http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/itunes-rss/ Nightmare Magazine » Nightmare Magazine - Horror & Dark Fantasy http://www.nightmare-magazine.com Horror & Dark Fantasy Sat, 24 Jan 2015 02:01:37 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=4.1 hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=4.1 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 Artist Showcase: Tran Nguyen http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-tran-nguyen-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-tran-nguyen-2/#comments Wed, 21 Jan 2015 11:05:33 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10463 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-tran-nguyen-2/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Christopher Barzak http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-christopher-barzak/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-christopher-barzak/#comments Wed, 21 Jan 2015 11:02:29 +0000 Lisa Nohealani Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10440 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-christopher-barzak/feed/ 0 The Trampling http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/trampling/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/trampling/#comments Wed, 21 Jan 2015 11:01:02 +0000 Christopher Barzak http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10467 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/trampling/feed/ 0 It starts with a small child — a girl of no more than eight or nine, with stringy blond hair and grease caked under her ragged fingernails — trotting down a street in a not so fashionable district of London. It’s 1886. It’s nearly three in the morning, It starts with a small child — a girl of no more than eight or nine, with stringy blond hair and grease caked under her ragged fingernails — trotting down a street in a not so fashionable district of London. It’s 1886. It’s nearly three in the morning, the night shrouded in fog. She’s barefoot and hungry, and back in the rooms she left just ten minutes ago, her parents have begun making up from the row they’ve just ended, a row that included a vast amount of cursing, thrown cutlery, and fisticuffs, leaving the girl’s mother with a great weal across her cheek and another across her forehead. The girl’s been sent for a doctor, who might stitch up the cuts. Her parents’ making-up will consist mainly of the girl’s father forcing himself into her mother, disregarding the tears in her eyes and the whimpering he mistakes for her pleasure, and in this way he will allow himself to believe that everything that came before that moment has been forgiven. The girl, as mentioned, is hungry. And also somewhat frightened by the goings-on back home, though over the years her fear of her father’s temper and her mother’s sharp tongue has waned. Little by little, the girl has come to see that, though one might easily and consistently be hurt in mind or body by living in the circumstances she’s been born to, one can survive if one keeps her wits about her. So when a fight breaks out, she knows to slip out the door and wait beneath the window ledge with the flowerless flower box sitting upon it, until the shouting and the tussling is finally over. Which is what she’s done. Then her father called her in and said, “Run and get the doctor.” Which is what she’s doing. Even this late at night, there are doctors of a certain type — apothecaries more than anything — that will waken and go to someone’s aid, even though the streets have almost emptied. Even this late at night, too, you can sometimes find a gentleman who may stop to give a barefoot urchin a coin, enough to buy a sweet from the shops in the morning if she can hide it long enough from her parents. And many gentlemen won’t even require her to sing a song or to perform a dance or to allow his hand to caress her for several moments. No, the ideal gentleman will simply press a coin into her hand and will then move along, shaking his head, disturbed by the overwhelming force of pity she’s stirred in him. If she can find an ideal gentleman while running for the doctor, she thinks it could at least mitigate some of the disaster she’s just lived through. To find a doctor, she’s had to go down a street that she’d probably recognize more easily during the day, when people are actually walking about and the shops are open. She’s unsure of whether or not she’s taken a wrong turn, because it feels like it’s taking longer than usual to find the building where the old sawbones who usually sees to her mother’s ailments lives. And despite her belief that there are always kind gentlemen available at any hour, none seem to be appearing now to help her. The moon is high. The gaslights flicker in the white fog like faraway lighthouse beacons. Though the girl doesn’t see any gentlemen appearing in her path, someone is in fact coming toward her. Someone — or something — is approaching from nearly two blocks away, heading in her direction, his footfalls thudding against the cobblestones, his breathing fast and heavy. He is not a gentleman in the least, though. He is more like some kind of elemental force: a dark wind blowing down an alleyway, pushing over carts, spilling apples, shaking windows until they shatter in his wake. He is hurrying away from something at this moment, his arms pumping furiously, as though he’s being chased, and his bloodshot eyes are glistening. When he turns a corner, he sees the little girl just up ahead. She’s standing under the foggy glow of a street lantern, a sole actor illuminated by stage lights. He doesn’t slow down in the least. He goes forward, possibly even faster, Nightmare Magazine no 31:26 The H Word: You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby –The Female Protagonist in Horror http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-youve-come-long-way-baby-female-protagonist-horror/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-youve-come-long-way-baby-female-protagonist-horror/#comments Wed, 14 Jan 2015 11:05:35 +0000 Lisa Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10458 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-youve-come-long-way-baby-female-protagonist-horror/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Norman Partridge http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-norman-partridge-3/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-norman-partridge-3/#comments Wed, 14 Jan 2015 11:02:26 +0000 Britt Gettys http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10439 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-norman-partridge-3/feed/ 0 The Hollow Man http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/hollow-man/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/hollow-man/#comments Wed, 14 Jan 2015 11:01:00 +0000 Norman Partridge http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10466 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/hollow-man/feed/ 0 Editorial, January 2015 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-january-2015/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-january-2015/#comments Wed, 07 Jan 2015 11:05:58 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10449 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-january-2015/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Kat Howard http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kat-howard-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kat-howard-2/#comments Wed, 07 Jan 2015 11:02:25 +0000 Kevin McNeil http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10438 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-kat-howard-2/feed/ 0 Returned http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/returned/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/returned/#comments Wed, 07 Jan 2015 11:01:15 +0000 Kat Howard http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10446 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/returned/feed/ 0 The shadows press on your skin, prickled velvet that shouldn’t have weight, shouldn’t have texture, shouldn’t feel like you are wearing sandpaper and poison, but they do. You are almost used to it, this new way that things that shouldn’t happen do, The shadows press on your skin, prickled velvet that shouldn’t have weight, shouldn’t have texture, shouldn’t feel like you are wearing sandpaper and poison, but they do. You are almost used to it, this new way that things that shouldn’t happen do, but... Nightmare Magazine no 21:37 Interview: Robert Shearman http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-robert-shearman/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-robert-shearman/#comments Wed, 24 Dec 2014 11:05:39 +0000 Helen Marshall http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10358 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-robert-shearman/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Michael Marshall Smith http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-michael-marshall-smith/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-michael-marshall-smith/#comments Wed, 24 Dec 2014 11:02:56 +0000 Erika Holt http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10348 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-michael-marshall-smith/feed/ 0 Night Falls, Again http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/night-falls/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/night-falls/#comments Wed, 24 Dec 2014 11:01:09 +0000 Michael Marshall Smith http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10373 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/night-falls/feed/ 0 Artist Showcase: Brom http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-brom/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-brom/#comments Wed, 17 Dec 2014 11:05:32 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10352 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-brom/feed/ 0 Author Spolight: Seras Nikita http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spolight-seras-nikita/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spolight-seras-nikita/#comments Wed, 17 Dec 2014 11:02:23 +0000 Sandra Odell http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10347 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spolight-seras-nikita/feed/ 0 Bog Dog http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/bog-dog/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/bog-dog/#comments Wed, 17 Dec 2014 11:01:07 +0000 Seras Nikita http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10372 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/bog-dog/feed/ 0 My hands were badly chapped that fall, the year we found Bog Dog. At least that I remember. The ground iced in early September, a month and a half early, and we had to dig the turnips from the earth with trowels. My hands were badly chapped that fall, the year we found Bog Dog. At least that I remember. The ground iced in early September, a month and a half early, and we had to dig the turnips from the earth with trowels. The soil was like pebbles of ice and the turnip tops were stiffened with freezing juice that re-froze on our hands as we sliced them off. When all the turnips were in and Surrey and I went back to stitching the Christmas Quilt, I remember how the yarns kept catching on the hardened trills of split skin that cracked my palms and fingertips. I remember how the dyed yarn would tug a crack so raw that it bled, leaving a muddy track of green or vermillion where the wetness of my blood had loosened dye from wool. Even with fair hands I hated sewing and I was no good at it (I’m still not), but Surrey could whip stitches so tight and even you’d swear she was a practiced seamstress, like the aged woman with the port-wine birthmark who’d stitched her tiny christening dress eleven years before. I was going on fifteen that winter. A storm was coming, and it was going to be a bad one. Pop could tell because his toe with the gout was swollen up as big as a red potato. He stood in the doorway to the woodshed and rolled a cud of chew in his mouth, counting. Two cords of wood, half a box of kindling, and only eleven blocks of thin peat. Pop grunted and spat, and his eyes looked worried. The meager stack of peat in our woodshed didn’t look like the stuff they burned in the schoolhouse or the chapel. Ours was thin and gray and full of air. When you held it in your hand, it weighed nothing at all, and instead of smoldering hot in the stove, it flamed up yellow and then dissolved into ash. Ma said we didn’t have a very good piece of land because Gran didn’t know what to look for when she bought it, so she’d gotten bamboozled on account of her being a woman and an out-of-towner. Gran had grown up near Aberdeen where they burned coal and ate eels. She didn’t know about peat or sheep or winter storms that could trap a family snowbound until they burned cribs and floorboards and frostbite took their toes. Pops spat again and then he said to the spot of saliva-moistened dirt, “A thief’s not a thief if he steals to save himself and his own.” And then he told me and Surrey to take the barrow from the woodpile and go cut as much peat as we could carry from the Cornwalls’ property. It was almost five o’clock and sun was already low in the sky, but I buttoned up my coat and then helped tuck my little sister into her scarf and mittens. Then we took the old barrow with the wobbly wheel and pushed it along the hardscrabble path that led through the bone-white elms and into the rye. • • • • The O’Farrells had got two hundred pounds sterling for the bog man dug out of their property in 1954, so Surrey figured we could get at least fifty for the mummified dog we dug up while we were stealing peat from the Cornwalls’ poisoned rye field. At first we weren’t sure if the University would be willing to buy, because we’d been out there stealing blocks of the Cornwalls’ peat. But after, Pops told us Ma said we didn’t have to feel guilty because the fields were just going to thorn anyhow. The Cornwalls were dead, and nobody would make a bid on the land because everyone knew that rye field was haunted. So that’s why we were on the Cornwalls’ property stealing chunks of rich dark moss from their bog, peat that was going to waste anyway. By the time we’d filled our barrow, the wind whipping through the white elms had chapped our lips and cheeks as red as beets. To my back stood the blackened field, with shadows like faces and stalks like naked bones. I buttoned my coat up high on my neck, but I could still feel it watching me. There were as many stories about the Cornwalls’ fields as boys in the schoolyard, but Patrick Freer’s rendition was the most highly regarded. His account went like this: Nightmare Magazine no 26:43 The H Word: The Strange Story http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-strange-story/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-strange-story/#comments Wed, 10 Dec 2014 11:05:13 +0000 Simon Strantzas http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10365 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-strange-story/feed/ 0 Bodywork http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/bodywork/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/bodywork/#comments Wed, 10 Dec 2014 11:01:05 +0000 Christa Faust http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10371 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/bodywork/feed/ 0 Editorial, December 2014 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-december-2014/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-december-2014/#comments Wed, 03 Dec 2014 11:05:08 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10355 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-december-2014/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Tim Lebbon http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-tim-lebbon/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-tim-lebbon/#comments Wed, 03 Dec 2014 11:02:50 +0000 Lisa Nohealani Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10346 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-tim-lebbon/feed/ 0 Embers http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/embers/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/embers/#comments Wed, 03 Dec 2014 11:01:36 +0000 Tim Lebbon http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10366 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/embers/feed/ 0 They had known that the pillbox was in the woods, but for some reason they’d never got around to visiting it. Andy thought maybe it was because the older kids went there sometimes, smoking cigarettes and drinking cider and, so rumour had it, They had known that the pillbox was in the woods, but for some reason they’d never got around to visiting it. Andy thought maybe it was because the older kids went there sometimes, smoking cigarettes and drinking cider and, so rumour had it, getting blowjobs from Mandy Sullivan. He wasn’t entirely sure what a blowjob was—though his older brother Nick seemed to think it was something to do with sticking your tongue into your cheek—but those ideas were enough to keep the pillbox out of bounds. Usually. “We should go there,” Joe said. “The old kids won’t be hanging around this time of day. Just to see.” “To see what?” Andy asked, trying to sound cool but feeling scared. “See what it’s all about,” Kai said. “Yeah, that,” Joe agreed. “Come on. Race you to the stream.” Joe went off quickly, Kai followed, and Andy pelted after them, sprinting through the blazing summer sunlight, legs thrashing through long grasses and raising clouds of tiny flies, dandelion seeds, and dust. It was the middle of a long hot summer, and school had finished a week before. Days of potential lay before them, and evenings of barbeques and bike rides around the village. His mum and dad had already told him that they’d give him a bit more freedom this summer. The day rested heavily across the fields between village and woodland. The air was still, as if exhausted from the heat, and everything to Andy seemed large, wide, almost endless—the sun, the humidity, the fields and woodlands that were his playground, and the school holiday that was to last all summer. He whooped and hollered as he ran, overtaking Kai and closing on Joe. Just as they reached the stream he and Joe were neck and neck, and they leapt the old wooden fence together. The timber rail beneath Joe collapsed, sending him sprawling into a thicket of stinging nettles. He yelped and rolled out, scratching all over, grinning from ear to ear. “I am victorious!” Andy yelled, leaping into the stream and almost slipping on the slick rocks beneath the surface. Cold water hushed over his shoes and past his ankles, and he was tempted to throw himself in head-first. “Only because I had an accident.” “Sore loser.” “No, I’m just saying, I fell into the nettles, my race-scars are better than yours.” Joe reckoned that scars made girls like you more. He was scratching like crazy, his face tensed with the unpleasant tingling that would last for hours. “Rematch?” Andy smirked. “Screw you.” Kai arrived at the fence, panting. He leaned on the section just along from the collapsed rail and it broke too, spilling him to the ground. “Fat bastard!” Joe shouted. Andy smiled but didn’t join in. Kai was fat, and it didn’t feel right taking the piss. Joe didn’t care. He rarely did, and though there wasn’t anything really mean about him, sometimes he was too brash for his own good. He was Andy’s best mate. Kai had just begun hanging around with them, and Andy was growing to like the shy, overweight kid. It was only now that his parents were letting him out to play. Andy loved the woods. There were streams to jump and dam, fallen trees to break apart and use to build dens, waist-high wood ants’ nests to prod and throw caterpillars in, places to hide, trees to climb, and animals to watch. It was a well-trodden woodland, but the paths were worn in by use, not formed artificially. There were still places in there that felt wild. Andy, Joe, and Kai played war all the way in, hiding behind trees and performing forward rolls to dodge each other’s bullets. Kai was shot first, then Andy, and Joe declared himself the winner of the battle. That’s just the way it was, invisible bullets obeying an unconscious social ranking. Andy’s dad often commented that Joe would probably be in the SAS when he was older, and Andy wasn’t quite sure whether he meant that in a good or bad way. They played on the concrete bridge over the stream for a while, Nightmare Magazine no 35:30 In Memoriam: Karen Jones, Nightmare Art Director http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/memoriam-karen-jones-nightmare-art-director/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/memoriam-karen-jones-nightmare-art-director/#comments Mon, 01 Dec 2014 11:04:37 +0000 Jennifer Heddle and John Picacio http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10356 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/memoriam-karen-jones-nightmare-art-director/feed/ 0 Interview: Leslie Klinger http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-leslie-klinger/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-leslie-klinger/#comments Wed, 26 Nov 2014 11:05:25 +0000 Lisa Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10309 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-leslie-klinger/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: David Morrell http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-morrell/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-morrell/#comments Wed, 26 Nov 2014 11:02:29 +0000 Erika Holt http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10304 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-morrell/feed/ 0 For These and All My Sins http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/sins/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/sins/#comments Wed, 26 Nov 2014 11:01:40 +0000 David Morrell http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10315 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/sins/feed/ 0 There was a tree. I remember it. I swear I’d be able to recognize it. Because it looked so unusual. It stood on my left, in the distance, by Interstate 80. At first, it was just a blur in the shimmering heat haze, but as I drove closer, There was a tree. I remember it. I swear I’d be able to recognize it. Because it looked so unusual. It stood on my left, in the distance, by Interstate 80. At first, it was just a blur in the shimmering heat haze, but as I drove closer, its skeletal outline became distinct. Skeletal: that’s what struck me at first as being strange. After all, in August, even in the sun-parched Nebraska panhandle, trees (the few you see) are thick with leaves, but this one was bare. So it’s dead, I thought. So what? Nothing to frown about. But then I noticed the second thing about it, and I guess I’d subconsciously been reacting before I even realized what its silhouette resembled. Stronger than resembled. I felt uneasy. The tree looked like a menorah, a giant counterpart of the candelabrum used in Jewish religious services. Eight candles in a row. Except in this case the candles were barren branches standing straight. I shrugged off an eerie tingle. It’s just a freak, an accident of nature, I concluded, although I briefly wondered if someone had pruned the tree to give it that distinctive appearance and in the process had unavoidably killed it. But coincidence or not, the shape struck me as being uncanny—a religious symbol formed by a sterile tree ironically blessing a drought-racked western plain. I thought of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. For the past two weeks, I’d been camping with friends in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. Fishing, exploring, rock climbing, mostly sitting around our cook fire, drinking, reminiscing. After our long-postponed reunion, our time together had gone too quickly. Again we’d separated, heading our different ways across the country, back to wives and children, jobs and obligations. For me, that meant Iowa City, home, and the university. As much as I wanted to see my family again, I dreaded the prospect of still another fall semester, preparing classes, grading freshman papers. Weary from driving (eight hours east since a wrenching emotional farewell breakfast), I glanced from the weird menorah tree and realized I was doing seventy. Slow down, I told myself. You’ll end up getting a ticket. Or killed. And that’s when the engine started shuddering. I drive a secondhand Porsche 912, the kind with four cylinders, from the sixties. I bought it cheap because it needed a lot of body work, but despite its age, it usually worked like a charm. The trouble is, I didn’t know the carburetors had to be adjusted for the thinner air of higher altitude, so when I’d reached the mountains in Wyoming, the engine had sputtered, the carburetors had overflowed, and I’d rushed to put out a devastating fire on the engine. In Lander, Wyoming, a garage had repaired the damage while I went camping with my friends, but when I’d come back to get it, the accelerator hadn’t seemed as responsive as it used to be. All day, the motor had sounded a little noisier than usual and now as it shuddered, it wasn’t just noisy, it was thunderous. Oh Christ, I thought. The fire must have cracked the engine block. Whatever was wrong, I didn’t dare go much farther. The steering wheel was jerking in my hands. Scared, I slowed to thirty. The roar and shudder persisted. I needed to find a mechanic fast. I said this happened in Nebraska’s panhandle. Imagine the state as a wide rectangle. Cut away the bottom left corner. The remaining top left corner—that’s the panhandle, just to the east of Wyoming. It’s nothing but broad, flat, open range. Scrub grass, sagebrush, tumbleweed. The land’s as desolate as when the pioneers struggled across it a hundred years ago. A couple more hours into Nebraska, I wouldn’t have worried too much. Towns start showing up every twenty miles or so. But heading through the panhandle, I hadn’t seen a sign for a town in quite a while. Despite the false security of the four-lane interstate, I might as well have been on the moon. As a consequence, when I saw the off-ramp, I didn’t think twice. Nightmare Magazine no 35:47 The H Word: Horror Fiction of Tomorrow http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-horror-fiction-tomorrow/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-horror-fiction-tomorrow/#comments Wed, 19 Nov 2014 11:05:22 +0000 Eric J. Guignard http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10308 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-horror-fiction-tomorrow/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: David Sklar http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-sklar/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-sklar/#comments Wed, 19 Nov 2014 11:02:27 +0000 Lisa Nohealani Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10303 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-david-sklar/feed/ 0 Rules for Killing Monsters http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rules-killing-monsters/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rules-killing-monsters/#comments Wed, 19 Nov 2014 11:01:37 +0000 David Sklar http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10314 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rules-killing-monsters/feed/ 0 Artist Showcase: Jeff Simpson http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-jeff-simpson-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-jeff-simpson-2/#comments Wed, 12 Nov 2014 11:05:12 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10305 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-jeff-simpson-2/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Karin Tidbeck http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karin-tidbeck/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karin-tidbeck/#comments Wed, 12 Nov 2014 11:02:25 +0000 Britt Gettys http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10302 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-karin-tidbeck/feed/ 0 Rebecka http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rebecka/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rebecka/#comments Wed, 12 Nov 2014 11:01:35 +0000 Karin Tidbeck http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10313 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/rebecka/feed/ 0 Editorial, November 2014 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-november-2014/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-november-2014/#comments Wed, 05 Nov 2014 11:05:20 +0000 John Joseph Adams http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10307 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-november-2014/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Maria Dahvana Headley http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-maria-dahvana-headley-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-maria-dahvana-headley-2/#comments Wed, 05 Nov 2014 11:02:22 +0000 E.C. Myers http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10301 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-maria-dahvana-headley-2/feed/ 0 Who Is Your Executioner? http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/executioner/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/executioner/#comments Wed, 05 Nov 2014 11:01:33 +0000 Maria Dahvana Headley http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10312 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/executioner/feed/ 0 Since we were little, Oona’s collected Victorian photographs. A certain subset of people love them, but I got a library book of them once, just before I met her, and I’ve never not been appalled. I don’t know what a book like that was doing lost in our... Five Since we were little, Oona’s collected Victorian photographs. A certain subset of people love them, but I got a library book of them once, just before I met her, and I’ve never not been appalled. I don’t know what a book like that was doing lost in our local library. It’s exactly the kind of thing that would normally have been removed by a logical parent. The book was death images, yes, but worse than that. These were all dead children and babies dressed in their best clothes and propped up for the last family photo. Held in their parents’ arms, posed with their pets and toys, staring at the camera. It was like some sort of Egyptian funerary ritual, except much more hardcore. The thing about them was that everyone in them had to pose for a long time to make it through the film exposure. There’s lots of accidental motion, lots of blur, and so the families look like ghosts. The dead children are the only ones who look alive. • • • • “Did you hear about Oona? Because if you did, and you didn’t call me, I don’t know who you are anymore,” the voice on the other end of the line says. The same rattle Trevor’s had in his voice since we were seven, a sound like tin cans tied to the back of a wedding day junker. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. Since I’ve spoken to anyone, really. I tried to start over with new people, but I was still the same person and it never works the way you think it will. Trev and I faded out in a record shop a few years back, arguing over Kate Bush for reasons that are now difficult to recall. Kate Bush wasn’t really the problem. The problem was the way friendship can tilt into more than friendship for one person, and less than friendship for the other. Trevor and I have a history of cheater’s matinees in crappy un-airconditioned theaters. Back then, we watched superhero movies together, the three-dollar shows where no one we knew would be hanging out. Sometimes I reached over and put my hand in his lap, and sometimes he put his in mine. We were having an affair, but neither of us could commit to a bedroom. Instead, it was his fingers inside me, and my hand on him, both of us watching the latest incarnation of Spider-Man like nothing was happening below our waists. We were trying, as we’d been trying for years, to not be in love with Oona. “What about her?” She and I have history too, but not the history I wanted. Probably she’s gotten married or is happy or had a baby or something. I’m expecting a New York Times announcement, her with something handsome beside her, a grinning, sports-playing something, and Oona, her yellow eyes and long red hair. She looks—has always looked—like a tree on fire. She’s six foot two and covered with freckles. One time she and I were naked, and I drew the constellations on her with a Sharpie. All there. Next time I tried it, they were gone. There were new configurations but not the ones I’d mapped. It’s getting to be time again for weddings and babies. This is the second round after the first marriages. Trevor’s been divorced a couple years now, and I’m single again too after trying to settle for a woman in Georgia who got pregnant by sperm donor and then said, witheringly, “you always act like you’re so smart, but you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’re fucked up. You’re in love with her, and you should stop lying about it.” She was four months pregnant and I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t know she wanted to have kids with me, and she didn’t, it turned out. She wanted to have kids without me. Now I’m back in the city, avoiding my roommate. My life, what there was of it, has dissolved like Kool-Aid in a cup. We’re all thirty-seven, Trevor and Oona and me, and we’ve known each other since second grade. I haven’t talked to Oona in years. Every time I see her name in my inbox, I delete it. After the last time I saw her, I’m better off alone. She messes with my head. “She’s dead,” says Trevor, sounding astonished. “Oona finally died.” Nightmare Magazine no 1:01:44 Interview: Joyce Carol Oates http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-joyce-carol-oates/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-joyce-carol-oates/#comments Wed, 22 Oct 2014 10:04:33 +0000 Lisa Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10254 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-joyce-carol-oates/feed/ 1 Unfair Exchange http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/unfair-exchange/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/unfair-exchange/#comments Wed, 22 Oct 2014 10:01:38 +0000 Pat Cadigan http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10259 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/unfair-exchange/feed/ 0 Artists Showcase: Five Women Artists Who Are Destroying Horror Art http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artists-showcase-five-women-artists-destroying-horror-art/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artists-showcase-five-women-artists-destroying-horror-art/#comments Wed, 15 Oct 2014 10:05:30 +0000 Galen Dara http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10241 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artists-showcase-five-women-artists-destroying-horror-art/feed/ 1 Author Spotlight: Livia Llewellyn http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-livia-llewellyn-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-livia-llewellyn-2/#comments Wed, 15 Oct 2014 10:02:56 +0000 Jude Griffin http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10250 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-livia-llewellyn-2/feed/ 0 It Feels Better Biting Down http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/feels-better-biting/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/feels-better-biting/#comments Wed, 15 Oct 2014 10:01:16 +0000 Livia Llewellyn http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10258 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/feels-better-biting/feed/ 2 “What’s with the lawnmower. No one mows this early in spring.” “It’s June,” I reply. “Spring should be long gone.” My twin sister rolls over onto her back, rubbing the afternoon sleep from her eyes with ten long, pale fingers and two long, pale thumbs. (http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/murakami_575.jpg) “What’s with the lawnmower. No one mows this early in spring.” “It’s June,” I reply. “Spring should be long gone.” My twin sister rolls over onto her back, rubbing... Nightmare Magazine no 34:54 The H Word: The H is for Harassment (a/k/a Horror’s Misogyny Problem) http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-h-harassment-aka-horrors-misogyny-problem/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-h-harassment-aka-horrors-misogyny-problem/#comments Wed, 08 Oct 2014 10:04:28 +0000 Chesya Burke http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10253 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/h-word-h-harassment-aka-horrors-misogyny-problem/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: A.R. Morlan http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-r-morlan/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-r-morlan/#comments Wed, 08 Oct 2014 10:02:39 +0000 Caroline Ratajski http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10249 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-r-morlan/feed/ 0 . . . Warmer http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/warmer/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/warmer/#comments Wed, 08 Oct 2014 10:01:14 +0000 A.R. Morlan http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10257 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/warmer/feed/ 0 Editorial, October 2014: Women Destroy Horror! http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-october-2014-women-destroy-horror/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-october-2014-women-destroy-horror/#comments Tue, 30 Sep 2014 10:04:25 +0000 Ellen Datlow and Lisa Morton http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10252 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/editorial-october-2014-women-destroy-horror/feed/ 0 Preface http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/preface/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/preface/#comments Tue, 30 Sep 2014 10:03:45 +0000 Wendy N. Wagner http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10263 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/preface/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Gemma Files http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-gemma-files/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-gemma-files/#comments Tue, 30 Sep 2014 10:02:53 +0000 Erika Holt http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10247 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-gemma-files/feed/ 0 This Is Not for You http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/this-is-not-for-you/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/this-is-not-for-you/#comments Tue, 30 Sep 2014 10:01:41 +0000 Gemma Files http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10246 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/this-is-not-for-you/feed/ 3 Three potential sacrifices, just as Phoibe’d predicted, blundering through the woods like buffalo in boots. Mormo broke cover first, naked and barefoot, screaming, with the boys following after, whooping and hollering, straight into the gauntlet, (http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/gemma_files_575.jpg) Three potential sacrifices, just as Phoibe’d predicted, blundering through the woods like buffalo in boots. Mormo broke cover first, naked and barefoot, screaming, with the boys following after, whooping and hollering, straight into the gauntlet, too lust-drunk to see where they were going. Pretty little thing, that Mormo, with a truly enviable lung capacity; the best lure they’d had by far in all the time Gorgo’d been attending these odd little shindigs, and swift enough to keep a good two lengths between her and her closest pursuer as she danced around the tiger-pits. No sooner did this thought register, however, then with a few more steps—plus one wild, deer-like leap—she was gone from sight, entirely: up over the deadfall, rustling the same bushes Gorgo and her girls hid behind, leaving the men in her wake, too shocked not to keep coming. One took a thyrsus to the knee, so sharp Gorgo heard it crack, and pitched headlong, folding up, rolling. More blows caught him from several angles, breaking bones, tearing flesh; he flipped, bellowing, then gave a moaning “whuff!” as Iris came down right on top, astride both hips, club inverted to crack his breastbone and pop at least one lung, squeeze heart against ribcage, bruise liver beyond repair. His skull met a log back-first, brain slammed hard, eyes rolling up; was probably out long before Iris’s partners (Scylla, Polyxena) could get on him too, their hands rock-full, looking to make like Cain. To his left, meanwhile, another lucky winner got Deianira’s spear across the top of his ear and recoiled, flinching away only to run straight into Charis’s strong grip instead. They were about the same height, but Charis had him from behind, choking him so hard he started to lift off the ground, kicking wildly. He tore at her arm with both hands, drawing blood, ‘til she finally threw him down with enough force that Gorgo heard his nose pop, or maybe a cheekbone—then heel-stomped him between the shoulder blades, holding him pinned even as he flailed, trying his level best to swim away. One armpit made a beautiful target for Deianira’s next thrust, a goring stab that went in far as she could reach, and the pain made him rear back far enough for Gorgo to slash her scythe across his throat. The spike of her own kill-pleasure came quickly after that, hot and red and sweet. It was good, but over so soon; just enough to make her want more, something better. Longer. She sat back on her heels, panting, leather tags of her hiking boots cutting into her bare ass as she watched the man’s—boy’s—blood make a flaring collar ’round his slackening, sweat- and dirt-smeared face. Asking Charis, once she had her breath back: “You see where the last one went?” Charis shook her head. “Back there, maybe.” On her feet once more, over by the first one, Iris nodded. “Something tripped a pit.” Okay, then. “Praise be,” Gorgo said, heaving herself up, unable to quite keep her voice completely irony-free. “Praise be,” two new voices chimed in at the same time, from behind her: Aglaia, of course. And Phoibe. Charis and the others turned, bespattered, grinning—stepped back a bit, all ‘round, to display their work to best advantage. Aglaia smiled wide and nodded, proudly, as Gorgo and Phoibe exchanged a small, cool nod of greeting. “Wonderful,” Aglaia pronounced, with the sort of authoritative, maternal warmth that’d’ve done Mother Theresa herself proud, if she’d worshipped Kali instead of Christ. “Very fine. Now . . . let’s go see what She’s left us for last, and best.” • • • • The point was to do these things together, not alone. The point was to do them in secret, as much as could be arranged for. The point was to go elsewhere, overnight, and stay as long as it took to get it done. The point was to make it count. The whole point of a mystery religion, in fact, as Aglaia kept reminding them, Nightmare Magazine no 49:19 Interview: Cecil Baldwin http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-cecil-baldwin/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-cecil-baldwin/#comments Wed, 24 Sep 2014 10:05:52 +0000 The Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10173 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/interview-cecil-baldwin/feed/ 2 Author Spotlight: Lisa Tuttle http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-lisa-tuttle-2/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-lisa-tuttle-2/#comments Wed, 24 Sep 2014 10:02:29 +0000 E.C. Myers http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10163 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-lisa-tuttle-2/feed/ 0 The Man in the Ditch http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/man-ditch/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/man-ditch/#comments Wed, 24 Sep 2014 10:01:55 +0000 Lisa Tuttle http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10182 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/fiction/man-ditch/feed/ 2 There was nothing to look at once they were away from the town, only a long road stretching ahead, bare fields on either side, beneath a lowering gray sky. It was very flat and empty out here on the edge of the fens, There was nothing to look at once they were away from the town, only a long road stretching ahead, bare fields on either side, beneath a lowering gray sky. It was very flat and empty out here on the edge of the fens, and dull winter light leeched all colour from the uninspiring landscape. Occasionally there was a ruined windmill in the distance, a knackered old horse gazing sadly over a fence, a few recumbent cows, a dead man in a ditch— Linzi screamed when she saw it, an ear-piercing screech that might, had J.D. been a less-practiced driver, have caused a nasty accident. If there was nothing else out here, there were still plenty of vehicles travelling fast and close, both front and back. “What the fuck?” She saw how red his face had gone, the vein that throbbed in his temple, and felt bad, but she hadn’t screamed for nothing. “Jay, there was a dead body in the ditch back there—a person!” “Don’t be stupid.” His hands tightened on the wheel, and his eyes darted between the mirror and the road, not sparing her a glance. “I saw it! We have to—” “What? What do we have to do?” “I—I don’t know. Go back?” With every passing second the distance grew. “And why should we do that? Do you see anywhere to turn? And then, even if you could tell me where to stop, there’s nowhere to pull over without going right into the ditch. And why? So you can see that what you thought was a dead body was really a load of fly-tipped rubbish?” She worried at her lip as she tried to recall precise details of what she had seen—a withered, brownish, naked man, lying curled on his side—but she didn’t believe it had been an optical illusion. “It was a man’s body. I’m sorry I startled you, but anyone would’ve yelled, to see a corpse like that.” J.D. sighed and moved his head around, easing the tension in his neck. “All right, my lovely. It’s over now. A dead body doesn’t need our help.” “But—we ought to tell someone?” “Tell who?” “The police?” He flinched, and she shut her eyes, as if his response to the word had been a slap in the face. She opened them again when she heard him put on the indicator. “If you really saw it, other people did, too,” he said calmly. Then he turned left, onto a sign-posted road, and then, very soon, took another left onto an unmarked road; a narrow, single-track lane. They were now travelling parallel to the main road, back in the direction from which they had come. With a nervous flutter of anticipation low in her belly, Linzi realized he must be responding to her request, taking her back to the spot where she’d seen the body. From here, the main road was easily visible as a steady stream of traffic; only a short stretch of empty land separated the track they were on from the drainage ditch, even though she couldn’t see it. But then she hadn’t noticed this road from the other side. She couldn’t guess how far they’d gone after her sighting, but she had faith that J.D. knew: he was a professional driver. Linzi caught hold of her elbows and gave herself a small hug. Wasn’t it just like him to grumble and pretend he wasn’t doing what she wanted? Not that she wanted to see the horrible old dead thing again . . . and, in fact, as the car slowed and then stopped when the track ran out, she prayed to whatever powers there might be that J.D. was right, and she’d been scared by an abandoned, stolen shop-window mannequin or a crash-test dummy. “Here we are,” he said. “What do you think?” She looked at his proud smile and remembered what the dead man had pushed out of her mind. “Come on,” he said, not waiting for her reply. “Let me show you round our new home.” He hopped out and, with the courtliness that had won her heart, opened her door for her. She fixed a pleased smile on her face, but he must have picked up a hint of her true feelings because he said, sounding defensive, “Of course it doesn’t look like much now, but use your imagination. Think of all the stuff you can plant. Nightmare Magazine no Artist Showcase: Sam Guay http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-sam-guay/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-sam-guay/#comments Wed, 17 Sep 2014 10:05:24 +0000 Marina J. Lostetter http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10169 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/artist-showcase-sam-guay/feed/ 0 Author Spotlight: Daniel José Older http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-daniel-jose-older/ http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-daniel-jose-older/#comments Wed, 17 Sep 2014 10:02:19 +0000 Britt Gettys http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/?p=10162 http://www.nightmare-magazine.com/nonfiction/author-spotlight-daniel-jose-older/feed/ 0