CARPACCIO - Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Every Saturday I’m revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite.

CARPACCIO

Carpaccio is a crime/horror crossover I wrote back in 2009 about a young serial killer nurturing his skills and refining his tastes. It was published on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers in April 2010 and nominated for the Spinetingler Awards 2011.

Matt Hilton, best-selling author of the Joe Hunter thrillers said of Carpaccio "... chilling with a capital 'CH', a feeling of creeping menace. Great writing. A superb investigation of the warped mind of a serial killer. A real coup, and a great idea."

So – what’s Carpaccio about? 

Our anti-hero Alan has a different view of life. He loves to love, but when the loving stops a sacrifice must be made.

The sewers of Sussex drip with his victims, but which are the surrogates and which are the real thing? And will Alan's plans change after a tragic family 'trip' to England's notorious Beachy Head cliffs?

Inspiration

I live near Beachy Head and it is a wild, beautiful place that attracts thousands of walkers, holiday-makers and artists. Sadly it also draws many desperate people to its edge.

I was up there one day admiring orchids and butterflies, on my way to meet friends at the cliff-top pub for a cider or two when I decided to take a rest and partake in a bit of people-watching. Most passers-by seemed happy, or quietly contemplative; no-one appeared to be planning their final hours - and it struck me how normal they all looked. What if one of them was a psychopath? How would I know?

I stared down over Eastbourne, nestling below the cliffs and could see the twinkle of the Big Wheel of the travelling fair that had come to town that week - and thought I'd be far more likely to pass a psycho or ten down there than on the downland. Or would I?

Excerpt

I prepared a new entry for tonight. A eulogy.

I didn’t usually record the times and dates of their deaths because that made it kind of final. I liked the idea that the agony would go on forever.

Some of them I held onto for weeks, a couple of months even. Kevin and Peter only lasted half a day each. But that was my fault. I couldn’t leave them alone.

***

I liked to hang around the fairground. It visited our seaside town two or three times a year – it was just about the only thrill we had in our genteel haven of beaches and blue rinse.

I imagined how it would be to work there. The rides, the slot machines; I’d be one of the cocky boys on Waltzers who’d steal your money as soon as screw you in the bushes.

***

My first was Jean-Paul. I was only thirteen, a late starter. Jean-Paul captured my attention and I felt this overwhelming need, this desire to possess him, care for him. And for him to love me back. His sinewy moves, the lazy slant of his lingering eye as he moved past me – one time, two times and more.

“Jean-Paul” I whispered.

He stopped and looked back. My heart snapped like an elastic band and I felt tremors of excitement. He’d seen me. He wanted me.

The woman he was with was probably three times my age, a carousel cutey but hardly burlesque. I studied her for a moment. Handy bendy cutey. When I told her I wanted him she laughed in my face. I ran and hid, but later Jean-Paul was mine, coming easily, relishing the attentions of a young, fresh and tender child. He asked me why I’d named him Jean-Paul. He was born in Essex, he said.

“Sartre,” I replied, thinking how clever I sounded. I was a teenager. I was doing existentialism. I was having a Parisian moment. No matter, he didn’t know Sartre from the Pope.

He was my first, and they’re always special. He let me love him, though he wasn’t always there for me. And it was over so quickly. He stayed in my room, hidden. I brought him food, which I paid for myself – and I brought him my love.

I was found out, of course. Six weeks was all it took for Jean-Paul to be discovered. And me questioned – over and over. In the end I told my parents he’d gone, he no longer loved me, could no longer cope with the pressures they were putting on us. It was half-true. He had gone, and it was because of them. They’d stolen him from my private sanctuary – my heart, my soul, and exposed him to everyone. That was unacceptable. He belonged to me, and me alone. So that was how it came about. How I killed my first...

*************

Like the excerpt? The full tale is waiting for you in Cabaret of Dread!  By visiting the book's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon you can also read the opening tale DRESSING-UP BOX, a few pages of SMILING CYRUS and a handful of mini-tales.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful... 

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from
Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com

MAGENTA SHAMAN STONES THE CROW *Free* over Easter

I've just pressed the button. MAGENTA SHAMAN STONES THE CROW will be FREE to download over the entire Easter weekend!

Yes, starting tomorrow, Friday 6th April I am giving away the second novella in the Magenta Shaman series. Magic, horror, dark urban fantasy and *love* - yes *love* - all yours for nothing, zilch.

To 'Look Inside', download a sample or read a 5* review written by the wonderful Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw nip over to Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk and get your freebie finger ready for the long weekend.

And if you missed out on the first, even shorter novella in the series and want to catch up, Magenta Shaman is only 99p/$1.55 right now. At just under 7,000 words - you'll read it in a heartbeat. Download it from Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk

_________________________________________

The Magenta Shaman series is (c) Lily Childs and published by Ganglion Press

Sharing with Shaun at The Greasy Spoon

It was my pleasure to be invited to over to horror writer and Prediction regular S.K. Adams' place, The Greasy Spoon Rendezvous as his featured writer for April.

We had a good natter over the best cooked breakfast in Virtual Vale and he convinced me to answer a few questions. Why don't you pop on over for a cuppa char and a read - there's plenty for everyone.

Thank you for having me, Shaun.

DREAMS OF DUALITY - new horror anthology

This week sees the launch of DREAMS OF DUALITY, "Spine tingling tales of dark fiction concerning the other self, the splintered consciousness, and strange paradoxical realms".

My ghostly tale Wraiths and Stays (which also appears in Cabaret of Dread) sits alongside works by some great horror and dark fiction writers including Rebecca L. Brown, Richard Godwin, Dorothy Davies, Erin Cole, Marissa Farrar, Joe Jablonski, Gregory Miller and Brian K. Ladd.

The paperback is edited by Mark Anthony Crittenden and published by Red Skies Press, who also published Their Dark Masters: Tales of Extreme Vampire Horror which features two of my stories, The Infanta Triptych and Walls of Flesh.

You can buy Dreams of Duality from Amazon.com; it will be coming to Amazon.co.uk soon.

_____________________________

• Red Skies Press
• Their Dark Masters: Tales of Extreme Vampire Horror:
  Paperback on Amazon.co.uk | on Amazon.com
  Kindle Edition on Amazon.co.uk | on Amazon.com
• Cabaret of Dread

SMILING CYRUS - Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Every Saturday for the next eleven weeks I’m revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite.

SMILING CYRUS

This is the first previously unpublished tale in the collection. I originally wrote it in 2011 for the marvellous Evil Jester Press' Attic Toys anthology, edited by the equally brilliant Jeremy Shipp. Unfortunately I missed the deadline, but the story wouldn't leave me alone. No other paying market suited its bizarro horror theme, so I decided it should have a place of its own in Cabaret of Dread.

So – what’s Smiling Cyrus about? 

Naughty Cyrus isn't where he's supposed to be, skipping school and playing in his parents' attic instead. He has lots of friends up there - and they all want to play.

That was over a year ago; Cyrus is still missing and his mother Debonair is sure she knows where her son is.  But with a violent husband Debbie has to choose her moment. Will Cyrus be waiting? And will the toys welcome his mother to the game?

I've been told this is some people's worst nightmare. Oh goodie.

Inspiration

Although I already had the anthology theme to spur the concept, the opening lines came to me on the scurry from the bath to my bedroom - beneath my own loft hatch.

As I struggled to jot the words down whilst still half-clad in a damp towel I noticed a family walking along the street past my house, no doubt on the way to the beach - a stone's throw from my front door.

The dad was a big burly bugger, striding ahead and shouting at his stick insect of a wife. Haggard and obviously down-trodden, she trailed behind - occasionally holding out a hand to her little boy. This ginger-haired cherub skipped along ignoring his parents, then - smiling - stopped to stroke a cat. His mum and dad had crossed the road and turned the corner without even realising their son wasn't with them any more.

How chilling - and how very Smiling Cyrus.

Excerpt

Hurtling. He’s hurtling. Cyrus has a head the size of three balloons welded into one, rubber bumps in all the right places. Someone set him up, something stung him.

Trinkets and engraved goblets topple from overloaded shelves as the boy, nearly a man runs the length of the room and back again. His eyes are peas in the growing face. He tears at them, not knowing if they are about to sink forever into the burgeoning flesh or pop and burst. Salty old seadog, those tears that spill; they sting the stretch marks spreading and ripping at the child’s visage.

Blind, Cyrus throws himself to the floor. Screaming is impossible; the fattened mouth is full to suffocation with a tongue of weeping meatloaf. Who would hear him anyway?

They start with a jingle, the bells; whispering at Cyrus with their teasing voices. He slaps at the spaces his ears used to be, hearing only mosquito torture and fearing another assault. So they play a little louder. The boy shudders as the noise grows in volume. Tinkling, ding dong dinging, tolling and tolling and tolling until the sound is too much and the eardrums inside Cyrus’s attic-sized head explode. The roar that almost kills him is enough to wake Mr and Mrs Cleavage in their bedroom below.

It’s the same every night since their son disappeared. They hear him scream, always at the witching hour of 3:15am. Charlie Cleavage had stopped his wife Debonair from exploring the loft; that was over a year ago. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t wonder – still.

***

“Charlie?”

“What is it hun? Hey, are my eggs ready yet?”

Debbie flips them once, then back again without spilling a drop of bile-shaded yolk. Charlie doesn’t care for his wife’s allergies, or that eggs make her gag every morning. Charlie has needs.

“I want... I mean – can we have a yard sale?”

She slips the eggs onto a plate next to a pile of grits and chunks of fried bread. It’s casual, how she hands her husband his breakfast but he knows she’s up to something. He grabs her wrist. Debonair has long since learned not to give Charlie the satisfaction of a flinch. She sits down, ignoring the pain and smiles with red lips.

“I saw something you’d like.”

Charlie releases his grip, attacks the eggs in a spattering mess.

“What?” is all he can manage with a full mouth.

“Now honey that would ruin the surprise. You know how I like to please you.”

She runs her skinny hand over his knee, hating every moment.

“This is special. But I need a lidda bit of money, and I thought we could - you know, clear out the back-room, the attic, the garage...”

Charlie drops his fork on the plate.

“The attic?”

Debbie smoothes her skirt over knees made of sticks. They shake beneath the floral-patterned cotton.

“Yup. The attic. I decided you were right. Cyrus isn’t coming back.”

Cyrus isn’t coming back. She’s practised the line until it no longer shakes in her mouth. Charlie eyes her, his thick brows bristling like April caterpillars ready to spin a cold cocoon. Ain’t no butterflies in that bastard, Debbie thinks.

“OK.”

He pats Debonair’s leg, lingering at her thigh. She swallows the hate and claps her hands.

“Oh, goodie! I’ll make a start while you’re at the mill today.”

She stands, escaping before he can spread his hand wide enough to hurt.

*************

Like the excerpt? You can read a few more pages of SMILING CYRUS, plus the opening tale DRESSING-UP BOX and a few mini-tales by visiting Cabaret of Dread's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful... 

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from
Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com

Lily's Friday Prediction

Apologies for the tardy posting. It's been a long day, lovely day, sad day, fun day... and a slightly poorly day (damn the common cold!) A friend and long-term colleague has retired to a life of scrabbling around graveyards - as is only right (for whatever reason). I'll miss her.

But back to unreality...

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

A challenge indeed. But you weren't stumped.

The winner of last week's Prediction Challenge is our wandering Aidan Fritz with Cupid's Arrow. I braved billowing clouds to trail this meandering myth, laughed and loved with its characters and fell hard with Monday's rebirth. Congratulations Aidan, you've left me wistful and yearning.

Runner-up, with a tale that evoked the same emotions as Aidan's but with an awe inspired by nature itself, is Pernicious Petals by Alfred Taitague. Well done Al! This beautifully-entitled/written piece puts me in mind of Crazy Town's exquisite Butterly video.

Words for 30 March 2012

Firstly - you have two weeks to enter this challenge so the pressure's off. Here's what you've got to play with:

• Amsterdam
• Hammer
• Personal

Rules

The rules are: 100 words max flash fiction or poetry using all of the words above. Please add your entries in the Comments box below. You have until 9pm UK time on Thursday 12th April 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 13th April (Any Paraskevidekatriaphobics/Triskaidekaphobics out there?) If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it. Do give feedback to your fellow Predictioneers - we all appreciate it.

May Ostara's leaping hare bring you fertility where you need it this Easter. And if that means putting lead in your writing pencil, so be it...

___________________________________

What’s it all about? Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Every Saturday for the next eleven weeks I’ll be revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite.

DRESSING UP BOX

I have to confess, Dressing Up Box is possibly my favourite tale – not just in the collection – but ever! I smiled with wicked pleasure as I wrote it and it has a special place in my big, red, beating heart.

I wrote the story in 2010 specifically for The New Flesh Magazine’s ‘Inaugural Flash Fiction War’ and much to my surprise it received the highest number of votes and won the competition. Considering the other stories it was up against, from inspiring writers such as Jodi MacArthur and Chris Allinotte I was truly humbled.

So – what’s Dressing Up Box about? 

An un-named demon with a passion for dance helps itself to body parts that fit the right shoes. Come visit the demon’s flagrant wardrobe, the hanging flesh, the glistening innards...

Curtains rise – you are all invited to the cabaret.

Inspiration

Dance. I love to dance. Most people are embarrassed by me because I flail but that's OK because I don't give a flying F* what they think. I am an old Modette turned Goth but love extremes of music from gypsy to garage, Brel to Winehouse, Cabaret to Placebo. 


Dressing Up Box brings all those styles together, this time giving particular attention to ballet and Flamenco. It struck me that only an extra-natural being might be able to truly absorb its passions, and that sometimes that might involve 'borrowing' performers' limbs and extremities in order to echo their skill.

Excerpt

Yesterday’s body was squat and dark, an aged gypsy. I slough off the old man’s skin, marvelling at the bruises incurred from seven solid days of stamping and click, click, clicking of heels. Yellowed stains litter the shins and I poke them hard, revelling in the pain before grasping the blackened feet that I pull off like old shoes; the toes broken and seeping with infection.

Spin.

Today I am a ballerina, wanting the fairy tale. In a drawer there are pink-ribboned slippers, full of meat. I stole the pretty shoes from a libidinous girl I found larding on chocolate at the back of a theatre in a bulimic frenzy. Before she could plunge two fingers down her throat to vomit up the sugared treat, I declared myself. She thought me a film star, the pirate of her dreams. I let her fantasize whilst I ravaged her. My hand was already over her mouth when I revealed myself. Oh, the joy! I ate her face, tearing out sinew and muscle as I gorged. I left the playhouse staff to pick up the girl’s dregs but not before pocketing the eyeballs and stringing the shoes around my neck...

*************

Like the excerpt? You can read the entire story, plus a few mini-tales and even the opening pages of the second main story SMILING CYRUS by visiting Cabaret of Dread's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful... 

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from
Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com