BOOKS of the DEAD PRESS

Everything is different now / January’s Best Sellers

2012-02-01T17:32:00.002-05:00

I’ve never included the free books I’ve given away as part of my sales reports. I suppose that I could have, but why? So I could pretend that my company is doing better than it really is? That’s not really my style. Also, until now segregating free books from paid sales has been easy. The only book going out the door for free has been Matt Hults’ Anything Can Be Dangerous. But things are different now.

Throughout January I gave away a whole bunch of books via Amazon, and the reports I receive from Amazon do not say:

FREE BOOKS for PAIN CAGES- 900 units

PAID SALES for PAIN CAGES - 100 units

The reports say:

PAIN CAGES - 1000 units.

If I sold a total of one copy of PAIN CAGES the month of January at the price of $100.00, Amazon would tell me that my average sale price was $100.00. However, if I gave away 99 copies for free, and I sold one copy at $100.00, they would tell me that my average sale price was $1.00.

I now realize that when Amazon announces that *whoever* has sold 1,000,000 copies of *whatever* that 750,000 of them are probably free.

This begs the question: should free copies be considered sales?

The answer: sometimes.

When I give away a free ebook I always imagine myself standing in front of one of those lesser-know fast-food joints, handing out teriyaki chicken on a toothpick. Hey mister, would you like to try our chicken? It’s delicious! When Joe Six-pack eats the sample, should this count as a sale? No. I don’t think so.

However, if he walks up to the counter and orders two teriyaki-chicken-dinners on buy-one-get-one-free day, does the second on count as a sale? Most likely, the answer is yes. Why? Because the actual sale price of the second meal is not-so-secretly being included in the first. The art of giving away ebooks seems to be a weird hybrid of these two separate sales tactics.

In some ways, a free download is the guy handing out chicken on a toothpick. Lets face it - there is no forced second sale. If the consumer walks away with chicken in his mouth and money in his pocket, he is welcome to do so.

In some ways, a free download is the buy-one-get-one free event. Why? Because the free ebook isn’t a sample - almost every book on Amazon has a free sample attached to it. No - this is the entire book; it is a completed sale, and the sale price is zero.

Now, I understand that a free whatever shouldn’t count as a sale, but think about this: Christmas comes and Christmas goes. During Boxing Week you waltz into Walmart and buy a new Christmas tree at 80% off. Are Walmart considering this a sale? Yes they are. They consider it a sale and technically they’re losing money. But that’s okay - it’s just part of the game. Sometimes you make money, sometimes you break even, and sometimes you lose money. Welcome to the world of sales and marketing.

January’s Best Sellers

There were more than 16,500 *sales* in the month of January. My guess - and it is a guess - is that paid sales are sitting between the 1,600 - 2,000 unit mark, and the other 14,500 sales are free downloads. The #1 book this month was my short story collection 13 Drops of Blood. Between paid sales and free downloads the title was purchased approximately 2,750 times. Not including Matt Hults’ Anything Can Be Dangerous, which had 2,200 downloads, the best selling books for January are:

1) 13 Drops of Blood

2) Best New Vampire Tales Vol. 1

3) The Howling Trilogy

Dead Parade - Free today

2012-01-31T10:39:00.000-05:00

Lately I haven't been giving away much. And by "lately" I mean over the last few days. I decided to make my first novel - The Dead Parade - a free download today. Will it be free tomorrow? No, sir. It will not.

Some people say that my first book is my best book. Are they right? Why don't you snag yourself a free copy and find out.

Snag it HERE.

David Niall Wilson's Etched Deep

2012-01-31T10:30:00.000-05:00

My buddy Dave has a new book out called ETCHED DEEP and he wants people to know about it. He also wants to give it away free for a few days.

Want a free copy? Get yours HERE.

Here's some info about Dave and his new book:

"FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE DECHANCE CHRONICLES

This brand new collection by Bram Stoker Award-Winning author and poet David Niall Wilson brings together fourteen tales of madness, horror, fantasy, zombies, and dark magic, as well as fourteen original poems. Spanning more than two decades of his career, the stories offer a wide range of glimpses into the creative process that has formed his career.
Contents include the short stories: Through an Eyeglass, Darkly, Fear of Flying, Moving On, One off from Prime, Headlines, Wayne's World, Redemption, Swarm, The Purloined Prose (With Patricia Lee Macomber), Shift, Pretty Boys in Blue and Long Hair Dangling, To Strike a Timeless Chord, Etched Deep, and Unique. Also included are the poems: End of Days, The Acropolis, Clamdigger, Cuttlefish Squeezings, Thanatology, A Poem of Adrian, Gray, The Fishmonger, Revelation, Loch Ness, Mirrored Hearts, Dark Man, Banished, End of Days, & Longhaired Puppies.

David Niall Wilson is a former president of the Horror Writer's Association, as well as CEO of Crossroad Press, a cutting edge digital publishing company. David's recent works include "My Soul to Keep," the Origin of Donovan DeChance, "The Parting," a novel of the O.C.L.T., "The Second Veil," part of the series Tales of the Scattered Earth," and and the novella "The Temple of Camazotz," also part of the O.C.L.T. series. There is a free excerpt from "My Soul to Keep" at the end of this collection.

Don't Miss these other collections by David Niall Wilson, also available from Crossroad Press: The Call of Distant Shores / Defining Moments / The Whirling Man & Other Tales of Blood, Pain, and Madness, A Taste of Blood & Roses, and The Fall of the House of Escher & Other Illusion.

PRAISE FOR DAVID NIALL WILSON'S WORK:

For the novel DEEP BLUE: "In this engrossing, poetic novel of spiritual evil and the possibility of salvation from Wilson (This Is My Blood), a burned-out musician, Brandt, is playing in an obscure band when he hears a homeless black man, Wally, play the purest blues on the harmonica he has ever heard, music that encapsulates all the pain of the world…" – Publisher's Weekly

For THE NOT QUITE RIGHT REVEREND CLETUS J. DIGGS & THE CURRENTLY ACCEPTED HABITS OF NATURE – "This story is just pure fun, from start to finish. It is a bizarre sort of mystery full of colorful characters and wacky situations. This sort of thing is actually hard to pull off, lesser writers could have it devolve into silliness that doesn't have you laughing so much as groaning. Wilson, however, always keeps the reader interested and entertains the hell out of you." – Mark Gunnels

For THIS IS MY BLOOD: "Wilson's prose is smooth and powerful, carrying its allegorical weight with grace. His first novel is one of the most unique vampire stories to appear in recent years, balancing themes of damnation and prophesy against those of faith and redemption." – Publisher's Weekly"

The Publisher/Author Relationship

2012-01-29T08:08:00.048-05:00

When a publisher publishes an author’s short story, novella, or novel they are entering into a relationship. I suspect that all publishers that have been around the block understand this. I also have reason to believe that many writers do not.

As a writer, I know about that “me against the world” feeling that finds its home inside your heart during those first few years - nobody is on your side, nobody is saying your name, nobody seems to care. You are all alone and prepared to work with anyone, become partners with anyone. In many ways you are like that pimple-faced kid leaning against the wall at the high school dance, thinking, I wish someone would dance with me... I don’t care who it is... I just want to dance. When you send your work to a publisher - know it or not - you are asking, Would you like to dance? Would you like to go steady? Won’t you be mine? And between the time the question is asked and the answer comes you can’t help but wonder - after all, nobody likes to be kept waiting.

There are so many publishers that come and go. One day they’re putting out their first book, quite possibly talking about their unrealistic publishing schedule - we’re going to put out 25 books in our first year, and 50 in our second... oh boy! Or perhaps they’re bragging about things beyond their control - I’m going to make sure that all my books are bestsellers, and anyone that submits to my press will find out if they are accepted or rejected within 30 days, you betcha!

Doesn’t this press sound absolutely perfect for you? This is a match made in heaven, for sure!

But life isn’t like this.

Pretend YOU are the publisher. That first publication is almost easy. You have no fan base, no track record, and in some ways, nothing to lose. The amount of people that care about what you’re doing is at an all-time low, the amount of people contacting you can be counted on your thumbs, and the number of projects you need to maintain, promote, and answer for, is zero.

Things change.

You’ve signed a few authors, sent out a wave of contracts, put out your first anthology. No sweat. After all, if the first book doesn’t sell it’s not the end of the world; you only paid the writers 1¢ per word. You can bounce back from this. Of course you can! You’ve got a job, some money in the bank. You’ll survive.

Good news: you don’t fail.

Things are going well. Your first book - The Giant Two-Headed Lobster - looks good. You’ve made a few sales and gained a few fans. You’ve got an anthology to promote and you’re doing a great job promoting it. Hey everybody, do you want to buy my book? It’s my first one; help a brother out! Time moves on. People are contacting you. One book becomes five. Promoting becomes tougher, but things are still good; you landed two reviews in one day and both are saying that you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Congrats! However, you’re now juggling a handful of things: emails, formatting ebooks, creating paperbacks, watching your sales reports - what’s working, what not - got a blog? Good for you, better keep that shit up! Got a website? Why not? Don’t you want to be taken seriously? Get on it! Before you know it you’re getting 10 emails a day.

Sales for Werewolf Slumber Party are up, sales for The Vampire & The Hobbit are steady, and sales for The Creature from the Blue Baboon are nonexistent. That 1¢ per word is starting to feel different. Why? Because 80,000 words @ 1¢ per word is $800.00. Plus you’re working with different editors, more cover artists, new graphic designers. All of them want money. Each book is costing over $1,500.00 now, assuming you DON’T include the time you’re working on them. Five anthologies at $1,500.00 equals $7,500.00 - and you know that number’s low because you paid some of the writers more than 1¢ per word, and sending out contributor copies - you’ve realized - costs a shit-load: 20 authors, $8 per book plus shipping? Damn... should have seen that one coming. Lets be honest - are the books costing $2,000.00 each? Try not to think about it.

Two more books out the door. One book is making money; one book is losing money. Something needs to be done, but what? Now the big names are calling. Fantastic! You just signed who? You’re putting out what? You offered an advance of how much? Do an interview here, help a publisher there - hey mister, won’t you read my manuscript? You know what would make a great anthology? Can I get a blurb? More emails, more books out the door. You should feel great except you received two reviews today and both readers agree that you suck monkey-balls, and you’re losing a thousand of dollars a month because the tax-man is fucking you. This needs to be dealt with right away. If only you had more time!

An idea comes... it’s so simple! Quit the day job! Why work for someone else when you can work for yourself? Sounds great, so you quit your day job. After all, it’s the only thing you can do - too much work and not enough time, don’t you know. But now you don’t have enough money to pay the people working for you, and you need to pay them anyways. Are you going to do it? Are you going to pay them, or are you going to let everything fall apart? Can you keep it together? Are you ready for the next step? Or are you going to fuck everyone over, edit every book, read the 500 stories that landed in your slush pile, and learn about graphic design?

Screw it. Something must be done, so you dig into your savings and pay the people their share. You feel good about this. It was the right thing to do. Now sales are really important, because its not just you anymore... it’s us. You are becoming someone's paycheck.

Take a deep breath. Focus on the important things, like paying your “novel” authors every three months. You don’t want to get behind on that, even if making up those royalty reports is a real bitch. But things are okay; you’re not worried. You are - however - willing to admit that keeping your head above water is becoming a full-on achievement. Why? Because you’ve got real-life bills to pay. You’ve got to eat, don’t you? Isn’t it time for an oil-change? Happy birthday... here’s your gift! Payments are made on the 15th... and the 30th. There are holes in your underwear and you haven't bought a new shirt in three years.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. Remember that extra time you thought you were gaining when you quit the “real” job. Where is it now? The fact is - you’re working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, and you’re wondering, How does anyone manage to promote 15 books at one time?

Uh-oh... there was a problem with a contract - one of your authors is pissed! Better deal with that soon. Another author is upset because you sold 5,000 copies of Sex with Robots, Volume One, and he wants to get paid more. After all, shouldn't the authors get paid more if the book is selling? And no - he doesn't care if you lost your shirt releasing Harry, The Homophobic Hippo. He was not part of that anthology. Real life steps in again - your girlfriend wants nothing to do with you because you’re never there. Can your love life be salvaged? Probably not. Cry yourself to sleep and keep looking ahead... you don’t need a relationship anyhow.

Are you going to WhateverCON? Oh man - you need to go to that one. Everyone will be there! Book your flight, gone for a week, and when you get home there’s so much to do that you don’t know where to start. One of your authors is upset because it has been 3 months since she signed Gillian's Island of the Dead with you, and the book hasn’t been released. What’s taking so long? Another author is upset because you’re not doing enough to promote Blood Orgy and sales are sliding. Don’t you care? Why publish Blood Orgy if you're not going to promote it properly? You published 15 books in 15 months? Bravo! How did you do it? What is this... fan-mail? Awesome! But what’s this... hate-mail? That sucks. Here's your new book cover, and it looks like shit!

Now you’re getting 35 emails a day, and one of the guys you rejected in Zombie-Knife-Fight 3 has given a one-star review to every book you’ve released. You feel sick. Your computer crashed. This is a major problem. Deal with it. An author you never heard of with "neurotic tendencies" decides to take cheap shots at you and your company online, and when you let him know that you didn't appreciate it you get called arrogant and he sends you a long-winded email. There's no apology, of course - why would there be? - but he wants you to get back to him so you can work things out. Someone asked you about your marketing schedule and you realized that you do not have one. Maybe you should work on that. Maybe you should put together a publishing schedule, too. Because - be honest, now - you've been "winging it", haven't you?

The Legal Deposit Division has decided to suspend all of your ISBN numbers until you fill out the proper paperwork and send them 2 copies of each book. It takes 2 hours to fill out the paperwork and shipping costs $65.00. Good news: people are starting to notice you! Bad news: your books are now showing up on 75 different sites as free illegal downloads! Decision time - become the publishing version of Metallica and fight these soulless bastards, or let it slide. One of your favorite authors is promoting his new book, and it has YOUR cover art! How the hell did that happen? Contact the publisher - Hey asshole, don’t make me phone my lawyer.

You decide that it's time to do some promotion. In your opinion, the very best horror magazine in the world is Rue Morgue. They are awesome, and the idea of having a half-page advertisement in the next edition makes you feel extremely excited. Or maybe even a full-page advertisement! Wouldn't a full page ad be amazing? After a little bit of investigating, and a pair of unbelievably polite emails from the excellent people that run the head office, you are surprised to find that a single full-page ad costs $2,800.00 plus tax. Without a doubt, that is not within your budget. A half-page ad is $1,595.00 plus tax, but they are willing to drop that price down to $1,420.00 plus tax if you buy 6 ads. Several sleepless nights later you decide to go for it. You pay your graphic designer $100.00 to build the first of 6 ads, and you sign up for Rue Morgue's half-page, 6-ad special. You have no doubt that business will soon be booming! When the issue hits the newsstand you are so excited you think you'll burst! The ad looks great! Your friends are patting you on the back. Time to celebrate - this is the big time! Sadly, as the month marches on you realize that sales are not going up. Oh well. The second ad will do the trick. You pay another $100.00 to your graphic designer and another $1,420.00 plus tax to Rue Morgue before submitting the file. The next issue comes out and sales are up! Yep - sales are up by thirty-five copies. When it's time to create the third ad you ask your graphic designer if he wouldn't mind doing the third ad for free. Reluctantly, he says yes. And you pray to God that sales go up.

Which is better, Lightning Source or CreateSpace? How do you know, have you tried them both? Smashwords rejected your file again. One of your cover artists is mad at you for promoting your book using the image they sold you. Your mother called and she wants to know what you plan on doing after the ePublishing bubble bursts. The paperback version of The Headless Dwarf arrived in the mailbox today, and it looks great! But wait - is that a typo on page one? That doesn't say, "Hello, sweetie!" That says, "Hello, sweaty!" You bought 1,000 books to sell at Gigantic-O-Con. The table cost was $1,100.00. You sold 80 books. Now there's a warehouse in your basement and your credit card is cranked.

Your sister lost her job over the Christmas holiday and is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. To make life better she has taken up writing. Today you received a short story from her, and it's the worst piece of shit you've ever read. Publishing her sorry attempt at the English language is not an option, but rejecting her might push her over the edge. You seriously wonder if the rejection letter will make her kill herself. You hope not, because you're sending out a rejection letter with her name on it tonight. One of the books you published was still under contract with a different publisher. Do something. The doctor called: you have an ulcer. Heard the news? Nobody is taking you seriously because you’re only offering 1¢ per word. Shit. Okay. Better make it 2¢. Now books are costing $2,500 each. If you don’t sell 2,000 copies you’re in big trouble.

Remember those contributor copies you sent overseas? They got lost in the mail. Send them again. Question: what happened to your own writing? Are you still doing that? You’ve got fans, you know. You better find time to get some writing done - after all, didn’t you want to be a writer? You haven’t published a book in 3 months? Is your press finished? What’s going on? You published 4 books in 10 days? How is that possible? Running a press must be easy! Your author page says that you've only released two books. Do you plan on updating your profile anytime soon? You probably should. You sold 500 copies less this month than last month. Are you worried? Should you be?

Somehow the files you uploaded are corrupted, and all your new ebooks look like shit. Reformat. Republish. There's a new small press in town, and they're stealing every idea you come up with. There's an old small press in town, and they're bad-mouthing you on Shocklines because you sell more books in an afternoon than they do in a month. You're a better editor now than you were when you started. You should re-edit every book. It finally hits you: Twitter is important. You have 18 followers. You need a whole lot more. Three months after you release Attack of the 50 Foot Water Buffalo, Penguin Publishing releases a book with the exact same name. You spend 5 days reading a 140,000 word submission called, Chewbacca Dies at the End, and it's fantastic! You let the author know the good news: you want to publish the book! Sorry. She signed with someone else.

One of the biggest writers in the industry decides that you're cool and he lets people know it. This pisses off another big writer, who decides to tell everyone that you won't last a year. Now some of your peers are treating you differently. Will you facebook "like" me? Can you sign an autograph? Will you be my friend? Lets start a small press union! I know you just read 600 zombie stories, but I decided to send you one more. I don't want you to publish it; I just thought you might like to read it. Can you help me get my book nominated for a Stoker? Awards mean so much more to me when I ask everyone I know for a fake vote. Do you mind promoting my books inside your books? Why can't I make my ebooks free on Amazon the way you did? People are saying that the only reason you got into publishing was for the money. Is this true? After spending 5 painful days attaching your newly purchased midi-controller to your computer, you are finally ready to build your very first audiobook. A month and a half later you realize that building audiobooks is beyond your skill-set. You have spelling mistakes within your blog, you know. How can you call yourself a publisher if you don't know how to spell discombobulate?

There's something wrong at the printers, and books are being sold with a screwed-up interior. Create new files immediately. You got paid $6,000 this month? That’s awesome! You're going to be rich! You owe $8,000 this month? How did that happen? Don't you know what you're doing? How long has it been since you posted on your blog? Better get on it. Sick for a week? Keep focused. You had a nice, big brain-fart and you said something stupid. Now people think you're a jerk. Your new cover artist pushed your current project back for the third time this month. Is there something going on that you don't know about? One of the short stories you accepted turns out to be a turd. Are you going to publish a turd, or go back on your word?

You tell one of your oldest, dearest friends that you sold 2,300 units in the last 20 days, and she suddenly doesn't like you. Apparently your ego is the size of New York City. One of your short story authors doesn't want to use PayPal; you decide that paying by check might not be so bad. The check amount is $14.50. Of course, you live on different continents... with different currency... and the money-order the bank forces you into purchasing - after you make a special trip to the bank, and wait in line for 20 minutes - costs you an extra $16.00. Plus postage. And the check becomes lost in the mail. You need to do it again. Your uncle has a great idea for a book. He wants you to write it for him. You’ve got a Facebook stalker, and he keeps sending you crazy messages. Is it okay to tell him to get lost?

Congratulations on that 2¢ per word thing. The Horror Writers Association says the professional rate is 5¢. The International Thriller Writers won't take you seriously unless you distribute your products in brick-and-mortar stores, or fill out a bunch of paperwork, answering questions that haven't been relevant for 10 years. You know from personal experience that having a book inside every bookstore across America doesn't mean much these days. And somehow you're the only person that understands that paying for a review in Publishers Weekly will not equal one extra sale. You believe that having your books inside the few remaining Borders is an ego move, not a business move, but explaining this is pointless. Every unknown author disagrees, and so do the bestsellers. Ex-Midlisters, on the other hand? Ex-Midlisters agree 100%. Lets face it it. You sold more units last month than many of them did last year.

Amazon introduced a brand new everything - do you know about it? Is it working? What are the other authors saying? Are you keeping up to date with the way the market is swinging? Is it a good idea to sign with Amazon Select? Have you pulled your books out of Barnes & Noble, yet? Here's an idea: have every book translated into German, Spanish, and French! What is an Alsobot? Are Alsobots important? You should lump your books together into sets of three and sell each set as a single file. Have you joined Prime? Is your ereader outdated? What does KDP stand for? What are the the pros and cons of enabling Digital Rights Management? Is Lightning Source making Smashwords irrelevant? Do you fully understand the copyright laws in each country? This just in: 5 more terrible reviews came down the pipe and two of them are from people that haven't read the book; the urge to respond is overwhelming. After mailing your completed W-7 form, the IRS rejected your request for an ITIN number... again. This means you can’t fill out the W-BEN form, which is important. People are telling you to call the US Embassy, but that doesn't seem right. Will your accountant know how to deal with this? They screwed things up last time.

And by the way, what’s taking so long with that Barfing Dead story I sent you three months ago? Don’t you care? I thought we were going to dance?

Bloody hell.

Authors and publishers that work together are in a relationship, a partnership. Partners need to be part of the solution, not part the problem. I like to work with people that are part of the solution, not part of the problem.

If you’re an author that has signed with a publisher, help them. They can’t do everything.

If you’re an author that has submitted to a publisher, be patient. You have no idea how difficult things become.

If you like what a publisher is doing and you don’t want them to stop, support them. This means buying some books, posting positive reviews, and telling your friends.

But whatever you do - don’t attack the people you are trying to build a relationship with in public for not being everything you want them to be. Trust me, you have no idea. If you did, you’d say nothing but good things. And why say bad things about the people you want to have a relationship with?

What kind of dance will that be?

Another Big Update

2012-01-25T19:43:00.002-05:00

This has been a big month so far. I've given away over 10,000 books and I've released 4 new titles. Let take a look a what's going on.

Newly released:
The Howling Trilogy - Published Jan 24th
Zombie Kong - Novella Published Jan 20th
Zombie Kong - Anthology Published Jan 20th
Badass Zombie Road Trip Published Jan 18th

Currently Free:
Zombie Kong - Novella Ends Friday
Zombie Kong - Anthology Ends Friday
Badass Zombie Road Trip Ends Friday
Anything Can Be Dangerous No end in sight

No longer free:
Best New Vampire Tales Gave away 2,200 copies
13 Drops of Blood Gave away 2,700 copies
Pain Cages Gave away 1,300 copies
The Howling III Gave away 900 copies

And what will tomorrow bring? Tomorrow I will be giving away The Dead Parade and the newly released Howling Trilogy for a single day. If you're fast, tomorrow is the time to nab them.

The Howling Trilogy

2012-01-25T01:51:00.000-05:00

Today Books of the Dead released The Howling Trilogy.

This is all three of the Gary Brandner's Howling books together as a single ebook. It's currently priced at $8.99. I'll probably release this as a paperback at some point, but just not quite yet.

You can can it out HERE.

Here's a bit about the books:

THE HOWLING:
Karyn and her husband Roy had come to the peaceful California village of Drago to escape the savagery of the city. On the surface Drago appeared to be like most small rural towns.
But it was not.
The village had a most unsavory history. Unexplained disappearances, sudden deaths.
People just vanished, never to be found.

THE HOWLING II:
For Karyn it was the howling.
The howling that had heralded the nightmare in Drago… the nightmare that had joined her husband Roy to the she-wolf Marcia and should have ended forever with the fire.
But it hadn’t.
Roy and Marcia were still alive, and deadly…
And thirsty for the most horrifying vengeance imaginable…

THE HOWLING III:
They are man. And they are beast.
Once again they stalk the night, eyes aflame, teeth flashing in vengeance.
Malcolm is the young one. He must choose between the familiar way of the human and the seductive howling of the wolf. Those who share his blood want to make him one of them.
Those who fear him want him dead.
Only one woman and one man want to help him.

Free Ebook Update

2012-01-24T14:07:00.001-05:00

Best New Vampire Tales and 13 Drops of Blood are no longer free on Amazon. Once the smoke cleared it seems as though I gave away nearly 2,700 13 Drops of Blood and 2,200 Best New Vampire Tales. That's almost 5,000 units.

Gulp.

Today is the last day to grab Paul Kane's Pain Cages and Gary Brandner's The Howling III. I would suggest grabbing them now, if you are thinking about it.

You can also download the Zombie Kong - Novella , Zombie Kong - Anthology and Tonia Brown's - Badass Zombie Road Trip. But like the other titles, these will NOT be free for long. Matt Hults' - Anything Can Be Dangerous on the other hand... who knows? It's been free for a while...

Free Books update - last day for some

2012-01-23T15:33:00.001-05:00

Right now there are a bunch of titles being given away for free on Amazon.

Here's the list:

James Roy Daley - Zombie Kong - Novella
Zombie Kong - Anthology
Tonia Brown's - Badass Zombie Road Trip
Matt Hults' - Anything Can Be Dangerous
Paul Kane's - Pain Cages
Gary Brandner's - The Howling III
James Roy Daley - 13 Drops of Blood
Best New Vampire Tales (Vol 1.)

This is the very last free day for Best New Vampire Tales & 13 Drops of Blood, so do not wait.

Also - here are some interesting stats... so far I've given away:

2,500 - 13 Drops of Blood
2,000 - Best New Vampire Tales
1,000 - Pain Cages
700 - The Howling III
200 - Zombie Kong Novella
300 - Zombie Kong Anthology
250 - Badass Zombie Road Trip
1,700 - Anything Can Be Dangerous (this month only)

Generous. Maybe. A good move? I have no idea...

Zombie Kong / Badass Zombie Road Trip - FREE!

2012-01-23T06:10:00.006-05:00

This is probably the stupidest thing that a publisher can do, but I like to live on the edge.

This week I'm making all three of my new releases 100% free on Amazon. Why would I do this? I'm looking at it like a marketing campaign to launch the titles.
Will my idea work?
Who knows.
Maybe I'll end up giving away all my potential sales. Either way - be it a good move or a bad move - it'll be fun to watch, and a good time for you to score some free ebooks.
Get them while you can.

Here are the links:

Zombie Kong - Novella
Zombie Kong - Anthology
Badass Zombie Road Trip

ZOMBIE KONG!

2012-01-20T05:33:00.008-05:00

The Zombie Kong Anthology is finally here, and the craziest thing happened: it brought a little friend along for the ride... a Zombie Kong Novella.

Originally - way back before I posted the Z-Kong anthology guidelines - I had this idea for a novel, and the idea was Zombie Kong. I figured I was too busy to write a complete novel; the press was taking up all of my time. (Still is actually, but that's beside the point.) And I figured if I wrote my idea out as a short story... well... who the hell would publish such a thing? Nobody was looking for a story with a giant zombie gorilla, so why bother?

Then I thought, I can do a Zombie Kong anthology myself.

Long story short, that's what I did: I turned my idea into the anthology.

As I was creating my story, which I had planned on including in the anthology since day one, it kept getting bigger and bigger. Once I was finished writing the tale it wasn't novel size, but at 16,000 words, it wasn't a short story either. I had a novella. And - I'm not sure if this is a good idea or a bad idea - I decided to release it as such. The funny thing is - had I planned on writing a novella in the first place I don't think I would have posted the guidelines for the anthology.

Strange how things work out, isn't it?

The ebook version of the novella just went live on Amazon for 99¢. (You should buy it...)

You can check it out HERE.

The ebook version of the anthology will be going live late Friday evening, maybe very early Saturday morning.

The paperback versions of both books will be good to go in about two weeks.

Special Thanks to Danielle Serra for doing the artwork, my brother Derek Daley for doing the graphic design, and Ashley Davis for doing the proofreading/copy-editing. You guys rock!

The TOC for anthology is:

Dr. Steven Rutgers - Understanding Zombie Kong

Shelley Ontis - Manny’s Candy

David Niall Wilson - In Today’s News (Somewhere In Suburbia - Part 1)

Simon McCaffery - The Boys In Company Z

Steve Ruthenbeck - Lyceum

Adrian Ludens -The Elephant In The Room

Amanda C. Davis - Last Chance In Ape City

Mark Onspaugh - Dear Fay Wray, We Need Your Help…

Gustavo Bondoni - Shadow Of The Gorilla

Rebecca Snow - Monkey See

Megan R. Engelhardt - The Gorilla That Would Not Die!

Tonia Brown - My Life Was Saved By Coffee (Somewhere In Suburbia - Part 2)

Michael O’neal - Kooking With Kong

Max Vile - Bits & Pieces

Trever Palmer - Reach For The Sky

Tw Brown - Iced

William Meikle - The Dreams That Stuff Is Made Of

T. A. Wardrope - The Upright Gorilla

Pain Cages - FREE!

2012-01-20T05:01:00.001-05:00

For a very short period of time Paul Kane's Pain Cages is available as a free download on Amazon. Once again, unlike Matt Hults' book Anything Can Be Dangerous - which is currently free on Amazon - this offer WILL NOT LAST LONG... so grab it while you can!

Download Pain Cages HERE.

If you love paperbacks more than ebooks, Pain Cages is also available for $9.99 HERE.

The Howling III - FREE!

2012-01-20T04:56:00.002-05:00

For a very short period of time Gary Brandner's The Howling III is available as a free download on Amazon. Once again, unlike Matt Hults' book Anything Can Be Dangerous - which is currently free on Amazon - this offer WILL NOT LAST LONG... so grab it while you can!

Download The Howling III HERE.

If you love paperbacks more than ebooks, The Howling III is also available for $9.99 HERE.

Best New Vampire Tales - FREE!

2012-01-19T10:58:00.001-05:00

For a very short period of time Best New Vampire Tales, which includes great stories by a whole pile of fantastic writers - Michael Laimo, David Niall Wilson, Tim Waggoner, John Everson, Nancy Kilpatrick, the list goes on and on - is available as a free download on Amazon. Once again, unlike Matt Hults' book Anything Can Be Dangerous - which is currently free on Amazon - this offer WILL NOT LAST LONG... so grab it while you can!

Download Best New Vampire Tales HERE.

If you love paperbacks more than ebooks, the Best New Vampire Tales is also available for $9.99 HERE.

13 Drops of Blood - FREE!

2012-01-19T10:48:00.001-05:00

For a very short period of time my short story collection 13 Drops of Blood is available as a free download on Amazon. Unlike Matt Hults' book Anything Can Be Dangerous - which is currently free on Amazon - this offer WILL NOT LAST LONG... so grab it while you can!

Download 13 Drops of Blood HERE.

If you love paperbacks more than ebooks, the 13 Drops of Blood is also available for $8.99 HERE.

Tonia Brown's Badass Zombie Road Trip

2012-01-18T13:38:00.002-05:00

The ebook version of Tonia Brown's BADASS ZOMBIE ROAD TRIP just went live on Amazon. We're putting the finishing touches on the paperback version of the book and it should be available soon. The cover for this title was done by Carl Graves over at Extended Imagery. The editing was done by Ashley Davis. Great job, everyone!

Check out Tonia's awesome book HERE.

Here's a little about the book:

BADASS ZOMBIE ROAD TRIP

Jonah has seven days to find his best friend’s soul, or lose his own,
dragging a zombie across the country with a stripper who has an agenda of her own,
while being pursued for a crime he didn’t commit...
...and dealing with Satan.

2,000 miles. Seven days. Two souls.
One zombie.
Satan.

Twilight Ridge Talks Pain Cages

2012-01-17T03:57:00.002-05:00

Twilight Ridge is a great little site run by Robert Morrish. Robert is one of those guys that has been in the game a long time and he knows what he is talking about. He is a reformed editor (of Cemetery Dance and The Scream Factory magazines, and several anthologies) and occasional author (recent publications include Shivers VI, Tales of Zorro, and In Laymon’s Terms. He has been been writing the Spotlight on Publishing column for Cemetery Dance magazine since issue #8. His essays, interviews and book reviews have appeared in numerous publications, including The San Francisco Chronicle, The Los Angeles Daily News, Publishers Weekly, Weird Tales, and Rue Morgue.

Last week he gave an insightful review of Paul Kane's wonderful book PAIN CAGES, which, by the way, if you haven't picked it up, you really should. It's amazing.

Check out what Robert said in "A Taste of England" HERE.

Strange Amusements gives some love to The Howling

2012-01-17T03:24:00.002-05:00

Gary Brandner's THE HOWLING got some love today by Nicholas Strange.

Nicholas runs a cool little site called STRANGE AMUSEMENTS, which focuses on all things horror and is definitely worth checking out. He said something along the lines of: The Howling stands as not only a fantastic werewolf novel, but also a great horror novel that subsists above its own subgenre, making it a must read for horror readers of all kinds.

You can check out Strange Amusements and the full review HERE.

December's Top Sellers

2012-01-10T01:31:00.003-05:00

For the 9th month in a row Matt Hults' amazing debut Husk was our #1 seller. Congrats, Matt! Also in December Gary Brandner's ultra-famous The Howling cracked the top three for the first time. Congrats Gary! More interesting still, Best New Zombie Tales Volume One will not go down quietly. It was the first book I released, meaning it had top three status before I had a top three. However, I started paying attention to the to the top three at the start of 2011 and throughout the year it sat on the list 10 times. This means that since I started the press BNZT1 was only off the list twice... and one of those months it was more or less tied with Terror Town. Crazy!

Sales in December were about the same as the previous month. We definitely sold more than 1,500 books but I don't have all the numbers in quite yet. I'm guessing 1,700.

There is a disturbing trend, though. As book sales get harder to come by, there's an increasing number of websites that have decided to give away all of my books for free. Frankly, I want to strangle these assholes. The more people that steal my books the less likely I'll survive. And if I do survive, I'll have less money for the authors, editors, etc...

I think.

However, there is a different school of thought. Some people believe that illegally downloaded books helps generate sales. I'm not sure if I believe this, but it is a nice thought, wouldn't you say?

Right or wrong, that's a whole different post, blowing in the wind...

The best selling books in December were:

1) Husk
2) Best New Zombie Tales (Vol.1)
3) The Howling

Gary Brandner's THE HOWLING III Preview

2011-12-28T13:26:00.001-05:00

1

Sheriff Gavin Ramsay stretched out a foot and nudged the switch on the electric heater to OFF with the toe of his boot. The heater coils twanged as the red glow faded. The voters of La Reina County, all 4,012 of them, would be proud of their sheriff’s economy moves.

Ramsay hoisted his foot back to the top of the desk and resumed his contemplation of the view from his office window. Out in front ran S31, a two-lane blacktop with a flaking yellow center stripe badly in need of repainting. S31 was also the main street of Pinyon, California, seat of La Reina County, Pop. 2,109, Elev. 3550.

Across the road from the sheriff’s office was Art Moore’s Exxon station, a Pioneer Chicken franchise, and Hackett’s Pharmacy. On his own side of the road, out of Ramsay’s line of sight, was Yates Hardware & Plumbing, the Safeway, the boarded-up Rialto Theater, and the Pinyon Inn. That was about it for Pinyon, except for the library and La Reina County Hospital, which were built off the road on the high ground between S31 and the mountains.

The storm that had hammered the town for two days had moved on in the early-morning hours, leaving everything wet and bedraggled. The landscape would need a couple of days of sunshine to dry out.

Gavin Ramsay was more than ready for some dry weather. The rain depressed him. Elise used to get poetic about the rain. Literally. She would go to her typewriter and turn out pages of tortured free verse whenever a few raindrops fell. Then she would show it to Gavin and ask what he thought of it. In the first year of their marriage he used to lie and say it was good, really good. After that first year he started telling her the truth. By that time it didn’t matter anymore.

Today was the last day of March, and with luck there would not be another big storm until fall. Summer would bring its own problems––motorcycle gangs, irritable tourists, lost hikers, and campers with poison oak. Nothing that couldn’t be handled as long as it was not raining.

Probably there would be fewer problems with hikers and campers this year. Thoughtful people were not eager to go into the woods since the Drago business. You couldn’t blame them. It was peaceful now, but sometimes on a quiet night you could still hear it. The howling.

In truth, there wasn’t a whole lot for a sheriff and two deputies to do in La Reina County. Well, one deputy and a trainee assigned here by the state, to be accurate. Right now the prospect of a quiet summer suited Gavin Ramsay just fine. After the double trauma of Drago and his divorce from Elise he could use the time to reassemble his life.

The people of La Reina County were happy to see things calm down again. Drago was enough excitement for several lifetimes. It was kind of fun for a while. Now the folks would just as soon not talk about it.

They still got a fair number of sightseers who detoured off Interstate 5 hoping to see something of the infamous village. They might as well have stayed home. There was nothing left to see.

The asphalt road connecting Pinyon to Drago had buckled and cracked with the heat of the fire, and there were wooden barriers put up by Caltrans to block it off. Still, determined curiosity seekers could get through in a tough truck. Those driving something less rugged turned back to Pinyon, where they searched in vain for souvenir shops. Some of the locals used to joke down at the Pinyon Inn about printing up a bunch of Drago T-shirts with bite marks and red splotches, but those jokes got old in a hurry.

Gavin Ramsay had functioned with his usual quiet efficiency during the Drago business. In a way it was a relief for him to get away from home at the time. Now, like the rest of the people in town, he didn’t want to talk about it. Not about Drago or Elise. That did not mean he had forgotten. Nobody who lived through Drago would ever forget. Elise, either, for that matter. You just didn’t want to talk about it.

He picked up a paperback novel from the other desk in the pine-paneled office, the one shared by his two deputies. Ed McBain. 87th Precinct. It must belong to Milo Fernandez. The trainee. Roy Nevins’s taste ran more to Hustler.

Milo was an eager kid, still excited by the idea of police work. Roy Nevins wasn’t excited by much of anything these days, except finishing up his twenty years of public service and living the rest of his life comfortably off the taxpayers of California.

They should be returning soon. It was after four and getting dark. Ramsay felt a little guilty about sending them out on what he figured to be a wild goose chase, but he could see Milo getting restless with nothing to do, and Roy had been on the verge of falling asleep. They were not likely to find Abe Craddock and Curly Vane in the woods. Those fearless hunters were more likely holed up in some saloon down in Saugus, where everybody had a tattoo and a pickup truck. Still, Abe’s wife had called to say she was worried about him, and it had been three days, so Ramsay was more or less obligated to look into it. Anyway, Milo would probably enjoy getting out of the office, and Roy could sure as hell use the exercise.

The gravel crunched outside and Orry Yates’s panel truck pulled onto the parking area. YATES PLUMING was painted on the side in no-nonsense black letters. Orry claimed the misspelling was done deliberately to attract attention. Ramsay had his doubts.

Orry got out of the driver’s side of the truck, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl wearing backpacks, climbed out of the other. Orry led the way toward the office.

Ramsay swung his feet down to the floor and waited for them to come in. A tightening in his gut warned that this was going to be trouble.

Orry held the door open for the young backpackers, then herded them over to Ramsay’s desk. “Got a little problem, Gavin,” he said.

“Oh?”

“These kids think they found a dead man in the woods.”

“They think?”

“You know how sometimes the light plays tricks coming through the trees. A tree stump or a mossy log can look like something else.”

The boy shot Orry a dark look. “If that’s a log laying out there, I’m Beaver Cleaver.”

Ramsay studied the young couple. The boy was thin and wouldn’t be bad looking if he shaved off the apologetic, little mustache. The girl wore a UCLA sweatshirt and elastic jeans that showed off her firm little ass.

The sheriff cleared his throat and got businesslike. “Tell me about it.”

“We were, you know, hiking,” the boy said. “On a trail that leads off the old Drago Road, and Debbie goes, ‘Hey, you smell that?’ And I go, ‘Smell what?’ And she goes, ‘Like spoiled meat.’ And I go…”

“Never mind the dialog,” Ramsay said. “Tell me about finding the dead man.”

“That’s what I’m doing, man.”

“Could you speed it up?”

The boy looked sullen and Debbie took over. “We found him a little ways off the trail. A big guy, you know. Smelled really bad.”

“How big?”

The girl shrugged. “It was hard to tell. He was laying down. Dead, you know.” She looked at the boy and giggled.

“What did he look like?”

“Like a dead man,” the boy said.

“His face,” Ramsay prompted.

“Who knows?” the boy said. “There wasn’t much of it left. Like something had chewed on it.”

“Gross,” the girl confirmed.

Ramsay levered himself out of the chair. “Think you can take me to him?”

They nodded without enthusiasm.

“You gonna need me anymore?” Orry Yates said.

“Not now, Orry. Thanks for bringing them in.”

They walked out of the small wooden building that served as La Reina County Sheriff’s office. It was built twenty years before as a sales office for an optimistic developer who thought there would be a migration of Los Angeles residents to the mountains. He was wrong.

Orry Yates climbed into the YATES PLUMING truck, waved, and drove off. Ramsay led the teenagers around to the back where the beat-up Dodge wagon was parked. His Camaro had gone to Elise in the settlement. La Reina County could afford only one sheriff’s car, and the deputies were using it.

Ramsay wondered if the dead man was Abe Craddock or Curly Vane. If it was, he owed somebody an apology for mentally placing them in a saloon somewhere. However, if it was one of them, where was the other? An argument? Too much booze and a gun goes off? Better stop building a crime until he had a look at the scene. He kicked the engine of the eight-year-old wagon to life and took off for the old Drago Road.

* * *

Deputy Roy Nevins stopped to pull his uniform pants free from the thorns of a wild blackberry bush. He knew this drill was one big waste of time. Craddock and Vane could find their way around these woods as well as anybody in the county. The only trouble they were likely to get into was when they came back to town and started drinking.

He knew Gavin Ramsay had sent him and Milo out here just to keep them busy. If it hadn’t been for the gung ho trainee, Deputy Nevins would have sacked out in the back of the car until dusk, then gone back and told Gavin there was no sign of Craddock and Vane. That’s what their search would add up to anyway. Zip. Only difference was now he’d get all wet and scratched up from these fucking thorns and his shoes would be ruined.

“Roy!” Milo called unseen from off to the left.

“Yeah?”

“Just checking our positions.”

Yeah, great. Ten-fucking-four. Milo could be a pain in the ass sometimes. But what the hell. He was only twenty. When Roy Nevins was twenty he’d been gung ho, too. The kid might grow up to be a good cop. Not in La Reina County, where a couple of overdue library books was a crime wave. But it was a start. Three months from now the state would put him somewhere else. Nice gentle way to break in as a cop. Not the way Roy Nevins had done it, on the grungiest street in the grungiest section of Oakland.

Roy had been a cowboy back then himself. No more. Now he was sitting on a pension, just putting in his time. Couple more years and he could buy that mobile home down in Baja. Sit around fishing with a cool Carta Blanca in his fist. A man could still live pretty damn good in Mexico for peanuts. Until then he would have to pass the days as comfortably as he could and put up with a certain amount of shit like slogging through these dripping woods.

“Hey!” he yelled in the direction of Milo Fernandez.

“Yo!”

“Let’s take a break.”

Roy stuck a Winston in his mouth and lit it. He eased his broad butt down onto a boulder that looked reasonably dry. Milo Fernandez, neat and slim in his uniform, pushed through the wet underbrush and joined him.

The younger man looked up at the patches of sky, they could see through the thick tops of the pine and Douglas fir trees.

“Not more than an hour of daylight left,” said Milo.

“Yeah.”

“You think we’ll find those guys before dark?”

“Craddock and Vane? No way. Not before dark, not before Easter Sunday. They gotta be lost before we can find them. Those two ain’t lost. Shit-faced somewhere, maybe, but not lost.”

“How do you know?”

“ ’Cause I know them two assholes. Why Betty Craddock wants us to find Abe beats the shit out of me. Best thing that could happen to her, he falls down in the middle of S3l and gets run over by an RV.”

“Well… we can give it a try, anyway.”

“Sure. Old college try. You go to college, tiger?”

“Junior college, actually. I need two more years for a degree.”

“Waste of time. You want to be a cop, don’t you?”

Milo Fernandez nodded.

“They not gonna teach you that in college. Only way to learn about being a cop is to be one.”

Roy was about to launch into a war story from his days as a real cop in Oakland, but the young deputy’s attention strayed.

Milo looked around at the dark, dripping trees. “Roy, where’s Drago from here?”

Nevins pointed off toward the south. “That way. Four, five miles.”

“I’d like to see it sometime.”

“Nothing to see. Dozen or so burned out buildings.”

“What was it like, Roy? The fire and all. Was it exciting?”

Roy shrugged. He pulled on his Winston, coughed, spat on the ground. “Sure, if you get off on poking through ashes trying to make out which is human and which is… something else.”

The young trainee caught the older deputy’s hesitation and looked at him quickly. Roy studied the glowing tip of his cigarette and stopped talking.

Milo Fernandez looked off toward the south as though trying to see the burned out village through five miles of forest. “What do you think was going on there, Roy? At Drago? Before the fire?”

“Who knows? Cult of some kind. Los Angeles types. The people living there never went much outside their own village.”

“There were stories.”

“Yeah, I heard the stories. Bunch of crap.”

“Not human, people said.”

“Crap.”

“There was howling, they say. In the woods. At night.”

“So what? There’s lots of funny noises in the woods at night.”

“People still heard things out here after the fire. After everybody in Drago was burned up.”

“Look, amigo, some other time we’ll sit around a campfire and scare the shit out of each other with ghost stories. I’m not in the mood now, okay?”

“Sure, Roy. I’m just curious.”

Something rustled the bushes up ahead. The two deputies raised their heads, listening. They looked at each other, then back toward the sound.

“Who’s there?” Roy Nevins called.

Silence.

Another rustle of brush.

“Craddock…? Vane…?”

No answer. A flash of movement. A head rose above a clump of brush twenty feet ahead of the two deputies. A face looked at them. A pale face streaked with mud. Dark, matted hair. Eyes wild, with lots of white showing.

“Hey!”

The face ducked out of sight. Squishy sound of running feet on the wet ground.

“Son of a bitch.” Roy mashed the Winston out under his shoe and took off. Milo was already ahead of him, chasing the fleeing figure, who ducked and weaved among the trees.

The runner left the trail and fought through the undergrowth. The two deputies followed. Roy Nevins swore as the thorns clutched at him and mud seeped over the tops of his shoes.

“Halt!” Milo Fernandez called out. “Sheriff’s officers!”

Roy pounded on, the breath wheezing through his open mouth. He fumbled at the leather strap that snapped to the holster over the butt of his .38 police positive. Regulation.

Never could free the damn thing in a hurry. The hell with it. Firing your piece only meant trouble these days. You had to account for every fucking bullet. Nothing in sight to shoot at anyway. He could only catch glimpses of Milo’s back as the young deputy charged after the fleeing figure.

There was a thump of colliding bodies up ahead and a damp thud as they hit the ground. Roy floundered through the brush and almost fell over Milo. The young deputy was applying an armlock to the fugitive, who lay prone on the damp pine needles.

“I got him, Roy.”

“So I see. Suppose you flip him over so we can see what we got.”

Milo warily eased his hold. When the figure on the ground did not move, he grasped a shoulder and turned him over.

“A kid,” Roy said disgustedly.

The face that looked up at the deputies was pale and frightened. Oddly, he seemed not to be breathing hard.

“What’d you take off for?” Deputy Nevins said. The large, frightened eyes flicked from one of the deputies to the other. The boy made no attempt to answer.

“Get up.”

The boy rose to a crouch.

“And don’t think about running anymore. We’re taking a ride into town.”

Nevins took the boy’s arm and raised him to a standing position. The muscles were firm under the smooth flesh. He gestured with his head for Milo to get going. The younger deputy was staring at the boy’s face.

“Let’s go,” Nevins said. “I want to get him back to the car before it gets dark. What’s the matter?”

Milo Fernandez hesitated. “Take a look. There’s something funny about his teeth.”

The room on the second floor of La Reina County Hospital was pleasant and bright. Outside the window of the small private room a night bird sang. The boy sat propped in the bed in a half-sitting position. His green eyes skipped around the room as though searching for an escape.

Holly Lang stood at the foot of the bed and smiled down at him. She was tall and supple, with short dark hair and hazel eyes. Her smile was good, and it usually made other people smile in response. But the boy’s expression did not change.

“Well, you look a little better now that you’re all cleaned up,” she said.

The boy’s eyes flicked over her and away.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

No answer.

“A little scared, I guess.” Holly kept her tone soft and conversational. “I don’t blame you. Hospitals can be scary. My name’s Holly. Do you want to tell me yours? It’s all right if you don’t. There’s no hurry.”

The boy’s fingers moved restlessly on the edge of the sheet.

“I’m a kind of a doctor.”

The green eyes met hers for an instant.

“Not the kind that sticks people with needles,” she said quickly. “Mostly, I just talk. And I listen, too, if you want to talk to me.”

The boy turned away and stared through the window at the dark trees. His expression told Holly nothing.

Holly waited, watching his face. “What happened to you out there?” she said, more to herself than to the boy. “What’s haunting you now?”

La Reina County Hospital had more the look of an expensive mountain resort than an institution. It was tucked into the picturesque wooded hillside overlooking the town of Pinyon. Behind it the Tehachapi Mountains rose from gently sloping foothills. The facilities and the equipment at La Reina were excellent, courtesy of the California taxpayers. The same could not be said of the staff.

Somehow La Reina County Hospital had become caught in the backwash of bureaucracy and was known as a haven for medical misfits. Med school graduates from the lower third of their class found a home there. Doctors with a questionable past, nurses with borderline records… these made up the staff at La Reina County.

There were always more beds than patients in residence. The administration lived in fear that during one of the periodic budget battles in Sacramento someone would ask why the hell they needed a hospital down there at all. The funds would be cut off and a lot of people would be out of work. Somehow, the budget checkers in Sacramento kept missing it.

Dr. Hollanda Lang, known to everyone as Holly, did not belong with the staff of misfits. She had passed up a lucrative private practice as a clinical psychologist to work for the state Social Services Department. When people asked her why, she told them she was absolving her liberal guilt. Holly found it embarrassing to admit how deeply she cared about helping people.

And La Reina appealed to her precisely because of its quirky reputation. Her opinion of the medical establishment was not high, and here among the outcasts she found some original thinkers she could relate to. Her one disappointment had been in the lack of challenge in her cases. Until they brought in the boy from the woods.

Holly looked down at the pale boy now, wondering what it would take to communicate with him. In the two hours since he’d been brought in, the boy had not spoken. She had finally gotten the curious onlookers cleared out of the room and felt the boy was at least beginning to relax with her.

There was a sound at the door behind her. She turned, annoyed at the interruption.

Sheriff Gavin Ramsay stuck his head into the room.

“All right if I come in?”

“Could I stop you?”

“Sure. Just say go away.”

Holly felt the muscles tighten at the back of her neck. She knew her aversion to police was an unreasonable throwback to her campus protest days, but she couldn’t help it. “Come on in,” she said.

Ramsay nodded to her. “Thanks, Miss Lang. I’ll make this as short as I can.”

“It’s Doctor.”

“Oh, right. Dr. Lang. Sorry.”

She made herself relax. “That sounded pompous, didn’t it? Shall we try first names? I’m Holly.”

“Gavin,” he said.

Not a bad looking man, Holly decided, if you liked the macho type. Sort of a younger Marlboro Man. She had seen him around Pinyon and thought it was a pity that he had to be a policeman.

“How’s the kid?” he asked.

“Doing well enough.”

“Has he said anything yet?”

Holly looked quickly at the young patient. The green eyes regarded the sheriff warily.

“We’re just getting acquainted,” she said. “So far I’ve done all the talking.”

“I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

The boy seemed to shrink a little in the bed.

“Suppose we step out into the hall,” Holly said.

“Sure.”

She followed Ramsay out through the door and looked up at him when he turned. Holly was five-eight in her stocking feet, and well built. Not many men could make her feel small. Gavin Ramsay could, and she resented it.

“I wish you’d give me some warning before you barge into the room.”

“Sorry. The door was ajar.”

“Well… no harm done, I suppose.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

“You must understand it’s part of my job to keep my patient from being disturbed.”

“Fair enough,” Ramsay said, “but you’ve got your job and I’ve got mine.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’ve got a couple of hunters missing and a dead man downstairs in the pathology lab.”

“What has that to do with this boy?”

“I don’t know that there’s any connection, but I want to find out. From the looks of the kid when they brought him in, he was out in the woods for at least three days. That’s about how long our man downstairs has been a corpse.”

“You’re not suggesting that this boy has anything to do with it?”

Ramsay’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Why not, because he’s a minor? Last week a twelve-year-old in East Los Angeles set his mother on fire because she found his heroin stash. A seven-year-old girl in Beverly Hills drowned her baby brother in the swimming pool because he got too much attention. Two boys in Glendale hung a baby girl from a swing set. The boys were six. Want to hear more?”

“No, thank you. I’ll concede that there is no age limit on criminal behavior, but I won’t jump to the conclusion that this boy is guilty of anything.”

“Holly… Dr. Lang… all I want to do is talk to him.” Gavin raised his arms. “See, I didn’t even bring any handcuffs.”

“Well, he isn’t talking yet. He’s had a frightening experience, and it may take a while. Shouldn’t you be trying to find out who he is?”

“I should and I am. I’ve put his description out on the wire. So far he doesn’t fit any missing-boy report.” Gavin looked back over her shoulder into the room. “You will let me know if he says anything?”

“Certainly, Sheriff.”

He started to go, then turned back. “Is there any chance we can get back to using first names?”

She held a stern expression for a moment longer, then relaxed. “What the hell… See you, Gavin.”

“See you, Holly.”

The boy’s eyes followed her as she came back and sat in the chair next to the bed. She smiled at him, studying his face. The two deputies who brought him in had said there was something ‘weird’ in the way he looked. Probably a trick of twilight and their imaginations. Holly saw only a frightened boy of perhaps fourteen. High forehead, straight nose, firm mouth. The eyes were a deep, lustrous green. Certainly nothing there that could be considered ‘weird.’

“Getting sleepy?” she said.

The boy’s head rolled from side to side on the pillow.

A response. The first sign he had given that he understood. Holly kept her voice gentle. “I’ll just sit here for a while, then. If you feel like talking, fine. If not, that’s fine too.”

The boy’s eyes never left her. Holly thought she could see his body relax, just a little, under the hospital sheet and blanket. She picked up a magazine from the bedside table and pretended to read. She did not leave until she was sure the boy was asleep.

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Check out the rest of the story here:

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III

21 Days of Christmas - 21: Prefer the standard to the offbeat

2011-12-25T23:10:00.000-05:00

Young writers will be drawn at every turn toward eccentricities in language. They will hear the beat of new vocabularies, the exciting rhythms of special segments of their society, each speaking a language of its own. All of us come under the spell of these unsettling drums; the problem for beginners is to listen to them, learn the words, feel the vibrations, and not be carried away.

Youths invariably speak to other youths in a tongue of their own devising: they renovate the language with a wild vigor, as they would a basement apartment. By the time this paragraph sees print, psyched, nerd, ripoff, dude, geek, and funky will be the words of yesteryear, and we will be fielding more recent ones that have come bouncing into our speech — some of them into our dictionary as well. A new word is always up for survival. Many do survive. Others grow stale and disappear. Most are, at least in their infancy, more appropriate to conversation than to composition.

Today, the language of advertising enjoys an enormous circulation. With its deliberate infractions of grammatical rules and its crossbreeding of the parts of speech, it profoundly influences the tongues and pens of children and adults. Your new kitchen range is so revolutionary it obsoletes all other ranges. Your counter top is beautiful because it is accessorized with gold-plated faucets. Your cigarette tastes good like a cigarette should. And, like the man says, you will want to try one. You will also, in all probability, want to try writing that way, using that language. You do so at your peril, for it is the language of mutilation.

Advertisers are quite understandably interested in what they call "attention getting." The man photographed must have lost an eye or grown a pink beard, or he must have three arms or be sitting wrong-end-to on a horse. This technique is proper in its place, which is the world of selling, but the young writer had best not adopt the device of mutilation in ordinary composition, whose purpose is to engage, not paralyze, the readers senses. Buy the gold-plated faucets if you will, but do not accessorize your prose. To use the language well, do not begin by hacking it to bits; accept the whole body of it, cherish its classic form, its variety, and its richness.

Another segment of society that has constructed a language of its own is business. People in business say that toner cartridges are in short supply, that they have updated the next shipment of these cartridges, and that they will finalize their recommendations at the next meeting of the board. They are speaking a language familiar and dear to them. Its portentous nouns and verbs invest ordinary events with high adventure; executives walk among toner cartridges, caparisoned like knights. We should tolerate them — every person of spirit wants to ride a white horse. The only question is whether business vocabulary is helpful to ordinary prose. Usually, the same ideas can be expressed less formidably, if one makes the effort. A good many of prose. Usually, the same ideas can be expressed less formidably, if one makes the effort. A good many of the special words of business seem designed more to express the user's dreams than to express a precise meaning. Not all such words, of course, can be dismissed summarily; indeed, no word in the language can be dismissed offhand by anyone who has a healthy curiosity. Update isn't a bad word; in the right setting it is useful. In the wrong setting, though, it is destructive, and the trouble with adopting coinages too quickly is that they will bedevil one by insinuating themselves where they do not belong. This may sound like rhetorical snobbery, or plain stuffiness; but you will discover, in the course of your work, that the setting of a word is just as restrictive as the setting of a jewel. The general rule here is to prefer the standard. Finalize, for instance, is not standard; it is special, and it is a peculiarly fuzzy and silly word. Does it mean "terminate," or does it mean "put into final form"? One can't be sure, really, what it means, and one gets the impression that the person using it doesn't know, either, and doesn't want to know.

The special vocabularies of the law, of the military, of government are familiar to most of us. Even the world of criticism has a modest pouch of private words (luminous, taut), whose only virtue is that they are exceptionally nimble and can escape from the garden of meaning over the wall. Of these critical words, Wolcott Gibbs once wrote, "... they are detached from the language and inflated like little balloons." The young writer should learn to spot them — words that at first glance seem freighted with delicious meaning but that soon burst in air, leaving nothing but a memory of bright sound.

The language is perpetually in flux: it is a living stream, shifting, changing, receiving new strength from a thousand tributaries, losing old forms in the backwaters of time. To suggest that a young writer not swim in the main stream of this turbulence would be foolish indeed, and such is not the intent of these cautionary remarks. The intent is to suggest that in choosing between the formal and the informal, the regular and the offbeat, the general and the special, the orthodox and the heretical, the beginner err on the side of conservatism, on the side of established usage. No idiom is taboo, no accent forbidden; there is simply a better chance of doing well if the writer holds a steady course, enters the stream of English quietly, and does not thrash about.

"But," you may ask, "what if it comes natural to me to experiment rather than conform? What if I am a pioneer, or even a genius?" Answer: then be one. But do not forget that what may seem like pioneering may be merely evasion, or laziness — the disinclination to submit to discipline. Writing good standard English is no cinch, and before you have managed it you will have encountered enough rough country to satisfy even the most adventurous spirit.

Style takes its final shape more from attitudes of mind than from principles of composition, for, as an elderly practitioner once remarked, "Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar." This moral observation would have no place in a rule book were it not that style is the writer, and therefore what you are, rather than what you know, will at last determine your style. If you write, you must believe — in the truth and worth of the scrawl, in the ability of the reader to receive and decode the message. No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader's intelligence, or whose attitude is patronizing.

Many references have been made in this book to "the reader," who has been much in the news. It is now necessary to warn you that your concern for the reader must be pure: you must sympathize with the reader's plight (most readers are in trouble about half the time) but never seek to know the reader's wants. Your whole duty as a writer is to please and satisfy yourself, and the true writer always plays to an audience of one. Start sniffing the air, or glancing at the Trend Machine, and you are as good as dead, although you may make a nice living.

Full of belief, sustained and elevated by the power of purpose, armed with the rules of grammar, you are ready for exposure. At this point, you may well pattern yourself on the fully exposed cow of Robert Louis Stevenson's rhyme. This friendly and commendable animal, you may recall, was "blown by all the winds Stevenson's rhyme. This friendly and commendable animal, you may recall, was "blown by all the winds that pass /And wet with all the showers." And so must you as a young writer be. In our modern idiom, we would say that you must get wet all over. Mr. Stevenson, working in a plainer style, said it with felicity, and suddenly one cow, out of so many, received the gift of immortality. Like the steadfast writer, she is at home in the wind and the rain; and, thanks to one moment of felicity, she will live on and on and on.

Gary Brandner's THE HOWLING II Preview

2011-12-25T11:45:00.000-05:00

LOS ANGELES (UPI)––A fire of undetermined origin swept through a narrow valley in the Tehachapi Mountains north of Los Angeles yesterday, virtually wiping out the tiny village of Drago. Firefighters from Los Angeles and Ventura Counties brought the blaze under control early this morning, and had it extinguished before it could threaten any of the neighboring communities.

As yet there has been no reported contact with any of the residents of Drago. Authorities refused to make an estimate on the number of casualties as crews were still sifting through the ashes for victims.

The only known survivors at this hour are Mrs. Karyn Beatty and a friend, Christopher Halloran, both of Los Angeles. Mrs. Beatty’s husband was missing and believed to have perished in the fire. Halloran and Mrs. Beatty declined to speak with reporters.

According to U.S. Forest Ranger Phil Henry, the final death toll may never be known. Since Drago was not an incorporated town, no accurate records were kept of its population. It is estimated that between one hundred and two hundred people lived there. So intense was the blaze, which destroyed two hundred acres of timber in addition to the village, that searchers are finding it difficult to distinguish human remains from those of animals.

Karyn knelt on the moist grass and worked with her fingers in the dirt around the roots of the rosebush. There were no flowers on the bush, and there should have been. Karyn felt she was somehow responsible. Although David had never mentioned it, she was sure his first wife had been a gifted gardener. That was the trouble with marrying a widower––the departed wife was always good at everything.

As for Karyn, except for her houseplants, which enjoyed a special place in her affections, she had little interest in or aptitude for gardening. Outdoor plants, she felt, ought to be able to take care of themselves. However, David and Dr. Goetz thought getting outside and working with her hands was good for her, and she did not want to disappoint them.

While she poked idly at the damp earth, Karyn let her mind wander. There was vacation time to be worked out for Mrs. Jensen, the housekeeper, and a Parents’ Day coming up at Joey’s summer school. She smiled, pleased at the commonplace concerns that occupied her mind these days. It was a healthy sign, she thought.

Karyn did not hear the soft approach of the padded feet behind her. The first indication she was not alone was the huff of warm breath on the back of her neck. She started to rise, lost her balance, and fell awkwardly to the ground.

She looked up and saw the other face staring down into hers. Its black lips were stretched in a canine grimace, the yellowed teeth bared. She tried to squirm away, but two heavy paws pinned her as the animal dropped its weight on her chest.

In that instant, all the horror of Drago flooded back from the closed-off portion of her mind. The wolfish face with its long, cruel teeth came at her. She screamed. The weight on her chest lessened for a moment, and she rolled away, curling herself protectively into a ball. She felt the animal prod at her, trying to turn her over. She screamed again.

The back door of the house banged open and a solid woman with graying, blond hair rushed out. She ran heavily toward Karyn, still lying on the ground by the rosebushes.

“Bristol, stop that!” the woman called. “Come here, you bad boy.”

Cautiously Karyn opened her eyes. A few feet away, Mrs. Jensen stood with her hands planted on her hips. Sidling toward her, a ‘don’t-hit-me’ look in its eyes, was a coltish young German shepherd.

“Shame on you,” Mrs. Jensen scolded the dog. “Frightening people like that.” She seized him by the collar and tapped him lightly on the nose. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Richter. He’s just an overgrown puppy. He wanted to play, that’s all.”

The back door burst open again and David Richter hurried out. He was a man of forty-eight, with a strong, serious face. He wore a sweater and slacks, this being Sunday, but he never seemed really comfortable without the three-piece suit he wore daily to the brokerage.

Karyn rose unsteadily to her feet. David ran across the lawn to her side and took her arm.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Karyn said, still out of breath. “It’s nothing.”

David turned on Mrs. Jensen, who was still holding the dog by his collar. The dog kept lunging up, trying to lick her face.

“What’s that dog doing here?” David demanded.

“It’s my sister’s puppy.” Mrs. Jensen said. “He didn’t mean any harm.”

“You know we don’t allow animals here,” David said.

“I was just watchin’ the dog for an hour while my sister went to the dentist. She didn’t want to leave him alone.”

“Well, get him out of here,” David ordered. “And don’t ever bring a dog to this house again.”

“David, it’s not that serious,” Karyn said. “The dog just caught me by surprise.”

“He didn’t mean any harm,” Mrs. Jensen said again.

“Yes, yes, all right,” David said, softening his tone a bit. “But I want him out of here right now.”

“Yes, Mr. Richter,” she said. And to the dog: “Come along, you bad boy.”

As Mrs. Jensen led the dog around the side of the house, a dark-eyed boy of six dashed through the door and across the lawn to where Karyn and David stood.

“What happened,” the boy said, looking from one of the adults to the other.

Karyn ruffled his hair. “It’s all right, Joey. I was just startled by a dog.”

“A dog?” The boy looked around eagerly. “Where is he?”

“Never mind,” said David. “Mrs. Jensen took him away. You go inside now and wash up for dinner.”

Joey looked wistfully off in the direction the housekeeper had taken the dog. “Can’t I just go and see him? Just for a minute?”

“Inside, Joey,” said David. The boy trudged back across the grass and into the house.

“I feel so guilty because he can’t have a pet,” Karyn said.

“It won’t hurt him to do without one. Now let me help you inside. You’re still shaking.”

“Really, David, I’m quite all right,” Karyn said, but she allowed herself to be led into the house.

“Sit down there in the big chair,” David said when they reached the living room. “Put your feet up.”

Karyn did as she was told.

“Now wait right there and I’ll get something to calm your nerves.” He went off to the kitchen, and returned a minute later carrying a tall glass.

“Here’s a nice glass of milk,” he said.

A nice shot of Scotch would do her nerves a whole lot more good, Karyn thought, but she smiled her thanks and took the glass from David’s hand.

He stood with his arms folded, studying her gravely as she sipped at the milk. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What a shame that this should happen just when you seemed to be getting better.”

Karyn set the glass down carefully on the end table next to the chair. “I hate that expression,” she said. “Getting better. It’s a constant reminder that I’m a convalescent mental case.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I’m a little disappointed that, after a year, Dr. Goetz hasn’t done more for you. Do you think we should try someone else?”

“Dr. Goetz is as good as any of them,” Karyn said. “Really, David, you’re making too much out of this. The dog came up behind me and took me by surprise. I overreacted, that’s all.”

“The dog,” David said, watching her. “It reminded you of that Drago business, didn’t it?”

Sure. That Drago business. The unpleasantness in the mountains. Nothing remarkable, really––just fighting off a pack of werewolves and seeing your husband change into… Karyn broke off the thought and shuddered.

David moved quickly to her side. “I’m sorry dear, I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

Karyn squeezed his hand. “No, darling, it should never become a taboo subject, or I will be in trouble. And you’re right about the dog. Seeing its face suddenly so close to mine took me back for a moment to Drago. It’s been only three years, you know, and we’ve got to expect incidents like that from time to time.”

“And you’re still having the dreams, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Karyn admitted. “But not so often, anymore.”

David frowned. “When is your next appointment with Goetz?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And you really think he’s helping you?”

“As much as anyone could.”

David patted her hand awkwardly. “All right, then, we’ll go on with him. I just hope he can make you see that this Drago business is all… behind you.”

As she lay that night in bed beside her sleeping husband, Karyn recalled his words. She knew that what he had started to say was, “All in your mind.” She would be happier than anyone to be convinced of that, but it was not so. Drago was as real as the moon outside their bedroom window, and much closer. The werewolves were real too. And somewhere, Karyn knew, one or more of them survived.

* * *

Nine hundred miles away, in the grape country of California, another woman lay awake beside her man. Her long, supple body gleamed like old ivory in the moonlight. Across the pillow, her hair spread in gentle waves of glossy black, shot through with a startling streak of silver.

The man stirred in his sleep. The woman quieted him with a hand on his broad, bare shoulder.

“Rest easy, my lover,” she whispered. “Soon we will have much work to do.”

From the window of Dr. Arnold Goetz’s office in the new Farrell Building, Karyn could see the sailboats skimming across Lake Washington under a stiff westerly breeze. It was one of those brightly washed summer days when the dreary months of rain are forgotten and the people of Seattle go outdoors to celebrate the sun.

Karyn stood at the window talking in a flat, emotionless voice. Finally she said, “So that’s all there was to it. Just a silly incident with a dog, and it was all over in a minute.”

Dr. Goetz waited a full fifteen seconds. It was a technique of his that Karyn recognized. The purpose was to encourage the patient to elaborate on, or perhaps contradict, the last thought. When Karyn did not offer to continue, the doctor spoke.

“There is no doubt in your mind, then, that it was only a dog yesterday.”

Karyn spun around to face him. “Of course it was only a dog.” She walked over and sat down in the chair facing the doctor’s desk. “I was frightened for a moment because it brought back bad memories. That’s all.”

Dr. Goetz nodded sagely. “Yes, I see. And tell me about the dreams. You say you still have them?”

Karyn bit her lip and frowned. “Yes. And they worry me more than the business with the dog. Will I ever stop hearing it at night, Doctor? The howling?”

“You do understand that it is only in dreams that you hear this… howling?”

Karyn leaned back in the chair. Sunlight from the window caught her pale blond hair and made it a glowing frame for her face. She was twenty-eight now, and there were little lines at the corners of her eyes, but the touch of maturity only emphasized her beauty.

“Yes, Doctor,” she said wearily, “I know it only happens in dreams. Now. But three years ago in Drago, the howling was real. As real as death.”

Dr. Goetz touched his glasses. Karyn had determined that it was his unconscious gesture of disbelief. He put on an understanding smile.

“Yes, I see,” he said.

“Bullshit.”

The doctor brightened. Gut reactions always encouraged him.

“You don’t see at all,” Karyn told him. “You don’t believe Drago actually happened any more than my husband does. Any more than all the other people I’ve told about it.”

After his customary wait the doctor said. “Karyn, whether I believe or not isn’t important. What happened in the past or didn’t happen really doesn’t concern us. Our bag is the here and now. All that matters to us is how you feel about it.”

Karyn met the doctor’s sincere gaze. He was having a difficult time making the transition from the traditional Freudian to the trendy transactional school of analysis. Everybody’s got problems, she thought.

“What it makes me feel is scared shitless,” she said.

Pause.

“Why?”

“Because I know they aren’t all dead.”

“When you say ‘they’ you mean––”

“I mean the wolves,” Karyn supplied. “The werewolves.”

She watched closely for a reaction––the narrowing of the eyes, or the little quirk, which she had seen so often at the corner of his mouth. Dr. Goetz held his expression of friendly concern. He was good.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he said.

“Doctor, I have told you about it.”

“Tell me again, if you think it would help.”

Hell, why not, Karyn thought. There was no pain in the telling any more, and that, at least, was an improvement. Maybe if she heard the story often enough herself it would become meaningless, the way a familiar word repeated over and over eventually becomes a nonsense sound.

She stood up again and walked back to the window. There, watching the peaceful scene down on the lake, she repeated the story of the damned village of Drago, and the six months she spent there with Roy Beatty.

She described the way it began, with the howling in the night. Then there had been the cruel killing of her little dog. She told of the strange people who had lived in the village, and the huge, unnatural wolves that had roamed the woods at night. In a quiet, controlled voice she spoke of the black-haired Marcia Lura, who had bewitched Karyn’s husband and finally taken him forever with the virulent bite of the werewolf. Finally she told of the escape from Drago as she and Chris Halloran had fled the burning village.

Dr. Goetz waited, then spoke. “You said they aren’t all dead. The wolves.”

“As we drove out of the valley with everything behind us in flames, I heard it again from off in the forest. The howling.”

Abruptly Karyn stopped talking and went back to her chair across from the doctor. “Telling the story doesn’t make it any better or any worse,” she said. “All it does is keep the memory fresh. What I want to do is put Drago out of my mind, now and forever.”

“I can understand that,” Dr. Goetz said reasonably. “And that’s what we’re working toward, isn’t it? But, Karyn, before we can finally put this idea out of your mind, we have to find out what put it in.

Karyn stared at him. She spaced out her words carefully. “What put this idea into my mind, God-dammit, is that it happened.”

“Yes, of course,” the doctor went on. “Maybe when you were a little girl there was some experience, something ugly, with wolves or large dogs.”

Karyn shook her head wearily. “No, Doctor, not when I was a little girl. My only traumatic experience with wolves came when I was a full-grown woman. Three years ago. In Drago. You’re telling me the same old thing, aren’t you, that it’s a delusion?”

“Delusion is a term we don’t use much any more. We understand now that things that happen in the mind are every bit as vivid, and often more damaging than what we call reality. I’m sure your experience in Drago is as real to you today as this room we are sitting in. The important thing, as I said––”

Karyn only half-listened as Dr. Goetz droned on in his silky, reassuring voice. He was saying the thing everyone else did. Namely, that she had imagined the whole Drago episode. Maybe in time he could convince her of that. If he could, he would be well worth whatever David was paying him. In the meantime, it did help a little to be able to talk.

There was a subtle change in the doctor’s tone, and Karyn saw his eyes flick over at the discreet little clock on his desk. Her hour was up.

Karyn drove slowly north over the Aurora Bridge toward Mountlake Terrace, where she and David had their home. Her thoughts, as usual when she left Dr. Goetz, were on Drago and what happened afterward.

There had been one moment of triumph at the very end when she had fired the deadly silver bullet into the head of the black she-wolf. But that small victory, like the escape with Chris Halloran, had lacked a ring of finality. Even as she and Chris had paused to look back on the valley in flames, neither of them had really believed it was over.

For six tempestuous months they had tried to pretend it was, and that they were just another ordinary couple. After sharing the horror of Drago, it had seemed a natural thing to stay together. How wrong they were.

For a time they had traveled aimlessly from place to place, living on pills and nervous energy. Before long their pent-up emotions were turned against each other. At the end of six months these two people, who had shared more in a day than many couples do in a lifetime, were living on the edge of violence. The most insignificant squabble could erupt in an ugly word battle. They were staying in a Las Vegas hotel when the final blowup came.

Karyn had spent the morning in their room. She had the air conditioner turned up full and wore a sweater buttoned to the throat as protection against the dry cold. Chris had gone down to the swimming pool early, after making only a half-hearted attempt at persuading her to come with him.

At noon Chris returned. He glanced briefly at Karyn and went into the bathroom. Not until he had showered, shaved, and dressed, did he speak to her.

“Do you want to go down and get some lunch?”

“Can’t we have something sent up?”

“Why?”

“I’d rather not leave the room, that’s all.”

“For God’s sake, Karyn, you can’t just sit up here and hide from the world like a frightened child.”

His words cut into her like a dull knife. She fired back, “I can do anything I want. Who are you to tell me what I can’t do? Nobody asked you to run my life.”

Chris’s eyes had turned dark and dangerous for a moment, then he whirled and stormed out the door. Karyn fought down the angry impulse to throw something after him.

The rush of blood through the veins made a roaring in her ears. She walked over to the window, parted the draperies, and blinked at the bright white Las Vegas sunlight. Twelve stories down, she could see people in the pool and on the deck around it. Everyone seemed to be laughing and having a fine time. Was she the only one in the world, Karyn wondered, who was miserable?

She let the draperies fall back across the window, and returned to the chair where she had sat all morning. She was still there, shivering with the cold, an hour later when Chris returned.

He closed the door firmly behind him and stood looking at her. “Why the hell don’t you turn the air conditioning down?”

“I like it this way.”

She could see him start to get angry, then, with an effort, relax.

“Karyn, we have to talk.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re destroying each other.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Cut it out, damn it. I’ve had all of this I can take.”

“Poor you.”

“This continual picking at each other is tearing me apart. It isn’t doing you any good, either. Have you looked at yourself closely in the mirror lately?”

“Well, thank you very much.”

“Will you please stop playing childish games? I know what you went through at Drago, but––”

Karyn sprang out of the chair and faced him angrily. “You have no idea what I went through. You were there only at the very end. I spent six months in that place. Six months in hell.”

Chris spoke in a carefully controlled voice. “I know that, Karyn. I know you suffered a lot. What I want to do now is help you.”

“Oh? And just how do you think you can help me?”

“It would be a start if we brought the whole thing out in the open and talked about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Karyn snapped. “Not to you, not to anybody.”

“I’m the only one you can talk to about Drago,” he said. “I am the only person in the world who would believe it, because I was there. I saw the wolves, and I know what they were.”

Karyn clapped her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to think about it. Why don’t you let me forget Drago, so it will go away?”

“It will never go away,” Chris said. “It will always be locked in the back of your head. If we could just talk about it––”

“There you go with your ‘talk about it’ again. You sound like one of those fucking parlor psychologists. Tell me, where did you get your medical degree, Doctor?”

“Cut it out. I can’t take any more of this.”

“Don’t then. Don’t take a Goddamn thing you don’t want to. Nobody’s holding you.”

“That’s right,” he said in a voice that had gone suddenly cold. “Nobody is.”

In thirty minutes Chris Halloran had packed his clothes and left the hotel. That had been two and a half years ago. Karyn had not seen him since.

* * *

The weeks that followed the Las Vegas breakup with Chris were fragmented in Karyn’s memory. She knew that during that time she was very close to losing her hold on sanity. Somehow, she had made her way back to her parents’ home in the Los Angeles suburb of Brentwood. For two months she had a full-time nurse, and never left the upstairs bedroom that had been hers when she was a little girl. The days were blanks and the nights were filled with shadows where lurked unspeakable horrors.

Then gradually the world came back into focus. Karyn at last learned to talk about the summer in Drago. Then as now, no one really believed her, but they listened sympathetically. She learned that Chris had been right. Talking about it did help.

After six months in the quiet, comfortable house with her family, Karyn began to feel whole again. She tried to contact Chris Halloran, but learned he had taken a traveling assignment with his engineering firm and was seldom in town for long. Maybe, she decided, it was better this way. She would have liked to say she was sorry about the bad days at the end, and keep at least a part of Chris’s friendship, but seeing him might just open old wounds.

Instead, she had accepted the invitation of a college classmate and flown to Seattle for a visit. That was when she met David Richter.

David was twenty years older than Karyn, and solid as Mount Rainier. He did not have the dreamy romanticism of Roy Beatty, nor the charm and dash of Chris Halloran, but he was exactly what Karyn needed. She had been a little hesitant about meeting David’s son, but she need not have worried. She and Joey hit it off immediately.

The big test, in Karyn’s mind, came when she told David the story of Drago. He had listened patiently and seriously, without laughing or patronizing her. He did not, of course, treat it as reality, but accepted it as a minor eccentricity as he might have accepted a slight limp.

David asked her to marry him two months after they met. He offered her security and stability, and a kind of quiet love she had never known. She said yes.

All in all Karyn was content with her life as Mrs. David Richter. Now if she could just stop dreaming of the wolves, and shake the feeling that someday, somewhere, they were going to kill her.

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21 Days of Christmas - 20: Avoid foreign languages

2011-12-25T11:37:00.000-05:00

The writer will occasionally find it convenient or necessary to borrow from other languages. Some writers, however, from sheer exuberance or a desire to show off, sprinkle their work liberally with foreign expressions, with no regard for the reader's comfort. It is a bad habit. Write in English.

21 Days of Christmas - 19: Do not take shortcuts at the cost of clarity

2011-12-24T17:40:00.001-05:00

Do not use initials for the names of organizations or movements unless you are certain the initials will be readily understood. Write things out. Not everyone knows that MADD means Mothers Against Drunk Driving, and even if everyone did, there are babies being born every minute who will someday encounter the name for the first time. They deserve to see the words, not simply the initials. A good rule is to start your article by writing out names in full, and then, later, when your readers have got their bearings, to shorten them.

Many shortcuts are self-defeating; they waste the reader's time instead of conserving it. There are all sorts of rhetorical stratagems and devices that attract writers who hope to be pithy, but most of them are simply bothersome. The longest way round is usually the shortest way home, and the one truly reliable shortcut in writing is to choose words that are strong and surefooted to carry readers on their way.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 18: Use figures of speech sparingly

2011-12-23T13:34:00.001-05:00

The simile is a common device and a useful one, but similes coming in rapid fire, one right on top of another, are more distracting than illuminating. Readers need time to catch their breath; they can't be expected to compare everything with something else, and no relief in sight. When you use metaphor, do not mix it up. That is, don't start by calling something a swordfish and end by calling it an hourglass.

Five simple tricks authors should use to make publishers notice them

2011-12-21T11:21:00.003-05:00

1) Use your real name on message boards. Every time an author posts something using a handle such as ScaryDude, ZombieBreath, or HappyGirl, they are wasting valuable promotion time. You know who you are, and some people you communicate with know who you are, but most people do not, regardless of how popular you think you are. Talking about your latest project while using a fake name is like spearheading a marketing plan that focuses on writing your nickname in the sand.

2) Use your real name in your email address. Remember when you got that crazy haircut, you were dating a loser, and holding down that shitty job? Right around then you also decided that the most appropriate email handle was FearofDeath@whoever.com, SexyCute@whatever.com, or ROTF21@where-ever.com. Those addresses all suck. When you send out that story you’ve worked so hard on to a publisher with an email address like this, the very first thing you are saying to them - even before they open the bloody email - is: I don’t know the first thing about marketing myself, and because of this, chances are, nobody knows who I am. This means I have no fan base, and that stupid email address I came up with ten years ago on the night I was getting my nipples pierced by that guy with a spider tattooed on his face is more important than I am. I can not help you sell books.

3) Twitter. You don’t have to be a fanatic to use Twitter; it doesn’t have to take over your life. Just get an account, use your real name, start following some people, and post some things. You don’t have to do it all at once, but you should do it. If you follow a publisher, a lot of times the publisher will follow you back.

4) Blog. This one takes more work but if you are a writer, writing a blog should be no big deal. If you are not creative enough to make people want to read the free words you are giving away on the Internet, chances are, you’re not creative enough to make people want to pay for them. Being a writer isn’t about getting noticed. Being a writer is about writing something worth noticing. So start a blog and write something worth reading. If you can’t do this, writing is not for you.

5) Review the books your prospective publisher is publishing. Guess what a publisher reads, over, and over, and over again? Amazon reviews. If you want to ram your name down a publisher’s throat review the publishers books - if possible, review every one that's in your genre. Make sure you review using your real name, and remember, if you say nice things the publisher will want to help you. After all, publishers are people too. They want to support the people that are supporting them.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 17: Do not inject opinion

2011-12-21T11:13:00.001-05:00

Unless there is a good reason for its being there, do not inject opinion into a piece of writing. We all have opinions about almost everything, and the temptation to toss them in is great. To air one's views gratuitously, however, is to imply that the demand for them is brisk, which may not be the case, and which, in any event, may not be relevant to the discussion. Opinions scattered indiscriminately about leave the mark of egotism on a work. Similarly, to air one's views at an improper time may be in bad taste. If you have received a letter inviting you to speak at the dedication of a new cat hospital, and you hate cats, your reply, declining the invitation, does not necessarily have to cover the full range of your emotions. You must make it clear that you will not attend, but you do not have to let fly at cats. The writer of the letter asked a civil question; attack cats, then, only if you can do so with good humor, good taste, and in such a way that your answer will be courteous as well as responsive. Since you are out of sympathy with cats, you may quite properly give this as a reason for not appearing at the dedicatory ceremonies of a cat hospital. But bear in mind that your opinion of cats was not sought, only your services as a speaker. Try to keep things straight.

Gary Brandner's THE HOWLING Preview

2011-12-21T00:09:00.000-05:00

The September heat lay heavy on Los Angeles. In the condominium community called Hermosa Terrace all the windows were tightly closed. The only sounds were the hum of exhaust fans and the muted growl of a power mower.

In the living room of Unit Two, Karyn Beatty stood on tiptoe to kiss her husband, Roy. Lady, their miniature collie, wagged her approval from the sofa. It started as a casual husband-and-wife first-anniversary kiss, but it quickly became something more. Karyn drew back her head and looked into Roy’s clear brown eyes.

“Are you trying to start something?” she said a little breathlessly.

“Darn right,” Roy replied, taking her in his arms.

Roy pulled her close, his big, gentle hands warm through the thin material of her summer dress. He kissed her neck where the blond hair curled forward below her ear.

“Won’t Chris be here soon?” she said, her lips close to his ear.

“We won’t answer the door.”

“You couldn’t do that to your best friend. Especially after we asked him to come by for an anniversary drink.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Roy admitted. “Anyway, he won’t stay long. He has a date.”

“Anybody we know?”

“A new one, I think.”

“Doesn’t Chris ever get serious about anybody?”

“Who knows? I think he’s secretly in love with you.”

“You don’t mean it?”

“Why not? All my friends have good taste.”

* * *

Max Quist shut off the power mower and took out a soiled handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face. He watched as a young couple in sparkling tennis whites climbed out of a sports car and ran laughing across the lawn. They didn’t pay any attention to Max. Nobody living in Hermosa Terrace paid any attention to Max. He was like another piece of shrubbery to them.

No, he thought, not even that much.

Max hated these people. He hated them for having all the things he would never have. He would quit this lousy job in a minute if it weren’t for his parole officer. Just once he would like to show the smug sons-of-bitches that Max Quist was somebody.

* * *

The telephone rang in Unit Two. Roy Beatty picked it up and frowned as he listened to the voice on the other end. He spoke briefly and hung up.

“Anything wrong?” Karyn asked.

“I’ve got to go to Anaheim. Deliver some books.”

“On Saturday? On our anniversary?”

“Dammit, it’s my own fault. I promised to drop off a set of inspection manuals at Aerodyne yesterday. Had them in the trunk of the car and forgot all about it. I don’t know how it slipped my mind.”

Karyn smiled. It was very unlike Roy to forget anything. He was always thoroughly organized, like one of the technical manuals he edited. When she had first met him she had thought Roy Beatty was as stodgy as a church deacon. However, she had soon discovered his warm sense of humor, an open-minded willingness to listen, and a depth of intellect that was not apparent in his All-American good looks. Karyn had been working as a convention hostess for the New York Hilton at the time. Roy was in the city for a gathering of engineers. For the first time, she had broken the hotel rule against socializing with the guests. Roy had stayed on for a week after the convention, and they had been together constantly. When he had returned to the Coast he had said he would be back for her on his vacation. She had not expected him to come, but he had. That was when she had finally admitted she loved him.

“Don’t be long,” she said as he stood at the door. She kissed him and watched him walk down the winding path through the neatly trimmed shrubbery. Karyn could not imagine how she could be happier. She had Roy and she had an excellent job with a hotel near the airport where she was in line for convention manager when her current boss retired. Tonight she would give Roy her special anniversary gift––the news that he was going to be a father. Yes, her life was just about perfect.

* * *

Max Quist watched the blond young man come out of Unit Two and stride down the walk past him without a flicker. Max might as well have been invisible. The woman stood in the doorway watching him go. Good-looking cunt. Too good-looking. Both of them. Like people in a magazine ad. Young, beautiful, healthy, rich. Max spat on the cropped grass. How he wanted to show them what it’s like to be hurt. Hurt them. Yes… hurt them.

* * *

Karyn was in the kitchen putting the lunch things away when the doorbell chimed. Chris was early, she thought. She dried her hands and walked out through the living room to the door. She did not bother to look through the tiny viewer. She never did. There was no danger here. This was Hermosa Terrace, not East Los Angeles.

Karyn opened the door and the heat pushed against the cool inside air. The man in the doorway was not Chris Halloran. He smiled at her.

“Yes?” Karyn said when the man did hot speak right away.

He had thick black hair that was poorly barbered. His cotton work-shirt was dark with perspiration under the arms. He seemed vaguely familiar.

“I’m supposed to check the pipes in your bathroom,” he said.

“There’s nothing wrong with our pipes.”

“It’s in the apartment next door. Their shower don’t drain right, and it might be plugged up where your drain pipes come together.”

Something in the way the man spoke was wrong. The short speech sounded rehearsed. Something about the man himself was wrong. He continued to smile.

“You’d better come back when my husband is here. He knows about those things.”

Without making any sudden moves the man had somehow come through the doorway and was standing in the living room. He was still smiling, but it was a different smile. “That’s okay,” he said. “We won’t need your husband.”

Over on the couch Lady raised her neat little head and pricked her ears at the strange male voice. After a moment she put her head back down on her paws, but remained watchful.

“I’m sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t come in now.” Karyn fought to still the tremor of fear in her voice.

“But I am in,” the man said. He reached behind him and closed the door. Without taking his eyes off Karyn he turned the small knob, shooting the dead-bolt lock into place.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Karyn wanted her voice to be angry and strong, but the fear was in her now. She could not hide it.

“You know what I’m doing,” the man said.

“I–I don’t keep much money in the house. You can have what there is. And my jewelry.”

“I don’t want your money or your jewelry. But you know that, don’t you? You know what I want, and you’re going to give it to me.” He reached out suddenly and squeezed her breast.

Karyn jumped back as though from an electric shock. “Please, leave me alone!” The sour smell of his body was sharp in her nostrils. “M–my husband will be home.”

“No he won’t. He just left. We have all the time we need.”

She took a careful step backward. The man’s eyes traveled over her body, probing at her. His hands shot out and seized her wrists.

“No!” she cried.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re going to like it.”

“Please… you can’t…”

The man pulled Karyn against his body and mashed his mouth down on hers. Karyn clamped her jaws together as his tongue pushed in past her lips. He tasted of stale cigarettes.

“Where’s the bedroom?”

Karyn shook her head from side to side, afraid to trust her voice.

With a sudden movement the man twisted one arm up behind her back, forcing her to walk in front of him. He marched Karyn into the hallway that opened between the living room and the room Roy used for a den. She stumbled along in his grasp past the bathroom to the open door, through which they could see the bed.

All the things she had read about rape tumbled through Karyn’s mind. All the advice for women. Fight back. Don’t fight back. Scream. Stay calm. Blow a whistle. Run. Reason with the man.

Lovely advice, all useless. Fight the man? He was at least seventy pounds heavier than she, and certainly stronger. Scream? Who would hear? Hermosa Terrace Townhomes were proud of their soundproofing. Reason with him? Reason with an animal?

They were in the bedroom now. The man spun Karyn around and pushed her backward onto the bed.

The thinking part of her mind shut off and instinct took over. She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts and drew back her feet to kick out at the man when he came at her.

The man laughed at her efforts and batted the kick aside with an easy swipe of his hand. He grasped her by the ankles and forced her legs apart. Karyn writhed on the bed, helpless against his strength.

The man grinned down at her, showing large, strong teeth. Droplets of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip. His eyes moved down to her crotch. Karyn felt open and exposed with the thin velour pants pulled tight between her legs.

“I’m pregnant,” she said suddenly.

“Bullshit.”

“I am,” she insisted. “Three months.”

“Then you don’t have to worry about getting knocked up, do you?”

He released one of Karyn’s ankles and took hold of the velour pants at the waist. He yanked them down, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her belly. The snap and zipper held at first, but he tugged again and the material tore away.

Then she screamed. Not with any thought of summoning help or frightening the man off. A visceral scream of outrage and terror.

“Shut up.” he ordered. He leaned forward and slapped her hard on the face. She stopped screaming.

A sudden high-pitched barking behind the man spun him around. Lady stood braced on her little legs, yapping angrily. The man swung his foot in a vicious arc; the toe of his heavy shoe caught the little dog just below the ribs and lifted her off the floor.

Lady yelped in surprise and pain. Never before had anyone deliberately hurt her. She crouched on the floor whimpering, her eyes pleading for an apology, a comforting pat.

“Get out of here, mutt,” the man snapped.

Still whimpering, Lady moved uncertainly toward the door. She stopped and looked back toward her mistress. The man made a threatening motion with his hand, and the dog retreated into the hall. The man kicked the door shut behind her.

“Hell of a watchdog you’ve got there.” He grinned and came at Karyn again.

“Please don’t do this. Please don’t hurt me.” Even as the words came out, Karyn knew they were useless. This unspeakable thing was actually going to happen to her. Was happening to her. What had she ever done that she should be brutalized this way?

The man was upon her again, and Karyn’s mind ceased to function logically. He tore away the nylon bikini pants, and his fingers crawled over and into her.

Abruptly he dropped to his knees and thrust his face up between her legs. He clamped his mouth on her, and Karyn could feel his tongue like a thick, wet worm probing, probing at her. She pummeled his head with her fists, but the blows had no effect.

Then he pulled his face back and bit her high on the soft inside of the thigh. He bit down hard, and his teeth sank into the clean white flesh until the blood flowed. Karyn’s back arched up off the bed in reaction to the pain.

When the man at last unclenched his jaw and stood over her again his lips were crimson with her blood. Breathing in short, harsh bursts, he reached down and unzipped the front of his pants. Karyn twisted her head away, but could not shut out the sight as he freed himself from the damp jockey shorts and bore down on her.

He forced her legs farther apart and positioned himself between them. Blood from the throbbing bite wound left a red smear on the bedspread. With one cruel thrust he invaded her body.

Karyn cried out in pain and rage. She scrabbled at his face with both hands, clawing for his eyes.

“Bitch!” He hit her in the face with a rock-hard fist.

Karyn tasted blood, and the room swam for a moment, but she continued to use her nails to slash at the face above her.

The man pulled out of her for a moment and drove a fist into her bare belly. Karyn felt something break inside, and there was no fight left in her.

“That’s better.” He planted his hands on her shoulders and rammed into her again.

Karyn squeezed her eyes shut. When she was a little girl in the dentist chair and the drill hurt her, she would dig her nails into her palms, making a small hurt to ease the larger one. She did it now. The lower part of her body was on fire. The wound on her thigh screamed. The man continued to pump away at her, grunting with every thrust.

Get it over with! she cried inside her head. Get it over with and go away or kill me or whatever you’re going to do. Just finish!

And at last he did.

After endless minutes he withdrew and wiped himself with the satin bedspread. Karyn rolled her head on the pillow and looked up at him, but now the man would not meet her eye. Hurriedly he zipped up his pants and went out into the hall. Karyn heard him go through the living room.

She sat up on the bed and winced at the tearing pain in her stomach. Her insides felt loose, as though they might slide out between her legs when she stood up. She pulled the remains of the velour pants up over the mess on her lower belly and walked carefully to the door. She made it as far as the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

She knelt there for several minutes on the cold tile with her hands gripping the sides of the bowl, waiting for the spasms of her stomach to ease. The sudden sound of someone moving around in the living room brought back the fear. When the bedroom door opened and the heavy footsteps came toward her she started to scream.

When Chris Halloran found Karyn on her knees in the bathroom she was sobbing incoherently. Finding the front door open, he had sensed something was wrong. He walked in, and that was when Karyn began to scream. Chris held her in his arms for five minutes before she could tell him what had happened. He called the police, then left a message for Roy at the Aerodyne Company in Anaheim.

The two months that followed were a painful time for Karyn. The blow she had taken to the stomach had brought on a miscarriage, but no permanent damage. There was an infection from the bite wound on her thigh that was slow to respond to medication. The doctor advised against plastic surgery until the scar had completely healed.

The police, using their new, more sympathetic procedures for rape victims, made that part of Karyn’s ordeal as easy as they could. Her description of the rapist led them at once to Max Quist, the handyman, who had a record of assaults on women. Confronted with Karyn’s positive identification, Quist pleaded guilty.

It was psychologically that Karyn suffered most. Twice-weekly sessions with an analyst helped a little, and group sessions brought her together with other women who had been raped. Still, her recovery was painfully slow. She would wake up in the night, eyes wide and staring, and scream that someone was biting her. Of all the violations of her body, it was the horror of the teeth sinking into her flesh that she could not erase. She returned to work, but her life at home with Roy suffered. She could not feel comfortable in their lovemaking.

The analyst suggested to Karyn and Roy that they go away from Los Angeles for a while. Restful, rural surroundings, he said, would be the best thing for Karyn’s full recovery. The people at Karyn’s hotel were understanding, giving her a six month leave of absence. Roy worked out an arrangement with his firm, and they began taking trips out of the city to look for a place.

A friend in the real-estate business told them about an available house in a town to the north called Drago. They drove up to see it, but Karyn was not enthusiastic. The house was weathered and weed-grown, a mile outside the town, which Karyn thought looked like a cheerless cluster of wooden buildings. Roy, however, took to the place immediately. He assured Karyn that the house could be fixed up so she would love it. With some misgivings, she acquiesced.

For the next couple of weeks Roy made the trip alone to see that work on the house was being done to his specifications. He did not want Karyn to see it, he said. She would be surprised. When it was time to move in, he left a day early to see to last minute details. Chris Halloran volunteered to drive Karyn up to the house.

It was a crisp November day when Chris headed north on Interstate 5 with Karyn beside him in the Camaro. In the back Lady stood with her front paws braced on the seat and her face thrust into the wind from the open window.

They left the freeway for a two-lane blacktop road that snaked up into the Tehachapi Mountains. The outside air grew chill as they climbed.

“Do you want me to roll up the window?” Chris asked.

Karyn moved her head, letting the wind play with her loose blond hair. “No, it feels good. Clean.”

As they drove on the evergreen forest pushed in closer on both sides of the road.

“How much farther is the town?” said Chris.

“A few miles. Just over the ridge up ahead and down into the valley. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Chris said. “I’ve lived in California all my life, and I never heard of Drago.”

“Neither had I,” Karyn said. “We were lucky to find the place. The house has been empty since the old owners died four years ago. Roy fell in love with it.”

“What about you, Karyn? How do you like the place?”

“It’s all right, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I haven’t seen it since Roy had it fixed up. Anyway, it’s quiet and out of the way. That’s what we wanted. And yet it’s only a two hour drive from Los Angeles, so Roy can commute easily.”

“You won’t mind being alone when he comes into L.A.?”

“Why should I? I’ve got to learn to be by myself sometime.” The words came out more sharply than Karyn had intended.

“That’s right,” Chris said. “It’s none of my business, anyway.”

They reached the crest of the ridge and the road leveled off for a stretch before descending into the valley on the other side. The air was pungent with the scent of balsam. Karyn reached out and touched Chris’s hand.

“Pull over for a minute, can you?”

Just before the road started down Chris eased the Camaro onto the shoulder and parked next to the metal guardrail. Below them lay a narrow valley, thick with evergreens. Where the road straightened along the floor of the valley a dozen or so toy-like buildings clustered in a clearing of the forest. Several narrow lanes branched off the main road. They could be seen only faintly through the heavy overgrowth. Here and there along the lanes a tiny house sat on a patch of cleared ground reclaimed from the forest. Although the valley was in shadow, no lights shone in the town of Drago.

“It doesn’t look like much from up here, does it?” Karyn said.

Chris did not answer.

“May I have a cigarette?”

He handed her one and lit it for her.

Karyn took several quick puffs before speaking. “I really do want to talk to someone, Chris. Someone who cares about me as a person, not as a case history to read at the next psychiatric convention.”

She mashed the cigarette into the ashtray. When she spoke again the words came out in a rush. “Chris, Roy and I haven’t had good sex together since that day. There’s nothing wrong physically, but it’s just not working. Roy and I have talked and talked about it, and God knows we do try. We go to bed and I want it so much… I go through all the motions. That’s the trouble, all I’m doing is going through the motions. There’s no feeling, and Roy knows it. He can’t help but know it… he’s not a fool. He’s been awfully sweet and patient with me, but I can’t expect him to put up with this forever. I just don’t seem to be getting any better.”

“Did you talk the problem over with your doctor?” Chris asked.

“Oh, hell yes.”

“Did he give you any advice?”

“Nothing I couldn’t have gotten out of The Reader’s Digest. Good, sound, logical advice, but I still don’t feel anything.”

“Give it a while,” Chris said. “Two months isn’t much time to get over what happened to you.”

Karyn nodded distractedly.

“Anyway,” Chris went on, “that’s what you’re moving out here to the woods for, isn’t it? Rest and rejuvenation?”

With an encouraging smile, he started the car, pulled back onto the road, and drove down into the valley. As they descended, the mountain loomed up behind and cut off the sun. The air grew cold, and they rolled up the windows. When the road leveled out into the main street of Drago, Chris switched on the headlights against the gathering gloom. They drove slowly along, past the buildings, which had a dusty, unused look. There were a couple of stores, a café, a gas station, a tavern, and a theater with an empty marquee. The only sound they heard was the singing of their tires over the pavement.

Karyn shivered slightly in the cool dusk of the tree-lined street. In the backseat Lady whined softly. Karyn reached back without turning around and rubbed the soft fur at the dog’s throat.

“Where is everybody?” Chris asked. His eyes ranged along the blank fronts of the buildings.

“I don’t know.” Karyn shivered again.

“Is your house on this street?”

“No, it’s up one of these little cross streets. They all look alike, though, and I’m not sure which it is. We’ll have to ask someone.”

Chris eased the Camaro along for a hundred yards, then braked to a stop as a powerful looking man in khakis and a Stetson appeared from the shadows.

Karyn rolled down her window and smiled at the man.

“Hello, there. I wonder if you could tell us how to get to the old Fenno house?”

For a moment she thought the man had not heard. He did not answer her smile, nor did he make any move to respond. His eyes continued to watch from the shadow of the Stetson. Then the man came toward them, moving with a deliberate measured gait. He planted both hands on the windowsill and looked in. Involuntarily, Karyn drew back in the seat.

“You want the Fenno place?” the man said. His voice rumbled up from the deep barrel chest.

“Yes. I’m Karyn Beatty. My husband and I are leasing the house, and I can’t remember which of these side roads it’s on.”

The man thumbed his hat brim up a fraction, and a faint smile twitched on his mouth. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Anton Gadak. I’m sort of the sheriff here in Drago. Fact is, I’m sort of the whole police force. But then, we don’t need all that much policing.” He looked pointedly past Karyn at Chris.

“This is our friend Chris Halloran. He drove me in from Los Angeles. My husband is waiting at the house.”

Anton Gadak nodded, apparently satisfied. “The Fenno place is up the last road that turns off to the left, just before you start up into the hills again.”

Karyn thanked him and Chris started away from the curb. He found the last turnoff with some difficulty. It was little more than a wide weed-covered path into the woods.

“As I remember, it’s up here about a mile,” Karyn said.

They passed two weathered old houses, dark and nearly hidden from the road by the brush. At each Chris looked over at Karyn, who shook her head. They came at last to a small clearing with a white frame cottage trimmed in apple green. A fireplace chimney trailed a ribbon of pale smoke across the slate-gray sky. Lights shone in all the windows, pushing the forest back. Chris pulled onto the clearing and parked behind Roy Beatty’s Galaxie.

Karyn clapped her hands delightedly. “What an improvement! You wouldn’t believe the dismal brown color the house was when we first came out. And the whole place was strangled with brush and weeds. Roy’s done a marvelous job.”

Chris got out of the car and walked back to open the trunk. As he brought out Karyn’s bags the front door of the little house swung open and Roy Beatty came out. He shielded his eyes against the headlights for a moment, then waved a welcome and hurried toward the car.

Karyn jumped out and ran to his arms. “Roy, it’s… it’s beautiful.”

“Didn’t I tell you it had possibilities?” said Roy. “Wait till you see the inside.”

With his arm around Karyn, Roy walked back to the car. “Come on in, Chris, and take a look at how us rural folk live.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get back to the city.”

“Are you sure? There’s steaks in the freezer, and the martini makings are already set out.”

“It’s tempting, but I’ll pass this time.”

“Got a date with a live one?”

Chris smiled and gave a noncommittal wave of his hand.

“Bring her out some weekend,” Roy said. “We’ve got an extra bed and plenty of blankets.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

Roy hefted Karyn’s two suitcases, then looked around, puzzled. “Where’s Lady?”

“She’s been acting funny,” Karyn said. “I don’t think she knows what to make of the woods.”

At that moment the dog put her nose out for a tentative sniff of the surroundings, then bounded out of the car and frolicked happily around Roy’s feet. He knelt and scratched her ear.

While Roy and Karyn watched the dog, Chris slid into his car and pulled the door closed. Roy walked over and reached through the window to shake his hand.

“Thanks for bringing the family out, buddy,” he said. “Sorry you can’t stay.”

“Maybe next time. I hope the place works out for you, Roy.”

“It will,” Roy assured him.

Karyn came over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Chris backed out onto the narrow lane and drove back the way they had come. Soon the glow of the Camaro’s taillights was lost among the trees.

“I wish Chris had stayed for dinner,” she said as they started toward the house. “I think he’s lonely.”

“Are you kidding? A handsome thirty-year-old bachelor with a good paying job and an apartment at the marina? You call that lonely?”

“You sound a little jealous, mister.”

Roy set down one of her bags, and gave her a swat on the bottom. “That’s right, I can hardly wait to dump you so I can grow a mustache, buy a Porsche, load up on stereo equipment, and be a swinging bachelor.”

Laughing together, they continued up to the front stoop. Roy stood aside and gestured her into the living room.

Karyn started in, then hesitated. She ran her fingers down the surface of the heavy wooden door. Under the fresh green paint a series of deep vertical grooves like scars slashed the panel at about shoulder height.

“What do you suppose made these?” she said.

“Who knows?” Roy shrugged and went on inside.

Karyn followed, thinking about the marks. Absurd though it was, the angry furrows in the wood suggested only one thing.

Claws.

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21 Days of Christmas - Day 16: Be clear

2011-12-20T23:57:00.000-05:00

Clarity is not the prize in writing, nor is it always the principal mark of a good style. There are occasions when obscurity serves a literary yearning, if not a literary purpose, and there are writers whose mien is more overcast than clear. But since writing is communication, clarity can only be a virtue. And although there is overcast than clear. But since writing is communication, clarity can only be a virtue. And although there is no substitute for merit in writing, clarity comes closest to being one. Even to a writer who is being intentionally obscure or wild of tongue we can say, "Be obscure clearly! Be wild of tongue in a way we can understand!" Even to writers of market letters, telling us (but not telling us) which securities are promising, we can say, "Be cagey plainly! Be elliptical in a straightforward fashion!"

Clarity, clarity, clarity. When you become hopelessly mired in a sentence, it is best to start fresh; do not try to fight your way through against the terrible odds of syntax. Usually what is wrong is that the construction has become too involved at some point; the sentence needs to be broken apart and replaced by two or more shorter sentences.

Muddiness is not merely a disturber of prose, it is also a destroyer of life, of hope: death on the highway caused by a badly worded road sign, heartbreak among lovers caused by a misplaced phrase in a well intentioned letter, anguish of a traveler expecting to be met at a railroad station and not being met because of a slipshod telegram. Think of the tragedies that are rooted in ambiguity, and be clear! When you say something, make sure you have said it. The chances of your having said it are only fair.

Why you should support this press

2011-12-20T14:30:00.003-05:00

Support the small presses! I’ve heard this comment so many times it has lost all meaning. Making matters worse, if you decided to reach into your pocket and support the little guy, a lot of times you get burned. Hard.

For me, the term “Support the small press!” carries the same weight as “Hey Mister, can you spare any change?” Many of my small press competitors sell poor quality and/or have their books overpriced. Sometimes this is by design, sometimes this is because the press doesn’t know what they are doing, and sometimes it is because they don’t care about you - the person they are selling to.

Lets look at price––

Limited Edition Hardcovers that start off with a price point of $60.00+, only to be marked down to half that after a couple months are a “fuck you” to the author, the dedicated client base, and the average consumer. How can an author possibly feel good knowing that the people supporting his/her work first got screwed the hardest? How can they promote their next limited edition, knowing their core fan base took a bath on the current one?

Paperbacks that have a $15.00 - $20.00 price tag and a word count landing somewhere between 30,000 - 60,000 are a deliberate and barefaced rip-off. A 90,000-word book can comfortably sit within 350 pages, and will have a unit cost of no more than $6.00 (before shipping). If a small press company is complaining about poor sales, but their books are priced at $15.00+, maybe these companies don’t deserve your support. Maybe they should be put to rest, so they will stop cluttering the market with over-priced books.

Ebooks priced at $9.99 or more should be boycotted. There is no reason for ANY ebook to be priced at more than $9.99 in today’s market. No matter who wrote the bloody thing, in the end, the company is selling a digital file. That’s all. Over-priced ebooks will only lead to one thing: more people stealing pirated copies.

Lets look at quality––

Without a doubt some small press companies are doing great work. Some of the companies have fantastic authors coupled with amazing artwork. Some of the companies out there are kicking my little company in the ass. And I’m glad. I’m glad to be running a company that has a lot of room to grow, and I’m glad there are so many companies I can look up to, and draw inspiration from. That being said, some companies are like a heavy weight tied around everyone’s ankle.

In theory, I have no problem with “for the luv” markets, or presses that publish first-time authors. Little companies having fun while publishing stories they like are fine. In theory. But a lot of people that buy books don’t know the difference between a “for the luv” company and a real one. And if one of these people buy five small press books, and all five of them suck, this doesn’t help anybody.

I can sense the muscles tightening and the hairs rising on more than a few necks. People are saying, or thinking: My story “X” that was published in book “Y” by the “for the luv” company “Z” was high quality, and the company is great, and they do great work, and they have great covers, and someday they will pay the authors, and bla, bla, bla.

Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe that one story in that one book by that one publisher was amazing, but you know what? A company cannot consistently deliver a quality publication if -- by hiding behind a “for the luv” business model -- they don’t pay anyone. And if they DO deliver a quality product, why would you want to support them?

Why support a company that has decided NOT to pay the author, and the editor, and the artist?

Only one of two things can happen when you support a “for the luv” press.

EITHER:

A) You buy a shitty product that takes money out of your hand - and the hand of other small presses, being that you didn’t support them - so you can feel ripped off and possibly decide that supporting the small press isn’t the way to go.

OR:

B) You have a supported a company that has delivered a quality product, but has decided NOT to pay the people involved. You have supported - what is, in essence - the bad guy. Trust me, if this business model became extremely successful there would be an Occupy movement camped out in from of the building.

Am I being too hard? Maybe. But still, wouldn’t you - the consumer - rather support a company that is actually paying the artist?

This entire rant has come from me thinking about what I have done over the last two years. Aside from publishing some fantastic books, it occurred to me that I have actually helped the community.

In short:

YOU SHOULD SUPPORT ME!

Here’s why:

Since I’ve started this company I have paid - or am about to pay - roughly:

$2,000 to my artists

$1,000 to editors (most editing was done by me, and I don’t pay myself)

$2,000 to my designer

$9,000+ to short story authors

$10,000+ to my novel authors

$3,000+ to horror conventions

$20,000+ to printers

Crazy, huh? This means - bottom line - I’m creating jobs. In fact, I’m creating HORROR jobs. I’m also about to launch into a marketing campaign that is going to cost thousands. This money will be going into the pockets of horror magazines. And I don’t plan on stopping, unless of course, nobody supports me.

Somehow, I’ve become the good guy here. So if you’re an author, or an artist... if you run a convention, or a magazine... if you have a love for horror fiction and you want to support the horror community... guess what? You should support me, so I can hire more staff, and pay more authors, and pay more artists, and give money to magazines, and give money to horror conventions, and put out more quality products.

I want to hire more staff.
I want to pay my authors more.
I want the exact thing that you want - to pay the artist.

You can support me (and the horror community) two ways:

One)

BUY SOME BOOKS

TWO)

LEAVE GOOD REVIEWS OF OUR PRODUCTS ON AMAZON/THE INTERNET.

Thanks to all that support!

New "Buy Direct" Deals

2011-12-20T09:54:00.000-05:00

We are currently offering three different book deals to our "buy direct" customers.

Deal #1:
Buy any 5 paperbacks for $40.00.
Shipping included. (North America Only)
Send money, book titles & shipping info via Paypal to Jamesroydaley@gmail.com

Deal #2:
Buy any 10 paperbacks for $75.00.
Shipping included. (North America Only)
Send money, book titles & shipping info via Paypal to Jamesroydaley@gmail.com

Deal #3:
Buy the complete set of ebooks for $30.00.
Send money, file preference & email address info via Paypal to Jamesroydaley@gmail.com

Paul Kane's PAIN CAGES Preview

2011-12-20T09:34:00.002-05:00

Ask someone to describe pain…

And they might say, the feeling they get when they stub their toe on a table, or accidentally hit their thumb with a hammer when they’re banging a nail into the wall. Pain can be more than merely physical, of course: it can hurt when a marriage breaks up or a loved one dies. That’s even harder to put into words.

But these are all just shadows, echoes of something much greater.

Pain, true pain is impossible to describe, no matter how hard anyone tries. It can rip apart a person’s soul, leaving them a shell of what they once were. And if it is hard to endure, it is certainly much harder to watch.

For some.

This story is about pain, in all its forms. We enter this world screaming and crying as we fight to take our first breath––being struck on the back to rouse us into consciousness. Most of us leave this world the same way: with a jolt. If we’re lucky it will be quick, if we’re not…

This story is about pain.

True pain.

One

The piercing screams wake me.

Not straight away, but slowly. They sound as if they’re coming from a million miles away. The closer to consciousness I draw, though, the louder they are, like someone turned up the volume on a stereo: surround sound, sub woofers, the works. Then that I realize they’re not part of some strange dream, but coming from the real world.

From somewhere nearby.

I open my eyes, or at least I try to. I never would have thought it could be so difficult; the amount of times I’ve taken this simple action for granted. But now… Actually, I can’t tell whether they’re open or shut because it’s still so dark and I can’t really feel my eyelids. My guts are doing somersaults; I feel like I need to be sick.

And all the time the screaming continues.

My face––my whole body––is pressed up against a hard, solid surface. I’m lying on a smooth but cold floor, curled up like a cat in front of a fireplace, though nowhere near as contented. I try to lift my head. I thought it was difficult to open my eyes, but this is something else entirely. Jesus, it hurts––a shockwave traveling right down the length of my neck and spine. Instinctively I try to clutch at my back, but I can’t move my hand either. Must have been one hell of a bender last night. And the screaming? Had to be a TV somewhere, someone watching a really loud horror film with no thought for anyone else. Wait, had I turned it on after managing to get back home in God alone knows what state?

This is the weirdest hangover ever. I have some of the symptoms––head feels like it’s caving in, aching all over, stomach churning… But my tongue doesn’t feel like someone’s been rubbing it with sandpaper; I’m not thirsty from dehydration. Maybe someone slipped something into my glass?

Maybe you took something voluntarily. Wouldn’t be the first time.

There’s movement to my left and my head whips sideways. I immediately regret it as stars dance across my field of vision. I still can’t see anything, even after the universe of stars fade. Now I realize some sick son of a bitch has put a blindfold over my eyes.

More movement, this time to the right. I try to lift my hands to pull down the material, but again they won’t budge, neither of them. My fingertips brush against metal and now I know why. It’s not because of any fucking hangover: I’m handcuffed. My fingers explore further and find a chain attached to the cuffs. The manacles?

When I hear the screams again, the terror racked up a notch, it dawns on me that I’m in a whole world of trouble. Maybe my groggy condition made me slow on the uptake, I don’t know, or perhaps I just couldn’t acknowledge the shouts of agony as real. But they are; there’s no doubting that now. And I’m definitely suffering from the after-effects of drugs, just not in the way I thought. Drugs designed to knock me out rather than get me high.

More movement, this time a swishing sound in front of and behind me at the same time. How is that possible? My heart’s pumping fast, breathing coming in heavy gasps. I try to say something but all that comes out are a series of odd grunts.

“Sshh,” whispers a voice; can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman, but they’re close. “Keep quiet, and stay still!”

The advice seems sound, but I’ve never been one for taking any kind of orders. I pull at the chains holding my hands in front of me. Now I realize my feet are shackled too.

“Do as he says,” comes another hushed voice, this one definitely a woman, “or you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“And us with him,” spits the first person.

Killed? What the fuck? So many questions: where am I? Who are these people talking to me? Why can I feel heat on my face? Smell something burning? No… cooking. Like roasting meat on a barbeque.

Struggling again, I scrape my face against the floor, trying to pull down the blindfold. The screams reach fever pitch, mixed with pleas for help. The cloying smell is in my nose, down my throat; I gag.

I nose at the ground like a horse eating hay, and the blindfold slips a fraction. I can see a little through my right eye; there isn’t a lot of light, but I see metal bars in front of me, all around me. A glimpse of the cages on either side: a man, no more than forty, cowering in the corner of his. A woman––the one who’d told me I’d get myself killed––is transfixed by something right in front of her, tears tracking down her cheeks.

I follow her gaze and wish I hadn’t.

I see the shape, the thing in yet another of these round cages. It’s smoking, charred almost black, but here and there are patches of pink. A tuft or two of singed hair at the top of what must have been its head. Its eyeballs have melted, the liquid running down its cheeks, viscous and thick; flesh pulled taut over teeth that gleam so brightly they could have been used in a toothpaste commercial. This hunk of burnt flesh I’m looking at is––was––a person. That makes the stench even more pungent; just that bit more sickening.

I notice the screaming has stopped. It must have been coming from inside that cage as the flames did their worst before petering out.

It feels like I’m watching the body for hours, but it can’t be more than a minute.

Then, without any warning, the burnt figure lurches forward. No screams this time––its vocal chords are jelly––but its body rattles against the bars of the cage, which swings, suspended above the ground (as we all are).

Flesh, and what’s left of the person’s clothes, have stuck to the bottom of the cage, coming away from its body like molten plastic and revealing more raw pinkness. It makes only one last-ditch attempt for freedom before collapsing, never to move again.

This time I really do throw up, seeing stars again as the blindfold slips back over my eye. Too late, I’ve seen it now… I can’t ever forget.

When I pass out I barely notice the transition––darkness replaced by darkness, black with black.

But I still see that body, hanging. A scorched mess that had once been human.

The ghosts of its screams following me back now into the void.

Interlude:

Twenty Years Ago

This happened to me when I was ten; still holding on to childhood for grim death, in no particular hurry to be an adult.

I grew up on a council estate away from the city––farms and fields within walking distance. The houses were all uniform grey, there was a small park that the older kids wrecked periodically, and the council failed to keep any of the streets tidy. Old women gossiped over fences while young girls left school and became baby-making machines so they could live off benefits for the next twenty or thirty years.

Mum and Dad were still together back then. She worked part-time in a bookies and he worked on the busses. At family gatherings I’d sometimes hear my Uncle Jim telling people Mum could have done so much better than Dad. “With her looks, she could have had her pick.”

He was right about my Mum, though. She was beautiful in a kind of film star way, all blonde hair and curls like Marilyn Monroe or Jean Harlow, and even at that age she’d lost none of the glamour. Sure, Dad was boring, but I like to think she ended up with him because he was a kind man with a kind face. In the end she did ‘do better’ as my Uncle would have called it, running off with owner of the bookies. She ended up with money, but was as miserable as sin. And, we suspected, the guy beat her. While my Dad wallowed in a tiny flat, getting drunk until his liver just gave up the ghost. But that’s another story, and long after this one.

I first saw The Monster one Bank Holiday. Dad was working overtime, but Mum had the day off. I was an only child, so had to amuse myself a lot of the time. That day I was getting under my mother’s feet while she was trying to watch some musical on TV.

“Christopher Edward Warwick, do you have to make such a row!” she finally bawled. I couldn’t really blame her: I’d turned the whole house into a spaceship and was busy piloting it into the deeper reaches of the Galaxy, battling one-eyed aliens with veiny skins.

She sent me out to play with the other kids, but that wasn’t really my thing. I ended up wandering off to explore what the locals called ‘The Cut’––I never understood why, because it didn’t look like anyone had cut the grass down there in centuries. Maybe it was because a pitiful excuse for a canal ran the length of it like a wound. Here I could pretend that I was in the jungle where giant snakes and lions lived, and down by the water there were man-eating crocodiles (in actual fact you were more likely to find used condoms and fag ends).

I didn’t go down there very often, not many kids did, but on that day I wandered further than I meant to––up a winding path to a small iron bridge crossing the canal. There I played Pooh sticks, something I hadn’t done since I was six or seven, dropping twigs in the water on one side of the bridge to see which would come out first on the other side. Not much of a game, but the snakes and lions appeared to be hiding that day.

There were only a handful twigs lying around, so when these were gone I went into the undergrowth to find more. I hadn’t gone that far in when I found the den. It was covered up with foliage; quite well hidden beneath the trees, a hollowed out bit of green with earth for the floor and the remains of a fire. It was empty. I figured it must have been the older kids that had made it, looking for a private place to hang out.

At that age caution always fell a close second to curiosity, so I dropped the twigs and went inside. There was a strange smell, a toilet smell. I was about to leave when I spotted something towards the back, pages scattered.

And a glimpse of something that, until today, had been forbidden.

I crept further in, certain that the older kids had been here because they’d left behind an Aladdin’s Cave of porn. The magazines were screwed up, the pages creased––yet the pictures of half naked women posing for the camera were a revelation. At that age girls in my class were just pests, there to torment, but this was different. These weren’t girls, they were women, and they were showing me parts of their bodies willingly, opening up as easily as I was opening the pages.

I began to feel stirrings, a pleasant sensation as I ogled the photos. Then something fell out of one of the magazines. A piece of paper with handwritten scribblings all over it. I bent and picked it up, but could barely make out the spider scrawl. All except one phrase, written time and time again: ‘They watch, and they wait.’

I frowned, then checked more of the magazines. I hadn’t gotten very far when I heard the snapping of twigs I’d left in the entranceway. I spun and saw my monster. It was big, hairy, and its skin was almost black. It wore an old trenchcoat that strained tight at the shoulders. When it opened its mouth to speak I saw rotting teeth inside. Drool spilled onto its beard as it gargled, “Did they send you?”

I shook with terror. My erection shrank away and I dropped the magazine, a couple more of the handwritten sheets slipping out onto the floor. His wide, staring eyes followed them down. He covered the distance between us easily, grabbing hold of my arm––so hard I thought it might break. He towered above me. “They did, didn’t they, boy.” It wasn’t a question. His fetid breath almost caused me to pass out.

I shook my head, unable to get any words out.

“Yes. They’ve sent a little spy.”

“P-P-Please don’t hurt me,” I spluttered.

He yanked my arm. “I’m not going back!” he shouted. “You hear me… Never.”

I nodded. He seemed pleased that he’d got through to me. Then he drew me in so close I could see the insects living in his beard. “You go back, you tell them that, boy,” he growled.

He let me go. I gaped, but suddenly my natural survival instinct kicked in and I ran out of there. I plunged through the undergrowth, catching my head on the branch of a low-hanging tree. I fell, hard. Shaking my head, then casting a glance over my shoulder, I got up and began running again.

I felt the wetness at my temple, but didn’t stop. I ran up that path, never looking back in case the ‘monster’ had decided to give chase.

I’m not going back… Never…

When I got home my mother said, “For God’s sake, Chris, whatever have you been doing?” She took me into the kitchen, washed the cut on my head, then put some antiseptic on it. When she asked me again what I’d done, whether it had happened playing, all I could do was stare, opening and closing my mouth.

“Christopher Edward Warwick,” she said a final time, “you tell me what happened, right now.”

“M-Monster… c-canal…” was all I could say.

“You and that blasted imagination of yours,” she said. “Go to your room!”

When the truth emerged a day or so later, she felt pretty bad. I heard that some of the older boys had stumbled upon my monster and gave him a good kicking before telling their parents, who then called the police. He’d gone by the time they got there, but it was all around the estate about what had happened: that some pervo nutter had been living rough down by the bridge.

Mum hugged me when she when found out. She never said anything, but she knew. Knew the monster had been real.

I know better now––he wasn’t really a monster at all. Just someone who knew the truth, and it had sent him insane.

‘They watch and wait’ he had written.

They watch and wait.

Two

When I wake again, the blindfold is gone.

I open my eyes and look around. The bars are still there in front of me, I’m still shackled by the hands and feet, but the bonds are looser, my hands apart. I can move a little, maneuver myself up into a sitting position. I don’t ache as much now, either. I wonder how much time has passed since––

Then I remember. The person burnt alive. It’s gone now, the cage empty, the body taken away while I was unconscious.

“Welcome back,” says the man who’d told me to be quiet, hanging in his own cage like a canary. He’s wearing what look like sweatpants and a top, the kind of thing you’d find people dressed in at a country health spa.

“We thought you were out for the count,” adds the woman who’d also spoken to me before. She’s perhaps in her late twenties, with a slender frame––or what I can see of it beneath the smock she’s wearing. Her dirty-blonde hair is matted with sweat; looks like it hasn’t been washed in a couple of weeks. “How do you feel?”

“How… how do I feel?” I snap, a mixture of confusion and anger.

The man throws me a vicious look. “Christ, can’t you keep it down? I told you before.”

“I’ll keep it down when somebody tells me what the fuck’s going on,” I yell at him, returning his glare with one of my own. I pull at the chains, testing their length.

“If you do that, they’ll just make them tighter,” the woman warns.

“Who will? And who did that…” Words fail me so I simply point across at the empty space where the charred body had once been.

“You ask far too many questions.” This comes from another speaker, his voice richer, deeper. I turn and see yet another of the cages behind. In it an olive-skinned man sits crossed-legged, dressed like the first guy: in loose clothing. A prisoner’s outfit.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s two more,” he says.

I make to get up, about to grip the bars of the cage.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the olive-skinned man tells me.

“Well you’re not m––” Too late I see the wire curled around the bars, and no sooner have I touched the metal than I feel the electric shock. It ripples through my body, not strong enough to put me out again, but enough to blister my hands. “Shit!”

Is that what happened to the person in the cage in front? I wonder. Did someone just leave the current on––running along the bottom as well––long enough to set fire to the poor sod inside?

“I did warn you,” says the man, his dark brown, almost black, eyes fixed on me.

As I rub at my palms I take in the room: rectangular, the walls smooth. There’s a red tinge to the lights, giving the space the look of a photographic dark room. Nothing to give away a location. Just a single door.

“Where am I?”

“Another question,” comes the reply from my neighbor.

“What do you expect, Kavi?” says the woman. “He’s bound to be a little disorientated at first. We all were.”

“And do we know any more now than we did then?” asks the man she named. Nobody rushes to answer.

Instead the woman introduces herself to me. “I’m Jane,” she says, touching her chest, then thumbs over at the other man. “That’s Phil.”

“Philip Hall,” he announces proudly, like it means something.

I shrug. “Chris. Chris Warwick.”

“Welcome to the party,” says Phil snidely.

“So nobody knows anything about this? About why I saw someone just get fried right in front of me.”

“You saw that?” Jane sounds shocked.

I nod. “Managed to drag my blindfold down a bit. I saw enough.”

Phil gives a half laugh. “Resourceful little devil, isn’t he? That’ll get you a one way ticket to hell around here, kid.”

“This is Hell,” says Jane with complete conviction.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, though it’s Phil who butts in.

“Longer than you,” he says.

“Then you must have seen who’s holding us.” I round on him. “Who did that?”

Nobody says a thing.

“Oh, come on! This is ridiculous.” I stand, almost putting my hands on the bars again. “You can’t just kidnap a bunch of people and then––”

“Why not? Happens all the time abroad,” Phil comments. “Places where his lot come from.” He nods over at Kavi.

The dark skinned man smiles. “With one breath you betray your ignorance,” is his only remark.

“We’re all ignorant in this place,” Phil replies.

“But how did you wind up here?” It’s another question, and I expect Kavi to say something about that, but he doesn’t. This time he asks me one of his own.

“How did you?”

It suddenly strikes me I don’t know. I had thought I’d been out on the town or something, and just got completely smashed. But I couldn’t remember a thing about the previous night, the previous day (what time of day is it anyway?), let alone how I ended up in this cage. “I… I think I was drugged.”

“Well, of course you were drugged!” barks Phil. “It’s how they get you here, and put you inside these things.” He points at the cage.

“But why? Are they after money?”

“Looking for a ransom, that what you’re thinking?” Phil grunts. “And why exactly would anyone pay money to get you back, Chrissie-boy? Loaded, are you?”

I hang my head. “No.”

“Me either. How about you, Jane? Fitness instructor’s pay suddenly gone up by a few million in the last month or so?”

“Piss off,” says Jane.

Phil grins wearily. “Wish I could, sweetheart. Really wish I could.”

“So what do you do?” I enquire out of mild curiosity.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

“He works in an estate agents,” Jane informs me.

“Thanks a bunch,” Phil grumbles.

“What about you?” I ask Kavi.

“Aw, who gives a shit,” Phil breaks in before he can answer. “That was in the outside world. In here you’re just another plaything.”

I look again at the empty cage. “Why did they do that? Burn that person up, I mean.”

“Nick,” Jane says quietly, her eyes glistening. “His name was Nicholas.”

“They don’t need to give a fucking reason,” Phil explains. “They’ll just come in, douse you with petrol and strike a light.”

“Phil, please,” begs Jane.

“Especially if you make a fuss, draw attention to yourself,” he carries on, ignoring her. “Just like Nick did.”

It was Jane’s turn to glare now, at Phil. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He was just––”

“He asked one too many questions,” Kavi points out, looking at me.

Phil nods in agreement. “Every time they came in, he was at it. What the fuck did he expect?”

“Come in? Hold on,” I say, switching the subject, “so you have seen the people holding us then?”

Phil considers how to answer that one. “They don’t exactly let us get a good look at their faces.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Kavi promises.

“Nick didn’t do anything wrong,” Jane continues, as if the conversation hasn’t moved on at all. “It wasn’t because of that––they just enjoy it.” Without thinking, her hand goes to her neck and now I see the scar. It’s a fresh one, still quite raw. “They enjoy hurting us.”

“But why? What could they possibly gain from this? What do they want?”

“That,” says Kavi, “is precisely what Nick wanted to know.”

Buy Paul Kane's PAIN CAGES HERE.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 15: Do not use dialect unless your ear is good

2011-12-20T09:28:00.002-05:00

Do not attempt to use dialect unless you are a devoted student of the tongue you hope to reproduce. If you use dialect, be consistent. The reader will become impatient or confused upon finding two or more versions of the same word or expression. In dialect it is necessary to spell phonetically, or at least ingeniously, to capture unusual inflections. Take, for example, the word once. It often appears in dialect writing as oncet, but oncet looks as though it should be pronounced "onset." A better spelling would be wunst. But if you write it oncet once, write it that way throughout. The best dialect writers, by and large, are economical of their talents; they use the minimum, not the maximum, of deviation from the norm, thus sparing their readers as well as convincing them.

A New Look

2011-12-19T22:12:00.000-05:00

I'm going to mess around with the way the blog looks. I'm not sure what I'm going for on this one... just figured it was time for a change.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 14: Avoid fancy words

2011-12-19T10:58:00.001-05:00

Avoid the elaborate, the pretentious, the coy, and the cute. Do not be tempted by a twenty-dollar word when there is a ten-center handy, ready and able. Anglo-Saxon is a livelier tongue than Latin, so use Anglo-Saxon words. In this, as in so many matters pertaining to style, one's ear must be one's guide: gut is a lustier noun than intestine, but the two words are not interchangeable, because gut is often inappropriate, being too coarse for the context. Never call a stomach a tummy without good reason.

If you admire fancy words, if every sky is beauteous, every blonde curvaceous, every intelligent child prodigious, if you are tickled by discombobulate, you will have a bad time with Reminder 14. What is wrong, you ask, with beauteous? No one knows, for sure. There is nothing wrong, really, with any word — all are good, but some are better than others. A matter of ear, a matter of reading the books that sharpen the ear.

The line between the fancy and the plain, between the atrocious and the felicitous, is sometimes alarmingly fine. The opening phrase of the Gettysburg address is close to the line, at least by our standards today, and Mr. Lincoln, knowingly or unknowingly, was flirting with disaster when he wrote "Four score and seven years ago." The President could have got into his sentence with plain "Eighty-seven" — a saving of two words and less of a strain on the listeners' powers of multiplication. But Lincoln's ear must have told him to go ahead with four score and seven. By doing so, he achieved cadence while skirting the edge of fanciness. Suppose he had blundered over the line and written, "In the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and seventy-six." His speech would have sustained a heavy blow. Or suppose he had settled for "Eighty-seven." In that case he would have got into his introductory sentence too quickly; the timing would have been bad.

The question of ear is vital. Only the writer whose ear is reliable is in a position to use bad grammar deliberately; this writer knows for sure when a colloquialism is better than formal phrasing and is able to sustain the work at a level of good taste. So cock your ear. Years ago, students were warned not to end a sentence with a preposition; time, of course, has softened that rigid decree. Not only is the preposition acceptable at the end, sometimes it is more effective in that spot than anywhere else. "A claw hammer, not an ax, was the tool he murdered her with." This is preferable to "A claw hammer, not an ax, was the tool with which he murdered her." Why? Because it sounds more violent, more like murder. A matter of ear.

And would you write "The worst tennis player around here is I" or "The worst tennis player around here is me"? The first is good grammar, the second is good judgment — although the me might not do in all contexts.

The split infinitive is another trick of rhetoric in which the ear must be quicker than the handbook. Some infinitives seem to improve on being split, just as a stick of round stovewood does. "I cannot bring myself to really like the fellow." The sentence is relaxed, the meaning is clear, the violation is harmless and scarcely perceptible. Put the other way, the sentence becomes stiff, needlessly formal. A matter of ear.

There are times when the ear not only guides us through difficult situations but also saves us from minor or major embarrassments of prose. The ear, for example, must decide when to omit that from a sentence, when to retain it. "She knew she could do it" is preferable to "She knew that she could do it" — simpler and just as clear. But in many cases the that is needed. "He felt that his big nose, which was sunburned, made him look ridiculous." Omit the that and you have "He felt his big nose...."

21 Days of Christmas - Day 13: Make sure the reader knows who is speaking

2011-12-17T16:59:00.003-05:00

Dialogue is a total loss unless you indicate who the speaker is. In long dialogue passages containing no attributives, the reader may become lost and be compelled to go back and reread in order to puzzle the thing out. Obscurity is an imposition on the reader, to say nothing of its damage to the work. In dialogue, make sure that your attributives do not awkwardly interrupt a spoken sentence. Place them where the break would come naturally in speech — that is, where the speaker would pause for emphasis, or take a breath. The best test for locating an attributive is to speak the sentence aloud.

"Now, my boy, we shall see," he said, "how well you have learned your lesson."

"Now, my boy," he said, "we shall see how well you have learned your lesson."

"What's more, they would never," she added, "consent to the plan."

"What's more," she added, "they would never consent to the plan."

21 Days of Christmas - Day 12: Do not construct awkward adverbs

2011-12-15T09:42:00.000-05:00

Adverbs are easy to build. Take an adjective or a participle, add -ly, and behold! You have an adverb, but you'd probably be better off without it. Do not write tangledly. The word itself is a tangle. Do not even write tiredly. Nobody says tangledly and not many people say tiredly. Words that are not used orally are seldom the ones to put on paper.

He climbed tiredly to bed.

He climbed wearily to bed.

The lamp cord lay tangledly beneath her chair.

The lamp cord lay in tangles beneath her chair.

overly / over

muchly / much

thusly / thus

Do not dress words up by adding -ly to them, as though putting a hat on a horse.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 11: Do not explain too much

2011-12-14T03:47:00.000-05:00

It is seldom advisable to tell all. Be sparing, for instance, in the use of adverbs after "he said," "she replied," and the like: "he said consolingly"; "she replied grumblingly." Let the conversation itself disclose the speaker's manner or condition. Dialogue heavily weighted with adverbs after the attributive verb is cluttery and annoying. Inexperienced writers not only overwork their adverbs but load their attributives with explanatory verbs: "he consoled," "she congratulated." They do this, apparently, in the belief that the word said is always in need of support, or because they have been told to do it by experts in the art of bad writing.

A small press stumbles, a writer talks common sense

2011-12-11T04:18:00.003-05:00

On October 24th, 2011 Library of the Living Dead (Aka Twisted Library) announced that they will be either canceling, or putting on hold, over a dozen - and maybe more than 2 dozen - anthologies. It's hard to know exact numbers; navigating their website for specific information is tough.

I wish nothing but the best for the LOTLD, and I hope that they straighten their ship out soon. I've heard good things about Doc - the man in charge - and a failed small press company is bad for everybody: the publisher, the writers, the cover artists, editors... everybody. This type of thing has a way of casting shadows on other small press companies too; over the years there has been so many companies go tits-up that knowing the numbers would boggle the mind and tarnish the soul. That being said, some of the comments and ideas that were being passed around on the LOTLD website made me feel ill.

We should pool our money together and make it happen!

Are you kidding me?

At the start of the year I wrote an article called Writing Advice, and one of the things I said was: It’s not about getting noticed. It’s about writing something worth noticing. To all of the authors that had an accepted story handed back to them over at the LOTLD, I suggest you take a deep breath and carry on––business as usual. Because it isn't about getting your story noticed, it's about writing great stories. That's it. A writer writes; getting published is just a byproduct.

I'm a musician, and over the years I've been in a number of bands. One of the biggest problems musicians face is this whole "getting noticed" thing. But getting noticed doesn't have anything to do with being a musician - nothing - just like getting noticed doesn't have anything to do with writing. If you love creating art, whether your art-form is writing, or playing music, or painting, or... whatever... then you will do it for the rest of your life, regardless of the outcome. Remember this. Being an artist is about creating art, nothing else. And if you apply yourself long enough you'll get good at your craft, and people will notice. Does this mean you'll get rich? No, it doesn't. Because there's a business involved and business doesn't play fair. Art is about art - and business is about business, and there is absolutely NO art in business. This is why pretty faces with minimal talent become famous faces, and when those faces age, becoming less marketable, they're gone, gone, GONE.

I did see one ray of hope while wading through the mess: a newbie writer named Alex J. Kane. Despite the fact that he has few writing credits to his name, he spoke words of wisdom that were - for the most part - overlooked by his peers. But they weren't overlooked by me.

I suggest, if you're a writer desperately trying to get noticed, that you read what Alex said in his blog HERE.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 10: Use orthodox spelling

2011-12-10T23:17:00.000-05:00

In ordinary composition, use orthodox spelling. Do not write nite for night, thru for through, pleez for please, unless you plan to introduce a complete system of simplified spelling and are prepared to take the consequences.

In the original edition of The Elements of Style there was a chapter on spelling. In it, the author had this to say:

The spelling of English words is not fixed and invariable, nor does it depend on any other authority than general agreement. At the present day there is practically unanimous agreement as to the spelling of most words.... At any given moment, however, a relatively small number of words may be spelled in more than one way. Gradually, as a rule, one of these forms comes to be generally preferred, and the less customary form comes to look obsolete and is discarded. From time to time new forms, mostly simplifications, are introduced by innovators, and either win their place or die of neglect.

The practical objection to unaccepted and oversimplified spellings is the disfavor with which they are received by the reader. They distract his attention and exhaust his patience. He reads the form though automatically, without thought of its needless complexity; he reads the abbreviation tho and mentally supplies the missing letters, at the cost of a fraction of his attention. The writer has defeated his own purpose.

The language manages somehow to keep pace with events. A word that has taken hold in our century is thru-way; it was born of necessity and is apparently here to stay. In combination with way, thru is more serviceable than through; it is a high-speed word for readers who are going sixty-five. Throughway would be too long to fit on a road sign, too slow to serve the speeding eye. It is conceivable that because of our thruways, through will eventually become thru — after many more thousands of miles of travel.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 9: Do not affect a breezy manner

2011-12-09T23:58:00.000-05:00

The volume of writing is enormous, these days, and much of it has a sort of windiness about it, almost as though the author were in a state of euphoria. "Spontaneous me," sang Whitman, and, in his innocence, let loose the hordes of uninspired scribblers who would one day confuse spontaneity with genius.

The breezy style is often the work of an egocentric, the person who imagines that everything that comes to mind is of general interest and that uninhibited prose creates high spirits and carries the day. Open any alumni magazine, turn to the class notes, and you are quite likely to encounter old Spontaneous Me at work — an aging collegian who writes something like this:

Well, guys, here I am again dishing the dirt about your disorderly classmates, after passing a weekend in the Big Apple trying to catch the Columbia hoops tilt and then a cab-ride from hell through the West Side casbah. And speaking of news, howzabout tossing a few primo items this way?

This is an extreme example, but the same wind blows, at lesser velocities, across vast expanses of journalistic prose. The author in this case has managed in two sentences to commit most of the unpardonable sins: he obviously has nothing to say, he is showing off and directing the attention of the reader to himself, he is using slang with neither provocation nor ingenuity, he adopts a patronizing air by throwing in the word primo, he is humorless (though full of fun), dull, and empty. He has not done his work. Compare his opening remarks with the following — a plunge directly into the news:

Clyde Crawford, who stroked the varsity shell in 1958, is swinging an oar again after a lapse of forty years. Clyde resigned last spring as executive sales manager of the Indiana Flotex Oliver Company and is now a gondolier in Venice.

This, although conventional, is compact, informative, unpretentious. The writer has dug up an item of news and presented it in a straightforward manner. What the first writer tried to accomplish by cutting rhetorical capers and by breeziness, the second writer managed to achieve by good reporting, by keeping a tight rein on his material, and by staying out of the act.

November's Top Sellers

2011-12-09T12:42:00.000-05:00

Once again Matt Hults' book Husk was the month's number one seller, hitting more than 400. Congrats, Matt!

I'm not really sure what my sales for the month are, at least, not yet. So far I have confirmed sales hitting somewhere between 1,500 & 1,600, but things have been changing on the business end. My ebook sales on Amazon are dropping, but the sales in other places have been increasing. Problem is, I know my Amazon numbers right away, while places like Barnes & Noble & Sony keeps me in the dark for a while. I'm guessing my sales will be about 1,750 - 1,800 when all the figures come in, which is about the same as last month. But I could be wrong...

The best selling books in October were:

1) Husk
2) Best New Zombie Tales (Vol.1)
3) Into Hell

Books of the Dead Christmas Party

2011-12-09T11:54:00.004-05:00

Books of the Dead will be having a Christmas Party / 2 Year Anniversary Party this year, and everybody's invited. The event will be taking place at the HARD LUCK BAR next Thursday, which is THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15th - the address is 772a DUNDAS STREET WEST, TORONTO, ON. The night is going to be loaded with lots of awesome.

GORD ROLLO, author of Jigsaw Man, Valley of the Scarecrows, and Strange Magic (you can also find him in BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES ONE) says he'll be there to do something - although I'm not quite sure what that something will be. Maybe he'll read a little from one of his books, maybe he introduce one of our burlesque dancers - because... YES, when Books of the Dead throws a party, it includes BURLESQUE DANCERS!

Our two beautiful dancers for the evening we be RED HERRING & BELLA FOX. I can say - having played a bunch of gigs with both women - that they're lots of fun and make their performances memorable.

Speaking of playing... my female fronted party rock band will be playing live at some point in the evening. For those of you that don't know this, I've been playing drums for 20+ years and I'm currently in an absolutely TERRIBLE band called HIGH HEELS LO FI. We're AWFUL-SOME, DRUNK-ROCK. Strangely, everyone loves us––mostly because Mandy Wells & Cynthia Gould rock the shit out of the front end while I drop tight-as-nails drumbeats on the back.

RIO YOUERS, author of End Times & Old Man Scratch (you can also find him in BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES TWO) says if he's not too busy with his new baby he'll drop in to sing a song and play guitar, because - his words, not mine - I sing like a bird, Daley... like a bird!

One of my best friends, and one of the best front-men in the world, PAT LORE will be there, playing his first gig with his new band. Apparently Pat decided he should start his new band off by giving it the WORST NAME EVER. And what name is that? How about: RUN FOR IT, MARTY! Yeah... I'm not even making this shit up. He was talking about having the crowd help him out in the name department, because... well, you know... maybe they can do better?

There will also be someone (or something) there called ZOMBIE CLAUS. I'm not exactly sure who, or what, this guy's about, but I'm VERY interested in finding out.

So, if you are anywhere near Toronto you should come out and party with Books Of the Dead. It'll be a good one. On a side note, my drunk-rock band High Heels Lo Fi will be playing again on Saturday, December 17th - two days after the party - at 176 King street, London, Ontario at the Brass. We will be playing something called "We Play with Boobies" - should I even try to explain?

21 Days of Christmas - Day 8: Avoid the use of qualifiers

2011-12-08T21:50:00.000-05:00

Rather, very, little, pretty — these are the leeches that infest the pond of prose, sucking the blood of words. The constant use of the adjective little (except to indicate size) is particularly debilitating; we should all try to do a little better, we should all be very watchful of this rule, for it is a rather important one, and we are pretty sure to violate it now and then.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 7: Do not overstate

2011-12-07T07:42:00.002-05:00

When you overstate, readers will be instantly on guard, and everything that has preceded your overstatement as well as everything that follows it will be suspect in their minds because they have lost confidence in your judgment or your poise. Overstatement is one of the common faults. A single overstatement, wherever or however it occurs, diminishes the whole, and a single carefree superlative has the power to destroy, for readers, the object of your enthusiasm.

My blog is in transition!

2011-12-07T00:10:00.000-05:00

My blog's new address is http://www.booksofthedeadpress.com/. Since it takes time for this new address to be available all over the Internet, people can still get to it at http://booksofthedead.blogspot.com.
The new address should work for everyone after - at most - 3 days. At that time my awesome followers will be redirected from my old address to the new one.

Sorry for all the transition glitches!

Dreadful Tales Shows Some Love

2011-12-06T12:15:00.007-05:00

Dreadful Tales - an excellent website dedicated to horror fiction, as well as the writers, publishers, and editors that make horror so much fun - has shown my short story collection, 13 Drops of Blood, some love. The review definitely doesn't blow smoke up my ass, but the reviewer does take the time to comment on each story and - in a Dreadful Tales kind of way - lets me know where my strengths and weakness lie.
I have to admit that Dreadful Tales is one of my favorite places on the web. The site is run by horror-fiction enthusiasts that know what they're talking about. They are a hard-working team that takes the time to get to know the people involved in the genre. To me, and I suspect for most writers, this type of attitude caries a lot more weight than someone that sits behind their computer screen spewing less-than-fully-informed opinions.

Thank you Dreadful Tales, for everything you do.
Check out Dreadful Tales and what they say about 13 Drops of Blood HERE.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 6: Do not overwrite

2011-12-06T08:46:00.000-05:00

Rich, ornate prose is hard to digest, generally unwholesome, and sometimes nauseating. If the sickly-sweet word, the overblown phrase are your natural form of expression, as is sometimes the case, you will have to compensate for it by a show of vigor, and by writing something as meritorious as the Song of Songs, which is Solomon's. When writing with a computer, you must guard against wordiness. The click and flow of a word processor can be seductive, and you may find yourself adding a few unnecessary words or even a whole passage just to experience the pleasure of running your fingers over the keyboard and watching your words appear on the screen. It is always a good idea to reread your writing later and ruthlessly delete the excess.

ZOMBIE KONG UPDATE

2011-12-05T23:36:00.006-05:00

Zombie Kong is very close. If you have a story in the upcoming book you will likely be receiving an edited version tomorrow. For the sake of consistency, I’ve been forced to change few things inside some of the stories. Why? Because half the stories are calling Kong an "ape" and the other half are calling him a "gorilla". Also, his height changes over and over.

Wikipedia says:

Species: Giant Gorilla God

Height: 20–45 metres (65–147 feet)

Weight: 1,000-25,000 tons

In his first appearance in King Kong (1933), Kong was a gigantic prehistoric ape, or as RKO's publicity materials described him, "A prehistoric type of ape." While gorilla-like in appearance, he had a vaguely humanoid look and at times walked upright in an anthropomorphic manner. Indeed, Carl Denham describes him as being "neither beast nor man". Kong's size changes drastically throughout the course of the film. While creator Merian C. Cooper envisioned Kong as being "40 to 50 feet tall", animator Willis O'Brien and his crew built the models and sets scaling Kong to be only 18 feet tall on Skull Island, and rescaled to be 24 feet tall in New York. This did not stop Cooper from playing around with Kong's size as he directed the special effect sequences; by manipulating the sizes of the miniatures and the camera angles, he made Kong appear a lot larger than O'Brien wanted, even as large as 60 feet in some scenes. Concurrently, the Kong bust made for the film was built in scale with a 40-foot ape, while the full sized hand of Kong was built in scale with a 70-foot ape. Meanwhile, RKO's promotional materials listed Kong's official height as 50 feet.

What I’m taking from this is:

1) Gorilla-like in appearance.

2) RKO's promotional materials listed Kong's official height as 50 feet.

3) 1,000-25,000 tons

So - Kong will be a 50 gorilla weighing 5 tons. I know that people are used to hearing that the monster was an “ape” but he always looked like a gorilla. In our minds, most of us see him as a gorilla.

Get ready people...

ZOMBIE KONG IS COMING!

Quotes

2011-12-05T08:01:00.002-05:00

The strangest thing happened. I've been getting asked for quotes.

A lot.

You know... like, "I've got this new book coming out and I'm wondering if I can, like... send it to you, so you can read it, and if you like it, you can give me, like... a quote--?" And I keep saying, "Sure, man. Send it my way and I'll read it when I get a chance." But the problem is... I'm never getting a chance to read it. And I mean NEVER. I still haven't read my upcoming Best New Werewolf Tales, and -- as strange as it seems -- I plan on releasing it BEFORE I read it. Because I don't have time! How messed up is that?

I've been going through some of my old emails, trying to clean up the mess "father time" brings when you're not paying attention, and I'm realizing that I have a ton of emails that say something like, "Here's my new book... can't wait to hear what you think!" At this point I probably have 5 months of reading to do, and there has got to be at least 15 guys that think I'm a total asshole now because I haven't read the book, or -- the least I could have done is -- send them another email!

How did this happen?
What's going on?

It's kind of funny, from a certain angle. But surely not the angle of the pissed off writer.

You know, by the time I sent my buddy Weston a quote his book had already been released for three months! Making matters worse, he was awesome enough to give me a quote when I was just starting out... and at that point we had never even met. You know what this means, right? It means I suck!

Oh, the shame!
The horror!
The humanity!

So, anyways - there is a point to this rant. I'm trying to be an awesome guy, you know, to make up for me being... well... an asshole. So if you have a new book, no, I can't read it. I just can't. When I say I don't have time for it I'm being completely honest. My company is going through some growing pains. I need to hire one or two more people but the budget won't allow it. This means I'm doing 90% of everything myself, and I just don't have the time.

However -

If I've published your work, or I'm about to publish your work, let me know and I'll give you a quote. No problem. 'Cause if you're in one of these Books of the Dead books, that means I think you're awesome, and I sure as hell don't mind saying so.

And when you have a new book (or whatever) coming out, let me know and I'll pimp it on my blog, put it on my two twitter accounts, and filter it through facebook. This, I have time to do. And I don't mind, not even a little...

David Niall Wilson's MAELSTROM

2011-12-05T04:39:00.002-05:00

Another friend of mine has just released a new novel, and with me being one of those "share the love" kind of guys I figured I'd bump his book. David Niall Wilson - who appears in Best New Zombie Tales Volume Two & Best New Vampire Tales Volume One - has just released Maelstrom, and if it anything like his other work it's absolutely fantastic.

Here's a little bit about David, and his new novel:

Something in Lavender, California is waking up. Rituals not properly completed for centuries are coming together. Nothing is what it seems.

When Nick Leatherman, his girlfriend Ruthie, and their buddies Flash and Weasel invade Shady Grove Cemetery for a “ghost hunt” on their way home from a concert, they are drawn into a web of darkness and intrigue that threatens to consume them. Nick and Ruthie witness a gruesome murder, and Nick’s pocketknife shows up at the crime scene the next morning. Nick has had problems in the past, and Inspector Kendall Straker remembers. He remembers Ned Leatherman, Nick’s alcoholic stepfather as well, and he doesn’t believe the boy is a killer. The problem is that the knife - emblazoned with the name of the band Maelstrom - is the only clue he has.

Horace Goldbough is the local pastor. He’s built a huge following and a beautiful church, but there are things about the good reverend that the town doesn’t know. In particular there is his relationship with a dark woman named Beauchane, and a certain book he keeps hidden from the world.

With local reporters, and a television talk-show host hounding his every step, Straker attempts to unravel the series of grisly killings terrorizing Lavender, while simultaneously protecting Nick. Nick, in the meantime, has begun his own investigation, feeling trapped and needing to clear his name.

Ritual words are being spoken, and a power that has been denied access to the Earth for centuries is poised to strike. The clock is ticking. Can Straker, Nick, and Maelstrom find the answer to the killings and put an end to them before the final ritual takes place, or will a horror be unleashed on the unsuspecting town of Lavender beyond their comprehension.

BIO:

David Niall Wilson has been writing and publishing horror, dark fantasy, and science fiction since the mid-eighties. An ordained minister, once President of the Horror Writer's Association and multiple recipient of the Bram Stoker Award, his novels include Maelstrom, The Mote in Andrea's Eye, Deep Blue, the Grails Covenant Trilogy, Star Trek Voyager: Chrysalis, Except You Go Through Shadow, This is My Blood, Ancient Eyes, On the Third Day, The Orffyreus Wheel, and Vintage Soul. Heart of a Dragon, The Second Veil, and The Parting – the first novel in the new series O.C.L. The Stargate Atlantis novel “Brimstone,” written with Patricia Lee Macomber, and "Hallowed Ground," – written with International best-selling author Steven Savile - is his most recent title in print.. He has over 150 short stories published in anthologies, magazines, and five collections. His work has appeared in and is due out in various anthologies and magazines. David lives and loves with Patricia Lee Macomber in Hertford, NC with their children, Billy, Zach, Zane, and Katie, and occasionally their genius college daughter Stephanie, their ridiculous Pekingese Gizmo, their spaz of a Cocker Spaniel, Callie, their not-so-vicious cat, Sid, and a never-to-become-a-coat chinchilla named Pook Daddy. David is CEO and founder of Crossroad Press, a cutting edge digital publishing company specializing in electronic novels, collections, and non-fiction, as well as unabridged audiobooks.

Visit Crossroad Press at HERE.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 5: Revise and rewrite

2011-12-05T00:39:00.001-05:00

Revising is part of writing. Few writers are so expert that they can produce what they are after on the first try. Quite often you will discover, on examining the completed work, that there are serious flaws in the arrangement of the material, calling for transpositions. When this is the case, rearrange the manuscript. You can select material on your screen and move it to a more appropriate spot, or, if you cannot find the right spot, you can move the material to the end of the manuscript until you decide whether to delete it. Some writers find that working with a printed copy of the manuscript helps them to visualize the process of change; others prefer to revise entirely on screen. Above all, do not be afraid to experiment with what you have written. Save both the original and the revised versions; you can always use the computer to restore the manuscript to its original condition, should that course seem best. Remember, it is no sign of weakness or defeat that your manuscript ends up in need of major surgery. This is a common occurrence in all writing, and among the best writers.

Carole Lanham's THE WHISPER JAR

2011-12-04T22:31:00.002-05:00

I received an email from a great writer, Carole Lanham. Carol was telling me about her new book and I thought I'd share.

Carol said:

I was waiting until Nanowrimo was over to spread the news about the release of my new book, The Whisper Jar. December is still an awfully busy time, I realize, but the reviews have all been good and I'm trying to spread the word so if you have any interest in giving the book a look, please visit one of the sites below.

"Every now and then, a collection of short stories comes along that not only brings creepiness to new levels, but reaches in a little deeper and leaves something behind. The stories in The Whisper Jar are like that... they stick with you like soft voices in the memory. A great book for a dark and stormy night..."

~ David Niall Wilson, Award-winning author of Deep Blue, This is My Blood, and CEO of Crossroad Press

Brian Hodge had these kind words to say about it:

"Carole Lanham is made entirely out of awesome. The Whisper Jar is packed to the lid with dark magic and whimsy, while bearing an ominously old-fashioned touch that might make Edward Gorey feel right at home. It deserves to be ranked as a modern classic."

Many thanks for your time & best wishes for a safe and happy holiday season! ~ Carole

Here's a little about the book:

Three may keep a secret

If two of them are dead...

The people of Highcross have found a handy way to lighten their hearts; they whisper their secrets into an empty jar and screw the cap on tight. Locked away on the dusty shelves of the Jar House, a town's worth of black thoughts have been lined up in rows that become longer with the years. When the jars are accidentally shattered, the streets are flooded with everyone's darkest deeds. No one is safe.

In this collection of award-winning short stories by Carole Lanham, a dangerous friendship forms around a love of books, a student learns more than she was ever meant to learn in school, a boy struggles to deal with his sister's murderous affections, and the door to a mysterious room unbolts to reveal a terrible truth.

Open The Whisper Jar with great care,

You just might find your own secrets hidden in there.

Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 1) hits 5,000

2011-12-04T18:19:00.000-05:00

I thought this would happen a couple months ago, but with sales slowing down across the board this announcement actually comes later than I originally anticipated -- nonetheless -- I'm happy to say that Best New Zombie Tales Volume One is Books of the Dead's first book to hit the 5,000 units sold mark.

It was April 24th, 2010 when Zombie Tales One crept into the world, which is roughly 18 months ago. So far the book has been a workhorse, and honestly, has given a measure of stability to the entire press. Not to suggest that 5000 copies is that many, but the 8 - 10 copies that it sells per day has helped me sleep at night, knowing that this little company has become my full time gig.

A thank you and a congratulations goes out to all the writers involved.

Prediction: Matt Hults' HUSK will be the next book to reach such a milestone, and this will happen in March.

The Barbarian Librarian

2011-12-04T06:31:00.001-05:00

I've got to applaud my friend Joel Sutherland who put on a great event yesterday with his Darklit Fest, in Oshawa On (which - as a side note - Michael Rowe described as the Canadian version of Stephen King's Bangor, Maine). The event was a really fantastic and Joel should be proud. The panels were excellent, the readings were excellent... I can't say enough good things.

Congrats, buddy! A job well done!

21 Days of Christmas - Day 4: Write with nouns and verbs

2011-12-04T06:00:00.000-05:00

Write with nouns and verbs, not with adjectives and adverbs. The adjective hasn't been built that can pull a weak or inaccurate noun out of a tight place. This is not to disparage adjectives and adverbs; they are indispensable parts of speech. Occasionally they surprise us with their power, as in:

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men ...

The nouns mountain and glen are accurate enough, but had the mountain not become airy, the glen rushy, William Ailing-ham might never have got off the ground with his poem. In general, however, it is nouns and verbs, not their assistants, that give good writing its toughness and color.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 3: Work from a suitable design

2011-12-03T20:31:00.002-05:00

Before beginning to compose something, gauge the nature and extent of the enterprise and work from a suitable design. Design informs even the simplest structure, whether of brick and steel or of prose. You raise a pup tent from one sort of vision, a cathedral from another. This does not mean that you must sit with a blueprint always in front of you, merely that you had best anticipate what you are getting into. To compose a laundry list, you can work directly from the pile of soiled garments, ticking them off one by one. But to write a biography, you will need at least a rough scheme; you cannot plunge in blindly and start ticking off fact after fact about your subject, lest you miss the forest for the trees and there be no end to your labors. Sometimes, of course, impulse and emotion are more compelling than design. If you are deeply troubled and are composing a letter appealing for mercy or for love, you had best not attempt to organize your emotions; the prose will have a better chance if the emotions are left in disarray — which you'll probably have to do anyway, since feelings do not usually lend themselves to rearrangement. But even the kind of writing that is essentially adventurous and impetuous will on examination be found to have a secret plan: Columbus didn't just sail, he sailed west, and the New World took shape from this simple and, we now think, sensible design.

21 Days of Christmas - Day 2: Write in a way that comes naturally

2011-12-02T18:54:00.002-05:00

Write in a way that comes easily and naturally to you, using words and phrases that come readily to hand. But do not assume that because you have acted naturally your product is without flaw. The use of language begins with imitation. The infant imitates the sounds made by its parents; the child imitates first the spoken language, then the stuff of books. The imitative life continues long after the writer is secure in the language, for it is almost impossible to avoid imitating what one admires. Never imitate consciously, but do not worry about being an imitator; take pains instead to admire what is good. Then when you write in a way that comes naturally, you will echo the halloos that bear repeating.

Darklit Fest - this Saturday

2011-12-01T17:58:00.000-05:00

For those that live in southern Ontario this Saturday is the Darklit Fest, which takes place in Oshawa Ontario. If you are a writer and you would like to pitch your book to a book company or to an agent, this is the time to do it. If you're not a writer, but you're a fan of dark literature, then this event is still a great one. Not only is it free, but you get a chance to hang out with some great writers and fantastic people. Guests include Joy Fielding, R. J. Anderson, Books of the Dead Press, Erin Bow, Burning Effigy Press, Chizine Publications, Megan Crewe, Craig Davidson, Elizabeth J. Duncan, Carolyn Forde, Alyxandra Harvey, Sandra Kasturi, Michael Kelly, Monica Kuebler, Shari Lapeña, Gregory Lamberson, Jennifer MacKinnon, Andrew Pyper, Ian Rogers, Michael Rowe, Nicholas Ruddock, Scholastic Canada, Brett Alexander Savory, Richard Scrimger, Simon Strantzas, Joel A. Sutherland, Rio Youers, and of course, the one and only... James Roy Daley... whoever that is.

If you would like to know more about these people check out this page HERE.

The address is: 65 Bagot Street, Oshawa, ON, L1H 1N2

Hope to see you on Saturday!

21 Days of Christmas - Day 1: Place yourself in the background

2011-12-01T02:10:00.000-05:00

For Christmas this year I (along with my very good friends William Strunk Jr. and E.B White) give you the 21 Days of Christmas. Enjoy.

1. Place yourself in the background.

Write in a way that draws the reader's attention to the sense and substance of the writing, rather than to the mood and temper of the author. If the writing is solid and good, the mood and temper of the writer will eventually be revealed and not at the expense of the work. Therefore, the first piece of advice is this: to achieve style, begin by affecting none — that is, place yourself in the background. A careful and honest writer does not need to worry about style. As you become proficient in the use of language, your style will emerge, because you yourself will emerge, and when this happens you will find it increasingly easy to break through the barriers that separate you from other minds, other hearts — which is, of course, the purpose of writing, as well as its principal reward. Fortunately, the act of composition, or creation, disciplines the mind; writing is one way to go about thinking, and the practice and habit of writing not only drain the mind but supply it, too.

50% off ebooks - Zombies, Vampires, & More!

2011-11-18T14:32:00.001-05:00

For the next week I'm putting a bunch of ebooks on sale for 50% off. Just head on over to Smashwords - HERE - pick out your book and punch in the applicable codes. The sale ends on Nov 25, just one week from today. At an average price of $1.50, what are you waiting for?

The books on sale are:

Best New Zombie Tales Volume One
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: DK67K
Expires: November 25, 2011

Best New Zombie Tales Volume Two
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: FA93P
Expires: November 25, 2011

Best New Zombie Tales Volume Three
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: PQ25G
Expires: November 25, 2011

Best New Vampire Tales Volume One
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: FF66A
Expires: November 25, 2011

Classic Vampire Tales
Promotional price: $0.99
Coupon Code: MW29H
Expires: November 25, 2011

James Roy Daley - 13 Drops of Blood
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: NT63W
Expires: November 25, 2011

James Roy Daley - Terror Town
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: DC82B
Expires: November 25, 2011

James Roy Daley - Into Hell
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: UQ23Q
Expires: November 25, 2011

James Roy Daley - The Dead Parade
Promotional price: $1.50
Coupon Code: UA23M
Expires: November 25, 2011

Fame, Fortune & Getting Both Ends Wet

2011-11-17T16:48:00.003-05:00

In life I don't think there are any ladders.

What I mean to say is - in my opinion - people are people, and if I judge someone (which I shouldn't) I judge the size of their heart––not their fan-base, their bank-roll, their looks, or the success of their endeavors. People are people. If I become rich and famous, trust me, I'll be the exact same person I am today (I hope). I know what fame is. Fame is having one person kiss your ass while another spits in your face. For someone like me fame is not better. Just different.

That being said, when you're an artist (writer, painter, musician, etc...) there is a ladder, sort of. If I was to break it down into easy to understand fragments it would look like this:

1) Nobody knows who you are or what you're doing.
You have no fan base.
2) Half your industry knows who you are and what you're doing.
You have a small fan base.
3) Your industry knows who you are and what you're doing.
You have a mid-sized fan base.
4) Half your target market knows who you are and what you're doing.
You have a large fan base.
5) Your target market knows who you are and what you're doing.
You have a very large fan base.
6) Everyone knows who you are and what you're doing.
You are completely famous.

I *think* I've recently moved up the ladder from step one to step two. In the past year or so I've signed hundreds of autographs, smiled for lots of photographs, and had more than a few people talk to me about the things I'm doing. But what's interesting is the fact that while one person (in the publishing industry) will know exactly what I'm doing, another will have absolutely no idea. One person will be a full-on fan, while another will be blowing me off as useless. People are loving me, and baby, people are starting to hate me. Strange as it seems, I like it. It's an interesting place to be.

I know where I am on this ladder, and how long I've been there. Last year at this time I was writing, and publishing, when I had a chance. Which is to say, I was doing *this* when I wasn't busy doing my *real* job. My real job, for the record, was contracting. I was the guy hired to throw up some drywall, install some baseboards, and paint the place out. I actually enjoyed it. I always took pride in the job I was doing, and I made your home look beautiful.

But now, for the past year or so, writing and publishing has become my full time gig. There's no ego attached to it; it's just a numbers game. I'm making more money now than I did before, and I like this job better. Not that I'm an "all about the money" type of guy. I'm not.

I'm not exactly sure this little rant comes with a point, but if it does it would be this: I've had people talking to me, analyzing, trying to figure out if Books of the Dead is the real-deal; if it is going to last. I'm going to suggest that it is... because right now it's my full time gig, it's paying my bills, and I like what I'm doing. I'm also going to try moving this company from Step 2 to Step 3. Wish me luck. Getting your ass kissed while getting spit on can mess with your head. In the meantime, Books of the Dead isn't going anywhere. Unless, I suppose, I get hired on to make your house look beautiful...

The Awesome of AnthoCon

2011-11-17T13:29:00.003-05:00

This past weekend I hauled my ass down to Portsmouth, NH to check out AnthoCon, a first time convention put together by the people that run Shroud Publishing. I think these guys did a fantastic job, and by "these guys" I mean Tim Deal, Danny Evarts, Johnny Morse, and Mark Wholley. I don't want to say the convention was 100% perfect - no convention is - but I will say that AnthoCon ran smoothly, with a level of confidence that is impossible to find in year one. Bottom line: hats off to you guys for doing such a fantastic job. I had a great time; I'm sure everyone else did too. AnthoCon was excellent; I highly endorse it.

Getting past the nuts and bolts of the convention, I arrived on Friday evening a little burned-out from driving and drained from a couple nights of drinking in Ottawa, which is another story altogether. The reception was low-key––a nice introduction to the weekend, sponsored by Jeremy Wagner, author of the Armageddon Chord. Once things got rolling the fun began.

And here comes my awesome Friday night story (I promised to keep names out of it, which sucks because the people involved make the story so much fun.):

Picture this––

I'm sitting with some friends on the big luxurious seats in the reception area of the hotel. We're loud, and drunk, and getting more drunk with every minute that passes. The guy working the reception desk is letting it happen. "Girl A" starts talking about wanting to do the hot-tub thing. I'm all for it, and I push to make it happen. Other people are open to the idea, but are more passive. Turns out the hot-tub is closed for the night, and that's when Girl A says, "Hey! There's a party in Danny Evarts' room, and he has a hot-tub. Lets go there!" So we go up to Danny's room and invade his party. As soon as we get into Danny's room Girl A starts filling - what can only be described as a large bathtub, in the bathroom - with water. While people are busy scratching their heads about what Girl A is doing, "Boy A" strips down to his underwear unexpectedly, and is suddenly standing in the party half-naked. One minute later the three of us - Girl A, Boy A, and yours truly - are wedged together in the bathtub, wearing nothing but our underwear, having the time of our lives. Danny was a good sport, but of course the next morning he discovered all of his towels were wet. Good times!

The next day there was the usual convention things: panels and readings and whatever. In theory I was stuck in the "dealers' room" all day because I had a table to run. In reality I had two signs I used a lot.

One said: BACK IN 5 MINUTES.

The other read: GONE FOR LUNCH.

In total I was probably doing my own thing for 6-7 hours.

For me, highlights always seem to center around going to out dinner. Writing superstar Christopher Golden has been so good to me that I can't even put it into words. I love this man. He's so nice and down to earth; there's nothing I wouldn't do for him. Almost every time I see Chris he says, "Lets go out for dinner." And then I enjoy a great meal with some of the nicest, smartest, and most accomplished people I've had the pleasure of meeting. This time I found myself sitting at a table with a couple of amazing script writers: Stephen Susco (The Grudge, Red, High School) and Eric Red (The Hitcher, Near Dark, Body Parts). These guys are a lot of fun. Both had great stories to tell, and both guys were top notch.

Saturday night came with more drinking and goofing around and doing things I can't talk about here. I stayed an extra day and left on the Monday. I'm glad I did. Sunday night was a blast and I was able to enjoy deep, and hilarious, conversations with some amazing people. While I want to start mentioning names (like the funny-as-hell Sheldon Higdon), I know I'll leave out more than I include, so I'll just end with saying that my conversations with Andrew Wolter and Danny Evarts gave me something to think about on the drive home. You guys are awesome.

Conclusion: AnthoCon... 5 stars!
Looking forward to the next one...

PS - I just remembered... Monday morning, before I left for home, New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Maberry and I had breakfast. He's a great guy... one of my heroes.

How cool is that?

Darklit Fest 2011

2011-11-07T10:03:00.001-05:00

On Dec 3rd Books of the Dead will be at the Darklit Fest in Oshawa, On, Canada - a festival put together by a fantastic writer: Joel Sutherland.

Books of the Dead, along with Scholastic Canada, Chizine Publications, and WCA Literary Agency - will be part of the "pitch" session - a chance for people to pitch their amazing ideas for a book, or an anthology, or whatever it is they think will change the face of literature as we know it!

This year's guest of honor will be New York Times bestselling author Joy Fielding.

Here's a little more info about Darklit Fest:

McLaughlin Branch Auditorium,

Saturday, December 3rd from 10:15 AM to 4:00 PM

Chilling, mesmerizing! Oshawa Public Libraries presents its second annual DarkLit Fest of Durham with New York Times bestselling author Joy Fielding as the Guest of Honour. Renowned authors, editors, agents, and publishers gather during this special one-day event to discuss such topics as pre-writing, drafting, revising, editing, and publishing. Fans will have opportunities to talk with top names in the mystery, fantasy, and horror genres and to listen to author readings. After the Meet-and-Greet reception, there will be an opportunity to sit down with a publisher or agent to pitch your manuscript! Registration for pitch sessions begins November 7th. There will be book signing and sales as well as door prizes and light refreshments. Free parking.

Joy Fielding is the author of the New York Times bestsellers Mad River Road, Puppet, Lost, See Jane Run, and other acclaimed novels. She divides her time between Toronto and Palm Beach, Florida. Visit her website at http://www.JoyFielding.com.

Registration for pitch sessions starts Monday, November 7th at 10:00AM. You may register by phoning or visiting any branch of the Oshawa Public Libraries.

Eva Saether

Programmes Librarian

905-579-6111 x5260

esaether@oshawalibrary.on.ca

Free refreshments and door prizes!

AnthoCon

2011-11-07T09:39:00.002-05:00

This weekend Books of the Dead will be in Portsmouth, NH at AnthoCon. If you plan on being there say hi. I'll be the guy with the red, glossed-over eyes; I'll smell like beer and I'll be wearing the same clothing throughout the convention.

Here's a little bit about AnthoCon:

Northern New England's only Speculative Literature Convention, ANTHOLOGY showcases imaginative brilliance in speculative fiction and art, with an additional focus on the convergence of images and literature.

Special Guests: Joseph Nassise, Christopher Golden, Jackie Gamber, Stephen Susco, Eric Red, Michael Boatman, Rick Hautala, Brian Keene, Jennifer Pelland, Jonathan Maberry, Catherynne M. Valente, Gord Rollo and more!

Join bestselling authors and award-winning artists for readings, panel discussions, signings, art demonstrations and more throughout this 3-day convention. Network with writers and artists and browse rare books, artwork and scores of hard-to-find specialty items in the AnthoCon Dealer Room.

October's Top Sellers

2011-11-07T09:14:00.000-05:00

Once again Matt Hults' book Husk was the month's number one seller, hitting a little shy of 500 copies. Overall sales for the month were almost the same as last month, landing somewhere between the 1,700 and 1,800 mark.

The Best New Zombie Tales series has now sold more more than 7,000 copies - the majority of sales coming from Volume One, ranked #2 this month. Volume One will soon be hitting the 5,000 books sold benchmark. 5,000, by the way, is the amount of copies you need to sell in Canada to be considered a "Canadian Best Seller." With me being a Canadian, I have to admit... this is a number I'm looking forward to achieving.

The best selling books in October were:

1) Husk
2) Best New Zombie Tales (Vol.1)
3) Into Hell

All Quiet on the Northern Front

2011-10-31T04:43:00.000-04:00

I haven't been posting much but the truth is, there hasn't been much to say. I've been editing the books that are coming down the pipe, putting together a few new projects, and getting some writing done. There will probably be a couple more books released somewhere near the end of November, which is a little later than I was originally thinking but... oh well. Such is life.

Happy Halloween!

September's Top Sellers

2011-10-08T16:05:00.001-04:00

MONTHLY SALES:

For the second month in a row sales were down, hitting just over the 1,800 units mark. I found this to be quite surprising with so many new books recently released, but what can you do? It doesn't seem to be any one book that's sliding off the radar, but rather a slumping of all the titles. Another surprising twist: our UK sales and our paperback sales... both were up considerably.

Terror Town fell out of the top three in September, to be replaced by Best New Zombie Tales (Vol. 1), which had been missing the top three by a marginal amount over the past few months; Zombie Tales 1 is our best selling title to date.

Our best selling sales in September were:

1) Husk
2) Into Hell
3) Best New Zombie Tales (Vol.1)

QUARTERLY SALES:

I haven't mentioned quarterly sales before, but I have been keeping track of 'em. So far, sales have been up every quarter. This - the third quarter of the year - had sales of approximately 6,000 units, bringing our yearly total to the 12,000 mark.

Timothy W. Long talks Badass

2011-09-21T12:41:00.000-04:00

Yesterday Timothy W. Long, author of Among the Living and The Zombie Wilson Diaries, posted an article on his website about Tonia Brown, her upcoming book BADASS ZOMBIE ROADTRIP, and the crazy relationship between humor and horror.

Very cool stuff, and worth taking a look at.

Check it out HERE.

99¢ VAMPIRES!

2011-09-16T14:28:00.000-04:00

For the next few days the ebook version of BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES & CLASSIC VAMPIRE TALES will be on sale for 99¢. This sale can't last long, considering the fact that Amazon takes 70% & the government takes 30% of what's left, so get 'em while you can...

Zombie Kong Contracts

2011-09-13T16:07:00.002-04:00

I've finally sent out the contracts for ZOMBIE KONG. If you are expecting one and you haven't received one, let me know!