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.