eTLC - Gothic / Horror

Gothic / Horror

2011-04-11T13:50:46Z

Base Spirits (Barrett) In 1605, Sir Walter Calverley’s murderous rampage leaves a family shattered. The killer suffers a torturous execution… but is it truly the end? A noble Yorkshire house stands forever tarnished by blood and possessed by anguished spirits . . .

Read a sample chapter here.

Daemon Sky (Allen) The multi-threaded plot of Under Shattered Skies is on the move even as the sky itself is on the move. In the second book of the series, Daemon Sky, our many characters draw inexorably closer to their fate. And we are given our first close look at the evil behind the plot to cull the population through atmospheric cataclysm, as well as a glimpse through . . .

Darklands: A Vampire’s Tale (Burgess) is a violent tale of survival, bloodlust, and two people trying to hang on to the last shreds of their humanity, while teetering on the edge of immortality . . .

In Darkroom (Poppet) Shauna is stolen by Vengeance. Using torture, he breaks her, forcing her to reform and adapt. When he frees her, she flees. Thinking she’s escaped her stalker and tormentor, she lets her guard down . . .

Read a sample chapter here.

DayStalker (Stone) Blood, sunlight, and the urge to procreate: three of the fundamental cornerstones of life as we know it. But what we think we know, isn’t even close to the true, horrific reality. Our oldest myths and legends . . .

In Djinn (Poppet) Cindy’s life changes the minute she receives the book Djinn from Sasha. Within hours the forces of darkness infiltrate her life . . .

In Don of the Living Dead (DeCoteau) Don Carver is the unlikely hero of a zombie outbreak. He must brave the savage streets to escape downtown Seattle in order to save his six-year-old son and his cruelly, vindictive ex-wife, but first he has to figure out how to escape the zombie standing outside the door of his bathroom stall . . .

Read sample chapter here.

Edge of Shadows (Smith) Fresh off a marriage that spiraled into a dangerous tailspin, Ellie Coulter doesn’t believe in fate or luck. She’s been surrounded by darkness since her parents’ untimely death, and harbors a secret that never lets her forget . . .

In Fall Leaves and the Black Dragon (Gustafson) six-year-old Willy survived a huge fire. The memory of the flames engulfed his childhood and haunted him for years. Terrible secrets that should have burned away have come back . . .

In From Within (Dow) three strangers find themselves drawn to Wakely, a small village in the Scottish Borders, where a centuries-old conflict between two warring Celtic deities is drawing to its gruesome . . .

Read a sample chapter here.

Gothic Blue Book: The Haunted Edition (Pelayo, et al.) A collection of short stories and poems resurrect the spirit of the Gothic Blue Book. Gothic Blue Books were short fictions popular in the 18th and 19th century . . .

Murderer’s Sky (Allen) Under shattered skies, fifty-seven illegal immigrants are murdered outside of the town of Heater, Arizona, a dying town in a dying civilization. Their deaths in a ritual sacrifice awaken Sheriff Elliot Pierce, Father Albert Hayne, pregnant survivor Maria Diaz and all of the people of Heater to an evil as abhorrent as what is happening in the sky . . .

Nightcry (Thompson) is about Grant Sykes, who has returned to his hometown of Ilton to run the local paper. Soon, people start to die and fingers point to him—it doesn’t help the evidence continues to amass against Grant. He thinks the deaths may have something to do with a supernatural being that killed . . .

In Quislings (Poppet) A harmless game of Spirit of the Glass changes their lives. Immersed head first into the ancient Mayan world, tattoos transform, prayers are caught by the greedy, and the rattlesnake comes to stake its claim . . .

In Servant of the Gods (Douglas) a child of prophecy, in her life she would bear three names, the one she bore as a peasant and a mercenary, another after she was captured and enslaved, but despite it all she would rise to become Priestess of Isis and High Priestess of all Egypt . . .

Read a sample chapter here.

In Voices (Robinson) after witnessing and surviving the horror of a bomb attack, college tutor Chris Deacon finds himself deaf and mute, and plagued by two phantoms, the inexplicable Colonel Gun and the frightening dwarf, Egghead. As his hearing returns, he begins to hear voices in his head . . .

Read a sample chapter here

Daemon Sky

2012-10-21T08:30:23Z

Product Description

The multi-threaded plot of Under Shattered Skies is on the move even as the sky itself is on the move. In the second book of the series, Daemon Sky, our many characters draw inexorably closer to their fate. And we are given our first close look at the evil behind the plot to cull the population through atmospheric cataclysm, as well as a glimpse through the eyes of Martin Ross and his henchman, Vince Riker.

Will Albert Hayne be able to heal the wounds of his past, with the help of the elemental spirits he has subconsciously invoked through his fiddle playing?

Will Sheriff Pierce be able to rescue the town of Heater from its own rising madness, and will he be able to rescue it from the shadow of Martin Ross and the flux of the disturbed skies?

Will Zach McCready be able to lead the people of Loveland Manor successfully through their encounter with Homeland Security and the US military?

Will Keven Howell be able to rescue his injured friend without falling into the hands of Homeland Security?

Will Lucinda Morales be able to keep her family and her community safe from the threat of anti-immigrant violence?

Will Connie Blain and her children be safe from her deranged husband?

Will Rhonda and Allison Howell be able to rescue their mother before she becomes a victim of Reverend Chassey's mass suicide?

And will Colonel Nations be able to save his base from the designs of Martin Ross, along with the town and the entire world?

Daemon Sky takes the suspense, the intrigue and the terror up another notch, transcending the plot through the interweaving of characters, storyline and imagination, to deliver the reader into a whole new realm of speculative fiction.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 452 KB
Print Length: 237 pages
Publisher: Fiddlesticks Press (September 25, 2012)
Language: English
ASIN: B009HBQHY6

Available at Amazon.com.

Review

Another gold standard thriller from this author.
By Mr. Patrick Barrett

There is no sense of a sequel in this book, it is a seamless continuation from volume one. The author weaves a tale with such mastery of intimate detail and inside knowledge that reading is a breathless race to finish it. The threads established in volume one inch closer to each other in the certainty that volume three will result in the full tapestry. Highly recommended, do not miss this series of books.

Murderer’s Sky

2012-09-30T07:30:18Z

Product Description

Under shattered skies, fifty-seven illegal immigrants are murdered outside of the town of Heater, Arizona, a dying town in a dying civilization. Their deaths in a ritual sacrifice awaken Sheriff Elliot Pierce, Father Albert Hayne, pregnant survivor Maria Diaz and all of the people of Heater to an evil as abhorrent as what is happening in the sky overhead, an evil that is linked to what is happening in the sky, to their fate and to the fate of the entire world.

Murderer's Sky is the first book of the speculative, dystopian horror trilogy Under Shattered Skies. Set in a world not too different from our own, a world where humanity has passed the point of no return in its exploitation of the planet, a world where the monster threatening the future of life on this planet is the sociopathic inclination of its dominant species. Is there still a chance to save it all? Perhaps, but only if we can overcome isolationist tendencies and achieve a new degree of empathy with the world in which we live. Can that happen? Or are we damned to commit suicide by ignorance? Find out in Under Shattered Skies.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 531 KB
Print Length: 305 pages
Publisher: Fiddlesticks Press (July 10, 2012)
Language: English
ASIN: B008K4Q8LI

Available at Amazon.com.

Paperback
314 pages
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (July 9, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1478213531
ISBN-13: 978-1478213536
Product Dimensions: 9 x 6 x 0.7 inches
Shipping Weight: 1.2 pounds

Available at Amazon.com.

Review

Brilliant!
By Elaina Davidson

Murderers Sky begins innocuously enough- a priest summoned to a mother's home, the local sheriff giving him a ride- but all is not as it seems. Overhead the sky is sickly and ominous and there are rumours of a terrible massacre out in the desert.

We come to know this priest with the soul of a musician and we travel with the sheriff into the jaws of hell. We meet a mother trying to help her challenged son- a boy who paints prophetic images of doom. We follow two boys who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, witnesses to terrible atrocity. We meet a woman about to give birth, the only survivor of a holocaust.

And then there are those with ulterior motives. Drug smugglers and people peddlers, soldiers without conscience, and their leader, a creature from the darkness. And the first inkling of what and who caused the changes to the atmosphere comes to the fore; this is long-term manipulation. And what, pray, is up at that church raising a safe house?

Every character is well-rounded and the tale flows with ease, holding the intense interest of this reader. Woven into and throughout is the ages-old struggle between what is good and what is evil- an enlightening experience in this silent, hot and dry context. A well-structure tale; PD Allen is a born storyteller.

I recommend Murderers Sky to anyone who enjoys depth in characters, a strange adventure, science and the supernatural- these factors are cleverly woven to form a tapestry that appears normal...yet isn't. My only gripe is that Murderers Sky ended too soon! But the stage is set, and we know our characters now...and I cannot wait to read the next volume: Dæmon Sky. May it be soon.

DayStalker

2012-09-03T02:06:13Z

Product Description

Blood, sunlight, and the urge to procreate: three of the fundamental cornerstones of life as we know it.

But what we think we know, isn't even close to the true, horrific reality.

Our oldest myths and legends instil within us a primal fear of what stalks us in the deepest darkness. These fears are merely shadows.

Shadows of something far more ruthless, far more unimaginable, cold, savage, and implacable.

Something that moves amongst us in the brightest of light. Something which feeds upon us when we feel at our most secure.

Award-winning author Kristen Stone, strikes out in a bold new direction, as she turns her finely honed creative abilities to the invocation of an entirely new kind of horror.

Our brightest days - are also our darkest...

DayStalker.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 236 KB
Print Length: 118 pages
Publisher: Blue Hour Publishing (29 Aug 2012)
Language: English
ASIN: B00943OF8W

Available at Amazon.UK.

Follow the author on Facebook, her website, and her blog.

Edge of Shadows

2012-02-07T09:48:52Z

Product Description

Fresh off a marriage that spiraled into a dangerous tailspin, Ellie Coulter doesn’t believe in fate or luck. She’s been surrounded by darkness since her parents’ untimely death, and harbors a secret that never lets her forget that she’s different.

Ellie builds a safe bubble around her life that includes nothing but her coffee shop, her few friends, and her dog. Then a handsome young doctor, David Mitchell, starts to break through her protective shell and Ellie realizes there may be a risk worth taking.

Then one of Ellie’s friends abruptly leaves town; entrusting her home to Ellie’s care. The house has its own mysterious past that draws Ellie into a new darkness. Her ex-husband resurfaces with premonitions of Ellie’s death. And suddenly Ellie’s life is being turned upside down yet again, and even David can’t help her make it right.

Ellie is running out of time. Something old and evil has awakened and it wants Ellie all to itself. She must solve a century-old mystery and keep a grip on her sanity in order to survive.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 387 KB
Language: English
ASIN: B0066XVP8G

Available at Amazon.com.

Paperback
274 pages
Publisher: CreateSpace (November 18, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1467940607
ISBN-13: 978-1467940603
Product Dimensions: 8.5 x 5.5 x 0.6 inches
Shipping Weight: 14.9 ounces

Available at Amazon.com.

Check out the book's website here and her Goodreads profile here.

Quislings

2012-01-14T13:19:41Z

Product Description

From the author of Darkroom and Dusan...

A harmless game of Spirit of the Glass changes their lives. Immersed head first into the ancient Mayan world, tattoos transform, prayers are caught by the greedy, and the rattlesnake comes to stake its claim.

Zohar issued a death threat on Halloween and now it's a race against time before they all die. Usha has to open the heart of heaven in time to save the rest of them, but the key is too cryptic. Rituals ancient and new clash in a bid for supremacy.

A Chinaman, an Italian, a Slovenian, and an American, walk into a bar - it sounds like a joke, right? Quislings are no joke.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 369 KB
Publisher: Wild Wolf Publishing (December 20, 2011)
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services
Language: English
ASIN: B006ONVZJW

Available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.

Review

Simply Intriguing
By Kenneth Wayne

Having read both Dusan and Erra, both of which do not easily fall into neat categories or genres, I found Quislings to be even harder to pigeon hole. It’s got elements of horror, thriller, romance, adventure, mystery, religion and philosophy all combined for your reading pleasure. I find this particularly refreshing since I don’t like to separate fiction into neat categories, but it appears nowadays the publishing world requires literature to fall easily into such categories for supposed marketing strategies. Simply, I like a good story and the more of infinity that it contains, the more intriguing it can be. I think that’s the best word to describe Quislings: intriguing. Having spent a month traveling around Yucatan a decade or two ago, immediately I was drawn into having the novel take place in Cancun. I would have preferred Merida rather than the recently booming resort town, but Poppet sprinkled enough of Yucatan around in the story to hold my interest.

I enjoyed the heavy dose of Mayan philosophy and religion that pervades the book, even though at times I felt the technique employed of having the character Caden be the purveyor of knowledge to Usha (the protagonist) when she needed it reminded me a little too much of the technique Dan Brown used in the DeVinci Code. How better to convey that information to the reader I’m hard pressed to say, but it really is the only major complaint I have with the book. All in all, though, the knowledge was fascinating and essential to bring the novel to the climax.

The interplay between the four main characters, for me, was the crux of the book. Poppet displayed great skill in conveying an underlying tension between the three men in regards to Usha, and the conflict of feelings that raged in her for each of them. To give the story more depth and intrigue than just an elaborate love rectangle, the author inter-weaved a spiritual and secret knowledge element into the tension between the men; at least, in the tension between Ju and the two friends Cadee and Nemun. Hell, mix this up with otherworldly forces like Zohar and several Mayan deities like Kulkulkan and Xolotl and you’ve got one heck of a tale. Oh yeah, and don’t forget the rattlesnakes!

Simply, Quislings is another great one from Poppet. Pick this up and read it today!

Brilliantly Suspenseful, January 8, 2012
By Troy Lambert "Troy"

Quislings grabbed me from the start, and I fell in love with Usha. The little Italian girl with a brave heart wormed her way into mine. I rooted for her, prayed for her, and rejoiced with her. The tale begins with an innocent game of Spirit in the Glass--but the spirit that comes to call is not a friendly one. Three friends are suddenly drawn into a battle trying to understand the gods above them and the world around them. Usha discovers she must find a way to op[en the heart of heaven. The way is unclear and she is unable to determine the path, or answer the question "why me?"

The story pulls you along, drawing you into a world of mythology and legend. Tattoos come to life, gods speak, the temples become a gateway to more than just worship and the outcome will take your breath away.

Another great horror by a prolific and talented author. I can't wait to see what is next from her.

Book Trailer
Click here.

Gothic Blue Book: The Haunted Edition

2011-11-15T11:59:35Z

Product Description

A collection of short stories and poems resurrect the spirit of the Gothic Blue Book. Gothic Blue Books were short fictions popular in the 18th and 19th century. They were descendants of the chap book trade. Burial Day Books presents its first Gothic Blue Book, The Haunted Edition. The following twelve short stories and two poems honor the Gothic story. Misery, fear, despair, regret and dread are highlighted in the following pages, stirring old ghosts, witches, and awakening death. The following collection of new and established horror authors weave together brilliant tales of terror celebrating the history of the Gothic story with a new twist.

Authors:

Helena Marie Carnes-Jeffries – The Beach House
John Everson – The Tapping
Abe Grace – Death and All His Friends
M. N. Hanson – The Squatter
K. Trap Jones – The Realtor
Ben McElroy- Emergence of the Hidden Things
Greg Mollin – Where the Fault Lies
Monica Nickolai - Doll
Cynthia (cina) Pelayo – The Gravedigger
Gerardo Pelayo – El Convento
Marc Ruvolo – The Ladies Escape
Jordan Scrivner – Attic
Courtney Sloan – Antidote for the Soul
Lisa Stock – The Wild Hunt

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 272 KB
Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
Publisher: Burial Day Books; 1 edition (October 10, 2011)
Language: English
ASIN: B005UIQYHU

Available at Amazon.com.

Paperback
114 pages
Publisher: CreateSpace (October 20, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1466422432
ISBN-13: 978-1466422438
Product Dimensions: 9 x 6 x 0.3 inches
Shipping Weight: 8 ounces

Available at Amazon.com.

Base Spirits - Sample Chapter

2011-10-23T02:32:58Z

York, England- 1605

Sir Thomas Leventhorpe had failed the victims in life. He could not fail them now.

Though he longed to be anywhere else that August dawn, his choice was irrefutable. The noble family murders had left him as the village of Calverley’s highest-ranking citizen, and he bore a duty to witness the conclusion of its history’s most tragic chapter. It was his sacred charge to stand present for those innocent lives cruelly dispatched by the very man that should have loved them most.

He lingered in the stark main corridor of Clifford’s Tower, waiting to accompany the killer on his final procession. There seemed to be a delay. From what Leventhorpe could gather, the entourage was incomplete. He glanced about the small, silent group and caught the eye of the anxious man standing at his side—the only other soul afflicted with first-hand knowledge of the horrors that had led them to the Tower. Leventhorpe ventured an encouraging smile at the murderer’s former servant, but John’s pale, scarred face was stony. Sir Thomas touched the younger man on the shoulder and felt him quivering like a nervous beast, his arms tightly wrapped about himself in a desperate embrace. The brutal April morning at Calverley Hall had shattered John. Withdrawing his hand, Leventhorpe wondered why the lad had come to this dread place to be reunited with his nemesis. Perhaps in his own way John had no choice but to see the tragedy through to its conclusion. Leventhorpe could offer him no real solace but to share the burden of bearing witness.

In the Tower’s stairwell door, a grizzled magistrate stood lost in thought, tugging gently at his beard. The elderly head gaoler, Master Key, waited outside the prisoner’s cell door. A younger, assistant gaoler tapped his foot loudly against the flagstones and glowered toward the doorway at the opposite end of the corridor, a sneer playing on his lean face. Turning to his superior, he grumbled in a low voice: “That idiot boy is late again—and today of all days! I say we have tarried long enough.”

Master Key held up his hand. “Be thou patient, Jack. The magistrate is not yet concerned with the time. Hugh must be present to learn the proper order of how matters proceed.”

Leventhorpe’s skin prickled at the thought. He dreaded having to witness the ‘matter’ in question, and felt pity for the unseen boy who would today be taught the finer details of his trade.

Footsteps pounded up the outside stairs and—as if overhearing his cue—a scrawny lad of no more than twelve skidded into sight. White-faced and out of breath, Hugh blanched still further as the men turned as one and fixed him with expectant looks. Giving an awkward bow of his head by way of apology, he staggered as he took a halberd down from the wall hooks. Jack strode over to collect the apprentice and hauled him into place by the ear. Leventhorpe was close enough to hear the gaoler’s hissed threats.

“Yer in luck, boy. The magistrate himself was late to rise, else ye’d be wishin’ ye could trade places with our esteemed prisoner.”

Master Key shot his underlings a sharp glance from beneath his heavy grey brows and they ceased their disruption. Key unlocked the door, and he and Jack entered the cell.
Leventhorpe heard the muted clanking of chains and after a moment, Sir Walter Calverley was led out between the two men. Leventhorpe’s stomach twisted at the sight of his former friend and neighbour. He caught John by the arm, steadying him as the lad’s knees buckled. Neither had seen Calverley for months—not since his hellish rampage. Although Calverley was thin and drawn, he held himself with dignity. He wore a fine black doublet, and his lace cuffs and collar gleamed in contrast to the gloom of the corridor. Leventhorpe couldn’t help but think that Calverley was very well dressed for a dead man: he must have set this outfit aside in anticipation of the occasion. Calverley did not so much as glance in their direction.

Master Key cleared his throat and nodded to the magistrate. The procession began its descent into the bowels of the Tower, the close quarters of the stairwell making for an awkward single-file progress. The stately magistrate set a careful pace for those behind. Leventhorpe and John followed next, with Master Key leading Calverley. Jack and Hugh took up the rear to prevent any chance of the prisoner’s escape.

Time of day carried no meaning as they moved down into the still depths of the Tower. No one spoke: the only sound was the scuffling of heavy-booted feet. Flickering torches from the wall sconces lit the way, casting long, dancing shadows on the muted grey stones. Leventhorpe had the sensation of being buried in the earth as they moved ever deeper. He kept his eyes lowered, mindful of the uneven stairs, eroded by countless footsteps over several lifetimes. Suddenly, a rush of iridescent green-and-black beetles scattered out of the men’s path. Leventhorpe felt a brief flash of delight to see something so lively—these animated jewels—existing in such a bleak place.

At the foot of the tightly coiled stone staircase lay a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway. Leventhorpe glanced along a seemingly endless succession of closed doors and gaping antechambers. Today’s method of execution—‘peine forte et dure,’ less elegantly known as ‘pressing’— could take several hours. His throat constricted. Already he found the dank air putrid and hard to breathe. The clammy walls, coated with an orange mildew, gave off a pungent odour. Here and there between the cracks in the stones grew a strangely pretty fungus with pale yellow flowers. Leventhorpe touched a curious finger to a cluster of the petals as he passed by. They disintegrated instantly and left a lurid smear on his fine lace cuff.

Lord, I pray this ends quickly—

At last, the magistrate came to a halt and peered around to catch the eye of Master Key. Jack and Hugh stepped ahead to replace their Master’s hold on the prisoner. Hugh’s hand clearly shook as he tried to get a firm grip on Calverley’s arm, but he was met with no resistance: Calverley kept his manacled hands clasped before him in the manner of a clergyman and focused his dark eyes into the shadows at the far end of the passageway. Leventhorpe was again struck by the man’s poise. Of those present, he seemed the least moved by what was about to take place.

Fumbling at his belt for an oversized key, the old Master slipped to the front of the group to unlock the low, windowless portal. He heaved his stooped shoulder against the recalcitrant door and swung it inwards. The magistrate ducked his head as he entered the chamber, followed by the others. As Key lit the torches in the iron wall sconces, Leventhorpe blinked and looked about the room. A wide plank of coarsely hewn oak leaned against one wall. Beside it was a heap of stones, each roughly the same size—twelve to fourteen pounds in weight. Four iron rings were set into the flagstones in the centre of the floor. The room was otherwise barren. Once the condemned man was safely inside, the door was shut and bolted. Leventhorpe felt trapped.

“Make him ready,” said the magistrate.

As placidly as a docile horse, Calverley allowed himself to be taken by his chains and roughly stripped by Jack. The assistant gleefully assessed the clothing as he folded each item. Handing the garments over to Hugh, he winked at the boy’s dumbfounded expression.

“For safe-keepin’, lad. A boon for me. They’re about my size—and he won’t be needin’ ‘em in Hell now, will he?”

Leventhorpe was shocked by the outrageous theft but no one else seemed fazed. It must be routine in such matters, he thought. Perhaps it was considered part of the assistant’s payment.

Calverley was made to stretch out face up on the cold floor. A jagged stone was placed underneath the small of his back. His ribs standing out in sharp relief, he arched his body upward to accommodate the work of Master Key’s calloused hands. The prisoner’s long limbs were pulled into a cruciform position and shackled to the iron rings. At a quick count of three, the two gaolers heaved the plank from where it stood. With a grunt, they laid it over top of Calverley’s naked torso. The strain showed immediately in his breathing.

From where he stood, Leventhorpe had the clearest view. Only the doomed man’s face was visible at the top edge of the plank. Leventhorpe looked closely at his one-time friend. Calverley’s full lips were parted as he gasped from the burden already on his chest—and the anticipation of what was soon to come. Beads of perspiration dotted his moustache and beard, and sweat soaked the thick waves of his dark hair. Leventhorpe felt sick with pity. For all that Calverley had so brutally performed to visit this fate upon him, his serene determination from the outset to lighten the work of his own executioners gave him the aspect of a martyr.

Perhaps he hath repented. Will he at last speak his mind to the Law?

Leventhorpe could not catch his eyes to ask this silent question. Calverley had disconnected. He fixed his unblinking gaze on the grimy ceiling, entombing any emotion he may have felt deep within and unreachable.

The magistrate stepped forward from the corner, where he’d been absorbed in the examination of loose threads on the hem of his cloak. He had paid little attention to the tasks of the others. Master Key pulled his apprentice out of the way and made him drop the bundle of clothes he’d been hugging to his chest.

“Ye’ll need to keep yer hands free now, son.”

The nervous boy leaned his halberd against the wall, where it slipped along the moisture and clattered to the floor. Already skittish, Leventhorpe and John started at the racket, and John pressed up against his back as if to be shielded from the very Devil. The magistrate clenched his jaw and waited for the echo to subside. He spoke in a strong voice that belied his great age.

“You had your chance to speak before the Assizes. You chose silence. I therefore put it to you here and now for the Crown, and before these good men: Sir Walter Calverley, how do you plead?”

Leventhorpe stood waiting by his friend’s head. John’s nervous breath was hot on his neck.

There came no reply from Calverley but laboured breathing.

“Very well—” The magistrate stepped aside and nodded to the gaolers. “Lay on the weights.”

With a mason’s ease, Jack handed the stones one by one to his superior, pausing to allow Master Key enough time to place each stone securely onto the plank. The harsh sound of the weights grating together set Leventhorpe’s teeth on edge. He watched as the face above the plank turned a hot red and twisted into a grimace. Gasping, Calverley groaned involuntarily.

“Stop—” Raising his hand, the magistrate stepped forward and leaned over the tortured figure. “We can proceed quickly, or we can draw this out. The choice is thine. I once saw a man linger under the press for three days. Again: how do you plead?”

Calverley said nothing.

The magistrate sighed and signalled to the executioners. Master Key, worn out by his efforts, doubled over in a fit of coughing. Hugh thumped him hard on the back. It only made matters worse. The old gaoler shook his head and gestured for the apprentice to take over as he retreated, leaning against the far wall and catching his breath. Hugh looked unsure of himself as Jack thrust a heavy stone into his arms. All eyes were upon him. The boy hesitated. His knees threatened to give out as he squatted down and placed the stone so gingerly upon the plank that it had no perceptible effect on Calverley. The next stone shoved into his sweaty hands was a good deal heavier and the boy lost his grip, dropping the weight with great force onto the plank. A strangled cry erupted from below. The boy leapt back. John gave a low groan—almost a growl—as Leventhorpe’s throat constricted with dry heaves.

“Hold!”

At the magistrate’s command, man and boy paused in their work, and Master Key clapped a steadying hand on Hugh’s shoulder. The magistrate stooped to assess the progress. Leventhorpe’s sight blurred with tears. The tendons on Calverley’s neck were so strained that surely they might snap at any moment. Veins protruded at his temples and his wild eyes bulged. Leventhorpe could no longer recognize his neighbour’s once-handsome features.

“So? How do you plead?”

Calverley made a liquid gasping sound, but no actual words came forth to admit either his obvious guilt or impossible innocence. The magistrate lost all patience. His voice rang sharply off the chamber’s walls.

“Do not be tedious, Calverley! Thy family’s blood was seen on thy very hands by this good gentleman!” Leventhorpe winced as the magistrate jabbed a finger in his direction. “This man—thy servant—bears the scars from the vile attack!” John ducked his head down on Leventhorpe’s shoulder, hiding his face. “Again. For these most foul of crimes, how do you plead?”

Calverley croaked out a few inaudible words. Leventhorpe felt a flutter of hope. Mercy in the form of a swift hanging would be shown if a plea—any plea—was made. The magistrate would then have the authority to seize the condemned’s remaining property for the Crown, and the executioners’ work would be made relatively simple. Leventhorpe could return home and leave this waking nightmare behind. Perhaps poor, broken John could come and work at his manor, and he made a mental note to put an offer to the lad… afterward. Leventhorpe bent down over the grotesque visage to better hear Calverley, whose lips were moving weakly and running thick with bloody spittle. The magistrate encouraged the prisoner in a gentler tone.

“Very good, Calverley. Speak again. Your plea?”

Calverley gave a terrible wet gurgle and repeated himself in a faint rasp. John gathered his nerve and peered over Leventhorpe’s shoulder. Calverley’s eyes rolled and came to rest on John’s face.

“They—that love Sir Walter… lay on—a pound—more weight…”

Leventhorpe felt John’s fingers dig into his arm at the sound of his former master’s voice, then the lad leaned in closer to the man who had caused such grief for so many. Calverley’s words were no more than a whisper. All held their breath.

“I swear they shall—have nothing—more—of me—but my skin—John.”

The two men exchanged a look of mutual understanding, and John’s manner transformed. All signs of fear were gone. Releasing the grip on Leventhorpe’s arm, John stepped away from the nobleman, drew himself up to his full height, and loomed over the dying man. Somehow, through his death’s-head grimace, Calverley smiled.

“Good man. Ever-loyal—to me.”

In the presence of the young man’s intent focus, no one was sure how to react. John raised his boot and calmly set it on the plank. With a huge final effort, Calverley nodded. John obeyed the silent call to duty and began to lean his full weight into the wood, never breaking his gaze from that of his master’s.

“No, John!” Leventhorpe grabbed the servant and tried to pull him away. John roughly shoved him aside, determined to perform this ultimate mad act of service.

“Will someone not control this cur?” the magistrate bellowed.

Leventhorpe desperately cast his eyes about for help, but both Hugh and the formerly brash Jack both seemed equally frozen by shock. Master Key stepped in. He could not hope to bodily remove the strong youth from his task, but perhaps words could sway him.

“Do not be a fool, lad. True, ’tis meet to see him dead for his crimes, but not by your doing. ’Tis my charge to fulfill—mine and my brethren’s. Heed me: fair or no, in the law’s eyes this deed is as much murder as those he hath committed, and thou shalt be made to pay the price. I beg thee—stop.”

Sweat dripped from John’s brow as he redoubled his efforts.

A sickening crunch echoed through the chamber. With a final surge of blood bubbling up between his cracked lips, Calverley’s rattling breath ceased. His eyes glazed and rolled back in his skull.

No one spoke. As Hugh threw up in a corner, the senior gaolers recovered themselves enough to step up, take John by the arms and pull him back from the press. John met Leventhorpe’s look of astonishment with a triumphant half-smile.

“Sir Thomas, do not judge me.” John’s lip curled as he turned his reddened eyes back to Calverley. “Tis blood for blood. Now, I am content.”

Return to Product Description.

Base Spirits

2011-10-23T02:07:30Z

Product Description

‘Murder has took this chamber with full hands
And will ne’er out as long as the house stands.’
~A Yorkshire Tragedy, Act I, Sc. v

In 1605, Sir Walter Calverley’s murderous rampage leaves a family shattered. The killer suffers a torturous execution… but is it truly the end? A noble Yorkshire house stands forever tarnished by blood and possessed by anguished spirits.

Some crimes are so horrific, they reverberate through the centuries.

As an unhappy modern couple vacation in the guesthouse at Calverley Old Hall, playwright Clara, and her scholar husband, Scott, unwittingly awaken a dark history. Clara is trapped and forced back in time to bear witness to a family’s bloody saga. Overtaken by the malevolent echoes, Scott is pushed over the edge from possessive husband to wholly possessed…

Inspired by a true-life drama in Shakespeare’s day, this is itself a play within a play: a supernatural thriller with a historical core.

Only one player can survive.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 505 KB
Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
Publisher: Spirited Words Book Co.; 1 edition (September 2, 2011)
Language: English
ASIN: B005L38G8E

Available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.

Review

Dark Voices, October 16, 2011
By Sergeant Williams
This review is from: Base Spirits (Kindle Edition)

Ms. Barrett weaves a finely crafted tale of human darkness that combines well researched history with an unflinching gaze at abuse that we today often try to believe is a thing of the past. The historical portion of this tale could have come from the lurid headlines of today's newspapers.

The author has caught well the dark voices of madness in this ghost story. A real page turner.

Read a sample chapter here.

Servant of the Gods - Sample Chapter

2011-10-21T12:57:56Z

Chapter One

Egypt, 17th Year of King Narmer’s Reign, Early Dynasty

Torchlight flickered over the stone walls of the immense cavern, bathing them in a soft golden glow. That light danced over the massive figures of the Gods, giving the faces of the statues the appearance of expression. It illuminated as well the faces of the priests and priestesses gathered around the stone pedestal that served as an altar. The air was pungent with the scent of burning incense. Chanting echoed throughout the chambers, a sound that rose and fell, a low atonal hum that resonated in the bones.

Mummification had never been intended for use on the living but it was as it must be and none of those gathered there could gainsay what was about to happen. Not General Khai, nor any of the priests and priestesses of the Gods, nor even the High Priestess Irisi herself. Who were they to second-guess the Will of the Gods?

Irisi could not and would not.

It was as the prophecy had decreed however much they wished to deny it. Kahotep’s prophecy, he who was High Priest of Horus, the Falcon-God whose Eye saw everything.

“A darkness rises, oh Pharaoh, to be unleashed across the world. It comes as a shadow rising from the desert laying waste to all of Egypt, scouring the earth as it passes. Death and destruction follow in its wake, and the cries of the people of the world are terrible. From the north comes a warrior, a crowned and golden servant of the Gods with eyes like the sky, bearing swords in hand to rise up and drive the terrible darkness out of the world, and to stand against it for all time.”

That shadow had risen and the battles had been terrible. Now they had a chance, one chance, to end it. Here. Now they had a chance, one chance, to end it. Here.

Servant of the Gods. Irisi was that, she was priestess to both Isis and Sekhmet. To stand against it for all time? What was prisoned in the chamber below would live forever. And so, therefore, must she. There was no other way and there was no other to do it, only she, both warrior and priestess, could, however terrible it was.

And so, this.

For this to have any chance at success Irisi knew only that she must accept it without protest, willingly, she must give it both her Ba and Ka, her heart and soul, and so she steeled herself to face it. Even as that other below, Kamenwati, did not. He fought them, writhed and screamed in protest, in outrage. He chanted spells against them even as Awan, High Priest of Osiris, Kahotep, High Priest of Horus and Djeserit, High Priestess of Sekhmet struggled to contain him and his terrible magic. In the back of Irisi’s mind she chanted the words of the two Books she knew so well, the Book of Life, known only to the priests and priestesses of the temples…and the Book of Emerging in Daytime – what some called, wrongly, the Book of the Dead.

Of the priests and priestesses only Rensi, High Priest of Anubis and gentle Nafre, priestess of Hathor, stood with her in the upper chamber. Representatives of their Gods, each had their task. Rensi made certain the rites done this day were done as they must be to keep Irisi’s soul alive against all the odds and to preserve her body in the hope that someday she might reach the afterlife.

Nafre gave comfort to help ease her passage.

And then there was Khai, Irisi’s beloved Khai.

She looked up at him from where she lay on the cold stone of the plinth.

Her breath caught as it always did to look at him. He was so beautiful and she loved him so much. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving him.

Gleaming black hair streamed in shining waves to his shoulders and framed his strong handsome face, high cheekbones and beautiful long-lashed dark eyes. Deep within those dark brown eyes was the hint of warm gold she knew so well. There was grief in his eyes, the sure knowledge of what they were about to do. She knew what it cost him to stand aside and watch, how little he loved to feel helpless, but for once his strength and courage could avail him nothing. This was for her to do, and her alone.

She longed to touch him once again, treasured the memory of his hands on her, his body against and a part of hers. The thought was bittersweet. In that Kamenwati had succeeded, he’d kept them apart for so long. Surely the Gods wouldn’t deny her this much? In her heart of hearts she felt the sweet benediction that was the blessing of her Goddess, Isis, who, having lost her own beloved Osiris for a time, understood her fear and her pain at having to give up her own beloved.

Here, finally for this one time and with these trusted few around them, they could do as they’d wished for so long to do openly.

Kiss.

While Irisi had been Kamenwati’s slave that hadn’t been possible. Or while under his threat. Only that had kept Irisi away, the sure knowledge that Kamenwati would kill Khai had he but known of their love.

His lips touched hers, so warm, the feel of them firm but gentle, a soft caress.

Reaching up, Irisi touched Khai’s stern handsome face for one last time even as the sharp pain of the reeds lanced through her wrist, her ankles. She wouldn’t cry out, not looking up into that beloved face. It wasn’t in her to make him suffer any more than necessary. She loved the Gods, she loved Egypt her adopted home but above all else she loved Khai. It was only for her duty, for Egypt and its people, and the people of all the lands she’d known, that would she would leave him.

The Gods understood.

As did he.

“You are Nife-an-Ankh to me,” she whispered, “and Nomti…I love you, I will always love you. Forever.”
Breath of life and strength he was to her. Her heart.

She’d loved him from almost the first moment she’d seen him that long ago day in the desert, standing surrounded by her dead and theirs. He’d offered her honor, then, as one warrior to another. She loved him for that, for his honor, courage and for his great heart.

He was beautiful to her in all ways.

“Irisi,” he said and lowered his proud head to hers.

Khai looked down at his beloved Irisi laid out upon the altar and wanted to cry out his denial of what was to come but he could not. Leaning over her with one arm braced on the stone he touched her face, looked into her lovely eyes, at the glorious length of her hair as it spilled over the sides. So beautiful, so alive…

Breath of life and strength as she was to him as well.

Blood flowed through the reeds, her blood, drained out of her… her lifeblood. The rich coppery aroma of it filled the air, mixed with the scent of the herbs in the Water of Life as it was drawn into her.

It must be and they both knew it. She was the one who must go and he the one who must stay.

Egypt needed her only surviving General.

Irisi’s successor had already been chosen.

Slowly, he touched his lips to hers, the kiss soft as the priests and priestesses chanted around them. Her hand was warm on his face as their lips found each other. Grief lay heavy on his heart. Duty lay heavier. He couldn’t bear to let her go and yet he couldn’t keep her, however much he wished it. He, too, served the will of the Gods. And he could see no other choice, no other way.

The herbs, the potions, flowed into her, burned in her veins. Irisi fought the pain of it with warm feel of Khai’s lips, so long forbidden, on hers…and with the surge of love that washed through her.

“Irisi,” he whispered. “You are my heart.”

As he was hers but she could no longer speak the words or else break the chant that echoed endlessly in the back of her mind.

The stone of the altar was cold and the chill seemed to soak slowly into her flesh.

Around her Irisi could hear the chanting, the minds and voices of the priests and priestesses raised in support of her and of those who fought below, mixed with the drone of the Horn in the chamber far below.

It had taken some little time for Irisi to achieve the semi-trance state necessary to endure what was done, yet some of the pain and the weakness seeped through to batter at her will. As did the will of the creatures in the darkness of the chamber below – the magic of the Horn and her own will, joined to these others, was all held them there. She dared not falter.

She felt her lifeblood drain swiftly away even as she felt the embalming fluids flow in, the natron and herbs bit sharply into her veins. It burned as it went but she turned her thoughts away from it as she turned them away from the other things they did.

Her arms were folded across her breast with a hand on each shoulder and bound so tightly with lengths of linen that she could barely breathe. Her hair was coiled up as the cloth was wrapped around her throat, around her head to cover her mouth and forehead. All but her eyes.

Cold fluid brushed across her belly, followed by numbness. Something pressed just below her breastbone. There was a sense of invasion as they finished wrapping her body in the last long lengths of linen.

Warm liquid soaked her from collarbone to feet. It drenched the linen and stung sharply in the cuts they’d made.

A cry echoed from the darkness below. That, too, fell on deaf ears.

She bit back her own cries. Fought the sense of being constricted.

Khai…

Remaining still by an act of will she kept her eyes focused on his dark ones, sought the gold within them, the warmth even as her own drained away. His will melded to hers, lent her the strength she needed to do this as the weakness grew within her until he stepped back as, finally, he must.

Her heart hammered in her chest, drawing in the sacred herbs, natron and fluids through her veins even as it pumped her lifeblood out. Mixed among the herbs was the blood of the one who lay below so she would be bound to him and he to her.

The last length of linen went across her eyes. The light disappeared behind the linen to take her down into darkness.

Pain flashed, sharp, sudden, within her to leave a sense of absence, a stillness within her.

It would go quickly now and she was grateful for that.

And it did.

She felt them raise her to carry her swiftly out.

A coughing roar echoed down the tunnel that led outside. They followed that sound, she knew.

The lions, her lions…gifts of the lion-headed Goddess Sekhmet when that Goddess had turned her away and sent her to Isis’s service instead. They would come with her, to keep her company through her long duty so she wouldn’t be utterly alone.

Watching, Khai bowed his head and looked away as they tipped her up for he couldn’t watch as her linen-wrapped form slid with a splash of the Water of Life into the hollow in the stele they’d prepared for her.

He could wish this had been done in sunlight as Irisi was and always had been a creature of light and not darkness.

His light…

Irisi.

Grief burned. If only he could have gone in her place…

He could not, he was no priest, he had no magic, nor as Egypt’s only surviving General could he leave his country and its people undefended any more than Irisi could have refused this.

Duty and honor wouldn’t allow it.

He laid a hand against the cold stone, listened as the hammers beat above him, pounded the sealing stone into place with steady rhythmic blows so much like the sound of a heartbeat. Sealing the stele with Irisi inside it. What was it like for her in there, in the darkness filled with the Water of Life?

Like drowning.

He willed her the strength and courage to endure. Like the beat of her valiant heart, each blow of mallet on stone reverberated, echoed from the distant walls, to whisper back over the grassy hollow within them.

Above, through the narrow break in the cavern roof Khai could see the stars glitter coldly.

Desperately, instinctively, Irisi’s lungs sought air, her body fought…even as she clung to trance, to will, to the spells in her mind, to the endless mental chanting of the words from the Book of Emerging into Daytime – the Book of the Dead.

She had to hold against the grief and the fear, the close space that enveloped her. What lay below, him and them, battered against her will.

Khai was still here, though, her beloved Khai and these others she loved, Awan, Kahotep, Djeserit, all the priests and priestesses with whom she’d served over the years. Even poor Saini in the distant chamber below, seeking his redemption, watched the last faint light disappear as the doors shut on him to seal him in among the Dark, among Them…

She could almost pity him, not knowing which of them suffered the worst fate.

Faintly, she could hear the Horn call as he blew endlessly, drawing air in through his nose, blowing out through his mouth. That sound must not falter until the doors were shut and sealed. Forever.

Beyond, outward, there was all of Egypt, all of the world. They couldn’t let what resided so restlessly within that chamber escape to lay waste over it. Not again. She couldn’t set what lay within the tomb loose upon the peoples of this world, not with what they now knew of them. Those below would devour every living thing, turn the people of the Nile, the distant peoples from which she’d come and those of all the lands where she’d served and fought as a mercenary into cattle, chattel, something to feed upon…and their feeding…the torment of it…

Horror shook her.

If they were to be free, safe, she must hold, even as her body bucked, fought for air…and so she held. It seemed an eternity and yet it was only minutes.

She remembered…and clung to her memories, lost herself in them, held them against the pain, against the cold that seeped into her. The cold and the darkness.

Alone in the dark she remembered the ones, the one, she loved and would always love.

His hand upon the stone, Khai remembered, too, remembered his beloved Irisi with her swords flashing, her hair swirling around her as she did battle that first day he’d seen her and all the days thereafter. Priestess and warrior. So lovely, strong, so seemingly indomitable. It was her laughter, though, that rang in his memory most.
That beautiful hair, her glorious eyes…her laughter and her joy.

In grief and sorrow he touched the face carved into the stone of the stele…laid his forehead against the cold stone forehead of it as he would do with her in life.

His fingers traced the words engraved in the pillar, the chants for Coming Forth into the Day, for Going and Coming Out of the Realm of the Dead, and For Taking on Any Shape. She would need to know them in the centuries to come.

He willed her strength and he willed her love. How did she fare within? Was her struggle over yet, had the Gods taken her, given her surcease? Were her ba and ka yet free of her body?

He looked to Awan, to Djeserit, and saw the same thoughts mirrored there in their faces.

In the darkness of the cavern far below, the great iron doors slid closed as bands of gold and silver were hammered across it to secure it with the powers of the Gods Ra and Isis. The seal, carefully balanced, was placed in its niche to enclose what lay within, hopefully forever.

The chanting did not end…it was not done, not yet.

As one, the priests and priestesses closed around the stele. Each lay their hand on the stone and willed strength to the one within. The Gods came to the one within then, all of them but Set, each to render her a gift.

Sekhmet was the last.

In the chamber below the great iron doors were closed and sealed, and she set to stand guard over it, to ensure it remained sealed, forever.

Alone through the ages to come.

Tales were told of one’s life flashing before the eyes as one died, but Irisi was not dying nor would an afterlife await her.

So many memories…

Irisi remembered…

Return to Product Description.

Servant of the Gods

2011-10-21T12:48:44Z

Product Description

A child of prophecy, in her life she would bear three names, the one she bore as a peasant and a mercenary, another after she was captured and enslaved, but despite it all she would rise to become Priestess of Isis and High Priestess of all Egypt and face her greatest challenge...

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 408 KB
Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
Language: English
ASIN: B005XMAOP6

Available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.

Read a sample chapter here.

Don of the Living Dead - Sample Chapter

2011-09-07T03:02:29Z

CHAPTER ONE

I can’t claim to have seen every zombie movie known to man, but I have seen most of the good ones, from the old black and white George A. Romero flicks to the modern day, Resident Evil flicks. Many of them begin with the damage already done. We meet the characters sometime after their survival skills have kicked in. On occasion, we see how those characters encountered their first zombie; sometimes it's in a graveyard, sometimes in their home, or, more recently, in a secret underground laboratory.

My first encounter was nothing like in the movies. I was sitting on the toilet.

Don't laugh.

I am one of those rare few that are so regular you could set your watch by my bowel movements, no fiber added.
It all started on a Wednesday afternoon in May. My allotted half hour lunch break was over and I was taking my mid afternoon constitutional.

After nine years crunching numbers for the same company, I had conditioned my body. I drank my morning coffee at my desk in my little cubical, ran numbers and cost analysis until twelve-thirty, took my lunch until one o’clock, and then spent fifteen relaxing minutes on the pot.

Who can blame me for taking my fifteen minutes on the clock? I'm sure everyone has the same mentality about their employers; everyone has been force to suffer with fewer benefits, less pay, and less time off. The recession has put most companies, from the giants like Wal-Mart to the lowly mom and pop stores in the same predicament. But even with all its drawbacks there are benefits to businesses during a recession. One of the benefits is that for every employee on staff there are two or three equally qualified individuals out there just waiting for the opportunity to take the job, often for less money.

My job was definitely not secure. Even with all my time working for Comdex Pharmaceuticals, I was just as expendable as the next guy; maybe more so, I was one of the highest paid accountants in the company. They could hire one of the young fresh graduates off the street for nearly half of what they paid me.

I work hard, but I see no reason to waste any part of my lunch break in the john. Other than a pen or two and maybe a few sheets of copy paper, those fifteen minutes are my only extra compensation for the wonderful job I did at Comdex. But I suppose I should quit rambling and just start at the beginning.

Lunch had been a frantic race to find Rebecca, the sandwich girl. She made her rounds in our building every day, but ultimately she seemed to forget me three times a week. It wasn’t by accident of course. I don't know what her problem was. I mean, sure I asked her out once, but when she said no I didn't push. I don't know why everything got awkward after that. I'm an adult and she's an adult, just because she didn't want to be an adult with me doesn't mean I don't still like sandwiches.

That day, by the time I caught up to her on the third floor, all she had left was turkey on rye. I can't stand rye bread, why would anyone fuck up a perfectly good loaf of bread like that? I bought it anyway, because I hate spending the afternoon with an empty stomach more than I hate rye.

She sold the sandwich to me, but was very flippant about it, like just because I chased her down to purchase something for lunch, she had grounds for a sexual harassment suit.

As if, I thought. Plenty of other girls out there refused to date me, why would she think she was so special.

I mean, sure Rebecca was attractive and had eyes that flirted from across the room whether she knew it or not, but I don't see how selling sandwiches out of a basket puts you anywhere close to the top of the most eligible single woman list.

Anyway, I had to eat my sandwich on the move. By the time I caught up to her, purchased the sandwich, and got my change, I had ten minutes left to get back to my office.

The elevator ride back up to the fourth floor was not at all note worthy. I got a few strange looks from the other passengers because I was woofing down my turkey on rye, but fuck them. There is no law that says you're supposed to stand all ridged staring at the numbers above the door waiting for your floor. I was hungry and I wasted precious time chasing down the bitch that didn't have time to date me.

I got off the elevator on my floor, humming the tune to some bluesy number that had been playing in there. I tried to remember the words but quickly gave it up, words were not my thing. Numbers were my thing.

I made my way to my cubical eating my entire sandwich except the bottom crust; I tossed that into my wastepaper basket. I booted up my computer and made sure the spreadsheet on my screen looked like I had been working hard. My screensaver was set for twenty minutes, more than enough time for me to hit the restroom, but still have proof that I had returned from lunch and started crunching the sales figures again.

I gave Marcy a little wave as I passed the reception area. She looked right at me but pretended that she didn't see, putting her hand up to the headset she was wearing and turning in her plush leather office chair.

Bitch.

I had been there for her. When she and Julio from the mailroom broke up, I was her shoulder to cry on. I bolstered her self esteem. I helped her understand that Julio's need to screw other people had nothing to do with her. And what did I get for all my trouble?

Nothing, that's what.

I didn't force myself on her. I mean, that's what you're thinking, right? That I tried to make a move on her while she was crying in my arms. Well, that's not how it happened at all. I was a perfect gentleman. After she had somewhat recovered from her falling out with “Don Juan” Julio, she started badmouthing me all over the office, said I tried to take advantage of her. There is no doubt in my mind that it was because she had seen my crappy studio apartment and had second thoughts about me and her.

She played it off like I was relentless in my pursuit of her to the point of bordering on harassment. Like I got nothing better to do than beg dumb chicks for sex, so much for being the nice guy.

So that day was much like any other. I enter the men's room at the end of the hall to do my business with my copy of USA Today under my arm; well truth be told it wasn't my copy; I didn't actually have a subscription. I routinely stole the copy from the waiting area, but who cares? Who really expects to have up-to-date reading material when they’re sitting in a waiting area anyway?

My usual stall was empty, thank God. This restroom only had three stalls, two the size of my linen closet and one fit for a king. It was the handicapped stall of course, set aside by society for those less fortunate. But being as there were no employees on our floor confined to a wheelchair, what was the harm in me staking claim.

I settled in. I'll spare you all the embracing details, but suffice to say, I visited my local Mexican restaurant the previous night. I didn't eat there, mind you; I can't stand the ethnic music they play and watching all the white patrons attempt to apply what they remember from high school Spanish class is enough to turn my stomach. I ordered to go and went home to watch Jersey Shore.

I know, I know; what kind of single young professional would waste a Tuesday evening watching Jersey Shore? I watch it like some might watch a disaster movie. The people portrayed on that show are shining examples of everything I find wrong with America today.

It was just another bunch of self centered shallow kids cashing in on their fifteen minutes of fame. Not one of them took the time to learn about their heritage.

And fuck their heritage anyway. Mussolini sided with Hitler in World War Two, didn’t he? How the fuck did Italy get off so easy on that one? As far as I'm concerned, Italian Americans in the 21st century are a joke. They think they can embrace the word 'Guido' like the blacks embraced the word 'Nigga' and everything is going to be alright. Why shouldn’t those kids have to go find jobs and work for a living? America's fixation on the blacks pretty much ended when Bill Cosby retired, but this new fixation on Italians made me question what this country is all about. Don't even get me started on the Kardashians.

I dropped trou and parked my behind on the elongated toilet with the horseshoe shaped seat to do my business. I really don't understand why the commercial toilet industry thinks that cutting six inches out of the front of the seat is going to work. Anyone willing to piss on a toilet seat isn't going to limit themselves to that small space missing from the front and the few shlubs that would have lifted the seat think they don't have to because the seat has that gap. So they do their best to stand directly in front of the gap to do their business. Of course, more often than not they defile some part of the seat, whether it’s due to inattention, or a lack of respect for the future users.

When was the last time you dribbled a few drops on a public toilet seat and took the time to clean up after yourself with a few squares of toilet paper? Not fuckin' likely. That's why I bring an individually wrapped Lysol wipe with me every day. Then I lay down the recycled paper seat cover, recycled from what? I don't even want to know.

The article I'm stuck reading is a fluff piece, just more Obama propaganda about how the Democrats could pull us out of the recession if the Republican Party would just work with them. I figured at some point the shock of being the first African American in the White House would wear off and Obama would get down to business, how wrong I was. He talks a good game, he wouldn't have been elected otherwise, but I feel like I wasted my vote. Maybe Hilary was a chump for staying with Bill, but in hindsight, she probably could have brought more to the Presidency. With Bill as the First Husband, it would have been like two Presidents for the price of one.

The outer door squeaked open and slammed shut. I listened to the shuffling of feet echo in the way that only the tiled walls of a public toilet can. I'm not the type to get nervous about using the public restroom, but I am the type to sit and try to picture what the other occupants are doing.

The new occupant seemed to be an old man as far as I could tell. He shuffled a few steps then stopped. A few more steps then stopped. With my luck, the poor sucker was using a walker or one of those canes with the pronged base. The kind that should have good sturdy rubber tips that would outlast the aluminum frame, but seemed to end up with tennis balls instead. Bastard probably thought he was going to stroll right into the handicapped stall. Well, the old codger would just have to wait.

He shuffled right up to the door of my stall and I could hear the thump of something on the painted steel door.

“There's someone in here,” I said, pissed that he wouldn't even try the other, smaller stalls. I knew the doors were wide open. How hard could it be to sink your ass down on one of those? It should be easier considering that there were two good handrails on either side well within reach.

I stared at his shoes under the door. They weren't old man shoes. Not that there was a type of shoe that old men had to wear, but these were DCs. Who the hell wore skateboard shoes to the office? His jeans were faded and bunched up heavily at the cuff. The denim was frayed and stained along the back where it had drug on the ground. I shook my head, whoever this guy was, he definitely didn’t work here on the fourth floor.

There was another thump on the door.

“Hey, I'll be out in a minute,” I said.

There's nothing worse than being rushed when you're trying to do your business. The asshole didn't even have the common courtesy to take a few steps back and wait like a normal human being.

If he hadn't been moving like a decrepit, old man, I would have given him a piece of my mind, but chewing out some hadicapable kid dressed like a skater seemed in poor taste. It wouldn’t bode well for my standing in the company to chew this inconsiderate prick a new asshole only to find out later that he was the grandson of the CEO or the son of some outside consultant hire to minimize the company's cost base.

In any case, my fifteen minute respite was ruined. How can you expect a man to do his business while your stand right on the other side of a one inch thick hollow metal door. I folded up my newspaper and reached for the toilet tissue. Just my luck, there was about three squares left on the industrial sized roll in the plastic dispenser.
While I might trust three squares of the heavily quilted, double ply toilet paper in the comfort of my own bathroom at my apartment, three squares of the semi transparent scratchy stuff common to public restrooms just wasn't going to cut it.

“Hey, Mister, could you do me a favor and hand me some T P under the door?” I asked as politely as I could. I was at his mercy after all. I watched his feet shuffle and there was another -thunk- on the door, but that was the only response I got.

I waited for a good sixty second then started to become annoyed.

“Look buddy, if you want the stall you're going to have to help me out here,” I said.

Still no response.

I searched the stall for any help, and finding none weighed my options. I stared at the newspaper in my hand and thought it fitting that the Obama propaganda be used in such a manor, but couldn't bring myself to tear up the newsprint and do the deed. Knowing my luck, the high pressure toilet would get backed up and I would soon become the laughing stock of the fourth floor.

I thought about using the toilet seat covers from the dispenser behind me, but they were thin and rough with no absorbency what-so-ever; I could just imagine how they would spread my mess around without aiding in cleaning my person. That would be my last resort I decided.

Just as I was about to give Mr. DC shoes a piece of my mind, I heard the door open and slam shut again.

“Hey, Mathew, was it? How’s it going?” I heard a voice say.

No answer.

“Excuse me,” the voice again, “Hey...Hey! What the fuck man...”

There was a -thump- then I heard the door to the next stall slam shut and the lock slide into place.

“You mother fucker; fuckin' bite me, what the fuck man?” It was Colby from accounts payable.

Return to Product Description

Don of the Living Dead

2011-09-07T02:44:35Z

Product Description

If you like cynical humor and terrifying flesh eaters then this book is for you.

Don Carver is the unlikely hero of a zombie outbreak. He must brave the savage streets to escape downtown Seattle in order to save his six-year-old son and his cruelly, vindictive ex-wife, but first he has to figure out how to escape the zombie standing outside the door of his bathroom stall.

This tale is packed with dark humor, gratuitous gore, and extreme violence. It's a nonstop, action packed thrill ride. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll run screaming in terror!

Come on people how many more clichés do you need? It's a book about zombies; buy it, love it, and recommend it to your friends.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 255 KB
Publisher: Zombie Tales Press (September 1, 2011)
Language: English
ASIN: B005KR0LFM

Available at Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble and Smashwords.

Review

By Cindy D. Martell

Loved this book!! It starts out with the main character stuck in the worst room to be in when there is a zombie outbreak….yep that’s right..a public bathroom. From there he must escape his office building, get to his son, help some strangers, help a scientist, tolerate his ex-wife and return to that same office building to save the human race. Won’t tell you who lives and who dies…you need to buy the book to find that out. But I can tell you that you won’t be disappointed in this story. I couldn’t put this story down until I found out what happened. Loved it from beginning to end. This author is going on my favorite author list.

Read sample chapter here.

Fall Leaves and the Black Dragon

2011-08-29T13:07:35Z

Product Description

Somehow six-year-old Willy survived a huge fire. The memory of the flames engulfed his childhood and haunted him for years. Terrible secrets that should have burned away have come back. Now an adult, he must return to Iowa, with his best friend by his side, and confront the evil that haunts him. The dark secrets that await them threaten their very lives and reveal a past more horrifying than the huge fire Willy lived through as a child.

Product Details

Ebook
File Size: 355 KB
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services
Language: English
ASIN: B004NIFPBO

Available at Amazon.com, and Smashwords.

Reviews

by DaveMoy (5 stars):
I always like creepy fiction best when its written in the first person. The imagery in this is terrific, you feel what the main character feels (and sees.) The ending caught me by surprise, there’s a twist in it that I didn’t see coming. The part where two friends are on a road trip has very vivid description as well. The book deals with haunting childhood memories and leads the reader into more of a mystery when Liam, the protagonist, attempts to find the truth in past events that don’t add up. Truth searching in order to end his own confusion and personal torment of horrifying thoughts, visions and dreams is the central focus of the book.

by Jo (4 stars):
Very nice twists! It was easy to bond with the characters.

Djinn

2011-06-16T13:43:53Z

Product Description

Cindy’s life changes the minute she receives the book Djinn from Sasha. Within hours the forces of darkness infiltrate her life, forcing them to run for their lives. Sasha doesn’t know it’s her he has to save, because evil hides in the strangest places.

Product Details

File Size: 316 KB
Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
Publisher: Gemma & Poppet; 1 edition (June 12, 2011)
Language: English

Available at Amazon.com.