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Please Welcome Guest Author Paula Stiles!

10/31/2012

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Thanks so much for stopping by today, Paula!  Take it away!

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There are times when your writing can come uncomfortably close to reality, which can be strange when you're writing fantasy horror. I was thinking of that even before Hurricane Sandy ate New York.

In my case, I originally wrote in the weather theme in “The Mighty Quinn” as part of a “What outrageous stuff can I throw at my home state?” kind of thing rather than realistic stuff. I blew up Mount Mansfield into a volcano because it was a fun image I had in my head since I was a teenager (which was a loooonnnng time ago). There it would be on cold, sharp mornings, like a headless lion covered with snow, as I took the bus or drove to school in my beat-up, baby-blue Ford pickup, and I'd think, “Wouldn't it be cool if Mount Mansfield were a volcano?” Just for disaster movie kicks.

I had similar thoughts about unleashing a hurricane on Vermont, partly fueled by the memory of one such storm back in the 80s that had crawled off the Atlantic up through Massachusetts and New Hampshire to collapse and die, improbably, on top of the Green Mountains. As an old-time New Englander of a zillion generations, I'm no more fazed by the idea of hurricanes than Midwesterners are by tornadoes. Hurricanes are a fact of life for the Atlantic Seaboard. But for them to punch so far inland as Vermont is rare. We get thunderstorms, blizzards and the odd ice storm, not hurricanes. Not directly.


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I wrote the “The Mighty Quinn” years ago, long before Hurricane Irene came last year and proved me wrong. I was shocked to see images on the news very similar to what I'd written about in the novel - though, in my case, that bad weather was caused by elemental magic. Reading about it for real reminds me of how early humans created their ideas of sympathetic magic out of trying to make connections in the world between natural events and their own actions:

As [Nan Carreira] stepped from the motel hallway onto the sidewalk, she could see what the weather forecasters were getting so excited about. The wind was up and the rain was going horizontal. It was also much warmer than it normally would be in April. Vermont had been the state to get a winter without a summer back in 1816, thanks to a volcanic eruption in the Pacific. She shivered. It seemed like too much of a coincidence. If a hurricane did push up this far, even in a weakened state, it was going to be a mess, with all that rain on top of the usual spring flooding from melting snow. A real big mess. Murder on the daffodils. She just hoped that Quinn was right and she was wrong about his powers having meteorological implications.

Later, Quinn reflects on the mess that is partly an unintended result of his own wild magic and internal weather:

The state, from this vantage point, looked like hell, and pretty much the way I felt. Trees up and down the hillside were torched and twisted and burned up by lava flows. I'd just been damned lucky I'd smothered the volcano before I'd been hit and killed by a pyroclastic blast. Down in Chittenden Valley, where I'd been, trees lay flattened still, by a hurricane, for miles around. Vermont wouldn't be sad to see the back of me, that was for sure. I'd be lucky to get out before they lynched me.

The funny thing is that the storm that strikes Vermont in the novel is all about balance. It wasn't until quite late in my revision process (thanks in part to the merry critters over at Permuted Press' The Pit) that I hit on a connection between several elements (so to speak) in the story. Critters kept asking, “Where does the energy go when Quinn sucks it up?” and that's when it clicked that I already had those consequences in place. I'd just thrown them in at random for fun and because they felt right. As it turned out, I already subconsciously understood that actions had reactions and great magic had great consequences.

Sympathetic magic. It's an impressive thing, especially in writing.


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HAPPY HALLOWEEN, EVERYONE!

Bio: Possessing a quixotic fondness for difficult careers, Paula Stiles has driven ambulances, taught fish farming for the Peace Corps in West Africa and earned a Scottish PhD in medieval history, studying Templars and non-Christians in Spain. She is the author of horror novel, "The Mighty Quinn," co-written supernatural mystery novels, "Fraterfamilias," the upcoming “Confraternitas,” and non-fiction medieval history book, "Templar Convivencia: Templars and Their Associates in 12th and 13th Century Iberia."



She is Editor in Chief of the Lovecraft/Mythos 'zine/micropress Innsmouth Free Press.


You can find her at: http://thesnowleopard.net.


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The Five Best Horror Films You've Probably Never Seen

10/30/2012

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Halloween is a day of terror, when we let loose our darkest fears and deepest fantasies.  It is a night to watch horror movies, to dream of the undead, and to feed the unidentifiable horror that lies deep within us all.  Beyond the fake spider webs, the dry ice fog, and the spooky sound effects, we suspend reality for one day, allowing the dead to live, the fantastic to exist, and the darkness to prevail.

Halloween gets me in the mood for horror flicks.  As excited as I am about the most recent releases, I feel the need to pay homage to the films that paved their way.  Whether it is because they're outdated or low budget, the following is a countdown of movies many of you have not had the chance to see--or, rather, have not given a chance to make your Halloween.

5.  The Stuff (1985)
"Are you eating it, or is it eating you?"  Playing upon the genre of films established by The Blob and the The Fog, The Stuff is a low budget '80s horror that needs to be on every horror buff's list.  While definitely an outdated b-movie, The Stuff plays upon our deepest fear of becoming a part of the monster terrorizing those around it.  Based around a young boy who sees the influence and effects of a "natural" snack found in the Arctic, the story uses basic effects to evoke suspense and horror in its viewers.

4. Nightbreed (1990)
Clive Barker has been, and will be for years to come, one of the handful of true masters of horror.  In this film, a young man investigates an area considered off limits to all who fear for their souls and their lives, only to learn the true monster is humanity.

3. Pumkinhead (1998)While both dated and low-budget, this film is a must-see for horror fans.  Some of the acting is sub-par, but lead actor Lance Henriksen steals the show.  A story about revenge and consequence, this movie is creepy, well directed, and contains some of the best special effects of the '80s.  This film is perfect for Halloween.
4. Near Dark (1987)
With good acting, a great script, and amazing special effects, it's surprising this film has not stood the test of time.  A classic vampire flick, this movie goes beyond the typical story line, using cliche to its advantage and taking it to a whole new level.  If you like vampires and horror, this movie needs to be on your list of movies to watch.
1. Cube (1997)
Likely filmed on one or two hot sets, Cube sets the bar for low-budget horror.  It is by far my favorite movie, and I'm surprised so few people have had the chance to see it.  Filmed in Canada, with a good cast and an exceptional script, this film is absolutely the biggest must-see for fans of psychological horror.  It both is cerebral and gory, psychological and horrifying, and that's what makes it the number one horror movie on this list.  See it.  You'll thank me.
I might be old-school, a clear product of the '80s, but I know horror.  While some of these movies might not live up to the digital standards set by contemporary film, they are true classics.  This Halloween, while trick-or-treeters are stopping by for their fill of candy, the jack-o-lanterns are glowing, and the monsters are hiding in the shadows of times past, do yourself a favor and check out one or more of these movies.  The effects might not be perfect, and the style might not be contemporary, but the creepiness stands the test of time.  Give yourself a treat and watch a timeless horror.


Happy Halloween!
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A Short and Humble Note on Religion and Politics

10/28/2012

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I've been following the "reality television" series Breaking Amish since its premiere, and while anyone who has done any research on the Amish communities (I did so a couple of years ago while entertaining a concept for a novel I allowed to fall through the cracks and into oblivion) might suspect the show was staged, I have felt compelled to continue watching.  The idea of a group of young people leaving behind all they know--and the support of all of their loved ones--is compelling.  Sadly, this week's episode was unable to pull off the realism portrayed in previous weeks, the rejection met with not a single tear shed by any of the participants being far too telling.  It is sad to think the participants have lost everything in order to pursue their dreams, but one must ask how genuine these sacrifices truly are.

Conversely, the upcoming premiere of the new season of Sister Wives, a show about an American polygamist and his four wives, leaves me with a completely different feeling of disdain.  This feeling comes not from a group's desire to live by their own religious freedom, but that they feel it is admissible--almost flaunted--because their religious beliefs dictate that it is okay to break the law as long as their religion says it is.

The idea that religion might dictate one's every move might seem foreign, or at least obstructive, to most.  However, given the recent political climate, it seems a necessary topic on which to write.  There are political challengers who would take away the liberties of others in the name of their own religious beliefs should they be elected, and the prospect of that is terrifying to me.  While America was based on religious freedom, it was not based on any one religion's beliefs; one person's religious freedom does not equate to the freedom to dominate others with said beliefs.  Religious freedom is religious freedom, be one Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Agnostic, Atheist, or any other creed.  The thought of legislation being pursued based on one person's beliefs--thus infringing upon the beliefs and rights of those who do not follow said beliefs--appalls me.
That is one of many reasons I chose to write Myths of Gods.  The excuse of imposing one person's beliefs upon another, even taking away rights of minorities who may or may not fall under a given religious category, is just that: an excuse.  What these people are suggesting is nothing short of theocracy, a way of life that has proven to thwart decades of progress in , for example, certain Islamic countries.  Before religion dictated their legislation, women excelled in their communities.  Now, they are oppressed, held from education and prestigious jobs, their rights revoked in the name of a given group's interpretation of God's will.  I fear the United States may be moving in a similar direction.  We have made many strides, and at a great cost, but there are those who would strip us of of this progress in the name of their own personal religious beliefs.  The same goes for gay rights.  We have been moving in a positive, progressive direction, but all that might be for naught if we allow the wrong people to fall into power.
I wrote Myths of Gods for many reasons, but one of the main reasons was my need to address the potential dangers of a theocratic state.  When we allow regulations and legislation to be dictated by the religious beliefs of one group, we alienate the liberties of those who fall outside that group.  One might do many things in the name of God--restrict, oppress, even kill--but that does not make it right.  What is right is working toward the liberty of all the people, regardless of race, creed, or sexual orientation.  Doing otherwise in the name of any god is simply blasphemy.
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Dan O'Brien: BITTEN

10/25/2012

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Let’s face it: the landscape of the publishing world has changed.

The horror genre has expanded to include everything from the magical and fantastical to the gory and sadistic. Werewolves have a long-standing tradition among horror stories and in many ways my novel, Bitten, harkens back to an older time. Coalescing a police procedural and urban fantasy into a volatile mix, the novel takes play in a barren landscape that is rife with danger.

What sets the novel apart is an adherence to being strange and also reinventing the werewolf mythology into something that it has not often been in horror consciousness. The story follows Lauren Westlake, a determined FBI agent, who has taken over a case that has been gathering dust for decades. The murders, while grisly, are odd to the say the least. The truth of the murders in Locke, Minnesota is far stranger than Lauren could have ever imagined

Here is what people have been saying about the novel:

“Bitten is an extremely well-balanced and engaging novel. It contains mystery, suspense, horror, romance, and best of all - a creative, genre-bending twist on werewolf mythology. The story is quick-paced and dark without being too heavy or overdramatic. The protagonist is a strong and courageous FBI agent who is able to assert herself without casting aside her femininity. She reminds me of Sue Grafton's Kinsey Millhone and Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum, and I am quite impressed with Dan O'Brien's ability to write a convincing female character from a male's perspective. Perhaps it is because her femininity does not define her, but rather adds to her complexity. The rest of the cast is also surprisingly well-developed given the short length of the book. Rather than prose description, the dialogue in Bitten is what makes the characters, giving the reader more of a sense that the interactions were actually witnessed. Even the mystical elements are fairly believable.

I had trouble putting the book down once I started reading. A fascinating fictional history and entertaining character interactions take the edge off of the horrific sequence of events that one strongly desires to see resolved. My single complaint would be the level of detail in some of the gore, but since it basically defines the beast's character it is a necessary component of the story. The details are not gratuitous, and the frequency of such descriptions is low enough that I never considered setting the book aside.

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Overall, I would recommend Bitten to anyone who likes mystery-suspense-thrillers with a hint of fantasy. If a sequel follows, I will definitely read it.”

“I wish anyone reading this could have watched my facial expressions while I read Bitten. When was the last time you read a book that got real reactions out of you? I laughed out loud at times, stared at the page with a hand covering my open mouth in shock at others. That might seem dramatic but I got really into this story. This is a thriller taking place in the unlikely location of Minnesota. The main character, Lauren, is a strong woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. It is mostly a thriller but has some romance in it as well. I liked the romance parts but I liked more how the author didn't go overboard with the sultry glances, doomed romance thing. If you are a fan of horror films, you would like this book. Being a huge lover of all things macabre myself, I loved the way the creature was described, it was truly repulsive. Werewolf, paranormal romance type books are everywhere these days but the quirky characters in this story and the situations they encounter set it apart for me. I would definitely read the sequel, which I hear is in the works!”

“For some there will always be a fascination with discovering answers. Even if the questions that are raised are not always as cut and dry as we might think or be led to believe. For Lauren Westlake there is something about being "the one" to come to answer that not only intrigues her but drives her as well.

In BITTEN she gets a chance to not only find an answer to some mysterious murders that have been taking place over quite some time in a town much like the one you grew up in. Along the way, however, she stumbles upon more than she might have bargained for, and that is when things really get interesting.

What a great things about the way Dan O'Brien rolls out BITTEN is that you are not only able to see the world through the eyes of the humans involved but the very creature they are pursuing as well. This adds a connection to the "bad guy" that reminds us that no one is COMPLETELY bad. Then there is the almost obsession that Lauren has for the case that not only threatens to destroy her but also change the way she looks at the world and those in it.

Then there is Dominic. What a fascinating creature he turns out to be! Trapped between two worlds, fighting again his nature and wanting to do something to right what he see as the wrongs in his life. When Lauren and Dominic come together there is something between them that cannot be denied, and it give us some of the best dialogue of the book.

I've now read three books by O'Brien but BITTEN is by far my favorite. It not only showcases his literary skills but leaves the reader wanting more. What else could an avid reader ask for?”

“I found myself waking up at 3am this morning to finish this book. I am not a huge fan of this genre. I usually read books on witches and vampires but I have read one of Dan O'Brien's other books so decided I had to read Bitten. I, personally, like the main character Lauren and I really really hated the villain in this book. Dan has a whole new and different take on werewolves which I found very interesting and believable. If you like being scared read Bitten. At the end Dan hinted at a sequel and I cannot wait to read about Lauren's next adventure.”


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Excerpt:

Chapter I

Madeline Leftwich sat at the train station every day at exactly thirteen minutes past midnight. The faded brown bench on which she sat did not often have consistent occupants as transients and hobos were sparse this far north.

But there she sat, hands crossed over her lap. The floral pattern of the thick skirt she wore was handmade, buckles and clasps galore adorned the uneven cut and fold of the garment. Her face possessed an absent quality, not that characteristics were missing, but instead a vacancy of spirit. That bench meant a great deal to her. This was the very place that childhood was left behind.

It had been exactly thirty-nine years since her mother had placed her on that very bench, brushed back her hair, and told her everything was going to be alright. She had said she would be right back. A promise to a child is a sacred thing. Even as an adult, Madeline could not tear herself away from the compulsion to come wait for her mother every day at that exact moment she had left her. The whistle blew each night as the passenger train rolled into town.

Cold air rained down upon the open station. Often, there would be sheets of ice that would expel from the track, lining the waiting area just beside the tracks on the concrete platform. Attendants had grown accustomed to her presence. Some even offered her coffee in the wee hours of the morning when they had no other friend. This night, however, she was quite alone.

Heavy bleating of the distant train horn filled the night, filtering through a cloudy fog. The susceptible and otherwise occupied Ms. Leftwich was not yet privy to the gossip of the town. Murder, a topic of great concern no matter the venue, would be especially virulent in such a small community. Distance revealed a dark object hurdling through the night, steam and precipitation sluicing from the hot steel that cascaded across the hours of darkness.

The station was empty. A half-lit banister showed the narrow, icy path that crawled back out to the blacktop just outside the front of the station. She watched the train collide with the open air of the darkness, the squeal of the tight brakes announcing its arrival with startling clarity. Heavy doors opened; artificial light spilled from the side of the train.    

Madeline watched the open door––waiting. Seconds passed into minutes, yet there was no sound external to the cold nature of Minnesota. Winter had a feeling, a symphony all its own. Groaning trees fought against the arctic grip of snow and ice. Lakes moving in the distance, far beneath the heavy weight of the ice that had taken residence upon them, filled the night.

Someone stepped out. Her coat was wrapped tightly around her lithe frame, her sandy blonde hair tucked beneath a brown wool cap. The scarf around her neck was braided and frayed; as if it were sewn by someone she knew well, not the simple manufacture of mass production. Brown eyes watched the empty train station with great interest and a precision that marked her immediately as more than a mere observer.

A bulge at her side revealed a weapon. The simple black bag that was slung over the shoulder of the long brown trench coat made her appear to be a woman on the run, or perhaps one who simply liked to travel light.

Seeing the frail figure of Madeline, this sole occupant of the midnight train station, she made her way toward the sitting woman. Her voice was sweet, her tone full of purpose. “Excuse me, ma’am. Is this Locke? Locke, Minnesota?”

Ms. Leftwich watched the woman with wide eyes, pooling with tears. She was severely confused. Was this her mother? Had this been the person she had waited so long to see? She hesitated. This woman was younger, younger than she was. Was this possible: a mother who was younger than you?

“Ma’am, I…”

“Mother?” queried Madeline Leftwich, her voice rising shrilly.

“Pardon me?”

Madeline did not stand, but instead shuffled her purse at her waist. “Are you my mother? You left me here a long time ago. Said you would be back, said you would be back soon.”

Staring into the vacant eyes of Madeline Leftwich, it took the woman a moment of complete incomprehensibility to see that there was not much left. Where there might have once been potential for a woman were the remnants of some sad description of what could laughingly be called life.

“No. I am very sorry. I’m not…”

Madeline stood now, her features scrunching in anger. “Why would you lie to me? Why would you leave me here? Why?”

“Ma’am, my name is Lauren. Lauren Westlake. And I am neither your mother nor a trained therapist. Can you tell me if this is Locke?”

Madeline interrupted, her face flush. Her words were filled with venomous rage. “Don’t pretend I’m a child. I know where I am. I know who I am. Just because you are my mother, doesn’t mean you can leave me behind.”

Lauren Westlake looked at the woman in a mixture of shock and horror. She resisted the urge to physically restrain the woman, concerned about the reaction she might have. “What is your name?”

Madeline’s face was the very picture of surprise.

“You don’t remember your daughter’s name?”

Lauren was uncertain how much further this charade should be carried, whether or not disengaging from the woman would be simpler. Looking at the woman carefully, she noticed that her clothing was handmade. The name Madeline was sewn into the breast of her outmost jacket. Stifling an irritated sigh, she continued. “Madeline. Your name is Madeline.”

And then as quickly as the madness had come, it dissipated. “Why are you talking to me?”

“Excuse me. I…”

Madeline looked at Lauren strangely and stood, gathering her belongings. She moved past Lauren and out into the night as if the interaction did not even happen. Lauren watched her go, scrutinizing the entire exchange in her own mind. Shaking her head, she adjusted the bag at her back and moved forward past the dock of the train station and into the cold area just above it.

Ms. Leftwich was nowhere to be seen.

As far as Lauren was concerned, that was for the best.

The night was cold. A heavy veil of fog seemed to grow like a behemoth. She looked down the lane and saw only two endless views of darkness. The blacktop was crystalline, frozen precipitation having created a surreal sheet that seemed as if it would be better suited for ice skating than vehicular travel.

“Not exactly a warm welcome,” she muttered, drawing the top of her coat closer to her face. There were muffled sounds in the distance, voices that were muted; sounds that could originate from only one kind of establishment: a bar. Lowering her head and pulling the strap of her bag tight, she soldiered on.

*

Madeline had made a mistake that night that would cost her life. Each night that she sat alone at that train station she would wait for the sun to rise and then scamper home, ashamed. This night, however, her emotions had gotten the better of her. And it was in these woods that she would now find herself in the presence of a particular creature of the night, one that would come to haunt and terrorize the inhabitants of the small town of Locke.

The moon overhead stung the fog, driving the ethereal wisps from its view. Wide and threatening, it looked peaceful when viewed in the company of others, in the arms of a lover perhaps. To Madeline Leftwich, a woman lost in her own mind, it was a portent of doom.

Thick branches grew over the sorry excuse for a path that she walked each day. By daylight the intricacies could be gleaned, but at night it was a haunted maze littered with obstructions and potential trip falls.

Her shoes were a dark fabric. Not the kind of material used when hiking through the woods at breakneck speeds, though that is what Madeline would need that night. When she paused at the center of the trail to make sure she wasn’t being followed, the dead silence of the night became a far more frightening sound.

“Who is there,” she half-whispered, her voice cracking.

A branch snapped, frost claiming yet another soldier.

Another sound echoed in the night; this time much heavier, like weight lingering as a fledging branch gasped for its last breath before being trampled. She pulled her bag close to her chest, her face twisting in fear. Her eyes were wide as she searched the night frantically. “There is nothing there,” she whispered, tearing her eyes from the tree line.

Continuing forward, her steps were quicker, more deliberate. The woods around her thinned the faster she walked, white-speckled pines giving way to broken branches along a road of depreciating value. The trail widened in places, enough that little pockets of dirt and soil were pushed up from use.

As if something were urging her forward, she began to run slightly, her breath expelled in heavy puffs of condensed air. She wheezed then, a panicked, hiccupping sound that erupted deep from within her chest.

And that was when she heard the first growl. There was something wrong with it. It sounded like an animal, the guttural low pitches. However, there was something human to it, a strange gargling sound.

Her feet were not as sure beneath her as she thought. The tips of the fabric shoes dug into the hard soil, making her wince in pain. Biting her lip hard, she forged forward, stumbling into an open area of the trail.

Trees crowded the edges of her vision and the clearing. The trail continued on the way she had been trampling and then split into two smaller trails yet. The fog hung ahead of her, pulling away as if it were an entity all its own.

Silence permeated the area.

And then the growl came again. It sounded hungry, desperate, the pinnacle of auditory fear. “Who is there? What? Why are you hiding?” she whimpered. “Please. Please.”

It seemed to come from all around her, enveloping the cold night air. The fog stirred; deep in its belly a shadow formed. Tall and hunched, it was a mass of darkness shaped like a man. Heavy in the shoulders, spines seemed to rise unevenly from the arms and body. The head was lowered and the knees bowed as if it were ready to pounce.

Yet it did not. It stood, chest heaving, safely veiled by the fog bank. Hands that seemed to melt into long thin claws were obscured by the swirling mass of miasma ebbing and flowing within.

She was speechless.

Her mouth opened: no words.

Her mind raced. Panicked thoughts flooded her mind, erasing judgment and reason. Muscles constrained and joints locked, she watched helplessly. It took a single step forward, the heave of its heavy chest frightening.

Madeline Leftwich was not a god-fearing woman. In point of fact, until that moment she had not given much thought about death. Never had she thought about whether she wished to stay in this world: alive, mortal. Now, when confronted with something drawn from nightmares, her pulse raced and she realized, with a desperate certainty, that she did indeed wish to live.

The rain trickled then, a fat droplet striking her across her hair. Her feet hit the ground hard, her pulse racing as she abandoned her bag. Churning, her feet dug into the hard winter earth. Her breath sputtered in front of her in rapid fits of exploding clouds. She whimpered as she ran, tears running down her face as trees slapped her hard across her cold, sensitive features; some left bruises, others broke skin.

The forest was now alive with sound.

Creatures hooted and hollered in the night.

They knew something was happening.

She could hear herself breathing.

She would not last much longer.

Her foot caught something lodged deep into the frozen ground. The world spun in circles as her back collided with the unforgiving earth. The groan that escaped her lips was foreign.

Frightened and defeated, she kept very still. Where she had landed proved defensible, high brush bristling with heavy branches and evergreen leaves that hid her partly from view.

The forest beat a heavy drum.

Footfalls of animals loose in the night filled the air. There was one set of footsteps that rung above the others: something primal, something large. She covered her mouth with her hand. Pressing tightly, she watched as a shadow crept across her vision.

She peered out the side of the brush.

It stood like a man.

Up close the fur was matted, uneven, missing in some places. The legs were muscular and covered in fabrics that seemed to sluice fluid. Hemorrhaging from the torso, it moved with a predator’s grace.

Its face was covered in shadow.

Madeline felt a scream rise from deep in her chest and she pressed her hand harder against her mouth. Closing her eyes, tears streamed from them. Her chest heaved, but she tried not to move, locking her body into a paralysis.

She could not tear her eyes away from it.

Turning, the face was still well hidden.

Long slender fingers, like dull blades, bounced against the creature’s legs. The clothing was torn and dirty. A smell emanated from it that could only be described as nausea in the depths of a septic tank. Lifting its head, it sniffed the air, a hood pressing against its mangled hair.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The slow turn of the creature and the bend of its legs as it lowered closer to the ground was more than Madeline could take. And before she could even remove her hand from her mouth to scream, it was upon her.



Learn more about Dan O'Brien by visiting his Amazon author Page.

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Arr(gh!) there be Pirates!

10/20/2012

6 Comments

 
Like most writers, I have Google alerts set to let me know when any activity online reflects anything having to do with me or my writing.  Two months ago, I found someone had illegally uploaded my Lisa Lane novel The Darkness and the Night: Blood and Coffee to Scribd.  I notified my publisher immediately, and they were able to get the offending file removed.  No harm, no foul, right?  Unfortunately, by the time the file was removed, it had accrued a few hundred downloads—hundreds of dollars lost to my publisher and a good percentage of said proceeds lost to me.

Two days ago, I learned that a reader of my Leigh M. Lane novel World-Mart had uploaded the novel to two different file-sharing sites.  Moreover, this person had the audacity to advertise the offending files on a message board designed specifically for pirated books.  Of course, Google alerted me to this almost immediately, and I’ve taken appropriate action, but enough damage has already been done.

As a writer, it is my mission to enrich others’ lives through my words.  I take great delight in knowing my work has touched a certain percentage of my readers.  To learn that someone has enjoyed what I’ve written brings me joy nearly unparalleled on any other front.  To learn that one of those people has betrayed me so intimately, as to strive for a moment of heroism on a pirating site with the sharing of my work—so painstakingly pieced together word by word—leaves me despondent and empty.  They say a person knows he or she has “made it” once their work has appeared on a pirating site, but that is little consolation.  I have been betrayed by one of my readers, by someone who enjoyed my work and chose—instead of leaving a positive review on Goodreads and Amazon and sharing buy links with his or her social network—to share my work as if it were his or her own.

These books belong to me.  I wrote them.  I gave up a piece of my soul and hundreds of hours of my time to transform them from ideas into something tangible, and they are no one else’s to distribute.  I already make peanuts off my many works, despite my firm desire to find a way to turn this into a respectable living.  When people share my work without my permission or that of my publishers among others who have no intention of paying for the hours of enrichment and pleasure said work has to offer, it is nothing short of a slap in the face.

The feeling is bittersweet.  I am glad that my writing had been deemed good enough to share with others.  On the same token, I’m pissed.  I’m pissed that these same people feel that I’m good enough to read and share, but not good enough to promote on a legitimate basis.  I’m pissed that someone feels the need to work vicariously through me, to play hero for the day, by offering my books for free to his or her friends.  I must ask the person in question: Was it worth it?

 Good readers out there, please take heed: writing a book worth reading is no easy task.  It takes blood, sweat, and tears to create.  When you pirate such a book, you demean not only the work, but the person behind it.  You are a thief.  You are the reason people like me cannot live off writing alone.  I am an artist.  I was placed on this earth to write, to create, to enhance and deepen others’ lives through my words.  Take it for whatever it’s worth, but do not belittle my efforts by sharing them as if you had the right.

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American Horror Story: Asylum

10/18/2012

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The premiere episode for American Horror Story: Asylum aired last night, and I had the opportunity to write a short article on it for Fans Pages.  Here's the link.

Check out this creepy teaser trailer:
Join American Horror Story fans on Facebook for AHS updates, news, and reviews.
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Film Review: SINISTER

10/15/2012

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Fiction writer-turned true-crime writer, Ellison Oswalt (Ethan Hawke) moves his wife, Tracy (Juliet Rylance), and children Ashley (Clare Foley) and Trevor (Michael Hall D'Addario) into the home at which four family members were hanged and the only surviving child went missing.  Intent on writing a novel based on the event, Ellison hopes to piece together missing elements by spending time in the home and sifting through its past.
Sinister uses many classic literary and horror elements (the family move into a new home, the whiskey-swilling author, the desperate move to reclaim a past taste of fame and success, the Boogieman in the shadows, the authority on supernatural phenomena who slowly helps to fill the missing pieces to the puzzle), but in a way that is fresh and unique.  The story reveals just enough clues to tip off the audience about the true nature of the killer, while offering enough surprises to keep them guessing.  It takes a lot to scare me; I started watching horror movies and reading Stephen King in adolescence, and I’m what one might call hard-edged to the genre.  This movie actually made me jump a couple of times, giddy with the phenomenal use of dark visuals, sound, and surprise.

The tone is dark (great use of lighting and nighttime settings), the pacing is perfect, and the use of sound in conjunction with visuals is superb.  If you’re a classic horror buff, Sinister is a must-see—and see it while it’s still in theaters, because you’ll wish you had if you wait for it to go to DVD.  It’s worth the ticket price.  I rate this film an enthusiastic five stars.

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For more Sinister fun, check out the following experiment on the physiology of fear using Sinister  as its medium:
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A Quick Note to My Fellow Authors

10/14/2012

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I want to thank those of you who have been so supportive of me while I've been taking the time to adapt to my partial vision loss.  I'm sure I've been a bit self-absorbed (no one wants to join someone's pity-party) and I want to apologize for being distant and somewhat MIA for the last couple of months.

I'm adapting, even writing a little again, and want to be there to offer the mutual support you all deserve.  I'm still not up to doing a whole lot of reading, but I want to be there on whatever fronts I can.  Anyway, thanks for bearing with me.  I hope to be more active online in the coming weeks.
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