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

Writing Sample - Long Time No Anything

So, I have been posting this around and realized that I haven't posted here in forever. Work has eaten my writing! I think this belongs in my current work in progress, or one of them.

I know you want me to shut up. I know how much you want me to stop talking about how we have lost our freedom, how our government has been stolen, about our murdered liberty, and our violated and beaten rights. I know you want me to stop telling you about the corporations and men in power raped Lady Liberty then left her discarded, like a Muslim immigrant, on the Boston shore amongst the refuse, contaminated syringes, discarded condoms, and used packets of lightly sweetened, freedom flavored tea her only company. You're not alone.

Everyone wants to silence me, begs me to put the gag in. You scream in a voice that echoes with their's. The two groups scramble over each other to burn the first amendment. I don't know who's worse, the ones telling me to shut up and check my privilege. Screaming at me to be silent, to let the victims speak. To stay out of the conversation and just let it play out, to nod along encouragingly while others write the world, to watch without condemning or condoning. On the other side stand those that shout in my ear that it is in my best interest to be still. They want me to just watch as others are oppressed and enslaved. Just keep calm and let us put them back in check. It's not your concern, after all, they tell me. You're nothing like them. Just hush, go back to sleep and let us do our work. Stay where you are and you'll be safe.

What nobody wants, is for me to speak. No. None of you want me to talk about the truth I see. You don't want the uncomfortable visions of a freed mind. No matter what side they're on, hell, no matter what side you're on, there is one thing you want. You want me to sit on the couch, staring into the television. You want me to watch the stars and wait for the end of the world, with a Xanax smile, just like everyone else.

I just can't do it. I'm too busy weeping for all of you that can.

#writingsample #amwriting #politicalcommentary #socialcommentary #author #writer #writing #shamelessselfpromotion

Digging to China

This is rough, no time to edit it.

In the dim that infests a single twin room, resting like a cavity, dead center, in an end of the road motel, the darkest of dreams will visit one's mind. Even when they one is wakeful, or leastwise fitfully unable to sleep. When rest eludes the body the mind traverses plains unknown to all but psychotropic enthusiasts and romantic poets.

Humanity likes to imagine that a man living in destitution does so alone. Each cavern a pre-emptive tomb for an unknown soldier in the war against capitalism. No one is ever alone though. If one is not indulging in vacation provided by acid, the other inhabitants, the bugs crawling over one's skin, must be real. It is enough to make one fantasize.

It is said that every man has at least one homo-erotic fantasy in their life. Mine was high tech. A robot penis. I imagine it would be hard, cold, and taste slightly oily. Such a creation would ejaculate a super hero. I contemplated giving my first and last blow job and the force of the machine's pleasure driving my thinking machine out of its case. A short step from deviant lover, to abstract artist. The robot in my dreams would paint the wall in red and gray. Crafting an image a psychiatrist could use to diagnose madmen.

Wiping the insects from my flesh I knew a change of location was necessary. Thus did I go from nearly dead to wandering vagrant. A dumpster, a cardboard box, an abandoned tent. Any one of them would do, sleeping under the stars would do good for my soul after so long in confinement. Then I saw it.

A Victorian treasure  stood before my eyes. A for sale sign out front gave me hope. Not to purchase it, no. Men like me, those unemployed and lost to society, did not own homes. Instead I meandered to the convenience store and borrowed their phone.

No offers were as yet on the table, and no showings for at least two weeks. The asking price was high enough to make a millionaire blush. I would be able to squat in this home for months, if I was lucky. If I was very careful.

My possessions were sparse to say the least. I laid out my winter clothes, the mud stained item I would don, over the urine stained items I currently wore, when it grew cold. I laid out the faded blue piece of foam that served as my bed. As i prepared to lie down I looked at the wall.

Amidst the beautiful paper was a stain.  I recognized the type. It was much as the mark left by sweat from a desperate man will imprint on a threadbare mattress when one foregoes sheets to save on water.

Peeling back that paper I found a hole that echoed the ache in my heart and lack in my soul. The dark cavern was filled with a corpse I recognized. How could I not? One is bound to know one's own face.

I drew back in horror, thinking of who to blame. I wanted to lay this at the feet of jack-booted government thugs. The wished to blame it on the indifference of corporate fat-cats. I knew though. I knew it was me. I left this corpse here when I gave up and gave in. In the homes of the hearts of every man over twenty-five there was a sacrifice like this. Laying discarded, waiting to be found.

I knew this must be disposed of. Nobody must ever see what I had done to myself. I thought of what those heroes on television would do. Retrieving the plastic utensils I kept for the rare occasion that a man of mercy provided me food I began to consume the remnants of the evidence of my crimes.

#shortstory #author #Awethors #surreal #writing #writer

A Tradition of Anti-Heroics

I'm not special.

Nobody likes bills. Everyone gets annoyed when they come in the mail. Most people get frustrated when the amount is wrong. I dare say most people call the number at the bottom to fix the problem. Most everyone wants to yell at the person, but, I think, almost nobody really does. I didn't, because I'm not special. I did call though.

Everyone loves a sexy voice on the other end of the phone. We start to imagine. All the features become physical. The full bodied laugh turns into eyes you can fall into. The sexy burr in the voice grows into that one part of the body, whatever it is, that you want thick when the rest is slim. For me it's the breasts, if I was a girl I bet it would be the penis. Like I said, not special. We fantasize our way through life, and phone calls are no different.

I even started off by telling Samantha, but you can call me Sam, that I didn't think I was special. She assured me that I was though. They're paid to say that you see. Part of their job is making customers feel important.

Anyway... she fixed my problem. So sorry Mr. Smith, this was a problem with our computer, and I have corrected it. I fell in love while she did it. I may not be special, but I'm not a moron. She was flirting with me. So I screwed up my courage and asked her out.

Sam must be something pretty special, because she said yes. We set the time and place. She gets off work in an hour and I'm supposed to meet her for drinks. She even offered to buy. So, now I'm sitting here thinking.

How ugly is this bitch? I mean, to say yes to a date with some loser on the phone who has billing problems? The Trumps of the world don't get miss-billed. If they do they don't even notice. How repugnant is her personality, when she's not hiding behind a phone, that she has to resort to turning her legitimate job into an escort service? I bet she's a goddamned serial killer and she's planning on selling my organs on the black market. Her breath probably smells like that fermented fish the old Scandinavians are so in love with.

I'm sitting here terrified. What if all of that is true? Well, maybe not the killer part, but I bet she has armpit hair and feminist-forest legs. What if all of that is true and I show up to be disappointed my her snaggle-toothed personality and Quasimodo looks? I'm not going.

I'm terrified. Worse than that? What if none of it's true? What if she is the perfect goddess I met on the phone? What if she's everything I imagined. Then she couldn't help but be disappointed by me.

I'm not going, and you can't make me. Don't judge me, because I'm not special.

You wouldn't go either.

I just want to say, for those confused by the title. If you don't know it, before comic books and RPGs co-opted the term as a synonym for dark hero, antiheroes were a literary device. The term literally meant, not a hero. Stories about them were stories about the common man. They weren't brave, or skilled, or stuck in great adventures. They were workaday people living workaday lives. This is something of a tribute, and a remembrance of words that have been stolen from us. If you didn't know that, well now you do. I just wish I could remember the style they were common in. I want to say Gothic, but I'm relatively sure that's wrong. If anyone knows, please comment below. If not, guess it's off to the library for me soon, since the interwebs have failed me.




#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt

Keepsakes

I should give up the paper. I really should. I'm probably one of five people in the city that still has the damn thing delivered. It's a risk, an affectation. Still, I can't give it up. I step over my guests to pick it up and bring it back in. I look over to their still forms again and smile. At least I didn't disturb them.

The front page is the same old crap. Russia is tired of our garbage, and we'll end up irradiating the world between the two of us. The big egos yelling at each other. The companies sponsoring them trying to convince us we should care. Tired of it, I turn to the local section.

High school sports, local art (if you can call it that,) and stuff to do on the weekend. Boring, who needs that in their life? Like I can't entertain myself.

So, I look at the police blotter. Damn it. Sometimes the universe leads us to the right place at just the right time. I've never had a day go bad, not after I brought guests home. This is terrible though. Have you ever looked into the paper and saw your name associated with a crime you didn't commit? I never thought I would.

Right there, in black and white, it says I robbed a bank. I read between the lines and realize they're be coming for me. I look over at the guests and realize my luck is just getting worse. I really can't let them be found here.

Wouldn't you know it? That's the moment the cops decide to knock on my door. "Police, open up!" Yeah, yeah. Okay. I can figure this out. Where did I leave my bag?

"Just a moment! I'm not decent. Oh... and I didn't rob any bank!"

I look around, where is it? I speak from the center of the room. It's the only way this is going to work after all. There it is. The cop is shouting his lack of concern at my assurances.

I kind of figured he would.

Just like I expected him to tell me to come out or he'll break down the door. I hope there are only two of them. I stand next to the door, knowing they expect me to be in the middle of the room. True to his words, the door shatters inward.

Two of those big cops rush through. You know, the kind that eat too much red meat and spend hours at the gym? None of it on the treadmill. Guys that will leave muscled corpses before fifty. Anyway, they storm in.

As I slide in behind them, the brains of the outfit spots my guests. They both aim guns, but it's the brains that speaks. "They're de..."

I slide a needle into each of their steroid enhanced necks and depress the plungers. Thanking god there are only two of them. Look, I never said I didn't commit any crime, just not some low rent bank job.

I hate unexpected company.

#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt

One Eyed Men

Don't blame me. Blame the #muse and the #writingprompt

it is the day after the world went blind

the last man who could see gave in and bought a tablet

i am as blind as anyone

my screen

my virtual reality

my all i see

if i looked around i would see that they are all like me

if i peered up i would see them all in the worlds orbiting mine

walking i repost stolen memes of political bigots and idolaters

if i pause i might see her the girl so lonely that she surfs the singles sites

i might ask her our because she is just my type

she might not slice into crimson chords that spill her lifes painting on white porcelain tonight

i dont and she will

i might see the man in blue as he watches the computer and aims the gun at the transient

it could happen that the bum would turn from the darkness of the news in the store window

i could step in and stop the bullet one way or another

there is a chance

just one chance

that i would see the boy playing a game on his phone

scoop him up before he enters the road

some small hope i could wave down the bus driver reading the electronic map

if any of us could see we might stop the travesty of a child buried under moving steel

if any of us could see we would see it is the screens that make us blind

if we took off our three dimensional glasses we might notice the darkness

we might understand it replaced the truth they were meant to bring

we might just might find a one eyed man to stop us from setting the world on fire

we dont though

we stay blind

the child screams and the world becomes tinder

ashes in our mouths

if only it was taste we lost

instead of vision

#shortstory #art #artiss #author #Awethors #commentary #experimentations #surreal #writer #writing

That Girl

I've always wanted to be a badass, a successful badass. Failing that, and I have been for about half a life time, I've always wanted to pretend to be someone is. Part of that always required an audience that believed though.

The girl sitting next to me, no, the woman, was French and twenty-something. Say what you will about the older man, younger woman taboo, but here's a truth about it the media doesn't consider. When you're basing a relationship on lies, it's the best way to go. If she was older I never could have gotten away with it. The life story I told was two parts Heff, one part King, one part Lemmy, and a dash of Connery. A woman my age would have seen through some of all of it.

She wasn't.

I watched my worldly stories take her breath away. I saw the interesting things that did to her chest. Yeah, at first it was just physical. No, at first it was the badass thing. Second it was just physical. I don't want you to think I'm a predator, but that second part, the one where I noticed her body... Well, I don't know if I need to thank the king of porn or the sexiest Brit ever, but Frenchy and I ended up taking a trip to the bathroom.

Nearing fifty and joining the mile high club. It was hot. It didn't last long. I'm fifty-five percent sure she wasn't faking how much she liked.

Third came her talking. Telling me wild stories. Tales like my own youth, except brought forward. Propelled to a time when girls were free and morals were looser. I started falling in love. The looks she gave me... Well, I knew she could get past the age thing. I wondered if she could get over the lies. Then I wondered if I could keep them up forever.

I mean, hell I had a little more than thirty years left, if I met the average. Looking her over, thinking of a decade of wild sex with her I was betting I would be lucky to make twenty more if I got involved with her. Especially if her stories were true and her wild days were still going. Probably less, young girls suck life and money out of old men.

Everyone that chases the young ones knows that.

I decided I could keep up the lie, just as I felt a sting at the side of my neck. I slumped towards her, wondering how she smuggled so much liquid on board, as she slid the needle back into her purse. Her wicked smile curved her lips as she whispered to me.

"The men you pretend to be were all heroes of my father. If you were younger you might have recognized the women I chose for my persona. Every one of them would be proud of me, removing another pervert from the gene-pool. Sleep the sleep of damned, predator."

I swear she giggled as everything went black.

#shortstory #author #Awethors #commentary #France #writer #writing