Terror from Down Under

Author gives readers something new to sink their teeth into.

On Halloween 2015, Aussie horror writer launched his first collection of shorts,  Portraits Of Dread. His first work was very well received and gained him some very favourable reviews. Now, exactly a year later, Michael is set to chill his readers again with his new collection, Choice Cuts-A Bite From The Dark Realm.

As Michael explained, “This is another eclectic mix of stories, from dystopia, to good old fashioned horror. I hope I've created a nice mix for my readers. I've tried to add that unexpected twist and the wry humour which readers have told me they enjoyed in  my first collection.”

STORIES INCLUDE:

PENANCE

Deep within the bowels of an ancient mountside convent, Sister Elizabeta is locked away praying for forgiveness while the Council of Elders decide on a horrific punishment for her sins. What was Sister Elizabeta's transgression and what is the punishment she is about to undergo?

A BITE FROM THE DARK REALM.

Something is eating the food at a suburban London supermarket. When his overbearing boss tells Allan to rid the store of whatever is infesting the store, he discovers something far more terrifying than rats and mice.

BLACK SILK PANTIES.

Jacob O'Halloran is a sexually repressed bachelor. He gains his fufillment by stealing women's panties from suburban clothes lines. When he tries to steal from Audrey he is going to be plunged into a nightmare because Audrey has some issues of her own.

CHOICE CUTS ALSO INCLUDES:

Upon A Dark Horseman

Choice Cuts

Farewell Dear Friend

Brood Mother

And more.

Choice Cuts  will be released this Halloween for the special promotion price of just 99c (Will be $4.99 from November 2^nd.) You can pre order Choice Cuts by clicking on the following links.

Amazon

Smashwords

You can also buy the paperback version on the Amazon page for $10.99

       CONTACT THE AUTHOR.

      Michael loves connecting with book lovers and readers from around the world. Feel free to ask him about his work or just say G'day at any of the following.   

         

Facebook

   Twitter

  Michael J Elliott Official Web page

 #awethors #newrelease #horror

It Takes a Plagairist

Okay, from the prompt this week someone suggested I should write something about Mr. Edward. For those who have not read Old Odd Ends, he is the villain in a story with no heroes. The events in this story take place about fifty years before that.




Small town, USA – Summer – 1965

Edward Edwards, Edward to nobody and Mr. Edward to everyone he met, looked up from his desk. At his age he slept about three hours a night. So he sat in the back of The Edge of the Page when he suddenly knew something was wrong. He smelled… mud and cannabis where only the scents of well loved parchment and long faded ink should be. Rising to investigate his weathered hand reached for the nearest weapon, a crudely bound grouping of pages.

He slid like a specter into the tomb silent front of his shop. Eyes still sharp as a hawk's scanned for the invader. There she was, in a small section reserved for local authors, well… author. As he suspected she was a hippie but pretty in her own way. If you did not mind dry, brittle hair and breasts hanging free because of a burned bra. Mr. Edward did not. He did not mind the long flowing peasant skirt that ran to her ankles either. He did mind her bare feet tracking mud through his business. He found her unlaundered clothes and free love scent offensive. He also minded that she was stealing from him. Mr. Edward cleared his throat.

The hippie jerked, spinning to face him. She managed to keep hold of the five books in her arms though. That impressed Mr. Edward, she understood the value of literature. She offered a coquettish smile meant to disarm him. It might have worked if he had use for sex as anything but a tool of control. He stepped forward, speaking in a voice like old paper sliding against itself.

“I see you are a fan of my protégé, Alex Tomlin. You know if you got a job you could pay for those.”

She blinked, tears forming in her eyes but not falling. “I can’t, but I just want to be friends with him.”

Mr. Edward nodded, bringing the manuscript in front of him. “I see you have his latest there, The Word Thief. Have you read it?”

“N… no.” She cast her drug-dulled eyes about for an escape. He could tell she was stupid but like many of her ilk she had an animal cunning about her. She sensed danger.

“Too many people have for it to be valuable. The value in a rare book is how few have read it. Now this first draft? Much changed between it and the end product. Enough that the story is almost completely different. Let me read you the salient points.” He flipped to the section where the monster first appeared, because there was always a monster.

As Mr. Edward read about the bone like hands gripping at upper arms the girl felt them on her own. At the description of the human sized mosquito beak sliding through the spine and piercing the heart her heart was also pierced. He continued to read and the unseen creature sucked words, the very essence of life, from her body.

First she lost love and learned to hate the man she most wanted to adore her. Then feeling went, which was good because pain stopped locking a scream in her chest. Away went each word until last the thief stole life and the girl dropped to the ground.

Setting the valuable manuscript aside, Mr. Edward dismissed the Word Thief, back to the nether. He needed to step up Alex’s program. With so many hippies in love with him the boy was dangerous to have around. But first, he dragged the body back towards his office. Nothing went to waste in his shop.

#novel #shortstory #shamelessselfpromotion #author #horror #monster #writer #writing

Mounting Costs

So this is a sequel to At Least it was Free which is down there somewhere if you haven't read it before. It is also based off the same prompt as the last story.



“April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my black suited ‘agent’ used to tell me.”

He flicked the razor with a practiced hand. Crimson sluiced off the blade, pattering on the floor as he closed the weapon.

“Nothing to say? Okay, I can talk enough for both of us. The first one wasn’t in April though. So that never made sense to me. Over the years half of the retrievals did come in that all important month. Like this one.”

He tilted his head and let an absent smile play over his lips. The patter of thick drops against a window in the next room soothed him. He slipped the razor into the right front pocked of his slacks.

“Do you like the suit? It’s new. It cost me a fortune. I don’t like how dark this grey is though. My last one was lighter. My kid likes the color though, says it makes me look like money. I think that’s a Johnny Cash reference but I don’t ask. I’m embarrassed to admit I’m not hip enough to understand an eight year old. Anyway, things keep going like this and I’ll end up dressing like my benefactor soon. I wonder what happens then?”

He paced in front of his one man audience. It was always frustrating when silence filled the room. It left him alone with his own thoughts. That was never good because he thought about what kind of husband and father a man like him made. He filled the quiet with his story.

“So anyway, the flowers actually came at the end of the job, not in May. That’s okay, the first one was the best because it made my dreams come true. They are always the same; these little silver things. After that first one though? They just weighed heavy on my conscience. Like I didn’t need them, I can’t spend them, and I don’t want them. Still they seem to bring good fortune. Well, to me. So about the April showers.”

The click of his thick soled heels sounded a bit too much like death to his own ears. He stopped and stared into those wide, unblinking orbs.

“Number five was in April, that time it rained blood and I had to collect from a politician. Six was a few years later and it poured nickels and dimes. I got that one from a tobacco company. Thirteen was when the sky opened up with toads and I visited a priest. Can you imagine? A priest! It went on like that. Yours was number twenty, so I don’t have too many left, and as you know it is showering locusts out there. I wonder why that is? Still, I have to collect or the good luck ends.”

He leaned down and stared into the glassy eyes as milky cataracts began to mist them. He shook his head. He did always hate this part.

“And that, officer, is why I had to murder my arresting officer.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #author #writer

On Call Maybe

Dr. M and I crept through the condemned building with only his penlight illuminating our path. Shadows leapt around us. The incessant drip of water inside the walls begged me to let madness in. My nose was assaulted by a perfume of decay, mold, and human feces. The doctor was armed tools of the ghost hunting trade. I had only a knife. I began to question my decision making process.

Extended unemployment ran out two weeks after I got on it. For a couple of months I toughed it out; checking on updates to renewals between job searches. Eventually I gave up. Everyone said I’d find a job soon. A year to a year and a half was standard they said. Assholes.

Our footsteps echoed off broken walls, interrupted by the occasional cough. After it was abandoned this place became the refuge of the forgotten. Ranks I was destined to join when mom’s compassion ran out. Every time I attempted to ask a question Dr. M shushed me. It seemed ghosts were like fish.

Last ditch effort every day was nontraditional jobs on nonstandard internet boards. I came across a fulltime job for someone not afraid of ghosts. I made the call. Thinking anything is better than selling plasma is a trap.

We made our way into the central room. The girl’s body lay cold and still on a concrete slab in the center of the room. She was beautiful, with no apparent breath raising her chest. It was time to do the job.

They scheduled an in person right then. I got hired on the spot. I went a little wild during the interview, assuming this was a casting call for a reality show.  Dr. M took me on my first mission. My informal training on the ride amounted to basically nothing.

Dr. M raised his spectral disrupter, which looked suspiciously like a fireplace poker, over the corpse’s chest. Stabbing the body with pure iron was one of the few ways to kill a ghost. The poker drove down… The girl screamed and jerked upright. Blood poured from her mouth as she clawed futilely at the metal ending her life. Her eyes met mine, tears sliding from both sets. Her soul asked me why? Why had we killed her? What had she done to deserve this? So clean, newly homeless she had taken up the only residence she could find. A paranoid schizophrenic had ended her life by calling in a ghost sighting.

The doctor looked shaken but not horrified. The girl fell back. Retrieving his tool he wiped the blood on her clothing. When he walked toward the exit I stood in front of him.

“What the hell was that? That girl was alive, just breathing shallow.”

“That was a completed mission.” He spoke placidly, meeting my gaze. “It was a learning experience. Sometimes we get false information. Our good calls keep the world safe, our bad ones are why hunting monsters is no longer a publicized occupation.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #monster #ghoststory #writer #author

It's a Snow Globe Live

“Admit it. You were happy none of them were coming.”

“That’s insane. Why would I be happy they declined to celebrate at my place this year?”

“Why don’t you run through the events with me one more time?”

I called the members of my family to invite them over for Christmas. We always celebrate together so it was no small shock when everyone declined. They each had a reason so I figured, next time. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip but Christmas day I got really down in the dumps.

I decided the best way to combat the depression was to spread some holiday cheer. I would be a modern day Saint Nick. I piled everything into the car and with renewed joy and a half plastic smile I set about the errands.

Imagine my shock when I arrived at my mother’s house and saw my entire family inside. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Expressions of joy radiated from their faces. What did I do to deserve such treatment?

My mother (emergency nail appointment at the only shop open on Christmas) was locked in a kiss, under the mistletoe, with my father (getting his hemorrhoids checked.) Mom and dad are divorced and their respective spouses were at the kid’s table. My sister (spending the day with her boyfriend’s family) and my brother (couldn’t get the car working and was going to spend all day on that) were sharing a toast in front of the fireplace. Creepy uncle Sven (spending the day in the tank for drunken disorderly) was over in the corner putting on his Santa costume.

When I walked in everyone froze. It was childish but they were giving me the silent treatment. They wanted to pretend I wasn’t even there it seemed. Try as I might to make them nobody would come out of it. That’s when I lost it and started busting up the furniture. I guess the neighbors made the call, and you know the rest.

“So you claim you made these calls on the twentieth?”

“Yes officer.”

“Despite that I have your cell phone and there is only one call on that day. To your psychiatrist.”

“Well that is peculiar.”

“You’re sticking with this story then?”

“What else could have happened?”

“Well, according to the neighbors you have been estranged from your family since you fled the house of your abusive father five years ago. Looking at the evidence, the fingerprints, the stab wounds… I would guess you had some sort of psychotic break. I theorize you murdered the family you hated and posed them into the idyllic Christmas you always wanted. Your mind could not accept their love, even in that situation however, so you forgot everything. That is how I am going to present this to the DA.”

“That’s insane. My family and I love each other. If you just let me talk to my mother we can get this all sorted out!” 

#shortstory #christmas #dark #horror #author #writer

Predestined Accountablility

Check it. Last night was legendary. I don’t normally go for cougars but… I got the bitch hammered and went back to her place. She was a God nut and the old school wrathful pictures were not in line with what we did. I mean, I knew going in that she was crazy but I only knew half of it. The things she did blew my mind hole.

Afterwards she starts chanting Latin at this vengeful Jesus mural. I swear she smiled at me there at the end. Anyway, my vision goes all blurry and I woke up alone. Thank Poseidon, right?

I rolled out of bed, stumbled, and smacked my head on the floor, figured it’s residual tequila body. I mean, it was a short fall so I must have been on my knees. My legs failed me so I crawled to the wall where there’s a mirror to find, I’m a damn baby. That don’t make sense.

Then I hear the sweet voice of my mother dancing through the trailer. I smile, watching a runner of drool fall onto the floor. Mom comes and scoops me up. She starts cooing at my bump. She’s telling me I’m her good boy for not crying, what a big man I am. I snuggle into her.

“Mom, check it. You ain’t gotta worry. Despite the meth you did while pregnant, despite the neglect and the abusive boyfriends I’m successful. I have a nice car, big house, stable seven figure job. Even you overdosing when I was thirteen and leaving me your thug brother didn’t mess me up. I don’t hold it against you. I just wish you didn’t.

“That’s not how a man measures success. That’s what one of my ‘uncles’ taught me. Last night proves I can do anything. A couple years back I crashed this wedding. The hottest bridesmaid was the high school aged sister. I ruined her for boys her age. A year later I tapped the bride. Despite them hating me and crying to anyone that would listen I hit their mom last night.”

I try to say all that to the one woman I ever had true feelings for as I drink in the sweat tainted warmth of her loose skinned body. What comes out sounds like me shitting from my mouth. I want to cry but I can’t with mom holding me. Eventually she lays me back in the crib and puts the side up this time.

I’m in that prison when the ten year old girl climbs through the window. Fear coils in my tiny belly. Mom didn’t understand my words but it seems this girl did.

“Sometimes a miracle requires sacrifice. My daughters will never know the pain you are so proud of inflicting.”

The pigtailed psycho pulls a butcher knife, bigger than her, from behind her back. With a clumsy hand she carved me a second scream.

“So that’s how I got here Pete. Can I meet Jesus? My lawn needs work.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #magic #religion #writer #author

Dark Wicked Night

I never saw the man behind me. Sudden looseness around my wrists and ankles told me I had been untied. Rustling thundered in my ears. Rough burlap clawed at my face. The hood was removed. Stale air replaced stagnant, dim light after total darkness blinded me. There was a click as whoever did the deed exited.

Blinking fiercely I took in my surroundings. Small room, light grey walls, filled with the soft but constant sound of dripping water. It had the purgatory smell hospital rooms. Between me and them was a square table. Upon it were a Birmingham Screwdriver and simple but ancient wooden cup filled with water.

They sat across the table. A sharp dressed man focusing his malevolent gaze over my left shoulder. He danced a silver coin as old as the cup across his knuckles. Sitting on his lap was a garden gnome holding up a sign. It read, ‘Make your choice. Prove you are ready.’

I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. I did not understand the objects or the test. I answered on instinct, opening my eyes.

“Both.”

The sign now read, ‘He did it again. All yours.’ I swear it smiled before vanishing. Then the man look at me. I really wish whatever was over my shoulder had stayed interesting.

“Typical,” He seethed.

“Just a minute…”

“Shut up.” He never raised his voice. “All your life you claimed to be a democrat. But you ran for congress as a liberal republican. It worked but it is the same choice you always make. You straddle the line and deny who you are.”

“Just let me go. I can make it worth your while.” I was whining, but that was okay.

“You are a cliché, so let me speak your language. My give a damn is broken, and I am all out of fucks to give. The only price you can pay is remembering to pick a side. Safely in the middle is not a place of sanctuary.”

He picked up the golden hammer and went to work like a mafia dentist. My jaw shattered, then my ribs. Pain bloomed through me. The jerk began to whistle a catchy tune. I listened to the drumbeat of my pulse racing in my ears, counterpointed by pounding crack of my thigh bones, then my hands, then my feet. When he finally went to work on my skull I was sure I was dead. Reality began to fade into oblivion. I heard him speak.

“Both.”

A drop of water from the cup and I was whole again. Pain still echoed through my body. It was a phantom but my nerves did not get the memo. Then he turned the hammer around.

Using the claw he flayed my flesh. I was witness to every wet, ripping sound. Fire coursed along exposed muscles. My ears were treated to the soft sound of rain on the roof, my blood pattering onto the floor. The scent of iron filled my nose.

My vocal chords ruptured before my voice gave out. Then, like a priest giving a benediction he sprinkled me with the water and began again.

He was a creative man. I was missing for three days that felt like my elected term. When he was done he took both cup and hammer. Still whistling he departed without a word.

I remembered every promise I ever made. To the people that voted me in, to my friends, even to my mother. I do not sit in the middle anymore. I have kept them all. I also can’t hang my own pictures.

#shortstory #dark #author #horror #magic #monster #socialcommentary #writer

Making the Man

Red and blue flashing lights brought me to consciousness. I remembered slipping off to dreamland in my own bed. So either I had developed a case of sleep driving or some weird shit was going down. I had a couple seconds to assess my situation while I pulled over.

I was driving a Model T… not my car.

I was wearing a finely tailored zoot suit… not my clothes.

In the passenger seat was a crumpled paper bag filled with blood stained bills… not my money.

If the copper sees the money from the bank job I’ll pull the Thompson from under the blanket in back and resolve him. …Not my thought.

You prefer to use the twenty two in the shoulder holster? It’s a harder shot and you’re not a gangster… yet. Still not my thought, what the hell?

I slipped the bag onto the floorboard as nonchalantly as I could. To cover the action I plucked a smoke from the pack sitting next to the sack. Not my brand, actually, I didn’t even smoke. My lungs took to it like an old friend though, and that thing inside my head let out an audible sigh.

A nightstick tapped insistently on the window and I rolled it down.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Because you’re a pig who knows what I did. It will be your last mistake copper!

“Honestly officer, I have no idea.”

“You were weaving back there, son.”

Get the goddamn gun! Riddle him with holes. He’s stalling; I can see how he’s looking at the passenger compartment.

“Sorry officer, I think I was trying to doze off there.”

“You been drinking tonight?”

Yes! Out of your mother’s navel. That whore will give it up to anyone, including your father you bastard whoreson!

“N-no, officer! Just tired.” My arms had started to reach for the back seat. I forced them still by clutching the wheel. My muscles strained and my neck creaked with the effort.

“You okay son? Anything you want to tell me?”

I’m fine officer, but you’re about to have a very bad day.

“I’m just not feeling like myself.”

“We all have days like that.” The cop laughed. “Get home safe.”

Part of me heard it right, but that other thing in my head, well it heard, ‘step out of the car.’ The cop was part of the real world though. He was from a place where people did rational things.  Pulling out the Thompson and firing it empty was pretty far from rational.

Put on his clothes.

The sports car flying by at over a hundred miles an hour brought me back to consciousness. I had a couple of seconds to assess my situation as I pulled in behind the maniac.

I was driving a police charger… not my car.

I was wearing a peace officer uniform… not my clothes.

Make sure the strap is off the sidearm, this punk has to pay! …Not my thought.

#author #dark #horror #shortstory #writer

Echoes of Legend

The world used to belong to us, but then monsters entered the night. One of the in particular is the thing you use to scare unruly children. He brings death with no conscience or regret. It is he that so often haunts my nightmares.

I look up to see him crouched on the sill just outside the window. Murder resides in those cold eyes but the most horrifying thing is the smile that graces his alien lips. He enjoys this. He loves the terror he brings to those like me. There is glass between us but that would not stop the likes of him. Thankfully there are bars between the two of us as well.

He is known as the Brother of the Book and he believes he is righteous. In the dream he leers down at me with the implements of death hanging from the ends of his hands. The bigot truly believes we should die because we are different. My skin is different than his. I eat different foods. I see the world in shades of grey that his black and white mind cannot tolerate.

When will people learn not to judge on things like that? Why does he wish to harm us because we are different than him? Do we not deserve the chance to live and thrive as much as anyone? If I were to ask him he would scream, No, no, no! Then he would end my life.

The dream comes at least three times a week. In the end he is always tapping at the glass and I wake with a scream in my throat.

Tick, tick, tick. The sound of metal on solid glass causes my eyes to pop open. My stomach turns to water as I see the monster of my nightmares in his customary place outside my window. This time he has set tools of homicide aside and used a torch to cut through my protective bars however. With that done he is hammering at the thin layer of glass that will not keep me safe for long.

I have a moment to lament and grow philosophical. It is a short moment as the glass shatters, spraying inward to litter the room. He will not waste words, he never does. Shooting through the opening he follows the shards down to land near my bed.

I think of how it used to be. When we ruled the night, when we were legends. Those were better times but then men like him came. They determined my kind must be exterminated for the good of others. If only he could see, if they all could. Those things the condemn us for are what they have become.

Those are my thoughts as his cheap cologne fills my nose, the crunch of broken glass reaching my ears. Then he is nailing me back into my coffin with silver. Hunters will never change.

Note: The man referenced is the main character of one of my current projects.

#ghoststory #horror #shortstory #monster

Circus U

My girlfriend and I have a deal. When I meet people she has any association with they are not informed of our relationship up front. It works better that way. It makes living the dirty secrets of my life less complicated. In return I follow her advice in the other parts of my life without question.

Sometimes I hate the deal.

Like when I ended up in Women’s Studies. First year, first day, first damn class. Stupid deal.

I knew professor Kirst was insane when I walked into the class. In her three tone muumuu, hipster glasses, and wild hair she looked ready for Woodstock. Her voice was nasally and repellent. As if all of that weren’t bra burning hippie enough, she wore a homemade perfume composed of equal parts patchouli, red wine, and body odor. It was going to be a long semester.

So she sat us down in a “drum circle” and presented her getting to know you exercise. The class was small enough. I guess I’m not the only one that thought the subject was outdated and the name not at all politically correct. Anyway, she got us set up like a kindergarten class and introduced her ice breaking exercise. At least that part would prepare me for corporate America. She told us her script and where to fill in. I was on her left and it never got past me.

“Wait a minute, wait one minute.” Kirst whined in her migraine inducing tone. I already hated her.

“Yes professor?”

“Okay… your name is Jasper.”

“Yes professor.”

“You do this in a purple clown outfit and a yellow wig?”

“Correct professor.”

The rest of the students still looked stunned at my revelation. They were not reacting. This conversation was just between us. Well, all but one of the students were still, silent, and covered in looks of horror but we’ll get to the last one later. The professor continued.

“And, every day you like to go to the park and kidnap a small child?” She was suppressing a smile, assuming I was joking.

“Correct professor.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I find out what they enjoy and give them the best day of their young lives.”

“Then you return them home?”

“Oh, no professor.”

“Then you…”

“Kill them professor.”

“Why would you do that?” She seemed like she was starting to believe.

“Well, I anesthetize them so they feel no pain. Then I slit their throats and dispose of the bodies. I do it so they die with a happy memory and don’t have to grow up in this screwed up world. It’s better for everyone.”

“You’re sick.” She was still trying to laugh it off.

She went for her phone then. I tackled her. The other students made a run for the door. The herd was stopped by a loud click as my girlfriend, who had moved into position, locked everyone in.

It was going to be a long semester.

Sometimes I love the deal.

#dark #shortstory #horror

What is Horror

So I am popping off a couple of non story things here. This is a post of some random thoughts on the subject of horror.

When I was putting Old Odd Ends out there I couldn't classify it. I mean it has monsters in it. It is dark as hell. It's modern but has magic. I'm very wordy and have a strong focus on the characters. I also focus on the story because while I love a character driven story that second word is still a big part of it.

Finally an agent told me what it was. She said it was Literary Genre Fiction. I was able to further define the genre to a combination of Horror and Urban Fantasy. For those of you who do not know Literary Fiction means the author is wordy and focuses on the characters, sometimes to the exclusion of the story. Genre Fiction is your standard stuff where the story is all important and it can be further sub-classified into horror, fantasy, urban fantasy, dystopian and the like.

So I was feeling great about myself. I had some information and this agent, unlike most of them, had been very helpful to me. Even though what I wrote wasn't in her realm I did and do like her. Then I went and self published. When you classify most places, guess what. Literary Fiction is not an option, and Literary Genre Fiction is a, what the hell did you just say? Also you are limited to one or two classifications. So I had to classify as either horror, or horror and urban fantasy. I went with horror because I write for adults. I have no problem with kids reading my books but they are dark and there are some touchy subjects in them. So I want parents to be involved if their kids pick it up. Horror tends to get a more watchful eye from parents than anything with a fantasy label.

So I was annoyed at not being able to classify it right but I went on. This leads me to my thought. What is horror?

In the modern day we think of Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street. We think of shocking, gory titles without a plot or a very simple one. We also think of things that are often meaningless and slightly entertaining for a couple hours on screen or a week in print. Shock value has replaced what is scary. That bothers me. I mean it has its place, don't get me wrong but it is not the horror I grew up with and still love.

I think of horror in one of two ways. It is either the thing where you sympathize with the monster. You feel a connection and that is scary. The other is the cautionary tale, the warning that things are bad and the world is dark and there might or might not be any hope. These stories might have those shocking and gory moments in them but they might not. If you look back dystopian works have their roots in what I consider true horror. What do I think of as true horror? Well I will give some examples from both categories without identifying which they belong in.

Dracula and Frankenstein are horror. 1984 is horror and probably the beginning of the dystopian movement as well. Almost anything written by Stephen King is horror. Edgar Allan Poe (one of my personal heroes) wrote horror almost exclusively, if you consider his stories not his poems. Bradbury wrote some amazing horror stories, some set in scifi worlds and some not. Silence of the Lambs is amazing horror. Mr. Frost is a great horror movie that is always classified as a drama. I guess that is my point. You take a monster out of any horror story and people want to call it something else.

To me horror is not a bad B movie with blood and guts. What about to you? Don't be afraid, leave some comments. What kind of horror do you like? What is horror to you? What are some of your favorite horror movies and books? Which great authors did I miss?

Maybe I'm just getting ready for Halloween early.




#author #commentary #dark #hello #writer #writing #horror #thoughts