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THE METATRON MYSTERIES
By James Glass
John Smith looked at his silent phone and tried to scratch his back. It had always itched for as long as he could remember – which was not a particularly long time – and his extensive collection of back-scratchers were no help. He’d spent hundreds of dollars he didn’t have on massage sessions asking only that the masseuse scratch him as hard as they could. Sometimes with a fork.
He took out the serrated knife tied securely to a stick and began to run the teeth over his reddened flesh. He had been to countless dermatologists and doctors. The conclusion was always the same; it must be a result of the accident that had left him in a coma for two weeks. After the coma he woke with no memory of who he was, no one to claim him, and two long scars running the length of either side of his back. They itched like hell, dammit.
As a means of becoming a productive member of society, John Smith managed to get his private investigator’s license to support himself. That is, after the initial awakening and subsequent lack of family interest following hundreds of media ads with his picture and description spread around Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and the surrounding cities of Baltimore, Harrisburg, York, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia.
The first were likely pity cases, a small town trying to help the underdog. Gradually those cases dried up and the money put into savings for a rainy day was now being eaten up paying the rent, electricity, and phone for his office space. An office space he recently began using as an apartment, since the hospital told him it was time to leave the nest.
He glanced at the phone one more time then turned to the stack of newspapers that outlined his accident. It was referred to as an ‘accident’ because he had come out of his coma with no memory and thus no way to confirm or deny the suspicion he saw in everyone’s eyes. The details and those looks told him he had tried to commit suicide by jumping off a bridge and into a river.
The devil was in the details, as always. The only snag in his theory was that there had been no note, and the bridge wasn’t very high — certainly not high enough to kill a man from the jump alone, and the rocks beneath the surface of the water had only left the two long scars down his back as a souvenir.
He scratched at the scars again as he read the specifics one more time, cross-referencing with his notes. “Unidentified Man Falls from Bridge” and “Man Who Fell from Bridge Still in Coma”. Not much coverage, he thought bleakly, but then if his life had been worthless to him at one point, how could he expect more from the media?
With a growl he threw the papers into the trash and stared up at the ceiling. He prayed someone would hire him soon.
Pazuzu was tired…. He glanced up briefly from his ponderings as a man exited the shadows of the doorway across the street and splashed through puddles of streetlight.
“That is the one,” Pazuzu’s companion hissed.
With a sigh Pazuzu snuffed out his cigarette in the palm of his hand. He had hoped they would be able to lurk a bit longer. Opportunities for outings were few and far between back home.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure. He wears an overcoat.”
“Very well,” Pazuzu said.
He pushed away from the cool concrete of the building they had chosen several hours before, the perfect lurking spot, and a charred outline was left in his wake. The smoke emanating from the outline smelled of fire and sulfur.
Pazuzu had his doubts about his companion’s positive identification of their target based on the man’s attire, but remained quiet. He had not been topside for many years, and who was he to argue that the man might not, in fact, wear an overcoat? They had watched all the movies from Hollywood, and in the movies the detectives all wore overcoats.
They’d followed the man in the overcoat for several blocks when Marduk stumbled over a large bit of trash and the man stiffened. When he turned to face them, Pazuzu flashed a menacing grin. With a cry of terror the man pulled a glinting metal object from beneath his overcoat and pointed it at them.
Pazuzu paused with a feeling that was more instinct than foreknowledge gripping his insides. His companion was less cautious. Pazuzu had learned during the Inquisition that humans were bold when they had a weapon, and from the way the man stood he knew the metal object had to be a weapon.
There was a loud bang and flash from the object and Pazuzu’s companion flinched backward, clutching at his chest where a heart might have beaten.
“Hellfire and brimstone that hurts!”
The human unleashed the weapon again, this time at Pazuzu. He sidestepped the projectile and shook his head at the man in disapproval. When the man ran he turned his attention back to his companion who was writhing on the ground. “Are you hurt, Marduk?”
His companion glared up at him, silver blood glinting over now carnivorous teeth. “Of course I’m hurt! What was that thing?” he snarled as he climbed to his feet.
Pazuzu shrugged. “I am unsure. Possibly one of those guns we viewed in the films? Luckily it was a small one.”
“Small? I assure you, the pain is not small.”
Again, Pazuzu shrugged. “You must be more careful when dealing with humans,” he said, “They may seem incapable of harming us, but they are dangerous to both themselves and to us.”
“Lesson learned,” Marduk hissed and wiped silvery blood from the front of his shirt. “Damn it, I liked this shirt,” he said with an angry pout.
Pazuzu shook his head and removed a soft pack of cigarettes, tapping one from the open portion of the pack and inserting it between his thin lips. He flicked the long fingernails of his right hand together and flames sprang up to meet the tip of the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and stared in fascination at the plumes of exhaled smoke.
“How long has it been since you were last topside?” Marduk asked him.
Pazuzu squinted up at the night sky, considering the question. He took another drag on his cigarette, exhaled, and responded, “A century or more? I don’t know. Time is meaningless.”
“So how did you know to avoid the weapon?”
The demon smiled and his wings twitched beneath his shirt.
“When a human aims something at one’s person, one can safely assume it is a weapon. One should therefore make haste to avoid having it pointed at oneself.”
“Good advice,” Marduk said as he lit his own cigarette. He gave a cough of anger as smoke swirled out of the hole in his back and chest where the bullet had pierced him.
“Damnation,” he muttered, “When we catch that little prick I’m going to kill him.”
“I believe we need to remember our mission, Marduk. And I do not think that was our man.”
John Smith was not a run-of-the-mill P.I. At least he didn’t think so. His exaggerated opinion of himself had not, however, been paying the bills since he woke from his coma, and the ad that told the masses how good he was had only helped to get the electricity turned off in the end. Luckily he kept office hours during the afternoon and his office had a southern exposure, so lighting was not a problem… but coffee was.
He glanced up from the magazine on his desk. The one he kept in his desk drawer for occasions when he wanted to appear busy – in case a client walked in, he told himself. The phone on his desk rang a second time and it took a moment longer for the sound to register in his brain. On the third ring he picked it up and held it to his ear.
“Mr. Smith?” the voice on the other end sounded tinny and far away.
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THE MURDERED METATRON by James Glass!
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Thank you so much to Lori Hays and the Authors on the Air family for hosting Sekhmet Press today! Lori is so lovely! I was incredibly nervous but I had a great time thanks to Lori!
First of all I want to say thank you to Lori Hays for inviting me to her Behind-the-Scenes Series on Behind the Words with Lori Hays on Authors on the Air Global Radio Network. It is truly an honor to be invited, and I am very humbled that she found Sekhmet Press worthy of her show. I’d like to say I’m excited, but I’m actually quite terrified about speaking, and to top it off she made me write this blog. But I do love Sekhmet Press, and I love my authors, so I’m not going to turn down an opportunity like this.
I read a lot as a child. So much so that I was often told to put the books away and go outside and play. I specifically remember Island of the Blue Dolphin by Scott O’Dell and Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach as being some of the first books to “transport” me out of this reality. It is as Stephen King says in one of my favorite quotes “Books are a uniquely portable magic.” CONTINUE READING HERE
Join Behind the Words host Lori Hays for the first of the special series in January, taking you behind the scenes of your favorite books. How to they make it to the shelf?
On January 4th, 2014, we will hear from Jennifer Greene with publisher Sekhmet Press, LLC.
Jennifer began writing in middle school, and fell in love with the theater in high school. In college she studied Psychology and Journalism…” READ MORE
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WRAPPED IN RED: Thirteen Tales of Vampiric Horror
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NEW Vampire Anthology
He is also the author of PROGENY, a contributor to the anthologies ENDLANDS 1 & 2, and writer of multiple short stories including TRICK, SILVER SURROGATE, FINDERS KEEPERS, and the collection DARK DESTINIES. And for his birthday Hobbes End Publishing is giving away FREE Kindle editions of PROGENY. Click the image to get your copy!
Excerpt From WRAPPED IN RED
Freedom should be better than this, Blake Zagarino thought, dabbing sweat from his neck with a bandana, as yet another bout of shrill laughter assaulted his ears from the backseat of the lot-fresh, stolen Buick. But Zagarino played it cool. DeWitt, the laughing man, raised a snub-nosed .38, childishly making shooting sounds while he mimicked the gun’s recoil. Like the .38, he was small, oily and deadly. “Blamblamblam!” DeWitt bellowed, “No! Don’t kill me!” he said in a mocking falsetto, then came a fit of giggly laughter, and finally: “Please! I got a daughter!” More laughter. “Blamblam! Daddy’s gonna be REAL late tonight, sweetheart! HeeheeheeHEEEE!” Continuing to drive the winding road between hilltop homes, Zagarino did nothing to betray the disgust he felt with his partner, confident DeWitt would grow distracted soon, as he usually did. Bonner, the boss of their criminal triumvirate, was considerably less patient. “Put that down, you idiot!” he snarled. “If you get us caught, I swear I’ll beat you dead, boy!” Bonner’s grayish brush cut glistened with sweat, which then rolled down into his stubble. Zagarino hoped he wouldn’t turn his head around too swiftly and thus sling some of the grimy sweat onto him. “Okay okay, sorry” DeWitt began, “I can’t help it! Man was that fun! I never knocked over no armored car before! And wasted the guards to boot! WHOOO!” “Shaddup,” Bonner ordered, and DeWitt looked out the window, issuing a low titter to himself. “If your girl’s info was right, we’ve got at least ten minutes before the guards are supposed to check in. We should be dug in by…” Zagarino checked his watch and calculated. “…11:30.” “Don’t you worry about MaryAnn. She wouldn’t tell me wrong. She knows better. You just better be right about this hideout,” Bonner grumbled. “Couple that owns it live in Eastern Europe,” Zagarino reiterated again, “They only come here on vacation. And who’d wanna vacation in this Godforsaken heat?” “Get used to it, Zag. Two weeks, we’ll be in Mexico.” “Now you’re talkin’ my language!” DeWitt enjoined. “Here I c-c-c-come, senoritas!” “Gotta eighty-six this car,” said Bonner. “Hope you boys are up for a hike.” Zagarino drove into one of the many small forests surrounding and separating the clusters of secluded and exclusive neighborhoods in the rural outskirts of Chicago. He drove behind a thick pine and they quickly concealed the Buick under branches and lightweight fallen pine logs, until it looked something like a teepee fort made by local kids or hobos. The forest ended at a weedy hill some sixty yards high and steep enough to be daunting to outsiders; one of the selling points pushed by its developers and realtors. There was no wind to cool the cons, who had grown used to the cool comfort of medium security. Trudging up the uneven, scrubby hill carrying four heavily-loaded canvas sacks, Zagarino wished he had exercised more in prison. But he had never cared for the company of the aggressive, steroid-addicted meatheads who hovered around the weight benches and the penitentiary’s depressing excuse for a running track. DeWitt shared his regret. “Hey, slow down!” he huffed. He had stopped entirely-and this would not be acceptable to Bonner. Though stocky and physically very tough, Bonner was in his early fifties and heading toward “pudgy” himself, but he wasn’t about to abide DeWitt’s complaints. “DeWitt, get your ass up and move it! Now!” “Wait a minute, boss. …I need a break. Heat’s killing me…all this cash must weigh a hundred tons.” “Get up, or so help me, dipshit, your corpse will fry in this heat,” Bonner warned. “Okay, okay. How much further, Zag?” DeWitt asked, as much to buy another second of rest as to know. “The house is just a few yards from the top of the hill,” Zagarino answered evenly, and started moving. From the top of the hill, there was still a good ten yards to the large, oddly plain house. The nearest neighboring homes were a good distance away and arranged so that rows of trees fairly concealed them from one another; the very wealthy apparently needed comfortable degrees of separation even from one another. But the three desperate men nonetheless hunkered low, using the high weeds of the unkempt backyard to hide behind as they dragged the moneybags around to a front door sheltered under a pair of leafy poplars. Drawing a small black case from his pocket, Zagarino kneeled and went to work on the lock with measured finesse, feeling the antsy tension coming off his partners in stinking waves. “Come on, man!” DeWitt stage whispered. “Shut it,” Bonner ordered quietly, knowing that the kind of work Zagarino did was best not rushed. After a moment, Zagarino removed his tools from the lock and rolled them up in their pouch, then stood, opened the door and took a step inside, into pure darkness. DeWitt tried to go in next, but Bonner muscled him aside, raising the sturdy flashlight he had taken off one of the dead guards. He traced its beam over the sheeted furnishings, capturing huge dust motes that seemed to swim toward them curiously. For a long moment, they silently took measure of the enormous front room, the dusty stairway that dominated the center, the many doors on either side leading to reading rooms and the like. Swinging double doors at the rear gave way to a kitchen, beside which was a plain and heavy black door that could only lead to a basement. “Made in the shade, man!” DeWitt said aloud. Bonner turned to him sharply. A mouse scurried somewhere close to the walls, drawing startled grunts from DeWitt and him. “It’s all right,” Zagarino reassured them, “Just vermin. No one’s been here in months.” Bonner dropped the money bags on the floor, and the other two followed suit. The muffled thump echoed back at them from the mahogany walls. “These curtains are thick as a woolly mastodon’s hide,” noted DeWitt. “I don’t even care what that is,” Bonner grumbled. “Open ‘em, but just a little bit, so we can see to move around in here,”. Bonner wiped sweat from his brow as he regarded the dark forms of his partners. “MaryAnn’ll be here after five.” Zagarino cleared his throat, sparking a zippo to light a three-pronged silver candelabra. “About that…” “…What?” Bonner asked sharply. “You sure we can trust her? I mean, she is selling out the company she works for. Who’s to say she wouldn’t do the same to us?” Bonner laughed. “That bitch wants money, Zagarino. Just like all of ’em. When I was in the joint, and she was sending me those letters, I knew right away that what she really wanted was a man that could give her a great big, thick…wad of dough. And that’s all.” Bonner’s face took on a discomforting, slimy grin, as he grasped his crotch. “Fine by me, ’cause she’s damn sure gonna give me my money’s worth before it’s all over. And if for one minute, I start thinkin’ she’s lookin’ to screw me in anything less than the literal sense… BAM!…just like I’d do to either one a you. Got it?” Bonner’s face looked as crazy as it was cruel in the crossfire of candlelight and muted sunshine. READ MORE.
Some dark serendipity plopped a young Patrick C. Greene in front of a series of ever stranger films-and experiences-in his formative years, leading to a unique viewpoint. His odd interests have led to pursuits in film acting, paranormal investigation, martial arts, quantum physics, bizarre folklore and eastern philosophy. These elements flavor his screenplays and fiction works, often leading to strange and unexpected detours designed to keep viewers and readers on their toes. Literary influences range from Poe to Clive Barker to John Keel to a certain best selling Bangorian. Suspense, irony, and outrageously surreal circumstances test the characters who populate his work, taking them and the reader on a grandly bizarre journey into the furthest realms of darkness. The uneasy notion that reality itself is not only relative but indeed elastic- is the hallmark of Greene’s writing. Living in the rural periphery of Asheville North Carolina with his wife, youngest son and an ever-growing army of cats, Greene still trains in martial arts when he’s not giving birth to demons via his pen and keyboard.
Patrick’s INTERVIEW with Fiona
Name:Patrick C Greene Age: Trying not to. Where are you from? The hills of Western North Carolina. A little about yourself… My father was an acclaimed writer of a very literary style of fiction, so I decided to write about monsters and gore. After high school, I immersed myself in martial arts, filmmaking and occasional writing classes. Grew up on the streets. …Well, actually a house near a street. More of a dirt road actually. Married to a very demanding editor/publisher (Sekhmet Press). Two genius sons, one a grown entrepreneur, the other an eleven year old philosopher. Fiona: Tell us your latest news? There’s lots! My debut novel PROGENY published by Hobbes End Publishing is celebrating its one year anniversary this week. PROGENY has received great reviews so far and has maintained a solid ranking on Amazon the entire year, so I’m very grateful for that. My short story NIGHTBOUND will appear in the vampire anthology Wrapped In Red published by Sekhmet Press, which releases next week on October 29. I’m honored to be included among some very talented authors in that anthology. Twisted Fates, a multi-story horror film will be shooting under the auspices of SaintSinner Entertainment and director Amel Fugueroa in the coming months. A comedy script and a web series are also in the works. And finally – I’m polishing my latest novel THE CRIMSON CALLING, Book One of The Sanguinarian Council – an action-packed vampire trilogy. Fiona: When and why did you begin writing? I started when I was around twelve, but I put it away mostly, beyond the odd poem or song, till a few years ago. I was toiling in small roles as an actor and, taking inspiration from Sylvester Stallone, decided to try and write a script and sell it with myself as the lead. That didn’t happen–but the writing continued. Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer? It’s difficult to pinpoint. After that first screenplay, I wrote another, and then another, still thinking I was working toward bolstering my acting career. Then it just became habit. I guess I have to say in retrospect, that that first screenplay, a martial arts actioner titled The Tiger Within, was when I became a writer. Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book? I had a collection of short stories under my belt, that I had written just for fun, and I received a lot of encouragement from my wife, so I started submitting them around a bit. Got some good nibbles, but my biggest coup was having Hobbes End Publishing include two of my stories in their prestigious The Endlands collections. Vince Hobbes and Jairus Reddy, the Hobbes End honchos, encouraged me to submit a novel, so I took the screenplay for PROGENY, which had just come off option, and re-worked it into a novel. So to answer, I guess it was that simple suggestion from Vincent and Jairus that got me going on the first novel. Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style? I always try to experiment, whether it be writing in different tenses or perspectives, doing that hardboiled detective thing like Mickey Spillane, or a minimalist, fast moving style that echoes my screenwriting experience. I would say my style is best described as cinematic. Fiona: How did you come up with the title? For PROGENY, there’s a theme of parental and especially paternal relationships, so the title applies to the children of the story. For NIGHTBOUND, it’s a sort of double entendre, in that the mortal characters are seeking the night to hide their activities while the vampires are of course bound to the night by nature of their aversion to the sun. THE CRIMSON CALLING, my next novel, refers to the vampire’s need to feed on blood. Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? PROGENY expresses an appreciation for my role as a father, and hopefully speaks to that of the readers as well, or just why we shouldn’t take our loved ones for granted. The Crimson Calling’s theme would be that there is always hope, even in the darkest circumstances. Fiona: How much of the book is realistic? PROGENY is very realistic up to the point of how much you believe in the bigfoot legend. THE CRIMSON CALLING has a higher fantasy quotient. Fiona: Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life? Screenwriter Keith Strandberg, whom I consider something of a mentor, wrote “Everything goes in the hopper” meaning the least little stand-out experience can become a part of your writing. I definitely draw upon people I know, but even so most of my characters are composites. As far as experiences, they come almost entirely from imagination. Fiona: What books have most influenced your life most? Bruce Lee’s Tao Of Jeet Kune Do was a tremendous influence. It’s more than a martial arts manual; Lee’s Taoist philosophy is spelled out in some excellent and passages. King’s On Writing has been a great education. Every writer should have a copy! My favorite novel is probably Clive Barker’s The Damnation Game, due to its rich characterizations and layered story. Fiona: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor? Strandberg, as I mentioned above, in terms of screenwriting, but Vincent Hobbes is easily the most gracious and giving writer I’ve personally had the pleasure of knowing, in addition to being just an amazingly gifted and disciplined storyteller. After finishing up THE CRIMSON CALLING, I plan to spend some time on a few short story ideas I have percolating, and I’ve contributed a short story to an upcoming collection of stories set in the zombie universe of Armand Rosamilia’s DYING DAYS series. Not sure when that will see release, but given the roster of authors involved, I expect that to be a big deal. Fiona: Name one entity that you feel supported you outside of family members. I mentioned Vince and Jairus of course, so I’ll take this opportunity to acknowledge my friend Regina, who has been a wonderful beta reader and has contributed a lot toward managing my career. Fiona: Do you see writing as a career? Definitely. I can’t see myself not doing it. Fiona: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book? My latest being THE CRIMSON CALLING, I still have a minute or two to do so if need be. But with PROGENY, I truly feel it came together quite perfectly. Fiona: Do you recall how your interest in writing originated? My father was a writer, so I had some exposure and encouragement early on. As a child I was kind of a late bloomer and not athletic, so I didn’t really feel capable of doing much else until I discovered martial arts and later, acting. Writing was an easy enough alternative, given the ability of paper and pen, and my father as an early teacher, Fiona: Can you share a little of your current work with us? Heeeeere you go: an excerpt from THE CRIMSON CALLING “Shake your ass feathers, Girlie.” Liv allowed a full second, then spun to give Rex a dagger-eyed glare meant to precipitate either an apology or an ass-beating. The cook stared back, an indecipherable grin at the corner of his lips. Holding the hard look, Liv dropped the rag she had been using to clean the counter and stood up straight, giving Rex plenty of opportunity to choose the apology. “Well. So much for this job,” she began, but before she could storm out or leap the counter and shatter Rex’s teeth-she hadn’t decided which yet- Dolly appeared at her side. “Rex, you butthole, you know better than to start that shit with these girls their first day.” Rex’s expression suddenly became harmlessly buffoonish. “Huh? Surely she knows I’m just trying to break the ice.” His crooked nose might have been a souvenir from some previous ill-advised comment. “Looked to me like Liv here was about to break something of yours,” Dolly said, “she don’t know what a big teddy bear you are just yet.” Rex’s apologetic smile managed to melt the tension, and Liv remembered she was a civilian now, among other civilians. Just because she could beat his ass didn’t mean she should. Joe had certainly taught her better than that. Of course, if Joe were here, she wouldn’t be shaking her ass feathers. “Ah hell, Liv. I guess that was outta line,” he said. Liv smiled at him. “Yeah. But we’re cool now.” Rex smiled back and returned to the grill. “That’s a nice smile, Liv,” said Dolly, “bet it could bring you some pretty good tips.” Dolly’s comment made Liv aware that she was still being aloof, very much caught up in memories and protocol. The tips didn’t matter so much. Fitting –or rather disappearing- into mainstream society did matter. And it was taking time. On her way to refill the tea pitcher, Liv tried her smile on an elderly couple sharing a slice of pie, and was pleased to see it easily returned. Liv’s heart first warmed then ached as she considered the couple. There may have been a time she’d believed in love like that. Believed such a thing could last. She thought of Tony, her first, and how she had naively believed he would be by her side forever. She remembered how happy the pregnancy had made her, however unplanned and unacceptable it may have been. She thought of Joe, and how he accepted her. She thought of how tough he was mentally and physically, how secure he had made her feel, and how he had driven her to become something more than even her boldest aspirations. That was when the robbers made their entrance, and Liv recognized the familiar caress; invisible tendrils of trouble that followed her everywhere. Fiona: Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work? Clive Barker, because of his incredibly vivid and lyrical prose. He’s a painter as well, and his writing seems to reflect that in some indefinable way; in word compositions that have a sweeping effect, like broad, even angry brush strokes at times. read more of the interview HERE.
- Happy Book Anniversary: Progeny by Patrick C. Greene (jenspenden.wordpress.com)
- Here is my interview with Patrick C Greene (authorsinterviews.wordpress.com)
- PROGENY – Celebrates One Year! (sekhmetpress.wordpress.com)
Sekhmet Press LLC is pleased to announce our next anthology in the successful WRAPPED series!
COMING MARCH 2014
WRAPPED IN WHITE
Thirteen Tales of Spectres, Ghosts, and Spirits
Here is your chance to be a WRAPPED contributor!
We are very excited to have several up-and-coming authors featured in this anthology and we look forward to filling the other available slots through open-call submissions. You may submit your story as an attachment to email@example.com between December 26, 2013 and January 10, 2014. Remaining contributors will be announced by February 2. Expected release date for Wrapped in White is March 2014.
Original stories only please. No reprints.
Any submissions or inquiries sent anywhere other than firstname.lastname@example.org will be deleted. Submissions received before or after open call dates will be deleted.
Stories should range from 4,000 to 6,000 words.
In your email, make sure to include your full name, the title of the work you are submitting, and a word count.
A short Bio will be requested upon acceptance of story.
Please spend time proofing and editing your submissions before sending them. Submissions with incorrect grammar, misspellings or formatting will be automatically excluded from the review process. Those submissions that are accepted must be open to receiving minor editorial corrections.
If your story is chosen, payment includes $25 within 30 days of acceptance/signed contract and one print copy of WRAPPED IN WHITE within 90 days of publication. Publisher will retain first worldwide publication rights for one year from publication date.
12pt Garamond or equivalent
Do not use TAB key. New paragraphs should be formatted with a 0.3 indent.
Do not use symbols such as # or * between sections. A single blank space is sufficient.
Now go write a ghost story!
from the ancient to the modern,
from the Carpathian Mountains
to the Atlantic Ocean
to the Wild West,
you are sure to find your… type –
Wrapped In Red.
Unlimited Vampire Nightmares.
“Wrapped in Red is an anthology that includes not one or two great stories, but all thirteen stories in this collection are strong and well written. These vampires are old school, without a bit of sparkling in sight, for which I was truly grateful. From authors I love (i.e., Billie Sue Mosiman, Patrick Green, Suzi M and Chantal Noordeloos) to authors I’ve never read before, I enjoyed every story in this book.
Just plain good old fashioned horror, well written, well edited and worth a read. When I was asked to review this by the publisher, I wasn’t really sure. But in the end, I sat down and read the entire collection in a day, so if that isn’t a collection worth a 5 star rating, I’m not sure what is.” Kat Yares Vine™ Voice reviewer.
- ARC Review: Wrapped In Red, Thirteen Tales of Vampiric Horror (jenspenden.wordpress.com)
- What does the Fluffy Fox say about Wrapped In Red? (fluffyredfox.blogspot.com)
- Here is my interview with Michael G. Williams (authorsinterviews.wordpress.com)