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Scared: A Guide to Writing Horror

Consuela's Journey

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Consuela's Journey

Conseula had married Antonio in the end of 1936, but that was neither the beginning of the story, nor the end. The war had started then, too, but it was a far off and distant thing she heard of from the local barber, or saw in a headline. There were armies out there somewhere. Antonio went away to drive them supplies from time to time, but he didn't bring the war back with him. All told, it took a few years to reach a place as remote as Reus. Once it came it was like turning off a lightswitch; one day there was a house, there were paltry dishes, given by no one, that passed for china; there were bedspreads, there was a crib. The next day Con

Sound Carries Near a Salt Flat

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Sound Carries Near a Salt Flat

the noise of a dying man is that of a humpack whale reverberating across the desert thermocline, tunneling between the dune and the horizon. he whines, low, not loud, but it surrounds us; ocean pressure straining at the sides of a submerging ship. the harpoon head of the frag bomb burns in his leg - flesh irreparably breached - as that groaning calls navigation signs to some unknown counterpart far across the sand. I can swear to you he will be gone in forty-eight hours from the sepsis if medical can't make it to this fucking shelled-out excuse for a town by tomorrow evening. I give a sedative still, his cries carry like those son

Things Come Apart (Part 2)

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Things Come Apart (Part 2)

    Everett picked up the morning paper after a long walk, and sat down on the bench just outside his hotel to read it. The front page headline was about a Sergeant that got beat to death up in Fort Totten. People were getting pretty anxious about soldiers these days, the article said. This was the tri-state area, not the front. He got a page and a half in before he got bored of reading. Instead he watched the people come and go from Pat’s Original Diner across the street, idly wishing he had a cigarette.      The day was getting steadily warmer and a few daffodils had already unfolded their yellow petal hands and turned their trumpet

Things Come Apart (Part 1)

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Things Come Apart (Part 1)

In 1919 the bulk of the American Expeditionary Force that had been sent to fight in France returned to the United States via New York City in steady waves. At first the city welcomed them with open arms and ticker tape parades. But soon the city grew tired of soldiers and the late arrivals found no help in transition back to their ‘normal’ lives, or even a friendly smile. The world was moving on, and they were expected to, as well.            “In New York City, we were broken up on the 12th, the soldiers from different states going to different barracks…            …Several of us hired a cab and went to a hot

Navy Property

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Navy Property

“Those sons of bitches!” Hank came into Hangar Six howling like a mad dog. “Sons of bitches, they stole it!” Ken looked up from the remains of the T34 engine he was working on. “You’re making a racket.” “As well I should be!” bawled Hank. “Who stole – “ Waldorff started, but Hank just kept right on going. “The bastards stole it. This is all because of that damned idiot Kowalski and his grudge against us for the fireworks! This is open war, I’m telling you Ken!” “You’re too loud,” said Ken. “Can’t hear myself think.

IED

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IED

What a body looks like means nothing in the moment -- that sound, did the jeep backfire? but louder, then a crystal crinkle clatter of glass, spat across the sand from the surprised mouth of the windshield. The body is supposed to be familiar but strangely alien in form, and in touch, when you're wrist deep inside of it in a blind, frantic search for the shredded vein. The body is not muscled, not small, not tanned, not pale not dark, not hairy, not anything but a precious, fleeting, fleshy thing, pouring itself out upon the earth culminating in one scarlet, incendiary moment. One moment there is a person, full of life and

The Experiment

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The Experiment

Somehow, no one knew how, Hank had gotten a hold of a can of Gorilla Glue.   “Check this out,” Hank said. “Specs says it can lift 10 tons.” “Bullshit,” said Ken. “No, it really says that.” “Yeah I believe it says that, but I say it’s bullshit.” “Well how the hell are we gonna know? What do we even know of that weighs ten tons?” They looked at each other, the way they did that made Waldorff excited, and a little uneasy.   “Salad,” bawled Hank. “Go get RJ. We need him.” “What for?” “You’ll see, just go get him.

Worse Than The Vultures

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Scared: A Guide to Writing Horror

Consuela's Journey

C

Consuela's Journey

Conseula had married Antonio in the end of 1936, but that was neither the beginning of the story, nor the end. The war had started then, too, but it was a far off and distant thing she heard of from the local barber, or saw in a headline. There were armies out there somewhere. Antonio went away to drive them supplies from time to time, but he didn't bring the war back with him. All told, it took a few years to reach a place as remote as Reus. Once it came it was like turning off a lightswitch; one day there was a house, there were paltry dishes, given by no one, that passed for china; there were bedspreads, there was a crib. The next day Con

Spotlight

A Guide to Writing Combat-Related Mental Illness

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A Guide to Writing Combat-Related Mental Illness

Coming Back from Combat: A Writer’s Guide to Combat Related Psychological Illness in Fiction The aim of this guide is simple: plenty of people want to write about war, to explore it, to understand it and understand soldiers they know who are in it or have come from it. But, often times putting the aftermath, the pain, and the psychological impact war has on the mind into words is difficult to do well. This guide exists to help fiction writers accurately portray psychological disorders in their work, because the people who suffer from these disorders and their loved ones deserve honesty and do not deserve to be misrepresented. The guid
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  • Sep 18
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My Bio
"You spend all your time talking, not working. You're an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés."

Expatriated travel writer, former archaeologist, historian, translator, linguist. And profession hanger arounder of cafés.

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Dalí, Van Gogh, and Corbet
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The Mummy
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O'Brien, DWJ, Hem, Rilke, Gaiman, Hugo, Clarke, Stevenson, Fitzgerald
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Axis & Allies
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Books, man. Books.
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