Trembling With Fear, “The Ebbing Tide Calls”

January 23, 2018 § Leave a comment

Another drabble, a story of exactly 100 words, in The Horror Tree’s Trembling With Fear blog, which makes it three for three submissions now. These are forming themselves into something of a related narrative so I’m looking forward to see where they take me…

He watches as the accusatory finger of the lighthouse sweeps across the harbour, in through the bottleglass window and onto the long, blank wall. Each pulse shines a zoetrope puppet-show onto the whitewashed brick.

Click here to read the full piece.

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The Audient Void #3

September 10, 2017 § Leave a comment

My short story ‘The Many Roads to Weatherly” has been published in The Audient Void #3, my second story to be published by the journal after ‘The Left Hand of Aux-Çevoires‘.

He presses on as the path swings out to follow the edge of a placid stream, where the current streams green algae out into fans of emerald hair. A grey, dust-stained tree dips its branches into the water, plucking at the surface. The rib-like remains of a canoe pull at the end of a rope, dancing and jerking on the current like a fretful dog.

Once again Allen K provides excellent cover design but my story features a superb illustration from Brad Hicks.

Aether & Ichor

May 14, 2017 § Leave a comment

A previously unavailable story, A Guest In The House Of Ruin (a much-extended version of this fragment), has been published by Aether & Ichor.

Fitful dreams flickered through the mists of sleep, jumbled up across space and time. Memories floated to the surface of my unconsciousness until they coalesced into one image; Annabella. How she’d laughed with glee at a puppet show in Yellow Park, the jerking dances and squeaking voices making her clap her hands in delight. Her tears, hot and inconsolable, when the news was announced of De Pontellino’s death; days spent locked in her room, playing the master’s cascading etudes on her piano instead of eating; listening over and over to the little music box I had bought her. I saw the day she came to me in my rooms as I was reading my mail. The words she said, having undoubtedly been made to say them by her wretch of a brother. Her face as she turned to leave; her blue eyes, red-rimmed, refusing to meet mine. Her hair tumbling from its amber combs as she fell.

No, she said. Please don’t.

Immense personal thanks to the team at Aether & Ichor for their support and editorial rigour. This wouldn’t exist, certainly not in as complete a form, without them.

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