Saturday, June 19, 2010

Anthology updates

If you sent a submission in before the 9th of June and have NOT heard back from us, please write us again.

If we asked for a rewrite and you have not heard back in the last week, please write and bug me.

We are reading about 5 submissions a day, but we are far from keeping up as well as we would like.

Keep everything coming...

Mari Mitchell

Friday, June 18, 2010

Anthology: Monsters of the Macabre

Monsters of the Macabre

We are looking for new tales on these guys and gals: The Monster, The Bride, Dracula, Bride of Dracula, Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Invisible Man, The Wolf Man/lady, Phantom of the Opera, The Hunchback, The Mummy, The Blob, Coffin Joe, King Kong, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

We are putting together several a 1 time POD/eAntho

All eAntho pay same and pay upon print. At the end of the year, we will split all profits evenly among contributors.

Send all submission to:
and say in the subject line: Sub (name of fiction) (which collection)

Title: Monsters of the Macabre

We want speculative fiction with the theme of classic monsters of the screen. We want the monsters to be important to the story. We like stories that have a good sense of place. We love humor. We like dark. We love to be touched. Sexy is good. Humor is excellent. Twists are welcomed too.

h/f/sf or something along those lines.

We are looking for: prose, poetry and art for the cover.

Pay: 1¢/word + copies at cost + profits shared equally at the end of the year. Must have pay pal.

Words: 50 -5k.

RT: 3-6 weeks.

Reprints: query.

Please say Sub and which anthology in subject of the email.

Please place sub as an attachment or into to the body of the email. Contact info on the sub. A line of space between each paragraph is preferred.


Deadline: September 25th

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Steam Punk anthology PAID

Title: Steam Dreams Punk Baby

We are looking for Steam Punk fiction, which is a sub genre of SF where there is an alternate history with alternate sources of power. It is often set in Victorian times. However other alternate times and power sources are welcomed as well.

Dead line: October 25th

We are putting together a 1 time POD/eAntho

Send all submission to:
and say in the subject line: Sub (name of fiction) (which collection)

We like stories that have a good sense of place. We love humor. We like dark. We love to be touched. Sexy is good. Humor is excellent. Twists are welcomed too.

h/f/sf or something along those lines.

We are looking for: prose, poetry and art for the cover.

Pay: 1¢/word + copies at cost + profits shared equally at the end of the year. Must have pay pal.

Words: 50 -5k.

RT: 3-6 weeks.

Reprints: query.

Please say Sub and which anthology in subject of the email.

Please place sub as an attachment or into to the body of the email. Contact info on the sub. A line of space between each paragraph is preferred.


Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Fiction: Gravedigger



Tara Fouts


The graveyard was peaceful in the morning, as the suns rays rose slowly over the horizon. The soft hues of orange and purple painted the sky with a slight cool breeze that swept in through the trees. Jack loved this part of the morning, for it gave him time to think, time to reflect and marvel at the time that he had spent on the earth. In a way, it was almost like the earth was part of him, as every day he dug graves for those who have died. He was connected to the spirits, it seemed, and he was connected to them.

As Jack trekked across the graveyard's empty graves with his lunchpail and trusty shovel in hand, he embraced the warmth of the sun, lifting his head up toward the heat. He was a fifty five year old man, but he looked thirty three, and felt like he was one hundred with the with all the digging and the labor he's been doing for the past decade or so. He didn't care. Digging helped him stay alive.

He reached his digging spot and set down his lunchpail. Next to an empty grave was a plot of land, marked by a headstone, with the words:

1912-1945 IN LOVING MEMORY."

He sighed, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders as he stuck the blade of the shovel deep within the earth. With one flick behind his shoulder, the dirt and rock flew backwards, landing in a perfect pile behind him.

"Hello, Jack."

Jack stood with his shovel in the earth, ready for another lift. The voice behind him was famaliar-too famaliar. It was the voice of a woman who came every day to watch him and tell him stories, to keep him company while he dug for death. Her voice was the only thing he loved to hear in the otherwise silent morning of his every day routine.

"Marie," he replied, still not turning to face her. A thin, wry smile played upon his lips. "You came back."

"You say that every morning, Jack," she said with a sigh. He felt his hands wrap around his waist and her body press up against him. "When will you understand that I always come back for you?"

Jack shrugged. There was sometimes doubt in his mind that Marie would get bored of him. He wasn't very personable. He didn't tell many jokes, and even though he enjoyed the peaceful morning, Jack always told Marie he perferred the night. "Because," he explained, "you can look at the stars. You can't look at the sun."

"Sometimes I think that you will leave me when I'm done," he whispered softly. A shiver ran up and down his spine as her hands crawled up his back.

"Would you like me to tell you a story?"

He finally turned around to face her, his heart leaping out of his chest. He glanced over her, noting her pure, beautiful face and her large blue eyes. She wore high-waisted shorts that showed off her blinding white legs and her lips were a bright ruby red and matched her firey red t-shirt. He longed for her again, and he reached out to touch her. She was distant, but she gladly took his hand and led him to a log close to the grave he was digging. Marie leaned her head on his shoulder, and he listened to her story.

"Once upon a time, there was a Princess who fell in love with a servant boy, against her father's wishes."

Jack closed his eyes, picturing the story as she told it to him. It was one she has told a million times, but she knew it was his favorite.

"They secretly met out of the palace grounds and made love under the stars. She pledged herself to him, giving him her heart."

Jack smiled, remembering this part of the story. Sometimes she'd go in to detail, describing the way they made love and what she said when she pledged herself to him. Jack decided that Marie knew he had already heard it a million times, which was why she didn't care to explain. But Jack could still picture it, the star crossed lovers, deep in the woods, naked and embracing each other, skin to skin. He opened his eyes and glanced over at Marie, who seemed to be in her own little world as well while she continued the story.

"But a guard of the palace sought them out, and informed her father, the King, of their trouble making. The King then told the boy he was going to the front lines of the War. But he made the boy tell the Princess that he volunteered."

Marie lifted her head and looked over at Jack, a tear streamed down her cheek. "The princess was heart broken and devastated that the boy would ever think to leave her. So she cursed the boy!"

Suddenly she pushed him over the log and stood up abruptly, wiping the tears away from her eyes. "She cursed the boy, that he would dig graves for the rest of his life until every grave would fit every soul of every man he ever killed in the war. And when he was done he would be allowed to come back to her."

Jack stood slowly and tried to reach for Marie, but she swiped his hand away, leaving him stunned and unable to respond to her outburst. He stood emotionless and watched her as she tried to control the tears herself.

"You've never told me the end of the story, Marie," Jack said, realizing that out of all the times she's told him the story, he never knew the end. Until now.

"That was the end, Jack. He was going to finish what he was cursed to do so he could return to her."

"I don't think that is the end, Marie," he said slowly.

"Damn it, Jack!" Marie cried. "come back to me!"

Jack looked down at the half dug grave beside him, shaking his head. "I can't, Marie."

"Why not, Jack? Don't you love me? Don't you love me at all?"

"It's not that i don't love you Marie, it's just that the curse isn't broken. I have one more grave to dig."

"Who, Jack? You've dug every grave for every soul of every man that you've killed in the war. Whose grave do you have left?"

Jack looked at her, his eyes wide with pain and desire to touch her one last time. But he couldn't.

"The last grave I have to dig, Marie, is my own."

And the wind whispered through the trees.


Tara Fouts is a 23 year old California girl. She is an English Major attending Cal State East Bay with hopes of becoming a publisher/ author.

Writing consists mostly of the dark side, and tends to lean toward magic realism and realistic fiction. She also writes poetry, and has been published in three anthologies for Las Positas College. She also loves music, watching movies, not doing her homework and drinking way too much coffee. Oh, and she has a tiny obsession with Johnny Depp and James McAvoy.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Anthology News .2

We are hoping to get around 13 to 15 tales. 3 or 4 flash fiction, which are stories between 50 words to 1000. We would like a poem to open with. We are far from being full.

Keep in mind I am siting on 20 unread stories. I am waiting for my co-editor to catchup.

We are getting a lot of stories where people are shocked that cats talk. I am fine with talking cats, but the shock part is getting old.

We are getting a lot cats hunting people.

What about:

a ghost cat

a zombie cat

a frankensten monster's cat

time traveling cats

hero cats

pirate cats

Southern, Russian, Egypt, Japanese cats

cats of fate

cats owned by famous people

cats living off planet

cats working in an old age homes


We've got in one or two for the other collections but we more than willing to read for them as well.


We are considering collections of:

Stories inspired by Poe

Modern takes on: Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Wizard of Oz

Modern takes on Scheherazade

Shop of Curiosities

Flunkies of the Apocalypse (The guys who do all the small stuff before and after the apocalypse.)

Slippers and Spinning Wheels (fairy tales)

Romancing the Classics: The Tale of Genji, Jane Eyre, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Pride and Prejudice, Rebecca, Wuthering Heights,
Great Expectations.

Hi Ho Away We Go: Trazan, Conan the Barbarian, Quatermass, Doc Savage. Buck Rodgers

Friday, June 4, 2010

Fiction: Drake's Treasure


Drake's Treasure


Anne Shaw

Drake pelted down the forest path, one hand holding his hat in place, the other hand holding his school books. He was late. Again. Master Devlin would cane him for sure. Or, worse, would make him stay after classes and scrub all of the long wooden tables in their classroom at Finghul’s School for Boys.

He hurtled over a fallen log and ducked his head to avoid a low-hanging branch. As he picked up speed again, a wink of light in the undergrowth beside the path made him pull up short. Thoughts of school instantly vanished and Drake, still breathing hard, peered into the undergrowth, hoping to see the light again.

He edged back along the path and gently pushed aside leaves and branches. From under the spiked leaves of a holly bush, the light flashed again. Drake stooped closer. Bright, morning sunlight reflected from the smooth surface of a tiny glass ball, about the size of a chicken egg.

Drake scooped up the ball and held it cupped in his palm. The cool, clear glass was mottled with tiny bubbles, as though its creator had been in too much of a hurry to let the liquid glass heat to the proper temperature before blowing the piece. Each bubble acted as a prism and each prism cast a tiny rainbow against Drake’s palm.

Drake looked closer at a dark shadow in the center of the ball.

“Is that…?" Drake blinked and let out a long sigh of wonder.

A tiny dragon lay in the heart of the glass. Of course, he knew it wasn’t a real dragon, but Drake still grinned with excitement. He could hardly wait to show the other boys.

Boys. School. Drake moaned. Now he was later than ever for school.

He looked back at the ball. Why not take the day off to play with his new toy? Perhaps, in the rush of tomorrow morning's routine, Master Devlin would forget about the previous day’s absence. Besides, he's survived punishments before and this was worth the risk.

Drake pocketed the ball, slung his books over his shoulder and left the beaten path, heading for Dragon Head Light.

As he walked, he whistled. His new treasure nestled snug in his pocket and created within Drake a warm sense of satisfaction with life. He was ten-years-old with a dragon in his pocket and the world was ripe for adventure.

Dragon Head Light, the oldest lighthouse on this stretch of seacoast, perched on an outcropping of rock which had inspired the spot’s name. At dusk, with the sun behind the cliff, the rocks resembled a huge dragon peering out from his seaside cave, ready to take flight across The Great Northern Sea. Drake loved to sit at the highest point, just where the dragon’s head jutted out over the water, and imagine that he and the dragon were setting out for far-off places together.

He flopped onto the grass beside his books and breathed in the salt sea air. From this point, he could see far down the coast, almost to The Great City, nearly ten miles away. What he liked most, though, was to look out over the vast gray water and dream.

Drake pulled the glass ball from his pocket and set it carefully in the sun-warmed grass. Then he lay on his stomach, propped his chin on his hands, and watched as sunlit prisms leapt out to color the grass and the air around him. He wondered if he should break the glass to get to the dragon inside, but decided he liked it just this way for now; it seemed to have more possibilities this way. He could always break it open later.

As Drake lay in the soft grass, the sun gradually warmed him and a heavy drowsiness crept through his body. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes against the brilliant light. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Beside the sleeping boy, the glass ball grew warm in the sunshine. It began to expand and shake and the dark shadow within writhed.

The sound of shattering glass woke Drake with a start. He sat up and looked for the glass ball, worried that the sun’s heat had broken his treasure.

What he saw made him scramble back and gape.

Standing amid the shards of glass, a small dragon preened, clicking his iridescent black scales and stretching his paper-thin wings. The dragon shook his head like a dog waking from a nap and opened its mouth to emit a feeble squawk. It blinked wide black eyes as though surprised by the sound of its own voice, but then quickly tried the noise again. This time, the high-pitched squawk was stronger and seemed to please the creature so much that it tried yet again.

Drake stared in amazement. This dragon was larger than the one in the glass ball, but surely was the same one. It was about the size of a yearling calf but as Drake watched, it grew still larger until it could have matched a horse for size and strength.

The creature’s noises grew in proportion to its size so that now it emitted a hefty roar and Drake began to be a little afraid. Whether it was fear or curiosity which froze his legs, he remained rooted in the same spot, staring at the growing dragon.

He was still more afraid when the creature spoke aloud, its voice hoarse but clear.

“Thank you.” The dragon was now as tall as his step-mother's cottage.

Drake's knees finally crumbled and he stumbled back a step. “You’re w-w-welcome. For what?”

“You released me from the evil magic,” replied the dragon in a deep rumble. It now rivaled a barn for size and its wings covered the ground for many yards on either side of it. “By bringing the ball here to Dragon Head and warming it, you freed me from my thousand year prison.”

Despite its size, the dragon moved with surprising ease. It turned to face the sea and took a deep breath. “Before I go, name your reward, youngling.”

Drake's head spun with bewildered excitement. What reward should he name? Deliverance from Master Devlin was appealing but not grand enough for the occasion. Wealth enough to set up his step-mother for life was noble, but still not right. Wealth enough for him to escape both Master Devlin and his step-mother was better.

And then the answer was obvious.

Drake grinned. “Take me with you.”

Biography: Anne Shaw is passionate about Shakespeare, classical education, good grammar and chocolate. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and four children. This is her first published work of fiction.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Anthology News


We have two possibilities for covers so far, but of course we would love to see more.

As of yet, we have not taken an poetry, but we would love to. I am hoping to find something to open the collection with and perhaps something at the end. A lot of what we are reading is poetry but not speculative fiction.

Lots of fiction. A handful of "we think so" but there is still lots of room.

No flash fiction has been taken and we would love a few for the pacing.

Reprints are okay as long as you have the rights.

Also, there has been some talk about changing the name of Cats Eye New Bella. I thought it a kind of play off of Cat's Eye Nebula.

The two other titles that up for consider are:

Purr Fiction



If you have any suggestions, please feel free to speak up.

Please keep everything coming and remember, we are willing to look at anything for any of the other anthologies too.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Great Free Reads

Good stories feed the soul! Here's to a banquet.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Anthologies PAID


We are putting together several a 1 time POD/eAntho

All eAntho pay same and pay upon print.

Send all submission to:
and say in the subject line: Sub (name of fiction) (which collection)

Title: Cat's Eye New Bella

We want speculative fiction with the theme of cats. We want the cat or cats to be important to the story. We like stories that have a good sense of place. We love humor. We like dark. We love to be touched. Sexy is good. Humor is excellent. Twists are welcomed too.

h/f/sf or something along those lines.

We are looking for: prose, poetry and art for the cover.

Pay: 1¢/word + copies at cost + profits shared equally at the end of the year. Must have pay pal.

Words: 50 -5k.

RT: 3-6 weeks.

Reprints: query.

Please say Sub and which anthology in subject of the email.

Please place sub as an attachment or into to the body of the email. Contact info on the sub. A line of space between each paragraph is preferred.


Deadline June 25th

Other upcoming themes for anthologies are:

Monsters of the Macabre

We are looking for new tales on these guys and gals: The Monster, The Bride, Dracula, Bride of Dracula, Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Invisible Man, The Wolf Man, Phantom of the Opera, The Hunchback, The Mummy, The Blob, King Kong, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Deadline: September 25th

Steam Dreams Punk Baby

We are looking for Steam Punk. Steam Punk is a sub genre of SF, where there is an alternate history with alternate sources of power. It is often set in Victorian times. However other alternate time and power sources are welcomed as well.

Dead line: October 25th

Familiars' Fate

We are looking for tales about the familiars of magic users. We would love see creatures other than cats, although cats are welcomed. What about an imp, brownie, chipmunk, wombat, coyote, raven, The gump, or the White Rabbit? Make sure that the personality and actions of these creatures comes shining through.

Deadline: November 25th

10 Cent Magic

We are looking for urban fantasy. Fantasy races and creatures living their day to day lives next door to you. Many urban fantasies are set in contemporary times or contain supernatural elements.

Deadline: January 25th

Magic Beans

We are looking for stories that express the magic held inside the beans of coffee and chocolate. Two elixirs that alter our moods, giving us energy and mimicking love. We crave them in their many forms. Weave a story that takes place in, or around, a coffee shop, or bakery. The alchemy of chocolate! The bewitchment of the morning coffee!

Deadline February 25th

Fiction: MY SALIERI COMPLEX (dedicated to H.G. Wells)

An Untold Story of Griffin and Kemp
(dedicated to H.G. Wells)

By M. J. Neary

(University College, London, 1884)

“Awake, Samuel! Boarding with a genius will not transform you into one.”

That was the voice of reason, one that guided me through most of my career. Yet another voice, one of superstition and vanity, tried to persuade me of the opposite. How I wished to believe that a fraction of Jonathan Griffin’s brilliance could project onto me if I only spent enough time in his vicinity! I fancied our brains being like two communicating vessels, with grandiose theories and mysteries passing between them. Little by little, that toxic swamp of self-flattering fantasies sucked me in.

Griffin, a native of Cardiff, was almost three years younger than me but only one year behind in his coursework. He transferred to University College in the autumn of 1883, allegedly to study medicine. I emphasize the word “allegedly”. From the very beginning I had serious doubts that this man had any intention of treating patients for the rest of his life. As I learned later, medicine was the profession of his father’s choice. Griffin feigned compliance only to gain access to London’s best library and laboratory. He took most interest in optical density and refraction index, two topics that had very little to do with medicine.

We enrolled in the same physics seminar led by Professor Handley, my intellectual father, who promised me an assistant’s position after my graduation as well as the hand of his daughter Elizabeth. Everyone in the department regarded me as Professor Handley’s heir, the future king of the laboratory. At least, that was the case until Griffin’s arrival. In one week this eighteen-year old boy with a Welsh accent toppled the hierarchy that had been in place since my first solo demonstration in 1881. When Griffin would enter the lecture hall, all the chatter would cease and then turn into a collective sigh of veneration.

It happened so quickly that I did not even have enough time to grow suspicious, or indignant, or bitter. He snatched my invisible crown and placed it on his perfectly shaped head, atop a cloud of snow-white curls.

Griffin was the only albino I had ever encountered. At first he struck me as a member of an entirely different race, one that Darwin and Kingsley would declare as superior to their own, a race untainted by unnecessary pigment. Later I learned that the condition had its disadvantages. Griffin’s eyes, garnet-red, were extremely sensitive to the light, obliging him to wear spectacles made of tinted glass and a hat. Between those eyes a permanent crease was forming, growing deeper by the month. I studied that crease furtively, as if it were some hieroglyph, a clue to the mysteries of his mind.


As a child I suffered from respiratory distress. Slightest physical exertion caused me to pant and wheeze, cutting me off from the games of my sturdier peers. No, they did not taunt me. They simply refused to acknowledge my existence. At the time I would have preferred open ridicule to utter indifference. I found consolation in corresponding with Robert Louis Stevenson, who had also had a “weak chest” and spent much of his childhood in sickbed. He had shared with me the early drafts of his novels and poems. I read “The Treasure Island” long before it was published. His bewildering adventures distracted me from my affliction, provided me with an opportunity to step out of my treacherous, uncooperative body. By the age of sixteen I had reconciled with the thought that I would have no companions save for the merry crew of the schooner Hispaniola.

All that changed when I came to University College and discovered that in matters of intellect I surpassed most of my peers. Suddenly, my physical infirmities became inconsequential. A former outcast, I became the most sought-after individual in the entire medical department. My peers, who snubbed me during my adolescence, now fought for a chance to have me for a study partner. They rapped on the door of my flat, attempted subtle bribes, invited me to family outings. For once, I had the power of rejecting one companion in favor of another. I think back to the winter of 1881 and the succession of triumphs: my first public demonstration before the entire department, my first dinner at Professor Handley’s house, my first evening with Elizabeth without a chaperone. Unnoticeably to myself, I outgrew my malady. This spontaneous recovery prompted me to make a vow to God that I would devote my life to treating the ailments of the lungs.

Then the white-haired Welshman barged into my kingdom, and my wheezing attacks returned, with doubled intensity. When I was near him, I lacked for air. Griffin was stealing oxygen from me. As slender as he was, as few personal possessions as he had, somehow he occupied most of the two-bedroom flat that we shared. Every corner bore the mark of his presence. Some elusive spirit reigned there, leaving very little space for me.

Griffin’s bedroom served as his personal laboratory where he would continue his experiments into midnight. His dowry included an assortment of glass tubes in which he would heat and mix various chemicals. I knew better than to pry into the nature of Griffin’s experiments, but I suspected it was the fume seeping from under the closed door of his bedroom that triggered my coughing attacks. Still, I had no grounds for complaints, as there was nothing criminal about Griffin’s behavior. Who can fault a science student for diligence? If his work stirred my old illness, it was my private ordeal. Remains of pride forbade me to vocalize my growing discontent. Most of all I feared being accused of having a Salieri complex. There was nothing left for me to do except drive my anger deep into my inflamed chest. When the tightness in the lungs became unbearable, I would simply go outside or wander the corridors of the residence hall.

Nobody ever found out how many nights I spent on the cushions in the lounge. And nobody found out about the tempest inside my head. It was not my crown that I missed – it was my freedom. I learned what it meant to be a spiritual captive of another human being.

I knew that when my schoolmates knocked on our door, it was most likely for Griffin, not me. Rarely would he deign to come out of his sanctuary and greet them. Usually he would remain behind the closed door upon which our schoolmates would throw furtive, longing glances. With the immediacy of small children they would elbow each other and whisper.

“How long can he toy with explosives?”

“I know: he’s making a bride for himself.”

“No, he’s building a time machine.”

“Stop reading so much Jules Verne, dearest. It will do your pretty little head no good.”

“At least I can read, unlike some of us.”

“I tell you, albinos are all evil. It’s a mark of the Devil.”

“Listen to you! Sounding like you’re straight from Oxford. Believing in the devil is no longer fashionable.”

“Well, if Devil exists, Griffin is his incarnation.”

“Bah, you’re just envious!”

“I say, he’s dissecting rats.”

“Bosh! One doesn’t need to go to a university for that.”

“This is no university. It’s a glorified butchery.”

“Gentlemen, is it just my imagination, or does Griffin’s hair look a bit whiter than it was before? I didn’t think it was possible. And his skin! Did you see his skin? It’s translucent. You can see the veins and everything.”

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you knock on his door and ask him?”

“Like hell I will! You knock first.”

“After you.”

“No, after you!”



Those were the typical conversations. Griffin this, Griffin that…

Yes, they still consulted me on academic matters. I convinced myself that they were doing it out of habit, or duty, or, perhaps, pity.

And yes, I was still welcome at Professor Handley’s dinner table, but so was Griffin, although he did not take advantage of this privilege frequently. On those rare occasions when he joined us, Elizabeth would become noticeably distracted. She would study Griffin’s face, as deliberately and as blatantly as her upbringing allowed, while he remained oblivious to her presence. He spoke very little and ate even less. Between courses he scribbled in his notebook with which he never parted. His colorless lips kept moving, whispering formulas. His garnet eyes would squint and widen, as if from flashes of light. In those moments he resembled a monk immersed in perpetual prayer. And Elizabeth would sigh and smile sadly. Apparently, the white-haired genius struck a chord that I never had. Not that it mattered to me. One more defeat made no difference.

Handley, delighted to now have two adopted sons, nurtured his own designs. One Friday afternoon, towards the end of the seminar, he suggested before the whole group that Griffin and I should collaborate on a study.

Science professors cannot boast about being the most tactful men in the world. This is no earth-shattering revelation. Handley was no exception to the rule.

“Every semester my students grip each other by the throats for a chance to partner with Samuel Kemp,” he said, beaming at his own ingenuity. “This time I decided to try a different approach. I will remove both Kemp and Griffin from the battle and assign them to each other. It would be presumptuous on my behalf to speak for the entire University College, but personally I am very anxious to see what miracles these two brilliant young men can concoct together.”

For a few seconds everyone in the hall ceased breathing and looked at Griffin, for he, apparently, had the final say. “Is this a mandate?” he inquired, tapping his lips with the tip of his pencil.

“Not at all,” Handley reassured him hastily, “merely an unobtrusive proposal. Since you and Samuel Kemp already spend a considerable amount of time under the same roof, perhaps, you would use this time more constructively, for the benefit of your respective careers.”

Griffin straightened out and clutched his notebook to his chest.

“If this is a mere proposal, then I fear I must politely decline it, Professor. You see, I am not quite ready to share my work with anyone, even Samuel Kemp – with all due regard.”

There was no deliberate hostility in his voice. Still, his declaration solicited a number of stifled gasps from the audience. What? The earth stopped spinning. Samuel Kemp received his first outward rejection! Now everyone was staring at me.

My chest tightened. I felt a sudden need to unbutton my collar. The prospect of having a coughing attack in front of my schoolmates petrified me. God be my witness, I tried not to be angry with Handley. Nor did I doubt his benevolence. The man sincerely believed his idea brilliant.

“Professor,” I mumbled, raising a sweaty, trembling hand. “I was about to present the same objection, but Mr. Griffin preceded me. I believe it is in everyone’s best interests that we work separately. Following his example, I will take no partner this semester. I would like to think that I have earned my autonomy.”

Handley looked perplexed, not heartbroken.

“Who am I to argue with geniuses?”

He turned his back to us and began wiping the blackboard, letting everyone know that the class was dismissed.


Several weeks went by. I remained faithful to my promise to work alone for the semester, spending my time in the mezzanine of the library, avoiding my schoolmates and Handley in particular. The date of my graduation was approaching, which meant I needed to start thinking about my impending marriage. Elizabeth had begun making wedding preparations, and I had no idea what that ceremony entailed. She had mentioned names of places, churches and reception halls, I had never heard of. In truth, my knowledge of London outside Bloomsbury was rather sketchy. I simply never had a reason to leave the cluster of buildings that comprised University College.

One Sunday evening, after the library had closed and I returned into my flat, something unthinkable happened. Griffin emerged from his laboratory and actually spoke to me.

“Samuel,” he began with uncharacteristic softness.

I shuddered at the sound of his voice and pinched myself. Griffin had never addressed me, let alone by my given name. “I was made aware of the inconvenience I have caused you over the past few months,” he continued. “I did not know until recently that my experiments were harming your health. You should’ve informed me at once. And then that horrid incident at the lecture hall! Handley took me by surprise. I suppose, I haven’t grown accustomed to his antics. That buffoon of a man…”

I interrupted him quite coldly.

“You were about to say—“

Did Griffin truly believe it will take a few words of gossip to melt the ice?

“I was about to say that an apology would not be out of place.”

“An apology?” I asked, shaking my head in confusion. “From me to you, I suppose?”

“Samuel, I would be honored to have you for a study partner. I was simply waiting for the appropriate moment to initiate you into my discoveries. I did not wish to do it before the entire class. Most of our schoolmates are sheep. But you know that already, don’t you? Listen, I’m very glad that I met you, even in a place like this, amidst this bureaucratic circus.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out, only a hoarse wheeze. The glass tubes on the shelf began to blur.

“We have much to discuss, Samuel. It will take some time.”

“Honestly, I’m flattered,” I muttered, wiping the sweat off my cheeks and neck. “However, I meant what I said in the lecture hall. It isn’t in our best interests to collaborate. You see plainly that I am in no state to argue with you. I simply don’t have enough air in my lungs. Let us leave things as they are. Please, excuse me.”

I turned around, preparing to leave, but Griffin, my idol, my tormentor, stepped towards me and caught me by the shoulders.

“I need one full night to work,” he continued, as if he had not heard my objections. “Come back in the morning, and I will be ready to share my findings with you. This will be the last inconvenience to which you’ll be subjected, one last favor. It will be worth your wait, Sam. I promise.”

Losing footing, I leaned forward and buried my face on his chest, convinced that I was dying. The fumes from his shirt and his white hair were poisoning me. It was the first time we came into physical contact. Before then he had not as much as shaken my hand. Even on the verge of a swoon I could not help noticing how hot his skin was. Any other human being would be delirious at such body temperature. The protein in the blood begins to curdle at forty-two Celsius. It was one of the first facts I learned in my medical coursework. And Griffin’s temperature must have been close to forty-five. But then, he was no ordinary human being. His body chemistry must have been different, either from birth or as result of mysterious manipulations on his part. And now this alien creature was embracing me, trying to cajole me into his plot.

Terrified and jubilant at the same time, I threw my arms around his neck and clung to him, coughing and laughing.

Suddenly, I heard him whisper.

“Collect yourself, Samuel.”

It was neither a plea nor an attempt to comfort me but an order. Of course, he had no time for this.

Still panting, I released him. He escorted me to the door and, with a slap on the back, pushed me into the dark hall.

“Good night, Samuel.”


When I came to my senses, I was walking down Gower Street, where every stone in the pavement was familiar to me. Over the last few months I had learned the pattern of the cobblestone. Those clusters of ovals and lopsided rectangles had turned into a mosaic of bewilderment and muffled fury. But that night I felt strange heat radiating from those stones, like the heat from Jonathan’s hands. Those stones were alive. They whispered to me, as I was still trying to make sense of the sudden reversal of fate. He and I… How blind, how inattentive we both had been!

I must confess that the promise of partnership and camaraderie with Jonathan thrilled me more than my engagement to Elizabeth. Her acceptance of my proposal held no triumph for me. I never pursued her aggressively, and she never resisted. One evening Professor Handley, as unceremonious a matchmaker as he was a peacemaker, simply seated us side by side at the dinner table. It was a marriage of reverence that we shared for her father. When we said “yes”, it was not so much to each other but to Professor Handley.

Elizabeth was sturdy and well-mannered, though not remarkably beautiful, not in the same sense that Jonathan was. Before meeting him, I had never regarded other human beings as beautiful or ugly. My aesthetic sensibilities awakened fairly late. Suddenly, I discovered the desire to look at another face, marveling at the clean, elongated lines of the profile and the exquisite translucency of skin. It struck me as strange that the elation, the source of which should have been Elizabeth, was instead sparked by Jonathan. Strange, but not in any way wrong.

In the morning, when I stopped by our flat to change my shirt and fetch my textbooks, I found Jonathan’s room empty. I assumed I would meet him in the lecture hall. I could not help wondering how we would behave in front of our schoolmates. Would we publicize our newly formed friendship? Perhaps, he would prefer to keep it a secret and then stun the entire department at the end of the semester.

I have witnessed, on more than one occasion, scenes of jubilation when study partners, after receiving an award for a successful demonstration, would hang on each other’s necks, skip, squeal like pups and kiss each other “on the brain” as the called it. Then they would rip off their ties and give each other back rides up and down the hall, to the applause of their mates. It was a chance for these future high priests of science to temporarily turn into savages. Thankfully, they did not practice such boorish antics with me, knowing my distaste for them. Perhaps, I had a stricter upbringing. Undoubtedly, even the most civilized men need a released, especially if it is well-earned. Still, I could not fathom embracing Jonathan by the shoulders in public, no matter how much I wanted to.

When I entered the lecture hall, I saw Handley’s assistant. The professor himself was absent. So was Griffin.

When the assistant saw me, he pulled me aside.

“Mr. Kemp, Professor Handley wishes to see you in his office.”

The request to see the professor in private did not disturb me. I could not recall doing anything that would lead to repercussions. I assumed that the nature of the conversation would be purely academic. Perhaps, Griffin informed Handley about our decision to collaborate and requested some funds from the department.

With a fairly light heart, I came into Handley’s office. He was there in the company of another professor by the name Ellsworth.

“Please, sit down,” Handley commanded, pointing at a vacant armchair. “I am afraid I have some disturbing news. Your flat mate Griffin was taken to the infirmary earlier this morning, in a very grave condition.”

“God help him,” I mumbled, sitting down on the edge of the chair.

“What happened?”

“Nobody knows for certain. He won’t talk to the doctor. He exhibits every symptom of severe poisoning: vomiting, pallor, listlessness, reduced circulation in the limbs.”

“Well, can I see him?”

“Not yet. The doctors insist on keeping him secluded.”

“Why on earth?”

Here Ellsworth intruded.

“Samuel, do you know why we called you here?”

“Because I am Jonathan’s friend, naturally.”

“How odd,” Ellsworth commented, rubbing his chin. “I did not think that Jonathan had any friends. But he certainly had his share of enviers. The doctors have reasons to believe that what he is suffering from is no ordinary infection. There is evidence of highly toxic substance in his bloodstream. The director is contemplating bringing in the constable, who may wish to question those with whom Griffin has had contact. We wanted to prepare you for this possibility. You may be among the first ones to be interrogated.”

Had I had any strength left in my legs, I would have leaped up from the chair. All I could do was press my fingers into the wooden arms.

“Don’t fear, Samuel, we aren’t trying to incriminate you,” Handley chimed in hastily. “On the contrary, we are trying to protect you.”

“I know what made Griffin ill,” I blurted out, staring into the floor. “He drank one of his concoctions.”

The professors shook their heads in tandem.

“You aren’t implying that it was a suicide attempt, are you?” asked Ellsworth.

“Nothing of the sort! It was an experiment.”

“An experiment?”

“Yes! The substance he took was supposed to destroy the pigment in his blood without altering its properties. I’ve heard him mumble formulas in his sleep. Pigments, optical density, refraction index, transparency of living tissues, radiation machine…”

The professors assumed the same pose – arms crossed, heads tilted. As I continued, Handley’s eyebrow kept arching steeper and steeper.

“So, what was the objective of his experiments?” he inquired. “In your opinion, what was Griffin trying to accomplish?”

Handley’s dimwittedness infuriated me indescribably. How long would it take him to assemble the pieces of the puzzle?

“Gentlemen,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, “is it not obvious that Griffin’s goal was to turn invisible?”

Both professors burst out laughing. Handley was so amused that he needed to pour himself a glass of water from the carafe on his desk.

“Scientific impossibility aside,” he resumed after the first sip, “why would a young man endowed with Griffin’s appearance wish to make himself invisible? I couldn’t help noticing the effect he has on the fair sex.”

“Griffin doesn’t care about women!” I exclaimed. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t care about anyone, least of all himself. We will risk his life for his work. I’ve grown to know Griffin like no other. You can laugh at me now to your hearts’ content. You didn’t stand behind the closed door of his bedroom for hours, listening to him rant in his sleep. Please, let me see him. I can persuade him to let the doctors treat him. He’ll listen to me. We can save him. I’ve been thinking of little less for the past four months.”

My eyes must have been tearing, because Handley offered me his handkerchief. Ellsworth leaned over to his colleague and mumbled loudly enough for me to hear.

“Something tells me that this is no longer a story of Mozart and Salieri. Rather, it is a story of Byron and Shelley.”

Handley, who was not very versed in romantic literature, did not understand the allusion at once. He began chewing on his lower lip as he usually did to mask his ignorance.

“This would be far worse for the school’s reputation,” Ellsworth continued hissing in his ear. “Sensitive young men, when deprived of female companionship for prolonged stretches of time, can fall into all sorts of unwholesome, unnatural affections towards each other. Don’t you know? In ancient Sparta…”

The more Ellsworth spoke, the more perplexed Handley grew. History was another subject outside of his expertise. Both carried on as if I were not present.

“Of what crime exactly am I being accused?” I asked at last, glancing up.

“Let us be clear. Is it attempted murder or homosexuality?”

Now that was a word that Handley understood. His jaw dropped, and his hand grasped his tie as if it were choking him.

“Young man! Have you no shame?”

“Shame? Shouldn’t you be posing this question to your colleague? A student is dying, and Professor Ellsworth revels in the most piquant practices of ancient Spartans. Apparently, that is where his mind dwells. Those night walks that he took down Gower Street with the drama professor must’ve led to Sparta. But who am I to judge? After all, this is a secular, liberal university, a cradle of progress. Still, all you care about is your precious reputation. It comes before everything, even science. And then you wonder why students hide from you.”

Handley threw a plaintive glance at his colleague.

“My weak heart won’t take it. I’m getting much too old for such an ordeal. What is happening to our institution? And above all, why is this happening on my watch? Two of my best students… After everything I’ve done for them! I gave Samuel a seat at my dinner table and my beautiful daughter in marriage. And this is his gratitude I receive!”

“Right before the end of the semester, too!” Ellsworth replied sympathetically.

“Let me see Griffin,” I demanded through my teeth. “I don’t care whom you drag into this. I will stand before the entire Scotland Yard if necessary. I have nothing to hide, and I don’t need anyone’s protection.”

Handley pulled his tie off his neck and wrapped it around his fist.

“Go,” he muttered half-audibly, swinging the silk ribbon towards the door.


The drowsy nurse on duty barely stirred as I entered the chilly hall of the infirmary. All curtains were closed tight at Griffin’s request, who was the only patient there that day. For a minute I lingered at his bedside, studying the outline of his scrawny body under the white sheet. He did not acknowledge my visit in any way, even though he was wide awake. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and his hands were still clutching his notebook.

A malicious thought flashed through my head. This was my opportunity to exact revenge, however superficial. I could threaten to expose his failed experiment to our schoolmates, to make him the laughing stock of the entire University College.

But that moment of gloating lasted only a second. I reminded myself that I was a doctor in training and, as such, took the liberty of feeling his forehead. Now, it was not much warmer to the touch than the metal bedpost. I estimated that his body temperature was barely hovering above thirty degrees.

Judging from the hue of his skin, his experiment was not a complete failure. He looked even paler than before, which led me to conclude that he succeeded at destroying some of the pigment in his red blood cells.

“What a shame, Samuel,” he began, still staring upward.

His voice was surprisingly strong, given his wretched condition. He did not look defeated in the least.

“I had every intention of initiating you into my work,” he continued, “but you simply can’t keep your mouth shut.”

“Neither can you,” I retaliated, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “You ought to consider gagging yourself for the night.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough to confirm my theory that you were not here to study medicine.”

“I wish I could,” he lamented. “Sometimes I wish I could take interest in something as mundane as medicine and practice it for the rest of my life. I wish I could be content with Handley for a professor and his homely daughter for a wife. But I’ll never be like the others. I always suspected it, but when I came here, all doubt was removed. This is no place to practice science.”

His head twitched on the pillow, and his gaze shifted to me. This sudden attempt to make eye contact threw me into a state of slight panic. I came close to jumping up from his bed. His icy hand released the notebook and seized my wrist.

“I must leave at once,” he declared.

“Perhaps, it would be for the better,” I muttered faintly. “No need to stay in a place where you feel stifled.”

For an instant I thought that he was going to ask me to abandon everything and follow him, to the end of the world, wherever he was going. I don’t know what made me think he would propose such a thing.

He released my wrist as suddenly as he seized it.

“By the way, you need not fear,” I continued. “Nobody will find out.”

“Oh, yes, they certainly will find out,” Griffin objected. “The whole world will – in due time. And those rotten hogs from the academia who scoffed at me will tremble. The whole world will tremble.”

The whole world! Griffin despised it enough to want to hide himself from it, yet at the same time he coveted it enough to want to dominate it.

“Will I ever see you again?” I asked.

“Not if everything goes according to my plan. I’ll be sure to visit you when my work is complete. You won’t see me, but you’ll hear my voice and feel my grip.”

He arched his back on the mattress and laughed.

“Jonathan, you’ll kill yourself!” I said, rising to my feet and backing away from his bed.

“Don’t let your hopes soar.”


Five days later Griffin left the university, citing poor health in his exit letter. One afternoon I returned from the lectures and found the flat cleared of his possessions except for one cracked tube that he left behind and which I kept it as a souvenir.

Once again, I could spend the nights under my roof without the fear of suffocating. Once again, I was the king of the laboratory. Not that it mattered anymore. My schoolmates began flocking back to me, their demeanor being apologetic, almost servile. I did not respond to their insinuations. Their voices blended into one indistinct buzz. The only voice I heard distinctly was that of my former flat mate. Jonathan succeeded at infecting me with his contempt for the University College. I began viewing that place with his eyes and feeling stifled there. Once my coronation site, it suddenly became my prison. Graduation could not come soon enough. I did complete my solo demonstration and even received an award which left me completely indifferent.

Needless to say, I never accepted the teaching position that Professor Handley had promised to me. Nor did I end up marrying Elizabeth. It was difficult to say which one of us was more relieved to break the engagement.

Stevenson continued writing to me, sending drafts of his stories and poems, but I never responded.

I felt that by continuing to love my respectable, philistine life that Jonathan despised so, I would somehow betray him. Perhaps, if I proved myself worthy and denounced all things ordinary, he would return to me and share his secrets at last. Those sentiments were completely absurd and ludicrous. I owed Griffin nothing. No man should have such power over another.

When nobody was watching, I would pinch, slap and shake myself, trying to break free from that bizarre vision of Jonathan, the white-haired, garnet-eyed angel dissolving into air.

I am an award-winning historical essayist, multilingual arts & entertainment journalist, novelist, dramatist and poet. My novel "Wynfield's Kingdom" is featured in the March 2010 edition of First Edition Magazine (UK). My play "Hugo in London" was acquired by Heuer, and the sequel "Lady with a Lamp" was published by Fireship Press with the photos from the show. I also have a book of poetry "Bipolar Express" published by Fireship Press. I am currently an editorial reviewer and steady contributor for Bewildering Stories e-zine.

Best regards,
Marina Julia Neary

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Fiction: The Tombstone

The Tombstone
by Rick McQuiston

“What’s the matter?” Simon’s friend Robbie asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Simon laughed a little, but it was hollow. He was afraid of revealing how he really felt to his friend, and also of what he saw as they were walking home from school.

A tombstone.

It was small, no larger than a briefcase, and was nestled in a thicket of shrubs, barely visible unless someone looked right at it.

Robbie noticed the look on his friend’s face. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

Simon looked away from the tombstone, acting as if he saw nothing. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied. “Just got a headache that’s all.”

Robbie straightened his backpack and looked at his friend. “Okay, if you say so,” he mumbled. Deciding to quickly change the subject he continued, “You wanna see if we can catch a couple of bass in Benders Lake? I got some new bait we can try out. Since it’s your birthday tomorrow maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Simon heard his friend but didn’t answer. His attention was focused on the tombstone in the bushes. It was situated in a way that allowed Simon to see it, but not too clearly; only a few vague inscriptions on its front were readable.

Simon looked at the tombstone long and hard, oblivious to Robbie’s attempts to talk to him. All he could make out on its weathered and pitted surface was a couple of dates.


“Are you all right buddy?” Robbie repeated, noticing that his friend was growing whiter by the minute.

Simon suppressed his fear and looked at his friend. “Ahh, yeah,” he mumbled in his best acting voice. “You said you wanted to go fishing?”

Robbie, delighted that Simon was finally showing interest in what he said, replied, “Yeah, Benders Lake. Let me get my fishing pole and I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

The fear Simon felt wasn’t like anything he had experienced before. Probably because it was something unnatural, something nobody had to deal with before, on any level. And it wasn’t the first time he’d seen the tombstone either. He noticed it three days earlier as his mom drove him to a dentist appointment.

It was there, right in the middle of the sidewalk, standing defiantly for anyone to see. It was the same stone, Simon was sure of it. It was the same size, had chipped edges, and had the same dark-colored stains.

Simon watched the marker fly by the car window. He was amazed that his mother, nor any of the other people walking by, noticed it.

Robbie stopped walking and looked at Simon. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

Simon forced another smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The remainder of their walk home was quiet, if not uneasy, and thankfully for Simon, void of anything out of the ordinary. No tombstones manifested themselves in bushes or on sidewalks, and since the sun was beginning to filter through the thinning clouds, Simon’s mind was gradually drifting toward spending the remainder of the day enjoying himself. “I’ll meet you at the lake in an hour,” he said.

Robbie nodded and sprinted toward his house. “See ya there.”

* * * *

The water was perfectly still. Bender Lake was like a painting, serene and silent, forever trapped in a moment. Simon stood on its banks, his fishing pole in one hand, his tackle-box in the other. He still found himself glancing around just to be sure there weren’t any tombstones around.

“Simon!” Robbie called out. He was making his way through the foliage wearing a wide grin. “Sorry I’m late. Had a few chores around the house first.”

Simon smiled back at him and the two friends situated themselves at the edge of the water near a large outcropping of rocks. Robbie sensed the uneasiness in Simon, and despite his reluctance to bring the subject up, asked him if he’d seen anything lately.

Simon looked straight into the calm waters and cast his line out. “No,” he replied sheepishly. “It must have just been my imagin…” His eyes grew large with excitement, as his line was pulled taut.

“Cool. You got something!” Robbie cried. “Quick, pull it in!”

Simon yanked on the line hard and began reeling his catch in. Whatever it was it was big.

The tombstone’s pitted face broke the surface of the water, gleaming in the sunlight. Simon glared at it for a moment in disbelief before releasing his line, allowing the marker to sink back to the lake’s murky depths.
“Simon, what’s the matter?”

Simon didn’t answer. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped his pole. It fell to the ground and came to rest at the edge of the water. He stood up, and swinging one quick glance at Robbie, proceeded to run straight for home without looking back.

His father was just getting out of his car in the driveway when Simon sprinted past him. “Hey there big guy. Your mother and I will be leaving in about an hour and…what’s your hurry?”

Simon ignored him and flew through the front door and into the house. His only concern was reaching the safety of his bedroom where he could conceal himself from danger behind a locked door and his bed covers. He would hide, not only from the anomaly which was plaguing him, but from himself as well.

The relief Simon felt when he locked his bedroom door was immense. The familiarity of his room and the items within it greeted him with a sense of security unattainable from any other place. A smile slid across his weary face as he kicked off his shoes and crawled into his bed, exhausted and scared, but comfortable nonetheless, and inevitably sleep overtook him.

When Simon awoke the first thing he noticed was the pale moonlight streaming through his bedroom window. He glanced over at the clock next to the bed and was startled to see that it was well past midnight. Unsure of what to do he sat up in bed and stretched. He was still in his clothes, but the thought of getting out of bed didn’t appeal to him, particularly when he remembered the events of the previous day.

Had it all be a dream? Some unpleasant result of stress or too many candy bars and soda. Or had it really happened? And if so, why? His fear was starting to be replaced by another strong emotion…anger.

He did nothing wrong. He didn’t hurt anyone or damage anything. Why him?

But maybe that was just it. Perhaps there wasn’t any logical explanation at all.

Simon thought for a moment and then crawled out of bed. He walked over to the window and gazed out into the night. It was clear outside, with thousands of stars twinkling in the cool, dark sky. He scanned the yard once, twice, searching for any sense of normalcy to ease his troubled mind.

But as much as he didn’t want to, he saw it.

There, jutting up out of the ground between two small trees was the tombstone.

Simon glared at it for a moment, partly to verify that it was real, and partly to study it in some objective way, marveling at it, despite the horror it caused him, at how just one deviation from the norm could corrupt an otherwise peaceful situation. Stepping back from the window Simon kept his eye on the tombstone, as if watching it would halt its progression.

But it didn’t.

Before his eyes the marker slowly, but steadily, slid across the ground towards the house.

Within one minute it was past his mother’s line of rose bushes.

In two minutes it was at the edge of the patio.

In three minutes it was at the back door of the house.

Simon’s heart was in his throat. He entertained the brave notion of grabbing his baseball bat and confronting the thing head on, but how do you kill something that’s made of stone? All he could do was stand at his window and watch the impossible scenario in his backyard unfold.

The tombstone smacked itself against the back door of the house, inflicting several dents in the metal of the door, but not enough to breach it. After a few minutes it stopped its assault and slid back into the yard. It settled near the middle of the yard, firmly rooting itself into the ground, jiggling back and forth for a few seconds before becoming completely still. Simon watched it, marveling at how it could move by itself, wondering what it really was and why it wanted him.

And then it hit him. The phone! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He could call for help. The sheriff, Robbie’s house, the National Guard! Anybody. Anyone at all.

He flung his bedroom door open and ran down the hallway, all the while wishing his parents would have gotten him a cell-phone. He stumbled into his parent’s bedroom and pulled the receiver next to the bed off its base.

The line was dead.

But how?

But that was only one of many questions he had for God, all of which he knew would go unanswered. He ran back to his bedroom and approached the window. Even though he didn’t want to look, he did, and instantly regretted it.

The ground in front of the tombstone was lifting up, heaving chunks of dirt and sod off to the side. The marker itself was pulsing with some type of alien life, oozing clear slime, which trickled down its face and singed the earth below. Thin plumes of blackened smoke swirled into the air at the base of the tombstone, mixing with the cool night sky. And then the slender, pale fingers punched through the surface and clawed blindly at the night, searching for something to grasp.

Simon watched horrified, too stunned to move, too weak from terror to react. And what he knew was coming next, inevitably did come, bringing with it many new nightmares, many new levels of fear.

The head broke through the ground and shook violently from side to side. Although it was mostly bone, it still retained enough of its rotted flesh to complete its image of evil.

The realization that what he was seeing was really happening gripped his mind tightly. It wasn’t the tombstone that was haunting him it was the person buried beneath it. A person who was apparently born in 1687 and died in 1699. That would have made them 12 years old at the time of their death, the same age Simon had just turned. Maybe the person under the tombstone was waiting for the right person to come along, someone the right age that they could take over, like pulling off an old worn shirt and putting on a new one.

The corpse was dragging itself free from its grave. Moldy earth cascaded down from its corrupt body, sprinkling the upturned ground with its tainted stench. It knew there was a boy of 12 years old nearby, and it shot its horrid gaze up to the bedroom window in the house where Simon stood in place, frozen in fear, unable to move. It smelled a victim nearby, one which it had slid across the land in search of, one it had haunted until this very day, the same day it had died so many years earlier. And now it could complete its life.

Its hollow eye sockets glowed a deep red, so deep they were nearly black, and the spell which emanated from them had Simon firmly ensnared. Magic was a powerful thing back in the 17th century, and Black Magic was the most potent of all. So strong in fact that if performed correctly it could endure the erosion of time itself.

The corpse pulled itself free of its grave and began to crawl toward the house. Toward its prey. Toward the remainder of its life.

Bio of Rick McQuiston:

I'm a forty-two year-old father of two who loves anything horror- related. I've had over 200 publications so far and recently started my first novel. I've written four anthology books and one book of novellas, which are available on Lulu and Amazon. I’m also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School.

My website is:

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Poem: Long Live the Lorax

Long Live the Lorax

written by
Catherine Moore

Long Live the Lorax
The Grickle-grass grows,
blows, in the far end of town
lives Lifted Lorax.

No birds ever sing;
miles of bare empty field, so
who is the Lorax?

Ask Once-ler to tell
how the Lorax got lifted
and taken away.

Back when grass was green,
pond was still wet and clouds clean;
this glorious place

I first saw the Trees.
Great leaping joy in my heart
for Truffula Trees!

Oh, Truffula tufts -
sweet smell of butterfly milk
much softer than silk.

For bright-colored tuft
I chopped down one little Tree
made Truffula thread.

With soft thread we knit
I give you a Thneed!

How business did grow
to the sound of chopping Trees -

‘I am the Lorax,
sir, because they have no tongues
I speak for the Trees.’

'Mister I ask you,
please at the top of my lungs –
stop chopping down Trees’

Thneeds are quite useful,
the factory working full tilt
and no harm is done.

Humming-fish gills gummed
biggered loads of Thneeds ship out
Brown Bar-ba-loots leave.

More smogulous smoke,
Swans can’t sing with smog in throat
they too must move out.

Last Truffula falls -
sickening smack of an axe.
No more Trees or Thneeds.

The Lorax silent;
gives sad, sad backward glance
when lifted from mess.

Left behind one word
'UNLESS' and Truffula Seed
to plant one last Tree.

Give it clean water,
Truffula Trees we all need,
and feed it fresh air.

Grow then a forest.
Protect it from hacking axe.
Lorax may come back.

BIO: Catherine Moore lives in Florida with her husband and two children. She’s been a "scribbler" since handed a pencil as a child. After graduating college with a degree in English Literature, she has spent most of her career working in fields of education and public relations. A few years ago she turned serious attention back to writing fiction and poetry. She volunteers as an ESOL (English-to-Speakers-of-Other-Languages) tutor at the local library. Her online webpage can be found at http://Writing.Com/authors/novacatmando

This poem is written in Seussku, her own form of Spamku, which is of course, a Haiku. When her own muse wanders Catherine revisits her favorite childhood author, Dr. Seuss; to quote her “its either Muse or Seuss.” As of result, the author has many fantubulous re-tellings of Dr. Seuss stories in variety of poetry forms.

Flash Fiction: Razzle-Dazzle


by Michael A. Kechula

Harry went into Ye Olde Curio Shop and slammed an antique bottle on the counter. “Nothing in this place is any damn good!” he shouted.

“What’s the problem?” asked the gnomish old shopkeeper.

“Remember last week when I rented a wishing bottle, and it turned out to be empty?”

“Right. And I gave you this one as a replacement. So, what’s the problem now?”

“I only got two wishes. The genie owes me two more.”

“You must’ve done something wrong. Did you talk nice to her like I told you?”

“Sure did. Every time I made a wish, I said pretty please with chocolate syrup on top. For the first two wishes, everything worked out fine. She brought me a hundred billion in cash, and the German castle I always wanted.”

“Well, maybe you should count your blessings,” the shopkeeper said. “You have enough money to last a lifetime of fantastic luxury, and you have a fine new home. How many bathrooms does it have?”

“Don’t change the subject. I have two more wishes coming. If I don’t get them immediately, I want half my rental fee refunded.”

“Frankly I never heard of a genie failing to carry out a customer’s wishes.”

“Well, this one did. Just as I was making my third wish, she interrupted me right in the middle of the sentence.”

“Hmm. That’s highly irregular. What did she say?”

“That she wanted a pepperoni pizza. With extra cheese. I wondered what the hell was going on? Since when does a genie get on her high horse and order me around? It’s supposed to be the other way around. And I told her so.”

“What did she say to that?”

“No pizza, no wish. I asked her why she wanted pizza at a time like this. Do you know what she said to me?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I’ve been cooped up in bottles for 5,000 years, and I’m famished. Get me a large pepperoni pizza, or no third wish. So, I called Pizza Hut and had them deliver one. Would you believe that tiny thing ate the whole piazza? She didn’t even offer me a slice. Then, she made me wait until she took a nap. Plus, I had to sit there and listen to her burping while she snoozed.”
“I assure you I’ll report this to the Genie Supply Warehouse,” said the shopkeeper. “You can be certain she’ll be strongly reprimanded.”

“Serves her right. But there’s more. When she woke up, I tried again. I said, ‘Oh beautiful magical genie, I wish for all the oil in the Middle East be placed in the ground under my castle, pretty please with chocolate syrup on top.”


“She just sat inside the bottle with her arms crossed, looking pissed. ‘What’s the problem now?’ I asked. Know what she said to me?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“She said from now on, she wants me to say, pretty please with chocolate syrup, marshmallow, peanuts, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. So, I told her that’s not the magic formula, and that she’s just stalling. I told her to get the oil like I just wished for. But she wouldn’t budge. She took out a marking pen, a piece of cardboard, and made a sign that said ON STRIKE. You can see it taped to the inside of the bottle.”

The shopkeeper examined the bottle. “That’s awful. I’m going to call the Genie Supply Warehouse right now.” Grabbing his cell phone the shopkeeper dialed. “Hello…Customer Service? I got a problem. A very irate customer’s in my shop, and he’s complaining about one of your genies. What’s her name? I’m checking the bottom of the bottle now. It’s Razzle-Dazzle. Oh, I see. Well, that explains it.”

“What did they say?” asked Harry.

“She’s a defective model. They shipped her accidentally. They said I should swap this bottle for another. Only problem is, all my genie-filled wish bottles are rented. None are due back until a week from Tuesday.”

“That’s OK,” Harry said. “By then, oil will be up to $200 a barrel.”

Before leaving, Harry picked up the bottle. “Hey genie. You know, I think you are the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen. My fourth wish after you got the oil was gonna be that you became a full sized woman. Then I would’ve married you, and we could’ve had a fabulous time together living in my castle, spending my money, and selling oil to the world. Wouldn’t that have been better than living in stupid bottles for the next gazillion years? Imagine all the pepperoni pizzas you could've had.”

The genie smiled, tore up the sign, and said, “Your wish has been granted. Not only has all the oil in the Middle East just been relocated to the land under your castle, but I also threw in every drop that the United States has offshore. Plus the deposits in Anwar, Alaska. Now make your wish, because your offer about making me a real woman and helping you spend all that money sounds fantastic.”

“Can’t,” Harry said.

“Why not?”

“I’m on strike.”

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 103 magazines and 28 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at and Paperback available at

How this story was conceived: I belong to a flash fiction exercise group. Every week we get three prompts. This story was written in response to one of the prompts.

Monday, May 3, 2010

We have made a strict policy of NOT publishing our, or our friends’ work. Some e-zines do. That is fine for them. This is not about our own personal hunt for fame, but about giving another place for stories to call home. What good is the best story with no one to read it?

The world needs its stories. Without them, we would lose our history, the sense of “What if”, that make us something wonderfully human.

We are the stuff dreams and stars are made of. That is what the best stories do, put a little of these things into

Replies on submitting

Like you, Tortoise and I are both writers. The one thing we have found frustrating is that when receiving a reply from a publisher or an editor: there are no reasons given, only yes or no. This gives the poor, lonely writer little to go on. We, however, independently of each other, have decided one of the things we would like to do differently is to give real feedback on both the good and the bad.

We hope you find it helpful, and we will try and be respectful of your work. We know there is a little bit of your soul amongst the words.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Slush Wrangler blurb

The infamous Slush Wrangler, aka the Tortoise, is a mildly published individual with a horror of adverbs. Oh, no! There’s one now. Sneaking up, tortoise bashes its head in with a hammer. Contrary to the nickname, stories will be read promptly. Another one. Whips out a knife. Shwoosh! Snick! Preferring pulp to literature, the Tortoise is Ms. Mitchell’s evil twin, separated at birth, and raised by … well … tortoises.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Messing with site

I am still trying to figure BlogSpot out. When you come back there will changes. I still need to live up to my promise to Ralan's and post their banner. I will figure this out.

Feel free to send stories, poems, art, recordings our way.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010


After much putting off, we are back up. I found the energy again after an illness that took much longer to recover from than I would have liked.

I've got some more folks helping out. Once we work things out, I hope to have her do her own intro. Not sure of too much yet, but she’ll get her picks and so will I.

We'll be on YouTube. I started the recordings already.

Although DWoS will have its own channel.

We plan on putting together an anthology with the theme of: CATS. So feel free to send those in too.

We will spilt all cash with our writers. We hope for around 12, so that means split 14 ways.

No cute stories.

No true stories.

We want fantasy, SF or horror or something between.

If you have art send it too.

Word count: 50 - 5000 for fiction.

We'd like a short, boi too.

Send to:

Aliceingoreland @ yahoo . com

Note the open spaces. Please close them.

Place your stuff in the body of the email is fine or as a file.

Please say SUBMISSION on the subject line and the title of your work.

A line of space between each paragraph is fine.

We hope to read you soon!

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