Come On In Where Scare Awaits. #DarkVisionsHorrorAnthology #Book Tour.

Today, I am reviewing Dark Visions. To set the mood I prepared a spooky scene. *Whispers* Be safe, don’t go into the basement!

Keep the lights on …

*in a rough gravelled voice* Do not Answer the door …

At first glance, Dark Visions appears to be a Halloween anthology but there is so much more to this book than that. With 34 creepy stories under a spookily mysterious cover. Stories that will make wonderful gifts for any avid reader.

The Corner shop By Dan Alatorre. Feel the fog crawl up your back, hear the clop of the hooves, taste and smell the stench of urine from the alleyways. But don’t look away. It is a taste of what this book holds.

The Changeling by Christine Valentor. This one shocks from page one. Her skill to put you in the room is enviable. She writes a tale of foul and grotesque goings-on.

Geoff Le Pard, his writing style is crisp; in the voice of both his stories. What if … What if the words he chose to write came true? His dreams became scenes; in reality. This gripping short story made me scared to go to sleep; my hand trembled to pick up a pen.

It is full of bite-sized; easy to read, but hard to forget stories.

Swimming by Frank Parker.

This Is an intriguing tale written with clarity as much as mystery. Not a traditional horror more psychological. One that tells you just enough to have your mind bothered for hours.

No spoilers here, just a few words leaving the taste of fear coating your tongue. Do not be the one that’s disappointed, buy your copy before it’s too late. What! CAT got yer tongue. Waaahhhaha.

Get your spook on like I did making my pumpkins puke.

Read my debut Story contained inside this horrifying book.

‘The Documentary’

Where Red- riding- hood is more than she seems.

If you would like to hear me read my story come to the best Halloween party on Facebook where stories and horror meet. Click Here To See

Don’t go just yet, I would love to know; ‘Did you buy it? ‘Are you hoping to?’ I love to talk, please leave me something in the comments.

When you buy it, remember you’re review counts. leave one on Amazon. We will be thrilled to read it.

The Link to purchase Dark Visions is right HERE

Thank you to Anne Marie who can be found Right Here for producing the trailer.

My Super sister Anne Maxwell for painting the best wolf for my own story.

Pixabay for the cat. And myself for the other media.

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Give Notice To Write.

Thank you Linda Hill press Here to join in or read. Saturdays Stream of Consciousness word is ‘notice.’ #SoCs

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A link to where you can purchase above mug is my gift to you!
Happy writing.

Go Away I'm Writing Bone China Mug

“Go away” is not nice for someone you love to hear.
I began to wonder how other writers got “space”or privacy to write. How do you have room?
What do you do to get room to pull faces, pace the floor, screw up sheets of paper for no good reason and toss them by the door. We do not need others seeing us chewing our lips, clenching our fists, grunting, groaning or raucously laughing at what is in our heads, so how do we manage?
Here are a few things I can think of some work and some … Some maybe not so well.

A. In a loud voice state “I need to be at my desk this morning” then slam the door.

B. Put a note on the door “Shut happens” and hope. This can be propped on your desk if you live in an openplan home, stuck to the window if ou have a garden office or attatched to the back of your head.

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C. With a desperate look and dramatic voice, beg to be left alone for at least eight hours, taking a flask and sandwiches with you, so there is no need to be disturbed with lunch.
D. Smear chocolate around your mouth, mess, up your hair, while still in your pyjamas, run around the house maniacally while chanting “I need to write ” repeatedly until husband, flat mate, parent or partner, get so concerned they tell you ‘ go and write.’

E. Have a frank discussion about how long and when you need to write, the day before; preparing the way.

F. Pour a cup of tea in the pictured mug, and if there dares to be a tap on the door to your writing place, thrust it through the partially opened space and shake with vigour.

G. Write out a formal notice to quit.

Dear ….., (insert name) Husband,

I am giving you formal notice that on Tuesday at eight A.M precisely my services as …. (insert your own) wife/superhero will be withdrawn. I will not be approached for any reason, other than to recieve bi- hourly deliveries of snacks, shoulder massages, smiles, or cups of my favoured brand of tea. During such visits conversation will not be permitted. Normal service will resume at six pm. I thank you in advanced for your co-operation.

If you can think of any better ones, or some that you have tried, please leave them in the comments … Do keep them clean and I will add them if appropriate to my list. Happy writing my friends.

A Right of passage #FGM.

She wears the scars of the divine

They think she’ll forget given time.

that she’ll bow to the pain

And pray in his name.

But she won’t, instead,

she will cry in her bed

For God, on a mission,

Or ancient tradition.

The girls In her tribe

Just frown.

At the stain they see

On the six year old’s gown.

The heat in her face as

Infection slots In place.

Death is often the way.

Not saved from the cut,

Like a kick in the gut,

Her Mother held

Her hand that day.

It happens In a home

Just like yours,

carried-out behind

Closed house doors.

When blood seeps

through the cracks,

it’s covered with a mat

Never to be mentioned

Again.

I didn’t think it could be,

Because I was too blind to see.

Not in a house that’s

Next door to me.

The article below was taken directly from Feb 2017 ITV news.

A case of female genital mutilation (FGM) is either discovered or treated in England every hour, according to the analysis of NHS statistics by a charity.

Between April 2015 and March 2016 there were 8,656 times when women or girls attended doctors’ surgeries or hospitals and the problem was assessed – the equivalent of one every 61 minutes.

Did you know this barbarity was so prevalent in the UK?

Can ordinary people like me, or spoken word Artists like Casey Lee Brock with art, stories and poems be heard … make a difference?

Any acknowledgement or comment on this will be responded to with honesty and speed.

‘My Scared

The picture prompt is on loan from Michelle Terry. Many thanks and good luck to the scribblers.

A thousand nightmares and endless councillors later… I faced the elephant in the room, or maybe it was the room in the elephant.

Mum’s eyes were huge and I remember thinking that it would be awful if they popped right out. I am not sure how old I was back then when she tied a tea towel around my face. But I can recall it clearly, It had white lettering across a blue band on a pure white unstained cloth, I remember it hanging in the kitchen but never used, it was special, a for looking at cloth. So I couldn’t see and with my legs straddling her hip, she clutched me tight as the cold air made me shiver. There was a frantic juggling of my bones as she ran for what felt like hours; maybe in circles. Eventually, she stopped and whispered, ‘I have to hide you to make you safe’, I couldn’t stop my teeth from tapping but I thought if she took the cloth off she wouldn’t have left me. I know, she would have seen ‘my scared’ and taken me back home.’My scared’ as I remember calling it, was the way I felt and it was huge that day when she said, ‘best not to make a noise’ she didn’t sound like Mum, her voice was cracked and growling. As she lowered me to the floor I felt my legs get warm and wet which made her dig her nails in the tops of my arms her breath was damp on my cheek as she snarled “Filthy bitch’. I heard the door close, rattle and a click. Some memories are precise almost intricate, while others are feelings, like wisps of smoke I can’t hold on to.

As clear as day I remember how my belly ached, my throat burned and my tongue had stuck to my own mouth before she returned. Many dark visits with no words followed, I had noticed her hair became matted and often covered her face, she would push a cup across the floor and quickly she left. I learned to do my toilet in the farthest corner of my room but after five or so cups of lukewarm soup or oats my waste travelled across the mud floor; eventually covering me. My hair got stiff, I scratched my head until it bled and scabbed…I had sores on my sores.

I can’t, doctors say, (or I refuse) to remember much more; until the end. I told them how It was never day or night just dark and dank. It sometimes would just come, a memory that is, swooping from nowhere. One such memory was how I once I grabbed her, I tried to kiss her, how she screamed and punched me, my chest hurt as my back made contact with the wall. A long time passed maybe weeks, I couldn’t tell, but when she returned, my stomach hurt so much that I couldn’t crawl to my dirt corner or lift my head. Mother, I stopped thinking of her as that a long time before, but on that visit, I thought she had come back to me. I had awoken to a damp warm cloth scrubbing my face, then she spoiled it. She pulled my lids apart stared at me, her face crumpled as she swore, and phlegm hit my full in the face before she left. I thought at the time she didn’t want me to look back. Later, a tin mug of thin soup and a huge crust of bread was put through the door. I opened one of my eyes; the other was stuck and didn’t want to, I saw her dirty bony hand bring them in, just her hand as she pushed them across the soiled floor, but couldn’t move, so never ate them.

Now fourteen years on my fully grown up self, on my twenty-first birthday, I am a stronger woman, a woman who mostly dreams of the arms of the paramedic who came to my Mothers aid, who found more than expected, who undoubtedly was my knight in shining armour.

I return to my prison to face what went before. Bile fills my throat, my eyes begin to involuntarily leak and I vomit behind the swing frame over and over. In the garden, I scan the scene and wonder who if anyone played there while I was away with ‘My scared’ in that place. What shocks me most is the proximity to the house, she would have seen my room from the back door, could have stopped ‘my scared’ in a second… had she been well enough.

I enjoyed the prompt and felt a snapshot was enough but I may return to this for a bigger project at a later date.Did you feel her fear? Did I help you visualise her surroundings? Leave me a comment I will reply as soon as I can.

Auschwitz 1.

Arbeit macht frei” (work set’s you free)

 

Beneath a winters sun a biting wind blew,

Where nobody saw and nobody knew.

With tears in the eyes of our guide

Shock on our faces no-where to hide.

I couldn’t remove her words from my ear

The ones no decent human wants to  hear.

Watching through a fog knowing the reality

It slid beneath flesh and warped earth’s polarity.

Ramming evil home, planting it deep

like marrow into the bone.

Escape was not made for here,

corrections happened and slaughter… its clear.

They walked towards death one by one,

Without the fear of what was to come.

When water became gas, to help them cope,

they sang the  Hatikvah, their song of hope.

I see piles of  hair when I try to sleep,

the discarded shoes torn from innocents feet.

I see their faces before me as I softly weep,

Brush crematoria soot from a tear stained cheek.

This place bore witness to pure evil that time,

it can not be erased from the depths of my mind.

At the shooting wall I picture them standing that day,

Singing hopeful  prayers they refused to face away.

The Nazi machine, its power so strong,

kept the furnaces burning all night long.

Hundreds were cremated day after day,

Not fast enough to clear the piles of decay.

First their status then their pride

Ripped them apart nowhere to hide.

For all the souls that gather there,

Their fortitude, their pain and despair.

I beseech you all, to stand and see

the shooting wall… just like me.

The rose was placed on one of the beds that held six bodies in the barracks of Auschwitz one. Poignantly positioned, by someone paying respects on March the second 2017.

A  piece of me shifted that day, my eyes clouded and my heart cried. I thought long and hard before posting this and though I hope you leave me a comment I will umderstand if you don’t.

Counting Forbidden Fruits.

Thank you Jane for the challenge once again an exquisite picture to prompt us to write press 🔜here 🔙 to join in or read wonderful tales.

The image for this week’s challenge is by illustrator Virginia Frances Sterret and comes from a book of French fairy tales.

“Warning This Is Not A Fairy-tale”.

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Ernest lay amongst the duck filled pillows, his chest squawking and rasping eerily in the darkened room. Occasionally he propped himself up to spit and decorate the now cardinal stained cloths at his bedside. The drapes were parted to light up the illustration on the wall without throwing light willy-nilly about the room.

He recalled the juiciness of the fruit, the pure, and the innocent that he plucked fresh and devoured. As his memories awoke, his loins stirred beneath the blankets. One, two, six in fifty-three, nine in sixty-four. His mouth filled as he wretched and decorated another cloth. Sixty-four was best he thought as he grabbed at his maleness below the sheets. The time of promiscuity, the upper middle classes at least were disgusted by the freedoms that the young flaunted. Giving him cover and power, who’d believe a half-naked hippy smoking pot in the park over him; no…Sixty-four had a good bouquet.

A nurse entered the stale room to bring fresh handkerchiefs, administer a bed bath and leave his morning news. He may be dying, hopefully, any time now; she thought, but he made her skin crawl. A portly chap who too often stroked or grabbed her in feigned sleep, she’d be glad when this one was done.

The illustration was Ernest’s favourite, it had been the most successful lure, and he intended it to be the last thing he would see on leaving this god forsaken world. .The thought of where he was destined to go held no fear for him. His position and wealth allowed him to indulge in his one passion…  until the eighties when do-gooding became the rage. But many a fellow could never satiate their needs, and would die never sampling the flesh or fulfilling that wicked desire. And here he was, unable to tally how many… how many pieces of forbidden fruit he managed to taste.

 

This evil tale is strictly fiction and bears no resemblance to anyone living or deceased.

comments are welcomed and responded to soonest.