Author Lorelei Bell, welcomes you! Vampires are my addiction, I assume they are yours as well. Come and journey with me to the darker shadows, where the vampires lurk, watching us, waiting for us weak humans...

The journey awaits, come!

Thursday, June 16, 2011

RANT: Writers: If You Think You're Brilliant, You Probably Aren't

Now this follows in a way the self absorbed rant, however the people who fall victim to EXTREME EGO ATTACK aren't usually obnoxious. Although they might be occasionally.

In reading about great artists: painters and writers alike I've observed few if any of them were in love with their own talent. Genius usually continually finds fault with its own creations: it's never good enough, it isn't quite what they expected, it could be better. That insecurity actually serves a purpose. It encourages the artist (writer, painter or actor) to always improve.

Searching constantly to write a better story, paint a better picture and the like benefits all of us.
Is it hard on the creator? Sure, it is. So why should they bother? Answer: they should bother because they are on a life-long mission to produce the best art they can produce.

There used to be a joke about Orson Welles. They said he'd have wanted and expected applause everytime he came out of the bathtub. That conjures up some pretty hiliarious images.
On wth my rant:

Since I don't like hypocrisy, I am asking myself this same question--do I think I'm terrific and everything I write is? Answer: no way, Jose. I am never certain if a story is going to be accepted and let me say that lately I am only writing stories that have been requested I write! I don't think for a second that the person reading the story is going to grab their chest and say: OMG! THIS IS GENIUS, I LOVE THIS! IT'S THE BEST STORY I'VE EVER READ!

Nope. I strive therefore I am. I write as well as I can and hope for the best. I write things very often I realize don't have truth in them: i.e. the truth of the fiction I was striving for. There must, after all be truth in what one writes.

I think the most important thing to realize, understand and never resent is we sometimes get it wrong or if we don't get it wrong we might come damned close.

Divinity and perfection are not facets of the human being and no writer anywhere is perfect, not in this world at least I don't think so. What about you?

Tuesday, May 24, 2011


Look, this is the discussion (rant) basically. Someone follows me and OUT OF POLITENESS I FOLLOW THEM BACK.

The only time I don't is if they are selling lino or renting apartments in Idaho okay? Or if they are going to tweet every hour with a quotation that sounds like it's straight out of a fortune cookie.

Back to my rant and those messages.

Generally the message one sends or one gets back is: THANK YOU FOR THE FOLLOW BACK.

What ticks me off is not getting that back but getting something like this instead. Remember this person CHOSE to follow me.



I don't know about you but I find that a little nervy IN THE VERY FIRST MESSAGE!

When I wrote back (I don't always and yes, this is pretty much what happened) I got, would you believe, a message thanking me for my support and telling me about something else that was written!

HELLOO?????????? Anybody home?

I have never, ever sent anyone a link in a message period. I have only done it if they ask me.

Hard sell to me is irritating, off-putting, antagonistic and rude.

Promoting is hard sure it is. But jamming what you've done down someone's throat starts up the gag reflex!

Thanks, and writers: any feedback on this? Do you hate this too? By the way very few writers do this thank goodness!

Monday, May 16, 2011


My mother did it to me. Then my father. I still remember being in a store when I was little. A neighbor asked me if I wanted anything and I pointed to the comics. I got a great comic book, can't remember which one.
AS SOON AS I WENT OUTSIDE, my mother said: "oh no! Never say you want anything!"

Why not I thought, but okay.

Same thing with my dad. But he was worse. He belived in doing great deeds and not telling anyone. WHO DOESN'T LIKE SOME CREDIT, right? But that was my dad.

Now for the purposes of this rant: let me lay it out for you!

If someone does something really stupid and ticks you off but totally, why do we feel it incumbent upon ourselves to smile and make believe we don't hate them and we don't really want to throw a pie in their face? Hmm? Okay no pie throwing, but a frown at least?!

Even worse is at work your boss acts like a total Richard head and takes credit for something you did. Why can't we say, "ah excuse me you sneaky son of a... why did you do that? I'm not going to let you take credit for that!"
Wouldn't i be nice to announce to the entire office:


But reality is different!

I had the 'good luck' to work as an executive secretary  for a bunch of pampered women. Most of them were okay but my boss was from hell. Let me put it to you this way, The Devil Wears Prada comes to mind, okay?

I came up with a money making idea for the organization and  SHE TOOK CREDIT FOR IT.

So unfair. I wanted to scream and shout. Okay, excessive--but at the very least I wanted to take credit for it because it really turned out to be successful!
I didn't say anything which is an example of what I'm ranting about. WHY didn't I say anything? I left the job anyway! I mean I got tired of having chest pains along with my lunch! I was pretty young too, who needed that? I wasn't prepared to die over a lousy job!

Saying yes when you mean no, smiling when you want to tell someone off (who deserves it) can be very annoying--stifling emotion can cause problems to your health, really.

After that experience I was kinder to myself. I did speak up. And when I was bullied post 9/11 (LIKE THE DAY AFTER (!) in England where I was working by a boss who said, "So what?' basically, I reported him!  Let me add there were other issues where I was singled out for his virtriol. But the worst of that happened immediately after September 11th.

He deserved to be held accountable and I had the satisfaction of being taken seriously. I was transferred to another department and told my complaint went on his permanent record. At the end of it, I received a dozen roses!

Rants are good they can be healthy but we need to follow a constructive coarse of action.
I don't in any way believe in being petty or overly sensitive. However, wrong is wrong. And one of the worst most damaging wrongs of all is bullying!

Now bullying deserves a rant all by itself!
Come and give me some feedback about bullying or about this rant in general. I love feedback.

Thank you!

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Old Monsters Or New?

Which is better? How do they differ? In what way do they reflect our time, society, us?
Every era has its monsters but some are more frightening than others and some are so deadly as to go beyond frightening.

I think really that monsters have become more frightening. I also think there's a very good reason for this: our world became a hell of a lot more frightening and in turn their depiction changed.
I love to consider all the monsters we've come to know and love: Frankenstein, Dracula, the Mummy, Zombies, werewolves and monster spinoffs from those monsters!

Don't forget about The Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Thing, Godzilla, Michael Myers, Pinhead and Freddy Kruger.

Monsters all, but do they differ? Do they reflect more what we fear in each era?

Frankenstein (actually the doctor's name) sought to address society's fear of science, where science could eventually take us. Both in the novel and in the film we see the nightmare brought about by a crazed scientist and his obsession to create life from dead tissue.

Dracula, at least the novel I feel was intended to discuss the obsession the Victorians had with female sexuality. Women hadn't been portrayed as wanton sexual creatures in fiction before Dracula. Now they were and everyone took notice.

The Mummy told the story of forbidden love and unimaginable punishment: torture and death for a taboo being broken. Poor old Mummy!

Zombies--and a bit of a morality play there. Zombies as portrayed in the 1940 films were I think more accurate as to what they were intended to be. They were slaves: mindless, obliging work-a-holics who were controlled by a lunatic sugar cane grower for instance.

It was sad, we felt sorry for them. But then they evolved into something else, horrifying cannibalistic decomposing monsters: the stuff of nightmares surely.

Werewolf films had a certain style about them in the 1940's. They were more romanticized than those sorts of films of today. Lon Chaney, Jr. defined Larry Talbot. His morphing into a werewolf after an attack is heart breaking. Later werewolf films were less romanticized and tended to be more frightening or at least more graphic. I think however the recent remake did capture that tragic romanticsm of the original nicely.

By the 1950's the monsters became more sci fi--that poor Creature from The Black Lagoon portrayed our fear of the unknown, and since it existed undiscovered until it kills, it was that much more terrifying because it was on earth with us only we didn't realize. That's horror at its best. The fear that something murderous exists hidden away.

I can recall swimming toward rafts in lakes as a child. Cutting through the dark water as fast as I could because who knew what horrible monsters were down in the murky depts, just waiting, ready to reach up and pull me down?! Boy did I try to get to the raft as fast as I could!

Then there was The Thing, an earlier film. This film took us into the thrilling realm of science fiction completely. Here was an alien monster--something unknown to us, something deadly and it was terrifying! The terrifying unknown again--stimulating our imaginations and scaring the daylights out of us.

It followed five years after the World War. The world was different after the war. Who knew what horrors could befall mankind after a war like that? We were in the atomic age. One fear led to another and U.F.O.'s and the horror of alien invasions took hold--hence pictures like The Thing.

Godzilla is another kind of Frankenstein. It comes about as a result of nuclear detonation. WE created it: mankind--our scientists brought forth this thing and share collective responsibilty for this scary beast. No nuclear stuff, no Godzilla, what a lesson, only we can't go back, Godzilla and all the nuclear stuff is here to stay!

Michael Myers (Halloween) is a real monster, a veritable killing machine who starts out as completely human but then evolves into something very different for the sequels. But his being human is what is far more terrifying. We've seen and read about killers like Myers. They are far too real and far too numerous.

Soon we get Alien a fantastically interesting film because, although a sci fi film ostensibly, it is also a horror film. I love that combination. If you think about it the alien monster and the crew could easily be transposed to a haunted house: the terrorized space crew can easily be switched to people battling demonic monsters.

Freddy Kruger (Nightmare on Elm Street) is another real monster: a child killer. That's his start and it's a brilliant concept. But then the supernatural element kicks in and he is so the stuff of nightmares!

Pinhead, created by the brilliant Clive Barker for the Hellraiser series is a human-like alien. There again that cool combo of horror and sci fi blended perfectly.

Pinhead first appears in Clive Barker's novella The Hellbound Heart (1986), in which he only appears in the story's beginning, and is portrayed as a sexually ambiguous follower of the "Engineer":

An excerpt:
'Its voice, unlike that of its companion, was light and breathy-the voice of an excited girl. Every inch of its head had been tattooed with an intricate grid, and at every intersection of horizontal and vertical axes a jeweled pin driven through to the bone. Its tongue was similarly decorated.'

—The Hellbound Heart, Clive Barker, ch. 1

I don't know about you, but I think Pinhead does it for me. I find him the most frightening of all the monsters.

Okay so we considered all this. Now for my conclusion. I feel the best thing that can happen to the horror genre in general is to keep new monsters coming: different monsters, highly original and each terrifying in its own, unique way.

Monsters make horror what it is and writers and filmakers create those monsters. And it's good because it's what horror fans want!

We want to be scared!

Thursday, March 24, 2011


Three vampires and each a little different. Vampires we've learned over time differ because readers and fans differ. We don't all like the same things.

Who says fictional monsters can't differ? Yes, we have our purists and that's fine but variety is the proverbial spice of life.

I would say I go for the Dracula as depicted by Gary Oldman in the brilliant Coppola film, Dracula. That characterisation is for me completely. We get to see a before to the character: how he came to be the way he came to be!

Purists (myself included when the mood suits) will say that the horrifically monstrous vampire, Nosferatu, as depicted in the film (s) by the same name is the Dracula.
I say if you take Nosferatu's creature and you blend him with say Gary Oldman's or even Bela Lughosi's, you will get the Dracula that I happen to think Bram Stoker envisioned.

Now, Edward Cullen has an entirely different appeal as does Nosferatu. Edward Cullen and the handsome boy vampires as depicted in Twilight and Vampire Diaries are something else again, but these books (and film) although 'cross overs' in many ways do tend to be aimed at the Young Adult market.

I say why not, too? If teens enjoy reading about their own take on vampires, why shouldn't they? Reading is reading after all, and who knows where that interest in vampires will lead? There will be budding authors among them who will quite possibly redefine their own vampires in fiction they might go on to write.

Let all the undead flourish in their own way! 'Live' and let 'live,' I say! And why not?

Vampire lore is all around us. They are the part of legend from all over the world. Every culture has stories of these strange beings.

They exist because we do, because man has always dreamed of things impossible, things different from himself. I think it is our yearning to overcome death, to defeat it and live forever that vampires exist at all.

You see, if you think of it, the one real nightmare that does exist is Death. So why not try to defeat that spectral kill-joy with undead creatures that can tell Death off?

Oi! YOU! Death, hop it!

Thursday, March 3, 2011

I Never Met A Muse I Could Trust

What writer, including me, hasn't used the term, 'muse' when referring to creativity? Yes, we ALL have! And because we have, I have come to the conclusion it is best for us to think of our creativity more in terms with our own talent: hence this blog post! Enjoy!

You know, I never met one I trusted. They don't like regular hours. They're always calling in sick. A more unreliable species of beings I have yet to come across!

I think writers depend on  them far too much and don't develop their own RMS (Replacement Muse System).

The best writing advice I ever received came from a friend who happens to write a very successful crime series. She told me to never wait for inspiration.

That quite floored me. I couldn't get over it. But the more I wrote, the more I realized she was entirely correct.

Let me explain what I mean: writing a novel is a job. It's a job I like but it's a job. If I waited for some miraculous voice of artistry and creation to call to me, I wouldn't get it done. I'm aiming for two novels a year so I think you see what I mean!


My characters are my inspiration. I know them so well that I listen to them. They lead me through the story. Sometimes I find I don't agree with a detour and I go back, but most of the time. MOST OF THE TIME: 99.9 percent OF THE TIME THEY'RE RIGHT. They might lead me to a strange and surprising place, but guess what? I find that if I look around I like it!

Creativity is a gift that writers have. We can truly press ourselves and continue on without waiting for a 'muse,' because THERE ARE NO MUSES. There is only the writer and his/her imagination. YOU are your own muse.

Writing is hard work that needs constant honing and refinement. But most of all I have found it needs real push, self-motivation and the desire to get your work out there and published.

And no matter what you keep going, you keep pushing and working and you don't stop, because even when you are published you'll find the really hard work begins. But hey, that's what a writer's life is all about, right?!

Monday, February 28, 2011


Here are some teasers for the first 9 stories in the Anthology!

K.K. has written some great introductions and has selected for your examination some cool excerpts!


The remaining story teasers and excerpts will be presented next week! Here goes:


The monstrously addictive power of crack cocaine lies in the intensity—and the brevity—of the high. Within a matter of moments, you’re back to normal again (or as close to ‘normal’ as anyone on crack ever gets) and ready for more. It’s also relatively cheap—per dose-- and doesn’t seem to eat your money as fast as it does, so one month you’re paying cash for it, the next month you’re selling your last remaining pair of shoes for it. One of my best friends, when he lived in Tampa, told me a story of how a thin, wasted man desperately asked him at a 7-11 to buy a bloodstained baby’s blanket for five dollars.

For better or for worse, crack seems to have fallen off the national radar or it’s been eclipsed by that other breakfast of champions, crystal meth. Or a prediction has come true…one authority on drugs called the crack epidemic, ‘A self-cleaning oven’, meaning: ‘In a few years there won’t be a crack epidemic, because everyone who keeps using crack will be dead.’

Or, as imagined by the amazing John Shirley, WORSE than dead…


By John Shirley

8:45 P.M., Saturday Night, West Oakland, California
Dwayne was sick of hearing Uncle Garland talk. The old man would talk about Essy and he would talk about the dope and he would talk about grindin’, about everything but his own goddamn drinking. Sitting in that busted wheelchair at the kitchen table, talking and sipping that Early Times. Talking shit about his angel dreams, too. One more word about the dope. . .

But Dwayne tolerated more than just one more word, because he needed Uncle Garland. He needed a place to stay and some place to run to. So he just sat and listened while he waited for Essy to get up, waited for Essy to get them started again. Essy in the next room, had to crash for awhile, been two hours already. Fuck it. Dwayne could taste rock at the back of his tongue; smell it high in his nostrils. All in the imagination.

The TV was on, with the sound turned off. A rerun of a show with that guy used to be in Taxi. Tony something.

“You listening to me, Dwayne?” Uncle Garland demanded, scratching his bald pate with yellowed fingers. His rheumy eyes looking at Dwayne and not seeing him. Moving with less life than the TV screen. Blind. The old man was blind, but that was easy to forget, somehow.

“Can’t hardly not listen, you talking all the time,” Dwayne said.

“The dope killing this town, it be killing our people,” Garland was saying. “Killing the black man. I’m fixin’ to go the Next World, and I’m glad to be goin’, Praise Jesus, with the devil eating this world like a pie. . .” Didn’t pause to take a breath.

Uncle Garland’s place was an apartment in the Projects, in the shadow of the freeway that collapsed in the ‘89 earthquake. Used to be you heard the freeway booming and rushing all night. Now it was eerie quiet. Or quiet as it ever got in the Projects.

“Tell you some true now,” Uncle Garland said, using the expression that always prefaced a long, long lecture. “These are the end times, that the Lord’s truth. In my angel dreams, they come to me and tell me it’s so. And it’s on the news, about the dead people rising. It’s in the Bible, son, when the dead rise it’s a Sign that the Lord is coming for Judgment —”


Food, Glorious FOOD! How do we love thee? (Really, how can we NOT, since every little innocent Oreo cookie has 14 various ‘appetite inducers’.)

Let the legendary F. Paul Wilson’s “Topsy” count the ways…


By F. Paul Wilson

I’m inna middle a chewin on dis giant lasagne noodle when Nurse Delores appears.

“Morning, Topsy!” she says as she marches inta da room in her white uniform.

Dey call me Topsy.

Don’t ax why dey call me dat. My name’s Bruno. But evybody here calls me Topsy.

“Oh, no!” she says. “You’ve been eating your sheets again!”

I look down an see she’s right. My sheets is all chewed up. I guess dat weren’t no giant lasagne noodle after all.

God I’m hungry.

“Ready for breakfast?” she says all bright an cheery.

Course I’m ready for breakfast—I’m dyin for breakfast—but I don’t say nuttin. Cause what dey call breakfast here ain’t. Ain’t lunch or dinner neither. Just liquid. Not even a shake. I amember when I useta eat diet shakes. Useta drink ten a dem fa breakfast. An anotha ten fa coffee break. Dey’re junk. I neva lost weight on dem. Not once.

But no shakes round here. Just dis clear glop. An here she comes wit a whole glass of it.

“Here, Topsy. Open your mouth and drink this,” she says, all Mary Sunshine poikiness.

If my hands wasn’t strapped to da side of da bed I’d grab her an make her drink it herself an see how much she likes dat shit.

She tilts da glass toward my lips but I turn away.

“Come on, Topsy,” she says. “I know you don’t like it, but it’s this or nothing.”


“Come on, Topsy. Do it for Lenore. Don’t be mad at me. The protein hydrosylate isn’t my idea. It’s doctor’s orders. And it’s working. You’re down to twelve hundred and thirty pounds now.”

Still I don’t open.

“Come on, baby. It’s this or go hungry. Open up.”

Sometimes she calls me baby, but dat don’t make it taste better, believe me.

I open an pretend it’s a milk shake. A big double chocolate praline shake laced wit wet walnuts.

Don’t help. I gag an wanna barf it all ova da place but manage to choke it down. Gotta. It’s all I’ll get til lunch. An dat’ll only be a salad.

God I’m so hungry.

Dey don’t unnerstan aroun here. Don’t seemta realize dat I gotta eat. Dey say dey’re helpin me by stickin needles in my arms an feedin me teeny bits of veggies an barely a moutful of whole grain sumpin-or-otha an dis liquid protein shit, but dey ain’t helpin. Ain’t helpin me one bit.

Guy’s gotta eat.

Useta be so good when my brotha Sal an his wife Marie was takin care a me. I was happy den. Dat’s cause dey unnerstood. Dey knew I hadda eat. Boy could dey cook. No limit, man. Anyting I wanted, it was dere on da bed tray soon as I said.

Dey unnerstood me, know’m sayin?


Between “Topsy” and Stephen King’s “Survivor Type”, I blithely assumed that nothing more horrific could be written on the subject of eating disorders. Was I ever wrong. When Lee sent me this story from Scott Goriscak (the author of ‘Wounds’ from the first MASTERS OF HORROR anthology), I wrote back: Oh. My. God.

Fair warning: if you’ve just now finished a decent meal, skip ahead to one of the other stories before reading…


By Scott M. Goriscak

Jake wasn’t the best looking guy in school: he was tall, gaunt, and pale but he could always be found in the middle of a crowded room surrounded by the ladies. His popularity could be attributed to the fact his parents traveled often leaving him home alone, which gave him the perfect opportunity to throw all the parties he wanted; and these gatherings were legendary. Everyone in school quickly gravitated to the young man for this very reason. His parties replaced the empty void that used to be—a weekend at home replaced with a place to go and socialize with their classmates. They thought that Jake was great for providing his classmates a haven for them to gather, party, and socialize. He was the perfect host, greeting everyone at the front door of his house armed with cold mugs of beer in his hands, a table brimming with food, and an endless selection of beautiful ladies. This may have seemed like the perfect way to spend the evening but Jake had ulterior motives for hosting these gatherings.

Tonight was no different. The music was loud and the beer was flowing freely. The ladies moved provocatively on the dance floor as the alcohol pickled their inhibitions. Jake roamed the party filling empty glasses and serving food—the perfect host. After he made his rounds Jake would always return to the company of the ladies, sometimes expanding on his duties if one of them needed to have her hair held back as she vomited in the community puke barrel.

The puke barrel was the one rule that guests were required to obey. All party-goers, new or veteran, needed to know what it was, where it was, and why it existed. It was a fifty gallon barrel that resided on the patio. If anyone was going to be sick they were expected to use the barrel and not the bathroom. The bathroom was farther away than the open back door. The party-goers didn’t seem to have an issue with the only rule of the party. They had been to too many parties before where the person attempting make it to the bathroom ended up either christening everything on the way or showered the bathroom in vomit. This rule was a small concession to abide by in exchange for a place to have a good time. It was easy to relate to their host’s concerns since they had either witnessed someone or had been that anxious person at a previous party running across the crowded room in search of the restroom. Some parties when Jake wasn’t hanging with the women he was out back watching over the puke barrel. Most people thought this was his way to make sure that no one dumped the horrible swill across the patio. At one party a few volunteers decided to help clean up after everyone went home and while moving the heavy barrel they accidently spilled it. Jake looked both angry and tearful at the sight of the gelatinous soup splashing across the patio into the grass. Thinking that they were responding properly to their clumsiness they grabbed a garden hose and flooded the surface to wash the remainder of the smelly fluid from settling into the brick and sand. Jake fought to hold back the tears as he watched the fruits of his labors wash away. He was careful to never let that happen again. At the end of each party he refused any and all offers to help clean up, tonight was no different. As he was escorting everyone out the front door he would politely turn down any offer of help until the last person exited and he closed the door behind them. This is the time of the night that Jake looked forward to. He walked outside to the barrel on the patio. There he stood looking down into the half filled barrel of foam, lumps of food and beer. His mouth watered.


Is there anyone more prone to substance abuse than rock ‘n rollers? Possibly, but perhaps it’s just not as widely publicized. Keith Richards once remarked that “musicians don’t necessarily get started on drugs because they’re all plentiful and fun—or that they seem entitled to them. A lot of times it’s because you’re in Des Moines one night and you have to be in Chicago the next, all pumped and ready to go.”

Or, as Ken Goldman writes, there might be another reason.


By Ken Goldman

Grinding his axe in the heaviest balls-out band on the charts had not significantly altered bassist Zacherly Cooper’s pursuit of the young BaddAss groupies, although the thrill of the hunt had long since disappeared. There was no question that he would be bumping bones with the young girls following every concert during the BaddAss KickkAss Tour 2K1; there remained only the uncertainty of how much aggravation this latest cooz pot would cause when time came to toss her butt out of his hotel room.

“You fuck like you play—pissed,” the nubile blonde informed him as she squirmed back into a silk thong so thin the bassist could have flossed with it. During their time in bed her smiles of pleasure had faded in inverse proportion to her tolerance for pain. “I’m just glad you’re not into Pete Townshend or you might have broken me against the goddamned headboard.”

The girl got that part right. Zacherly felt pissed enough to do much worse than providing some groupie a shitty fuck. The band had fallen on hard times since its lead guitarist chewed the muzzle of his .38. Almost as disastrous were the media’s talking heads who asserted that the surviving BaddAss members had lost it the night Raymond ‘Kinky’ Wisznewski offed himself. One MTV asswipe claimed Zacherly Cooper was fooling himself if he expected there might be a second act in his future.

On the warm April evening that was Kinky’s last, some clever cop covering the crime scene remarked that the effect of Wisznewski’s shattered brains on the wall of his hotel suite looked like a dripping Rorschach painted in gray matter. Zack personally felt his buddy’s splatters resembled the finger paintings of a zoo ape, but he had been high enough to swear to reporters that he had witnessed the Holy Virgin’s image dripping down the blood soaked wall. Having lost his best friend as well as his meal ticket, the BaddAss bassist immediately scored the best weed in the western hemisphere, intending to keep himself eight miles high for many months to come. With enough reefer to choke a horse Zacherly Cooper’s agenda was to disappear behind a thick wall of smoke. In the world of heavy metal this passed for grief.

Wisznewski would forever be a tough act to follow. How could any mortal hope to produce a metallic mindfuck like the opening bars of his classic “Saint Damnation”?

“A fallen man, lost and alone, I discovered an angel dusting the streets of hell.

Curse me Father, for I wish to sin . . .”

Cooper knew better than to compete with lyrics like these, but his career as a solo act would need a jump start if he intended to pick up the dropped gauntlet of his band mate.

You fuck like you play…

The girl didn’t mean that as a compliment.

And what if he played like he fucked? What if there were no second act?


Having lived in Las Vegas for many years, I’d seen the lure of gambling seduce and destroy many normally decent people first-hand. In an effort to appeal to their logic, I’d tell them: “Look at the Strip. There’s a Castle, there’s a Pyramid, there are replicas of New York and Paris. Do you think they built those by GIVING MONEY AWAY?” When you hear the expression “Easy Money”, do yourself a favor and entertain the notion there may be no such thing.

Now, observe as Ryan Willox takes the phenomenon to another level altogether.

A Kiss for the Damned

By Ryan Willox

Martin had been running for the past fifteen minutes and his legs were tiring. If he stopped for a single breath they would be on him. He had evaded them for too long to simply let them overrun him, so he struggled on.

His legs felt heavier by the second and urged him to give up but if he looked back he would succumb because seeing them again, whatever they were, would break his resolve.

As Martin raced down King Street he recalled his last sighting of his hunters only minutes before and how inconspicuous they had looked in their bland, pale colored T-shirts and nerdy shorts.

A casual observer would have thought nothing of them, but then a casual observer wouldn’t have realized they weren’t—right. He hoped that his recent glance back at them would be the last time he would see them - the terror that it wouldn’t be kept him going.

Freewheeling down another steep gradient, distancing himself still further, he then leapt up the steps of the Central Station railway bridge in the heart of the town, taking then two at a time in order to finish this agonizing pursuit.

While running on the bridge, he looked up at the sky and saw one of the most beautiful sunsets he had ever witnessed. The sun was a brilliant blood red and the almost cloudless sky around it was an explosion of purples, deep crimson, and oranges all merging together.

As he ran, with his paisley tie flapping wildly and his white shirt sticking to him through perspiration, he supposed that, if this was to be the last sunset he would ever see, it would be the finest.

Soon the bridge was out of sight and he was running towards home. Despite a deep centered reservation about doing so, Martin glanced over his shoulder and was more relieved than he could ever hope to express when he didn’t see anyone giving chase.

After a chase that seemed endless, he got to the apartment block he called home.

Standing with his back to the door so that he could keep watch, he searched frantically in his pockets for his keys. He discovered them in the front left pocket of his trousers and, within seconds, he fell inside and lay on the cold stone hallway. Despite his aching limbs he forced himself to get up and go to his apartment because he would only be safe when he was inside. Battling exhaustion, Martin crawled up the stairs to his front door.

After kicking the door shut he lay in the cooling dark. His exhaustion was all- consuming and he found he had neither the will, nor the strength to get up; therefore he made only a cursory attempt at resistance as he slipped into unconsciousness on the floor.


Normally, Halfway Houses and Rehabilitation Centers start out rough—’kicking cold’, scrubbing toilets, re-learning ‘people skills’, baring your soul to addicts even scarier than yourself—and then get better.

Not in Carole Gill’s world, though.

Big House

By Carole Gill

Addicts ‘r us, messed up losers—you know the kind: cokeheads, overeaters, serious self harmers, suicide groupies, sex addicts—each of them so completely fucked up they finally end up in a kind of terminal rehab center--which is what this place was.

Yes, the Big House gave such places free reign to run themselves as they saw fit. They were, after all, evaluation centers to review the clients’ varying addictions and to best access what the next step was. That was what Executive Management said; what they did, however, was another matter.

Joe knew. He had taken the job happily, ages ago…but now he found his second thoughts had third, fourth and fifth thoughts.

But there was worse, there always is.

Joe sighed. He was Director, Houseman, whatever anyone wanted to call it—that was okay with him. In truth, he ran the place—this waystation, recovery home, haven, care facility.

Actually, he thought of it as ‘losers ‘r us.’ The place where the lost, the hopeless, the monumentally fucked up finally end up—in short it was the repository for addicts. He ran the men’s section.

He saw the new batch arrive in the van nicknamed Pegasus. Someone with a misplaced sense of humor named it that because if that horse flew, these poor bastards were now to be grounded for an indeterminate time (to say the least).

As always, Joe welcomed them: “We are going to sort you out--to evaluate you and send you on your way. It’s not so bad…you’ll see.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’? I just see you, man.”

Ah, trouble right away…and in the shape of a skinny little kid with attitude.

Scott, recent jailbird and dull-eyed wonder at 19, was not impressed. “This place sucks!”

“But you just got here! Give us time!”

Scott let loose a stream of abuse but Joe wasn’t bothered. “Your nose is bleeding, Scott.”

“How do you know my name?”

“We get briefed.”

“Yeah, so what does that make me?”

It was always the same. “It makes you putty in the system’s hands, kid, better get used to it.”

“Look, the judge told me he was sending me here, and that was it.”

“Which judge was that, Scott?”

“I don’t know—Judge Minos or something…the one I just saw. What’s it to you anyway?”

A murmur of laughter from the other losers and Scott looks proud of himself.

No one says anything. The only reaction is from Albert who deliberately lets one monumental fart rip as a kind of comment.

“That’s disgusting!” This they nearly all respond to—waving their hands in front of their faces. “Christ almighty!”

Albert didn’t laugh—he was the most seriously disturbed. He wore bracelets on both his wrists these were the white dressings that covered his most recent suicide attempt: even his scars had scars. Poor Al.

Joe knew. He had the notes. Predestination came into it. In Al’s case he had a crazy mother who tried to drown him when he was ten.

“Why did you do that, Mrs. Fugle?”

“The voices told me, your honor. Blame them!”


Unlike most quasi- illegal substances, steroids have helped people; they’re prescribed for several different medical conditions—in fact they’re one of the only methods of alleviating them, at present—and they do enable athletes and bodybuilders to attain nearly superhuman levels of achievement. I’m personally baffled by the attitudes sports authorities have towards steroid use: “They used STEROIDS to hit those thousand home runs!” I think, “Aren’t you PAYING them these endless millions to HIT a thousand home runs? Hell, GIVE them steroids, let ‘em use them all they want!”

As long as they’re prepared to ‘pay the piper’, of course. And when that piper is my man Keith Gouveia…LOOK OUT.


By Keith Gouveia

Let me start by taking a moment to apologize to the world. I feel as though the cataclysmic events that have unfolded in the last couple of weeks are my fault.

Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I just watched another news broadcast stating that there is pandemonium in the streets of Hartford, Connecticut. The infestation is spreading and, as their numbers increase, our chances of survival diminish.

I am locked away inside my home in Fall River, Massachusetts. I thought I was safe, until my confines were reduced to my master bedroom. At least I still have the bathroom. A 13-inch television is my only link to the outside world. Fortunately, I had enough time to grab some canned goods and other rations.

But they won’t last.

My dresser secures the door and the windows are boarded, but recently the bangs against the door have increased in frequency and intensity. I know in my heart that it is only a matter of time before our government has the situation under control, but I fear I will not live to see that day. That is why I write this now.

My name is Adam Kelly, and this is my punishment.

My friend Will and I were enjoying a day together. It had been so long since the two of us could just hang out as we did in the old days, what with me getting engaged and all. Our day started at the gym, where I learned the stupid bastard was taking steroids. Of course, I chewed his ass out for it. I worked in the pharmaceutical business and knew of all sorts of horror stories about their effects on the human body. But did he listen? NO! I dropped the subject.

After our workout, the two of us headed to my house to change clothes.

The plan was to try the new sushi bar that opened downtown. Since Will lived in Rhode Island, I reluctantly agreed to let him borrow some of my clothes. Once we were ready, we headed over to the restaurant. It was there this nightmare began. Why couldn’t we have just gone out for steak?

The place was crowded and we should have walked out right then and there, but instead, we waited.

“I have no idea what any of this stuff is,” I said as we looked over the menu.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll ask the waiter what he recommends,” Will replied and put down his menu. He too had no idea what he was looking at.

“Can I start you off with something to drink?” asked the waiter.

“Yeah, I’ll have whatever is on tap.”

“Me, too,” I added.

“Do you need a few more moments to decide on your meals?”

“What do you recommend? Neither one of us has ever had sushi before,” Will told the waiter.

“Well, we have the popular California rolls, along with a soft shell crab roll. But I would recommend the Maki Sushi.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It is a sweet soy bean curd sushi. If you don’t like it, then chances are sushi in general isn’t for you.”

“All right, I’ll try that,” I replied and Will ordered the same. I got the biggest kick when the waiter asked us if we wanted chopsticks or if we preferred forks. We both agreed on the forks. The waiter returned shortly with our beer and it wasn’t long after that when the food came out.

“You first,” I said as I hesitated to try the strange dish that was placed before me.

“We’ll go at the same time,” Will answered hesitantly, and I agreed. We took our first bite simultaneously. I remember the look on Will’s face while he was chewing. It was one of surprise and delight.

“Not bad,” I said upon swallowing the morsel.

“No. Not bad at all.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Definitely. So I don’t have to pick up the tab?”

“No. It’ll be my treat,” I said.

“Cool. If I had known that, I would have ordered an imported beer.”

“Don’t push it,” I threatened and we both laughed.

That was the last time we would ever laugh like that again.


The phenomenon of “cutting” is more prevalent than you’d expect. Princess Diana was rumored to be a ‘cutter’, although I cannot confirm or deny this.

In the book THE ALCOHOLISM AND ADDICTION CURE, Author Chris Prentiss explains how ‘cutters’ think, as he cured one. “You feel bad before you cut yourself; you feel better AFTER you cut yourself. You’re cutting yourself to feel GOOD,” he told a woman…and that particular vice was revealed and subsequently defeated.

As New Zealand’s Master of Horror Lee Pletzers describes, it’s not always defeated…

The Seal

By Lee Pletzers

It came out of his skin, ripping and tearing.

Claws gripped the flayed skin, a black head the shape of a panther with a long snout and a jutted jaw, slid from the opening, surveying its surrounds. It lunged forward, forcing its thick muscular body forward, struggling, wriggling its way through, and ripping the man’s torso apart in the process. There was no pain. He watched the creature strode to and fro, claws clacked on the vinyl covered floor. Malevolent eyes, green and deep, stared at the man. Its lip curled up exposing a row of jagged teeth, tips gleamed in the fluorescent lights. Water dripped off its slick coat creating a puddle on the floor.

The lights flickered. The creature was invisible in the darkness. With each flash of light it had moved closer like stop motion photography. Suddenly it was on the bed, growling, hungry and eyeing his destroyed chest. It eyed his exposed heart.

“Wake up,” came a female voice with a very stern tone. “Warwick, wake up.”

The creature eyed the woman, licked it lips, and poised on the bed.

“Don’t make me restrain you.”

Warwick’s eyes snapped open, momentarily startling the woman.

“That’s better,” she said, absentmindedly brushing down her nurse apron. She grabbed his wrist and looked at her watch. “You must calm down,” she scolded. “All the machines went into alarm.”

“Leave, now! It’s watching you!” His voice was a harsh whisper full of urgency and concern.

“Mister James, there’s nothing there.” The nurse stared at her watch. She shook her head. “I’m going to have to give you something. Your pulse is racing.”

The creature growled. Raising a paw, its claws snapped out like tiny curved daggers. It swung at the nurse, aiming at the face. The nurse was unaffected. The claws passed through her as if she were a ghost and nothing more. Frustrated, a roar ripped from its throat.

Warwick laughed. The seal was cracked but not broken. All was good for now, but he knew he needed to enhance the seal, strengthen it. He smiled at the nurse. He knew how the game was played. “I think I’m fine now,” he said. “It was just a dream that seemed so real.”

The nurse filled a hypodermic syringe.

“Seriously--I don’t need that.”

The nurse tapped air out of the syringe.

“Betty, please.”

“It’s for your own good.” She turned to face him. “Just settle down, now.”

Warwick tried to move, but the creature had pinned his arms at his sides. Its snout was inches from his nose, its hind legs on his thighs. “She injects me, you die.”

He stared into the creatures’ deep green eyes. He flinched at the sting of the needle. “Goodbye,” he said to the creature as it faded and its weight lifted. Looking down at his chest moments before the drug took him, he smiled. Everything was as it should be. He had 72 more hours before the creature tried to return. He worried that it was not enough time to strengthen the seal. All he could do was hope it was.


Take a small but decent-sized American city and slaughter its entire population, over the course of a year. (Well, don’t, actually.) If a hostile country did that to one of our cities, we’d probably give them the Hiroshima treatment.

Yet, that’s how many people alcohol kills in different methods—cirrhosis, other diseases, drunk drivers (62 victims a day from that alone!), accidents, fights, mayhem—every year. It out-kills every other drug we’ve come up with, except possibly for tobacco, while we lock up nonviolent marijuana users by the thousands. And as a society, we let it slide. The legality, prevalence and perceived ‘normality’ of alcohol—and its enormous lobby and tax income--makes it seem ‘not so bad’.

In fact, if you were to give alcohol a human voice, it might just say so.


By K.K.

At 11:40 AM, Deacon Blues was almost finished redecorating the room. The framed EASY DOES IT and DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF placards were still there, along with the huge posters describing the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, but he’d added some real eye-catchers.

A Corona poster had been added. A hot model in a bikini posed with a bottle of the beer, but her beautiful face had been cut out of the picture. Other poster-girls for Coors Light and Smirnoff Ice posed on other walls, equally headless. Magazine ads for Captain Morgan’s Rum, Southern Comfort and Jack Daniels were taped up at eye level here and there as well. They were all very commonplace images, but very incongruous for a chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. And if Rick didn’t arrive soon, Deacon Blues would have to take down all his work before the next meeting started. “Where are you, Tusgrin?” He growled under his breath to the empty room.

At 11:45 AM, Rick Tusgrin rolled his battle-scarred Impala to a halt next to Deacon Blues’ ancient Triumph motorcycle outside the West Side Group, and got out. As the door crunched shut with a pained metallic groan, he noticed all the damage he’d done to it over the last two years. Dented door, dented quarter-panel, dented fender, dented grille…it went on and on. Now that he was sober, he could connect each dent to a different bar or party. Funny how he hadn’t noticed before. He walked towards the building’s door, then groaned at his own malfunctioning memory and stalked back to the car to get the photos Matt had requested.

Inside, Deacon Blues raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, Rick. Did you bring ‘em?”

Rick nodded, holding out a manila envelope. “Right here, Mr. Bluzinski.”

“Call me Matt, for the thirtieth time…and thanks. These are all Jane Does, right?” he asked.

Rick nodded. “Of course. If they weren’t, you wouldn’t be able to look at ‘em.

What the hell did you want these for, anyw—” His sentence trailed off as he saw the new d├ęcor. “Awwww, no…”

Matthew “Deacon Blues” Bluzinski raised an eyebrow. “What?” Instead of waiting for a reply, he taped an eight-by-ten photo of a female corpse’s face where the bikini model’s face should have been. “Hmmm, probably ought to cut these down to size…ah, I’ll do it later.” He repeated the process on another headless model.

“That is freakin’ sick.” Rick grumbled.

“That is the exact point.” Deacon Blues kept taping as he spoke. “Advertising in reverse. Haven’t you seen those TV ads for ‘The Truth’? They’re freakin’ sick, but they get their point across because they’re sick. And that’s for tobacco. Nobody stands up to alcohol, no matter how many people die. People leave these meetings, they’re right back on the street, and every billboard shows people livin’ the wild nightlife. No wonder so many people relapse.” He touched up the Captain Morgan ad with a black and white photo of a crashed car. “Yeah, these are shock tactics. I think we need shock tactics. But if anyone tells me they’re disgusted, I’ll take them down. I bet you nobody does.”

It would probably be better for the society at large if our various vices only impacted US, and not affect our friends and families. As we all know, that usually isn’t the case. As seen on HBO’s “Intervention” series, a huge number of addicts would self-destruct if it weren’t for their friends and families.

But perversely, often our friends or families can be hard-partying “Enablers” that can either ‘jump-start’ our addictions, and/or cheerfully match us shot-for-shot down the left-hand path. Harry Mora now poses the question: which of you will reach the end of the road first?


The rest next week! Stay tuned!
What a damned good anthology this is!
thank you!

First Look At Print Edition Cover For THE HOUSE ON BLACKSTONE MOOR!

Yes! This is the cover for the print edition!
Gaynor Stenson (Vamplit Publishing) did it and it's beautiful!
Those of you who wished to see it in print, well this is how it's going to look!

I think I was just starting the novel last year this time! It started as an idea. I had this vision of a grand looking house built on barren moorland. I heard the lonely sound of the wind howling in the chimneys, I saw it in the bleak, dark grey of a wintry afternoon. Perhaps there were one or two lights lit.

I heard screams coming from both within the house and without or was it the wind?!

After thinking about it a little more I knew it was not the wind!

The characters began to come to me, one by one. The first of whom was Louis Darton, a character I had already created for stories which were presented to Vamplit's Blood Read Magazine and which appeared online.

You can download those stories for free at Smashwords:

Writing those stories helped me to create Louis Darton for the novel.

I will, of course, keep you all updated about the release date for the print version!

Thank you for your support and thank you for reading this!

Saturday, February 26, 2011


Triskaideka Books is hellbent on telling you about this, their latest Anthology: 'Damned If You Don't!'

Stories of the horrors of addiction, featuring these horror writers:

SCOTT M. GORISCAK                          NOMAR KNIGHT

KEN GOLDMAN                                     LORI LOPEZ

RYAN WILLOX                                      ARMAND ROSAMILIA

CAROLE GILL                                        SCOTT NICHOLSON

LEE PLETZERS                                       K. K.  

HARRY LOUIS MORA                           KEITH GOUVEIA

JOSEPH PINTO                                       JOHN SHIRLEY


MARISSA FARRAR                                 BLAZE McROB

                                          C. D. BENNETT

PARTY PEOPLE! Your NIGHTMARES have been fulfilled…

Some of the darkest horrors are those that we choose to inflict on ourselves.

In the hands of the MASTERS OF HORROR, the evils of drug use, alcoholism, scarification, obesity and obsession have been amplified into bloodcurdling cautionary tales…

Enter the literal Crackhouse of the Living Dead in Aftertaste by John Shirley Author of DEMONS)!

Spend a horrific hospital stay in the body of a 1500-pound man in Topsy by F. Paul Wilson (Author of THE KEEP).

Witness the grotesque union of steroids and tapeworms in Taper by Keith Gouveia (Author of KILLING FAITH).

Join an AA meeting where alcohol itself shows up with its own axe to grind in Showdown with Deacon Blues by K.K. (Author of STAPLEGUN LOGIC).

Cut the evil out of your own body…or die trying…in The Seal by Lee Pletzers (Author of THE GAME).

Party ‘til the end of the world in Doomsday Diary
by Scott Nicholson (Author of THE RED CHURCH and ASHES).

19 Terrifying tales--and a nonfiction detoxification guide--await you within!

Sacrifice your vice with the MASTERS OF HORROR.

You’re literally DAMNED IF YOU DON’T.

Watch this space, people!
More updates to follow with all sorts of bloody good teasers!

Thursday, February 24, 2011


Hey I think this blog is long over-due for something like a rant day! I mean one day at least! Possibly Rant Day will become a few days. Hmm.

So please feel free to stop by and give me a rant.  Misery loves company remember and I think venting and ranting help a person to feel better!

I'll tell you what I've always done when I've had a particularly horrible day, I've always put on a horror film. Generally Psycho is great!  Also American Psycho and any of the Hannibal Lecter films.

I mean who doesn't love this:

Why this, on the right sort of day absolutely warms the cockels of my heart!

Okay so what's the rant I hear you ask.

Today's rant is about nuisance callers. When husband and I moved into our home in 2006 we were given a telephone number that was supposed to have been unused for a long time. Almost immediately we began getting calls asking for a certain party. I checked around and no one knew who this person was. The former owners had an entirely different phone number.

When I explained (and husband did too) that Mrs. Jack the Ripper or whatever the hell her name was was not us, THEY DIDN'T BELIEVE US!

"We've just moved in." We said.

Guess what? They phoned back, always with the same question: "May I speak with Mrs. Jack the Ripper, please."


THEY ARE STILL PHONING!  They sometimes let a few months go by and they phone again!

We've had this gizmo that stops unidentified calls from getting through but guess what?

Stepson laughed (with compassion it has to be said) and told us if they want to get through they'll get through whatever we do.

It's stopped for now, but I know it'll start up again. I always go into a bunker mentality wherein husband comes home and I greet him in a firing position with dogs cowering behind the sofa.
"Oh they called again!"


(Takes a breath) MY RANT FOR THE WEEK!
thank you!

Monday, February 21, 2011

Horror and Sex, What Are The Limits?

Mine, I mean!
Let me put it this way, if you were raised by my mother you'd ask this question too!

I do write horror and pretty dark horror too. Well, the last post made me think. I wondered what I would do, what I could do if I were to sex up my horror a bit. 

For example. I am writing the sequel to The House on Blackstone Moor and I am thinking ahead, thinking to the scenes that depict Eco and what he got up to.

I mean for that part of the novel to be credible Eco would have to be engaged in all manner of sin. There would be things depicted that would possibly shock even Caligula. As a matter of fact Eco did shock Caligula!

There was this time when he was telling Caligula at Caligula's urging of a rather amazing weekend he had in Egypt with some Vampire cultists. Caligula, though no stick in the mud, was rather shocked.

What surprised the Emporer was not only Eco's ability to keep intersted a half a dozen concubines at once but to also keep fascinated at least that number of Palace guards as well.

"You are the most amazing man...!" Caligula gushed.

Eco we all know is not mortal. But he did not correct Caligula. He did stifle a laugh when the Emperor went on to say: "Of course for myself--it is different, being a God as I am."

"I tell you what!" Eco suggested. "As a God you will be able to out do me with one hand tied behind your back! How does that sound?"

Caligula leaned forward to hear Eco's absolutely outrageous suggestions about some sort of sexual olympics he had in mind for the Senator's wives to participate in.

Caligula was enthused to say the least. "You shall show them all you can do, my friend. You shall have all of them! They would never dare to refuse me and to make it even more fun, we will have this performed in front of the entire Senate!"

Eco was delighted. Caligula was thrilled.

See what I mean? I'm even kind of having fun with this sequel because well, I'm coming out of myself a bit and I find I like to!

Stay tuned for all sorts of surprises!

Saturday, February 12, 2011

It's Women In Horror Month Let's Honor Them!

Let's face it, we owe them a huge debt not just the women writers of horror but the actresses too.

On the literary front Mrs. Radcliffe is considered to have begun the gothic genre. She wrote: The Mysteries of Udolpho, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne, Gaston de Blondeville, The Italian, The Romance of the Forest and A Sicilian Romance.

Continuing onward would be the teen-aged Mary Wollstonecroft (soon to be Mary Shelley) writing the masterpiece, Frankenstein. This novel, to my mind, is the real starting point of the entire horror genre.

In more recent times: Shirley Jackson (The Haunting of Hill House) Susan Hill (The Woman in Black) Angela Carter (The Bloody Chamber) Anne Rice (The Vampire Chronicles, Lives of the Mayfair Witches, Servant of the Bones, etc)--!

These are the greats of literary horror, thinking horror. Horror with richly drawn characters and a plot to die for!

So what about the actresses? Those iconic ladies that frightened the daylights of me, for instance! Although there have been more there are two who stand out: the late, great Ingrid Pitt and Barbara Steele.

I spent many a night with the light on and the covers pulled up over my head because of these two.

Women have contributed greatly to horror fiction and film and they deserve our respect.

I seek in my own small way to honor them by contributing what I can in writing good horror fiction.

I thank those who first led the way and the greats who continue to do so.
And if you don't think a woman can write terrifying horror, here's scene from Susan Hill's The Woman In Black:

'Nuff said!

Thursday, February 10, 2011

DOWNLOAD FOR FREE! 'Song Of The Vampire' On Smashwords!

Three dark vampire tales for your reading pleasure and they're free!

Here's an excerpt:

"...She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out—her larynx had been chewed through.

It was amazing how long a person could live whilst being devoured. But then mercifully, the pain began to subside as death came to claim her..."

Song of the Vampire: darkest vampire fairytale

Memoir: a journal and a fate not worse than death?

and Truth Hurts: the writer of wimpy vampires so gets her comeuppance!

Go on you know you want to!

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Demon Eco Says God Created Angels For A Reason!

Now, you have to remember who Eco is!
For those of you who did not read The House on Blackstone Moor, Eco is demon spawn and thoroughly evil.

He is also, as my most recent reviewer wrote, 'I like Eco, he is demented and brilliantly so.' 
I have to say I like him too and frankly, the sequel, Unholy Testament, features him.

Now, since he has all the time in the world, he has experienced so much. There will be all sorts of little 'Eco gems' that he will come out with. For instance, he will tell the reader his reasoning as to why God created angels.

It was he believes, to have witnesses to creation. As he says: "I can understand him wanting an audience, truly I can. As for myself, I'd have been bored to tears, it was after all only a light show, stunning though it may have been!"

Yes easily bored is Eco. However there is that which does excite him.

Eco again: "What delighted and inspired me was my discovery of conjuring!"

We do already know about his conjuring. Remember his 'children?' Those horrific creatures he created that he considers his own flesh and blood: those vile, demonic, flesh-eating monsters he had attack people?!

In Unholy Testament we will discover how he learned to conjur them, what the circumstances were and so forth.

Apparently, from what I can tell, he learned this craft in ancient Egypt, despite the fact that the magic practiced by Priests there was not evil. Leave it to Eco to find the right Priest, a priest to teach him all about the ways of dark conjuring!

Of course as time went on and Eco continued to exist there were other eras. Each with its own wizards and magicians and Eco there to take it all in!

It was the conjuring of his 'children' that most people find so fascinating.
Yes, it's going to be quite a journey, stay tuned!

Thursday, February 3, 2011

What Is It About Angels and Devils?

We're fascinated by them.  Right now I'm reading Anne Rice's Memnoch the Devil and I find it profound and brilliant. It is one of the most unforgettable books I have ever read.

I won't review it here now, I'll be doing that on Goodreads shortly. What I do want to discuss is the subject matter.

What intelligent person doesn't have questions about God, creation and Heaven and Hell? We want to know. We can believe, that is the miracle of faith but I think we also want very much to know, to have all the answers to all the many questions we have. Perhaps it for this reason alone these kinds of books are as popular as they are.

That aside, I am fascinated by good and evil and the constant battle between the two. Angels might be God's foot soldiers, His helpmates. They know what He wants to do and they will do it without Him even asking. And He's pleased with his children of light.

They either exist or they don't. We can believe or not. What I am delighted about is they have become popular subject matter for fiction along with their evil counterpart.

Having them interact with characters we create is terrific. Having them then spar with one another good against bad is mind blowing.

As this is going on, in its very depiction, we are challenged as to what we believe.

If there be monsters then there also be angels to save us. If one thing comes from hell the other surely comes from Heaven.

Mightn't Heaven realistically or symbollically be there with the promise of salvation? And if it is, surely the characters we create fight the most important battles we can possibly imagine, conflicts that really mean something!

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

A Review From A Convert! Well, Decide For Yourself!

"Gothic horror. Not really my cup of tea, but Carole Gill's novel is a smooth read from page one and onwards..."

Lee Pletzers, publisher of Triskaideka Books has given me a great review. It's on Lee's own book review site, The Lonely Reviewer:

The review is also on Smashwords:

He doesn't even like gothic horror, but he liked my book! I can't tell you (but I'll try hardest) how much that means to me!

You see, I want to bring new readers into reading gothic genre books. That is my aim and I feel this is a first step.

I feel the gothic narrative is a great one and deserves to be given new life and energy. It must, I feel, be imbued with far darker themes and bolder storylines. I don't say, 'gothic romance was never like this,' for nothing. It has to change and I want to help to change it.

Here's the rest of his review:

"...Chapter one is interesting and thrusts the reader straight into the world of Rose Baines with a nice tag at the end that forces a page turn.

Coming home to see her family slaughtered by her father, see is struck weak and taken to an insane asylum to recover, where on her first night in a solo room she is abused. This is just the start of the horrors she will soon be faced with. There are sex rituals, sacrifice, vampires, demons (I like Eco, he is demented and brilliantly so), children vamps, and the leader, Louis Dartion, oh and gypsies.

All Gothic fans will love this book and Carole has created characters we can all identify with. Rose is a shy and uncomfortable around strangers and has a tendency to faint. Louis Dartion is the opposite but he too has a soft side. Some of the characters are in the story to move the plot along but most are interesting characters, like Dartion's wife, Marta and Reverend Hobbs.

Secrets will be exposed that will rock Rose's world and throw her life in turmoil. The amount of twists and turns this book takes will leave your head spinning and guessing until the end. And the journey Rose takes in this book is truly epic and you'll enjoy reading her exploits and adventure late into the night."

Thank you, Lee!
And remember everyone! The sequel, Unholy Testament is coming!

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Can We Pity The Damned?

Just going to make the focus of this question general. It refers to both The House on Blackstone Moor as well as the sequel, Unholy Testament.

A lot of dark things come out of the first book. Human beings and demons alike are shown to be capable of great evil, of horrific violence and the worst sins imaginable.

Louis was referred to by one of the books' reviewers as a Byronic hero. Perhaps he is. After all, he's  damned through no fault of his own yet he has a moral code he exists by, despite the fact that it ensures absolutely nothing will come of it. Louis Darton because of his father's support of Lucifer knows what his destiny is. As he says:

I am what I am... no promise of heaven awaits me. I have too much  freedom and no restraint…”

Think about it! How would we behave if there was no reason to live a decent and honorable life? Would we live principled lives if nothing we did counted, if there was no punishment ever?

Can those creatures (whatever they are) vampires, fallen angels, demon spawn, be the object of our pity ever? Should we try to see how it all began for them? Why it was and how they came to be what they are?

I probe these questions in the first book as well as the second. And this probing and pondering has led me to some very surprising conclusions--or questions. And let me say, I don't always know the answer!
But I do know something. I think  this debate all hinges on one word: 'pity.'

And that leads me to one surprising conclusion: which is, I think, I can have more pity in my heart for a vampire or a marauding werewolf on the loose than I can for an unrepentent entirely human serial killer.

What about you? What do you think?