Lee Battersby - Author

The following interview is with Lee Battersby, author of Claws of Native Ghosts in The Beast Within.

Hi, Lee. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Lee Battersby like?

A: Depressingly normal, I’m sorry to say. I’m a day-jobbing father of two, stepfather of three with a mortgage and a love of stand up comedy and documentaries about serial killers. My wife is a writer, so I’m lucky in that she understands my writer boy needs, and that helps. But like everyone else my week is a constant juggling act- family, job, paying the bills, keeping the house maintained, and if I’m lucky, getting some words down.

What initiated your interest in writing?

A: Good old fashioned high school laziness. I discovered that I could write a story pretty quickly, get a good mark in my English class, and appear smarter than I really was. In my final year of high school I was lucky to have an English teacher who really believed I had a talent, and it changed my thinking? I had actually accepted a place in our Defence Force Academy, and was all set for a life in the Army? I ended up studying writing at University, spending a few years working as a stand-up comic, and investing in a growing passion for writing.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: The most challenging part for anyone, I think, isn’t so much technical as psychological. Given all the pressures that life throws at you, it can be difficult to maintain the passion for the art. I try to keep hold of the feeling that writing is something special, some part of how I define myself. I also spend a lot of time doing other life-affirming activities: I read a lot, and widely, spend a lot of time with my wife and kids, I’d rather spend money than save it? when I sit down in front of my keyboard I want it to be something I want to do instead of all the other things I can do with my time, and the best way to do that is to live my days as fully as I can.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: As far as horrific experiences go, I haven’t had one worse than having to tell doctors to turn off my first wife’s life support and let her die. She was infected during a caesarian section due to doctor error, and died four days after the birth of our only child together. Emotionally I was ruined for a good, long time, and it was only meeting Lyn, who is now my wife, that stopped me from self-destructing. If a good horror story relies on the reader engaging emotionally with the protagonist, well, that’s as engaged as it gets.

Your fiction has won multiple awards. Are there any words of wisdom you could pass along?

A: To aspiring writers? Nothing more complex than: be original. No matter what you do, set out to subvert the readers intentions. They may love you or hate you for it, but they’ll remember you far more than if you’re just another pale Fat Fantasy imitator.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: I usually have several things on the go at any one time, so if one story grinds to a halt I can jump onto another one for a while. But I’m also an avid reader and documentary junkie, so there’s a constant stream of nicely-packaged in factoids streaming towards me: it doesn’t take long for a few to hit in the right order, and there’s the next idea, ready to go.

Where can we see more of your work?

A: I have a collection out through Prime Books (www.primebooks.net) called Through Soft Air, and my bibliography at http://battbilio.blogspot.com lists all my published stories with links to where you can purchase the magazines/anthologies, as well as to the stuff that’s available on the net.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creature in your story?

A: I’m a paleontology geek. The Western Australian museum had recently exhibited the first full skeleton ever recovered of the thylacoleo carnifex, an ancient ‘marsupial lion’ which inhabited our part of the world, so I was geeking out on that, and a writer friend had been talking about wanting to put out an anthology of horror stories set throughout Western Australian history, so the two ideas were floating around each other like twin suns. All I needed was that third element, and the lycanthropy angle was the perfect fit.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Claws of Native Ghosts?

A: ‘Claws’ takes place in the early days of European colonization of Western Australia. It’s based around a real life event, a slaughter of Aboriginal families by settlers that has become known as ‘The Battle of Pinjarra’. Apart from my protagonist, all the human characters in the story are based on real people. All I did was add a loony and a lycanthrope ?

Thanks, Lee!

And now, here’s an excerpt of Claws of Native Ghosts from The Beast Within:

CLAWS OF NATIVE GHOSTS, BY LEE BATTERSBY

My name is George Dawson. I am a soldier in the 21st Regiment of the Royal North British Fusiliers, stationed in the town of Mandurah on the estate of Thomas Peel. I believe in the Lord God Almighty. Should it be his will, I will burn in hell for all eternity. For I have come to believe in savage gods, and such a fate is the greatest blessing He could bestow upon me. He has to, otherwise it shall all come to naught, and everything I have done in his name is wasted.

***

It was Captain Ellis who stopped the flour ration, and Captain Ellis who set off after the darkies when a group attacked the Swan River flour mill and stole a thousand pounds of the stuff in January. I went along for the ride, partly because I was stationed at the mill, but mostly because Ellis had a daughter. Rose was her name. She was slight, and frail, and if the sun had created heat one degree more damning she would have folded over like a broken flower. Her skin did not deserve the wind and the light, and her hair should have bathed in milk, not the hard, frothless acid that passed for water in the accursed colony.
I had courted her for six months, ever since my transfer from the 63rd. Slowly at first, in silence, leaving small gifts at her doorstep after she went to sleep. She never spoke of them, at least not to me, but I knew my love was breaking down her distance. After two months, we assembled in the forecourt while a notice was read to us by our Sergeant. I do not recall the words, only the message: the gifts had been collected. She had received them. She wished them to stop. I understood. They were not enough. They insulted her. A woman of her beauty and grace could not be won over by trinkets. A bigger prize was merited. I would watch, and wait, and find something worthy of her attention.
Then came the order to cease handing out flour to the natives, and the raid. When Rose’s father called for volunteers to track down those responsible, I stepped forward before any other. Captain Ellis stared down at me, squinting in the sun.
“Name?”
“Private Dawson, sir!” No salute could have been more crisp, no spine more straight. This was my future father-in-law. I needed him to view me with pride.
“Thank you, Private.” He made a scratch in his notebook and moved on to the other volunteers. But I had made my mark. When it came time to fall in, it was me he spoke to first, me he called upon to gather the others from their barracks. And if I was lost amongst the traveling party, it did not matter. I had impressed Rose’s father. It was only a matter of time before I would have a gift with which to win Rose herself.

******

His name was Galyute, and he was no more washed and fit for civilized company than any other blackie. But he had something most savages lacked: cunning, and a rude form of intelligence. Not to mention a thousand pounds of the colony’s flour. It took our hunting party the better part of a week to track him into Mister Peel’s estate, a week spent trudging through flyblown countryside so dry and brown it was as if someone had burned all memory of English fields from our thoughts. But we caught him, and three of his cronies, and hauled them all the way back to Perth. When the morning of the flogging they had so long deserved dawned, I saw my opportunity. I would present Rose with a prize worthy of her love.
The other three received their measure, but Galyute still stood at the post. I smelled the sweat crawling down his back; saw the ripple of muscles anticipating the blows. There had been no call for volunteers. Even so, I had requested the duty. The whip was slick in my hand. I bent to whisper in his ear.
“Don’t be upset,” I said, smiling as he flinched from my voice. “All animals look better as a rug.”
I stepped back, looked up to my Captain. He nodded, and I made my first swing.
When I was a boy, my father was posted to Africa. It is a skill, to lay open an animal with as few cuts as possible, so it can be presented with no damage to the hide. The whip is an unwieldy cutting instrument, no match for a skinning knife. But I had sixty strokes to complete my goal. The darkie screamed from the first. I swung again, and again, grinning as the skin of his back folded and peeled away. Father would have been proud. A man is nothing like a lion. My love would have a pelt, from the finest animal this country had to offer. How wide her smile, how tight her embrace, when presented with such a gift? The beast shrieked, and writhed against his restraints, twisting away from the edge of my stroke. I knew his movement better then he did, and my blows fell in space to match his body. Five more strokes to complete the job, then four. Three more, and the hide would fall away from his body, to be cleansed and cured?
I never reached the final strike. My hand was stopped, held fast by a grip that crushed the bones of my wrist together. I gasped and tried in vain to free myself. The grip tightened, and were I not such a strong man, I would have crumpled from the pain.
“Enough!” bellowed a voice near enough to shock me back to knowledge of my surroundings. Captain Ellis stood above me, his face a red mask of rage. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I ?” Galyute lay on the ground, his back so close to completion I felt my fingers twitch. Ellis tore the whip from my grasp and raised it as if to strike me.
“Sixty strokes, God damn it.” He threw the whip away. “What kind of animal are you?”
“But, I ?”
“Quiet.”
I ceased my protest. My future father-in-law was angry with me, furious. I had done something wrong. I looked from him to the blackie, searching for some sign of my transgression. The Captain pointed toward the assembled soldiers.

“You, and you. To the infirmary with him. Get him patched up.” They scurried to obey, lifting the unconscious savage from his restraints and dragging him from the square. I watched my gift disappear into the barracks, barely able to stop myself from racing after them to retrieve it. Ellis must have noticed my twitch, for he rounded on me.

“And you. I do not repeat myself. When I say stop, you stop.” He raised himself to his full height, and viewed me down the length of his nose. “Gross insubordination. One month’s kitchen duty, one month’s stable duty. To be performed simultaneously.”
“Sir, I ? Yes, sir.” No salute was more despairing, no spine more bowed with defeat. He turned his back on me and strode away, barking orders for the cleaning up of the square. I noticed my love, standing at the door of her father’s office, her eyes fixed upon me. I smiled, but she slipped inside, slamming the door behind her. The look on her face was one I had seen before, every time I was a filthy little boy and my mother had to scold me.

They released Galyute after a month, along with his darkie friends, flogged them again and sent them on their way. I returned to my squad, stinking of horse manure and sweat. No more was said. No further punishment was meted out. I was sent away on some other duty when Galyute and his cronies walked out the door of the barracks. Rose, my love, was sent to Mandurah to stay at the estate of Mister Thomas Peel. I had no way to be sure, but I knew it was because of me. I had failed her. She wished to punish me, to give me time to reflect upon my mistake and earn her favour once more. I threw myself into my duties and waited. Captain Ellis stayed at the barracks. I made it my mission to win back his respect. We were going to spend the rest of his life as family. I had to earn his approval as a soldier before I could hope to regain my position as his son. No regulation was more strictly followed, no duty completed with more diligence. And when the blackies caused such trouble that a column was ordered to march to Peel’s estate and recover them, no soldier was more proud to find himself included in the traveling party.
I never knew Private Nesbitt. But were I an angel I would have sung his name in Heaven for his stupidity in getting himself killed. The local savages released some of Mister Peel’s horses. Peel wouldn’t go out to look for them. He sent his friend Barron, accompanied by a soldier. Nesbitt. Any fool could have seen a trap. Any fool, as soon as he recognised the native who led them into the clearing. Galyute. Always Galyute. At the head of the trouble. Luring the men out into the bush. Leaving them to be attacked by the waiting blacks. Galyute. Driving the spear into poor Nesbitt’s back, piercing his flesh, impaling his organs. Galyute, prompting Captain Ellis to round up his most trustworthy men and instruct us to leave the barracks in small groups, to reassemble along the road to Mandurah. Poor, stupid, dead Nesbitt. I could have danced for joy.
I left with the first group. Nobody was to know of our journey, least of all the tribes who lived along our path. We decamped in secret, spread out over the better part of a week. Any blackie might be watching, ready to run before us and spread the word to the Murray River tribes. Small parties are always travelling the roads. Nothing to see here. Move along. I could have cared less. Let them run; let them hide in whatever crevices and cracks the earth might open up for their dirty, smelling bodies. I would sniff them out. I would do my Captain proud. The days were hot and the travel hard, but I would make him remember me. I would be a creditable soldier for my father. When the time came again, he would know me as a worthy suitor for my fianc?. She would welcome me into her arms. I would present her with the greatest gift a man can bestow upon a woman: the chance to reflect in the glory of a hero. Had the journey taken seven years, I would have whistled as I walked. Destiny stands outside of time. It would be waiting for me when I arrived, with hair that smelled of the English spring and skin so soft it would bruise under my embrace.
We arrived at Mandurah on the evening of the 26th of October, a force of thirty men, my father-in-law at its head. Royalty rode with us down the driveway of Peel’s mansion. The Governor himself had joined our company, trotting past with the last group, taking over command from Captain Ellis with the assured air of one for whom right and wrong were daily playthings. I marched a little straighter the day he joined. God and England and me, together on a holy pilgrimage to win the heart of true love and capture a beast. We crunched down the path to Peel’s front door, formed up in ranks to receive the Governor’s blessing, and were dismissed.
Armies may march on their stomachs, but the mark of a true soldier is his ability to sleep in any position, in any situation. My troop mates found their beds and were snoring within half an hour. Perhaps I was not yet the warrior I should be, for I could only lie awake in the darkness, staring at the sliver of night outside the dormitory window. Somewhere on this estate, my wife-to-be lay. Did she also stare at a patch of sky, wondering whether I had made the journey, and whether I still had the strength of character to win her affections again? Surely her father had told her that we had journeyed together. But if he hadn’t, what torture my sweet love must be experiencing, seeing so many men arrive and yet not knowing whether I were to be counted amongst their number. Sleep would not claim me, not until I had laid her worries to rest. I rose without sound, sliding past my companions without disturbing a second of their slumber. Within half a minute I stood outside, boots in hand, turning my head to make sure of my directions. The homestead crouched at the far side of the open ground, beyond the courtyard where we had paraded less than an hour previous. Lights showed in the upper windows. There my love must wait. A princess must be kept in a tower. In the absence of one, any high room would suffice.
The grass was well tended, and soft between my feet. I put on my boots, and snuck toward the back door, feverish with fairytale plans for rescue and reward. A kiss, surely, one single kiss for the man who had walked the length of a country for a sight of his true love. Would that be too much to ask or to bestow upon one so favoured in her eyes? I had no strategy with which to arm myself against discovery, but that did not worry me. Fairytale princes prevail, no matter the odds.
I gained the door without discovery. The crunch of boots on gravel reached me from around the corner. The night patrols were vigilant, but here I was, a soldier in full uniform. What would they ask that I could not explain? They held no fear for me. I grasped the doorknob. A rustling of branches caught my attention, off to my right, at the deepest part of the gardens. No light fell upon the area this late at night. Still, something was moving through the bushes. Native attacks were the reason I was here, and why I had brought my comrades with me. I bent low and abandoned my pursuit of love, pushing away from the door and racing to the cover of a nearby hedge. The sound moved farther down the row of bushes. Not an attacker then, unless he planned to leave the sanctuary of darkness and rush two heavily armed soldiers across thirty yards of well-lit courtyard. The blackies may not be smart, but even beasts weren’t stupid to the point of suicide. So an animal, then. I relaxed. The creatures of this country could be large, and even aggressive if cornered, but they were not predatory. I was about to return my attention to my crusade, when the undergrowth crackled again, and I caught an unmistakably feminine giggle.
Curiosity engaged, I snuck towards the sound. No woman should be out after dark. Natives abounded, else why would I have been summoned? It was my duty as an Englishman to apprehend this wayward girl and bring her back to safety and the light. I crept forward, shielded by the nobility of my purpose, tracking the sound of movement deeper into the garden. I heard a second voice, a guttural murmur in stark counterpoint to the giggling. The words rolled just underneath the crest of understanding, but the voice was, without a doubt, masculine. So it was a liaison, and an illicit one, judging by the circumstances. Now my purpose stood clear. I must break up this stupid couple and return the girl to the safety of the house. The man would be punished. As her rescuer, that right would fall to me. I would stand before my peers as a man of righteous morality. I would recover my place within my future family’s affections.
The movement stopped. Both voices ceased their playful murmurings. Animal moans reached me. I inhaled once. Gathering my courage, I burst through the veil of branches.
For long moments my mind refused to understand what I was seeing. A shape, blanketed by shadow. It writhed upon the ground, wrestling with a slick spectre of bark and dirt. Then the vision cleared, and I saw the face of my beloved Rose. Rose, my fianc?e, attacked by some creature of the deep ground. I jumped into the clearing, a sound of shock escaping unbidden. Immediately, the combat ceased. A face peered up at me from the top end of the creature. It leapt away from Rose, uncovering her body to my gaze.
She lay on her back, her eyes staring at me with a mixture of shock and anger, arms flung behind her as she scrabbled for purchase on the soil. Her nightdress had rucked up around her throat. Her flesh lay exposed to my gaze, forbidden curves and rises spread before me, moist and shining where the press of bodies had created sweat. Her nipples erect, the spray of hair at her groin wet and open as she pulled her knees up to push herself away. Her bubbies jiggled with the effort. I screamed again. This was no assault. Rose, my Rose, was not being attacked. Instead she had ? they were ? consorting. With a creature of the ground, a nightmare beast, a ? I turned upon the monster where it crouched a dozen steps away from my beloved’s nakedness. It smiled up at me, a cruel knowledge played across its features. And they were features I recognised, a face I had seen contorted in fear and agony as I had plied the whip across its back. My Rose, naked in the bush, lying underneath the filthy black skin of Galyute. For a moment I saw the apparition I had encountered as I stepped through the bushes. My mind filled in the blanks it had not recognised the first time. I began to harden within my pants, and shook my head in revulsion.
“No.” I fell backward a single step, and he jumped for a gap in the bush. I leapt after him without thinking, my future wife’s nakedness forgotten in the sudden urge for revenge. I was unarmed, not having wanted to alarm my darling with a fearsome appearance when I entered her room. That did not matter to me now. My hands would be enough, curled into claws around Galyute’s neck, squeezing until the skin beneath them turned white and cold. I screeched at his retreating back as he dodged between trees just ahead of me. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his teeth showing white. I bent my head, ignoring the branches that whipped at my face, drawing deep breaths as I forced a burst of speed into my legs. He skirted a gum just in front of me, and my foot caught a root as I adjusted to follow him. I went over, rolling down a short incline and fetching up hard against a rock. Something crunched in my wrist, and I howled with pain. His laugh sounded off to one side. I hauled myself up once more, clambering one-handed up the bank. I took a moment to regain my bearings then set off in the direction from which his laughter had come, moving more slowly now, using my good hand to clear the undergrowth from my path.
The bush was thick. I had long since lost sight of the house and gardens. I did not care. It was all Peel’s territory. Sooner or later I would drag the rebellious darkie’s body to some source of civilization. All I had to do was locate him, and the work was half done. I outweighed the scrawny native by a good thirty pounds. Even wounded, I would snap him in half like stale bread. My rage was righteous, and God has always been on my side. Rose was mine, only mine. What I would do to flense his unclean touch from her did not bear consideration, but she would thank me for it once it was done.
A black skin rug would decorate her floor. Black skin gloves would adorn her hands. Black bones would feed her dogs.
The track forked, one path heading into deeper bush, the other coming up short against a sudden rise in the ground. I heard a muffled crack in that direction and crept up the slope. I lowered myself to the ground and peered over the top of the bank.
A small clearing opened up some twenty yards down the other side of the rise. Galyute stood in the centre, his back to me, bent over with his hands on his knees. I smiled, my teeth sharp against my bottom lip. The chase had tired him out, his underfed body unable to stand the pursuit of a well bred Englishman. My task would be easy. I pushed up, ignoring the scream from my wrist, and raced the two dozen steps to the clearing. He did not move. I was less than ten paces away when I realised he was not knelt over in exhaustion. His head was tilted upwards, his attention captured by something in the lower branches of a massive gum tree at the far end of the clearing. He chanted in a low, deep voice, words that carried the taint of a language older than time. The words pushed against me, thickening the air. My headlong rush slowed. My hands fell to my side. By the time I reached him I had no more will for murder than a child. He stood erect and stepped backwards, turning until he faced me with the tree at his back.
“What’s the matter, wadjella?” he asked, spreading his arms wide to show he was unarmed. “Wanna kill me? I’m here.”
I tried to raise my hands, tried to step forward and throw my weight against his stick-thin body. But my resolve deserted me as quickly as I formed the notion. I stood still, mouth hanging open. Drool rose up and over my lip, slowly coating my chin. Galyute stepped forward with dainty steps, reached out with one finger, and tipped my unresisting head backwards until my gaze rested upon the branches to which he had been praying.
“See him?” he whispered in my ear. “See him, there?”
A shape took form on the stoutest of the lower branches. A large cat, hunched over, gripping the branch with claws that resembled extended thumbs more than feline pads. The soldier in me noted and measured. It was well over four feet in length, its hide a mess of tawny spots that I struggled to track amidst the leaves. The cat must have weighed thirty or forty pounds, yet the branch bowed not one inch under it. Its ears lay flat against its head, and the light in its eyes came from no human sun. When it yawned, I saw the length of its fangs and shuddered.
“He a powerful jennok, wadjella,” the native at my shoulder said. “He been dead a long time, this one, before the bindjareb come to this place, before people come at all, before dreamtime. He got ideas for all you white ones. He sees inside you. And he hungry for you.” He patted me on the shoulder as a father would an adoring son. I still did not want to fight him. All I wanted was to gaze at the wondrous creature on display before me. It yawned once more and tensed hind legs under its flanks.
Galyute stepped in front of me and turned his back, offering the easiest of strikes. My hands stayed at my side. He raised his arms and leaned towards the beast. He began to chant, a song of obeisance and all-encompassing love. The cat hunkered down, and so quick I could not see, leapt from the branch. I caught a flash of its underside and the marsupial pouch that hung there. Then the spell left me. The creature struck Galyute on the shoulder, barging him out of the way like a furred cannonball. I had time to throw my hands over my face before the full mass of the cat hit me. I screamed, expecting claws to rend my exposed stomach and teeth to sink deep into my neck. Instead of pain, I was hit by a moment of pure ecstasy, a strumming of my muscles like an angel’s hand running along the strings of a harp. The bulky animal passed into me, slipping inside my flesh as if diving into a pool, making as much noise as a ghost through shadows. I blinked: once; twice; half expecting to hear it thrashing about inside me like the kittens we used to bag back home, just before walking to the river and throwing them in. Nothing happened. I laughed, shaking my head at my own stupidity, and turned toward the blackie, lying stunned on the ground.
“Almost had me there,” I said, stepping over him. “Magic tricks won’t stop me from ?” I paused, and the memory of why I pursued him rushed back to me. “Time to pay, you filth.”
I managed one more step before the pain hit me, exploding up from my stomach, along my bones, twisting me until I crouched on all fours, head pressed against the earth. From somewhere distant I heard a howl, and a voice speaking a language I had never heard but which I understood like a second tongue.
“He was meant to choose me.” Something hard struck my face, and again. I slipped to my belly, and Galyute brought his feet into play. “I can’t kill you now.” He laughed, and it was the sound of death. “You part of the spirit world now, wadjella,” he said. “You food for the spirits.” He grabbed my hair and pulled my head up until his yellow eyes filled all the vision I had left.
“What you going to do in there, huh?” he cried. I realized that he spoke, not to me, but to something he saw deep behind my eyes. “I offered you my flesh, my hunt. Now all that death will be for me alone. I will hunt them all, all the white spirits. You picked the wrong way to survive, old one.”
He let go of my head, and it cracked against the ground as I fell. My sight filled with black. Footsteps receded through the bush, moving away from me without care. My strength went with it, and I closed my eyes against the world.

Rick Moore - Author

The following interview is with Rick Moore, author of The Night John Fell in The Beast Within.

Hi, Rick. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Rick Moore like?

A: Most of my days are pretty weird. For example, the other day a woman said to me ‘My roommate had a baby and put it in her locker and in the night I hear it crying,’.  I have conversations daily with a guy who thinks he’s the President of Mexico and another who’s receiving communications from satellites. All this takes place at my work, a psychiatric hospital, where I’m employed as a mental health specialist. It’s like living in a David Lynch movie. Fortunately, I love Lynch, and where some staff get burnt out working with these type of patients, I always enjoy being around them. There are down sides of course, it’s potentially a very dangerous environment. Some patients are hitters, and just attack with no warning. Others engage in acts of self-harm, not just attention seeking behaviors but serious self mutilation, and that’s just about the worst thing of all.

Outside of work I lead a fairly ordinary life. I take a lot of bicycle rides with my girlfriend, cook, spend time with friends and family. Read a lot, write, collect a lot of rejection slips and the occasional acceptance. My Mum, brother and myself moved to the US from England in the 90s, and have remained here ever since.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: The biggest challenge is coming up with something that doesn’t feel like it’s already been done. I try to find ways to avoid taking the story in a direction that’s obvious.

What initiated your interest in the horror genre?

A: I guess it goes back to my Mum and Dad splitting up and getting divorced when I was around the age of six. Looking back, I guess the impact was so jarring that the TV shows and movies other kids were into no longer held much interest for me. The world was suddenly a much darker place and I got my first taste of real unhappiness. The average six year old still believes in Santa Claus, but what I believed was that bad things happened to good people and that was what I had this need within myself to experience. Maybe so I could understand, even if it was just in a horror movie, how people dealt with devastating events. Not that I knew any of this at the time, obviously. But if there was a Hammer or Universal or other old horror movie on TV, I’d beg my Dad, who raised me, to let me stay up late and watch it. This was usually a Friday or Saturday night, and my dad was fairly easy going, so I always got to watch those movies when they were on. What I realized pretty fast was that these creatures and monsters were a thousand times cooler than some fat guy in a red suit with a big white beard. What I couldn’t understand was why other kids didn’t share my excitement about horror movies. Well there was one, my best friend growing up, who got it the same way I did, whose parents also let him watch whatever he wanted, or didn’t monitor him that much during the summer holidays. I think the point of no return was around the time King exploded worldwide, and the birth of home video, when we got our hands on pirated copies of movies like An American Werewolf In London and The Thing and Scanners. After you’ve seen movies like that as a child and you’ve read books by King and James Herbert and Guy N. Smith, there’s really no way of going back to what your peers are reading and watching, what in fact you’re probably supposed to be exposed to at that age.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: At my job. Daily. Which is to say, it’s not unusual to have somebody screaming obscenities an inch from my face for an entirely ridiculous reason, to be around somebody who’s genuinely convinced they’re under attack from unseen demonic forces, or have to try to counsel somebody in such a rage they’re punching holes in the wall.

Is there a specific aspect of the genre that is particularly appealing to you?

A: In broad terms, because they were such an important part of growing up, I love the old Hammer movies and the TV shows Hammer House of Horror and Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected. Also the Amicus portmanteaus from the 70s. And I’m always a sucker for a rollicking good zombie story.

In more specific terms, I’d say what appeals to me most is horror mixed with dark humor. Not so much horror-comedy, though when it’s done right I’m a fan of that also, but more material that creates a sense of unease while at the same time being humorous. Personal favorites would include black comedies like Theater of Blood, particularly the scene where Vincent Price force feeds a gluttonous Robert Morley his beloved pet poodles, or the humor in the films of David Lynch.  Another favorite would be Kubrick’s adaptation of the Burgess novella A Clockwork Orange, which is one of the most disturbing and funniest films I’ve ever seen. Masters of this type of dark humor would include Joe Lansdale, Bentley Little, Chuck Palaniuk, Frank Henenlotter and Takashi Miike.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: What I try to do is avoid the temptation to edit and instead keep the words moving. They won’t keep moving if you stop to analyze every paragraph and sentence immediately after writing it. My advice is to leave the editing (the major editing) for later and focus on getting the story written.

Where can we see more of your work?

A: The first few stories I had published were in Dark Animus, Chimeraworld 3, Embark to Madness and Theater of Decay.

Anthologies that came out this year include History Is Dead, The Undead: Flesh Feast, Bound for Evil, Horror Library Volume 3 and of course The Beast Within,

Next year (thus far) I’ll have stories in Cthulhu Unbound, Where Have All the Good Zombies Gone? and  Harvest Hill (also from Graveside Tales).

More information about these anthologies and ordering info can be found at http://www.myspace.com/zombieinfection, where you can also watch clips from some of my favorite movies, including the aforementioned force-feeding scene from Theater of Blood.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: I was in the Circle K, looking to grab something for breakfast when I saw the sunflower seeds they had for sale, you know the flavored kind made by Spitz. I guess that’s where the association with birds came from, and by the time I was in my car and driving to work, I started wondering what would happen if you worked alone in the store at night and somebody came in who started behaving like a bird, pecking at a pack of those seeds. And what if it didn’t end there? What if this guy physically started to resemble a bird, grew a beak and had small black eyes when he removed his sunglasses? That first image got stuck in my head and refused to leave until I wrote about it.

Thanks, Rick!

And now, here’s an excerpt of The Night John Fell from The Beast Within:

THE NIGHT JOHN FELL,
BY RICK MOORE

As was his habit, John arrived at the Arco at 10:15 pm, fifteen minutes early for the start of his shift. He parked in his usual spot, the far bay on the left in front of the store, then got out and locked his car. There was only one car at the pumps, a late 90s Taurus. Karl stood out front, opening a fresh pack of Pall Mall Lights. By the time John reached him Karl had thrown the wrapper in the trash and had a cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey, John,” Karl said, flicking his Bic.
“Hey, Karl.”
Karl exhaled smoke. “Fresh coffee’s made.”
“Great. I’m gonna need it.”

The job of making coffee for the night shift was officially John’s, but not long after he started coming in early, Karl and Martin showed their appreciation by including the duty as one of their own.

“Anything I need to know?” John asked.
“Nope,” Karl said. “Business as usual.”

Business as usual. That was what John liked to hear. Not its meaning (though it was good to know the other man’s shift had gone smoothly). No, what John liked was the sense of familiarity that came from hearing those three words. Karl had worked at the Arco nine years (5 more than John). At 51, he was 2 years John’s junior. It was impossible to say just how many times John had asked, “Anything I need to know?” and Karl had replied, “Nope. Business as usual.” Hundreds probably. Sometimes there was something John needed to know, something the manager had asked to be communicated, and sometimes there were enough customers to warrant Karl’s presence behind the counter inside, but most nights there was a lull at this time of night, and Karl could be relied upon to be standing out front, waiting for John to arrive before he lit the smoke that would see him through his journey home.

John thought, with any luck we’ll still be saying the same thing when both of us are just about ready for retirement.
Some people might find the whole thing incredibly depressing. Not John. He needed things to stay as mundane and routine as possible, because most of his adult life had been just the opposite?each day a spiral of insanity that started when he woke up and took his first drink, and didn’t end until the booze overtook his body and left him unconscious on the floor. Then it would start all over again the next day.

But he’d beaten it.
Meetings three times a week. The twelve steps to sobriety. Medication for his bipolar disorder.

And above all, this job.
Knowing he was trusted and considered reliable, that was what kept him sober.

Walking into the store, he nodded to Martin, who was at the counter ringing up gas for the driver of the Taurus. Making a beeline for the coffee, John grabbed a paper cup from the tall stack beside the pots, added two squirts of French Vanilla creamer from the dispenser, and filled it to the brim with coffee.

Sipping his drink, John approached the counter. Martin raised the flip-up pass-through, and the two of them traded places. Through the window, John saw Karl driving away in his red Chevy Blazer, a plume of cigarette smoke escaping from the slightly lowered driver-side window.
John and Martin exchanged some small talk, mostly concerning the new stock that had arrived during the day, then Martin went to the back of the store to get his jacket and three 40s of Olde English 800. The kid drank too much?almost nightly it seemed?but John never mentioned it, knowing full well that drinkers were deaf to advice from others until they were ready to start listening.

When the transaction was completed and the bottles bagged, Martin said goodnight and headed for the door. John followed, intending to lock the door after him. The store policy was for the overnight to keep the doors locked until 5am, handling the customers’ needs through the service window. This could be a pain sometimes, especially when people sent him running all over the store for a dozen different things, but this wasn’t exactly the best of neighborhoods, and John would rather end his shift with aching legs than finish early thanks to a bullet in the face.

Approaching the door, Martin reached out to push it open. Somebody beat him to it and pulled the door open from outside.
“Sorry partner,” Martin said, holding out a hand. “Store’s locking up; go to the window and anything you want my buddy here can go get for you.”
For a moment John didn’t recognize the man?not with sunglasses and a hat on?then he realized it was Greg, one of his regular customers.
“It’s all right, Martin,” John said. “I know him. He’s fine.”
“You sure?” Martin asked.
John nodded and moved aside, allowing Greg to enter the store.
“Been coming to this store long as I been working here. If I can’t trust him, I can’t trust nobody.”
“Your call,” Martin said. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” John said and locked the door after he was gone.
John returned to his spot behind the counter. Greg was at the back of the middle aisle, studying the snack items on the shelves.
“In a little early tonight, huh, Greg?” John called. “You on your way to work?”
John knew the other man’s work schedule as well as he knew his own. Greg worked nights at the state mental hospital. John glanced towards the forecourt and realized Greg’s blue Jetta wasn’t out there.
“Say, Greg, what happened to your car?”
Greg didn’t reply. He went on studying the snacks.

Alarm bells rang in John’s mind. Greg was usually friendly and talkative, but tonight he was acting as though he didn’t even know John existed. And what was with the sunglasses at night? Unless working in a place full of nut jobs had finally gotten to him (and though Greg joked the patients were driving him nuts, he never struck John as the type to ever need a rubber room), Greg’s odd behavior could only mean one thing: he was high on something.

Great, John thought. And I had to go and let him inside the store. Goddamn it Greg.
John looked outside to try to signal Martin, but he was already pulling off the forecourt and onto the road. Looking back at Greg, John saw that he’d finally made a selection. He stood holding a packet of Spitz sunflower seeds, turning the packet in front of his face, seemingly fascinated by it.

John decided to remain silent from here on out. Greg could either pay for the packet of Spitz, or walk right out with them if that was what he chose to do. John just wanted him out of the store. He knew from personal experience that the best way to avoid conflict with somebody who was drunk or high was to let them remain in their own little world and stay out of their way.

But when Greg ripped open the packet of Spitz and sunflower seeds exploded into the air, John disregarded all the advice he’d just given himself and came rushing around the counter.
“Goddamn it Greg!” John yelled, running along the aisle towards him. “Get out of here right now. You hear me? Get out and don’t come back.”

If Greg did hear him, he showed no sign of it. Instead he studied the Spitz that remained in the packet. John halted a foot or so away from him, just in time to get a close up view of the strangest thing he’d ever seen somebody do. Greg’s head darted forwards, his nose aimed directly at the opening he’d made in the packet. He inhaled and snapped back his head, both nostrils clogged with sunflower seeds. Greg snorted, trying to suck back the Spitz blocking his nose. From his mouth came a high-pitched squawk: an impersonation of a crow that was eerily accurate. Then his head jerked forward a second time, his nose again dipping into the packet of seeds.

“Get out!” John yelled, striking the packet with the back of his hand. His fingers brushed against Greg’s sunglasses, knocking them off his head. The packet of Spitz fell to the floor, the sunglasses clattering on the tile beside it.
“I don’t know what you’re on, Greg, but?”
Greg’s head snapped up.
And that was when John got his first look at Greg’s eyes. He’d seen the strange effects drugs could have on a person’s body, but he’d never heard of a drug that could do something like this. Greg’s eyes were completely black.

“Jesus, Greg,” John said. “What the hell did you take?”
Greg opened his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His mouth twisted to one side, then the other. “B-B-B-squawk B-B squawk B-B-Bird!”

John Palisano - Author

The following interview is with John Palisano, independent filmmaker and author of The Marine in The Beast Within.

Hi, John. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-John Palisano like?

A: Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb through my head . . . my daily life is usually pretty simple, really. At the moment working a full-time day job, raising my son. These days most of my writing is taking place on my iPhone, believe it or not. I’m a gadget freak, and using the Text Edit program allows me to write in places I’ve never been able to be productive before. During breaks at work, I can squeeze in bursts, and I can lie in bed in the middle of the night, grab this little handheld thing, and not disturb anyone. Of course it takes a lot of cleanup on a traditional word processor, but it’s great.

As a writer of both films and short stories, what is your approach for making ideas a reality?

A: With either medium it begins with a sketch. My stories usually begin with an image sucker punching me. It’s much quicker to grab an idea from the Ethosphere with a quick sketch. Trying to spin images immediately into perfectly descriptive words makes me think too much and important details are lost. From that point I think a lot about the people and creatures in a story. I need to know them before I can write them.

What initiated your interest in the horror genre?

A: One weekend my father let me stay up to watch ‘Night Of The Living Dead’. Ending when the main character died shocked me. Up until then it’d been ‘Star Wars’ and ‘Grease’. We had a fantastic drive-in in Norwalk, and one summer we saw ‘Demon Seed’ with the little metal baby, and then ‘Alien’, which completely changed me. My father brought home the art book and it really captured my imagination.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: Every. Single. Day.

Seriously? Living in New England in a big old house there’s a damn good reason so many horror stories take place here, and why so many horror authors come from this area. It’s just . . . everywhere. Gray. Creepy. Old Death, Old Stories, Old Ones. Seems I come face to face with scary every day.

Given a big studio budget, what actor would you cast for the lead role in The Marine if you made it into a movie?

A: This is tough, as the characters are straight out of the war and are young. I’d love to see some fresh faces who don’t have anything preconceived built in, someone like Usher as Dylan, I can see him as a fantastic bad guy, Leighton Meester as Laurie, and Chace Crawford as Mark would be great examples. If I could go classic, it’d be Grace Kelly, Steve McQueen and Clint Eastwood.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: Absolutely. The first thing I do is get the hell away from the computer and that environment. Usually just going somewhere new helps. Even if I go to get some food, well, things are happening all around you. A bit of overheard conversation can spark tons of ideas, or reinvigorate a stalled project in mid-birth. Also, breaking out the sketch pad and drawing a story shot of the scene can work wonders for me, no matter how primitive my art skills may be!

Where can we see more of your work?

A: “Outlaws Of Hill County” will be in Graveside’s own ‘Harvest Hill’, as will “The Haven”, which will be in “Horror Library Volume 3″.  Next year brings ‘The Tennatrick’ in ‘Midnight Walk’, about California Firebug monsters and another personal favorite, “Wings For Wheels” which will be appearing in PS Publishing’s ‘Darkness On The Edge: Tales Inspired By Bruce Springsteen’. Each writer adapted a song into a horror or science fiction story. Mine is based on, ‘Thunder Road’!

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: I’ve lived near the ocean my entire life, so much of my imagination and mythology centers near the shore. I’d never seen anything done with people turning into water-based animals, and I thought I could do something different.  I also have a lot of relatives who are military, and there was an attempt here at blending horror with the military. So much military storytelling is large-scale and over the top, and centers on the battlefront. There are reverberations and long-term effects that exploring them seemed interesting. Plus, how the hell could someone put into words changing a human being into . . . without spoiling things, we’ll just say that was a challenge.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story The Marine?

A: When Mark’s ex-girlfriend Laurie shows up on his doorstep, he’s not too thrilled. She’s chosen the worst time to try and rekindle their relationship. There’s a full moon, and he’s feeling a little . . . itchy. Once his Marine buddy Dylan appears and tries to reclaim Laurie as his own, Mark uncovers their hidden secrets, as well as the origins of his own transformative powers.

Thanks, John!

And now, here’s an excerpt of The Marine from The Beast Within:

THE MARINE, BY JOHN PALISANO

“Water,” she said. “You have to have water, don’t you?”
She stumbled in like that?all questions and no explanations. “Laurie? What’s going on?” Mark stepped out of her way as she shoved past him.
“You’ve got a damn bunker out here after all.” She went to his fridge, helped herself to a bottle of water, and guzzled it with her eyes closed.
“Something happen with you and Dylan?”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Laurie wiped her mouth. “I don’t feel so great.” She dropped the empty bottle, grabbed a second, and downed it just as fast. She sunk down in front of the sink and clawed at the front of her head, messing up her shoulder-length blonde hair. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “With me. My body.” All the color drained from her face. “You think you could ever forgive me, sweets?”
“What?” he said, shocked and unsure at what he heard. She’s using that tone on me, he thought. What does she want?
“I asked if you could ever forgive me. That’s what.” She caught her breath.
“You called me sweets?” he said. “You’re wearing your best blouse and you smell like lavender. My favorite.” He couldn’t help but cock an eyebrow and smirk; it was the same face he’d given her that night she’d come on so strong to him, right before they’d made love. Once upon a time. Before Dylan.
Laurie caught his look and glanced away. “I think I have a fever,” she said.
Mark touched her forehead. “Actually, you’re a little cool.”
“We’re right on the ocean here. It’s colder than being inland. ”
“It’s in the seventies and it’s eight o’clock. We’re having one of those October heat waves that won’t quit.” He touched her head a second time. “You’re really cold.”
“I feel like I’m on fire,” she said, her voice tired. “Can I have another water?”
“Sure you don’t want something more medicinal?”
“You’d know what’s best for me right now.”
He helped her to his living room, where she slumped onto his couch.
“You know that inside the womb babies breathe amniotic fluid. They gulp like little guppies. Ever hear that?”
“No,” he said.
“That’s how I feel right now. Like I need to be underwater to get enough to drink.”
He made his way back towards the kitchen. “I can help you with that a little.”
“Everyone starts out underwater, you know?” Laurie asked. “Maybe we’ll end up that way, too.”
“I don’t know,” Mark said as he knelt in front of his wine rack and looked through the labels. Light from the full moon shone through the window and reflected in the glass, an effect that made them appear to glow. Mark stood and looked outside at the sky. The moon’s pallid face loomed over the ocean, casting its light all the way from the horizon to the jagged cliffs below the house. He had a beach, but it was spotted with tons of sharp rocks. He wanted to put a dock below his home, but knew the shore was too dangerous for boating. Mark was glad, though, because the reef of rocks acted as a natural barrier and kept erosion to a minimum.
Mark found a good bottle, popped it, and poured them each a glass.
“What is this?” Laurie asked as he handed her the sparkling-clean crystal. She rolled the wine around the body of the glass a few times and watched how it dripped down the inside. Then she smelled it. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Voignier,” he said. “Sunstone. Two years.”
“Oh, shit,” she said. “You still have some?”
“I found a few at the back of Vendome. Bought the last five bottles.” He sat down next to her.
Laurie looked down at the glass. “I love Vendome.”
He tilted his head back and swallowed the earthy, yellow liquid. “That’s good.”
She watched him.
“Drink up. There’s plenty more.”
She did.
Pressing his hand to her forehead, Mark froze. She must have seen his concern on his face.
“What?” Laurie looked scared.
“You’re even colder now,” he said.
She took another drink. “This should warm me up.”
Mark looked Laurie over. Her temperature is going way down. She’s thirsty. She’s scared and tired and wiped out. Then he looked to the back of his living room. “Want me to take you to the hospital?”
Laurie waved at him. “I can’t get stuck with seven thousand dollars in Emergency room bills if it’s nothing. My insurance is awful.”
“I’ll lend you the money.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Then she looked up at him; her glassy, grey eyes met his gaze. “I just want you to take care of me like you used to.”
Mark sighed. “You know you’re welcome here whenever you want.”
“You’ve always acted so warm and fuzzy to me, sweets, no matter what I’ve done to you.” She nodded off a bit. “My chest hurts and things are getting a little blurry.” He saw dark lines between her eyes and cheeks; her skin was red and flushed.
“Any other symptoms?”
“Feels like fiberglass every time I swallow.”
“Could be a bacterial infection in your throat or sinuses,” he said. “Maybe it’s just the flu. There’s a bad strain this year.”
She shook her head, a rueful smile on her lips. “We both know what’s happening,” she said. “There’s no use trying to find excuses.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
She slid against him, pressing her head to his chest. The feeling of her body against him stirred memories of their past. He wrapped his arms around her.
“How long will it take?”
“It’s hard to say. It might not happen at all this time.”
“I’m scared, sweets.”
“Don’t be.”
***
The Marine Corp’s sonar tests called the monsters up from their deep Mediterranean caves. Dozens of red creatures swarmed towards Mark, each of their eight arms pulsing, grabbing, and pushing. Mark hadn’t seen them when he first dove into the water. They waited until he had rescued the wayward RV Bot to wrap their arms around him. Their suckers clasped him right through his wetsuit. Meanwhile, Dylan had his own problems. The sonar had summoned other creatures up from the deep: long, grey sharks. Mark watched them close in even as he grappled with the squid. They shot out of the murk like silver bullets cutting through the night, and then turned to circle Dylan. Mark screamed into the com-link for him to get away, but then the squids’ tentacles tightened, crushing him silent.
Something nipped at his legs and arms. He could see the beasts entangling his limbs, pulling him toward their mouths. He pictured their horrible black beaks slicing off V-shaped hunks of flesh, or maybe one catching him between the ribs and biting through to his chest cavity. He thrashed to wiggle free. All the while he held the RV Bot. Maybe the ship would be able to re-activate it and pull him up, away from the squid.
What about Dylan? Where was he?
Mark kicked several times. Survive! Can’t die like this!
One of the creatures settled over his head, its fleshy arms slapping down to cover him like a pink shroud. Sucker cups clutched at his facemask. Mark struggled even harder, watching in horror as the thing’s alien mouth protruded from its body, descending over his shoulder. It seemed to happen in slow motion, and Mark howled in agony when the beak finally snapped shut. He felt the needle-like tip pierce the tendons and ligaments of his rotator cuff, the razor-sharp edges cutting skin and muscle.
Then, amazingly, the RV Bot powered back on. He punched the large red button at its center, which sent out a test Sonar signal. The water seemed to implode from the low-frequency blast.
The squid darted away as quickly as they’d come. Mark locked eyes with the one closest to him?the one that had bit him on the shoulder?until it swam backwards and away, into the black depths of the ocean. The RV Bot ascended, taking Mark with it. He looked at his body. There were several nips along his legs, and dozens of criss-crossing cuts across his forearms. He clutched the sides of the RV Bot as it floated to the surface, but blacked out just as the night’s full moon came into view, its leering face looking down on him through the waves.

Vince Churchill - Author

The following interview is with Vince Churchill, author of By the Light of the Silvery Moon in The Beast Within.

Hi, Vince. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Vince Churchill like?

A: Hey guys. Well, I’m a 46 year old horror geek that’s been writing stories for most of my life. I’m a fan of horror, sci-fi, martial arts, action films, and old Marvel comics, which I incorporate elements of into my writing all the time.
Well, an average day for me is heading off to my day job at my old high school, Jacksonville High School. I used to supervise the all day internal suspension, but this school year I do a little of everything, kinda filling in the cracks?smile. Right after school I head to football practice, where I help coach the freshman team. The evenings are spent having dinner and conversation with my beautiful wife, and depending on the night, either watching some football, or a favorite show like Lost, Burn Notice, Sons of Anarchy, or Life. Occasionally, I get a little writing done too. Usually Monday through Wednesday nights I’m working on my weekly newspaper column, which appears Sundays in the Jacksonville Journal Courier newspaper. Otherwise, I’m working on my current novel, Good Night My Sweet, or a novella I’m revising for publication next year.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: For me, the biggest challenge is prioritizing projects. I have so many ideas I want to bring to life, but as a novelist the time investment is such that you can’t really afford to make a mistake about which idea to work on for months. As I was finishing up the first draft of my current novel, I was already starting the mental sweepstakes for the next one. It took me most of the summer to decide which idea to pursue, but I’ve settled that and I’m totally jazzed to get into it. I’ve learned that it’s better for me to let the ideas simmer, then battle it out in the back of my mind until the winner steps forth, than to force the issue, or choose what I think might be the most marketable, or what might be “hot” a couple years down the road, etc. And odds are, if I live long enough, the runner up idea will eventually find itself getting written?smile.

What initiated your interest in the horror genre?

A: Well, my mom got me started on those old black and white thrillers, then the horror flicks of the seventies such as Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Last House on the Left, Jaws, The Exorcist, Dawn of the Dead, and Halloween took hold and never let go. Then Stephen King just dotted the i and crossed the t.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: Totally, but the stories are better told campfire style?ha ha ha. I will say that one was a classic Halloween graveyard experience, and the other occurred with a group of friends in an old camper. Some of my buddies will never let me forget my classic line, “No spider threw that rock!”

Is there a specific aspect of the genre that is particularly appealing to you?

A: I love the unlimited range and lack of boundaries of horror. Originality is difficult, but it’s not hard to twist the every day into something very unsettling. I like forcing readers to see what I want them to see, feel what I want them to feel. I particularly love blending genres, especially horror and action, like in the films Dog Soldiers, Brotherhood of the Wolf, or Grindhouse’s Planet Terror. Writing horror or dark fiction is like being the creepy guy who operates the scary ride at the traveling carnival. I really dig that position of controlling the ride, which is the great challenge of entertaining readers.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: Honestly, I’ve never had writer’s block, (knocking on wood) and I hope I never do. For me, it all lies in the passion for what you’re writing. If you’re not stoked as a writer to create, how can you expect readers to get excited about the finished product? My relationship with my writing is about the same as Cartman’s relationship with cheesy poofs. I just crave it all the time. I’m a writing junkie.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: Well, I got a little lucky. I had a story already written for an anthology that lost its publisher just waiting for a home, and it just happened to be a werewolf story. I grew up a huge comic book fan, and I’d had an idea for a werewolf version of Blade forever. I just thought it would be cool to have a Batman-like superhero that used his curse to combat other supernatural creatures, but especially other werewolves. “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” was born, and a possible novel and screenplay are on my writing “to-do” list.

Where can we see more of your work?

A: Well, if you live on L.A. or San Fran, my books are on the shelves of Dark Delicacies in Burbank or Borderland’s in San Francisco. Readers can check out my novels and some of the recent anthologies I appear in on Amazon.com. I have two novels: The Dead Shall Inherit The Earth, which is an outer space horror tale involving a group of mercenaries doing a job for the government that goes backed up toilet bad. There’s plenty of nightmarish action, and zombies make an appearance during the final quarter of the book. The Blackest Heart is my futuristic nod to High Plains Drifter, The Crow, and Spawn. It’s also set in outer space but has a distinct western feel, and I think the collection of villains the resurrected hero is up against is the book’s major plus. It’s a lot of fun. Both books were written for adults, so expect heavy doses of imaginative violence and sexuality. Also, despite the pulp nature, both books have very strong female characters. That’s what happens when you grow up digging Emma Peel of the Avengers, Vasquez from Aliens, and being a fan of Adrienne Barbeau.
Hopefully in 2009 my latest novel Good Night My Sweet, and novella Condemned will be in readers’ hands, along with an appearance in an anthology or two.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story By the Light of the Silvery Moon?

A: Well, it’s about a superhero werewolf called Lunar, who, as his career is at an end, is trying to track and destroy a pack of werewolves preying on Los Angeles. He has one last chance to destroy them, but a major complication turns his mission into a journey far more personal and perilous than he ever planned on.

Thanks, Vince!

A: Thank you Matt & GST for giving “By The Light of the Silvery Moon” the opportunity to be in such a great anthology; and for me having a chance to reach out to the readers.

And now, here’s an excerpt of By the Light of the Silvery Moon from The Beast Within:

BY THE LIGHT OF THE SILVERY MOON, BY VINCE CHURCHILL

Beams from the bright full moon highlighted his broad, V-shaped back, revealing a road map of scars. He focused on the routine he’d completed exactly one hundred times, done precisely as he’d been instructed eight years before.

He handled the items gently, his thick fingers treating them as fragile, priceless heirlooms, despite their obvious durability.
Folded out of sight at the bottom of the faded green steamer trunk was his short cape. During his initial introduction to the role, Van Dyke had thought it a silly add-on to a geek’s role playing costume. It attached at each shoulder by a small pair of strong plastic alloy clips. Once on, the black and gray cape hung to the middle of his back.

Perched on top of the cape was a pair of dull black boots. Looked to be made of black supple leather, the boots were specially constructed from a material able to accommodate the severe physiological changes of his curse. He took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it leak out. Nearly a decade later and he was still not completely comfortable with the transformation, controlled or not. Knee high, the boots were secured with a series of small buckle clamps lining the front.

The black and gray skin-suit was next, folded as neatly as if by a gentlemen’s gentleman. The pure silver chest decoration rested on top of that, its carved wolf head emblem a magnificent likeness. Next was the pull-on cowl, and on the top were the forearm-length gauntlet gloves.

The cowl was designed for only partial head coverage; his face below the eyes uncovered. Slits were in place to accommodate his overgrown wolf ears. Also built into the cowl was his communication link with Alfred, his cybernetic intelligence network. His father, an enthusiastic fan of the Batman mythos, named the interactive program after the hero’s faithful butler and aid. Alfred provided logistical and tactical support during missions.
Van Dyke’s specially designed gauntlets had the appearance of hockey gloves, but were constructed of the same flex materials as his boots, with the gloves’ open fingertips designed to accommodate the change from human fingernails to exaggerated werewolf talons. The gauntlets were also set up with his most basic close-quarter combat weaponry: twin daggers with blades made of the purest silver. But adversaries had more than the blades to defend against.

Lying on the top of the folded uniform were his pride and joy. His great-great-grandfather had started the Lunar silver bullet tradition, and each generation had improved upon their own set of death dealing pistols. Treece’s were a pair of silver-plated Desert Eagles. Firing special .50 caliber hollow point silver shells containing a liquid silver load, the guns had been custom balanced and fitted to be effective in both his human and wolf hands. The pistol’s grips, trigger guard, and trigger were coated in black rubber to protect him from the silver’s effect. Werewolves were especially agile and lightning-quick predators, but when he was on target, the guns had great stopping power. Over the years, despite arduous training, he was still considerably less accurate using his left hand than his right while in wolf form. No one was perfect, he supposed. Batman probably didn’t throw the bat-a-rang as well with his left hand either. Now, in the moonlight, the guns’ polished plating shined like the North Star.

Just looking at the pistols nearly stimulated the transformation. He could feel his pelt ready to sprout all over his body. But allowing the change to happen now would be a terrible mistake.

He enjoyed a few more moments savoring the sight of his uniform, and then Treece Van Dyke let the trunk’s lid drop. He turned and faced the brilliance of the full moon. It was one of those nights when the moon seemed closer to the earth, posing to show off its pale, radiant beauty. He closed his eyes and let his body drink deeply from the source of its power. If not for the moon, the curse of his family would be impotent.

The superhuman will and resolve of his great-great-grandfather had re-directed the bestial curse of lycanthropy and aimed it back at its darkest hearts. Through research and inhuman mental and physical training, great-great-grandfather Theotis had become the original Lunar. Lunar, the first werewolf who’d trained himself to retain higher human function while in wolf form. By harnessing his savage power through reasoning, his great-great-grandfather dedicated himself to protecting humanity’s herd from those afflicted with the curse and its insatiable craving for human flesh.
Last night had been Treece’s last night wearing the cowl. He’d failed to discover the lair of his nemesis, a man-wolf named Driessen, dubbed by the Los Angeles media as “The Manimal.” All his efforts and network of contacts hadn’t been able to track the killer down. Treece had been thinning out the werewolf pack for weeks, but none would divulge the location of the den. The best Alfred could do was narrow it to downtown’s Skid Row, but time had run out before they could pinpoint the lair. Driessen had probably gone underground, and Treece’s heritage ended in a few hours, his last mission unresolved. The Wolf Pack would now have free reign until the next Van Dyke would be ready for battle. Treece figured it would be two years before his son Erik would don the cowl and cape. Every innocent life lost in the interim was going to weigh heavily on Treece’s heart. But it was strictly forbidden to ignore or alter the length of the tradition. Soon he would have to drink the serum.

He moved enough to appraise his reflection in a wall mirror, disregarding the scars. His shoulders were still broad and powerful. His belly had no extra flesh and was still ridged with abdominal muscles. His legs were slim but more than ready for lengthy chases over any terrain. The loose curls of his hair were still dark and plentiful, though some gray had begun to creep in at the temples. He’d never noticed the gray when he allowed his wolf to emerge. Perhaps it made him look mature and distinctive. His ocean blue-green eyes looked back at him with a clarity and inner strength every hunter of the night needed. He still looked the part of an Alpha wolf hero. And already so did his son, a taller, slimmer version of himself.

Treece glanced back to the small table next to the trunk. The silver courier case sat waiting. He stared as if his vision might be able to penetrate the metal housing but that was both impossible and unnecessary. He knew the contents and the vital part they’d played over the years. In a matter of minutes he’d open the case, consume the glowing green fluid of the glass vial inside, and its contents would destroy the wolf side of him forever, permanently putting an end to the 100 transformation obligation as all the Lunars had done before him. His enlistment in the war against supernatural evil would be over, and he would live out the remainder of his life as normal as any other man.

The adventure of a lifetime was almost over.

A decade ago he was resisting the path he was destined to take. Now he’d sell his soul to continue the life of a hero. But if he did not take the serum and continued to transform, he would forsake his humanity and eventually be driven mad by his wolf’s bloodlust. He’d heard the stories, some from within his own family. Driessen was the latest example of the Van Dyke bloodline gone horribly awry.

He turned and looked to the briefcase. It was time to end it.
The case was already unlocked. He lifted the lid and reached in, pulling the clear tube from its padded holder. He stared into the emerald green liquid. It glowed inside the container. Without another thought, he unscrewed the top, took a deep breath, and raised the vial to his lips. The thick liquid oozed toward his awaiting mouth.

A beep sounded from his earpiece communicator. He hadn’t had the desire to turn it off and remove it until his tour of duty was fully completed. By this time tomorrow night he’d feel naked without it.

He lowered the serum and pressed the communicator.

“Alfred?”
“Master Treece, I believe I’ve located Driessen’s den. Is it too late to utilize the information?”

authorsilhouette

The following interview is with Mark W. Coulter, author of Needs to be Met in The Beast Within.

Hi, Mark. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Mark Coulter like?

A: Well, my days can get pretty busy. Weekdays, there’s my day job of testing software for a local health company. Usually after work I go to a martial arts class of some sort a school that teaches multiple styles, great exercise. After that I may have some kind of get together with friends, hopefully get some usual time in to write in the evening. Weekends always have something different going on. I have plenty of different social groups I hang out with and often take a quick weekend trip down to Oregon to see some old friends, or up to Vancouver to see a few others. Honestly I love Seattle being right between and there are always tons of activities locally as well. That can be a good and bad thing, as far as being productive in my writing.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: I find the hardest part is often getting truly started. Sometimes it’s in the form of having trouble actually sitting down to write, finding too much to do in a day. Or I might start on a great inspiration and have a first couple lines I like, then just be unsure how to take that exposition from point A to point B and still keep it interesting. I find music often helps in both cases. I have a few instrumental pieces on my laptop that serve as almost an invocation to writing. Certain tones inside just get my mind working more smoothly. Or if I find that a character or story just has a certain theme song, I might use that to kind of “wake it up” and get it to talk. I also have a whole writing playlist with a good deal of classical and some instrumentals by Danny Elfman, John Williams and the like. For me those are very handy in starting the process and keeping it flowing once I really get into it.

What initiated your interest in the horror genre?

A: That’s actually a tough thing to determine. Even as a kid there was some kind of interest. It was a bit strange because I couldn’t stand horror on one level when I was very young because it was so easy for my imagination to run away with me. Trailers or even just movie posters would give me nightmares and even get me terrified of some things in broad daylight. And I couldn’t watch the real horror movies other kids talked about. Yet I was also always interested in monsters and all the little facts and legends about the classic ones. Play would almost always turn to some kind of light horror scenario. I was easily into the Ghostbusters craze of the 80’s and certain friends and I must have watched Monster Squad a thousand times. And of course I always loved Halloween and can remember many instances of daring to try and watch some of the spooky stuff on TV, even knowing the price I’d pay that night. So I couldn’t say what truly started the interest. I just know that as I started to grow up, I was able to really go where my mind always wanted to take me, and finally not lose sleep over it. Not too much at any rate. In my adolescent and teenage years I got more and more into the genre, taking in just about everything I could. Now it’s actually kind of a treat when I can find anything that truly scares me, when I can get some of that old nostalgic feeling back again.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: Well, there’s spending a number of years as an imaginative and inquisitive child in the public school system, but I’m not sure that really counts in context. I’ve had a few minor moments of horror-style fear. Old houses, places that seemed to have the potential of something dark there, that look like the right setting that kind of thing. But the best I can think of happened in a studio apartment that I rented in college. Was an older building and the apartment was a small box of a studio with a bathroom off to the side. I used to always get the feeling of being watched in that bathroom in particular. For a while the feeling would persist and steadily got stronger. Then one evening I came home and felt a presence in the whole apartment as soon as I opened the door. I can’t describe it beyond something that had just spread through the entire room. And the shower curtain that I had closed in the morning in that bathroom was wide open. I wish I could say I opened up and communicated with the other side, but the truth is that I freaked out completely, turned on as much of my own music as I could. After a little while, the presence literally seemed to recede back into the bathroom. I honestly think we scared each other and she (I’d come to believe it was a female ghost in some form, having some other impressions throughout the time) decided to retreat and stay back there. A few other little disturbances happened in the time I lived there but nothing major and nothing that amounts to real proof. But it’s certainly made me keep an open mind about this sort of thing.

Is there a specific aspect of the genre that is particularly appealing to you?

A: I’ve often joked that no matter what’s happening in your life, horror movies and stories can make you feel like you definitely don’t have it that bad at all. But that’s not the main thing about it that makes me enjoy it. It’s really a combination of the sense of possibility that runs throughout the genre and the ability to face the fears that most people don’t like to think about. There’s something alluring about that dark “What if?” that lets us peek into the corners of the world. It brings an element of wonder because much of horror doesn’t take place in a far away land or another galaxy (much as those are fun to visit too). But more often, horror happens in our own world, just a slight offset. And there’s something oddly alluring about the situation in horror when a character is put to the test, when they no longer are worried about the day-to-day grind because they simply have to survive. That’s the best way I can put one thing I love about the genre, but I really just enjoy all of it for reasons I can’t easily define.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: Oh, that’s happened plenty of times for me in many different forms. The music I mentioned above is sometimes a help for the little instances. In the times when I go days or even weeks without writing anything, I’ve tried a few different exercises, some have even worked. One odd one is to start with writing a third person narrative about what I’m doing. Something starting like, “Mark sat at the keyboard, trying to think of something intelligent to say?” and going on from there. That’s had an occasional surprising impact that after a paragraph I’m ready to open an actual project and start working. Another exercise I’ve found if I’m stressing about trying to get a project write on the absolute first try (something that plagues me all too often I fear) is to lower the stakes. I’ll open up my word processor and pick a point of view, setting, and characters at random. Then I just write something, anything in that vein that I know never has to see the light of day. The kind of jump-starts me into realizing that I can actually turn out something that will be all right, after reading back over a couple semi-decent paragraphs. Physical exercise is another good one. If I open up the computer and nothing wants to come out, I’ll go do 20 minutes or so of running or other aerobics with my headphones playing the right music. That can really help get ideas started.

You mentioned in your bio that Needs to be Met was your first publication. Do you have any new projects in the works, or some place we can see more of your work?

A: I have a few projects that I’m working on. A couple Halloween stories. One is finished and I’m trying to find a home for it. The other is almost finished, just one scene to be inserted then I’ll see where I can send it. I have a Cthulhu mythos story to start working on soon for another anthology call I’ve seen out there. I’m also currently working, oddly enough, on a werewolf novel, a sort of detective story. As for other work, there’s not much place to see it currently. Anything else I’ve practiced on hasn’t really been for any public display.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: Well, I knew I wanted to think of something for submission. I’ve always loved the lycanthrope sub-genre in particular and I just needed an idea. I thought about trying to make a short story about the character in my werewolf novel, but nothing leaped to mind. Next I started trying to decide if I wanted to do a standard werewolf or try to think of another form of creature. Then I thought about a story involving a pick-up where you couldn’t quite be sure who the creature or predator was. After that, I just had one of those flashes of inspiration where everything fit into place. The perfect were-creature for the scenario that was brewing in my head. It all just worked together, the whole idea, there wasn’t much choosing to do once that came together. It was a nice feeling.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Needs to be Met?

A: Sure, though I’ll have to be brief since it’s a bit of a short story. Stephen has had bad luck hunting the bar scene in a night when he could really use some company. When almost out of hope, he finally sees the right woman walk into the bar and manages to hit it off with her. Despite a few concerns, the two of them are more than ready to head to her place for what comes naturally. As for what comes after, well, I’d hate to ruin the story.

Thanks, Mark!

And now, here’s an excerpt of Needs to be Met from The Beast Within:

NEEDS TO BE MET, BY MARK W. COULTER

The bar was abuzz with activity, but Stephen couldn’t find what he was searching for. There were groups of businessmen kicking back after a hard day’s work, a few regular couples at tables clearly enjoying their favorite hang-out together, and a glut of single men just like him, all drinking to the sound of old rock music from the seventies and eighties on the sound system. The few single women that had been in Harvey’s when Stephen first arrived had already become half of a burgeoning couple, selecting a mate for a single night at least.
Harvey’s was usually the perfect mix of action and relaxed atmosphere, giving it the typical-corner-bar feel that Stephen always enjoyed. With a set group of regulars but enough outside traffic that it wasn’t the same faces every evening, it was almost always the perfect place to meet a woman for the night. But the bar seemed to be having a slow night to begin with, and he’d arrived later than the prime hour for finding a good match.
As he scanned the place, his eyes met with those of another regular guy looking around the packed room. Something passed between them in that instant before both looked back to their drinks. It wasn’t the sort of thing that made Stephen think he’d have to explain his orientation to the other man in a few minutes, more a sort of knowledge as they searched for the same thing.
Wow, we’ve both struck out tonight, haven’t we? Well, back to the beer.
Stephen sighed under his breath as he took another drink of his Sam Adams. Normally the feeling of striking out wouldn’t be so bad, but he hadn’t really been able to get to bat tonight. If he’d been in just a little earlier, it all might have been different, but he’d had to work late fixing a proposal for the next day. Halfway through the work, he’d begun to feel the distracting need for companionship. The feeling had grown into a dull ache as he felt trapped at work and thought about facing the night alone. With an effort to focus, he put the last touches on the billboard layout and the storyboard for the TV concept. It wasn’t exactly the way he’d wanted it, but he would be able to do some touch-up work in the morning before the presentation. And he’d been positive by then that some new face at Harvey’s was just waiting for him to show up.
Now, with that same need still gnawing at his insides, he debated between ordering another beer and waiting a while longer, or swallowing his pride and trying the obnoxious club down the street, the one with the flashing lights and ear-pounding techno music.
He was reaching for his wallet when he heard the front door open.
Stephen turned, along with just about every other lone male in the room, to see her step inside. At first glance he placed her at maybe a year or two older than himself. The low-cut blue dress that gently hugged her body perfectly accentuated all her features. Her long black hair cascaded thickly past her shoulders, and her slender frame boasted a pair of pert, rounded breasts that almost immediately caught Stephen’s eye before he looked upwards. Her face was just a bit care worn, but still pretty, almost more so because of that factor. Most important, as she came into the bar and looked around before taking a stool at the outside edge, she had all the earmarks of a single woman looking for someone to spend the night with. It was in her face and the way she moved as she sat down and scanned the room just as he had moments ago.
Stephen began to feel more optimistic about the night, but the next moments were critical. If he rushed to her too soon he’d look desperate and a bit creepy, but if he waited too long, someone else was sure to approach her first, and he’d be right back where he started. He had to wait, had to keep an eye on the rest of the guys in the bar and avoid staring at her, yet still keep an eye on her and?
Fuck it, he thought and stood up. Let’s face facts, I am desperate tonight.
He set an even pace to her stool, doing his best to keep the creepy factor low. No cheesy pick-up lines, no hackneyed questions about if she frequented Harvey’s regularly. He was a regular, he knew she wasn’t. Just straight forward talk; if she was interested, she’d probably let him know. He moved to the stool next to hers and smiled.
“Hi. Do you mind if I sit here and buy you a drink?”
She looked at him and smiled back. A good sign. “Not at all. I’ll have a whiskey sour.”
The bartender was already on his way over, and Stephen ordered her whiskey sour and another beer for himself. Taking the second bottle as the bartender began mixing her drink, he looked back at her.
“I’m Stephen.”
“Charlene,” she said with a friendly nod. “Though really, most people call me Charlie.”
Already getting the friendly name. A definite good sign. Now say something else, quick.
“I like Charlie, kind of suits you. You’d think I’d go by Steve or something like that, but it’s always just Stephen. So, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before?”
Nice. Real smooth. You managed to babble a bit and then do a variation on the “Come here often?” line. Why don’t you just ask what her “sign” is and finish the job?
To his relief, Charlie took a sip of her drink and kept smiling. “No, this place was just kind of close to the theatre tonight. Seems nice, though. And I think Stephen’s better than Steve. Steve is a high school jock or a gas station attendant. Stephen is a successful adult, like an executive or a programmer.”
“Thanks. I’m in advertising, actually.” He leaned against the side of the bar and took a drink of his beer as they smiled at each other. Stephen could see her getting ready to ask about what he did in advertising, but it was the last thing he wanted to talk about. The only thing she might have seen were some commercials for retirement planning that involved two chickens trying to cross a busy street.
Best to head her off first. “So was it a movie or a play?”
“What?”
“The theatre you came from. Were you seeing a movie or a play?”
“Oh. Of course.” She gave a little musical laugh. “It was just a movie tonight. My adult treat every few weeks. I get a sitter and go see a good old sappy chick flick. Maybe have a drink or two afterward.”
A sitter? Stephen hadn’t expected her to have kids. It wasn’t so unusual, but it complicated things. He always preferred to find someone with no attachments that essentially wanted the same thing he did. Still, she might not be looking for a second father for them right now. Best to test the waters before giving up.
“So getting away from the kids for a night, huh?”
“Yes. They’re my four little darlings, but after a while, when they’re scuttling around under foot, I just need a night to be an adult again. A little me time.”
Much more than Stephen expected. To him, four seemed like an impossible number of rug rats running around. How on Earth could they possibly spend the night together? They’d be starting to get close and then someone would have a nightmare or need a glass of water or some other thing. And that brought up another issue as well.
“So I take it their father ?”
“He’s ? no longer with us.” She said it without any rancor or sadness, but just a slight wistfulness creeping into her tone.
Oh, masterful. Now she’s thinking about a dead husband. You really are a charmer, Stephen. Give it up, man.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
“It’s okay. It’s been a while, and it’s just ? well it’s the way things are.”
“Yeah,” Stephen agreed somberly, but he couldn’t think of anything else to salvage the campaign. What had seemed like potential for a fulfilling night a few moments ago had crashed and burned in just a few bonehead statements at the wrong time.
“Still,” he said, plodding on to avoid an uncomfortable silence, “it sounds like you manage to take care of them, and yourself.”
Charlie smiled a little at that and nodded. “That’s true. We manage. Though it’s not always easy.” Her hand suddenly moved to where his own lay on the bar. “There are needs to be met.”
Surprised, Stephen looked at her eyes now. They were staring at him as her fingers played over the back of his hand, looking with a kind of longing into his own. “That’s ? something I can understand,” he said, realizing that the cause wasn’t quite so lost.
“I’ll be honest, Stephen. Being a single mother can be really lonely. I’m not here searching for a man that wants to help raise kids; I can handle that myself. I just ? I really don’t want to sleep alone tonight. And I don’t want to spend the whole night talking and testing the waters. I want you to come home with me.” Her fingers massaged his hand like a gentle promise of the night to come. “I think that’s what you want, too.”
Saying a silent thanks to God, Buddha, Crom, or whoever had helped him out tonight, Stephen nodded. He didn’t care any more about the fact that they might be interrupted or that she might have extra baggage. It was an open invitation, and they both wanted the same thing. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
“It is. I’d love to,” he said.
She leaned into him and placed the other hand on his thigh, kissing him on the cheek. “Pay for the drinks. I’ll grab us a cab.”
As Charlie turned to go out to the sidewalk and he reached for his wallet, Stephen noticed a red mark on her skin peeking just above the cut of her dress. After he’d paid for the drinks and stepped out to meet her, he asked, “What happened to your back?”

William D. Carl Author

The following interview is with William D. Carl, author of Desert Heart in The Beast Within.

Hi, William. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-William Carl like?

A: Rather dull, I’m afraid. I work as a bookstore manager, so I either open or close. In between, I usually work out for a half hour to an hour, read, watch way too many movies, and play with my dog Jake. He can be pretty demanding.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: Just sitting down and doing it. With a full time job and all the worries of home, I sometimes have to coerce myself into sitting down at the computer and not browse the internet. Once I start, theres no stopping me. When I have goals or deadlines, it’s so much easier for me.

What initiated your interest in the horror genre?

A: Ever since I was a small child of five, I have loved horror films. I can still remember watching Chiller Theater with Fritz the Night Owl when I was a mere babe. The first time I watched it, there was a double feature of CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON and GODZILLA VS. THE THING. I was hooked. I mean, like heroin. As I grew older, I discovered reading horror fiction can supply even more goose-pimply moments than movies, and I devoured Poe, Lovecraft, Bloch, and King. As I grew older, Peter Straub and Clive Barker became my Gods. I also read a lot outside of the genre…I’m currently in the middle of Waugh’s BRIDESHEAD REVISITED, but I always eventually return to the world of the macabre.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: Not really. My life remains sedate and calm. Placid, even. I get my thrills on the page. If anything ever happens, I’ll let you all know!

Is there a specific aspect of the genre that is particularly appealing to you?

A: I enjoy the roller coaster ride supplied by a good thriller or horror novel…that feeling of putting yourself in a position of terror an d danger without the real danger that could cut your life short. I also think horror is easily one of the most allegorical genres out there. It’s easy to be subversive when the story deals with something paranormal or supernatural. People aren’t looking for it, but it’s usually there someplace.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: I’ve been lucky so far. I have more ideas than I could ever get down on paper.

Where can we see more of your work?

A: I have a novel from Permuted Press called BESTIAL: WEREWOLF APOCALYPSE. I also have stories in the forthcoming IN LAYMON’S TERMS from Cemetery Dance and ROBOTS BEYOND from Permuted. I’ve had stories in the (newly in mass market) MANY FACES OF VAN HELSING, SHADOW REALMS, TALES FROM THE GOREZONE, SKIN & INK, CHIMERWORLD 2, AMAZING HEROES 3, OUT OF THE GUTTER issue 2, and various magazines.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: I was going through a DVD viewing phase of John Ford Westerns, and I thought, ‘What a great setting for a werewolf novel.’ The were-cougar came from the setting.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Desert Heart?

A: Werewolves and werecougars fighting it out in the Old West. How’s that?

Thanks, William!

And now, here’s an excerpt of Desert Heart from The Beast Within:

DESERT HEART, BY WILLIAM D. CARL

My one and only deputy released me from the confines of the one and only holding cell in the Cactus Torch Jailhouse, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and my trousers in the other. His name was Mike, and the gangly kid had been with me for three years, so he’d already seen the worst I had to offer. I knew I was a sight, lurching out of the barred room, naked, hair mussed, my feet not working quite right yet, but the boy just shook his head at me and grinned.

“Must’ve been a helluva night, sheriff,” he said.

Taking the coffee in my trembling hands, wrapping it between fingers that felt altogether wrong against the warm cup, I nodded. “Yeah,” I answered, my voice raspy. It felt like my throat was full of sand. I knew from experience this would last another hour or so after dawn. The coffee, black and strong, helped a bit.

Mike turned around and went outside the little jailhouse to smoke a cheroot on the porch and leave me alone with my thoughts. Sad to say there weren’t a lot of them. Just a terrible, throbbing thirst, which I satisfied with another cup of steaming joe, and the curious feel of fiber against my skin as I dressed for the day. Tough, almost-clean jeans, a red flannel shirt, a pair of pungent socks, and heavy boots. Finally, I pinned on the star-shaped badge that denoted my position in Cactus Torch, Nevada. It wasn’t much of a position, barely a footnote in the town charter, but it separated me from the riff-raff that occasionally raised hell in the streets. Pouring a third cup of coffee, I ambled out onto the front porch and took a seat next to Deputy Mike.

“Pretty day,” he mumbled. He always seemed to have trouble getting his mouth around words, like the English language was something slippery between his teeth.
“Yep,” I said.

The sun was rising over the little cluster of buildings that made up our diminutive dot on the US map. The whole town was laid out in a strip along what we liked to call Main Street, mostly by default. There really weren’t any other streets to be named. Across from the jailhouse was the general store, run by Mr. Peterson from New York, and the fat man was sweeping the nightly dust from his stoop. Next door to Peterson’s, at the hotel, a young redheaded woman walked into the sunshine, smiling up at the sky. I hadn’t met her yet, but I’d heard she was the daughter of Johnson Granger, an old-timer who worked the mines in a camp about a mile east of town. A pleasant scent of violets wafted behind her. Separated from the rest of the little wooden buildings was the Last Nickel Saloon, and I could see the whores lounging on the deck over the front porch, fanning themselves, their movements languid after working all night long. That summed up Desert Torch, a saloon complete with requisite three whores, a general store, a hotel, and the jailhouse, complete with sheriff and one eighteen-year-old deputy. Although there were a few attempts at creating homes dotting the landscape just outside the city limits, other than the ranchers, people mostly lived where they worked.

It may not sound like a lot, but the place really got roaring when those miners came to town every Saturday to whoop it up. My single cell would usually be full of drunks and rabble-rousers over the weekends, but nothing really serious happened in our little corner of the desert. People generally got along with each other, disputes were rare, and we all liked it that way.
Mike said, “Looks like a hot one today.”
“It’s the desert, boy,” I muttered. “It’s always a hot one.”

Mike nodded, accepting this fact as he accepted everything life threw at him. His parents had been making for California when a group of hostile Comanches had overtaken their wagon, killed his parents, and burned everything they’d owned. He’d been discovered near the mines, dehydrated and almost dead, a scrawny fifteen-year-old orphan who still couldn’t remember everything that had happened on that dark day. Something in the kid’s eyes appealed to me, told me he’d be a good ally, and I’d needed a friend. Making him a deputy was almost a joke, as he’d probably run if a bad guy said ‘Boo’ to him, but he was a damn good shot with that Remington I’d given him, and he had proved time and again that he could keep a secret.

There were plenty of secrets to keep, too. Things the general populace didn’t need to know. Things I needed to keep close to myself. It was almost 1880, and the world was changing around us. Only, it wasn’t changing fast enough to keep up with peoples’ prejudices, and if they’d known about my debilitation, I’d probably be killed. Star or no star.
The redheaded woman had crossed the street to the general store, and she gave a curt nod to us as she passed, barely discernible beneath her yellow parasol. Mike’s tongue looked like it might fall out of his mouth and roll across the floor. He wasn’t used to a woman all dandified up and clean, one with a spotless blue dress and a cinched waist. He still blushed in front of the whore he visited once a month on payday, and she was twice his age and nearly three times his weight.

“Down, boy,” I said. “That one there’s outta your reach.”
“Sure is pretty to look at, though, ain’t she?”
“Reckon I have to agree with you there. Heard she was related to one of the miners out at Rockland.”
“I heard that, too. But she sure don’t look like old man Granger. Looks like she’s still got all her teeth.”

We passed several minutes without talking, just enjoying the morning dawn as it crept over the town, lighting up the sand in streaks of gold and red. The desert was a beautiful place, even with its dangers. Being only a mile away from the mountains gave the whole scene a kind of beauty I hadn’t seen except in picture postcards. Yes, it was a beautiful little town, full of decent people who enjoyed the quiet days and a few rowdy nights now and again.
Then, within a matter of minutes, it all went straight to hell.

***

Jeb Gordon rode into town on his expensive new gelding, a trail of dust lingering behind him as far as I could see. I didn’t catch sight of him till he was almost upon the jailhouse, my mind preoccupied with the pretty redhead, but his calls snagged my attention like one of his perfectly tossed lassos. Jumping from his horse, he wrapped the reins around a post a few times and stepped towards me. His face was white under the patina of trail-dust, and he smelled of sweat and cattle.

“Sheriff, you gotta come out to the Bar C,” he stammered. “Boss Hilliard said not to leave without you.”
“What’s the rush? Someone get killed?”
“No, well ?” He seemed to reflect on the matter a moment before continuing. Not the smartest ranch hand in the area, but he had been hired a month ago for his deft handling of a rope, not for his brains. “Something’s dead. Something got to the cattle last night. Killed four of ‘em. Least, that’s how many we found so far.”
“Rustlers of some kind?” I asked, putting on my hat and heading for my horse. Mike was at my side.
“More like some kinda animal. All I know is there’s good steer meat all over the damn place.”
Cautiously, I asked, “What kind of animal?”
I could feel Mike watching the back of my head, his intense gaze blazing into the back of my skull.
“I don’t know. Maybe a wolf. But, I ain’t never seen nothing like this before, Sheriff. Them steers is just torn to pieces.”
“You head on back to the Bar C,” I said. “We’ll be out soon as we get the horses ready.”
“Boss Hilliard said I ain’t to come back without you.”
“You won’t be. We’ll be ready in a few minutes, and we’ll meet you by the dead steers. Where are they, exactly?”
“Over in the arroyo by Chief Rock.”
“I know the place. You get your boss and meet us there soon as you can. It’ll save time not starting at the ranch house.”
“If I get in trouble ?” The kid looked wary. “I ain’t had this job very long.”
“I’ll take the responsibility for everything. Just get going. You got farther to go than we do.”
With a loud “Hyah!” he jumped on his horse’s back and pulled the reigns around. Then, he disappeared into the puffs of dust he’d raised on his journey into town, swallowed up by them.
Mr. Peterson leaned out from the doorway of his store and shouted, “Trouble, Sheriff?”
“Nothing you need to worry yourself about,” I hailed back.
Mike said, “Sheriff, I swear I didn’t ?”
“Not here,” I whispered. “We’ll talk on the trail.”
I saddled up Missy, my Appaloosa I’d taken off a dead bandit. Mike was already astride his mare.
I saw the worry in his face, but I could tell by the twitching in my left eye that my own countenance was even more bedeviled.

***

About a half mile out of town, heading towards the mountains at a steady trot, Mike finally broke the uncomfortable silence. My thoughts had turned so far within that I didn’t hear him the first time he asked the question.
“Sheriff,” he repeated.
I snapped out of my uneasy reverie. “Yeah?”
“We far enough away to talk about it yet?”
“I suppose.”
“I swear on my parents you were in that cell all night, locked up safe and sound. There’s no way you could have killed those cattle. I may have dozed a bit, but I woulda’ heard you if you managed to somehow get out.”
“I remember everything, Mike, and, no, I didn’t escape. I recall a lot of pacing, looking at the bars.”
“You didn’t try to touch any of ‘em. Must’ve learned your lesson that last time. That silver inside the bars near knocked you across the room when you touched ‘em. Never seen such a thing.”
“So, if it wasn’t me ?” I said, letting the statement hang in the arid desert air.
“Then, we got us another werewolf in town, and this one’s killing cattle. Maybe it ain’t learned how to lock itself up, yet.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right.”

When I’d been sheriff of another town in Colorado, at least sixteen years ago, I’d been checking the fence rows on a ranch when something huge had yanked me right off my horse and tossed me into a tree line. Stumbling to my feet, I witnessed the sight of a creature with the head of a snarling wolf, but the body of a hirsute giant man in silhouette against the full moon. It had howled, a haunted, wolf-like moan, then sliced into my mare with two-inch-long black claws. It buried its snout into the carcass of my motionless animal, snuffling out the best bits before it turned its bloody visage towards me. Licking bits of horse flesh from its snout, the werewolf stalked me from the other side of the trees. I attempted escape, but the creature was too fast, falling upon my back, forcing me face-first to the ground. I shouted to my deputy, who was somewhere in the vicinity, but the beast stifled my cries, raking long slashes through my shirt and sheepskin coat, tearing its way to the tender flesh. It had just started licking my wounds, nipping at pieces of loose skin, when I heard a gunshot. The creature yelped once, then a growl emerged from its throat, so hearty I could feel it pulse through the open slices on my back. It launched itself at its attacker, and I heard my deputy cry out once, a scream ending with a gurgle.

Then, silence.

The next morning, I was discovered unconscious but still alive and in one piece. My deputy, my savior, wasn’t so lucky. I returned to town to nurse my wounds.
I healed much faster than I expected under the care of my wife Shanna and my little boy Luke. Even old Doc Sears was surprised by the rapidity of my cure. Within two weeks the skin had sealed itself back over the gashes so not even a scar remained. I’d felt as though I’d evaded any real harm.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
During the next full moon cycle, I changed during the night. It was painful, my bones snapping into more animalistic postures, my skull elongating into a snout, my teeth shoved aside by new, dripping fangs.

Tearing the clothes from my body, I loped off into the night. By the morning, I’d killed three sheep. I awoke naked in a bean field with the coppery taste of blood in my mouth. I felt terrible for the farmers’ losses, but I also recalled the exhilaration brought on by the metamorphosis, the excitement of the hunt, the thrill of tasting living muscle between my fangs. I felt powerful. I felt indestructible.
The next evening, I prepared, knowing there’d be another full moon. I couldn’t wait for the arousal the night would bring, but I wanted to be far enough from my home so as not to harm Shanna or Luke. I’d changed again, and it had still been painful, but the knowledge that I’d be hunting again soon made it more bearable.

That night, I killed the seven-year-old son of a local farmer when he’d entered the henhouse where I’d been feasting on the elusive, flapping birds.
Suddenly, the excitement came with a price, and I wasn’t ready to pay that toll ever again. The third and final full moon, I locked myself in the cell at my jailhouse. I’d thrown myself at the bars to such an extent that I awoke the next morning with bruises all down my torso and two broken ribs.
Unable to face the family of the boy I killed or my own suddenly vulnerable kin, I left town and headed further west. I made my way to the Great Basin Desert, and I exchanged the forests of Colorado for the dry aridness of the desert. I filled my empty heart with sand.

Eventually, I discovered Cactus Torch. It needed a sheriff. I’d needed a place to call home, a place to hide from my past, a place to forget what I’d left behind me. We seemed to be made for each other.
After I brought on Mike as my deputy, I finally had someone to watch over me on the nights when the full moon showed its pale face, someone I could trust. He helped me insert silver cores into the iron bars of the cell, so I wouldn’t harm myself again, and it seemed to work. When I was in my bestial form, I rarely went near silver.
And I never killed another soul.
Mike brought me back to the present, saying, “You believe this is the critter that clawed you all them years ago? The one that turned you?”
I shrugged. “Can’t say till I meet up with him. He had an odd smell, like rotten meat.”
“And if you kill the bastard? You still think that’ll take the curse offa’ you?”
“It’s what I’ve always read. You kill the creature that made you, and your nights as a wolf fade into memory. I read that in a book once.”

Mike pointed ahead. I hadn’t realized we’d ridden so far.
“There’s the arroyo and Chief Rock.”
The latter was a huge stone balanced precariously atop another, its shape vaguely defining the side-view of an Indian Chief in full headdress regalia. I was always amazed when I saw it that no one had reached out and knocked it over.
Beneath the rock, the corpses of four huge longhorns lay in soggy patches of crimson.
And I knew, almost immediately, that this wasn’t the work of a werewolf.

Joel Sutherland author

The following interview is with Joel A. Sutherland, author of Beached in The Beast Within.

Hi, Joel. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Joel Sutherland like?

A: Hi, Matt. I used to haunt this forum all the time, but lately time has been scarce. Other than my job and personal life, I’ve been finishing my first novel, FROZEN BLOOD, which is scheduled for release on December 28, 2008, by Lachesis Publishing. Devout Graveside Tales fans might know me as one half of the editing team behind FRIED! FAST FOOD, SLOW DEATHS (with my wife, Colleen Morris). A day in the life of me? I’m a librarian, a husband, a current Masters student, a new homeowner, a lover of walking the dog, and obviously a writer and editor. It’s a quiet life, but that suits me just fine.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: Writer’s block. The easiest way to overcome it is simple: BIC. Butt In Chair. Whenever I get stuck or find the thought of writing to be less than tantalizing, I sit down and force some words out. They’re often crap, but they also often lead to something decent. And it doesn’t count if you’re checking your emails every five minutes, playing Solitaire or surfing the Internet for funny Youtube videos. BIC.

You were the co-editor of Graveside’s first anthology FRIED! Fast Food, Slow Deaths. Has having been in the editor’s chair changed the way you submit fiction to new markets?

A: I appreciate rejections much more now. It made me realize that the editor on the other end isn’t against me in any way, and that sending me the rejection is probably not a terribly pleasing process for them (maybe better than receiving them, but still). I hated sending them out myself, but it’s a natural part of the process, and receiving them doesn’t faze me nearly as much anymore.

Are there any upcoming projects that you’re working on, editing or otherwise?

A: Now that FROZEN BLOOD is about to be released, I’ve turned my attention to my second novel. FROZEN BLOOD is set primarily in one house, with three characters, over the course of only a couple of days. So naturally, the next book is going to take place across the world, with dozens of characters, over a couple of years. I need to shake things up.

Where can we see more of your work?

A: People reading this are probably werewolf fans, right? Perfect! One of my only free online stories is a werewolf story. Here’s the link:

http://afterburnsf.com/ViewArticle.aspx?ArticleId=23b64ed0-f92e-4d09-97da-a3200ca4501b

I have stories currently available or forthcoming in many anthologies and magazines, including, The Undead: Skin and Bones, Robots Beyond, Read By Dawn (Volumes 3 & 4), and Tales of Moreauvia. For all the info please check out my website:

www.joelasutherland.com

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: Well, I thought aquatic animals would make for a unique angle, so I left that idea to percolate in my mind. I was surprised by the story that grew around that thought. It’s unlike anything else I’ve ever written: somber, introspective and (gasp!) a love story. In a twisted kind of way, that is.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Beached?

A: A fisherman’s wife, stricken with grief but unable to let go, waits on the beach day and night for her lost husband to return. What returns to her is far from what she expected.

Thanks, Joel!

My pleasure!

And now, here’s an excerpt of Beached from The Beast Within:

BEACHED, BY JOEL A. SUTHERLAND

The moon was full the night my husband disappeared. I won’t say ‘died,’ because he’s not dead. He was gone?for twenty-nine days, without a trace?but he came back. Not how I pictured he would, but that’s okay. I’m not particular. He came back.
Those twenty-nine days changed me, of that I have no doubt. The townsfolk, they thought I lost it, thought my mind was set to wandering, never to come back. They didn’t tell me outright, but I knew. I heard the whispering. But I wasn’t crazy. Just patient, is all. There’s a difference. And loyal. Not like the other wives at all.
My husband, his name is Eddie, and perhaps you’ve heard of him. He was a fisherman. He had his own boat and hauled the cod and lobster in day after day and night after night, until one morning he didn’t come back. The news had been warning of the storm for days before it hit, and I begged Eddie not to go out. He turned to me and said, “Babe, I gotta fish,” then kissed me hard and walked out the door. He always kissed me hard?never those light, insignificant kisses on the cheek. He kissed me like he meant it, and I loved him for it. The rescue workers never found his boat, Happy Tidings, or the other three fishermen who worked with Eddie. Their names were Jack, Charlie, and Robert. I was told their names were in the local paper, too, but all the articles focused on my Eddie. That probably irked the other wives, maybe made them a mite jealous. But he was the man running the show, and the most important, plain and simple.
I was in bed, not sleeping really, just lying, resting my eyes, listening to the storm. The wind was howling like a goddamn wolf out there, Aaaa-rooo!, and I heard hail clattering all over the roof, sounding like nothing less than a horde of demons scampering about. Tree branches clawed at the sides of our little home, raking and scratching the aluminum siding. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had been dreaming of Happy Tidings capsizing on a wave and tossing Eddie out of the wheelhouse like a child’s toy. I dreamt of him drowning. I dreamt of throwing myself in after him. I didn’t want to dream anymore. I awoke with a shout, my bedclothes drenched in sweat. It gleamed on my skin in the wan light coming from the window and tasted salty on my lips, like seawater. I washed then stood before the window. I couldn’t see much?the rain-slicked glass obstructed my view?but the light from the full moon was so bright that I could see a little. Trash and broken branches whipped through the air and along the sand, while frothy white waves crashed on the shore. The rhythmic pounding of the Atlantic was always so soothing to me, but not that night. That night I had visions of body parts being spewed from the water, of blood-red waves rolling towards me. I stood there silently until the sun replaced the moon.
Once the storm had died down, I stepped outside and onto the beach, feeling the sand squish through my toes. The strong smell of saltwater filled my nose, and I remarked to myself that the air smelled clean and fresh. There were tables and chairs strewn around the beach, and a thick line of greenish seaweed where the waves had reached. A crab picked at a decomposing fish. People milled about, picking up and straightening out and keeping themselves busy. I scanned the horizon. It was perfectly flat. No boats broke the ruler-straight line that separated water and sky.
My heart stopped beating.
“Any sign of Eddie, Sheila?”
I jumped. It was Gracie, my neighbour. She held gardening shears in one gloved hand, a few jagged sticks in the other. Any sign of Eddie? Of course there wasn’t. Why the hell was I standing out there so early in the morning, gazing at the ocean? “No, no sign,” I said.
I waited. The sun hit its zenith then arced down to the west. I breathed, but did little else. I tried not to think. Not thinking was impossible. If I was hungry, I didn’t feel it. Friends saw me and brought me water, soda and lemonade, the glasses wet with condensation. No one said a word to me but Gracie. She asked me to come inside, asked me if I’d go to her place to eat dinner, asked me if I was all right, asked me all the questions anyone could ask a person in my position. Eventually I stopped answering. When she brought me a ham and cheese sandwich on a paper plate it sat on the sand beside me until she came back out and took it away, muttering about bugs. I scratched my shoulders, my forearms, and my calves until my skin was covered in red spider webs where my nails had passed. I guess I was itchy, but I didn’t feel it at the time. All I knew was that I had to wait for Happy Tidings. I had to wait for Eddie.

Michael Stone - author

The following interview is with Michael Stone, author of Like Cat and Dog in The Beast Within.

Hi, Michael. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Michael Stone like?

A: Most people, when meeting me for the first time, lean back and say, “My, aren’t you tall!” (I’m over 6′ 5″), but I think when it comes to physical properties my eyes are the biggest factor in my day-to-day life. I have a degenerative eye condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa, and I am in fact registered blind. My right eye is useless while — on a good day at least — my left eye has about 30% of normal vision. In early 2006 I lost my job of 22 years and, after several disheartening interviews with employment officers, decided to stop at home and focus on my writing. Since then I’ve written numerous short stories, a collection of novellas called Fourtold and, most recently, an unpublished children’s novel.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: I don’t write anywhere near as much as I’d like: I’m undisciplined and have an addictive personality. When I’m in the mood I can write all day. But if I’m not in the mood, I can quite easily spend all day surfing the net, emailing, gaming, reading, gardening ? I can easily go weeks without writing any fiction. And although that displeases me, I’ve come to accept it’s just part of the creative process.

On your web site, www.Mylefteye.net, there’s an impressive list of short story sales over the last few years. How many short stories have you sold, and what advice would you give someone who’s new to submitting writing to anthologies or online markets?

A: The current tally is around 45 stories sold, with reprints nudging the figure up to 60. I’m not sure I’m qualified to give writing advice, but I wouldn’t hesitate to point a budding writer in the direction of a writers’ workshop. There are some excellent online ones. I was a member of Critters.org for many years and every single story I subbed was improved by my peers. Sure, you’ll get some poor, ill-advised and plain daft comments, but digging for and recognizing the nuggets of wisdom is all part of the learning experience. And you never, ever, stop learning.

Oh, and read read read, not just in the genre you write in, either, but anything and everything. Get acquainted with your local library, and don’t just read when you have plenty of time to spare. You’ve got five minutes? Pick up a book and read!

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: For me, writer’s block is just another term for procrastination. There are times when you have to sit down at the computer and accept that not everything you write is going to be good. To get to the good stuff, you gotta dig. I tend to use those spells when I’m not writing to do my digging. I endlessly ponder story ideas, character traits and plot developments etc.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: I occasionally suffer from something called sleep paralysis. It’s a condition where you wake up but can’t move a muscle ? not even to open your eyes — and the sleep befuddled mind creates a whole host of frightening scenarios. You sometimes get the overriding impression that someone is standing over you, and this, coupled with difficulty in breathing, gave rise to the succubus myth. In my novella Lemon Man, I not only gave my protagonist sleep paralysis, I also cursed him with narcolepsy. Which was pretty darned cruel of me, now I come to think of it.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creatures in your story?

A: I was up to my armpits in my novel at the time so I cheated and sent in a previously published 2000-word story called No Dogs Allowed. This made it through to the second reading, but the editor wondered if I would elaborate on the story’s rather sudden ending. Otherwise…  By this time I’d finished the novel and relished the challenge. I stripped the original story down to about a 600 words and wrote 3500 new ones to create Like Cat and Dog. This the editor approved of and I was in. I’m very proud of it too.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Like Cat and Dog?

A: It’s set in a near-future London where werecats and werewolves live unmolested among humans. However, it takes an enormous amount of will-power for the changelings to live as mundanes, and when Sophie and Owen — a snow leopard and timber wolf respectively — get the scent of blood in their nostrils, folks had better watch out!

Thanks, Michael!

A: My pleasure, Matt.

And now, here’s an excerpt of Like Cat and Dog from The Beast Within:

LIKE CAT AND DOG, BY MICHAEL STONE

Jade was coming on to Graham like a porn queen. Her seduction was just so artless; from the false yawn that displayed her canine extensions to the stretch that nearly toppled her breasts out of her low-cut dress.
But so long as Graham was in on the joke, what harm could it do? Sophie cast a proprietary glance over the dimly-lit bar and, seeing no one dying of thirst, settled for giving the counter a wipe with a beer towel. Kilworth’s tended to be quiet until much later in the evening, when most Cats became active.
She fought to suppress a giggle as Jade groaned in ecstasy and pressed her lips to Graham’s ear. He pushed her away, tiring of the charade.
“Come on, lover boy, let’s raise the ante.” Jade removed a brooch from her dress and pricked her thumb with the pin. A bead of blood trembled on her skin.
Sophie’s heart began to race.
“Plenty more where this came from,” Jade said, “if you’ll make me your queen pussy.”
“Bitch,” Graham hissed. His stool clattered to the floor as he stood.
Sophie shouted, “Graham, why don’t?”

He wasn’t listening. He spun out of Kilworth’s elegant glass frontage in a whirl of leather and lace to be devoured by the night.
Sophie watched him go with a mixture of envy and pride. Panthers did everything with style. They even ran away from girls with panache.
She didn’t know how and when Kilworth’s had become a place where mundane humans and Cats rubbed shoulders, but she did know it was the promise of keeping company with her own kind that brought her here; that and eight quid an hour plus tips, which wasn’t bad for this side of the river. Unfortunately, having Cats as clientele also brought in gawkers like Jade.
Jade lit a cigarette and giggled. “Some guys don’t know what they’re missing.”
Sophie pitched her voice low. “You’re a regular here, surely you know better than to do something that stupid?”
“Obviously I don’t. I thought you Cats went crazy over a drop of blood.”
“It’s not a good kind of crazy, you?” Stupid mundane! Sophie’s annoyance increased as Jade tipped her head back and aimed a thin stream of smoke at the ceiling.
“Ahem.”
“What now?”
She pointed to one of two signs hanging over the bar. Beneath the one that read “No Dogs Allowed” was one that forbade smoking.
“God, what is with you, tonight?” Jade sighed and ground the cigarette out. “Another bottle of red wine please, Sofes, my little kitten. Make it a Beaujolais.”
Sophie set down a full bottle in front of the girl and then lifted the hinged portion of the counter. She walked through to pick up Graham’s fallen stool. His glass lay on its side, the remnants of the grape juice soaking into the carpet. Non-alcoholic grape juice because Cats didn’t have a head for the strong stuff.
Jade tipped half a glass back and swallowed. “A good-looking guy like Graham going to waste, it’s criminal.” She drained the glass in a titanic second gulp and poured another.
Sophie mused that the only thing wasted around here was quality red wine. She had often considered ordering in cheap rubbish for Jade.
“The thing is, Jade, the lust for blood is like ? oh, I don’t know, sex and love. You can live without sex?”
“Speak for yourself!”
“but you can’t live without love. Love is something much deeper, a vital energy that binds; it’s a state of being. I’m probably not explaining this very well, but to us the hunger for blood is as much spiritual as physical. There are medications, but they only go so far to suppress the physical longing. The rest is down to willpower. And then you come along and try to get Graham sampling your blood ?” She shook her head. “Would you blow smoke in the face of someone trying to quit the weed, or offer a recovering alcoholic a whisky? You were mocking him, Jade. We suffer the pain of abstinence so that we can dwell among you without fear of persecution. You just asked Graham to throw that away for ? for nothing.”
Jade wriggled her hips and looked down at herself. “I’d hardly call this nothing, Sofes.”
Sophie tried to relax her neck muscles. It had been three years and two months since she adopted her true-form of a snow leopard and hunted down her own food; over three years of constantly warring against her instincts, going domestic and shopping for carrion in supermarkets.
“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” she said.
“So the predator has become the prey. Big deal.”
“Graham was right, you really are a bitch.” Sophie didn’t need to make an excuse to leave Jade alone for a moment; an occasional visitor to Kilworth’s named Owen, a large guy with a puckered scar that ran from his top lip up to his forehead, swaggered up to the bar and ordered a pint of warm milk sweetened with honey.
Sophie served him in silence, not speaking even as she took his money and returned his change. His eyes crinkled with amusement.
Jade banged her empty glass on the counter and beckoned Sophie over. “Hey,” she whispered. “What’s that one? Lion? Cougar?”
Sophie hesitated before muttering, “Timber wolf.”
“A Dog? What’s he doing in here?”
“Keep your voice down.” Sophie’s cheeks reddened with shame. “He’s provoking us. It’d take a determined lion to face down a timber wolf the size of Owen, and he likes to rub our noses in it.” The arrogant bastard, she thought. One day ?
Sophie saw the gleam in Jade’s eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh, come on. I’ll bet he’ll play with me.”
“Stop it. Let him drink his milk and go.”
“What’s with the scar?” Jade gestured clumsily at her face.
“It’s a duelling scar. He’s a pack leader, the alpha.”
Jade slurred. “A pack leader. Whoa! One or all, bring ‘em on!”
“You can’t possibly mean that.”
“Oh no? Just watch me.” Jade slid the bottle of wine along the bar. “Hi, big guy. Where are all your friends tonight?”

Owen curled his fingers around the bottle and grinned. Then stiffened. He raised a finger to his nose and sniffed, his mouth slightly open, his tongue pressed behind his incisors. “Something tells me you’d better watch your step, young lady.” He sloped away to a dark corner to nurse his milk.
“Condescending git. What’s with everyone tonight?”
Sophie ground her teeth. “For God’s sake, Jade, take a hint. I’m telling you now, another peep out of you tonight and you’re barred for life.”
Jade rolled her eyes and made an uncoordinated grab for the bottle.
Sophie swept the bottle up and placed it down behind the counter. “I think you’ve had enough.” She frowned as something tacky on the label transferred itself to her palm. She brought it to her nose, and smelt Jade’s blood; fresh, sweet and heady.
Just one taste, where’s the harm? She closed her eyes and touched the tip of her tongue to her hand?
Juices flooded her mouth. A pounding heat started in her temples. It flowed down over her breasts and belly. She became aware of the sharpness of her teeth, the rending power in her jaws. She could pad over treacherous rocky slopes for mile after mile, day after day, without missing a beat. Tracking the prey, experiencing cold satisfaction in the kill. Hot blood staining her muzzle, spraying over virgin snow.
Gorging.
Sophie surfaced from the racial memory. Her eyes fell on Owen. His yellow eyes bored through her stupor. Did he feel this way after tasting Jade’s blood?
A sardonic smile appeared on his lips. He rose from his seat and reached inside his leather greatcoat.
“Jade.” Sophie raised the hinged portion of the counter. “Jade, come through.”
“What’s wrong?”
Sophie grabbed Jade’s hand and half-dragged her through the counter, through the stockroom and out the loading bay door. The night air wrapped frigid arms around them.
“Jade, listen to me, this is no time for questions. These are the keys to my car, a green Mondeo. It’s in the next block.” She hefted a steel dustbin full of refuse and sidled behind the door. “Turn right at the end of this alley, left and then left again to Battersea Bridge Road. Now run!”
“But Sophie, I can’t see. It’s too dark!”
Sophie swore. Bloody useless mundane senses. She swung the dustbin just as Owen’s head appeared through the open door. He crashed to the ground with a curse. His body humped over as he began to adopt a more powerful shape.
Sophie considered letting her body slide into her Cat form, but to stand and fight a changed alpha wolf would be foolhardy. She heaved Jade over her shoulder and padded down the alleyway.
She would never be able to show her face in this part of town again without getting it torn off. Males?whether Cat or Dog?would cut the females of either species a lot of slack, but braining a pack leader with a dustbin crossed all the boundaries of forgiveness. And pissed on them for good measure.
A howl rose behind them, traversed the streets and soared above the rooftops. It was a sound so hardwired into the human psyche that all over the neighbourhood, from Clapham to Lambeth, doors would be slammed and bolted against the night. Owen was calling his pack together.
Sophie quickened her pace, not even slowing when they reached the well-lit carriageway. A busy thoroughfare would be no protection against Owen and his pack now. It didn’t matter where they found her; they would take her down. Any passersby would quickly move on or fade into the shadows.
Three male Dogs spilled out of a pub less than a hundred yards away. Yellow eyes glowed from under bony foreheads. Sophie spun to see a female Dog approaching from behind. Trapped! Owen leapt into the road. He stretched his neck and howled again.
Jade whimpered, “Oh my God I’m gonna?” and was sick down Sophie’s back.
Sophie wrinkled her nose in disgust. “That does it.” She dropped her mantle of humanness. The skin on her palms and soles thickened into pads of hard leather. Claws hissed from her fingertips. Hair follicles all over her body sprouted dense white-gold fur with dark rings. Muscle and tendon relaxed and flowed before hardening in compact knots. But super-nature could not ignore the law of physics. Sophie’s mass could not be increased, only shifted and modified.
Her strapless bra dropped around her waist. A snow leopard had no use for breasts.
She tore away the soiled clothing and screwed shut her eyes. “Aw, I hate this?” her eyeballs made a viscous pop as the pupils sprang into slits “?bit.” She blinked rapidly to clear the noisome sensation.
The change had taken only a few heartbeats, but that had been long enough for the five Dogs to close in. Owen stood alongside the female. Made confident by their numbers, and by the presence of their alpha, they hadn’t changed. No doubt they were expecting her to drop Jade and surrender. Arrogant Dogs. Sophie sprang at a male and?claws extended?slashed his head before bounding to a first-floor window ledge. She hissed at the scattered pack and held aloft a tattered scalp. Her victim lay motionless in a pool of blood. Adrenaline dissolved any regret she might have felt.

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Steve Wedel Author

The following interview is with Steven E. Wedel, author of Okie Werewolf Seeks Love in The Beast Within.

Hi, Steven. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Steven Wedel like?

A: A day in my life? hahaha Yeah. My alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m. and I’m generally conscious and moving by 6:20. I drive about 20 miles to the inner city high school where I teach English, tell jokes, play therapist, fundraiser, grade papers, etc. Then I generally come home and piss off my 14-year-old daughter because of a cell phone or boyfriend issue. The 16-year-old boy is fairly self sufficient these days, but the 8-year-old daughter and 6-year-old son have homework, want food, need booboos bandages, etc. I make dinner, my wife comes home, I stare at the TV while she talks about her day. Put the kids to bed. Shower. Then maybe I get to write for a little bit. I can’t sleep without reading for a while, so I do that until around 12:30 a.m. Five hours later the alarm goes off. Rinse and repeat.

That may sound like I’m not happy, but that isn’t the case. I’ve had a lot of jobs and three careers since graduating high school in 1984, but I can honestly say I’ve never had a job I liked as much as being a teacher.

The only thing I’d change about the above is my older daughter. I miss her being Daddy’s little girl.

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: Finding the time is my only real problem. Once I’m sitting down and in writing mode I don’t have too much of a problem. Because it sometimes takes me a while to actually get to the keyboard, I get to mull the story over in my head a lot, so when I sit down I know what I want to do and it flows pretty fast and smooth.

Then my wife reads it and tells me where I screwed up.

What initiated your interest in the horror genre?

A: Halloween II. That’s 2, not 11, or whatever the franchise is up to now. I hadn’t seen the first one, but me and some friends went to the second one and I was impressed with Michael Myers’ body count. Then my high school sophomore composition teacher assigned us a short story, so I wrote a piece that’d get a student arrested these days. It was called “Insanity” and was about a kid who was picked on and how he offed his enemies in cool, gory ways.

Eventually I matured and realized that horror fiction is the only place you can really explore supernatural and violent themes.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: There was that time I was feeding my daughter’s ex-boyfriend through a meat grinder ?

Actually, I have a bird phobia. Send a werewolf after me. Throw me in the vampires lair or drop me into a horde of zombies. Just please don’t make me walk through the Wal-Mart parking lot when those big black birds are hopping between cars and wheeling around looking for roosts or scraps or fresh eyeballs.

You’ve explored the werewolf mythos in your novels, even been typecast as a werewolf writer, yet your fiction isn’t always limited to the werewolf sub-genre. Could you tell any potential new fans out there what other types of horror fiction you’ve written?

I have a new novelette that will be out about the same time as The Beast Within. It’s called Little Graveyard on the Prairie and I really think it’s my best story to date. It has a maturity I don’t think I’ve explored before. It’s a ghost story, but not all the ghosts are dead people. Bad Moon Books is publishing it as a limited edition.

Another published novella is Seven Days in Benevolence. This was my foray into extreme horror. It’s another ghost story, this time about a newly single mother and her two daughters who move into a new house in a small town. There are some ghosts residing there, too, and they’re kind of at war with each other. The ending is very graphic and has turned off some readers.

In 2010 Bad Moon Books will publish The Prometheus Syndrome, a novel with deranged hillbillies, a mad scientist, a zombie, a ghost, and rock-n-roll. I have a few other non-werewolf things I’m still shopping around, too.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: I used to work for a daily newspaper. For the two years I was there I consistently led the newsroom in number of bylines per month. I don’t believe in writer’s block. You don’t write, you don’t get paid. You don’t get paid, you don’t eat.

That’s not to say I don’t procrastinate. I do. Big time. The thing to do is put your butt in the seat and write something, anything, just start writing and once you hack away for a while the good stuff will start flowing again.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Okie Werewolf Seeks Love?

A: I suppose I should mention that I step outside the rules that apply to most of my werewolf fiction for this one. Still, I’m sure someone will write to me and say, “In Shara you say werewolves can only do _________ when they ________, but in this story it’s different.” That’s cool. They’re paying attention. Stepping out of my mythos was a conscious decision, and now I can point to this interview as proof that I knew what I was doing.

I wrote this story specifically for conventions. I have this Okie twang that I can’t mask, so I try to come up with some redneck humor/horror stories I can read at the conventions I go to. This one was originally written as a telephone call-in dating message, but I changed it to a letter to the editor. Basically, Randy Bragg is a good ol’ boy living on welfare and whatever odd job money he can get when he’s bitten by a werewolf. That means he’s gotta bathe a little more often, and use flea shampoo, but he gets to lick himself in places he couldn’t reach before, so he feels it’s a pretty fair trade. His ex-girlfriend, however, wasn’t so happy about it, so he wrote this letter looking for a new woman. He’s willing to share his gift, and he might even share his next six-pack if the babe is really smokin’.

Thanks, Steven!

(ps: if you want to read a REAL interview with Steven, check out this link: http://www.fearzone.com/blog/interview-wedel)

And now, here’s an excerpt of Okie Werewolf Seeks Love from The Beast Within:

OKIE WEREWOLF SEEKS LOVE, BY STEVEN E. WEDEL

Dear Beasts & Babes Magazine,

First, I sure want to thank you for the service you provide. I love the articles and pictures. I had no idea this here kind of magazine existed. Thank God for Google!! Anyhoo, after reading about those hot babes what liked German shepherd love, I thought maybe if you printed up this letter for me it would help me find a woman that likes furry loving.

My name is Randall William Bragg. I’m a single white male living in Moore, Oklahoma. I ain’t got a lot in the way of income. Just what I make with my old Chevy pickup, hauling firewood, trash, moving furniture ? that kind of stuff. I do some lawn work in the summers and sometimes go all the way up to Edmond for odd jobs. I get some government money, too, on account of my grandma being a Cherokee Indian. And ’cause I keep losing regular jobs.
I had a girl, see, but I lost her. She left me. It’s OK, though. I’m over her. You’re not getting a guy on the rebound. Nope. Chelsea Bryson is history. Water under the bridge.

Bitch!

Anyways, yeah, I’m about six-one, with some extra baggage. I like my beer, you know, and don’t get no regular exercise. I’m forty-one years old, with most of my teeth and in pretty good health. I almost graduated high school. I would of, but I got kicked out of the vo-tech when me and Ronnie Crawford was lighting farts in the bathroom. The fire wasn’t as bad as they said it was. After that, I figured I didn’t need no more schooling. They’d already learned me how to repair farm machinery, so that’s what I did for a while. But, after Old Man Henry’s tractor blew up and kilt him, nobody’d hire me to do that shit no more. Weren’t my fault.

Anyhow, see, I guess there is something you probably should know about me, besides my income and health and stuff. About nine months ago I got myself bit by a werewolf.
I swear it’s true. Swear it on a stack of Bibles!!
I was clearing some brush out of Emily Drummond’s back pasture last summer. She’s a good-looking woman, though a little older than me. Her husband’s in the National Guard and got sent off to Iraq, so she ain’t got nobody to help her. She don’t pay much, but she looks good in her tight shorts and T-shirt. Woman never wears no bra, neither. But, like I was saying, she’d hired me to clear some brush off her spread out by Newcastle because of the fire danger. I chopped and bundled all morning, then sometime after noon I knocked off for lunch. I had me a peanut butter sandwich and a beer. Maybe two beers. I don’t know. It was a hot day and the work was hard. I fell asleep in the shade of my pickup.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Something nasty was blowing in my face. It smelled like somebody’d put a fan behind a freezer full of meat that had gone bad. It was all warm, too. I opened my eyes and it was night, a real dark night under the cloudy sky. There was something real close to my face. It was so close I couldn’t see nothing. I kinda crab-crawled away from it a bit. That got me away from the meat smell, but then I could smell something like wet dog.

I tried to get up, but when I done that, the thing grabbed my ankles and jerked them out from under me. I fell on my face, and then the thing was on my back. I thought maybe it was a Bigfoot. It pinned me there for a while, then started shifting around all strange-like. That worried me. Cuz the last thing I wanted was to get rear-humped by a Bigfoot, even if it would get me on the front page of one of them funny-papers they sell up near the registers at the grocery store. That’s when it bit me. Right in the meaty part of my left thigh. Hurt like hell! Well, I looked down, and saw it was a wolf what had bit me.

I swear, it wasn’t a wolf before. It was huge. Man-size or more. Like a Bigfoot, ya know? Standing on two legs. Wasn’t no wolf.
Well, then this wolf just ran away, and I was all alone. I hauled my ass back to my truck and got home. I poured some whiskey?good Jack Daniels?on the bite to clean it. Course, had the bottle open, so I drank some of it, too. Why not? Didn’t go to the doctor on account I ain’t got no insurance. If you answer this letter, I’m hoping you do have insurance, by the way.

Also, I heard the rabies shots really hurt. That wolf wasn’t foaming or nothing. I knew it didn’t have no rabies. So, you see, wasn’t no real need to go to the doctor, anyway.

Bret Jordan - Author & Freelance Artist

Instead of a Christmas Giveaway this year we have decided to do something a little different.   We wanted to give back to the writing community.  After a lot of thinking we decided to select one member from our community who will receive the following:

A mentorship from an HWA member for a completed novel
The mentor will help this person polish their manuscript before submitting it to Graveside Tales.

After stepping back and taking a long look at all our family here at Graveside Tales we have chosen Bret Jordan to be this years receipent.  Bret has done so much for Graveside Tales and without him I have no idea where we would be.  Bret dedicated a lot time doing artwork and several other projects.  He was the first person to take us up on writing an online eSerial with his novel Plague.  Bret’s outstanding attitude, drive, dedication and determination is exactly what we look for.

His mentor will be HWA member and community member Rio Youers author of Everdead and Endtimes.

Plague by Bret Jordan

Story Synopsis

Renier is a port city that stands as a glorious gem on the edge of the kingdom.  The people are justly ruled by their beloved Duke with the assistance of a benevolent wizard and a self-involved priest.  Within twenty-four hours everything changes as a small group of strange lepers enter the port and cause a mysterious and deadly illness to rage through the city, killing most of the residents.  Violent illness and gruesome death isn’t the end of the horror for the residents of Renier.  Not by a long shot, as thousands of dead bodies rise from the cobblestone streets in search of living prey.  Sword and sorcery battle against an unstoppable hunger as the few living residents try and escape the walls of an undead nightmare.

“Bret Jordan’s Plague blends dark fantasy and zombie horror with genuinely chilling results. You won’t be disappointed – get hooked on this serial!”
~David Dunwoody, author of Empire

“Bret Jordan has created an intriguing medieval world where blood & guts zombie mayhem is delivered with the brutal edge of a sword, not the barrel of a .45. Read it – you’ll dig it!”

~Vince Churchill author of The Dead Shall Inherit the Earth & The Blackest Heart