Red Cape Publishing and Philip Rogers 101 PR are proud to announce the upcoming release of It Came From the Darkness, a collection of 100-word stories and poems, interspersed with exclusive artwork. The book has been put together to raise money for the Max the Brave Fund (www.maxthebravefund.org) and will be released on October 30^th, with pre orders available from the 23^rd.

Blurb:

It Came From the Darkness is a unique collection of drabbles (stories of 100 words exactly) and artwork, compiled by Red Cape Publishing and Philip Rogers 101 PR in aid of the Max the Brave Fund. A huge number of horror writers, poets, artists, and film makers have come together to support the cause and offer the reader something special. Each piece of writing begins with the same five words, but the stories themselves are all wonderfully varied. So dig in, take each tale one bloody bite at a time, and beware of what comes from the darkness.

Includes stories from David Owain Hughes, Matthew V. Brockmeyer, Tim Lebbon, Lou Yardley, Cortney Palm, Lee Franklin, MJ Dixon, Singh Lall, and many, many more.

Cover artwork by David Paul Harris (www.davidpaulharris.com)

Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

Leaf Piles

Radar DeBoard

Adam finished raking the last of the leaves onto the enormous pile he had created in the back corner of his yard. The only thing that could piss him off right now was someone ruining the work he had done. Suddenly, a soccer ball came over his fence and landed in the pile and sent leaves flying up in the air. The ball rolled off the pile and came to a stop along the fence. Adam took a quick glance to see how much damage had been done and gasped when he noticed that a pale hand was slightly visible. He quickly raked a couple of leaves to cover it just as Peter poked his head over the fence.

“Sorry about that Mr. Stinson,” Peter said shyly.

“That’s okay kiddo,” Adam said with a fake laugh, “It’s bound to happen when you’re having fun.” Adam retrieved the ball and held it in his hand. He took in a deep breath and said, “You know…if you want…I have another soccer ball you can have too.”

“Really!” Peter exclaimed.

“Of course,” Adam nodded, “It’s in my garage somewhere. If you wanna come over, we can go find it for ya.”

“Okay,” Peter smiled as he hopped down on his side of the fence.

The fake kindness on Adam’s face quickly turned into a look of annoyance. “I guess Peter will make four now,” he muttered to himself, “This damn pile keeps growing thanks to these stupid kids.” He sighed, “I’m never gonna finish raking these leaves.”

Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

The Pretty Lights

Craig Crawford

The pretty lights first came to Daniella on a harvest eve.  Every young man had been smitten with her at one time or the next, and when the heavenly beings befriended her it was little surprise.

Daniella first spied them in the trees of Taingarey Wood, shyly ducking behind trunk and branch in the wan light of dusk.  Their angelic glow beckoned; their light soothing and gentle in the cool darkness.  Curiosity is a cynical vixen, and Daniella investigated alone.  She was gone the night and following day, her mother fearing the worst, and yet by second day’s end, she reappeared on the path, no worse in virtue nor vigor.

She told of her adventure, revealing new companions:  unlike us, yet yearning to befriend all in the village.  Daniella produced pastries and mead as promise of their goodwill.  The following day, Daniella led an ensemble deep into the den of timber, crossing dale and stream to meet the pretty lights.

Though only spirits without form, they offered delectable delights:  sweets from their gardens, honey from their trees, enchanting everyone with goodwill and charity.  So much so, the evening turned to dawn before they returned.  Daniella led more from the village each night, and mostly, everyone returned.

Mostly.

I succumbed at last, entranced by Daniella’s invitation.  Yet, as I left, my gran warned me grimly: “Gifts from strangers still carry cost,” and blessed me with a talisman of cold iron.  Still, I journeyed forth, Daniella hand in mine; allaying all my fears.

I witnessed the pretty lights, so beautiful they felt like music.  They danced and gamboled amongst my friends, tending their every need.  Lulled by the display, I was prodded to take my place alongside them.

Yet, the pretty lights retreated from me, hissing and reviling my name.  Confusion lay on my brow, but they cursed my breast, and fair Daniella entreated me to forsake my gran’s grace.

Fear flowered and my strength failed.  I grasped the talisman as a dying man begs God’s forgiveness, and the lights glowered red.  They thrust themselves against me, cascading curses, but Gran’s gift sheltered me after all.

Casting my gaze, I saw Daniella radiant no more, but a sallow shade of the goddess she’d once been.  The pretty lights sickened me in their pallor glow, and I stepped to leave.  Not undone, they whispered lies in villagers’ ears, and though those sprites could not touch me, the villagers surely could.

I ran.  Fleeing with God’s speed I raced home, people I’d counted as friends intent on my trail, assuring death.  They burnt my hearth and slaughtered my animals; me barely escaping with Gran.

We took the road and though I sorely miss my peers, Gran counts them lost.  We keep on the move, afraid to trod the forests, dreading the pretty lights.

 

The End

Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

Love Kills

Theresa Jacobs

Heavy footfalls pound down the stairs, Brandy looks up to see her father, his face creased.

“What’s happened?”

“Grandma’s passed on. Hurry, get the rope. I’ve locked the door, but it won’t hold long.”

She runs to the closet wondering why they hadn’t tied her down last night. She freezes as a thud comes from above.

“Dad?”

“ROPE!” he screams.

An ear-splitting explosion rocks the foundation. Grandma bursts down the stairs, launching herself like a human cannonball. Even without teeth, her gums open her son’s jugular.

Now Brandy understands the stupidity of love as she rushes to save her dad.

Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

THE EDITOR

By Andrew Paul Grell

“Some submission call, ey? Usually they just want email or Submittable, maybe post.  Never had ta shows up me own self,” the Newfoundlander observed.

“Consider the medium, sailor.  Otherwise people would just photoshop.

“Nice ink, by the way.  Sure you had enough room for a story?”

“No problem.  Girls have more skin to play with.  So to speak.  Imelda,” the athletic-looking woman stated, extending her hand.

“Willet Shea, Seaman, in that and all t’other things first class.  Pleasin’ t’meetcha, Miladyship. Gobsmacked there’s nay more here could use two thousand greenbacks.”

Imelda flashed a brief look of disbelief at her interlocutor’s name, deciding it must be a coincidence; Queens, New York might not be the only place with a Willet.

“The call had some pretty strict rules.  How many people have photos of themselves, naked, pre-ink?  Maybe the five of us are it.”

“I’s the one’d bet narry a one save me, never been known fer me smarts.  But what else ta’ do on such a mausey day, good bein’ inside.  But gutfounded I am, one’d think they’d a knacked some o’ yer New York bagels, maybe with smoked fish I mighta caught me own self.”

They were in a non-descript space in a midtown building known for short term rentals of such spaces.  Holiday Inn paintings, plastic flowers.  The receptionist called the submitters up one by one to collect photos and cover letters.  Two men wheeled in what looked like strip club pole-dance platforms.  Each author was asked to strip sufficiently to display their literary merit.  Every writer was put in B&D cuffs.  Finally, the Editor made an appearance, followed by three cloaked submission committee members, and began judging the submissions.

“Let’s see.  H. H. Fallon.”  The micro-flash writer presented his butt.  “I am Taylor Meade. This is my ass.  Andy Warhol can kiss it,” the editor read out loud.  “Derivative,” he observed, turning to the committee.  “Hmm.  They like it.”

“Rhonda Montaigne. I’m ridden hard and – put up wet again again – Enough for this horse.  Very nice.  You’re in.”  The men released her, and the receptionist handed her a check.

“Willet Shea.  Let’s see.  Out on the rioling sea, arctic char come to me. Quinaniche and cod, this fishing’s much too odd.  Typo.” A committee member power-sanded the offending word, correcting it much too close to a vital external part. “Thank you, you may go.“  Imelda and the remaining hopeful shared a worried look.

“Elinor White?  Really? My little horse must think it queer between the woods.  No! Redaction! Poems!”  Imelda watched in horror while a committee member flayed the entirety of Elinor’s flesh containing the monstrosity.

She steeled herself.  The editor got five words into “Ode to a Real Pretzel” before a man uncloaked revealing a Tom Seaver uniform.

“Gary, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Imelda’s ex-husband seared the cheese steak and square pretzel poem from her back and tarred the Philly Phanatic tattoo.  Then pulled a rope, causing $2,000 in coins to bury his disloyal wife.

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