Gregory L. Norris, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

arsonist, bad childhood, cigarette burns, good reads, keeping secrets, must read, satan, stepfather, the devil

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. And here’s our final author. Meet Gregory.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to interview Gregory for this series, but that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate his contribution to the anthology with an excerpt.

From “The Arsonist” by Gregory L. Norris:

1.

His name was Ray McCandless, and he was an arsonist.

2.

 Sonny McCandless, Ray’s stepdaddy, gave the boy his last name when Ray was only ten. The same year, on a miserably humid Sunday, Stepdaddy Sonny also gave Ray the first of several scars on his arms with a line of cigarettes.

Ray screamed when the embers seared his skin as though the sun jumped down from the sky to feast upon his flesh.

Stepdaddy Sonny laughed.

“You tell anyone, I’ll burn you worse,” Ray’s stepdaddy said. “I’ll burn you real bad.”

Ray wore long sleeves after that, even on hot summer days.

He got good at keeping secrets.

3.

 He set fire to the Big Woods near their house.

Curlicues of crisp smoke drifted up from the pine needles. The flames spread, conquering whatever green things it encountered. They leapt onto branches, sipped the oily pinesap, spread indiscriminately to hemlock and paper-white birch. The hungry, hissing music sang to him as knots in the wood blew apart.

Smoke billowed into a cloudless sky. The blaze did not last long before discovery, but the match was struck, the message sent.

Ray soon grew high on the dense smell of burning forest. He couldn’t break away until the man in the devil costume stepped out of the inferno.

A man in a silly, cheap Halloween costume, shiny red satin cape, with a plastic pitchfork in hand, and fake horns on his head. His face was thin and average with one of those slender mustaches applied with eyeliner for a bad community theater production.

“There you are, Smoky,” the devil said, his voice infused with a soupçon of British accent.

“My name’s not…”

The man moved beside him, planted his plastic pitchfork like a farmer or Poseidon with his trident. Together, they watched the forest fire spread, its hunger expanding with shocking speed.

“You know, Smoky, you’ve done an impressive job here. Do you hear all those wild Lady Slipper orchids screaming out as the flames reduce them to carbon?”

“I’m Ray, not Smoky. And orchids don’t scream.”

“Just because you can’t hear them doesn’t mean that they don’t. Still, I’d like for you to aim higher.”

“Higher?”

The devil leaned closer and whispered. “Sonny.”

 

 

Gregory L. Norris is a full-time professional writer, with work appearing in numerous short story anthologies, national magazines, novels, the occasional TV episode, and, so far, one produced feature film (Brutal Colors, which debuted on Amazon Prime January 2016). A former feature writer and columnist at Sci Fi, the official magazine of the Sci Fi Channel (before all those ridiculous Ys invaded), he once worked as a screenwriter on two episodes of Paramount’s modern classic, Star Trek: Voyager. Two of his paranormal novels (written under his rom-de-plume, Jo Atkinson) were published by Home Shopping Network as part of their “Escape With Romance” line—the first time HSN has offered novels to their global customer base. He judged the 2012 Lambda Awards in the SF/F/H category. Three times now, his stories have notched Honorable Mentions in Ellen Datlow’s Best-of books. In May 2016, he traveled to Hollywood to accept HM in the Roswell Awards in Short SF Writing. In 2017, Norris was hired to pen the novelization of the classic made-for-TV movie, The Day After Tomorrow: Into Infinity—which he watched when he was eleven. Follow his literary adventures at www.gregorylnorris.blogspot.com.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and the Transmundane Press store.

Linda G. Hill, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

book research, character development, good read, gothic, must read, Mystery, paranormal romance, stage magic, WIP, writer's block, writing motivation

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Linda.

What motivates you to write?

People motivate me to write. Human behavior fascinates me endlessly: I can spend hours writing scenarios in which characters react to their surroundings and one another, just to work through what makes them tick.

How do you deal with writer’s block?

I deal with writer’s block by having a shower. I’m always amazed by how many other authors say they find inspiration there. Must have something to do with not having anything to look at but tiles…that’s my best guess anyway.

What interesting thing did you learn while writing your last story?

My current WIP, the third novel in my paranormal romance series, “The Great Dagmaru,” takes place, in part, in Ottawa, at the National Arts Centre. I was lucky enough to discover that they had an open house of sorts, where they allowed the general public access to the stage, the dressing rooms, the prop rooms and rehearsal halls – basically the entire building. During my self-guided tour, I had the opportunity to meet the stage manager and discuss a scene in my novel where my main character, a stage magician, has horses on stage. I was able to obtain the logistics of getting the animals into the building, and I had the chance to see the loading docks for reference. I found out they had an elephant on stage there once, so the horses weren’t as much of an issue as I imagined they’d be when I wrote the scene.

 

From “The Flame on Lick’s Island” by Linda G. Hill:

I wasn’t confident walking into Penny’s shop. Of the four ladies standing behind customers, talking to them in the mirrors, three were barely into their twenties. White-haired, Penny’s former beauty radiated past her wrinkles when she smiled at her client. At the jangling of my entrance, she dropped her comb, pausing on me a beat too long before she bent to pick it up and sink it into her jar of Barbicide.

“Can I help you?” She plucked another comb and ran it under the tap.

“I’m just here for a cut,” I said.

One of the other girls did my hair, but Penny’s attention made me uncomfortable. Before leaving, I asked for a word. I was surprised when she suggested a cup of coffee.

We sat in the familiar diner.

The staff eyed us.

“I heard Lick’s was passed on as an inheritance. Was Kristie a close relative?”

My turn to gawp. “We weren’t related at all. Hubert was my husband’s uncle.”

“You’re joking. You’re the spitting image.”

Unnerved, I twisted a napkin in my lap. “It must be a coincidence.”

Penny shook her head. “I’m guessing you want to know about her.”

“How did you know?”

“Because Kristie is still out there, on the island.”

My shoulders jarred against the metal seatback.

“I’m right, aren’t I? People like Kristie don’t just go away when they die. And after what Hubert did… He must have loved her, though.”

“What did he do?”

“Hubert had an affair. When Kristie found out, she had her third miscarriage. Nobody even knew she was pregnant that time. She lost all of them out on the island. Hubert took care of her body, but her mind…that was a different matter.”

“I understand you used to go out and do her hair.”

“Yeah. And she’d talk to me when I did. Then one day, I had an appointment. I got out of the boat on their dock—it was a hot day, just like this one.” Penny sipped of her coffee.

Out the window, the traffic stopped and started at the corner.

“She’d cut it all off. That wasn’t the worst of it. I can’t talk about the last time I saw her.”

I had the diary; I’d find out myself.

“It was a long time before I went out there again. Years.” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “When I did, Hubert told me she was gone. I was the first in town to find out.”

“He didn’t hold a service or anything?” I asked.

“She had no family, and I was the closest thing she had to a friend. People asked the doc about her occasionally, but she kept to herself, so no one pried.”

That poor woman.

“So that’s it.” She looked me in the eye, her voice suddenly cold. “Was there anything else specific you wanted to know?”

“What do you know about the candles? Kristie seemed to like them. I keep finding puddles of dried wax everywhere.”

“She made them. The last time I was there, one was in the window by the front door of the house. Hubert had it lit like he was waiting for her to come home. Poor asshole.”

“Do you think she had anything to do with the fire in the apartment, here in town?”

The look in Penny’s eye made the temperature drop a degree, chilling my bones. “I have no idea.”

She paid for our coffees and left.

 

Linda G. Hill is a stay-at-home mom of three boys and the guardian of one beagle and two kitties. She concocts tales in her head 24/7 and blogs almost daily at lindaghill.com. Linda’s newest release, The Magician’s Curse, is the first in a series of Gothic paranormal romances. Also available on Amazon and Kobo is her romantic comedy novelette, All Good Stories. She lives in Southern Ontario, Canada.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and the Transmundane Press store.

Anthony S. Buoni, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

asshole character, author excerpt, horror, sci fi, science fiction, social commentary, storyteller, suspension of disbelief, the dancing lilly, Transmundane Press

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Anthony.

What is the best thing about being an author? What is the worst thing?

Best—being an asshole to characters. Worst—being an asshole to characters I like.

What are the genre(s) of the stories you write and why?

Horror.  My heart and passion exist in shadows cast by moonlight, in the creaking walls of a haunted house, and the devilish grin of a midnight creeper.  The genre often explores morality tales with complex human emotions.  Along with science fiction, horror asks the highest amount of suspension of disbelief from a reader, so if a tale ropes someone in, it is the mark of a talented storyteller.

What is the title of your next story and what will it be about?

Working on several projects. Closing circles as I like to call it.  Just finished a short for The Syndicate’s next Adventures in Arcaneanthology, and I am tinkering with a few more for Transmundane Press.  I have two books planned for this year, a collection of absurdist vignettes called A Grin Without a Catand then a collection of my horror shorts called Ossuary Tales.  Next year, two novels: zombies and a book examining what happens after death.

 

From “The Dancing Lilly” by Anthony S. Buoni:

Blazing orange, the sinking sun burned in the eastern sky, setting on the right of downtown’s skyscrapers. A haze blurs the river, and the chemtrail-scarred sky bleeds above the city.

As we cross the canal bridge, Peter’s got his extra claws digging into the steering wheel, sneer revealing his sharp teeth and bad gums. “Damn rats own everything. It’s not right.”

“This again?” I fiddle with the dial, hoping that music will smooth his raised hair. I swear, if Peter doesn’t learn to relax, he’ll stroke out in less than a dozen cycles.

“What do mean, ‘this again’?” Peter accelerates, bringing our transport too close to the ride ahead of us and setting off the dash alarm’s flashing red lights. “Things should be divided evenly between all of us. No one should have any more than anyone else.”

I yawn. I don’t want to grind today. “Doesn’t work. The ancients already tried that, remember?”

“They were uncivilized. We’re different. We’ve evolved.”

“I hardly think that’s true.”

“Believe what you want, we blew it when our leaders signed that treaty. Now the rats have all the money, power, and land, and we’re keeping the wheels turning so that they keep on getting fat. Slavery never went out, it simply morphed into a legal, controlled ideal. You and I…we’re suckers, man.”

I inspect my paws, and one of my nails is chipping. Was there a file in my locker? “Look, if you don’t like it, join the protestors. Hold up a sign and march and chant or something. A treaty is a treaty, and now we have peace. That’s that.”

He could have cut me with his glare. “That is most certainly not that. Those protestors are idiots, blocking traffic and wasting time. I betcha half of them didn’t even vote on Election Day. Then they hit the streets and smash windows. They beg for a free handout, and they have no idea what they really want.”

“I think all they want is respect.”

“No, no, no. That’s not it at all.” Peter’s worked up real good—his fur pokes out of his collar, and his ears point back. “Sure, they go on the Viewdaddy and cry and complain about respect, but what they’re really after is to be feared. They’ve mistaken the one with the other. They’re thirsty for power, to be on top, so they can be the ones calling the shots and making rules. If we lived in a world without rules and boundaries, where commerce could exchange freely between two parties instead of…”

Down below, despite Peter’s daily rant during our commute, three kittens and shoat play along the levee, oblivious to the wicked paths before them. Though I can’t hear their jubilation over Peter’s ravings and the jazz on the wireless, their gleeful expressions give away everything. Part of me nags to jump right out of window and land on the levee and run with them, but the realist, the adult, is louder than their muted fun and says you’ll drown in the canal. Poor kids. In no time, they will all be in the factories—the kittens pushing buttons and the shoat doing all the hard, back-breaking work.

“…Jack? Jack, hello? See, head in the clouds. You gotta stay focused, live in the now.”

“I’m tired. Not feeling the job today.”

“And that’s how we lost everything to the rats. People like you sleeping, not doing your part. You want to play rock and roll star and hang out with your dopey love toy while the world needs real people making real progress.”

“Maybe what the world needs is more dreamers instead of animals trying to fight each other over control.”

Peter shakes his head. “Hippie slacker. El Blanco hears you talking like that, and he’ll piss test you, can ya, then feed you to his rat buddies on Cielo Street. Mark my words, buddy-boy. Mark my words.”

 

 

Having relocated from Northwest Florida’s lonesome roads and haunted swamps, Anthony S. Buoni now prowls the gas lamp lit streets of New Orleans, playing moonlight hide and seek in the Crescent City’s above ground cemeteries. Anthony is the author of Conversation Party, Synchrony, as well as the editor to the Between There anthologies. His stories and articles have been featured in North Florida Noir and Waterfront Living. When not prowling, Anthony keeps it scary, writing dark fiction, editing, and watching horror movies. In his spare time, he DJs, plays music, and conjures other worldly creatures with tarot cards and dreams.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and the Transmundane Press store.

Kevin Holton, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

burned at the stake, horror, paranormal investigation, publishing, science fiction, witch trials, witch-hunt, writer community, writer's block, writing advice

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Kevin Holton.

How long have you been writing?

Oh, man, what counts as writing? I knew I wanted to be a writer when I was eight or nine. I joined an online community at fourteen and started putting things up for the web to see, winning little awards and contests along the way. I didn’t get actually published until nineteen. So… a couple years? Ten? Keep that in mind, kiddos—I just got my first novel picked up, ten years after I started writing.

What are the genre(s) of the stories you write and why?

Generally, horror and science-fiction. I just can’t get behind normal literary fiction. Books like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest at least hold my interest because it’s about mental illness, but The Great Gatsby? The Catcher in the Rye? Maybe I’m a bad English major, but I couldn’t stand those books. If you’re going to moan about a lost love for two-hundred pages, at least tell me you’re a cyborg, or that she’s a demon, or something.

How do you deal with writer’s block?

I might be weird for this, but I sometimes feel like writer’s block is your subconscious saying, Hey, buddy, the story doesn’t go this way. Usually, I’ll take a step back and realize a particular person is acting way out of character, or an event doesn’t make sense, then I revise and continue.

 

From “The One Who Burns” by Kevin Holton:

The way light fell across the decaying furniture made me uneasy. Or the fact that such a huge place now stood empty gave me the chills, since it clearly used to hold a lot of people at once. Either way, I backed up and unlocked the door, opening it for Celine. The locks were rusty, but nothing a little force couldn’t fix.

“Woah, look at this place.” Captivated, her voice took on the same distant, dreaming tone it always did, the already soft timber of her voice could’ve been mistaken for a cloud, and her looks matched. Sky-blue eyes and smooth, curving features that hid her cheekbones despite her relatively active lifestyle gave her an appearance years younger than most would’ve guessed. You’d think wandering around dark, abandoned places in search of ghosts might give her a haunted look, with gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes, but if anything, our adventures in the night made her shine.

“Yeah, it’s got one of those crazy staircases.” I pointed, and she followed my finger as we traced it up. There was a spiral part on both sides, leading up to the third floor. Overhead, a balcony allowed people to look down at the rest of the room.

She took out two high-powered flashlights and clicked them on, handing me one. The art on the walls showed people farming. In the center, on the floor, was a tile mosaic of the sun.

“Think they got it backwards,” I laughed. “Sun’s supposed to be overhead, you know?”

Celine shrugged. “The Cavanaughs were supposedly one of the founders of this town. Helped build the area up from nothing to a huge farming community, then into millwork and smithing and other production.”

“Supposedly?” I probed, mostly for our viewers’ benefit.

Taking the cue, she said, “There’s no record of them in the town’s founding charters, but other people clearly knew them. Some scattered letters suggest the last in the Cavanaugh line was Alexia, who took over all her family’s businesses when they all succumbed to disease. But, she was a woman in charge, who’d claimed her power through her family’s untimely death. The Salem Witch Trials were going on around that time…so you can probably guess what happened.”

“Stake through the heart?” I was never one for history. Ivy’s Path was only twenty miles from Salem, but I didn’t know jack shit about the trials.

“No, that’s vampires. She was burned at the stake. Alive. But legend says she didn’t scream, or shout, or plead for mercy. Alexia looked out at her accusers and said, ‘My family saved you all! We scorched away the forests to make way for fields. We provided kindling for your hearths to cook your meals and warm your bones. We lit the flames in your forges. We have created and destroyed, in equal measure, to provide for you, and yet, this is how you repay the last of our line? Burning me for being a witch? Carry on, then! I am fire. I will always burn.’ Then she smiled as the fire consumed her.”

“Badass.”

 

 

Kevin Holton‘s short fiction and poetry have been published with The Literary Hatchet, HellBound Books, Thunderdome Press, Radiant Crown Publishing, Mighty Quill Books, and many others. A short film he co-wrote, Human Report, is under production, and his novels The Nightmare King and At the Hands of Madness are being published by Siren’s Call Publications and Severed Press, respectively. When not writing, he’s an actor, athlete, and professor who can probably be found drinking coffee or talking about comic books.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and our press store.

Sarah Lyn Eaton, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

artistic process, dragons, editing tips, good reads, Magical Native, must read, mythology, passive voice, phoenix, submissions

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Sarah Lyn Eaton.

How long have you been writing?

I wrote my first story when I was nine. I illustrated it and everything. Doesn’t everyone say that? It’s true. But I’ve been seriously pursuing writing for the last four years. I set a list of goals for myself, to keep me on task. I’ve been sending out submissions regularly… I don’t know how regular, but I always have submissions out to publishers. It’s a way of making what was a hobby into a career. If I get too many rejections and there are only a few stories with people, I get itchy. If no one’s reading my work, I can’t get published, can I?

What did you edit out of “The Last Seven Tribes of the Ketchari”?

A lot of passive voice. Not that passive voice is a bad thing. It can be done well. But when it’s (mostly) not, it makes for an interesting but dull story. In real life, I am a fairly take-things-as-they-come person. But for a good story, you want your protagonist to have agency and curiosity that gets them into situations they then have to get out of. I’m working on leading with agency and not storytelling. I was taught description, description, description but most of the feedback I get says it’s too much for a short story and it’s getting in the way of the pace. We continually grow as writers, and I can finally see it in my drafts. I look forward to the day I catch most of it on my own.

What is the most difficult part of your artistic process?

The most difficult part of my artistic process is that all-or-nothing feeling. Either I have five stories in my mind fighting for dominance over my fingers or I can’t drum up one interesting character. Sometimes I know a passage is not ready yet, that it doesn’t quite say what I want it to say and I can spend hours on one sentence—the lynchpin sentence—just to make it what I want it to be. What it needs to be. It can look quite obsessive, I’m sure, when I am yelling at the thesaurus for failing me. But I follow my gut. It hasn’t failed me yet.

 

From “The Last Seven Tribes of the Ketchari” by Sarah Lyn Eaton:

The Old Ones stretched themselves in creaks and groans to protect Rochelle’s flight. She ran with long, practiced strides, gaining distance from the hunters.

Birch dryads flung splintered arms at the men, bowling and pinning them to the ground. Roots snapped, tripping the hounds and their masters. In a wave, the grove stepped out of Rochelle’s path, setting themselves between predator and prey.

A scream pierced the air. Rochelle stumbled. Her heart froze.

Marta.

A thin whistle in the crisp cold night. A burning sting sliced her shoulder. She fell against a young sapling, her cheek pressed against the snow. The birch curled itself low to shield her from sight.

Frightened, they both held their breath.

The forest filled with hounds and human cries and crackling flames, a cacophonous chorus shearing the night.

The dryads. They’re dying. She ran a hand down it’s trunk. The wood trembled.

I can fix it.

“I’m sorry. Hawthberskielth. Gruttberski—”

A sharp steel blade tore through the root. She screamed as thick fingers grabbed her mouth.

“Now, now. You went to all the trouble to wake the wooden bastards.” A dark face replaced the axe.

The tree above her shivered.

The hunter twisted the arrow she’d caught, grinding it into her shoulder. Biting back a yelp, her teeth drew warm blood.

“A shame to put them back to sleep before they fully experience life.”

“They’re going to die,” she said.

“See what destruction your magic has wrought? Isn’t it beautiful?”

The axe chopped through the wood twice more, raining splinters against her skin.

They dragged her out by her hair.

The bottom of the arrow scraped a sharp root, and she lost a moment to a blinding light of pain. Her breath came in uneasy gulps.

“It was sweet of this tree to protect you, but the trail of blood gave you away.” He dropped her and swung hard, imbedding the axe deep in the birch’s trunk.

Rochelle gasped at the stitch in her own side.

“Check her.”

Twelve scarred hunters and two wolfhounds paced the forest. A bald man with pocked cheeks pushed her over and ripped her tunic, exposing her back. The men nodded at each other triumphantly.

“We got ourselves a winner, Nico.”

Rochelle’s skin crawled at the violation. The tattooed feathers on each shoulder blade were gifts after the grueling Ketchari rites of passages.

And strangers groped them.

Her nostrils flared.

Nico lifted her chin with a calloused hand. His ice-blue eyes assessed her like a trophy—another kill. He hacked off a handful of her hair.

Rochelle’s heart wavered as he held it out to the other men. The hazy sky heavy with smoke and the sounds of genocide.

“I think this one is the leader. Her feathers are more elaborate than the others.”

Rochelle ducked her head and winced at the pain.

Oh, right. There’s an arrow in my shoulder.

How many got away?

Did any of them escape?

Dark bitterness filled her mouth.

Nico set her ebony hair on fire.

It flared bright but did not turn to ash. The black color burned away, revealing a brilliant clutch of red hair, which shimmered like fine gems.

Nico’s demented smile chilled her deeply.

 

Sarah Lyn Eaton is a writer who has survived both flood and fire. She lives with her wife and cats where the Susquehanna and Chenango Rivers meet. Her published stories can be found in Pantheon Magazine, as well as the anthologies Dystopia Utopia, Fracture: Essays, Poems, and Stories on Fracking in America, The Northlore Series, Volume One: Folklore, What Follows, and Elf Love. When not writing she can be found taking photos of fungus, collecting rock specimens, and mediating an end to the cucumber and bean plant turf war in her garden.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and our press store.

Phoebe Tsang, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

coyote, enlightenment, good reads, india, love and loss, must read, the spiritual centre of the world, writer's block

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Phoebe Tsang.

What audience are your stories intended for?

Anyone who knows love, loss, and the ache of longing.

How do you deal with writer’s block?

Fall in love – and stay in love! – that solves most of life’s problems.

What advice do you have for beginning authors?

Live first, write later.

 

From “Setting Fire to Water” by Phoebe Tsang:

The websites called India “the spiritual centre of the world,” as if India was not a country but an essential, hidden organ without which no other country could exist. A purplish, pulpy spleen or belaboured heart, distended and riddled with veins. The world flocked to India to discharge its ills and be recharged by life-giving forces not found in the staple North American diet: the zeal of devotion, the taxation of ritual, the rapture of sacrifice. Surfing the web late into the night, Coyote pieced together a vision of a hitherto unimaginable way of life; a life which, if it had previously, incongruously been presented to him among the glossy pages of the Condé Nast Traveler, would have horrified him. He would perform the rites of penance until his hair grew past his shoulders. He would backpack through the desert until his sandals were shreds. He would learn to live without money. He would sleep naked under a sky where the sun and moon coexisted peacefully, as in some prehistoric, mythical age when there was no such thing as death.

Coyote would vanish, leaving no trace except perhaps the memory of love—self-conscious, precarious and half-baked, but love nonetheless.

The stack of spent matches at Coyote’s feet resembled a miniature pyre. He crushed the empty matchbox and dropped it on the heap.

“Umm…does anyone have a lighter?”

The propeller churned. The audience was slow to react. A rustling of parkas, of crackling static as they groped in their pockets, fumbled amongst bottles of mineral water, sunblock, Advil, granola bars, mosquito repellent. Between them, they were well-prepared for a multitude of small calamities. These people could not imagine other, more critical emergencies involving the need to swim, or failing to swim, or sinking like a stone in the opaque water.

Take the craft that bore them, a vessel doomed to fail a safety inspection at any respectable marina back home. Where were the lifejackets, the distress flares, the spare drain plugs? Coyote searched for the capacity plate—wasn’t the boat listing alarmingly to starboard on account of one passenger whose girth was the equal of two persons at least?—with a familiar, if indistinct, sensation: a potent cocktail of dread and curiosity.

One morning, unprepossessing as all the others at first, Coyote accelerated the speed of his treadmill, by increments, beyond the spectrum of the humanly possible. His feet flew faster and faster until he seemed to glide for effortless moments above the black rubber conveyor belt, furiously spinning. Approaching the speed of light. Coyote spread his arms in the gesture of a marathoner at the finish line, his body transcending the possible as if crossing the shimmering threshold between dreamer and dream. Primed for flight, the machine betrayed his trust, his next step skewed inward, his ankle painfully angled by the sudden torque, flinging him off-course into the handrail while the belt torque blithely continued to run. A fellow early bird hurried over with a timid: “Are you all right?”—as if all right was any plausible description for this tumble out of sublime weightlessness into winded mortality. Coyote bowed his head, gripping the handrail, his breaths harsh and irregular.

The Samaritan retreated.

The Americans rummaged through their drugstore supplies, seeking some sort of fire-starting device and finding none, and the stirrings of a reluctant foreboding returned to Coyote. Without intending to, he searched his own pockets even though he had smoked less than a handful of cigarettes in his life, all of them in some poorly-lit bar after an inadvisable amount of alcohol, in the aching, ever-restless company of Emmeline, whose presence was at this moment more palpable than when she was within reach.

 

Phoebe Tsang is British-Canadian poet, short-story writer, librettist, and violinist. She is the author of the full-length poetry collection Contents of a Mermaid’s Purse (Tightrope Books), and her poetry and fiction has been published in anthologies and journals including the Asia Literary Review and the Literary Review of Canada. Her short fiction was long-listed for the 2014 Bristol Short Story Prize, and short-listed for the Matrix Lit POP Awards in 2016, rained, and, her chapbook of collaborative visual poems with artist John Riegert, was published in Spring 2017 by Puddles of Sky Press. She is currently completing her first solo album of poetry, music and song, through a grant from the Jack Straw Cultural Center (Seattle, WA).

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and our press store.

Stephen McQuiggan, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

1984, demons, Ghost Story, good reads, murder, must read, possessed, The Almond Tree, time management, writing motivation

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Stephen McQuiggan.

What motivates you to write?

I can’t sing, I can’t play guitar, and I’m extremely unphotogenic.

What is the first book or story that made you cry?

Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell because it’s so bleak and it feels inevitable. Ghost Story by Peter Straub because it was just so damn good. The Almond Tree by Jon Stallworthy – a poem about an expectant father rushing to the birth of his son only to find the child has Down syndrome. The use of metaphor is exquisite, the whole thing is moving beyond words, and the final verse kills me every time.

What do you find to be the easiest thing about writing? What is the hardest?

The hardest is time – I work long shifts and seem to always be burning the midnight oil, scribbling out my demons when everyone else is asleep. The easiest? I haven’t figured that one out yet – writing is more of a compulsion for me, though it can be very satisfying.

 

From “The Passing of Mickey Rulebook” by Stephen McQuiggan:

Roaming aimlessly, Ben found himself on the quiet road to Kervale cemetery; his feet dragged him here whilst his thoughts were elsewhere, just as Mickey had dragged the bodies of those two poor boys and…

He needed to say goodbye to Mickey, say farewell to the crazy notions he had planted in his head, to bury this madness alongside its progenitor.

The wind blew through the railings in a high-pitched howl, an echo of the forlorn wail the child had made when Mickey stoved in his face with the jerry can. The boy’s small pink arms twitching as he gurgled in a pool of his own blood. Woody was still screaming, stumbling toward the fire and falling in, his yells crescendoed before dying as abruptly as the snap of a green knot in a winter hearth.

Cody looked down on the mutilated Jonathan, pouting as if about to cry, the flames reflected in his ratty, red eyes. He laughed when Mickey cracked a half-empty wine bottle into his cutesy, freckled nose. Cody heaped, his shorts covered in grass stains and blood; he’s gonna be in so much trouble with his mum when she sees the state of his good clothes.

“Benji.” Mickey said; he hadn’t called him that since the first days of primary school, and Ben had warned never to again. His friend was terrified, so scared that he was forgetting all the rules.

Mickey dragged Cody toward the fire, babbling about getting rid of the evidence and sending them back to Hell, and Ben helped him fling the child onto the pyre. He burned like a sausage on a stick.

Mickey spouted shit about demons. “You saw Benji, you fucking saw.”

But all Ben could see were the kids’ faces peeling and the mad, staring eyes of Michael Muir.

 

Stephen McQuiggan liked nothing more than walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, and taunting magpies until he fell into a sudden and inexplicable coma. His first novel, A Pig’s View Of Heaven, is available now from Grinning Skull Press.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and our press store.

Rie Sheridan Rose, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

beta readers, creation tale, fantasy, foreshadowing, good reads, horror, must read, steampunk, tension

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Rie Sheridan Rose.

What are the genre(s) of the stories you write and why?

Fantasy, Steampunk, Horror, a little Science Fiction…these are the things I like to read, and I like to explore outside the box.

What is the most difficult part of your artistic process?

Making myself sit down and concentrate. I am very bad at that, and—especially if there is research involved—very easily distracted.

Do you use beta readers, and if so, roughly how many?

Yes. I always use my best friend, who is also a writer and gives me a male perspective on how the story works or doesn’t. Usually, I try to have at least two or three other sets of eyes go through a full-length project. For a shorter work, that isn’t always feasible, but I always try to at least get Jim to read something.

 

From “Fira Dances” by Rie Sheridan Rose:

By the time I reached him, I was famous throughout his land—perhaps all the known lands. I was Udia, and Ignacia, and Rekka, and Calida. Every land called me by their own version of Fire.

To him, I was Fira.

I loved it because it was closest to the truth.

He had the smallest wisp of me to start—merely a kiss. Low man in the village, a cripple good for nothing except begging from strangers. But to me, his soul blazed as bright as my own.

From the moment I saw him, he was my world.

Only by accident did he have any of me at all. Someone threw away a smoldering stick—or perhaps, threw it at him as they were not kind to him when we met—and he nurtured me back to life with bits of bark and prayer in his poor corner behind the kennels.

In gratitude, and because he was so beautiful to me, I whispered to him my secrets and kept him warm and safe. Each night, he pulled a coverlet of ash about me so that I might sleep, and I gave him all the warmth I could spare throughout the hours of darkness. Whether truly his, or just self-mockery, he gave me his name as Asher.

Happy, Asher and I nurtured each other. We drew strength and power from the other. The seasons cycled as they had always done, but gradually, Asher earned a respect he had never been given before.

My presence insured that the entire village prospered, and—as my companion—he became one of the elders of the tribe, despite his infirmity. The people came to know the man himself. His wisdom. His grace.

The children gathered around us, and he told them the stories he glimpsed within my dances. Shy young couples brought their first born to ask what the future held. Their elders came to ask advice about crops and seek blessings for their endeavors. Asher had not changed—the villagers had grown.

Our home no longer a hollow behind the kennels but a sturdy hut with a stone hearth protecting my bed. I easily kept it warm and dry.

After decades, I grew lazy and comfortable, caring for Asher in a world all our own.

When I danced, I danced for joy.

We were not the only ones to prosper. The village grew in renown. It grew in wealth. It grew…and word of its wonders spread. Too far.

 

 

Rie Sheridan Rose multitasks. A lot. Her short stories appear in numerous anthologies, including Nightmare Stalkers and Dream Walkers Vols. 1 and 2, and Killing It Softly. She has authored nine novels, six poetry chapbooks, and lyrics for dozens of songs. Check out her tweets here.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and our press store.

Shaun Avery, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

bubba-joe, good reads, horror, Music, must read, satan, satire, the conception artist, writer's block, writing motivation

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Shaun.

What are the genre(s) of the stories you write and why?

Horror and satire – because they’re the things I love the most.  Plus, the more TV I see, the more it seems there is to satirise, so, you know…that urge never goes away.

How do you deal with writer’s block?

Just keep stubborn and keep on writing – even if you’re doing something just for fun that you know is never going to see the light of day, it’s still writing.  And sometimes you find gold there, even if it takes a while to see it.

What motivates you to write?

As a satirist at heart, normally something I see in the paper or on TV that irritates me.  Like this time, I read that some ‘celebrities’ were hiring themselves out for the day to turn up at people’s weddings.  What’s the only thing more ridiculous than that?  The idea of hiring them to come to your funeral.  Which became a pretty fun story I wrote called “Grave Diggers.”

 

From “The Conception Artist” by Shaun Avery:

I back away from the main room, unable to believe what I am seeing.

The music plays.

Still Mike Magnusson.

And amazingly, Satan and this man—this Bubba-Joe character—close their eyes and nod and sing along to the music.

I go to turn away, convinced I must be going mad.

That’s when Satan opens an eye. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Then a clammy hand grips my ankle.

I scream.

Dean’s hand grabbing me.

His face still purple from the throttling.

“Brad,” he says. “Hi.”

I pull away from his grasp, and that’s when someone licks my ear.

“No going back, lover.” Sheryl pushes me back into the room. “Only forward.”

“Yeah. I told you to sit.” Bubba-Joe’s eyes meet mine, peering out beneath an unruly fringe. “Brother.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I reluctantly take the seat across from him. “I’ve never even met you before.”

“Sort of true.” Satan stands behind him still. “Sort of not. Hey, can we turn this up?”

“Sure thing.” Bubba-Joe heads off to do just that.

It’s not my high-tech, state-of-the-art stereo propelling the music into the room. Rather, some shitty, retro 80’s thing, one of those huge ghetto blasters people in urban areas used to sit with. And just like my unwanted visitor Bubba-Joe’s face, it is covered in blood.

“Guy on the street wouldn’t give it up. Had to get a little…physical with him.” He does a little jig to the music, saying, “Hey, Moonlight Smooch. Love this one.”

I’m in the presence of psychos here, and one of them might just be me.

And what the hell is Satan doing, listening to this schmaltz?

So much for heavy metal being the devil’s music.

“Look,” I say to them both, “can you please just tell me why you’re here?”

But by the time they do…

I wish I’d never asked.

 

Shaun Avery writes horror and crime fiction in a number of mediums, often with a satirical approach to fame and media obsession.  He thinks his cynicism is healthy.  Though perhaps “The Conception Artist” takes it to extremes.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and our press store.

Ali Abbas, a Featured Spotlight

Tags

artistic process, djinn, genie, good reads, must read, online writing group, seduction, tragedy, voyeur, writing motivation

If you haven’t heard of the On Fire anthology, this mini-interview and excerpt series will showcase the amazing authors I get to work with and their writing. Meet Ali Abbas.

What motivates you to write?

For the most part, it is a compulsion. Stories rattle around in my head, taking up all my mental capacity. The only to deal with it is to get the damn thing down on paper. Once that is done I can get on with things like making coffee or tying my shoelaces.

What is the most difficult part of your artistic process?

Getting the first draft down. As I write I can usually hear that the words are not as clear or beautiful as they were in my head. The key is to quash the doubts and keep writing. But that first moment of fingers on keyboard: terrifying.

Do you use beta readers, and if so, roughly how many?

Oh yes. I’m part of an online writing group. They are fellow story writers, and lovers of words. Over the years they have also become dear friends. We tend to enter the same competitions, submit to the same markets, but there is a never a hint of needle or envy – if one succeeds we all rejoice. Alongside getting published it is the best thing about my writing life. What’s great is that they all bring different things to the table, be it grammar, structure, specialist topic knowledge and so on. A short piece may get half a dozen reviewers, more if we’re in the midst of a competition, longer works typically get fewer. And sorry, membership is very tightly controlled.

 

From “Désolé Habibti” by Ali Abbas

He let the tears take their course. When she looked up, she saw the passing shoppers pretending not to look into the car, voyeurs to her tragedy. “Take me away from here.”

She sensed no motion. A grey void replaced the car but lasted no more than a second. Her eyes burned with the brightness of the moon reflected in water and the taste of salt in the air. Her legs were still in the sitting position from the car. She fell into the sea, her hands sinking wrist-deep in soft sand. Surf rustled up the beach behind her. The water was night cold, shocking and reviving. He held out a cotton-sleeved hand to haul her up, and she took it, laughing with abandon.

The moon caught against his white teeth when he smiled.

This was a seduction. Not planned, but he had lived among humans for a thousand years, and no doubt, he had perfected the art. It was a seduction, and she did not care. After almost a year of withdrawal and worry, and the knowledge of sorrow to come, this was something she would have for herself. But she wanted something first.

She pushed away gently. “Show me your true form.”

He took two more steps back, surefooted in the waves that lapped up to his knees and soaked the linen of his trousers. Then the clothes and the long hair and the perfect teeth were gone, and before her stood a figure of fire, a lean man caught in an inferno. The water hissed and steamed; the sea around her thighs grew warm.

She reached out a hand towards him, feeling the heat radiating. The fire drew back from his hand, red and smooth. He led her to the beach, leaving a trail of glass footprints in the sand. They cracked and shattered with the cold water, the shards dragged out to sea with the tide.

 

Ali Abbas is a writer, carpenter and photographer born and bred in London. He is the author of Like Clockwork, a steampunk mystery published by Transmundane Press; Image and Other Stories, a collection of seven short stories that examine themes of love, loss and the haunting nature of bad decisions; and Hajj – My Pilgrimage, a light-hearted and secular look at the pilgrimage to Mecca that is at the heart of the Islamic faith.

His short story / love letter to London, “An Absolute Amount of Sadness,” was published by Mad Scientist Journal in their Fitting In anthology, and his ghost story “The Girl Who Gives Me Sunsets” will be published in their forthcoming Utter Fabrication anthology.

ON FIRE is available now: Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and our press store.