Stewart Sternberg's "The Ravening"

I was recently given the opportunity to edit Stewart Sternberg's first novel with ESP. I'm sure that the strong characterizations and themes will appeal to all fans of dark fiction as well as the diehard post-apocalyptic/survival horror junkie.

Penguicon, I hardly knew ye

Cons are always over too soon. There are few times in this world where someone like me can stroll into a building and KNOW that the majority of men and women there are my people in the truest sense of the word. At any given moment you can learn strange and interesting facts, such as: Romans know how to dance their asses off to some cool jams, stormtroopers doing "The Robot" during a battle of the Rock Bands are both surreal and hilarious, and there is never enough space in the dealers' room.


Granted, I saw some things that should constitute crimes against humanity in any sane universe, but that aside, I enjoyed every moment I was there with good friends old and new.

Tim Curran's The Spawning: Book Two of the Hive Series

The Spawning is one of the books I'm editing for Elder Signs Press. I'm really enjoying the process, not only because Tim is a fine writer, but also because the Hive series draws inspiration from a story very dear to me. I discovered H. P. Lovecraft when I was twelve and his work affected me profoundly. In particular, "At the Mountains of Madness" gave me terrible, delicious, nightmares. The Spawning resonates with that same feeling of isolation and cosmic malignancy.

For those interested, here's the current back copy:

Bringing unimaginable ancient horrors to light, this supernatural novel weaves several terrifying discoveries into one disquieting tale. At an isolated research station in Antarctica, a cosmologist experiences a singular, horrifying encounter. In the grip of an unforgiving snowstorm, the members stationed at Mount Hobb confront a terror that will change the world. Amidst threats of national security, conspiracies, and cover-ups, a new group of scientists at Polar Clime Base attempt to unravel an eldritch mystery that has remained locked away for billions of years.

Hidden away in the shadows of glacial caves, a malevolent intelligence that not only threatens the lives of those who discover it but also the future of the human race, lies waiting. Despite the dire warnings from the researchers at Polar Clime, the National Science Foundation refuses to intervene, leaving the inhabitants alone in preventing a final war for the very existence of humanity. In this riveting science fiction thriller, the unforgiving landscape of the Antarctic is explored, revealing the darkest place on Earth and the unknown menace that dwells beneath its ice.

That is not dead...

I seem to have neglected my blog somewhat. I’ll be posting a bit in the next few entries about the projects I’m working on.

Today, I’m going to share a scene from my short story “Cornucopia Rex.” I was asked to submit a story for a near-future lovecraftian anthology. The editor was looking for something very dark and edgy. The protaganist of this piece is a broken soul. A soldier who encountered something in Iran so far beyond human experience, it ruined her ability to cope with normal society. In the following scene, she’s waiting for a freelance computer hacker to finish downloading damning evidence from a multinational conglomerate she has a personal vendetta against. I hope you enjoy it.

“We’re in!”

Putting her gloved hands on the back of Eric’s chair as she leaned over his shoulder to view the monitor, Sheila said, “That was pretty damn fast. Figured you’d be at it for hours.” The blond tresses from her wig hung past her shoulders

“You get what you pay for.” Sweat beaded on the fat cowboy’s brow and his hands shook just a little. He smiled but shouldn’t have, it looked forced and sickly.

Sheila perused the files scrolling on the screen: Blackmoore Global Laboratories, Blackmoore Agro, Blackmoore Defense, Blackmoore Biotech… A black glass heart, a global parasite gleefully feasting on its host.

“We can access all of them?”

Twelve hundred facilities in over eighty nations. Finally, someone was going to give them the finger in a very big way. Finally she’d get some payback for what they’d done to her squad.
“Your codes only get us safely into the Cornucopia Project. I’m not going for anything else.” Finding the folder, he began downloading it. “If you want more, we’ll have to renegotiate and to be honest…” He hesitated.

“Are you scared?” Sheila asked, her hands leaving the chair. She could smell the fear on him, oozing out with his sweat. He’d probably take it out on his wife and kids tonight. Reading what was known about him made her sick.

“Yeah, I am.” Eric’s grin faded away as his voice became terse. “I knew a couple of sneaky bastards who tried to crack Blackmoore’s systems. Real aces. They disappeared and bad shit happened to their families. These guys don’t go running to the feds. Their engagement protocols are beyond black. Yeah, I’m scared.”

Sheila snorted at the confession and immediately wished she hadn’t. She forgot sometimes that most people fear death. They hadn’t walked in her boots. Hadn’t learned that death was the least of evils waiting in the dark. In the reflection from the monitor, she watched Eric’s lip twitch as his eyes narrowed. She may as well have told him he had a tiny dick. A tirade was on the way.
“You know what? Fuck you bitch. Even with the codes, you need a guy with my chops to get past security. These goons would have boots outside your door in less than ten minutes if you tried this. You and all your angry tree-hugging friends would get black-bagged and slabbed.

You think I didn’t do my homework first? Just ‘cause I need the money doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I’ve seen Monkeywrench making the news: CEO’s gunned down with their families, labs blown to hell.

And I know you too bitch, I know you real well. Three tours of Tehran, booted out when your squad got killed and you lost your shit. Started joining all those ‘animals over people’ groups. Old man couldn’t take your crazy ass anymore so he filed for divorce, then you really went gung ho for this shi..” Eric white-knuckled the arms of the chair as he pushed forward to shove his bulk to his feet. Sheila thrust the blade just beneath the base of Eric’s skull, severing the spinal cord.

“Dammit.”

Muhahahaha!

I love October. The air is that perfect sleeping temperature. Darkness reigns long, but not so long it causes depression. The breeze holds the promise of change..and just the slightest taste of decay. And I love Halloween most of all.

Christmas is nice, but has become so stressful. My birthday is fine, but there's a reaper pointing at a watch every time it rolls around.

All Hallow's Eve though, is magic. Kids love it, adults love it, no stress and all joy. No need to even decorate, throw some candy in a bucket and you're part of the fun.

I was always Zorro or Darth Vader growing up, both my heroes and villains had to be guys dressed in black swinging a sword around (I'm partial to ninjas as well). These days I'm too big around the gut to do them justice, but I do fine as a shambling zombie. The picture above is my new wallpaper; it's The Headless Horseman Pursuing Ichabod Crane (1858) by John Quidor

Honorable Mention

Stewart Sternberg and I had our names mentioned a couple of times in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. We were both given honorable mentions for our stories in High Seas Cthulhu. Other writers in the anthology whose work interested editor Ellen Datlow were: Matthew Baugh, Tim Curran, John Shire, and Lee Clark Zumpe. Congratulations to everyone involved.

Black Glass

I recently copy edited John Shirley's latest cyberpunk novel Black Glass for Elder Signs Press. I haven't had a good dose of 'punk in a while and this one delivers the goods. Bleeding edge tech; a corrupt, dystopian society; balls-out, in your face attitude; and crisp, tear through the chapters writing.

Here's the back copy, for those interested in the storyline:

Taking the fall for his younger brother, Richard Candle went from being cyber cop to condemned criminal. After four years of UnMinding–, his mind suppressed, his body enslaved–he’s released to discover his brother has slipped back into the underworld of the V-Rat, the virtual reality addict.

Meanwhile, Candle’s harried by the murderous Grist, the head of the world’s biggest multinational. But his real enemy is something else: a conscious program, the Multisemblant, a meld of copied personalities, the dark side of five powerful people, with its own brutal agenda.

Human society is sinking ever deeper a mire of escapism–but Richard Candle, looking for his missing brother, fights his way through the real world of underground stock markets, flying guns, the trash-walled labyrinth of Rooftown and the fringe of the fringe….

My ConClave 33 Experience

I had a wonderful time at ConClave 33, both watching the other panelists and speaking on a few of my own. The RPG panel flew by, the Lovecraft panel was fun, but I really liked being on the zombie panel, it seemed to have the most give and take with the audience. Rick Moore astounded me with the skill evinced during his panels, I aspire to one day work a room like him, truly a marvel to behold. William Jones was informative and enjoyable to listen to as always, and Stewart Sternberg-taking the dais for the first time-was charismatic and knowledgeable.

The guiltiest pleasure, I must confess, was listening to the "writers widows" panel, in which Deborah Jones and two other writer's wives dished on the inner lives of their spouses. I cannot relate the sidesplittingly funny things revealed that evening because I was sworn to secrecy...well, actually, I was threatened with acts so heinous they bordered on crimes against humanity. Funny, funny stuff.

Kudos to Jody Harrow, Freon and the other unsung heroes behind the scenes who made this such a wonderful evening.

Bibliography

I was surfing a website where writers and fans interact and there was a discussion about what people wanted to see on a writer's website. The item that garnered the most responses was a bibliography. People like to see a writer's "bonafides" and it helps to track down his or her work.

Short fiction:
"Jedediah Smith and the Undying Chinaman," Frontier Cthulhu, 2007, Chaosium

"The Isle of Dreams," High Seas Cthulhu, 2007, Elder Signs Press

Role-playing games:
"Mythos ex Machina," Keeper's Companion II, 2002, Chaosium

"Occult Books," Keeper's Companion, 2000, Chaosium

ConClave 33

I've been making the rounds at local (and not so local) cons for the past couple years and this year I decided to do a bit more than sign autographs and peddle my wares. I'll be taking part in the discussion for the following panels at ConClave 33:

Games to Fiction and Fiction to Games: Where to start, with the role-playing game or the fiction
Sat 3:00 PM - 4:00 PM Room: Br 7
Fellow panelists: William Jones, M. Keaton, Richard Tucholka

H.P. Lovecraft Today: How Lovecraft's ideas and fiction have become larger than Lovecraft
Sat 6:00 PM - 7:00 PM Room: Atlantis 5
Fellow panelists: William Jones, Ferrel "Rick" Moore, Stewart Sternberg

Zombies and Survival Fiction: It seems like the undead are becoming more popular with every passing decade. Discover the thrill behind zombies and apocalyptic fiction
Sat 10:00 PM - 11:00 PM Room: Atlantis 3
Fellow panelists: William Jones, Ferrel "Rick" Moore

I'm also a part of their Writer's Workshop. I'll be giving advice to fledgling writers and proofing their work.

Please come down if you are able, the more the merrier. Also, do yourself a favor, check out the various panels Rick Moore will be on. Rick is always enlightening, thought provoking, and entertaining; you will not be disappointed.

High Seas Cthulhu: Below Decks

William Jones has extended an invitation to the writers of HSC to share tales about how their stories came to be and their thoughts on the process. Several writers have stepped up to the challenge, including myself, and you can find the results here. Please feel free to visit and share your thoughts there or here.

High Seas Cthulhu: Table of Contents

Well folks, here's the final table of contents for High Seas Cthulhu. I'm honored to be in such wonderful company. Run out and buy a copy. Hell, buy ten, I get royalties for this one. : )

The Idol in His Hand -- Darrell Schweitzer
The Tip of the Iceberg -- John Shire
Passage to Oblivion -- Lee Clark Zumpe
Dark Blue -- Alan Dean Foster
The Isle of Dreams -- Charles P. Zaglanis
Ensnared -- Paul Melniczek
A Kind of Fear -- C.J. Henderson
La Armada Invencible -- Michael McBride
The Others -- Stewart Sternberg
Signals -- Stephen Mark Rainey
The Havenhome -- William Meikle
The Bedlamite -- Ferrel Moore
The Star of Istanbul -- Chris and Linda L. Donahue
High Seas -- Michael Penncavage
Those Who Came to Dagon -- John Shirley
Clown Fish -- Matthew Baugh
Ice -- Heather Hatch
The Wreck of the Ghost -- Tim Curran
The Stars, in Their Dreaming -- Gerard Houarner
The Depth of Darkness -- William Jones

High Seas Cthulhu: Contest

Hi all,

There's a contest at Shoggoth.net and the prize is a copy of High Seas Cthulhu. Details below:


Shoggoth.net, in conjunction with William Jones and Elder Signs Press, is proud to announce a new contest to win one of three copies of High Seas Cthulhu, a new fiction collection being released soon by Elder Signs Press.

Contest Rules

Entering the contest is easy.

To enter the contest, register for the forums, and post a witty, silly, or serious comment on this story by clicking the "Reply in the Forums" link at the bottom of this story.

Entries must be posted no later than NOON Eastern Time on 7/27/2007, at which time Shoggoth.net Staff will randomly select THREE winners. We will contact the winners by email, so please use a valid email address in your registration. We will also post the forum name of the winners on the forum and on the Shoggoth.net website.

Only one entry/forum account per person. No need to re-register; if you've already got an account just make a post. Shoggoth.net Staff (basically, me and the Trollboy) may not enter. We reserve the right to delete accounts we suspect have conspired to enter multiple times. We can Tell. We reserve the right to change the contest rules at any time without warning. Though, we probably won't need to. We will ship your prizes via whichever method we choose. It will likely be a slow moving gypsy caravan for domestic shipping or strapped to the back of sea anemones for trans-Atlantic shipping. So, if it takes a while, don't blame us. We are not responsible for any taxes or customs fees you'll need to pay as a result of receiving such a wonderful prize. We reserve the right to shout ia! ia! at passing strangers, if we want.

Frontier Cthulhu

The prodigal son returns with good news. Chaosium is publishing my Mythos/western story "Jedediah Smith and the Undying Chinaman" in Frontier Cthulhu:

Call of Cthulhu Fiction Anthology for 2007.

Frontier Cthulhu

CHA 6041 $14.95 isbn 1-56882-219-7

A New Land Founded upon Forgotten Horrors

As explorers conquered the frontiers of North America, they disturbed sleeping terrors and things long forgotten by humanity. Journey into the undiscovered country where fierce Vikings struggle against monstrous abominations. Travel with European colonists as they learn of buried secrets and the creatures guarding ancient knowledge. Go west across the plains, into the territories were sorcerers dwell in demon-haunted lands, and cowboys confront cosmic horrors.

My Poetry: Mom

My friend Stewart has recently begun a disscusion about poetry on his site and mentioned a piece of free-verse I'd sent him, so I thought I might post it here to torment you all. I took a creative writing class to sharpen my prose and learn more about my craft and I've found that most of what we do is write poetry thus far. I like poetry, mostly about death...by dead guys, but I'd like to expand my horizons since we publish poems in the magazine. The topic was health and disease, so I tried a form I haven't used before and took my mother's fight with cancer as my muse. As will become quite obvious, I still have issues.

Mom

The fallen angels and brimstone were replaced by orderlies and antiseptic but I knew where we were. The screaming and moaning gave it away. I cut up her French toast. She had scrambled eggs and bacon, orange juice, and a glass of milk. They said she was too well to stay in the hospital. They were moving her to a nursing home across the street. She would come back for radiation treatments. She could move her legs again. What do I want she asked. I started to make a joke, but then she began to tremble. Her face contorted terribly, her eyes rolled up; her limbs pulled in like a dying bug’s. I cried out and buzzed the nurses. She’d had her first seizure you see, because her brain was speckled with cancer like pepper on eggs. She caught pneumonia. The port in her chest through which she’d once received life-giving chemo was infected. She shut down. They said she must have aspirated some food into her lungs when she had her seizure. Fat grave worm tumors burrowed through her body again. I begged her not to leave. I told her she had to live so that, when I had kids, they would know how wonderful she was. Her organs shut down. She looked jaundiced, like a dull lemon, as toxins built up. I signed off on a request to take her off the machines keeping her body alive. It took twenty-two minutes for her to strangle to death on the fluids in her lungs. I held her hand the whole time and died with her.

Writer Tips: Formating

So you’ve written an excellent story rife with memorable characters, superlative prose, and an engaging theme, yet it keeps getting rejected five minutes after you’ve emailed it. Why? Have you checked your formatting? Many, many markets will reject your submission unread if it isn’t formatted to the industry standard. This is the first (and often fatal) strike a great many writers make. It’s a shame they don’t teach this sort of thing in most creative writing classes.

A good, generic format looks like this: Real Name; Address; City, State, Zip; Country; and your email in the upper left side of the manuscript. Put your approximate word count on the right side. Further down, center your title in all caps; skip a line, then center By; skip a line, then center the name you'll be published as. Skip several lines, write your story, then center THE END when you're done.

In the top header of each page after the first put: Story Name/Your Name/ Page #.

Stories should be double spaced, 12pt. New Times Roman font is most often requested but many people have preferences. If you want something in italics, underline it instead. DO NOT use bold print.

Many markets have specifics, Read Their Guidelines! By not adhering to proper formatting, writers give editors the idea that they’re ignorant of the rules or too lazy to bother with them, not the impression you want to make. For more information, look under "Writing Help" at Ralan's.

Jedediah Smith and the Undying Chinaman

Here is a bit from a weird western I was asked to write for an upcoming anthology. I can't say for whom it was written, as it has yet to be announced, but it was certainly nice to be invited. I wanted a charactor I could have fun with, so Jedediah is one part Indiana Jones, one part noir, some Briscoe County Junior to counterpoint the horror, and the rest is all Clint Eastwood.

Jedediah Smith and the Undying Chinaman

Hoss had the audacity to stand behind me and bray like a mule. There’s little I hate more than a man who laughs at his own poor excuse for humor. I slipped my hand snake quick over the well-worn handle of the Colt Peacemaker I kept crotched, swung my arm up in an arch as I skinned the cannon and smashed the butt against the bridge of Mr. Funny Man’s beak with a satisfying crack. He staggered back as his nose loosed a scarlet flood all over the floor. I kicked him in “the sweets,” threw him onto the red mess he’d made, and, because I was feeling ornery, upended that damned spittoon over his face. I shook my head. I could have wound up like him if my uncle hadn’t taken me in and paid for my education after my momma died from the consumption.

I took a long pull off my cigar and let the smoke ooze slow and evil out of my mouth as I said to anyone listening. “My name is Jedediah Smith. Does anyone else want to ask me a question?” This time I threw some of that steel in my voice I mentioned earlier. Hoss’ buddy jumped up with his hands in the air and knocked over their table. I hadn’t realized I still had my gun out. I saw a glass pipe caked with tarry residue rolling along the floor with the shot glasses and beer bottles. My eyes widened for a second as a bolt of inspiration struck me full on. I crooked a gnarled finger in the direction of Hoss’ friend and said “You!”

“Me?” He actually squeaked as he pointed to himself and looked around for a more likely subject.

“Yes, you. Where can I find an opium den around here?”

He looked puzzled, which was only slightly different from his usual idiot stare, and asked “Why do you…”

I cocked the Peacemaker as I interrupted him. “It sounds like you’re asking me a question boy, and you’ve seen how I cotton to questions.” I kicked Hoss once in the gut—hard—for emphasis. The poor bastard gurgled and went fetal as his buddy turned wedding dress white.

Dark Wisdom #10

Well, issue 10 of Dark Wisdom magazine should be in the stores soon with another great cover by Dave Carson. As of this issue on, we'll be full color and glossy, I think only Realms of Fantasy can say the same. This edition features work by: William C. Dietz, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Jay Caselberg, Michael McBride, Stephen Mark Rainey, Richard A. Lupoff, Gene O'Neill and others. One of the others is me, I wrote a movie review. I liked doing it so much, I'm writing a book review for a future issue.

The Isle of Dreams

This is an excerpt from a story I submitted for an anthology to be published by Elder Signs Press. The art is by the talented Steven Gilberts; the cover design by the ever-creative Deborah Jones.

The story concerns a British privateer vessel at sea over a year as it travels through the Pacific. As the story opens, the ship is being swept along by a powerful wind, and certain things the captain’s son has said made the officers want to take full advantage of the speed it affords them.

I never developed an interest for stories based in the Age of Sail, but since doing research for this piece, I’ve found the period to my taste. I’ve noticed some calls for these stories on Ralan’s, so perhaps I’ll pen another one if the mood strikes. I hope you like this little sample, I think it shows the mood I was going for and at least touches on the main characters.

The Isle of Dreams

“I don’t like these seas Sir. I’ve never heard a good word and many a bad one about them. There’ll be a cracked brain before we’re clear o’ this gust, mark me,” Samualson said to his superior in a conspiratorial tone.

Richard looked up to the sky, trying to think of words to comfort the younger officer and perhaps quiet his own misgivings about their voyage. He had heard the stories of ships gone missing or found adrift and filled with spoils without a crewman aboard. They were far from the normal haunts of the French navy, on a mission whose importance only the captain knew. Captain Rogers’ successes and generosity with French spoils were near legendary, so when he told his crew that they’d be gone to sea for two years or more, but they’d all return rich men, they kissed their lady loves goodbye and signed on. The captain neglected to tell them they would be sailing uncharted waters where rumors said Death itself kept hearth and home.

In the firmament above, the Moon was only a sliver, as if curious but barely able to muster the courage to peek in on poor benighted souls. Not a star pierced the sky’s black raiment, nor a cloud offered hope of sweet summer rain to refill the empty barrels now rolling about the deck. Two days ago the grog had taken on a poisonous taste and what was left of the water was under strict rationing.

“Squalls such as this have a way of dying as suddenly as they begin. These are good men, most of them anyway; I’m confident you’ll get them through until morning.”

Samualson’s thin fingers began drumming a staccato beat on his hat as he spoke, “I appreciate ye’r confidence Sir, but to be quite honest, ‘s not just the tales nor the wind that be botherin’ me really,” and the young officer’s voice became so low it barely carried on the wind to Richard’s ears, “it’s the boy.”

Living With Cancer

About a month ago I pulled my story “Living With Cancer” from an anthology because I wasn’t happy with how it was turning out (the book and my story). I’m rewriting the last quarter of the piece to give more validity to the final actions of Ethan, my protagonist. This story was the first I’d written that (I feel) had a chance at publication and it provided an outlet for feelings I’d had since my mother passed away due to small cell lung cancer.

William Jones reeducated me on the art of writing and I tried to implement his sage advice in my tale in the form of an overarching theme and words specifically chosen to be conducive to that theme. Unlike most of my fiction, this story is very subdued and entirely character driven. There is mention of a monster, but it never rears its head, nor is it even aware of the protagonists. Here the first few paragraphs to give you an idea of what I'm babbling about:


“I love you Ethan.”

“I love you too, Beth.” Ethan murmured as he rolled over in bed and gazed upon his wife’s tormented face. Morning light filtered through the curtains; there, in that wan glow, Ethan could see all the suffering in the world. “Are you ready to get cleaned up?”

“Yes please.” Beth urged. A couple of months back her gaunt face had contracted into a sneer on one side that slurred her speech as the cancer assaulted her with stroke-like symptoms.

With a grunt, Ethan swung his legs over the side of their bed, stood and stretched. The popcorn popping of his joints felt oddly pleasant after a rough sleep. Most days he awoke feeling as if a great weight were grinding upon his shoulders, today especially. Opening the curtains a little to let in some more light, he and Beth went through their morning ritual.

Ethan half filled a bowl with warm, soapy water from the bathroom and put a sponge in it to soak. Laying the bowl down on the dresser, he gently unbuttoned Beth’s pajamas and carefully proceeded to sponge bathe her. Dead skin flakes on her neck and chest sloughed away, leaving angry red flesh behind – symptoms of the radiation therapy.

“How does the water feel Beth, is it too hot?”

“No,” Beth whispered blissfully. “It feels nice.”

Beth had to be bathed every day because a miasma of sulfur permeated her clothing, bed linen, and lingered upon her skin if she wasn’t. The stench of medical science’s often futile war with disease turned Ethan’s stomach; it reminded him of brimstone and the Pit. If asked, Ethan would have readily assented that only in Hell could such a cruel infliction been thrown. After he had washed the irradiated areas clean, Ethan applied a prescribed salve to keep the burns moist and promote healing.