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.