bulky and muscular frame, he normally would avoid this, but Last Call was empty at the moment, and he would move if it started to get crowded.

He had business here tonight, and he suspected that he would have to wait awhile. He removed his long, black overcoat and tossed it across the back of the bar chair. Before he could sit down, he heard a soft, seductive voice from behind him.

“I was pretty close to calling interference on that one, Azrael.”

It was soft and pleasant voice, but there was something malicious underneath it. Rae turned

and wasn’t surprised to see his sister.

“We walk the line, sometimes. I prefer Rae. I don’t call you Asb’el, now do I, Bell?” She rolled

her eyes as she removed her long white coat and put it on the seat next to Rae’s. Her long slender body moved deftly as she brushed past him and took a seat. Her long, milky white fingers were tipped with black nail polish, and her long blonde hair was loud against the onyx black sweater she was wearing.

Even if he hadn’t recognized her, he would have known what she was immediately. They always knew their own kind. They were, after all, celestial. The Seconds were made from the clay of the earth, and, as far as Rae (or any of the Brothers for that matter) were concerned, they looked like mud figures. At first, Rae thought to protest her joining him, but decided against it. It would have made no difference.

Rae took the seat next to Bell as she called the bartender over. She ordered them both a beer

and opened a tab. Rae took his suspiciously and looked at Bell. “How did you do that? We’re not allowed to interact with the Seconds.”

Bell shrugged. “We’re allowed to interact we’re just not allowed to change anything significant.

We’re not allowed to have permanent, lasting effects. I opened a tab that will never be paid. Plus, you and I both know it won’t really matter later on.” She sipped her beer. Rae considered this a moment before taking his own beer up.

“How’s Dad?” she asked.

Once again Rae shrugged.

Brother's Last Call 22

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS

“Don’t ignore me Rae. I don’t see any of the old family that often, and I’m curious.”

Rae cast his gaze upon her and sighed. “Dad’s good. Not much has changed since you left. He

doesn’t like to talk about it, but I know he misses you all. He still loves you. Even Lucifer.”

“Lucifer? You know after the fall he became …”

Rae put his hand up to stop her and said “Yeah I know … I just prefer to remember the good

days is all.”

She put her beer to the side and turned to face him. “You know, I don’t think it’s fair for you

to judge us, because we were there first. We were his best, his brightest creation. What right did He have to command us to bow to them?”

She said “them” with obvious distaste.

“He’s the Father. He shouldn’t have to explain himself. You were given a command and you

should have obeyed. Lucifer most of all. You tore everything apart.”

“Rae …”

“You know we don’t like that…” he said, brow furrowed.

“Ugh. Sorry. But you have to understand where we’re coming from. We were created to serve

Him, just like they were. However, they get something we never do. Forgiveness. They can spit in His face, curse Him, kill one another and the world he created for them and yet He forgives them time and time again. What makes them so deserving of His love? So much love that he commanded us, the first born, to kneel before them?” She was beginning to get loud but nobody but Rae seemed to notice. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re no better than the apes. At least the apes have the decency not to wage war and destroy the world they’ve been gifted.”

Rae sighed again. “I don’t know what he sees in them, Bell. That’s not my job. I just do what

I’m told.” He took another drink of his beer, but he could feel her gaze on his face. “You have no right to question servitude. You traded Him for Lucifer.”

She started at this, but caught herself before she could go off on a tangent. “You don’t get it.”

She said. “At least under Lucifer we don’t grovel before the seconds. We don’t have to bend knee to the goddamn dirt people.”

Rae slammed his fist down on the bar hard enough to make his beer jump half an inch off the

table. It sloshed, but the liquid remained in the glass, and nobody save Bell took any notice. “Please…” he said. “Stop saying that.” Bell rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand , so he turned his attention back to the bar to gather himself.

“I understand the feeling. A lot of us had the same feelings. The difference is, we chose to obey

23 Dennis Freeman

November 11th, 2016 Dad. You all chose rebellion. Well, not all of you. What are our neutral brothers like?” he asked.

“Still a bunch of whiney bitches.” she said, shrugging. “They couldn’t find the will to pick up

arms and fight against their brethren on either side and figured they’d serve the winner. They still don’t understand that doing nothing is a choice and has consequences. Fuck them. They’re useless.”

Rae nodded. He lost many brothers during The Fall, and not all of them served Lucifer. A large

number of them hadn’t fought on either side at all, and instead sat on the sidelines as the army of Heaven tore itself apart. Some were scared, others didn’t want to kill their brethren. Rae had understood at the time, and almost sat out himself. However, when the Father had sent Michael to talk to him, all that changed.

“How did it feel to betray your brothers?” Bell asked. “How does it feel to know you turned on

your own kind for the right to grovel at the feet of the mud puppets?”

“Fuck you, Bell,” he said.

“Listen to you! Aren’t you full of piss and vinegar today? The Carpenter wouldn’t like you using

that kind of language, Rae. He’d be terribly upset!”

“You mean Je …”

She threw her hands up and the genuine look of terror on her face would have been comical

under different circumstances; however, Rae wasn’t in the mood for humor. He’d put up with enough and was ready to have it over with.

“No!” Bell croaked. “I’m sorry. Please don’t say it. I’ll chill, okay?” She kept her hands raised,

but looked at Rae. “You know we don’t like that anymore than you like the “goddamn” thing.

“Truce?”

He sighed again and nodded. “Truce.”

In truth, he would no more invoke the name any more than he would have drawn a sword on

her. They were on different sides, but he knew starting a fight would cause problems later on , and that they would likely end up with the both of them getting into trouble. Get along to get along …

Bell relaxed a little and her hands dropped back down to the bar. They sat in silence for several

minutes, nursing their drinks. Neither of them were sure how to proceed. Finally, Bell polished off her beer and sat the mug to the side.

“I’m sorry Rae.” she said.

“Me too.” he said as he clapped her on the back. “I admire the passion even if I don’t believe in

the cause.” She nodded as if she understood and sat back in her chair.

“Things are slow around here tonight.” she said scanning the patrons in Last Call.

Brother's Last Call 24

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS

“The Seconds tend to keep things pretty dull.” He gave the bar a quick scan himself. There were

few people here now, but in a few hours the place would be roaring with rock music and the crowd would be rowdy. “Most of the time, anyways,” he said as he looked over at Jaylon who was drinking his third beer of the night in the back booth.

“True enough. Things aren’t like they used to be. Did I ever tell you I was worshipped by a

pretty large tribe in the B.C.?” she asked. “It was pretty groovy. Groveling, bowing, human sacrifice … those were the good old days. Not like it is now. There is so much red tape,” she said as she ordered another round for the two of them.

Rae was scowling. “Believe me I remember. I spent years trying to raise a prophet out of them

to bring the tribe to Dad’s way. You kept having them sacrificed.” he said. “You always seem to be able to talk them into the dumbest shit. I don’t know how you manage it. It isn’t like they don’t know what you are and yet they make deals with you anyways.”

“They’re stupid, Rae,”she said matter-of-factly.

“Sometimes. Absolutely.”

“That’s the thing though, Rae. They’re always stupid. Do you remember Andrew Quick?”

“Yeah. That was tragic.”

“If, by tragic, you mean hysterical, then, yes. It was tragic as hell.”

Rae did his best to ignore her, but his mind kept going back to the Andrew Quick incident.

That had been a terrible day. He had been following Andrew while trying to help his Guardian get a handle on his deteriorating mental condition, but it hadn’t helped. In the end, he did the stupid and short sighted thing, as was common with the Seconds.

Andrew sat by the air conditioner in his little studio apartment as he watched the sun begin to

fall below the hot desert sands in Sidewinder, Nevada. The shitty little apartment was the apotheosis of shitty little apartments. The air unit was busted and seemed to blow lukewarm air instead of cold, the wallpaper was cracked in many places and gone in many more, and the bed sheets kicked up dust when he sat down. He leaned back in his recliner and took a substantial drink straight from the bottle of Jack Daniels he had purchased some twenty minutes before. He could tell that the cashier hadn’t wanted to sell him the bottle. He suspected it was probably the fact that he already reeked of booze and had a week’s worth of unkempt beard growing on his face. In the end, the man’s love of paying bills had made the decision for him. Until three months ago, Andrew Quick lived the American Dream.

25 Dennis Freeman

November 11th, 2016

No. I WAS the American Dream.

Andrew, known to friends as Drew, had owned a five-bedroom house in a beautiful neighborhood

only two blocks from where he currently sat. He had a thriving real estate business, the obligatory wife, and three kids. He was a picket fence away from being THE American Stereotype everyone wanted to be, until he hired Bonny, aka, “That Dumb Bitch”. He didn’t like to think about it, because it was all so cliché. Wealthy business man fucks his sexy secretary. Man’s wife finds out, kicks him out of HIS house and takes HIS kids. Man drinks ungodly amounts of vodka and loses his business after his work declines. The finale, friends and neighbors: man ends up doing day labor to pay for his booze and a shitty apartment two blocks away from where his wife is living with his kids and fucking a twentytwo-year-old.

Meanwhile I’m here in this hell-hole …

He stumbled over to the closest, his head floating. He pushed his clothes to the side on the

hangers and dug out the only thing he had left from his life before it all crashed and burned. The revolver had been a gift from his father. It was only a .22 but it was a nine shot and he loved it. Until this year, he had cleaned it regularly and taken it to the range. He opened the cylinder and confirmed that it was loaded. Although Drew hadn’t cleaned it, he had loaded it, and considered eating a bullet on more than one occasion.

Andrew looked at the gun through the tears stinging his eyes. He went and sat back down in his

chair, polished off the bottle of Jack. He set the bottle to the side and once again opened the cylinder.

He removed eight of the nine rounds before spinning the chamber and slapping it shut. As he cocked the hammer, thoughts of his kids ran through his mind. Andrew thought the kids would be better off. He had lost a lot, but he always managed to make his life insurance payments, albeit not always on time, but the money was there, at least. Evan was seventeen, Tina was fifteen, and little Elisa was eight going-on-twenty-one. He forced their faces out of his mind, and put the gun beneath his chin.

He closed his eyes tight enough to keep the stinging of the tears at bay, and pulled the trigger.

As the revolver clattered to the floor Andrew bolted to his feet and began to shake all over. He

felt himself. Chest first, then face, and ran his hands through his hair before stumbling towards the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror unable to believe what he had just done, and all at once he felt sober, more sober than he had felt in a very long time. He went on shaky legs back towards his bed and sat there with his face in his hands. He had no idea how long he sat like this, and wouldn’t have cared if he stayed that way for hours, had he not heard a knock at the door.

“Go away!”

Brother's Last Call 26

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS The banging continued for a couple of minutes, but it eventually subsided along with his shakes. Before long, he was breathing normally again, and had decided that maybe he should make some changes.

He grabbed his cigarettes off of the nightstand, tossed the pack on the bed after he had lit up.

“Those will kill you.”

Andrew jerked his head up and regarded the source of the voice. What he saw was a tall and

muscular black man. The man was smoking too and regarding Andrew with a face that was a mixture of pity and disappointment.

“Who the fuck are you?”. He thought he had locked the door, but apparently he hadn’t. Whoever

this guy was, he hadn’t been content to bang on the door, but, instead, he’d let himself in.

“I’m Rae,” he said cheerfully enough. Andrew was momentarily taken aback by the cheeriness

of the man’s voice but quickly found his voice again.

“Nice to meet you Rae. Now … why the fuck are you in my house?”

“I’m your friend, Drew.”

“You’re mistaken. I don’t have any friends.”

“Sure you do. Jeliel has been your friend since you were a baby.”

“I don’t know any Jeliel, and I don’t know you. Why are you doing in my apartment?”

The man shrugged and took a couple of steps. Andrew drew back, but he didn’t feel any fear.

This guy had walked into his apartment uninvited and unnoticed, but for some reason, Andrew wasn’t concerned in the least.

“I was here to help Jeliel,” he said. He came and sat down next to Andrew and looked at him

pointedly. He clapped him on the back and then smiled.

“Jeliel had to go home, though. I’m here to help you before you have to leave.”

“Leave? I told you I didn’t know a Jeliel … what the fuck is going on?”

To this Rae said nothing and he only looked over at the window. Andrew followed his gaze and

felt his blood run cold inside his veins. The gun was still laying on the floor, but now, it was sitting in a pool of blood that was dripping from fingers hanging over the edge of the chair.

“I’m dead …” There was no tremble in his voice; he said it matter-of-factly, as if he was discussing

the weather.

“Yeah. Jeliel tried to stop you. I really thought that seeing the image of your kids would do it,”

he said.

“Can I take it back?”

“No. I’m sorry, Drew. You picked a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

27 Dennis Freeman

November 11th, 2016

“You’re here to take me aren’t you?”

“Drew, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t make me chase you. You’re going with me, whether

you want to or not. I don’t make it a habit to leave souls running around.”

“I don’t want to go. Is there nothing you can do?”

“He can’t,” a voice called out from a darkened hallway. “But I can…”

Rae lit up a cigarette and rolled his eyes. The Seconds were not of much importance to him

and his brethren. They lived short and mostly pointless lives, however Andrew Quick bothered him quite a bit. He was an example at just how stupid the Seconds could be. They were the second born.

The clay born. It was also one of the few times he had actually run into Bell, and in that particular instance, she had won. The waitress came by holding a backpack and put it into a box marked Lost and Found.

“Do we have to go over it?” Rae asked. He looked up to see Bell giving him a mischievous

smile. He sighed.

Bell smiled her eternally bright smile, and took Andrew by the hand. The scent of lavender

and honey wafted from her skin, and even to Rae it was pleasant. Rae sighed as Andrew turned to his sister.

“Andrew. You don’t want to talk to her. You’d be better off coming with me,” he said.

He could see that Andrew wasn’t listening to him anymore. He lit up another cigarette and

went and stood by the door. It wouldn’t be long before Andrew had to go, one way or the other.

“You can fix this?”

Bell winked at him and smiled brightly. “Of course I can,” she said. “I’m not going to lie, though:

that this is pretty over the top stuff, and usually we don’t do this. But, there is a price.”

“Let me guess. You’ll want my soul?”

Bell scrunched her nose as if she smelled something that violated her delicate nasal passages, and

the corners of her mouth turned down. She rolled her eyes and then fixed him with a serious stare.

“You make it sound so cliché. Yes, your soul. I will give you another twenty years before I come

back to collect it. That would give you plenty of time for the kids to grow up, and I’ll guarantee you that you’ll be moving out of this place soon.”

“You mean … I could move out of here? I could wear a suit again instead of breaking my back

every day like a day laborer?”

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“Andrew, you will be wearing a suit EVERY DAY after today. It’s a guarantee, sweetie. You’ll see

your family again. I promise,” she said. She grinned back at Rae, who only sat in silence as he watched her playing Jezebel. He wanted to stop her, but, short of physically attacking her, which was strictly forbidden, he could do nothing but try to talk some sense into the man.

“Buddy. Listen. What Bell is offering may seem like a godsend, but I can assure you it’s exactly

the opposite. There has never been anything positive won from dealing with her and her kind.” Bell looked at Rae with sincere hurt. Rae shrugged. “It’s true.”

“You offering to keep me around for twenty years or do you still want me to go with you?”

Rae sighed. “That’s what I thought. I’ll take it Bell. What do I have to do?”

Bell’s smile disappeared and was replaced with a look that was all business. In her hand was a

highly polished silver goblet. She held it in outstretched arms to Andrew and smiled. She nodded her head, beckoning him to take it.

Andrew took the goblet cautiously. The finely polished metal felt impossibly cold, as if it had

been taken from the freezer. The goblet contained what looked to be nothing more than ordinary water.

It sloshed gently as he raised it to his lips and drank. Bell reached out and took the goblet back, and it disappeared in a quick flash of flame and smoke. At first nothing happened. Bell’s eyes were fixed on him and she was smiling again. He saw Rae in the corner shaking his head, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Suddenly, he realized what he should have known from the beginning, and he didn’t trust that smile at all. Before he could say anything, his incorporeal body was racked with pain, and it drove him to his knees. His insides were on fire and then his head began to ache.

Almost as quickly as it came, the pain in his stomach was gone, but the pain in his head was

almost unimaginable. He tried to reach for his head, but realized that he couldn’t move his arms. His eyes were burning as they dried out, but he couldn’t close them against the light pouring in from the window. Panic began to take hold as he sent commands to his limbs, limbs that were not responding.

Suddenly Bell’s head appeared in his vison. She was still smiling.

“I’ll see you in twenty years,” she said. She tilted his head to the side away from the window

and towards his nightstand where a picture of his family sat. “I told you you’d see them again. I always keep my promises.”

Rae grimaced when he looked up and saw Bell smiling. She was no doubt enjoying the fond

memory of when she returned twenty years later to take the soul of a fully aware, and, by that time, fully insane Andrew back with her. He spent twenty years as what some of the Seconds referred to as 29 Dennis Freeman

November 11th, 2016 a “veggie burger”. He had never gained the ability to walk or speak again, and, by the end of his life, his inner monologue was little more than incomprehensible screams.

“Do you enjoy your work, Bell?”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s akin to animals at the zoo, you know. The Seconds have no real connection to the world

we live in. The knowledge and the truths are as foreign to them as their world is to the insects. It isn’t fair.”

“If The Fall has taught me anything in this world it’s that life isn’t fair, Azrael.” she regarded

him grimly. “When it comes to life, the Seconds have an advantage over us.”

Rae raised an eyebrow.

“They end.”

“I suppose they do. It’s time to get to work,” he said. He put his coat on and turned to regard

the empty booth in the back. When he turned back around, Bell was leaning against the bar smiling.

She looked back at the Lost and Found box and over at the clock.

“This was nice, Rae. Catching up I mean.”

“I’ve had worse experiences,” he said.

“Please … tell Dad and the others that we miss them.”

“I will.”

Jaylon stood up the street nervously checking his watch. Last call was coming up and he intended

to have a front row seat to the fireworks as the night ticked ever closer to an end. He took a few steps up the street and towards the bar while he checked his watch again. It should have happened by now, he thought.

“Oops. Guess I’m a bit early.”

Jaylon turned quickly to locate the voice and found a beautiful young woman in a long white

coat. Before he could ask what she was talking about the bar erupted into a menagerie of fire and debris as Jaylon’s backpack loaded with several pounds of homemade explosives went off. Jaylon marveled at the sight and continued to do so even as the blood blossomed across his chest from the splinter of wood that now protruded from it. He felt the strength leave his legs and fell to his knees. There was no pain. Only the smiling face of the woman in white as he drifted off into the darkness.

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31 Amy Grech

REVIEWS Shotgun Horror Clips reviews material in an objective manner, and rates works in a subjective, out-of-five system. Works rated one-out-of-five Shotgun Shells are considered not-so-hot, while a five-out-of-five is fantastic! A combination of our ratings and reviews is reccomended before giving our suggestions a shot!

Movies

Grabbers Grabbers was written by Kevin Lehane and directed by John Wright The movie is an Irish-British film with a great Irish cast. The movie was released in 2012 and has since been picked up by various streaming services. It has scored favorably on IMBD at 6.3/10, and, on Rotten Tomatoes, it has a 72% approval rating. We give it 4 Shotgun Shells out of 5. Here’s why:

G

rabbers is just plain fun. The concept is a monster movie, of course, but not the kind you'd expect. Upon first viewing, you feel as though you're about to watch a mixture of Alien with a

novel by Jack Finny, but that isn't the case. Instead, you're thrown into a situation: if strange half-sea, half-land dwelling creatures were to attack your small, island town, and the only way you were able to resist them is by getting off-your-ass drunk ... well ... what would you do?

My answer, and the answer in this movie, is, of course, get drunk! The blood-alcohol content

is what the little 'grabbers' (they're kind of like squid-monsters ... yeah, kind of like that ...) can't deal with; it's poison. So, in an attempt to stay not-so-tastey, the locals have to drink and drink and drink to survive.

It's great, because, well, what other things are the Irish better at besides polishing off pints? It

may be stereotypical, and there's an argument to be made that this sort of film doesn't do much for 32

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS the image of the Irish, sure, but this movie wasn't meant to be that kind of film. Not the kind of film that is out there to challenge norms, anyway. It was meant to be a funny, gross, and exciting little film that entertains, and it is all of those things. The acting is wonderful, coming from an all Irish cast that many over here in the states wouldn't recognize. This makes it fun, because you really don't know what to expect as you don't know the actors, nor do you know who will become a main character in the movie versus who is a walk-on character. It's a great film, and if you're looking for some humor, light horror, and gore, then this is a great choice!

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November 11th, 2016

The Fine Print: Shotgun Horror Clips, A Horror Fiction Magazine. ISSN Forthcoming. Vol. 1 No. 2, Whole Number 002. October 28, 2016.

Published Bi-Monthly, unless otherwise stated on our website: www. deadlightsmagazine.com/deadlights-shotgun-horror-clips/. Shotgun Horror Clips is a free production of DeadLights Horror Fiction Magazine, trademark pending, ToBoldlyGo LLC. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without expressed permission is prohibited, except by the contributing authors and artists in regards to their original or reprinted works, to which said rights belong. To make a submission to this, or any other publication of ours, please visit our website: www.deadlightsmagazine.com, or email us at deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com Shotgun Horror Clips is produced in Pullman, WA, United States of America.

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