Thomas Brown's Blog

It should have been a treasure trove. The discovery of generations, even by the Isharann’s hale measure of such things. To the low-born of Priom, this place of death had promised life for untold thousands. Longevity as they’d never known before. Instead, Lotann, Warden of the Soul Ledgers, found himself lost in a sea bobbing with shadeglass like so much flotsam. And he was not alone.

Gravesand shifted beneath his feet, revealing old structures like sunken ships emerging at low tide. It filled his boots and invaded his inkwell. Entire districts had been swallowed by it for leagues in every direction. He knew this because he had walked them, his quill never stopping for more than a moment in his attempts to map them, his breath steady, focus sharp as he plunged deeper into the maze of streets. Truly, the city was everything he had hoped it would be — and everything he had suspected. More souls than he could ever hope to count — but all of them beyond his reach, bound to the shards winking at him from the ruins and, perhaps, to the great shadow that would periodically flit across them.

“YOUR INK RUNS DRY.”

The same could be said of everything in this halfway place. It was a desert, but bereft of the light and warmth that saturated every drop of Ghyran’s seas. Shadows pooled beneath lintels and in the corners of crumbling alleyways, not the absolute blackness in which so many of his kind dwelled but a watery twilight, as if more than just life had been sucked from this place but also colour, heat; the vitality inherent to all things, unliving or not. Behind his eyes, Namarti flashed, hollow-skulled and ashen-skinned, limbs that should have been long and beautiful curled in on themselves like the shrunken tails of desiccated seahorses. It was not strictly for them that he mourned – grief, like all highs and lows, was best left to rot on the shores, in the past – but the people that they represented. His people. He continued writing, his bone quill a flicker of movement across the page, pausing only when a sudden breeze took said pages and rifled through them.

“VERMIN.”

The voice came again, at once a whisper and a boom, not unlike the sound of thunder heard from a great depth. Lotann faltered, unable to resist looking around, but all he saw was the desert and the ruins and himself, staring back from a dozen mirrors, half-buried in the sands. He thought the presence felt closer now, or at least colder. Around him, twelve other Lotanns shivered and shrugged. He was still staring when one of them began to smile.

Despite himself, he took a step back. The figure standing before him looked utterly alien; as far removed from him as he was from the low-born, and yet there was no denying it wore his robes, cast his shadow, clutched his ledger with the grip of one who has lived so long in sheer, numb horror that he no longer recognises any other state, and it occurred to him that he could not recall the last time he’d allowed himself reprieve to really smile. Joy, as dangerous to them as grief.

When it opened the ledger and held up the page for him, he could not help but cry out; a single scream, like that of a startled gull. For the name it showed him, written there in his hand, tallied up and struck through like any of the countless other souls he’d catalogued over the long centuries of his tenure as warden, was his own.

The spring edition of the Sirens Call eZine is here, and it’s a whopper. There’s over 200 stories this time round from over 100 contributing authors – and I’m one of them.

The theme for this issue was “Born Ravenous” – how could I not submit something? Hunger in its various forms is a theme I often find myself returning to, and I was delighted to have a handful (mouthful?) of shorts accepted for inclusion by Nina, Lee, Gloria and the team.

If you find yourself with 10 minutes spare and an appetite for something dark, check out page four (the first story in the collection) where you’ll find my short story, ‘Human Prey’.

With so many writers to choose from, and a feast of horrors that extend well beyond the issue’s theme, there’s sure to be something in here for everyone, free for any horror enthusiast to enjoy.

Have a great weekend,

T

Download the latest copy of The Sirens Call eZine for FREE here

They come from the sea. Over the kiss of the surf on the rocks and the shrieking ulgulls, roused from their nests, the crack of wind-slapped sails fills my ears. Even at this distance, I can imagine the grunts of the men in the rigging, and perhaps it is more than mere fancy. Ever has sound carried strangely across the waters, echoes with minds of their own. They whisper to me every day.

Brine crawls from the waves and up my nose. The docks reek of it. Not just the sea, but of ancient salt and cockles, over-ripe. Most of the time, I barely smell it anymore, but it is always strongest at the start of a new shift. The still air promises a long one for those working the catch, while this lot turn in to sleep off their stint on the boats; a well-earned rest, all things considered. Every foray from the harbour is a roll of the dice. Even the oldest hands cannot say for sure when the wayward prow of another vessel might knife them in the side or the mists themselves descend above deck. Almost helplessly, my gaze slides to two pearls embedded into one of the posts. Someone has nailed a stretch of skin there and recently, judging from the way its scales still glisten. Fronds of algae fall across it like a veil, but it is just possible to make out a smile, carved against the grain. The waterfront will be heavy with gurgled hymns before the bell for shift change rings...

‘Welcome to Innswich’

SKULLS issue #1 dropped last year. Straight from the collective brain helmets of Paul, Alexander, and Pierre:

“If you’re reading this, it means you have a skull.

“This is why we chose this name: research found that in an increasingly divided world, SKULLS still bring together a vast majority of people. You’re also probably interested in the miniature gaming hobby in some form, or you’re into dark fantasy and science fiction.

“Nowadays, these genres are heavily present in the media in the form of huge, powerful media franchises. With the budget to hire legions of talented artists, and the lawyers to ruthlessly enforce intellectual properties, these behemoths dominate the cultural landscape.

“But no matter what they may claim, these giants stand on the shoulders of many : they emerged from the work of young up-and-comers, of dreamers, of jaded freelancers, who drew from all the fiction that came before them. Continuously, millions are inspired by what they watch and read and play, and something starts brewing deep in their SKULLS. They have an idea, they have a story.”

It’s a punky mag put together by some very cool people and I was chomping to get a story in there. You can find it online and it’s free to read so jump on over to issue #1 and take a trip to Innswich…

Stay fishy,

T

Published by:

‘trans lit mag’, (October 2012)
‘Men in Horror’, Sirens Call Publications (April 2013)
Broken, Thirteen O’ Clock Press (March 2014)

The babies are coming and Friedrich is not there. After everything they have been through; the heartache, the treatments, he’s not going to miss this moment. He puts his foot down on the accelerator. The sigh of warm air from the heater blows against his face. He drives fast through the snow-flecked night.

The road seems endless. A stretch of black tarmac and black ice and black night. Eventually he sees lights. Not the moon, which is full, swollen in the sky, but other lights. City lights. He navigates the icy side-streets as only an expectant father can. Two minutes now and he’ll be home and everything will be all right. He has waited for this day for so long. He has wept at the thought of this day coming and at the thought of it not coming, when it seemed that way. Her blood, his tears. Now the day is here. One minute, if that. He brings the car around the corner, faster than he should —

A figure lopes across the road, running towards him, beside him.

There is a dull thud as it hits the driver’s side of the car. He catches it with the front wheels. Then a bump; violent, horrible, to match the feeling in his stomach, as it vanishes beneath the chassis. It might have been a dog. He only half-glimpsed it, before it was drawn under the vehicle, flailing then gone. He knew dogs didn’t flail; that helpless, human gesture, but then he hadn’t seen it properly and a car’s wheels could do terrible things to an animal’s shape. Broken apart by wheels, a dog could flail. A dog could die —

He takes the turn and pulls into his drive. The car grows quiet beneath him. He tumbles out into the cold night, which hits him with a force, stinging his face and bringing his eyes to sharp tears. He moves towards the house.

It doesn’t strike him as odd that the front door is open. It saves him precious seconds unlocking it himself. He steps into the hallway with its long, lavender walls and family pictures: their wedding, that holiday in Morocco, Christmas with her parents last year. The hallway is cold. Why was the door open? he wonders briefly. He calls out to his wife.

Cries reach his ears. Infantile and distressed, they are the most beautiful things he thinks he’s ever heard. Almost slipping, he follows them to the front room. His steps falter.

He is unsure quite what he’s seeing. Two figures roll on the sheepskin rug. They are baby-sized but with malformed mouths like battered snouts. Their eyes, thin, unseeing slits, are his wife’s pale blue and each is covered in a growths of matted hair, black and slick. On hearing a presence they scream and mew and roll a little faster on their backs. Short, angular limbs peddle the air.

His stomach heaves and he turns to vomit. His lunch splashes the expensive curtains his wife and he bought their first week here. He is wiping his eyes when he sees the spots of red across the carpet — a heavy flow, petering out as he pursues it through the hallway, a bloody breadcrumb trail leading back into the cold outside. He follows the trail; the movements of his wife, he guesses, as she sought to reach him, to escape the canine things that crawled out of her.

He reaches the street. The night seems vast, as though he could drown in its depths. Struggling for breath, he follows the blood spots to the misshapen figure in the road. Of course they led here. The shape is heaving now, moaning. It rolls over, hand-paws slapping the pavement, and he stares into the face of his wife.

Lights flicker on down the street. Figures appear in their doorways, drawn, he supposes, by the sounds. His wife is crying, her jowls quivering, a whimper slipping from her throat. He begins crying too. He kneels beside her, taking her matted fur in her hands. He thinks of the first time they met, in a queue at the bank. Their first date on the seafront, the salty breeze in their faces. The first time he cooked for her. He tells her their babies are beautiful, and that their curtains are ruined.

He smells salt now, too, but it is coppery and rank. A crowd is forming, shapes drawing closer. The vastness of the sky is replaced by a pressing constriction, formed by the figures around them.

He smells other things: his wife’s blood, the stench of exhaust fumes, the hot wetness of animal breaths. He hears panting and the slop of tongues against teeth. Under the light of the moon he sees his neighbours, his friends, their snouts long, eyes shining in the moonlight.

Kneeling over his wife, he takes her in his arms, to cover her, to protect her from the circling beasts,. She tumbles from between his wolf paws. His arms are legs, his teeth long and sharp in his mouth.

He hears a mewling again. His ears twitch, rising to attention. He turns, smelling blood and urine, and finds their neighbour walking towards them. She moves upright as a person and is fully clothed, but sloped eyes bridge her face. Her muzzle glistens in the moonlight. In her arms she carries their two children, struggling in that way all newborn babies do, when first faced with the enormity of the world. As she approaches him, one of his neighbours howls. Another joins it, then another, until the street, the city, fills with the haunting sounds.

The pups are deposited against his flanks. Beneath him, his wolf-wife turns her face and smiles as she shudders and expires. The wolves continue to howl, their cry at once celebratory and mournful. They sing of life and death, blood and heat, the earth and the sky, and the night sings back at them.

By Thomas Brown Long weeks working. Rain still falling. Heavy droplets, water crawling down bus shelter, dark skies bawling. Another day is done. Through the grey a bus approaches, teeming inside, full of roaches, human insects, tired voices, ‘Ticket please,’ one grunts. 445 more words

via Route UB1 — Cephalopress

Pen of the Damned

“Is this love real?” she asks.

Sitting on a bench near the other end of the room, her words are unmistakable, magnified by the reverence and strange acoustics of the museum. He turns from the glass case filled with the desiccated husks of seahorses to look at her. Her hair is down, her glasses bright. She’s wearing the coat he bought her last winter. It’s not quite winter yet but the evenings are getting cooler. It is evening now. At least, it must be. They’ve been in here for a hundred years already, it seems.

“Obviously,” he replies. “Duh. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

At the sound of his voice, she looks up. “Not you, silly.” She raises the paper cup to her mouth and sips. “Arabica. Instant pick-me-up.”

“I’m an instant pick-you-up.”

“You’re fast, I’ll give you that.”

“Hey.”

With a lingering glance at the contents of…

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Pen of the Damned

Chlorophyll
Joseph A. Pinto

Yes, your prize, your trophy, your prop for the world to behold. Framed by unflinching eyes, supported by hands unshaken. So vivid, your portrayal. Like the seasons, your dichotomy appreciated only by a clear lens and a distorted view. Yet the approaching tempest goes unnoticed; still the limbs go ravaged. Revel in the fall, revel in the winds that blow. Landscapes resculpted, reimagined by the inevitable. Yes, revel in the lie, for beneath the illusion, the splendor, remains a truth you cannot speak: you have broken the chlorophyll down. Life you present, while around you death rejoices all the while.

The fresh, healthy colors turned, became the tones of decay. Dillon breathed deep the scent of rot with a complacent grin. He looked up at the trees, watched quietus sway in the cool breeze. He reveled in his hedonistic ritual…

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Pen of the Damned

“Hello there,” a man’s voice says.

I open my eyes and realize I’m standing on a pier. Snow lies in small, shoveled heaps along the edges and the sky is a cloudless grey. It’s cold yet I feel nothing.

“I bet you’re wondering why you’re naked?”

Looking down I see that the voice is right but feel no need to cover myself up. Turning to my right, I see him.

He’s an older man with thin, white hair combed to the side. Thick rimmed glasses rest upon his nose magnifying his green eyes.

“My name’s Horton,” he says extending his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Herman Trotter.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“There’s no easy way to say it so I’ll just come out with it. You’re dead.”

I blink twice. “Dead?”

“Unfortunately. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Thinking back, I easily find the memory…

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Pen of the Damned

There was a scratching on the glass that roused her from light sleep. At this stage she was so uncomfortable and so preoccupied with thoughts of the birth that she rarely got much real sleep at all. It was her first baby.

Again there came a peculiar scratching noise. Sam sighed and slowly rolled herself into a sitting position. Her extended belly, taught and round, nestled between her thighs. She looked around the dim room, disorientated for a moment. It was late at night and she could hear the rumble of the television downstairs, her husband was probably watching a movie. She rubbed her temples; she had a headache.

There was another sound at the window. This time it was a soft tap, tap, tap. She frowned. Pushing herself up carefully, she waddled to the window and pulled the curtain back, peering into the quiet suburban night. At first…

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Pen of the Damned

Priorities

Joseph A. Pinto

An impressive room, had it not been for the blood splattering the wall.

Usually Callie spoke nothing but shit, but this time she told no lies—the casino had hooked her up with a suite straight from Roman times; marbled floors and columns kissing the vaulted ceiling.  Several baths bigger than her apartment at home.

Lee arrived in Vegas soon after her poker tourney had ended; just before the dead had claimed the strip. He found Callie sitting on the couch, cork opener dripping in her hand.

Fuck. He hadn’t even unpacked yet.

“Took a couple of tries,” she said, “till I drove it through his head.”

Lee looked over the remains of the bellman.

“At least I got the wine,” Callie exhaled. “2004 Ghost Horse Cabernet Fantome.”

“You’re doing well for yourself.”

Callie shrugged. “I get by. Drink now. Kill later.”

He could never argue with her logic.

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