Falling

The whiskey burned ferociously as it snaked its way down towards her empty stomach. Alone in the crowded bar, there was nothing to distract the pale faced woman from the pounding of her head save for the glass in her hand. With a wry smile, she swirled it listlessly and watched the amber liquid crackle and dance in the harsh light of the bare bulb overhead.

The no-good son of a bitch had stood her up again. She should have expected it. He’d done nothing but let her down time and time again over the past year, but still she kept on putting herself out there for him to hurt her once more. She could tell herself that this was the last time she’d let him do it, but what use would it be?

She’d know she was lying.

He wasn’t coming. Time to skulk home and cry herself to sleep whilst awaiting the inevitable phone call full of feeble excuses that showed how little he really cared.

But when she slammed the glass down on the grime-streaked bar and made to slip down from the teetering stool she was so precariously balanced upon, the door behind her swung open. She tensed, nervous anticipation flooding her aching body, but it wasn’t him.

No. Not him. Just someone else; someone she couldn’t tear her eyes away from for even a heartbeat. As the chill air of the winter night outside whipped around him, he shook a curtain of dark hair out of his face and strode forward, effortlessly carving out a path through the crowd.

He was perfect. All heads turned towards him, though he seemed not to notice. His green eyes were fixed upon the bar. Unsmiling, he shrugged off his jacket and took the stool that had somehow become free when he approached it. Too far away. She dared not approach him, but when the crowd briefly thinned she had the briefest of glimpses of him once more.

By the time she could no longer see him again, it was too late. She was lost to him. Nothing she did could free her mind of the grip he had upon it. He consumed her, set a fire raging deep inside her that was impossible to defy. Overcome, she snatched up her drink with a shaking hand and poured it down her constricted throat, ice and whiskey alike.

She slammed the glass back down and choked back a loud sob. Before she could do anything to recompose herself, though, a hand gently touched her arm.

Her head shot up.

The bartender set another whiskey down in front of her and swept her empty glass away. She lifted an eyebrow in question and he jerked his head towards the far end of the bar. “From the guy with the long hair. Says you look like you could do with it.”

Even from the distance between them, it seemed her misery was palpable. Her heart pounding, she slowly leaned forwards and ran her hands through her hair as she glanced in his direction under the cover of checking the dusty clock behind him.

He was staring directly at her, and their eyes met along the length of the bar. Her breath hitched as he slowly raised his glass to her before, still not smiling, he lifted it to his sinfully full lips and downed the whiskey in one.

Her head spun for reasons that were nothing to do with the alcohol rushing through her bloodstream. Dazed, she hastily dropped her eyes and breathed in deeply before following his example and slamming back her drink. She revelled in the warmth that spread through her body, for it brought with it a clarity of mind that had been lacking for far, far too long.

When she looked up again he was gone, but it was okay.

Tonight when the phone call came, she knew she wouldn’t meekly accept whatever excuse her boyfriend fabricated for her. He wouldn’t be staggering in blind drunk to share her bed, and he wouldn’t be the reason for her to hunch over the bathroom sink, tears streaming down her flushed face as she etched out the marks of her misery on an arm already criss-crossed with a year’s worth of scars.

He wasn’t worth it. She finally saw the truth of it. There was far better out there and she had already wasted a year of her life not seeing it. She wouldn’t waste even a moment more.

With a decisive nod, she wrenched the diamond ring off her finger and dropped it into the empty glass before walking away.

I'll Never Go Away by Rainstorm Press

My story, Idolatry, is featured in the new release by Rainstorm Press, "I'll Never Go Away". Available now on Amazon in Kindle format, with the paperback release to follow shortly.

Kate.

Guest post with Days With The Undead author, Julianne Snow

I'm delighted to introduce to you all a supremely talented author, Julianne Snow. As part of the indie writers community, I've found the relationships I've formed with other writers to be invaluable, both for the knowledge and support they offer. Julianne is one of those whose friendship I treasure the most, and I was thrilled to be able to offer my help with editing her debut novel, Days With The Undead, which is published by Sirens Call Publications.

Julianne joins me today to talk about a subject that is both pertinent and intriguing to the both of us. I hope that you enjoy her words just as much as I do - and on that note, over to the Zombie Queen herself!

Today I have the pleasure of guesting on the delectable Kate Monroe’s blog. Kate and I have been friends and mutual supporters since my arrival on the Indie scene almost a year ago. A fabulous writer in her own right, she has helped me to fine tune Days with the Undead: Book One and her friendship and guidance mean the world to me. As women writing in the horror genre, I’ve often wondered how our experiences differ from those of our male counterparts. On that note, let’s discuss –

Women in Horror

Is the average horror reader discriminatory?

Can female authors gain the same level of respect for their work as male authors?

They are both interesting questions; ones that I have wondered about since releasing my first horror/science fiction novel Days with the Undead: Book One.

Looking through history, the horror genre is one that has been dominated by men. I have to wonder if that is a product of how society has viewed women as the weaker, fairer sex. Women have been seen as needing protection and guidance from the men in their lives and in some cases weren’t allowed to vote or speak their minds publicly until the 19^th and even the 20^th centuries. Yet, despite all of these forms of societal censorship, women have managed to gain popularity in the circles of horror writers and horror readers.

Horror has had a long history in literature, mainly in part because readers enjoy being scared. Society has had a long interest in all things supernatural and it’s absolutely no wonder to me that supernatural horror was the prevalent form until the advent of Gothic horror. A lot of the gothic horror coming out of the 18^th century was from women writers and it was written to appeal to a largely female fan base. Women like Ann Radcliffe, Marjorie Bowen, Elizabeth Gaskill, Regina Maria Roche and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley have entertained readers with some of the most well-known and well recognized works of literature in the horror genre.

The trend for strong women in horror literature has only continued since then. Authors such as J.M. Dillard, Susie Maloney, Anne Rice, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Gemma Files, and Sarah Pinborough along with many others have only helped to propel the female voice further in horror literature as a whole. With the advent of the self-publishing revolution, many female horror authors have stepped up to the plate and delivered astonishing reads as well.

But are horror readers reading women horror authors? I think the answer to that question is yes but there is a bigger question – are they reading female horror authors as frequently as they are reading male authors who write in the same genre? That is an infinitely harder question to answer. If I look at the books shelves of my male friends, they are filled with male authors almost to the point of excluding the women. Conversely, the bookshelves of my female friends show a definite appreciation for both genders. That is not to say that men only read male authors, it’s just that some of them have yet to discover the strong and terrifying voices of the women writing in the genre.

As a woman who has just released a novel in the horror genre, I have found that the reaction to my book has been very favorable. While I realize that it may appeal to a sub sect of horror fans, I feel like I have been warmly welcomed into the fold. I had the unique opportunity to wet my feet prior to releasing a full length book so I believe that has helped me to cull a small fan base. In that regard, I am lucky and very grateful.

Given that women appear to have strapped themselves firmly into the passenger seat of the horror genre, it only serves to note that their notoriety will expand within the next ten years. With horror set to make a huge revival in the future, women authors are primed to make a distinct mark on the genre. So pick up one of the many wonderful tomes written by a woman and prepare yourself for a stellar scare.

It was watching Romero's Night of the Living Dead at the tender age of six that solidified Julianne’s respect of the Undead. Since that day, she has been preparing herself for the (inevitable) Zombie Apocalypse and while classically trained in all of the ways to defend herself, she took up writing in order to process the desire she now covets; to bestow a second and final death upon the Undead. As the only girl growing up in a family with four children in the Canadian countryside, Julianne needed some form of escape. Her choice was the imaginations of others which only fostered the vibrancy of her own.

Days with the Undead: Book One is her first full-length book, the basis of which can be found in her popular web serial of the same name. You can find Julianne’s The Living Dead of Penderghast Manor in the anthology Women of the Living Dead and an upcoming story in Sirens Call Publications first anthology Childhood Nightmares: Under The Bed.

Get your copy of Days With The Undead: Book One in paperback or eBook via Amazon US or Smashwords, and to catch up with the rest of Julianne's blog tour, stop by the Sirens Song for all of the links.

Calling for submissions

Over at Sirens Call Publications, we're now looking for submissions for the second issue of the eZine. This time around, we want stories written from the point of view of The Observer.

Use your imagination and give us your very best flash fiction and short stories (up to 5000 words). Original artwork, photography and reviews are also welcome.

All submissions can be directed to submissions@SirensCallPublications.com

Kate.

Célèbre

“I can offer you forever beauty,” he whispered as he let a lock of her honeyed hair fall through his fingers.   “Forever like this, forever adored...don’t you want that?”

His softly spoken words of seduction wove around her in a haze of desire. How she wanted that! Time would steal her beauty from her, she knew that with an agonising clarity – but he promised her all that she wanted.

She moistened her lips. With a tremulous nod of the head, she gave her wordless agreement.

With a rapidity that was impossible to defend against, he pressed the gleaming blade against the milk-white curve of her throat.

One cut, neat and precise. Her beauty unmarred, forever preserved, just as he had promised.

Forever remembered.

The Sirens Call E-Zine

I'm delighted to announce that the first issue of the Sirens Call E-Zine is out now; and to celebrate its release, you can download it for free for a limited time only, or pick up your first year's subscription for the special rate of just $6. How can you possibly resist? Head on over to our website to check it out.

And if you need any further persuasion, here's a teaser excerpt from a short story of mine that's included, Shades of Grey.

   Eden paused only to impulsively pick up the diary before she wandered over to the dust-covered mirror that sat on her grandmother’s beautifully carved dressing table. With a heavy sigh, she straddled the stool in front of it and leaned forwards to wipe the worst of the dust away.

   The locket had nestled itself into the curve of her cleavage, the metal unnaturally cold against her skin. She glanced down uneasily as she touched it again; convinced, for just a moment, that she had felt it faintly pulsing. It stayed still under her hand, though, and Eden supposed that it must have simply been the racing of her heart that she had felt.

   A sudden gust of wind through the open window wrenched away her attention, for it had blown open the diary where it lay in front of her.  An irrational feeling of unease built inside her as she fingered the musty pages and flicked through them as her eyes darted across the page. Seeing nothing of interest, she closed it again with another low and miserable sigh.

   She shivered as the chilled air flooded into the little room. Eden made to rise from the stool and shut the window, but before she could do so the locket twitched again; this time, there could be no doubt about it, for she had seen the movement in the hazy reflection.

   Unable to stifle a gasp of fear, she frantically tried to wrench the locket free of her neck, but the delicate chain that it hung around proved surprisingly sturdy. It refused to give way.

   The locket was still gently twitching against her breasts, almost as if it was impatient for something. Blood rushed through her veins and brought a stinging flush to her skin as her head rolled to the side.

   Eden ceased trying to break the clasp and instead, of their own accord, her fingers moved to caress the locket and try to push it open. The cold metal was stiff and unyielding. The locket seemed to have become stuck shut over time, but she could not stop her fingers from desperately working at it and trying with all their might to force the two halves apart. Finally, it gave way and sprung open to fall back against her chest.

   The locket was empty. Eden slumped down into the stool with a burst of disappointment and gave a shaky laugh, unsure what it was that she had even expected to find. Clearly, her mind, strained by the loss of her beloved grandmother, had allowed her vivid imagination to run away with itself. She reached up to wipe away the solitary tear that had been clinging to her eyelashes; but as she did so, she realised that something was very wrong.

   The colours in the room were fading away. All that was left were shades of grey; the only things in the room with any colour remaining were Eden herself and the golden locket. Even the clothes that she wore were paling in front of her, the red shirt already dulled and lacking entirely in colour. She blinked her eyes and rubbed them hard in case it was some strange trick of the light, but when she warily re-opened them, it was still the same.

   Eden stared at the reflection of her terrified face, her blue eyes round and wide with fear. Nothing seemed out of place in the room that was reflected behind her – nothing out of the ordinary at all, nothing but the utter lack of any colour or life.

  The reflection she saw told her very clearly that nobody was in the room with her. She was entirely alone in the colourless room– so why was it that she could now feel a pair of arms snaking possessively around her waist, embracing her and drawing her back into the heat of another body?

To read the conclusion, just download your free copy of the e-zine.

Kate ;)

Who do you write for?

This is a quick straw poll for all the authors out there, I guess.

I have a dilemma. There's a fully fleshed out story that's been buzzing around my head for months now, but I've hesitated to dive in and get it down on the page. I know exactly why I've held back, and I'm slightly ashamed to admit that the reason is fear.

Fear of other people's reactions.

It's not the now normal fear of dislike that I always feel when I launch a story out into the big, scary world - no, this is far more specific. You see, the main cast of the story in my head are vampires. And there we have the main sticking point. Vampires are perhaps the most maligned paranormal creatures out there at the moment, due in most part to the romanticising of the sub-genre by Meyer and her like. I'll confess to a brief dabble in that area in the past, but I find myself really resenting the way that one of the darkest creatures ever created has been corrupted by popular culture to the extent that they aren't even feared any more.

No, my vampires don't sparkle, and nor do they avoid drinking the blood of the precious humans. They are ruthless, self-serving and wholly representative of the highs of the 19th century literature that first breathed life into them - but can they find a home in this cynical world that so openly scorns and mocks all things vampiric? Do I potentially waste hundreds of hours of my precious writing time in crafting a story that I may decide never to show to the light of day, or do I try to forget a tale that is so vivid in my mind that it feels like an ever-present companion in my unconscious mind?

I suppose it all boils down to the question of who I write for. Do I write for the benefit of those who might read my words, or do I simply write for the love of it? Those of you who know me well no doubt realise exactly what my scant hours of selfish scribbling are going to be devoted to over the coming months... and maybe, one day, "Lament of the Songbird" will boldly go forth to reclaim the genre once more ;)

Kate.

My Old Friend

So, I realised today that it's been a while since I posted any fiction; and to rectify that, here's a little story that was conceived at 4am a few nights ago.


My Old Friend

I knew him so very well.

Him...I suppose that’s a little strange, isn’t it, to have attributed such a strong and developed personality to something that is entirely intangible; and even, to some, incomprehensible. But when he had been my constant and relentless companion for so many years, he had a very real and unshakeable presence in my consciousness.

He was always there. Sometimes – maybe even for months at a time – he’d lurk almost unnoticed right in the furthest recesses of my head. More often than not, though, he was right there at the front consuming all of me. Every thought, every desire, every breath...it was all about him.

And I hated him. Oh, how I hated him! He made me resent myself, you see – resent what I had become because of him. I no longer even recognised the person I was. I was a stranger, even to myself; and this new person wasn’t someone I wanted to be.

I knew that I had to rid myself of him; to purge myself of his toxic presence and his noxious embrace. He was suffocating. Have you ever felt like that? You must have done, at some moment in your life. The best way I can describe it is to think of the most terrible panic and fear you’ve ever felt. Remember how it constricts your chest, how it churns your stomach and lifts you high on the black wings of terror as you fight even to breathe? That’s how I felt living with him.

Is it any wonder that I couldn’t take it any longer?

I’m not sharing this with you as retribution, or even as a plea for understanding or compassion. Don’t think that, because it simply isn’t so. I’m just stating it how it is, so that if you find yourself being slowly but surely gnawed away at by someone like him, maybe you won’t make the same mistake I did.

The problem was that nothing I did seemed to get rid of him. I could hide him away and pretend even to myself that he didn’t even exist, but if I ever let my guard down for just a moment, he would be back; and each time he returned, he was somehow stronger and more possessive than ever before.

Enough was enough. I knew that he was never going to go away of his own accord. I had to take matters into my own hands – and in through the storm cloud of misery that had descended upon my sleep-deprived and tormented mind, I could see only one solution.

It was all so easy.

One little pill, two little pills.

Three little pills, four little pills.

Five little pills, six little pills.

And on I went until the little jar’s contents had all danced along my tongue and down my waiting throat.

So easy.

Next, the bottle of bourbon on the worktop joined the party. I had to be sure; I hadn’t come this far only for him to defeat me now. Then all I had to do was wait.

But it didn’t go down like I had expected it to. I expected to feel nothing but relief as my life slipped away from me, relief to be freed of the shackles of his possession – but instead, I realised what a terrible mistake I had made.

I’d never seen it before. Too eaten up by all that he was, I’d never even stopped to dream of a life without him. All I thought of was getting rid of him – not living without him.

I knew in that moment why people fought so hard to cling onto life with all that they were.

Too late.

Gone.

Bonus points to anyone who knows the song that the title is a nod towards...

Kate.

We want to hear from you...

I know that I've got some wonderfully talented authors amongst my readers here. If you haven't already, then please drop by and check out Sirens Call Publications. We're open now for submissions in general and for three specific products that I'm really excited about;

Childhood Nightmares

UNDER THE BED

They haunt us all. Those whispered tales of monsters hiding under the bed, or of the demons lurking in the shadowy corner where we dare not glance for fear that seeing them will make them all too real. Oh, how the innocent landscape of a child’s imagination lends fertile soil to horrors ready to be sown on the slightest of sounds; the tales and the terror they wreak on our youthful minds never quite leaves us.

Reach into the forgotten recesses of your twisted mind. Share with us the tales of nightmares that can only thrive in the hidden corners of a child’s imaginings; the bogeyman under the bed, the outlandishly fiendish clown perched upon a rocker, the slight murmur of sound coming from the closet… did you close the door completely? Explore the myriad terrors that only a child can twist from nothing into some ‘thing’ in the span of a single rapid breath.

Do you dare delve into your own memories for inspiration? Perhaps you’ll start sleeping with the lights on again... Tell us, who is Under the Bed?

Submission guidelines;

Deadline for submissions - Monday, January 30th, 2012.

4000 - 10,000 words.

50% royalties to be divided between all contributing authors.

TWISTED REALITIES: OF MYTH AND MONSTROSITY

What if the worlds of horror and mythology collided; what skeletons might come tumbling out of that particular closet? Open up your mind to the possibilities of reimaged tales or the consequences of unleashing a mythological creature into today’s world. What would happen if Medusa were let loose in NYC? What would the world of mythology be like if Zeus had a penchant for torture and murder? Perhaps the Fey world holds you captivated; but you imagine the benign faerie folk to instead be frighteningly devious creatures that only exist in the darker, more sinister walks of life...

Spin us a tale that will scare the reader but still maintain that magical twist from the stories of an age gone by. All mythology is open to interpretation; Greek, Roman, Fey, Chinese, Christian, plus the countless others not mentioned. Your only limitation is the one you place on yourself. 

* *Stories containing overt sexual content, incestuous behavior and/or extreme bestiality will be immediately disqualified from consideration.

Submission guidelines;

Deadline for submissions - Monday, February 13th, 2012.

4000 - 10,000 words.

50% royalties to be divided between all contributing authors.

And the SIRENS CALL E-ZINE

This bi-monthly publication is exposure only for contributing authors, but don't let that put you off! We're looking for flash fiction, short stories (1000-5000 words), literary reviews, teasers for your novels (stand-alone scenes would work best here), artwork or interviews. Previously published work will be accepted provided that you hold the rights to it.

If you have something you think could be placed in any of the above, then please email submissions@sirenscallpublications.com

Kate.

How to improve your writing - part one.

One of the hardest things for any writer to do is to view their work objectively and see where it can be improved. The best option, of course, is to have your manuscript professionally edited before publication, but I'm fully aware that the cost of doing can be prohibitive for many self-pubbed authors.

As an editor, I see many basic issues that crop up again and again in manuscripts from different authors across all the genres.

Now, I'm a fervent believer in indie publishing and taking the power back from the Big Six. In order for the indie and self-publishers to do so, we owe it to each other and the readers to ensure that the work we put out there is of the highest possible quality. Though I can't offer up my services for free to all and sundry, especially now that Sirens Call Publications is keeping me so busy, I can share with you now and again a few little tips and ways to improve what you've written.

Today, I'll be going over speech tags.

Not only are they one of the most overused literary devices, but they're often dressed up to the nines to the extent that they become so ornate that they detract from the story being told.

Speech tags are the words used to label which character has spoken. It can be as basic as "he said" or it can also be used to carry the emotions and thoughts of your character at that point in the tale.

However, in my opinion, a good 90% of speech tags that crop up in first drafts are unnecessary.

My two top tips for how to reduce the necessity for speech tags in your work;

• Ensure that each character has a well-developed and unique voice. The way that they speak and the tone of their words should identify them as the speaker. If all your characters sound alike to the reader, then they don't have a strong enough identity and the reader won't connect with them.
• Show what your character is doing as they speak instead if you need to break up a long block of dialogue. Their actions will convey the tone of their speech far more vividly than a speech tag. For example, your character runs a hand through their hair and leaps to their feet to pace back and forth. The reader knows, then, that they're becoming agitated without you having to write "he said in agitation" after your dialogue. Far neater and doesn't distract from the flow of the writing.

Where you absolutely must use them, try and stick to 'he said/she said'. Phrases like uttered, retorted, breathed etc. sound artificial and detract from the dialogue being spoken. Keep it clean and keep it to a minimum and you'll allow the strength of your dialogue to shine through.

Your dialogue should be what carries the plot. Excess and elaborate speech tags will drag it down and interrupt the flow - instead, keep it crisp and fast-paced. Your readers will thank you for it.

Kate.

The Lessons of 2011

Well, that's it, folks. 2011 is all but over. As an obsessive author, I suppose it's only right that I sketch out for you all the things that have stuck with me most this year.

• Yes, you CAN have too many commas.
• On a related note, the semi-colon is woefully underused these days.
• The number of authors who don't bother to read chills me to the bone.
• My best ideas come to me when I'm either in the bath with a glass of wine or curled up at 4am.
• The second paragraph is even more important as a hook than the first.
• Don't scrimp on either the cover of your book or the editing, even if you're doing it yourself. Edit once, twice, three times - then take a break for a week and come back to it with fresh eyes. Edit again.
• Twitter is the most fantastic community of supportive authors I've ever had the good fortune to come across.
• Rejections are inevitable - but if you learn from each one, your writing can only improve.
• Editors who provide constructive feedback with a rejection are absolute diamonds and I'd love to kiss them all.
• That my writing has a painful tendency to become too passive when I'm in the zone - and how to recognise and fix it.
• Those overly florid passages of description filled to the brim with metaphors that my English teacher had me write are absolutely not necessary. Miss Buxton, your red pen no longer fills me with fear.

And most importantly, I've learned to trust my instincts. If something doesn't feel right in a story, then out it must come, no matter how attached I am to the words I've crafted so lovingly.

It's a lesson that can be and has been applied to life outside my head as well. Even if a decision seems impossibly hard, if your instincts tell you it is the right one then take a deep breath and dive right in. Doing so has seen me finishing this year with more love, positive influence and success around me than I would have dreamed possible 365 days ago.

A Happy New Year to you all and may 2012 bring you all that you dream of - be that Ferraris, Moet et Chandon, a home in the Bahamas or even the simple pleasure of a hot cup of coffee in the morning ;p

Kate x

The launch of Sirens Call Publications

It's been hard work keeping this under wraps, but I'm delighted to announce my new position as editor with Sirens Call Publications, an indie publishing company with a passion for great literature in whatever forms it takes.

We're currently open for submissions, both in general and for two horror anthologies to be released in the spring. Take a look and spread the word - I'd love to hear from you.

Kate.

NaNoWriMo - so good I did it twice...

So, confession time!

Triumvirate was rocking along nicely and I hit 50k on the 12th November. Awesome, NaNoWriMo winner status secured. A few more chapters to write before the first draft would be tied up, of course, but it was shaping up nicely.

However...

On the night of the 13th, a dream of a glowering captain and a soaring airship relentlessly assaulted my mind, pushing aside all thoughts of Triumvirate. The Falcon's Chase was born and there was nothing to do but throw myself into its creation; and, after all, it was still November, wasn't it?

A wicked little voice in the back of my mind urged me to set aside all else and go for it - and here we have it. December 1st today, and I woke up to TWO 50k first drafts sat resplendent upon my desktop.

Whoops.

Looks like I have a pile of editing ahead even greater than the mountain of ironing that's stacked up over the last month...

What kind of writer are you?

Leaving aside the infamous joke about binary that never fails to make me smile, my psychology teacher hammered into me that there are two types of people - reactive and proactive.

After a morning wrestling with a wickedly devious captain in one of my WIPs, it strikes me that the old adage rings true for writers as well. There are those who rigidly set out their plot and stick to it no matter or what - and those who, like me, find themselves utterly and completely at the mercy of the characters they've brought to life within the confines of their words.

Oh, don't get me wrong; I plot away furiously before I sketch out so much as the first chapter. However, as soon as I start writing my characters seem to develop ideas of their own, stubbornly refusing to co-operate with all the grand schemes I've concocted for them; and so it was today that my captain sauntered off to another country entirely with me tagging along, woefully calling after him to come back and return to London as he was supposed to do.

After a futile hour trying to wrestle him back into line, though, I gave in; and do you know what? The detour proved to be great fun and was one of the most fun parts of writing in the entire draft so far. I think perhaps that in future, instead of tearing my hair out in agitation when my little people refuse to behave, I'll just resignedly sit back and see where they run to as they bring as the intricacies of each carefully-constructed plot crashing down around them!

I guess that now makes me another one for Mr. Stanley's 'reactive' camp that he so sneeringly preached against for so long. Sorry, sir - but hey, the captain's much better looking than you. There's only going to be one winner, I'm afraid!

Kate x

PS. Does anyone else feel like a little child exacting mastery over a doll's house when they write, or is that just my twisted imagination? 

N-N-N-N-NaNoWriMo!

Oh, November, how I've yearned for you!

To writers the world wide, November can mean only one thing - National Novel Writing Month. The full name is a little misleading now, of course, for it's a concept that's caught fire and hooked the imaginations of aspiring novelists far outside of America. Nonetheless, I've been eagerly awaiting November 1st since the spark of this story first came to me in a hot summer night's dream.

Triumvirate is the first book of a trilogy (books 2 and 3 have the working titles of 'Descent' and 'Redemption'). It's a darkly paranormal romance, winding its way through Eastern European mythology towards the fires of Hell itself, and it's been absolutely consuming me since I started writing it; providing a very welcome relief from all the dramas of real-life.

With my eternal companions of coffee, cigarettes, Tom Waits and Butch Walker, 26,000 words of the required 50,000 are already down on the page - of course, I anticipate Triumvirate will be something in the 75-80k region when it's a complete working draft, but it's gratifying nonetheless to be more than halfway towards the target already.

Indulge me in sharing with you a little teaser from Chapter One...

Fighting the urge to arch her back and revel in his sinfully pleasurable touch as his fingers soothed away the tension in her stiffly held neck, Alex nodded and forced her face to harden. “I still don’t know how you know my names. Clever words mean nothing to me - I want the damned truth.”

“The damned truth? So be it then, Alex. We know your names, as do all those who reside in Hell, because we witnessed your conception and birth. Your father named you at the moment of your birth and your mother’s death; and your name has been sung by the demons of Hell ever since.”

Ignoring the impossible for the moment, for Vazaroth’s talk of Hell could be nothing but that, Alex’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Brendan? He didn’t name me - he and Grandfather told me that my mother chose my names.”

“That is a lie that your grandfather propagated; and Alex, your father is not Brendan Byrne -”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous?!” A darkening storm of rage descended upon Vazaroth’s face, sending another shiver of ice shards through Alex’s veins. “Alex, I am many things, but I am not ridiculous; you will not speak to me so! As I was saying; your father is as we are, and his name is Deures -”

“Please, stop!” Alex pulled away from him as his fist tightened around her shirt, threatening to rip it open. Afraid of the forceful compulsion that had arisen in her to aid him in his obvious intentions, she choked back a loud sob. “I don’t understand! Who - what are you?!”

Her low, fearful moan seemed to give them pain, for their faces seemed to contort in unison before Rauzel drew a deep breath and spoke. “We are incubi, demons from the realm of Hell - and we have come to claim that which is ours.”

You can find me on the NaNoWriMo site - Kate Monroe - and I'd love to hear from you all either there or here to find out what you're writing and how easily (or not!) the words are flowing.

Kate x

PS. I was ill over Halloween (not an over-indulgence of red wine and chocolates, I swear!) so I shamefully neglected to make any mention of the fact that 'Kiss Of An Angel' is out now to buy on Amazon and Smashwords, nor to thank the awesome Amelia James for hosting me on her blog during the week of release. Go and check them both out! ;p

Nine Ladies Dancing

So, it's Sunday, the sun is shining and I'm feeling good. Unfortunately, that now means that I have a consuming urge to burst into a rendition of Katrina and the Waves. This can't be allowed to continue, so in order that I might defy the sunshine and the cheesiness, let me share a short story with you all.


'Nine Ladies Dancing' is one of the story in an anthology that I'm planning to release on December 1st, tentatively entitled 'Have Yourself a Gruesome Little Christmas'. Twelve Days of Christmas become, in my world, Twelve Days of Terror. Number nine was great fun to research and write, and here's the first draft in its entirety.

Nine Ladies Dancing

2^nd January

Christian unfastens the cap with a shaking hand, moistening his lips in anticipation as the green liquid swishing inside the bottle seems to glow in the light of the fire.

No matter what he does, nothing seems to have worked of late.

The images it his head that once would haunt him with a comforting regularity are no longer there, and there is nothing he can do to inspire them to return.

For an artist, it is the very worst of tortures.

Christian can bear it no longer. He has pored over piles upon piles of books to find out what artists like himself do when inspiration fails, and he finds one overriding theme.

Drugs.

Through the ages, it has been well-chronicled. Did Samuel Taylor Coleridge not write ‘Kubla Khan’ after an opium inspired dream? Even William Shakespeare is thought to have used cocaine and other hallucinogenic drugs of the age. It is no different in the world of artists. Christian’s two great heroes, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Vincent van Gogh relied heavily upon drugs to calm and soothe their artistic swings of temperament and inspire their works.

It is from Vincent himself that Christian has taken his influence for tonight’s drug of choice.

Absinthe.

Not only did Vincent van Gogh draw great inspiration from absinthe, but numerous other artistes are well-known for their fondness of it; Pablo Picasso, Édouard Manet, Edgar Degas, Henri de Toulouse Lautrec, Paul Verlaine and Ernest Hemingway, to name but a few. It is the perfect choice.

The scents of the fennel and anise drift free of the now uncapped bottle, mingling with the subtle undertones of 

wormwood and teasing at his nose as he breathes in deeply, rolling his head from side to side.

For this first foray, Christian has elected for the traditional method. Though the Bohemian way of preparing the absinthe with fire appeals far more to him, it would burn off much of the alcohol, thus tempering its effect upon him; the opposite to that which he desires. It is the intoxication, after all, that will hopefully lift the depressing fugue that clouds the creative corner of his mind.

Crouching down in front of the fireplace, Christian inhales once more before pouring a generous measure of the absinthe into the glass. Mesmerised, he stares as the liquid swirls around the glass, the verdant hues dancing before his eyes.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the illusion – for a moment, he almost imagined that the liquid was alive, a foolish notion born of fatigue, no doubt! – Christian balances the silver spoon on top of the glass. The slotted, ornate spoon was purchased specifically for this occasion and sits perfectly, waiting to receive the lump of sugar that he places atop it.

Next, he lifts a glass of ice-cold water. The condensation on the glass makes it difficult to hold, and it almost slips through his trembling fingers. Christian stills his hand, though, and slowly pours the water in a steady stream over the sugar cube.

Setting the water to the side, he sits back to silently observe the change in the liquid. Alone, it almost seems enough to inspire a return to the heights of his creativity; the louche clouds the substance as gentle aromas began to rise up that had before been overpowered by the heady anise. Juniper, dittany and wormwood all writhe their way to the surface, and Christian sighs in satisfaction as he lifts the spoon and lays it down upon the wooden floorboards.

It is time.

Holding his breath, he raises the glass of cloudy liquid to his lips and gently pours it into his mouth, allowing the tastes to dance and grow upon his tongue before permitting it to slip down his throat.

It is like nothing he has ever tasted before, and it is wonderful! Cool and refreshing as a result of the iced water mixed into it, it is a tantalisingly mingling of separate tastes that combine into an effortless balance of herbs and floral notes.

Brief images of Alpine meadows and open skies dart through his mind, and Christian releases the breath he was still holding, giddy with relief. Already, it is working!

Greedy for more, he swallows the remainder of the drink without bothering to savour the distinct taste this time before hastily preparing another; and another, and another.

By the time that he drains the fourth glass, Christian has fallen prey to the strangest of sensations. He has been 

drunk before, many times, but never like this; though he feels disorientated, clumsy, there is a startling clarity and lucidity to his mind that thrills him.

A thin trail of the cool liquid dribbles down from his mouth and onto his bare chest. Running his tongue around his lips to try to capture and milk every last drop of the precious absinthe, Christian stumbles to his feet. 

Shivering, for the heat of the crackling flames is no longer enough to warm his naked body, he staggers towards the doorway to retrieve his clothes.

Unsteady on his feet, though, his blurred vision and unwilling limbs conspire against him. Thinking that he is walking through the doorway, instead he walks directly into the wooden doorframe. His head cracks against it and as he rebounds, his mind begins to spin.

Groaning loudly, for he yearns to sketch out at least half a dozen of the images that are playing in his head, Christian tries to fight against the mist of darkness that is descending upon him, but it is no use.

The taste of anise upon his tongue the last thing that he remembers, he slumps to the floor and submits to the unconsciousness that claims him.

***

Christian grunts as he stretches out, momentarily surprised to find himself on the floor before the sharp pain in his head recalls to him the events that led to this point. The taste of the absinthe lingers upon his lips and tongue, and it is still dark outside; he cannot have been unconscious for very long.

Rubbing his head with his hands, he opens his eyes to find that the fire has burnt out. He pushes himself onto his hands and knees to crawl towards it, but a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye wrenches his attention away completely.

Propping himself up to sit against the wall, he blinks rapidly to clear his vision and then opens his eyes again, expecting what he has seen to no longer be there. It is no trick or mirage, though, for there they are again, dancing an elated quickstep in the air around him.

Damn, they were all but impossible to count when they darted around so! Squinting, he finally succeeded. Ten – no, nine. Nine fairies.

Fairies?

The word leaps unbidden to his mind, but instinctively he knows that it is the right one.

Eyes wide with astonishment, Christian reached out his hands, palms up, and mutely urges them towards him. Obediently, one of them lands lightly upon his skin, a flirtatious smile illuminating her face as he slowly brings his hand up towards his face to study her closer.

Oh, but she is glorious! Barely six inches tall, but perfection nonetheless. Christian could never have dreamed of such beauty. Her skin is the amber hue of the autumn leaves, and an iridescent hue of green snakes its way down the side of her face and across the top of her tiny, curvaceous breasts. Delicate, translucent wings erupt from each of her shoulders, her lips are the crimson of the reddest of roses, and her hair – such wonder in her hair!

Christian cannot resist the compulsion to stretch out one finger to tenderly stroke her hair as he marvels upon it. Wild and untamed, it shimmers in the moonlight that floods in through the open window. One moment it is the colour of moss, and in the next he could swear that it is a rich, luscious chestnut. Then she turns her head to the side, and it is the distinctive shade of chlorophyll that colours the absinthe.

Miniscule blossoms and blooms wind their way through the tousled mass of curls, and Christian plucks one free to hold it up between his fingers before delivering a reverential kiss to its satin petals. Returning it to the fairy’s hair, he brings her closer and gazes into her eyes, eyes that are the precise shade of the bark that covers the trees.

“So beautiful!” His sigh speaks of awe and of wonder, and it clearly delights the little fairy. Clapping her hands together, she sinks down into the curve of his palm, tucking her legs underneath her and smoothing down the silken folds of her flowing gown.

“Do you like the absinthe, Christian?” Her sisters flutter around him, twirling and prancing through the air as his head moves from side to side in an entranced attempt to follow their movements.

“Oh, yes!”

“And has it worked for you, Christian?” The fairy wraps her arms around his thumb, pressing herself lovingly up against it and batting her barely distinguishable eyelashes. “Can you draw inspiration from the delightful sensations it has awoken in you – can you draw inspiration from us?”

A phrase he read in his painstaking research resurfaces, bringing with it a flash of comprehension. “La Fée Verte!”

“Oui!” The fairies all beam delightedly at him, the soft glow that wraps around their bodies burning more brightly than ever. La Fée Verte – the green fairy – is the myth that will be forever associated with absinthe. Christian read of her many a time, but never did he think that she was anything more than a fanciful tale whispered of by the romantic Bohemians, perpetuated by nothing more than intoxication and wistfulness.

Now, though, the evidence of her existence sits in the palm of his hand as she and her spellbinding sisters sigh and smile up at him.

Shaking his head in stunned disbelief, Christian relaxes back against the wall and brings the green fairy to his lips, planting the gentlest of kisses on top of her head before lifting her up to look directly into her eyes. “You will bring me the inspiration that I crave?”

“Christian, we have already brought it to you; the very moment that the first drop of our glorious vessel passed your lips! Did you not feel it, my love, burning in your very soul as you sipped of the absinthe?”

“Yes!” he agrees breathlessly, remembering the vivid images of meadows and skies that flashed through his mind. “That was you, ma Fée Verte?”

“And my sisters, oui. The absinthe you drank was so potent, my love, and you drank so much of it that we were all able to come to you! Do you think that you could unleash your talent once more now, Christian?”

Of that, there could be no doubt, and Christian knows exactly what it is that she wishes to paint now above all else. The fairies that have brought the dam in his mind crashing down deserve the honour of being captured on paper; and he is certain, now, that he can do so perfectly.

How to best do them justice, though? His brow furrows in thought as the fairies giggle and cavort in front of him.

“Greens!” he mumbles out loud. These glorious fairies must have a backdrop of greens in their portrait, it is only right – but it is the depth of winter! Where can he find anything green to gaze upon and paint?

“The stream,” comes a gentle whisper. Another of the fairies has settled upon his shoulder, stroking his face lovingly and nestling against his skin. “The stream, Christian, and the pine trees.”

“To the stream?” he echoes, running his hands through his hair as his heart races, a burst of adrenalin pounding through his veins as he rises unsteadily to his feet.

“Yes!”

“To the stream!”

“Go, Christian, now!”

“You might forget it – hurry, Christian, hurry!”

Their sweet voices echo in his mind, their urge for haste driving him out of the door in ignorance to the biting cold and his state of undress. Pausing only to snatch up his sketch book and pencils, Christian dashes out of the door and down through the garden in search of the bubbling stream that winds its way along the rear of his cottage garden.

The fairies fly alongside him, tumbling in the air, buffeted by the bitter wind. They do not seem to mind, though; instead, they throw their arms out and prance on the currents, throwing their heads back and allowing their hair to flow out behind them.

Christian is utterly enchanted, caught up in their spell and the startling lucidity of his intoxication. Leaping up off the frozen ground, he punches the air in glee before throwing himself down at the edge of the stream and flicking frantically through his sketchbook to find a blank page.

The fairies swarm around his face, kissing the skin that is covered in stubble before retreating to rest amongst the branches of the evergreen trees that line the bank of the stream. Desperate to capture their image before this brilliant flush of creativity he feels burning inside him fades away, Christian begins to sketch out the wondrous scene in front of him.

An outline will do for now; it is enough to secure the image in his mind. Colours will come later. For now, Christian simply devotes himself to capturing as much of the intricate details of the fairies’ beauty as he can; the way that the iridescent green tint to their faces shimmers in the moonlight, and the exact tilt of their lips as they smile at him.

Hours pass, but he neither notices nor cares, for all that matters is the fairies and how he must create the perfect representation of them on the page. From an artistic point of view, Christian has always adored the feminine form. It is a thing of beauty, with its intricate dips and curves, and such softness!

Each one is a miracle, of that he is convinced, and the fairies’ beauty is not diminished in any way by their lack of size; indeed, to him, the precise opposite is true. In Christian’s eyes, their minute stature only enhances their beauty.

Finally, he is satisfied with the picture that stares back at him from the page, convinced that it truthfully reflects the wonder of the image before him. Seeing him lay down his pencils, the fairies rise from the branches of the tree and fly towards him once more, their arms outstretched lovingly as they attach themselves to him.

“Christian, it is wonderful!” they coo in unison, their eyes sparkling with delight.

Their adoration thrills him, and he gathers them close to his bare chest. “Stay with me?” he begs, desperate to never lose these models of such exquisite beauty and wonderful inspiration.

“Until the end, Christian, until the very end,” la Fée Verte assures him, her eyes glinting strangely in the moonlight. “And now, my love, dance with us?”

“Dance?”

“Dance, Christian, please!” she repeats.

“Oh, please, Christian!”

“Dance with us!”

“Christian, you must!”

How can he refuse so many pleading beauties, tiny as they are? Nodding eagerly, Christian follows them blindly as they break free of his hold and dart towards the stream hovering over the water as he jumps into it.

Oblivious to the cold and the rocks underneath his feet, he throws himself into the dance with the greatest of enthusiasm, laughing out loud as the fairies twirl around him, their delicate touch brushing against his bare skin as they stretch out towards him before dashing back and forth, up and down.

It must seem so strange to an onlooker; the naked man spinning and leaping through the air before splashing back down into the near-freezing water of the stream, entirely alone in the darkness. Exalted as images whirl through his mind, filling him with inspired bursts of creativity that he can barely contain, Christian leaps ever higher, ignorant to the dangers that stalk ever closer.

The water rushes around his feet, and his inebriation finally proves too taxing for his body to defy any longer. As he lands from his latest jump, his feet slip on one of the rocks and he crashes backwards, smashing his 

head on the rock.

Christian’s green fairies slip through his grasp as he flails uselessly, finding nothing to cling onto as he sinks down beneath the water, again unable to fight against the unconsciousness that is so determined to claim him.

He knows the consequences; he knows that if he loses the fight his life is forfeit, but what can he do? La Fée Verte darts into his field of vision one more time as his head momentarily breaks through the frothing surface, but now her face is grim and impassive.

Shaking her beautiful head, she clicks her fingers. She and her sisters turn their back on him and fly away.

Their desertion is the last straw. With a low, pained howl, his eyes roll back in his head and Christian allows the water to consume him.

The sight of the green fairies swooping upon his most brilliant work, lifting it into the air and soaring away is the very last image that Christian’s eyes ever behold.

Kate x

Satan's Toybox: Demonic Dolls is out now

The eBook version of Satan's Toybox: Demonic Dolls was released over the weekend. It has been an utter joy from start to finish working with Angelic Knight Press, and I am more than honoured to be held up amongst such fine company - the other authors who have contributed to the anthology include Tim Marquitz, Jason McKinney, Yvonne Bishop and many other spectacularly talented horror writers. And, quite frankly, Blaze McRob's poem to start the anthology is worth the purchase price alone.

My story is 'Lullaby' - a twisted tale of a family heirloom that holds many dark secrets. Have you ever wondered what lies behind the blank, glassy stare of those porcelain dolls so beloved by elderly women? I dared to dive into just that idea, and 'Lullaby' was what emerged from the recesses of my mind.

“It’s a secret, Mummy,” Grace hugged the doll possessively as she pulled her mother out of the bedroom. “Don’t worry; Matilda Dolly and me are going to make everything right. Come on, Mummy, let’s go.”

Grace had eyes for nothing but the doll as her mother mutely drove the short distance to her grandmother’s house. Drawing courage from the weight of the doll in her arms, she unbuckled her seatbelt and leapt out of the car before her mother had even turned off the engine.

Skipping up the rambling path, she stretched up to lift the heavy brass knocker. The twisted and contorted face of the gargoyle had always filled her with fear before, but now it did not disturb her in the slightest as it fell back with a loud thud against the wood of the door.

“Hello, Nanny!” Grace said as the door swung open and her grandmother’s gnarled and ancient body loomed into view.

The old woman scowled down at the small child, her piggy little eyes narrowing greedily as her gaze swept across the porcelain doll that Grace was clinging to. “Your mother gave you the doll, then?” she snapped by way of greeting.

“Of course I did, Mother!” Grace’s mother came to stand behind her daughter, laying one hand on Grace’s shoulder and choking back a sob. “What choice did I have?”

“I like the doll, Nanny!” Grace piped up.

“Oh, you do, girl, do you?” the old woman barked approvingly. “Not as much of a fool as your pathetic mother, then!”

“Matilda Dolly and me are going to be best friends, Nanny,” Grace smiled up at her grandmother without a trace of fear for the first time ever.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed yet further, but she jerked her head as she tore Grace from her mother’s grasp, pulling her into the house and along the dark hallway... 

You can get yourself a copy through Amazon, Amazon UK and Smashwords, and the print version is due for imminent release. Any book reviewers who would be interested in reading and reviewing, please contact me on here or via Twitter for details of how to get a free copy.

Kate x

Teaser for 'Kiss Of An Angel'

Guys, girls and ghouls, it's finally October! You know what that means - Halloween is coming, and with it the launch of my new novella, 'Kiss Of An Angel'. True to both the season and my nature, it's a paranormal erotica, and this time I've ventured into the world of polyamory. I'm getting hot and steamy again just thinking about it!


There's a little teaser below, and I'll be guesting on Amelia James's (@TrashyWriter) blog at the end of the month with another excerpt to titillate you all. For now, though, enjoy!

***

Shannon hesitated for a moment, but she felt an irresistible pull towards the dark and forbidding house. Of their own accord, her feet were moving down the path, and as if in a dream, she lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall back against the door.

She held her breath as she waited for it to be opened from within. After what seemed an interminable wait, it opened by the smallest of margins. “Trick or treat?” Shannon’s voice trembled, and a wave of heat flooded her body despite the wind that was whipping around her.

“Trick or treat?” The voice that echoed her words was low, deep, and undoubtedly masculine. It rippled through her like an intimate caress. “My lovely, surely a beautiful young woman like you is old enough to play a more adult game than trick or treat!”

“Oh, not me, the child –“ Shannon began, a burning flush inflaming her pale face with his words. She trailed off abruptly when she looked down and realised that Emily was no longer next to her.

The door finally opened to its full extent as she fell silent, revealing the speaker to her gaze as his eyes raked slowly over every dip and curve of Shannon’s body. A low tremor somewhere in her core caused her to moisten her lips nervously, for she found herself wholly unable to look away from him.

He was beautiful. To simply call him handsome would not do him justice; Max was handsome, but this man was something else entirely. His dark, lustrous hair fell forwards as he tilted his head towards her, and the dim light of the grand, sweeping hallway behind him seemed to form a halo of light around his muscular, barefooted body.

Most entrancing of all, though, were the soulful grey eyes that were fixed so intently upon her. Shannon had never before had occasion to regard a shade of grey as anything but dull and uninspiring, but those were the very last words she would use to describe the stranger’s eyes. They burned with what seemed to be the memories of a thousand lifetimes, an age of pain and passion smouldering in their depths.

Shannon’s lips parted in uncertainty as she stared up at him. Her heart was beating wildly out of time, and she had never felt more alive than she did in this moment when the passion in this frightening stranger’s eyes seemed to promise her so much.

Finally, just when she thought that she could bear the forbidding and pregnant silence no longer, he spoke again. “A child? Oh, I see no child – the most beautiful woman it has ever been my blessing to see stands before me, of that there is no doubt, but a child?” His sensuously full lips curved back into a predatory smile as he spoke, and he leaned casually against the doorframe.

“There – there was a child with me,” she said wildly, not knowing why it was that her legs were shaking so badly that she feared they would be unable to support her weight much longer. “She must have run back to the others; she didn’t want to come here, you see.”

“Well, a child’s instincts are very often correct,” he said gravely, a spark of amusement now dancing in his grey eyes. “And what do your instincts tell you, my lovely?”

A shiver ran down the full length of her spine as he reached out to take her hand, entwining his long fingers through his own and gently stroking the back of her hand. “My instincts are telling me to run, to run and never look back." 

***

Roll on October 31st! Whilst I've got your attention, do swing by the Goat Franchise's new website and subscribe to stay up to date with what I'm up to, along with all the latest news from Jake Bannerman. We're going to be opening up to submissions in the New Year, so keep your eyes peeled...

Kate x

Guest blogger - Colin Barnes

Colin F. Barnes is a writer from the UK who writes Science Fiction, Horror and Thriller fiction. He likes to take the gritty edginess from his surroundings and personal experiences and translate them into his stories. He is currently working on an anthology of horror stories in his 'City of Hell Chronicles' setting after recently debuting with a crime anthology titled 'Killing my Boss'.

Essence of Extremity

Dark fiction is a wide umbrella covering a gamut of flavours of sub genres. I tend to write and read what I call Horror. It's at the extreme end of Horror. Somehow, over the course of the last decade, 'Horror' has been devalued to cover paranormal romance and angsty YA urban fantasy. One only needs to look at the Amazon charts under Horror to see this diabolical hijacking of the label. What his means is that readers are slowly but surely loosing the true essence of extremity within the horror bounds.

I'm talking about Ketchum, Barker, early King, Laymon et al. I'm talking about I Spit On Your Grave, Texas Chainsaw Massacre (original), Hellraiser etc.. You know, when Horror meant horrific experiences. When horror had scares that actually scared you.

I remember watching the original Friday the 13th as a kid and having nightmares for weeks after; that was pure horror (of its time). Not this weak romantic rubbish. I mean, come on, what the hell is 'horror' about a woman having a romantic triangle with an effeminate vampire and a pruning wolf? It makes me sick to see Horror be reduced to this.

One of the first dark fiction books I read as a youngster was King’s IT – so yeah, I now fucking hate clowns too. King has single handedly ruined children’s parties (for the adults). Excellent work Steve!

We need more of this subversive fiction. We need to twist common tropes into things that scare the living crap out of people. Without fear, humanity gets lazy. Life becomes predictable, stale, and safe. Who wants that? Not me. I want excitement. I want to double check that thing I thought I saw in the shadows, I want to feel the frisson of energy as I hear footsteps late at night in the attic. What I don’t want is this bland formula of ‘horror.’ And neither should you.

So, what can we, as creatives, do about it? Promote, write, share, push, and abuse networks. Get our work out there; force people to dwell in the shadows again, scare the crap out of them. It means we as authors and creators need to dig that little bit deeper; find what scares the jaded/cynical people of today and hold a mirror up to their fears and go beyond what it is considered acceptable. It's only when doing that can we actually reclaim the title of Horror.

This is where the essence of extremity comes in. I’m not advocating stories to be extreme for extreme’s sake. That’s too lazy, and it’ll show. Hell, it already shows in things such as SAW. Torture porn with no real intent behind it. We need to take the extreme areas of life and our imagination and tie them into everyday reason. That is how we can reconnect ‘Horror’ with the masses.

Most people are disgusted or even bored at extreme gore, so we need to be cleverer about it. We need to be more subtle, and insidious with out extreme stories.

Once you’ve roped in a reader and given them a false sense of security with a solid grounding of reality and rationale, then you bring your out the big guns. You give them terrifying situations with things that can barely be described with regular words. You show them something so horrendous that it’s impossible to fit it wholesale into your stories. You want to leave some of ‘it’ hanging outside of the story so that it sits inside your readers mind, clawing its way out for weeks on end.

If you’re going to have gore or extreme sex (which are both good things in proper Horror) you have to do it so it counts. Everyday people can see the most horrendous things as easily as searching on Google. They are desensitized to the images and videos and concepts. We need to make it personal. And there is only one way to do that -- no, not abduct them and taken them into your basement dungeon – but good, deep characterization.

Weak protagonists are just that. No one cares about some insipid teenager, or some moaning kid. You want fully realized three-dimensional characters that are made up of shades of grey. No one likes wholly good or wholly bad characters; they have to be a mix. They have to be like you and I (perhaps not like me, readers really wouldn’t be able to relate to me). They have to be the everyman/everywoman.

Take that character, get inside their head, and then bring on the horror. That is the essence of extremity – personal experiences shared by the author with the reader. Connect! When you think you’ve gone as far as you can, slug a shot of whiskey, pull your pants up and go beyond. You know you can do it. We have to do it for Horror’s sake.

##

A brilliantly argued guest post, I'm sure you'll agree!

You can find Colin online at Twitter, his personal website and Amazon.

www.cityofhellchronicles.com 

##

Many thanks to Colin for agreeing to write such a great guest post about a topic that I myself feel very strongly about. Honestly, I could rant for hours about the Twamps and suchlike that are pervading the genre I so love, to its great detriment. We all owe it to ourselves and each other to reclaim the horror genre.

Kate x