Horror Addicts Writer’s Workshop Announcement

Horror Addicts Writer’s Workshop Announcement!
Deadline:
December 31st, 2014, 11:59pm PST.

This is an opportunity for aspiring horror or like-genre writers to have their work critiqued by professional writers based on story structure, plot, style, and character development. One lucky writer will have their work produced for a HorrorAddicts.net show for Season 10 in 2015.

Submission criteria:

1)      This workshop is free

2)      You must state you if you are under 18 at the time of submission. We will not accept stories from children younger than 15.

3)      By submitting to the workshop, you are stating this work is yours and yours alone and that you may submit it legally without publication ties. The work cannot be previously published in any form.

4)      Stories must be Gothic, Horror, Steampunk, Clockpunk, Fetish, Dark Fantasy, Horror Romance, or have a horror element of some kind.

5)     All submissions must be emailed to horroraddicts@gmail.com no later than December 31st, 2014, 11:59pm PST.

6)      Submissions can be excerpts from a novel, up to 4,000 words, or can be a complete short story, no more than 4,000 words. Excerpts from a novel, can be any part of the novel, but a short (100 word) synopsis should accompany it.

7)      Manuscripts must be presented in the following format:

a)      Font size 10 or 12 point

b)      Font style Courier or Times New Roman

c)      Double spaced

d)      1st page header to state: author name, email address, type of story, and word count.

e)      Following pages header to state: author name, story name, and page number.

f)       Your manuscript must be in either DOC or RTF Format.

g)      No more than 4,000 words.

h)      In the body of the email, give us 100 words or less about you – a bio.

i)       In the subject of the email state: HA WRITER’S WORKSHOP

8)      We will review the first 20 manuscripts absolutely, after that, it is based on the number of pros available. Manuscripts are first come, first serve. If you do not receive an email stating your manuscript was received within two weeks, please send a polite query to:  horroraddicts@gmail.com.

9)      For any other questions, please leave a comment here or email:  horroraddicts@gmail.com

HorrorAddicts.net 096, Patricia Santos

Horror Addicts Episode# 096

Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich

Intro Music by: Cancer Killing Gemini

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25 days till Halloween!

patricia santos, valentine wolfe, fright night

monster music, halloween traditions, fright night, movie quiz, win, jessica robinson, life lessons from slasher films, masters of macabre announcement, jeremiah kipp, contact, dark regions press, joe r. lansdale, best band season 8 poll, valentine wolfe, annabel lee, free fiction friday, the darker passions: dracula, amarantha knight, black magic, witch movies, kbatz must bring dvds, mike lombardo, reel splatter productions, dany and dany, yaoi, anima, events, happy birthday marc vale!!!, dead mail, ghost sightings, dye your hair, writing advice, spooky locations in california, patricia santos, the weeping woman

Find all articles and interviews at: http://www.horroraddicts.net

***Corrections! The Wicked Women Writer’s contest ends October 7th – vote before then!***

———————–

Write in re: ideas, questions, opinions, horror cartoons, favorite movies, etc…

horroraddicts@gmail.com

————————

h o s t e s s

Emerian Rich

s t a f f

Sapphire Neal, David Watson, Dan Shaurette, Marc Vale, KBatz, Mimielle

Want to be a part of the HA staff? Email horroraddicts@gmail.com

c o n t a c t / s h o w . n o t e s

http://www.horroraddicts.net

m u s i c

http://www.graveconcernsezine.com

Movie Quiz: Fright Night with Jessica Robinson

fright_night_one-sheet_6

Answer ONE of the following questions in the comments and be entered into the drawing to win Jessica Robinson’s book.

  1. Name the actor that was in all three Fright Night movies?
  2. Who was originally considered for the role of Peter Vincent?
  3. How does Peter Vincent discover that Jerry is really a vampire?
  4. What two horror actor names were used for the name Peter Vincent.
  5. What is the last line of the movie and who said it?
  6. What does Peter Vincent need to defeat Jerry Dandridge?
  7. William Ragsdale who played Charlie and Amanda Bearse who played Amy were both on sitcoms that aired on the Fox network in the early 90’s on sunday night. Name the shows that they were on.

Answer  ONE of the following questions in the comments and be entered into the drawing to win Jessica’s book.

Horror and slasher films are often dismissed for their apparent lack of sophistication and dearth of redeemable values. However, despite criticism from film snobs who turn up their noses and moralists who look down upon the genre, slasher films are more than just movies filled with gory mayhem. Such films can actually serve a purpose and offer their audiences something more than split skulls and severed heads. In Life Lessons from Slasher Films, Jessica Robinson looks at representative works that have been scaring audiences for decades—from Alfred Hitchcock’s seminal shocker, Psycho, to the cult classic Black Christmas and iconic thrillers like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween, Friday the 13th, and Scream. In this book, Robinson examines common themes that have emerged in these films, their various sequels, and countless imitators—a maniacal and seemingly indestructible executioner, sexual encounters that invariably lead to death, increasingly gruesome ways to slaughter helpless victims, and a lone female survivor who finds a way to vanquish the killer—and looks beyond such tropes for what these films can teach us about life. From practical advice (listen to your elders) to moral platitudes (teens never learn), each chapter considers a different “lesson” that these films teach. Robinson discusses how the events portrayed in slasher films can resonate with viewers and perhaps offer constructive advice on how to conduct our lives. A fun read for fans and scholars alike, Life Lessons from Slasher Films offers an entertaining and persuasive look at how life can imitate art, and what art can say about life.

WWW Contestant 13: Amy K. Marshall

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Amy K. Marshall – Paternoster

Disaster – Loss of all fuel sources

Location – elevator

Helpful Item – Swiss army survival knife

Disability – sprained swollen ankle

*******

 

Amy K Marshall

Paternoster

 

 

My name is Lily…

It’s been three days since the world went Dark. At least … I think it’s been three days. It’s been two days since I last heard a human voice. At least…I think it’s been two days. The last voice I heard was Perttu’s voice.  He called to me from the 4th floor landing. He never liked elevators and he hated this Paternoster with an irrational vengeance. Yeah. Irrational. Not from where I’m sitting now. Nothing irrational about that now…

It’s Dark. It’s mostly silent. There were people in the elevator’s other cars. I remember people hopping on and off. I remember my car shifting and swaying…. Don’t know what a Paternoster is?

It’s Europe’s Death Elevator.

It’s also the quickest way up to the 6th floor—that’s where Dr. Mikkel  Akselson has his neuro-opthamology lab.  But that’s a million miles away now…

You stand there … watching… the cars rise without stopping. There are two lights on the floor … they blink … red – red – red – GREEN – red – red – red – GREEN. You see, when it’s GREEN, that’s when it’s safe to hop into the car. It doesn’t wait for you, though. It just keeps moving.  It’s like one of those rotating filing cabinets … only this one is for people .. for bodies … now, I’m sure it’s for the dead…

It was evening … and the lobby was crowded. People were happy, talking, laughing … it was nearly the week-end, and, well, I was looking forward to time away from Copenhagen with Mikkel. Just Mikkel and me.

I hate this elevator. I was too lazy to take the stairs.

Red – red – red – GREEN.

Too late.

I hear unflattering things behind me in Danish. I know they’re unflattering because Mikkel and Perttu and I got drunk one evening and they decided I needed to learn how to swear in Danish.

Det passer sgu ikke! Means that’s not bloody true.

Jeg er ligeglad … that’s a good one because it means I don’t care.

Hold kaeft! That means shut up … I think. They laughed quite a bit over that one…

Det er sgu rigtigt! That means I’ll be damned

I’ll be damned. Sure as hell … I’ll be damned…

Red – red –red – Green!

A hand in my back shoved me forward.

OW!

Dit rovhul!

I hope I said that correctly.

I hit the back of the car and turn – I see their smirks as the car moves upward.

Upwards.

There’s no top to the car. I see the chain mechanism.

I rise.

The floors slide by. On the third floor, a red-haired young man starts to step in, but pulls back.

I rise.

Getting on is one thing.

Getting off is another.

Fifth floor.

“This, you must see…” I hear Mikkel’s voice slide through my brain. I can feel his hand on my arm. He smiles, and I’m lost in his eyes. I’m such a sucker for eyes. “Up and over—“

His gaze holds mine as we clear the 6th floor.

What the hell –

I’ve forgotten to get off!

The car rocks up and over the top of the mechanism. A large flywheel slips and spins, cranking the car around.

Get off on 6, you idiot …

“I’ve saved the best for last.”

What the hell is going on? I can still hear him. I think.

I miss 6.

I slide to 5.

To  4.

The young man on 3 is gone.

Two.

One.

“Into the darkness…”

I hold my breath.

We slid beneath the ground floor. Red signs slide by…they’re in Danish.

Mikkel’s breath is warm against my cheek as he leans closer in the darkness. “Keep Standing.”

“Pardon?” I breathe, my knees weakening.

Did I mention that Dr. Akselson is something you wouldn’t think of pushing out of bed?

“It’s what the sign says,” he replies.

“Oh…”

Deeper.

Darker.

We pass across the bottom of the mechanism.

We rise into light.

“I enjoy the darkness,” he says, his accent thickening. “Peaceful…like the grave.”

“Pardon?”

“No, no … I’m not saying it right.” He smiles.”My English.”

My Danish sucks, so what can I say about his English?

I’m lost in thought.

Third floor.

The red-haired young man is back. He doesn’t move. He just…watches. I feel his eyes follow me up.

Remember to get off on 6.

What the –

What the hell was that?

Hello?

Hello?

In those first moments, I strained my ears. I couldn’t hear anything. They rang with the remembered grinding of the Paternoster. The reverberated the bang of its stopping.

Hello?

I could hear others in other cars saying the same.

I changed tack.

I’m here! Are you there? Are you okay? What’s happened?

But … they’re all speaking Danish. No one answered me. Well, no one answered me so I could understand.

It won’t be long.

Hours passed.

Long hours passed.

This is crap—waiting for a rescue.

I rummage through my bum bag (that’s a fanny pack for you Americans) and come up with

A Swiss Army Knife.

WWMD?

What Would Macgyver do?

Better yet, what would Macgyver’s writers do?

Two blades … a corkscrew…and me without a bottle of wine … that saw that really isn’t a saw. Two screwdrivers, a way to pry open a beer, tweezers, and a toothpick.

Just.

Brilliant.

Keep Standing.

Screw that.

I slumped to the floor, flipping the blade open and closed. Open and closed. Open and closed.

Red – red- red- GREEN

But…there’s no light.

Open and closed. Open and closed open and –

That’s when I heard Perttu.

Hey, Lily! You okay?

I press my back against the back of the car and get to my feet.

Perttu?

How the hell does he know I’m here?

Stay put, Lil! I’ll get you out!

I hear him stagger away.

I mean … I listen to him …. Stagger…

What the hell is going on?

Then … there’s nothing.

It doesn’t occur to me that there’s nothing.

No one.

Only silence.

Open and closed open and closed open and –

What the hell was that?

The elevator starting up?

Closed and open –

Yeah … the elevator. It’s resetting or something…

What the –

SCREAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Uff! Ow! Som’bitch!

(sobs) My ankle.

Som’BITCH! My ANKLE!

There was something there! In the dark! On 3!

It was … him… I swear … that guy … that red-haired guy was on 3!

Hey!

Hey!

Can you hear me? Can you hear –

(growl)

(heavy breathing) What the –

Shhhh…… shhh….  (heavy breathing)

There’s something out there –

Where is it?

I scrabble against the floor.

It’s only a Swiss Army Knife, but – what the HELL is that SOUND??

Those are … footsteps…

Oh … my God ..

Mikkel … Perttu … what the hell is this?

I’ve gotta get out of here.

But my ankle … Shit …

Ow …  maybe if I –

(loud thump)

Oh … my God …

It’s dark. I press back against the side of the car. It’s dark. I can’t see it and it can’t see me…right? Right??

(low growl)

Right … right … shhhh…..

Maybe if I just –

(attack sound)

SCREAM!!!!

Get off! Get off! Help! Help!

Perttu! Perttu!

(heavy breathing) … no way …

Ew… is it? I mean … it’s not dead. I don’t think it’s dead…

Oh … my God … is it dead?

What is it?

(low growl)

Oh my God, it’s NOT dead!

It will be now –

(heavy hit)

(sawing)

I don’t know what it is… it’s not…human. It doesn’t look human at all. But, I’ll bet there are more of them.

I know what to do

(sawing)

It’s what I did.

The only thing I could think of to do.

(sawing)

“What did you do?”

“Pardon?”

“What did you do?”

(sawing)

I cut the skin off it. Carefully of course. It skinned like a rabbit. Like a little coat. One incision around the neck, and then I unzipped it. The guts made the floor slippery, but that was okay. Make it smell like a kill. Maybe that would keep them away. Or attract them.

Have you ever tried to skin something big with a Swiss Army Knife?

Sucks. Let me tell you.

Thank God I had a decent edge on that blade.

“What did you do?”

I ate part of it. I mean, three days is a long time, and it didn’t taste particularly rancid. I mean. I was still fresh.

And then, I wore its skin.

You see… that was the trick to getting out.

There were more of them. I tucked its skin around me. I cut away its face and wore it like a mask.

The Paternoster has no top.

Three days I waited … and then the thing got a little wormy, but my ankle felt like it could support some weight … so I tucked the skin around me and climbed out. It took a little balance on top of the car, but I’d cut away its claws and used them like pitons – you know, like mountain climbers use.

I climbed until I got to the ground floor.

There were bodies everywhere … but there were no creatures. Just…bodies. I saw the remains of the two guys who pushed me onto the Paternoster. I felt bad, ‘cause they’d saved my life.

It was night. A stinking night. And I walked out into it and –

And –

And –

“And?”

I noticed how the skin looked different.

“In the moonlight?”

“I don’t think moonlight had anything to do with it.”

“What do you think?”

“The air was clearer.”

“Indeed.”

“Can I see Mikkel now? I want to see him now.”

“You’ve seen him for days.”

 

It was later that I found Mikkel’s notes … his research had taken the darkest of turns before it became Night. Neuro-opthamology includes the study of reactive chemicals that can fool the brain into believing in hallucinations. He found the perfect dose.

“I got the idea from a book on Lily’s shelf,” he had written. “It was all about things underground and the dark … and monsters … and the monstrous dark. Perttu doesn’t believe such a random test is a good idea, but the chemical is only slightly reactive in the quantities I proposed. A slight hallucination for test subjects in the Paternoster. They are in a contained space. We can keep them in the cars for up to an hour. We can play at an elevator malfunction.”

What could possibly go wrong…?

*******

To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 12: Sumiko Saulson

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Sumiko Saulson – A Birthday Present

Disaster –  Sinkholes

Location – Bowling Alley/ Pool Hall Bar

Helpful Item – Cue Stick

Disability – Lost Glasses

*******

The Birthday Present

By Sumiko Saulson

 

The high, thin whine of easy-listening music slid into the room through the high-mounted ancient speakers of Sheckley’s Rock and Bowl, adding to the creepy jaundiced ambiance of the place provided courtesy of it’s filthy, yellowed neon lights. It was a bowling alley and pool house, and I was pretty sure that it hadn’t been rocking since the 1950s. It smelled like stale corndogs, damp drywall with molds growing somewhere deep in it’s innards, and the occasional loaded diaper that the visitors on family day casually tossed into one of the beige bodied and red-lidded plastic trash bins in the bowling area instead of in the bathroom where they belonged.

I was sitting in the corner seat, smashed between my aunt and my mother, waiting for my turn. Squishing my toes up and down in the stiff-soled, tacky tri-toned rented bowling shoes, I silently contemplated the various fungi that were undoubtedly living within. I wondered whether or not my black cotton business socks would provide a thick enough barrier to prevent the athlete’s foot fungus from creeping forth and latching onto the sensitive skin in between my toes? The medicated powder I’d liberally doused the innards with before slipping on the hot and sweaty size sevens probably wasn’t enough. I was busy contemplating the animated mushrooms from my old Super Mario Brother’s video game dancing around in my shoe when my mom jabbed me in the shoulder with her long, sharp fingernail.

“Ouch!” I cried out.

“Don’t be such a baby,” my mom said between loud smacks of her sugar free chewing gum. She always seemed to use the nail file to rub each fingernail into an evil inverted v-shape, as if she were expecting to engage in a catfight to the death momentarily. “Your turn, Minnie,” she said sourly. The muscles under her foundation-caked face twitched angrily. I jumped up and moved for the ball, eager to avoid an untimely slap to the face by the maternal claws of doom.

Mom was a pretty fifty-eight year old woman under her too-thick Maybelline, and when I was a little thing everyone said I looked just like her. Well, I wasn’t a little thing anymore. Now, I was an acne-covered, overweight teenager with hot-comb burned overly straightened hay hair and coke-bottle glasses. My brother and sisters were grown now, and I was the last one left in the home… maybe that’s why mom was making such a big deal about my sweet-sixteen party. I don’t think she truly understood my age, that I was nearly a woman now. I wanted to do something cool for my birthday, like go to a concert, but no, instead I had to be stuck down here on Family Discount Bowling Night with a bunch of families with their funky rug rats howling in the background.

I felt a migraine coming on.

Mama had invited everyone up here to Sheckley’s Rock and Bowl, “everyone” being my twenty-two year old brother Joe, my twenty-four year old twin sisters Alicia and Felicia, and my oldest sister Angelyne, who was twenty-eight and had a nine year old daughter, Tammyline, my mother’s first and only grandchild. The other girls were from momma’s first marriage to Darnel, a serviceman who died in the war. Little Joe was the son of her second husband, Big Joe, a much older man who died of a heart attack before I was born. Big Joe was my daddy, too… on paper, but by now I was old enough know better. No pregnancy lasted fourteen months, at least no human one. One thing was for sure: no one was expecting me, what with momma being over forty and daddy being under dirt on the day I was born.

The whole lot of siblings, aunties, uncles and cousins began a round of distracting applause as I stood up and brushed the popcorn off of my hand-me-down Applebottom jeans. My momma might be skinny, like I used to be back when she gave me the nickname “Minnie” after that Austin Powers sidekick mini-me, because I was supposed to be a mini her, but I wasn’t anymore, and neither were my aunts. We weren’t mini anything. As I stood, I inhaled the deep aroma of stale popcorn, body odor, and sewage-tainted trashcan water that was the perfume of Sheckley’s Rock & Bowl.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Gary, the boy from my P.E. class who always tried to talk to me. “You sure run fast for a girl your size,” she remembered him saying last Tuesday, as he made steady eye contact my cleavage squished below the XXL school issue gym tank v-neck. It turned out he worked at Sheckley’s concession stand. He was staring right at my booty as I walked towards the ball rack. I didn’t really like him, but I liked the attention, and I admit that I was swishing my butt a little as I walked over to select my favorite bubble-gum colored bowling ball, the one with the sparkles in it.

I walked up to the bowling alley with my pretty pink bowling ball shining like the best oversized rubber bouncing ball ever, the hot overhead bowling alley lights gleaming reflectively from the glitter embedded inside. I imagined myself walking in slow motion, hair bouncing and curves flashing in the spotlight like a plus sized beauty queen, a model, maybe Queen Latifah. I was really feeling myself when I tossed that ball on the aisle…

Maybe that’s why I was so horrified when I heard the loud “carrack!” sound.

I reached around with both my hands, grabbing my backside, feeling around for what must have been a rip in the seat of my pants, but I couldn’t feel anything. My face burned hot with embarrassment. A strange aroma of swampy water and sulfur filled the air. If it wasn’t a tear, maybe I’d farted?

It was just then that the bottom of the aisles began to crack and twist. My ball bounced hard up and down as the lane writhed like a snake. A crack down the center of it began to expand, until suddenly a sinkhole dropped open right in the middle of it. My ball rolled forward undeterred until it dropped, suddenly, into the ground. Two equal sized holes opened up in the adjoining lanes, and it looked like a pool ball falling into the center pocket of the table as it when sliding down into the hole. Smoke rolled out of the holes like a thick, putrid, stinking fog. That’s when the screaming started.

Sinkholes were opening up all over Sheckley’s. The elderly lady the next lane over was just standing there with her fingers still in her bowling ball hole, purple polyester pantsuit flapping in the reeking breeze when a hole opened up right under her feet, and she dropped down into the ground. Was it my imagination, or had the stinking steam emissions belching forth from the pit melted the flesh off her contorted face in the moments just prior to her sudden sinking?

I was still staring at the puddle of pink and purple putrescence that used to be Alice Worthington of the Little Old Ladies Bowling League when my aunt Janice came barreling past me with such force that when she knocked into my arm, it sent me spinning, and my glasses flew off my face in the general direction of the terrible pit of stench. My eyes are very bad, without my glasses I am so nearsighted that I am legally blind, and a sense of sinking dread came over me, as I determined that I was totally screwed.

Everything went into soft-focus all of the sudden, like a really cheesy romantic film, only one that was loaded with carnage and death. I could hear the mothers with their hordes of infants screaming in and wailing in unison. Fear seemed to be the equalizer for all ages and genders, because one man’s scream blended in with the howling of his infant in perfect, hellish harmony. As blind as I was, I could still see the sinkhole that my ball had fallen into stretching and expanding, so that it joined with the two on either side of it and stretched across three lanes. I was sure it was big enough to swallow a car by now. I turned around and ran for the door.

I couldn’t see very well, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I just kept racing forward in the general direction of the mass of bodies that was flooding towards the door. I was about to pass the bathroom when a weird, scaly hand grabbed my arm.

“Stop, Damiana,” the commanding voice uttered.

I blinked rapidly. Damiana was my name, but no one called me Damiana. Everyone called me Minnie. My mom tried to make out like Minnie was an appropriate way to shorten my name… Damiana, Miana, Minnie, but we all knew that it was the mini-me thing.

“I am your father,” it announced, and the tone of voice was not even remotely reassuring. I looked on in horror as a sinkhole appeared before me – right in front of the door – and swallowed up the crowed of neighbors, strangers, and relatives who were busily shoving and jostling towards the exit. They fell like dominoes into this latest opening, and I stood there feeling my jaw drop, helplessly aghast at this latest happening. My favorite aunt Meredith was clutching at the edge of the abyss before me, her shrill screams echoing against the roof of the bowling alley. I watch in horror as the acidic fog escaped the pit and melted the flesh off of her grasping knuckles. Liquefied meat and skin slid off the bones and sinew, and soon only a skeletal hand remained, identifiable only by her distinctive turquoise birthstone ring. I felt hot tears gushing from my eyes as I stood there, frozen.

Everyone else with a punk-assed absentee father was frustrated because daddy wouldn’t send child support checks and the kids were in hand-me downs, but not me. No, that wasn’t bad enough for me. Me, I had to have a dad who would melt aunt Meredith like an ice cream cone in a microwave. Who wants a daddy like that?

At last, the screams subsided.

“Let me go!” I yelled, jerking my body ineffectually against the iron grip of the claw. I began kicking against the thing’s knee, but it didn’t do any good. I felt its steely hand begin to forcibly turn me to face it. I twisted my body the other way, but it did no good. Soon, I was looking through bleary eyes at the fuzzy face of what appeared to be a lion’s face with curved antlers.

It starred deeply into my eyes and whispered, “see…”

Suddenly, I was able to see perfectly, as if I had on the world’s best pair of lightweight contact lenses. Why on why did I have to start seeing perfectly when there was nothing to look at except for this horrible mess? Everywhere, I saw the fleshy molten body meats pulsating at the edges of the sinkholes like the bowling alley had just turned into the nastiest pockmarked face you could possibly imagine. Bodily fluids were flying out of the holes like pus from a really nasty zit. I couldn’t help myself. I vomited all over my so-called father.

“All of this will be yours,” he shouted, gesturing with his free hand at the bowling alley wasteland. Now that I could see better, his crinkled face looked less like a cat, and more like some kind of hairless pug dog with twisting horns that looked like that one time when Grandma Louise decided to stop clipping her finger and toenails and they grew out and got all twisted and bent. It really looked like crap, man, her hands and feet were a hot mess, but no one could tell her anything… all brittle and yellowed and broken. This guy’s horns were that skuzzy.

“I don’t want it,” I spat back at him. “You can keep your hell bowling alley.”

That’s when I spotted it. In a corner, untouched by the many sinkholes, there was Goofy Gary from my physical education class, that guy who kept trying to keep up with me when Mr. Fields had us running circles around the track. He was standing on a pool table, trying to avoid the horrible flesh-eating fart juicy smoke.

He grabbed a pool cue off the nearby wall and looked at me and cried out, “Here Minnie! Catch!” I reached up in the air and grabbed the stick. With all of my might, I slammed it through that demon’s big orange cat eye. A horrible stew of blood and pus-like yellow crud came sliding down the pool cue as I forced the stick through his skull and watched it pop out the back of his head.

“Nooooooo!!!!” It screamed as it dropped my body and fell to the floor. As the life oozed from its body, my lousy eyesight began to return. Whatever magic trick it used to improve my vision was fading along with its life. The sinkholes began to shrink, and suck the fog back into the ground with them.

I suppose it was all over. But nothing would ever, ever be the same.

As Gary and I limped out of the bowling alley, we saw the evidence that disaster that had happened not just in the bowling alley.  It was all around us. Partially devoured cars protruded from the ground out of spots where the sinkholes used to be.

Gary turned to look at me. It was a serious look, a deep look.

“Let me help you,” he said. “You have a little something on your face.”

I smiled a little. He had something in his hands. He looked so cute as he unfolded my glasses and grinned sheepishly as he slid them across my nose.

“Thank you,” I said. Goofy Gary was kind of cute when you took a good look at him. Especially right now, when he was looking so shy and sweet.

“Wait a minute,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I forgot something.”

That was when Gary’s head exploded. I guess I shouldn’t have snapped my fingers just then… when I looked at my hand, where the nasty yellow eye go had touched it, it was kind of bubbling and writhing where the fluids were sinking deep into my flesh. My eyes began to grow bleary, and once again I couldn’t see. I thought it was because I was crying at first, but I was wrong. Finally, I understood that it was my glasses that were making my vision blur – I didn’t need them anymore.

I took them in my hand, and flung them on the ground.

It seemed that my birth father had a present to give me for my sweet sixteen, and he was going to give it to me whether I wanted it or not, no matter what. I looked around at all of the carnage and blood, which was all that remained of my past and the family I knew, and I began to sob in earnest.

I didn’t know what the future held. I didn’t even know who I really was. I only knew one thing… that party really sucked.

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To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 11: Maggie Fiske

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Maggie Fiske – A Quarrel for Jimmy Lee Killscrow

Disaster –  Solar Flares/ or Gamma Rays

Location – Hunting in the Mountains

Helpful Item – Crossbow

Disability – Hungover

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“A Quarrel for Jimmy-Lee Killscrow”…                by Margaret Fiske

 

“That’s him,” says Detective Baxter.  He points at a white speck nestled in the BitterrootMountains and holds binoculars up to my face.  All I see is a beat-to-hell camper among the pines.  A bearded man with hippy hair steps into view.  It’s Jimmy-Lee Killscrow, the devil who left me for dead out in the sticks when I was 15.  Now he’s a Lumber-Christ in flannel.  I’m disarmed.  How can Iow HHow can I  kill Jesus?

 

Baxter tries to talk me out of this vendetta.  He says, “Just head back to Bozeman before the solar storm hits tonight, Claudine.”

 

I scoff.  “Baxter, after Y2K and 12-21-12, who listens to that disaster crap?”

 

He doesn’t get it.  The only way to stop Killscrow is to kill that bastard before he beats me to the deathblow.  I knee open the Jeep door and push my crossbow pack out onto the road.

 

“Stay in one piece,” he says, and skins out of there quick with his money.

 

My name is Claudine Archer, but nobody remembers that.  I’m just that hitchhiker that got her arms chopped off.  ¯ ¯

 

By the time I hike to Jimmy-Lee’s camper there’s a high sickle moon reaping the Montana starfield.  I set up Stakeout at the mouth of a small cave near the camper to scout his movements tonight.  He’ll die in the sun tomorrow so he can see my hook squeeze the bow trigger.

 

I watched Killscrow gun his pickup down the dirt road at 7 p.m. sharp.  According to Baxter’s notes, he’s gone bar hopping in Lolo Springs, where he’ll pass out redemption tracts to barflies and save his own soul from sobriety.  I’ve got time to kill.

 

Wind cuts through my fleece poncho, making my teeth clack.  I stashed a bottle of Cuervo to celebrate Jimmy-Lee’s demise, but decide to drink it now.  I tuck the tequila under my armpit and twist off the cap with my molars.

 

Liquor lets the memories slink back easily…

 

I endured nineteen surgeries.  When the stumps finally healed, I was fit with battery-powered myo-electric prosthetics which transmit electrical impulses from my muscles to open or close the metal hooks.  These can openers scare the bejeezus out of little kids and potential suitors.

 

Amputation forces you to relearn how to be an adult.  So I compensate for my loss of hands with other body parts.  Lips, hips and toe tips all become my grip.  I retrained my muscles to perform both with and without prosthetics.

 

I’m messed up on the inside too.  Migraines, vertigo, nightmares, panic attacks, –sucks to be me.  But I also grew strong, and athletic in ways I never dreamt.  I have the flexibility of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat, and moxie that puts Miss Congeniality to shame.  Call me handicapped and I’ll kick you in the teeth.

 

My arms are buried in an unmarked grave in Boise that was a secret between me and the gravediggers.  Every anniversary I bring them sunflowers.  Last summer, there was a nasty present.  A pair of chopsticks stuck in the dirt.  My inner killer grabbed the wheel.

 

I blew the last of my donation money on 3 things: An Excalibur Phoenix crossbow, tattoos, and Detective Baxter.

 

I chose the crossbow because it’s my legacy. With a surname like Archer, bows flow in my blood.  I became a self­-taught arbalist.

 

When the skeptical sporting goods clerk asked what I plan to hunt with the bow, I told him, “Jackass,” and dry-popped the trigger at his heart.  Then for many moons I practiced kill shots on thawed turkeys in the backyard.  I turned Katniss.

 

For my full sleeve, black wing tattoos I commissioned Karasu Ono, the cutting-edge tattoo artisan in Spokane.  I asked her to transform me into the Angel of Death.  Her jeweler’s loupe goggles captured every minute detail.  Each shiny 3-D Photoreal feather scalloped like a hand of rummy.  Badass! ¯¯

 

My phone chimes midnight.  Time to check armaments.  I tune the tension on the Phoenix to deadly perfection.  I inspect the fletching on a dozen four-headed arrows, which are aptly called quarrels.  The quarrel flies with a wicked little twist which can drill a half-dollar sized hole clean through a body.  All my quarrels bear an icon of Venus de Milo etched on the shaft.

 

Tonight, Venus and I are vigilantes on a vigil.  The Aurora Borealis simmers up North, just like in the summer of ’77…        ¯

 

He picked me up outside Pocatello, hitchhiking to Yellowstone just for kicks.  Too young to drive, too dumb to realize a killer can drive a yellow Pontiac with a Mormon Youth Camp bumper sticker.  He was clean-cut, with gentle eyes and a cardigan.  Who’s afraid of Mr. Rogers’ dorkier cousin?

 

I barely shut the door when he said, “Meet Jesus,” and a claw hammer cracked my cranium.

 

Time telescoped when he dragged me into the trees.  5 chops with a hand axe hacked-off my arms at the elbow.  Pain jolted me into another dimension.  He left me to bleed-out.

 

Somehow, I picked myself up out of the ditch to cheat death.  I remember laughter behind me.  There was a small murder of crows skipping through my blood puddles.  I raised my arms to mimic wings.  It staunched the blood flow as I staggered toward the light of the living.  ¯

 

Whew!  I’m feeling all flushed from cocktails and flashbacks, so I strip down to my tank top.  I want wind on my shoulders.  And behold, the solar storm strikes.

 

The sky ignites in swirling acid green flames bright enough to read the warning to pregnant women on the tequila label.  Lolo Springs falls dark.   Northern Lights curl in a tsunami of electrons that charge the air.  I wobble to my feet in awe. Spec-(hic)-tacular.

 

Suddenly, the sky fills with chirping shadows.  A vortex of panicked bats descends on the cave to roost.  I dart, skid on gravel, tumble into a starless pit. ¯¯

 

I wake to sunlight hammering my eyelids.  I feel like I faceplanted a speeding beer truck.  Hands down, this is the evilest PMSing stepmother of all hangovers.  I can vaguely tell that my drunken ass fell into the cave and that there’s a junk refrigerator and some bald tires around me.  I try to sit up, but the pain… oooooh!

 

“Ahhhh,” somebody echoes.  I freeze.  A chorus of groaning surrounds me and I realize the nauseating truth.  There’s at least a dozen girls like me, all missing body parts.  Girls that didn’t get away.

 

It’s zombie apocalypse.  I’m at ground zero in Killscrow’s body dump in his grotto of Slain Angels.  Pink rags shuffle backwards on beef jerky legs in the shadows.  They’re still hitchhiking.

 

I feel the tug of someone braiding my hair and smell her rancid pork chop breath.  I turn.  Half her face is tomahawked.  She hisses.  A buffet line of maggots wriggles in her tongue stub.  I puke Cuervo till my ribs ache. The girls scuffle toward me, drawn toward the light of the living.  I back away, but bump into an unstable Frigidaire that thunders end over end down the rocks, making a godawful racket.

 

They surround me with blind cavefish eyes.  I frantically search for a weapon and spot my bow and a pair of quarrels strewn beside a torso in a Cheap Trick t-shirt writhing in the dirt.  As I scoop up the bow, she chomps at my hooks.  Only 2 quarrels.  A quarrel for Jimmy-Lee Killscrow and one left to take out 12 zombies if they queue up ear to ear.

 

Outside, the camper door slams.  Jesus is risen.  He yells.  ““Hey!  Who’s up there?”  I must become bait to lure him into a deathtrap.  I cry out, “Help!  Help me!”  He snickers.  “Hold on, lady.  I’ll get you !”

 

The cadaverettes advance.  I plead to them. “Remember who you were!  Remember what he did to you!”

 

Killscrow enters the cave, waving an axe.  He hesitates as he spies his resurrected victims.  “You ladies should’ve stayed dead!” he roars and splits a one-armed girl like a winter cornhusk.

 

I cock the bow, but something’s wrong.  I can’t grasp the trigger.  Solar flares fried the batteries in my arms!  “It’s o.k.,” I think.  I can still launch the shot by pulling the claw back with my whole shoulder.  But the Phoenix feels clumsy.  I miss.  Damn!

 

He’s cocky now.  “What’s wrong, Claudine?  Need a hand?

 

No!  I can compensate.  I wriggle out of the arm straps… heel peel off boots and socks… grasp the last quarrel between my toes.  He brags,  ““I’ll chop your head off this time.  Keep it in the freezer for a lonely night.”

 

The Angel of Death rises up inside me.  I spread my wings in challenge.  Killscrow can’t take his eyes off my tattoos. I flex, I feint.  I punt his balls deep into his end zone.  The axe fumbles as he buckles forward.

 

I tell him, “Meet Satan,” and lift the quarrel to my mouth with my foot.  With clenched teeth, I lunge into the face of my nightmare.  I jab Venus de Milo into his gentle blue iris.  A geyser of blood and eyeball juice pops as it sinks into the socket till it hits skullcap.  Bull’s-eye.

 

He yanks out the quarrel skewering a chunk of cerebellum kabob along with it.  For a second he does a freaky little grand mal jig.

 

“Brains!” croaks a dead chick.  The pack pounces.  There’s still enough kick left in Jimmy-Lee for him to realize that he’s dying piece by piece by piece.  The Angels feast.  ¯¯

 

I scramble out of the cave, soaring with joy, for I have no more quarrels.  I embrace the sweet pain of life with phantom limbs.  Every bruising stone underfoot gives me wings.

 

I am the crow he could not kill.  ¯¯

 

You just heard “A Quarrel for Jimmy-Lee Killscrow” by Margaret Fiske, part of the 2013 Wicked Women Writers Challenge.  Please vote for my podcast by sending an e-mail to horroraddicts@gmail.com.

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To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.