http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/itunes-rss/ Nightmare Magazine » Nightmare Magazine - Horror & Dark Fantasy http://www.nightmare-magazine.com Horror & Dark Fantasy Wed, 01 Jul 2015 15:00:05 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=4.2.2 hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=4.2.2 Horror & Dark Fantasy Nightmare Magazine no Horror & Dark Fantasy Nightmare Magazine » Nightmare Magazine - Horror & Dark Fantasy http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/wp-content/plugins/powerpress/rss_default.jpg http://www.nightmare-magazine.com Editorial, July 2015 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-july-2015/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-july-2015/#comments Wed, 01 Jul 2015 10:05:48 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11173 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-july-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Alison Littlewood http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-alison-littlewood-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-alison-littlewood-2/#comments Wed, 01 Jul 2015 10:02:06 +0000 E.C. Myers http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11159 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-alison-littlewood-2/feed/ 0 Wolves and Witches and Bears http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/wolves-and-witches-and-bears/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/wolves-and-witches-and-bears/#comments Wed, 01 Jul 2015 10:01:38 +0000 Alison Littlewood http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11185 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/wolves-and-witches-and-bears/feed/ 0 The hike hadn’t been Ella’s idea. Of course it hadn’t; nothing about this holiday was. It was Nick who’d chosen the destination, Nick who’d chosen the hotel. It was Nick who wanted to go walking, though the day was hot, the sun already furious. At least, The hike hadn’t been Ella’s idea. Of course it hadn’t; nothing about this holiday was. It was Nick who’d chosen the destination, Nick who’d chosen the hotel. It was Nick who wanted to go walking, though the day was hot, the sun already furious. At least, she thought as she pulled on the new hiking boots he’d insisted she buy, it would be cooler under the trees. This part of Croatia was thick with them, the trunks tight-packed, keeping out the light. She frowned. Her arms were still pale. There was no chance she’d get to work on her tan today, not on the route Nick planned to lead them. He picked up his compass, turning and turning it, not hiding his look of impatience. He caught her eye, but she straightened before he had a chance to say anything. “Ready,” she said. She remembered when he’d asked her to go on holiday with him. They had been lingering in bed together, an increasingly rare occurrence: a lazy Saturday morning. He’d stroked her hair. “More days like this,” he’d said and smiled. “Lots and lots of days like this. Come on. You’ll love it.” And then the thing that clinched it: “It’ll be good for us.” Yes, she’d thought. Yes, it would. Now here she was, staying in a small guest house — “hotel” was really too grand a name — on the edge of nowhere, out of touch and out of reach, beyond the regular tourist trails or the faintest mobile phone signal; nothing but the trees blanketing hill after hill after hill. “What’s at the end of this walk again?” she asked. He rolled his eyes. Days like this, she thought. Lots of them. But she didn’t say anything as they hoisted their rucksacks and turned towards the slope. She had heard it already: He’d told her. Nothing, he’d said. Miles and miles of nothing, the thing they had come to see, the thing they never could see back home. The thing that would make them better. “And you’re sure it’s all right?” He waved the compass over his shoulder, patted the map. “It’s easy to get lost — the rep said it’s best to use a guide. Shouldn’t we . . .” Nick turned and shook his head, then replaced his expression with a smile and held out his hand. “Come on, you’ll love it. We can relax later. We can drink wine, chill out in the room.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively. It was different when he looked like that. He was like the old Nick, the one she’d fallen in love with. It was something about his eyes, like clouds scattering on a windy day; making everything seem clear. She nodded and started to walk. • • • • The slope was long and the ground hard, as if it hadn’t rained in a long time. The track was wide, and sunlight speared down after all, pleasant pools of it interspersed with a fresh breeze. Ella wore shorts and a tank top, but it was still hot, the friction concentrating warmth in her armpits and groin. Her boots were starting to rub the side of her foot, just a little. She stood with her hands on her hips, letting the breeze cool her, looking back the way they had come. The guest house looked distant, smaller even than it had seemed from the inside. She felt Nick’s hand on her shoulder. “Need a rest?” “No.” She knew Nick didn’t like to stop and start once he’d got into a rhythm. He liked to keep walking and walking, something she’d never quite seen the point of, but wasn’t that what this holiday was about — compromising? Learning to appreciate one another again? And she might learn to enjoy it. It was, after all, beautiful: wild and green and beautiful. • • • • Nick stopped, staring down at the compass. His hand was cupped so that Ella couldn’t see. “This way.” He indicated a narrower path, a steeper path. It was possibly a more direct route to the top of the mountain. Ella didn’t ask; it couldn’t matter if all they were going to see was more nothing, and it would be nice to be deeper into the trees. Most of the forests out here were deciduous, ash and hornbeam and oak and poplar. They were interspersed with the occasional pine, Nightmare Magazine no 45:42 Interview: Lucy A. Snyder http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-lucy-a-snyder/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-lucy-a-snyder/#comments Wed, 24 Jun 2015 10:05:13 +0000 Lisa Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11099 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-lucy-a-snyder/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Chet Williamson http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-chet-williamson/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-chet-williamson/#comments Wed, 24 Jun 2015 10:02:33 +0000 Erika Holt http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11086 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-chet-williamson/feed/ 0 The Music of the Dark Time http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-music-of-the-dark-time/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-music-of-the-dark-time/#comments Wed, 24 Jun 2015 10:01:39 +0000 Chet Williamson http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11106 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-music-of-the-dark-time/feed/ 0 Artist Showcase: Okan Bülbül http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-okan-bulbul/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-okan-bulbul/#comments Wed, 17 Jun 2015 10:05:40 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11094 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-okan-bulbul/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Dale Bailey http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey-3/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey-3/#comments Wed, 17 Jun 2015 10:02:32 +0000 E.C. Myers http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11085 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-dale-bailey-3/feed/ 0 Snow http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/snow/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/snow/#comments Wed, 17 Jun 2015 10:01:38 +0000 Dale Bailey http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11105 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/snow/feed/ 0 They took shelter outside of Boulder, in a cookie-cutter subdivision that had seen better days. Five or six floor plans, Dave Kerans figured, brick facades and tan siding, crumbling streets and blank cul-de-sacs, no place you’d want to live. By then, They took shelter outside of Boulder, in a cookie-cutter subdivision that had seen better days. Five or six floor plans, Dave Kerans figured, brick façades and tan siding, crumbling streets and blank cul-de-sacs, no place you’d want to live. By then, Felicia had passed out from the pain, and the snow beyond the windshield of Lanyan’s black Yukon had thickened into an impenetrable white blur. It had been a spectacular run of bad luck, starting with the first news of the virus via the satellite radio in the Yukon: three days of disease vectors and infection rates, symptoms and speculation. Calm voices gave way to anxious ones; anxious ones succumbed to panic. The last they heard was the sound of a commentator retching. Then flat silence, nothing at all the length of the band, NPR, CNN, the Outlaw Country Station, and suddenly no one was anxious to go home, none of them, not Kerans and Felicia, not Lanyan or his new girlfriend, Natalie, lithe and blonde and empty-headed as the last player in his rotating cast of female companions. On the third day of the catastrophe — when it became clear that humanity just might be toast — they’d powwowed around a fire between the tents, passing hand-to-hand the last of the primo dope Lanyan had procured for the trip. Lanyan always insisted on the best: tents and sleeping bags that could weather a winter on the Ross Ice Shelf, a high-end water-filtration system, a portable gas stove with more bells and whistles than the full-size one Kerans and Felicia used at home, even a Benelli R1 semi-automatic hunting rifle (just in case, Lanyan had said). The most remote location, as well: somewhere two thousand feet above Boulder, where the early November deciduous trees began to give way to Pinyon pine and Rocky Mountain juniper. Zero cell-phone reception, but by that time there was nobody left to call, or anyway none of them cared to make the descent and see. The broadcasts had started calling it the red death by then. Kerans appreciated the allusion: airborne, an incubation period of less than twenty-four hours, blood leaking from your eyes, your nostrils, your pores and, toward the end — twelve hours if you were lucky, another twenty-four if you weren’t — gushing from your mouth with every cough. No-thank-yous all around. Safe enough at seventy-five-hundred feet, at least for the time being — the time being, Lanyan insisted, lasting at least through the winter and maybe longer. “We have maybe two weeks’ worth of food,” Kerans protested. “We’ll scout out a cabin and hunker down for the duration,” Lanyan said. “If we have to, we’ll hunt.” There was that at least. Lanyan was a master with the Benelli. They wouldn’t starve — and Kerans didn’t have any more desire to contract the red death than the rest of them. All had been going according to plan. Inside a week they’d located a summer cabin, complete with a larder of canned goods, and had started gathering wood for the stove. Then Felicia had fallen. A single bad step on a bed of loose scree, and that had been it for the plan. When Kerans cut her jeans away, he saw that the leg had broken at the shin. Yellow bone jutted through the flesh. Blood was everywhere. Felicia screamed when Lanyan set the bone, yanking it back into true, or something close to true, splinting it with a couple of backpack poles, and binding the entire bloody mess with a bandage they found in a first-aid kit under the sink. The bandage had soaked through almost immediately. Kerans, holding her hand, thought for the first time in half a dozen years of their wedding, the way she’d looked in her dress and the way he’d felt inside, like the luckiest man on the planet. Luck. It had all turned sour on them. “I’m taking her down, first thing in the morning,” he told Lanyan. “What for? You heard the radio. We’re on our own now.” “You want to die, too?” Natalie asked. “I don’t want her to die,” Kerans said. That was the point. Without help, Nightmare Magazine no 41:06 The H Word: Why Do We Read Horror? http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-why-do-we-read-horror/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-why-do-we-read-horror/#comments Wed, 10 Jun 2015 10:05:11 +0000 Mike Davis http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11098 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-why-do-we-read-horror/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Sarah Langan http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sarah-langan-3/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sarah-langan-3/#comments Wed, 10 Jun 2015 10:02:30 +0000 Jude Griffin http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11084 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sarah-langan-3/feed/ 0 The Changeling http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-changeling/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-changeling/#comments Wed, 10 Jun 2015 10:01:34 +0000 Sarah Langan http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11104 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-changeling/feed/ 0 Editorial, June 2015 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-june-2015/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-june-2015/#comments Wed, 03 Jun 2015 10:05:08 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11097 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-june-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Maria Dahvana Headley http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-maria-dahvana-headley-3/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-maria-dahvana-headley-3/#comments Wed, 03 Jun 2015 10:02:27 +0000 Lisa Nohealani Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11083 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-maria-dahvana-headley-3/feed/ 0 The Cellar Dweller http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-cellar-dweller/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-cellar-dweller/#comments Wed, 03 Jun 2015 10:01:31 +0000 Maria Dahvana Headley http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=11103 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-cellar-dweller/feed/ 0 Buildings were built, in the beginning, everyone knows, to hold the dead down. Every cellar floor was built over the ceiling of something else. Now cellars are used for all sorts of purposes. Roots. Paint cans. Pantries. Workshops. Other. Buildings were built, in the beginning, everyone knows, to hold the dead down. Every cellar floor was built over the ceiling of something else. Now cellars are used for all sorts of purposes. Roots. Paint cans. Pantries. Workshops. Other. There’s a rhyme someone invented for children. It’s chanted in nurseries in the Banisher’s town. The nurseries are upholstered in chintz, and the walls are padded, as though they’re asylums and the babies inmates. There is an awful thing that lives beneath the cellar floor, little darlings. There is an awful thing that comes up from beneath the cellar floor, up and through the cellar door. The rhyme’s sometimes sung as a lullaby to pretty little ones, who curl in pretty little chairs, and play with pretty little rolling horses and pretty little rocking dogs. When they nod off to sleep, all’s well and right, but beneath their houses, things are fell and wrong. Things press their noses up through the dirt. If you wake at night and hear a roar, perhaps you’ve heard the awful thing that roars behind the cellar door. The children dream, and as they dream, they wriggle in their beds like worms pressed under stones. There are sugarplum visions in their pretty little heads. There is an awful thing that lives beneath the cellar floor, little darlings, and it wants more and more and MORE. They wake singing. They giggle and make faces. There is an awful thing that lives beneath the cellar floor. Run in circles and put on a pinafore. At the end of the rhyme, there’s a reward. Sing it long enough, and someone’ll give you candy. The pretty little ones in the Banisher’s town sometimes tantrum from joy, but when they do, even their crying’s pretty and little. If they wake at night and hear a roar, they don’t go down the nursery stairs and through the cellar door, nor do they go to see what’s roaring beneath the cellar floor. They’re too pretty and too little for that. The Banisher isn’t one of these pretty little children. The worst children on earth are the pretty ones, and that’s something that’s been known to ugly children for centuries. The Banisher’s teeth are crooked, and her hair grows in knots the color of mud. Her elbows are too pointed, and her eyes are shifty and make people nervous. She’s had three broken noses, and she’s also had worms. She may still. Once, all of her fingernails fell off, and another time, she lost all of her hair, even her eyelashes, which made her even uglier than she was before. When that happened, she went underground for a while to avoid being busted. She’s got the kind of nose that runs, and the kind of skin that breaks out in rashes. She has all her limbs, which is somewhat miraculous, but she’s missing the little finger on her right hand. The Banisher wears a coverall she found at a Salvation Army, a hat with earflaps she acquired at a lost-and-found, and a pair of cowboy boots with spurs. The Banisher doesn’t have friends, nor does she have family. She’s the only Banisher in the area. There’s no competition. This is her own business. She’s an exterminator. Her customers have her come to the back door, her equipment hidden in a sack. It’s rare that a homeowner wishes to acknowledge that they’ve become a bed-and-breakfast to pests. She’s made some mistakes. There’re things she’ll never be allowed to have again, but she can live without them. The Banisher’s entirely self-sufficient, though sometimes she cries. People give her food in payment. Mostly she eats bologna sandwiches. The Banisher is nine years old. • • • • All this happened a long time ago. A couple drove to a big-box hardware store two towns from the town where they lived. They bought boards and a shovel. They bought buckets. They had a book of how-tos from another century. Planks, a spade, a shovel, a hammer. Nails made of iron. They read the directions aloud in the car. “Fourteen planks of poplar,” the wife said. “Cut to size.” Nightmare Magazine no 35:09 Interview: William F. Nolan http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-william-f-nolan/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-william-f-nolan/#comments Wed, 27 May 2015 10:05:29 +0000 Lisa Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10987 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-william-f-nolan/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Stephen Graham Jones http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-stephen-graham-jones/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-stephen-graham-jones/#comments Wed, 27 May 2015 10:02:03 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10976 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-stephen-graham-jones/feed/ 0 Raphael http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/raphael/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/raphael/#comments Wed, 27 May 2015 10:01:10 +0000 Stephen Graham Jones http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10996 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/raphael/feed/ 0 Artist Showcase: Vitaly Alexius http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-vitaly-alexius/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-vitaly-alexius/#comments Wed, 20 May 2015 10:05:45 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10982 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-vitaly-alexius/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Sandra McDonald http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sandra-mcdonald/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sandra-mcdonald/#comments Wed, 20 May 2015 10:02:02 +0000 E.C. Myers http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10975 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-sandra-mcdonald/feed/ 0 Rules for Ordinary Heroes http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rules-for-ordinary-heroes/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rules-for-ordinary-heroes/#comments Wed, 20 May 2015 10:01:05 +0000 Sandra McDonald http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10995 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rules-for-ordinary-heroes/feed/ 0 You’ve been here before, but not day after day after day in some karmic trap set by an unseen screenwriter who wants you to achieve inner growth and redemption. You’re here because you always fly American and the nearest hub to your house is Miami. Rule #1: This is not Groundhog Day You’ve been here before, but not day after day after day in some karmic trap set by an unseen screenwriter who wants you to achieve inner growth and redemption. You’re here because you always fly American and the nearest hub to your house is Miami. The hub and spoke system of airline travel sucks. Only the rich fly direct. The rest of us shuffle endlessly toward our connections, zombie passengers lost amid acres of gleaming glass, soulless architecture, uncomfortable chairs, synthetic plants, incessant television, and expansive views of horizons we’ll never reach. The red-gold sun is setting now outside the doors of gate D-60. You’re exhausted, you’re in pain, you’re increasingly afraid there’s no escape, but you’re wrong. Time and space have not frozen, Tom Johnson. There’s a way out of this story. Rule #2: You are not McClane, Bond, or Hunt You have a son. He’s never seen an action-espionage movie starring handsome movie stars and top-notch stuntmen. He only watches cartoons. The only way for him to view them is with an iPad jammed close to the tip of his nose, and even then he needs the special glasses he’s worn since birth. But your mythical son, the healthy one who exists on a parallel track in your mind — that son, Other Jake, has seen every Die Hard, Mission Impossible and 007 movie out there. He’d be delighted if his ordinary, slightly dull dad showed up on the news as the Man Who Saved The Day. Unfortunately, you’re not the protagonist of an action movie. You’re not going to save the day from terrorists. Standing in line in the windowless expanse of Passport Control, watching the wall clock tick toward high noon, rest assured that your day here in Miami will be free of C-4, rocket launchers, ground missiles, nuclear weapons, and explosions of any kind except those on the TV screens in the terminal, which broadcast sanitized reports of distant wars. Notice we said nothing about gunfire. Rule #3: This is not a Tom Hanks rom-com Not to be rude about it, but Mr. Hanks’s days of blockbuster romantic comedy success peaked long before you and your girlfriend checked in at Cancun Airport this morning. Nancy’s only resemblance to Meg Ryan is her sweet smile, and your only similarity to Tom Hanks is a receding hairline. The two of you just spent three days in a luxury suite overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. Business, you told your wife. She nodded in understanding and went back to changing Jake’s diaper. He’s ten years old. “Remember we meet the new specialist on Monday morning,” she’d said. You’ve met all the specialists. They never do much. You’ve researched everything you can about Jake’s conditions. The more you know, the more you want to hyperventilate. When you’re home you read to him, thousands and thousands of pages of J.K. Rowling and Philip Pullman and Frances Hardinge, but how much does he understand? He’s locked into his own world. He communicates only through grunts and groans. You and Amelia live on the hope that the next pill will provide a breakthrough, that the next injection will open a doorway. Hence the specialists, with their guarded eyes and tentative hypotheses. No one wants to give you hope. Luckily, you’ve timed this trip so you’ll be back on Sunday night. Your job is hospitality industry consultant. You fly from one world-class resort to the next, advising employees on how to manage guest expectations and leverage online reviews. This trip wasn’t for a client, however. It was a getaway splurge full of margaritas, mini-bar snacks, and fresh towels daily. The room had a Jacuzzi tub. From the bubbling hot water you and Nancy could see a dozen shades of blue in the ocean and sky. If this were a Tom Hanks movie, you’d be the professionally successful but emotionally unfulfilled executive who falls for his female rival at a competing company. The audience would be treated to the usual scriptwriting progression of inciting incident, meet cute, Nightmare Magazine no 25:04 The H Word: The Dirty South http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-the-dirty-south/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-the-dirty-south/#comments Wed, 13 May 2015 10:05:25 +0000 Lynda E. Rucker http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10986 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-the-dirty-south/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Kaaron Warren http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kaaron-warren-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kaaron-warren-2/#comments Wed, 13 May 2015 10:02:59 +0000 Lisa Nohealani Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10974 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kaaron-warren-2/feed/ 0 Mountain http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/mountain/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/mountain/#comments Wed, 13 May 2015 10:01:03 +0000 Kaaron Warren http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10994 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/mountain/feed/ 0 When writing a recipe, you have to be linear. This, then that, then this. You can’t jump ahead of yourself; you have to follow the logical progression from ingredient, to action, to end result. Meanwhile you keep things on the boil and prepare for the ... When writing a recipe, you have to be linear. This, then that, then this. You can’t jump ahead of yourself; you have to follow the logical progression from ingredient, to action, to end result. Meanwhile you keep things on the boil and prepare for the next step. I sometimes feel Temptation Tor wrote my recipe template, everything leading to this moment; an episode of my cooking show, in the place where the idea for Motorbike Munchies was born. I didn’t warn the producers they might see a ghost; I’d long since learned to keep quiet about her. About them. “Bush Food at the top,” the producers said, so at dawn we transported stove and ingredients and camera and crew around the hairpin bends of the mountain. I rode my bike up, loving the freshness of the air, the tightness of the road. They’d have me lean on it, as they did every week. It’s one of those quirky things reporters love to start their stories with. “TV Chef on two wheels,” that kind of thing. They’ll also describe my clothing, and my hair. They don’t do that to men. With men it’s all about how they sit, how they lean forward to make a point. I always drive myself. Analyse that how you will. It’s simple, really. The chain of years I was driven by my father, then boyfriends, then by my husband, to places I didn’t want to go. Or driven quickly past places where I wanted to stop. My father was an A to B man. Often, I was tempted to shout at him, or wet my pants, or pinch my elder sister till she screamed, anything to make him stop. I never did it, though. My sister had tested those waters once and been left on the side of the road for half an hour. When we picked her up again she was shaking. What did you see? I kept asking her, but she would never answer. Even then, I knew the mountain must be haunted. As I moved into my teens, we heard horror stories of the mountain; was it haunted by all those who committed suicide from its scenic outlook? We went to test our courage, to make out, to drink, to throw bottles over the side. The time I finally saw the ghosts I’d heard about most of my life, I sat in the back with a handsome boy called Pat, his fingers working their way up my thigh. He kept up a steady patter of flirtatious nonsense with Dave, my boyfriend, who was driving. In the passenger seat was Sue, Pat’s girlfriend, who suffered from carsickness and saw some power in the front seat. That was why I was letting Pat play with me in the back. If they could fool around, why couldn’t we? We ate the chocolate chip cookies I’d baked and drank warm beer. It was very dark, no streetlights, just the ineffectual flash of reflectors and the broad drag of our headlights. I kept catching glimpses of things moving outside, tall, white, but they were probably gum trees. Then someone ran out in front of the car, arms waving. Hair flapping. “Fuck,” said Dave, braking sharply. He was a good driver, observant and quite careful. I would have married him for that, if he’d asked. He stopped just short of the woman. She was naked. “Fuck,” Dave said. Softly this time. She ran into the car, mouth open, screaming. Ran into the bonnet. We all instinctively recoiled. She seemed to grow bigger, whiter . . . then she disappeared. She didn’t run away or fall into a hole, though that’s what people told us must have happened. She just . . . vanished. “Where’s she gone?” Sue asked. I caught movement, coming from the same trees the woman-thing had emerged from. “Someone else’s coming,” I said. Pat leaned forward and tapped Dave on the shoulder. “Let’s head off, mate,” he said calmly, and for that I would have married him if he’d asked. He didn’t marry Sue, either; none of us saw much of each other after that night. Dave took off. I watched out the back window. A hairless, naked man stood in the middle of the road. Smiling. He shook his head, waved his index finger at us, tut tut. Pat lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my palm. Nightmare Magazine no 26:59 Editorial, May 2015 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2015/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2015/#comments Wed, 06 May 2015 10:05:22 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10985 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-may-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Kealan Patrick Burke http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/kealan-patrick-burke-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/kealan-patrick-burke-2/#comments Wed, 06 May 2015 10:02:56 +0000 Lisa Nohealani Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10973 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/kealan-patrick-burke-2/feed/ 0 The Red Light is Blinking http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-red-light-is-blinking/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-red-light-is-blinking/#comments Wed, 06 May 2015 10:01:00 +0000 Kealan Patrick Burke http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10993 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-red-light-is-blinking/feed/ 0 Interview: Richard Chizmar http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-richard-chizmar/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-richard-chizmar/#comments Wed, 22 Apr 2015 10:05:14 +0000 Lisa Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10891 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-richard-chizmar/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Nancy Kilpatrick http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-nancy-kilpatrick/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-nancy-kilpatrick/#comments Wed, 22 Apr 2015 10:02:29 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10871 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-nancy-kilpatrick/feed/ 0 The Age of Sorrow http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-age-of-sorrow/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-age-of-sorrow/#comments Wed, 22 Apr 2015 10:01:30 +0000 Nancy Kilpatrick http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10879 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-age-of-sorrow/feed/ 0 Artist Showcase: Dariusz Zawadzki http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-dariusz-zawadzki/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-dariusz-zawadzki/#comments Wed, 15 Apr 2015 10:05:35 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10884 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-dariusz-zawadzki/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Charles Payseur http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-charles-payseur/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-charles-payseur/#comments Wed, 15 Apr 2015 10:02:27 +0000 Jude Griffin http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10870 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-charles-payseur/feed/ 0 Spring Thaw http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/spring-thaw/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/spring-thaw/#comments Wed, 15 Apr 2015 10:01:27 +0000 Charles Payseur http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10878 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/spring-thaw/feed/ 0 When Lucas walked in and nodded toward the Ice Bus, I thought for a fleeting moment he was finally going to make a move. Not that there was much of a dating scene in the small research station, but sometimes I would walk a short way away from camp and ... When Lucas walked in and nodded toward the Ice Bus, I thought for a fleeting moment he was finally going to make a move. Not that there was much of a dating scene in the small research station, but sometimes I would walk a short way away from camp and lie on my back and watch the stars and imagine that I could feel the Antarctic ice streams moving beneath me. And every time I would wish someone else was there with me, to let the sound of their breathing tether me to the Earth while my mind wandered among the distant lights. “We have to go,” he said, voice official, and I sighed and nodded, got my gear and trundled out through the snow to the six-wheeled vehicle we used to get around. We had been waiting at camp for weeks, taking measurements and hoping for some sign that the Pine Island Glacier was getting ready to move. “A flyover sighted something in the snow,” Lucas said as he climbed in shotgun, “to the west and south of here, only a few miles.” I nodded and got us moving, my skills as a driver the only reason I was here anyway, the only reason Lucas had me along on his research mission, though I had hoped, ever since we met in Florida a year earlier, that it might mean something else as well. We had both been at a convention about the danger of warming polar ice, the prospect that the Keys and the Everglades and much of Florida were facing the very real possibility of erasure. He was there as a speaker, young and polished in his dark suit, and I had been there as the guest of another friend, who introduced us because Lucas had been looking for a driver willing to take on the Antarctic snows. We hadn’t moved very far west or south since setting up camp; the ice was growing dangerous there and we had been advised countless times to keep clear of the more active ice streams. With the warming trends, even gentle disturbances could be catastrophic, and we didn’t want to be the ones that kicked the glacier screaming into the sea. But we were also obligated to track down every sighting from the air, to investigate in case it was someone in trouble, lost by the blinding white of the bottom of the world. • • • • I remember my first winter in the snow, moved up to Wausau, Wisconsin at age seven by my father to find work. I don’t remember much of Florida before that, just the sun and heat and a storm or two, the vague sound of my mother laughing. But Wisconsin was another world, a barren waste, completely white, from the snow to the people, and I, half-Cuban southern boy with something of my mother’s accent, didn’t fit in. My father found work driving tow, everything from cars and trucks to snowmobiles and trailers; in the winter he made good money hauling ice fishing shacks out onto the frozen lakes. I would go with, would sit huddled against my father’s leg in the truck, sure that I could hear the ice cracking beneath us. He would tell me then, “Ice is one of the strongest things in the world. You treat it with respect, and the ice will never let you through.” I remember that it snowed over eighty inches that winter, that I thought the world was ending, that it would never stop snowing, that it was like Noah and the ark, only with snow so that God wouldn’t be lying when He said He’d never try the same thing twice. • • • • “Just a bit further to the west,” Lucas said, checking the coordinates he had been given by the aircraft. I nodded and found a safe path. “You think it has something to do with the thaw?” I asked. For weeks I had been asking small questions, trying to piece together all of Lucas’ thoughts and theories. He was brilliant, driven, had been awarded grant after grant from the IPCC, the British Antarctic Survey, SCAR; the last always made me draw a hand to my shoulder without thinking and then quickly pull it away. “Could be anything,” Lucas said, as usual not wanting to commit to anything that he hadn’t seen, that he hadn’t made his own mind up about. “Might just be some dark ash. Nightmare Magazine no 28:04 The H Word: Dropping the Vial http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-dropping-the-vial/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-dropping-the-vial/#comments Wed, 08 Apr 2015 10:05:12 +0000 Seanan McGuire http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10890 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-dropping-the-vial/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Usman T. Malik http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-usman-t-malik/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-usman-t-malik/#comments Wed, 08 Apr 2015 10:02:25 +0000 Erika Holt http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10869 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-usman-t-malik/feed/ 0 Ishq http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/ishq/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/ishq/#comments Wed, 08 Apr 2015 10:01:26 +0000 Usman T. Malik http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10877 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/ishq/feed/ 0 Editorial, April 2015 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2015/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2015/#comments Wed, 01 Apr 2015 10:05:09 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10889 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-april-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Desirina Boskovich http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-desirina-boskovich-3/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-desirina-boskovich-3/#comments Wed, 01 Apr 2015 10:02:22 +0000 Erika Holt http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10868 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-desirina-boskovich-3/feed/ 0 The Island http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-island/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-island/#comments Wed, 01 Apr 2015 10:01:23 +0000 Desirina Boskovich http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10876 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-island/feed/ 0 I was five when we moved to the island. Mommy and Daddy knew that the end was near. There were harbingers, omens, and dire events: poisoned apples, collapsing buildings, broken sidewalks, and the ever-present idiot boxes, I was five when we moved to the island. Mommy and Daddy knew that the end was near. There were harbingers, omens, and dire events: poisoned apples, collapsing buildings, broken sidewalks, and the ever-present idiot boxes, a parade of heathens that prayed in tongues. A riot over papayas and saddle shoes broke out in the fifth quarter, and half the city burned. In a far-off desert, our soldiers fought the sand worms; we sent them care packages, stuffed with candy and thick socks. A wicked witch built a palace made from shoes; when they dug her out with the business end of a stiletto heel, they found she’d been orchestrating the fate of the world from behind an emerald curtain. When the curtain fell, it all fell apart; there was nothing left but darkness and ennui. Then a hole tore itself in the ozone, and crazy dust fell through — whomever it touched lost the power of speech. The earth rent her garments, and a jagged satellite of land mass broke off the coast and floated away. I was five when we moved to the island. My sister Thea was three. We loaded our lives into a tiny ship and set sail. We sailed the seven seas; we sailed for forty days and forty nights. We were tossed by strange creatures: eight-legged squid with suction-cup fingers, and city-sized whales with flapping tails. Grinning dolphins swam in our wake, leaping to say hello. Mommy and Daddy sat on the deck and played cards, talking about the life we’d build when we reached land. Thea and I sat at their feet. They told us stories about everything we’d escaped in The Outside World, everything scary that lay far away. Now we’d always be safe. On the forty-first day, the island peeked its head over the calm blue line of the horizon: an uninhabited jewel no more than a couple miles across, covered with sloping hills, lush forests, sandy beaches, strange flowers. A jutting cliff led down to a bed of rocks where the sea foamed and leaped. A fresh water spring trickled from the island’s obsidian heart, turning into a creek that ran toward the sea. We called the island Treasure. We were home. • • • • We dismantled the ship and built a house. We planted crops in the lush glades, and searched the island for things that were good to eat: luscious fruits, speckled mushrooms, hearty nuts, savory turtle’s meat, and smooth seagull’s eggs. Wild sheep roamed the island; we caught them, corralled them, sheared their wool, slaughtered their rams, and drank their mothers’ milk. We slept on beds made from grass. On the radio, we listened to the events of The Outside World: a spreading epidemic that turned its victims pink before they dissolved into dust and floated away. A suicide cult that tattooed its members with sinister symbols in languages we’d inherited from foreign stars. “Turn off the radio,” Mommy said. “Turn off that silliness.” So we did, and she gave us chores. My brother Rock was born. Rock belonged to the island; he’d never known another home. Whether under sunny blue skies or torrential summer rain, he thrived. He grew so fast it was uncanny. From the beginning, he followed Daddy everywhere. Together, they figured out how to catch the biggest fish, how to fell the widest tree, how to build the hottest fire that would keep us warm all night. Thea and I wanted to go on forest expeditions, too. We wanted to capture the wriggling, rainbow-skinned gods that breathed their last on the beach. But Mommy needed us at home. We washed our clothes in the creek and beat them clean on the flat rocks. We sheared the sheep and spun the wool into thread and knitted it into cloth. We cooked fish and turtle legs together in stews that steamed and bubbled all day, seasoned with wild herbs. My brother Leaf was born. He was a weird baby; the island was in his blood. He never laughed and never cried. He only surveyed his family with a placid contentment, as if to say, “I am here, you are here, everything is fine.” He would only eat fruit. As he grew, he tagged along with Rock, Nightmare Magazine no 45:38 Feature Interview: Helen Marshall http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/feature-interview-helen-marshall/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/feature-interview-helen-marshall/#comments Wed, 25 Mar 2015 10:05:30 +0000 Kelly Link http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10768 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/feature-interview-helen-marshall/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Lynda E. Rucker http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-lynda-e-rucker-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-lynda-e-rucker-2/#comments Wed, 25 Mar 2015 10:02:19 +0000 Erika Holt http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10757 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-lynda-e-rucker-2/feed/ 0 The Burned House http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-burned-house/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-burned-house/#comments Wed, 25 Mar 2015 10:01:58 +0000 Lynda E. Rucker http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10775 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/the-burned-house/feed/ 0 ARTIST SHOWCASE: Robert Emerson http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-robert-emerson/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-robert-emerson/#comments Wed, 18 Mar 2015 10:05:28 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10762 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-robert-emerson/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Caspian Gray http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caspian-gray-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caspian-gray-2/#comments Wed, 18 Mar 2015 10:02:17 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10756 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-caspian-gray-2/feed/ 0 An Army of Angels http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/an-army-of-angels/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/an-army-of-angels/#comments Wed, 18 Mar 2015 10:01:56 +0000 Caspian Gray http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10774 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/an-army-of-angels/feed/ 0 “I have something I want to show you,” said Nancy. She stared at Jazmine from Jazmine’s front porch, wet and bedraggled. Nancy was a petite white woman with long hair the way teenage boys had long hair: tangled and perpetually in need of a good shampoo. “I have something I want to show you,” said Nancy. She stared at Jazmine from Jazmine’s front porch, wet and bedraggled. Nancy was a petite white woman with long hair the way teenage boys had long hair: tangled and perpetually in need of a good shampoo. Jazmine sighed and reached out to rest her hand on Nancy’s shoulder, then pulled back. They weren’t sixteen anymore, and that kind of intimacy was as unwelcome as Nancy showing up on her doorstep at eleven p.m., earnest and strange. Jazmine sighed again, louder. “Are you off your medication again?” “No.” Nancy snapped the word out, made it into shrapnel. “Okay, then,” said Jazmine. “Okay. You can come in.” She took a towel out of the guest bathroom and offered it to Nancy, who took off her shoes and placed them neatly next to the door, then stood dripping on the carpet. Jazmine filled her coffee maker with water, then put a few bags of açaí berry tea into the filter basket and turned it on. Nancy half-heartedly tousled her hair with the towel. They stood listening to the burble of the coffee maker and the quiet tap of rain against the window. “Well?” Jazmine asked finally. “What do you want to show me?” “It’s not here.” Nancy looked down at her feet. Jazmine noticed that one of her socks was white, the other neon pink. “You have to come over to my place.” “Really.” Jazmine took two mugs out and put them on the counter. “You walked all the way over here at eleven at night, in the rain, to tell me I need to come over to your place. You couldn’t have called?” “My phone died.” Nancy shrugged. “I don’t know where the charger is. Anyway it’s not that far. And I figured that once I got here you’d drive us back to my place. I know you don’t like the rain as much as I do.” Jazmine tapped her fingernails against the counter. “Nobody likes the rain, Nance,” she said. “Not in the middle of November, when it’s freezing out.” Nancy stared at her, blinking slowly. It was hard for Jazmine to reconcile the Nancy in her living room with the memory of Nancy in high school, the too-cool, too-loud chick full of weird ideas, without ever noticing how weird they were. Even now, Jazmine sometimes missed that girl. “So,” said Nancy. “Are you gonna come with me? I can just walk back if you don’t want to.” For a moment, Jazmine considered letting her do just that. She could drink tea by herself, read a little bit before bed, and congratulate herself on, just this once, not being the good guy. But it was cold out, and Nancy was already soaking wet. “Okay,” she said. “But let’s wait for the tea to finish. I’ll put it in a couple of thermoses. Did you even bring an umbrella?” “I had an umbrella. But I lost it a couple weeks ago, I think at the comic book store. Normally the guys there are real good about making sure I don’t forget things.” “Mh,” said Jazmine. “What titles did you pick up?” She let Nancy yammer about comic books while she poured them tea, got another towel for Nancy to sit on in the passenger seat, and poked around for an extra umbrella. Some of the superhero names she recognized from her own brief foray into geekdom, but much of it was incomprehensible. She would have needed subtitles, or at least footnotes, to follow her friend. Jazmine followed her out to the car, still talking. She was more animated when she discussed comic books, more willing to look people in the eye, or at least enough in the face that it looked like normal eye contact. Nancy quieted on the ride back to her apartment, and fell totally silent in the parking lot. “You know what?” she said suddenly, voice shrill. “Never mind. I don’t have anything to show you. Thanksfortheride.” She opened the door and hopped out while Jazmine was still parking, leaving Jazmine’s umbrella but taking one of the thermoses with her. “Nance?” Jazmine called. “Nance!” Nancy didn’t pause, and Jazmine rolled down her window. “I would’ve just given you a ride!” she yelled. Nightmare Magazine no 41:12 The H Word: Zombies–They’re Not Just for Breakfast Anymore http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-zombies-theyre-not-just-for-breakfast-anymore/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-zombies-theyre-not-just-for-breakfast-anymore/#comments Wed, 11 Mar 2015 10:05:25 +0000 S.G. Browne http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10767 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/the-h-word-zombies-theyre-not-just-for-breakfast-anymore/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Robert Shearman http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-robert-shearman/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-robert-shearman/#comments Wed, 11 Mar 2015 10:02:33 +0000 Kevin McNeil http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10755 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-robert-shearman/feed/ 0 Featherweight http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/featherweight/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/featherweight/#comments Wed, 11 Mar 2015 10:01:54 +0000 Robert Shearman http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10773 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/featherweight/feed/ 0 Editorial, March 2015 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-march-2015/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-march-2015/#comments Wed, 04 Mar 2015 11:05:24 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10766 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-march-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Chesya Burke http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-chesya-burke-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-chesya-burke-2/#comments Wed, 04 Mar 2015 11:02:12 +0000 Lisa Nohealani Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10754 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-chesya-burke-2/feed/ 0