Sunday, 10 October 2010

Slap and Tickle

I watched her play with it; a cat slapping at a trapped mouse. Katie giggled. She looked up for approval. I hadn't seen anything yet to demonstrate a particular talent. My mouth turned down in disappointment, an ugly pout.

"Let it go and give me something else."

Katie shrugged. She wiped her eyeball free of grime and popped it back in its socket. I tossed her a pair of scissors; nodded at her feet. She blinked, not without difficulty.

"Big toe," I said.

She obliged.
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Friday, 8 October 2010

A Faded Poem

This week National Poetry Day saw a swarm of writing by all ages and abilities. Great stuff.

Over at Writing Magazine and Writers' News, members-only online forum Talkback (blimey - what a mouthful!) the editors launched an impromptu poetry comp on the theme of 'home'. Mine didn't win but was in good company with entries from Lee Hughes and Anthony Cowin.

After announcing the (very worthy) winner, ed, Jonathan Tefler said "There were other great ones too though, and I must admit I nearly had to wipe away a tear at LilyC's (but I'm just a sentimental old fool really)." Aw, cheers Jonathan!

My poem The One Thing was inspired that very same day after walking past a nursery school with glorious roses in its garden, deep pink leaves layered like skirts on the blooms. As I passed, a curly-locked girl came out, scratching and digging at her scalp...

THE ONE THING

She’s a skinny ballerina,
dancing, desperate with thrall.
Today she’s here,
tomorrow, and the next,
there’s an absence as
she fails to grace
her classroom chair.

Eight years old.
Darling of the corner shop,
Mummy’s money.
Grown-up girl does it all,
sweeps the floor,
washes dishes,
cares without care.

Teacher spots the crawling hair,
lice the size
of planets in
Delilah’s fine red curls,
Appalled, she sends her home.
The letter
says it all.

Breaking down the family door
they find the truth,
how she’s survived
on pizza,
squeezy cheese.
The washing up’s all done,
ironing, left creased.

With Mummy dressed in rose-pink satin,
curled up in cold
arms Delilah scratches
at her scalp.
Mummy gone, the nits -
one thing
she couldn’t do herself.
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Their Dark Masters Cover

Mark Anthony Crittenden's done a great job for the final cover of Red Skies Press' forthcoming Their Dark Masters.



This anthology promises to be something else. Authors include Gregory Miller, Barry J. Northern, Mark A. Crittenden, Paul Anderson, Rebecca L. Brown, Marissa Farrar, Erik Boman, Lee Hughes, Tyree Campbell and Lily Childs.

Can't wait.
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Lily's Friday Prediction

So... gotta choose last week's winner, huh? OK (drum roll brbrbrbrbrbrbrbr dudun.) The winner is... me! No, not really. Hell, I've already spent the last five hours judging a fiction comp; but this is much harder because the genre is ma thang.

As always there were some great entries; Chris Allinotte's bloomin' spider - do you have to do that to me Chris? Great stuff! Joleen's slaughterhouse party - loved it. My London chav twat tale - mmmn, not sure. David Barber's brilliant two blokes - so simple, I couldn't do that in a million years. Sue Harding's ultimate delight - ale and libraries. Excellent! Col Bury dropped in with his Brummie fuckwit - splendid stuff.

Seriously... David Barber wins for making me laugh out loud. This week I want to recoil in horror. Your words are:

  • Anonymous
  • Moulin Rouge
  • Transparent

Usual rules, plus a couple of requests. 100 words max flash fiction or poetry using all of the words above. Please post in the Comments box below. If you tweet, please tweet about your entry when it's in. Chars.
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Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Re-released - the very first Pan Book of Horror Stories. Win a copy!

Cover by permission of PanMacmillan
This month PanMacmillan marks the 50th Anniversary of the very first Pan Book of Horror Stories by re-releasing this wonderful collection of dark and disturbing stories. And I for one am very excited. I remember reading my second-hand copy over and over in the 70s and 80s until the book fell apart. Happy days.

The anthology, selected by Herbert van Thal simply has to return to my shelves (not being a Kindle babe yet) and is already on my wish list.

You can buy it direct from PanMacmillan, or from Amazon and other outlets.

Competition

If you're a UK resident why not try winning a copy? PanMacmillan is running a Hallow'een competition where all you have to do is answer a question, and write a tiebreaker sentence.

There are five copies up for grabs. Enter here.
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Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Acceptance into Daily Bites of Flesh

Great to hear this morning from Pill Press' Editor Jessy Marie Roberts that my new piece 'Spangles' has been accepted into Daily Bites of Flesh 2011.

Pill Hill's own description of this great anthology says:

"Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 is an anthology of 365 flash fiction stories, each assigned a calendar day, offering horror readers an opportunity to enjoy one story per day - even with a hectic schedule. Pill Hill Press is actively seeking FLASH FICTION, 500 words or less (firm) about ZOMBIES, VAMPIRES, WEREWOLVES and other MAN-EATING/BLOODSUCKING CREATURES. Should have strong elements of HORROR."

The submission period is still open, but closes on 3rd November so if you have something for Daily Bites, visit Pill Hill for more info and sub. guidelines.

Monday, 4 October 2010

Dug an old one up - Slideshow

(c) Retrothing.com
This mild little thing first appeared on the bleedin' marvellous Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers over a year ago. I was reminded of it today after getting stuck in a queue behind a jolly hockey sticks old bat clad in moss-green and mustard-yellow faux-hunting plaid. She was haranguing a poor woman who'd inadvertently started a conversation while they waited.

"Don't believe in all this digital hoo-haa" she boasted, as loud as loud can be. "Bring back the old slideshows, that's what families love. Mine were quite the thing, you know!"

Click click.

SLIDESHOW

‘So that was my trip to Windsor. Lovely gardens, aren’t they? Now, here’s my world falling apart. Look. See, you can just make out my husband’s feet sticking out from behind the sofa.

‘And look at this. That’s her. That’s the one he was doing it with. Even now, I really don’t understand what she had that I didn’t. Oh well. It doesn’t matter now, does it.

‘Oh, sorry. They’re a bit out of order. You’ll like this though. It’s him looking in his wardrobe – before it happened. Good job we had separate bedrooms. Just look at his face! It was hilarious. I’d filled the pockets of his best suit with prawns and cat food three days earlier, when he went off with her to Cardiff. Absolutely reeked. He’s not happy, is he!

‘This one, is… Let me see. Ah, it must be half-an-hour later because his blood’s all over the parquet floor. All over me too, for that matter. I slipped in it after smashing his skull against the wall.

‘Now where are we? Oh yes, back in the lounge. I remember I had to turn the camera off to drag him down the stairs. He wasn’t quite dead then. Just suffering.

‘So. This is me phoning the whore. This is him hanging onto my legs after he crawled across the carpet to try to stop me. This… Now this is the whore arriving at the front door, screaming at me, demanding to see him. What a sight she is.

‘Um. OK. OK. I know what this is – it’s me strangling her with the tie-back from the curtains. The timer on the camera was a bit dodgy and she wouldn’t keep still so it’s a bit blurred. You can’t quite see him, but he watched me do it. He was crying.

‘She had a good kick on her, I can say that for the woman. Nasty sharp nails too. Red they were. Scarlet. Hah! How appropriate!

‘Here we’ve got a few of him dying; I’ll just flick through those quickly. It only took a couple of days. I didn’t bother to feed him or give him anything to drink. Not much point really.

‘And… Here we are back at the first slide. You can’t see her in this one because I was sitting on her when I took the snap. But you remember, do you? He’s behind the sofa. I hid him there because he was in the way, putting me off while I tried to think about what to do with the pair of them.

‘Now wait. I thought I had another one. No, no. Of course. It was a photograph, not a slide. It must be here in the box somewhere. Yes, here it is. Take it, Sarah, would you? And pass it round. It’s me bricking them up in the cellar. I am rather good with my hands when needs must.

‘What? Yes Ella. Here. In the cellar underneath the vicarage.

‘That’s right Nathan. I used to live here.

‘Oh, come on, Daisy. Don’t cry. It was twenty years ago now. Water under the bridge. The church is better off without him. It already knew about the affair, I was told. So it was better all round that they’d "run off to Australia together".

‘What’s the matter? Are you worrying about what happened to me? Well, I couldn’t stay here, obviously. The church kindly let me have the cottage next door, and I’ve been there ever since. Reverend Charleston came here not long after. Lovely man, isn’t he? Shame he’s leaving us next week. I didn’t think he would do that to us. I’ve given so much of my life to him.

‘Oh my dears, it’s so sweet of you all to weep for me; but I’m fine, I’m completely fine.

‘Now, my little sillies. Off you pop. I’ve got the older ones coming along to Sunday School at eleven. They’re going to see the slideshow too. Jordan, you can stay and watch it again, if you like. Your brother Luke’s coming in; you can sit with him.

‘Get your coat, Joshua.

‘No. Hang on, wait. Ooh, children. I’ve just thought. I still have a key to the cellar. Would anyone like a tour?
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Lily Childs is a writer of horror, esoteric, mystery and chilling fiction.

If you see her dancing outside in a thunder storm - don't try to bring her in. She's safe.