New Author - Suspense Magazine

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March 2010
SM
uspense
agazine
Insider Source into Suspense, Mystery, Horror and Thriller Fiction
Meet the Authors and Their Stories
A
w
e
N
ll Best Little
Book Shops Around
the World
...divulge their secrets
From the New York Times bestselling author of Breakneck
The ties that bind us, can haunt us…forever
Determined to uncover a cold-case that
links to disturbing events in her family’s
past, Alexandra Clarkson is forced to ask
herself—is she ready to die for the truth?
“A sleepless one-night read…
intoxicating suspense…intense
family secrets…and richly textured
with Sonoma wine country history.”
—Alex Kava, author of Black Friday
“A pulse-pounding, page-turning,
absolutely can't-put-it-down roller
coaster ride of a read!.”
—Lisa Gardner, author of The Neighbor
“As mysterious and delicious
as a fine cabernet.”
—Linda Castillo, author of Sworn to Silence
Log onto ericaspindler.com for trailers,
giveaways, author newsletter and more!
Available on CD from
Macmillan Audio
Also Available in paperback
w w w. s t m a r t i n s . c o m
From the Editor
Letter from the Editor:
Credits
John Raab
President & Chairman
In March we celebrate short stories. With a short story
contest, Suspense Magazine receives thousands of
entries each year, reminding us that talented writers are
everywhere. We take this month to honor short stories
and all of you who write these thrilling tales.
The idea of the short story brings me back to high
school and college. I've always been an avid reader,
but with the workload in school, I hated reading
novels assigned by teachers. Short stories were my favorite part of
English class. With a quarter of the pages of a novel, short stories gave
me the pleasure of a great story, but didn’t weigh me down with yet
another night of endless homework. My love of short stories began
in those days when homework ruled my life, but has continued into
adulthood when “life” gets in the way of reading a five hundred-page
must-read. Short stories are awesome and never get the credit they
deserve.
Matt McElreath
Executive Vice President, Marketing
Amanda Goossen
Editor-In-Chief
Contributors
Starr Gardinier Reina
Terri Ann Armstrong
Claudia Vargas
Tiffany Colter
Chelsea K. Baxter
This month we chat with Kat Richardson, Vicki Pettersson, Simon R.
Green and Laurell K. Hamilton. These authors know how to create
a fascinating, complex story using fewer pages than you would ever
expect. They are each brilliant at the longer texts, but their ability
to write short stories and full-length novels puts them in a place all
their own.
Artists:
Maryna Butenko
www.marynabutenko.com
Jesse D'Angelo
www.famousframes.com/website/
portfolio.php?user_id=71
March also means contest winners. The 2009 Suspense Magazine
Short Story Contest winners have been chosen. We will bring to you
the story of the winners as well as a quick interview with the hard
working writer that penned our favorite read.
Customer Service and Subscriptions:
For 24/7 service, please use our website,
www.suspensemagazine.com or write to:
SUSPENSE MAGAZINE at 26500 Agoura
Road, #102-474, Calabasas, CA 91302
There are a few new additions to the magazine this month. Make
sure to check out the Spotlight page where we mention coming up
dates for author lectures and book signings, as well as our new series
where we find old school bookstores, which are truly the gems of the
book world. These shops are diamonds in the rough these days...we
will bring you one each month. Our goal is to find them all over the
country, email me at Amanda@SuspenseMagazine.com to tell me about
a great bookstore in your city. Then turn to our Hall of Fame page to get
nostalgic. We are inducting our first author into the Suspense Magazine
Hall of Fame! Should be fun to take a little walk down memory lane, we
must remember the authors who paved the path for writers today.
Occasionally, Suspense Magazine makes
portions of our magazine subscriber lists
available to carefully screened companies
that offer special products and services.
Any subscriber who does not want to
receive mailings from third-party companies should contact Editor@suspensemagazine.com.
SuspenseMagazine.com
By Maryna Butenko
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Until next month,
Amanda Goossen
Editor-in-Chief, Suspense Magazine
ge
ma
I
r
e
v
Co
1
In This Issue
40
S u s p e n se M a g a z i n e
March 2010 / Vol. 009
3
Creating a Book Club: Procrastination by Amanda Goossen . . . . . . . . 4
Best Short Stories and Collections by S. Colson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Cut by Starr Gardinier Reina. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Tales of a Fiction Junkie by Chelsea K. Baxter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Ask Your Writing Career Coach by Tiffany Colter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Gambling in the Alley by Tyrobia Harshaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
New Author: Peter weiss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Crying in the Chapel by Peter Weiss. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Featured Artist: Maryna Butenko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Inside the Pages: Suspense Magazine Book Reviews. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Must See Movies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
First Flight Out by Wesley Levelle Dingler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Short Stories: Compelling People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
On Location: Ghosts of Gainsville by Helen Cooney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
2009 Short Story Contest Winner: Meet Jesse D'Angelo. . . . . . . . . . . 55
Claire by Jesse D'Angelo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Author Hall of Fame: Ian Fleming. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
Confessions by Catherine Rudy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Pamela By Victor Hoch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Just for Fun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Spotlight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Writing in the City of Sin
Vicki Pettersson
43
Walking the Mean Streets
Kat Richardson
46
Clever and Mysterious
Simon R. Green
49
In a World All Her Own
Laurell K. Hamilton
Spot
We asked bestselling author, Kat Richardson
what book changed your life?
Nearly every good book I read makes a bend in my road (though it’s sometimes the
bad ones that teach me the most.) Some of the best have had a more obvious impact than
others.
The first book to totally knock me for a loop would be "A Wind in the Door" by
Madeleine l’Engle. You mean you can do that in children’s fiction? I loved the way she treated
young readers like intelligent adults and didn’t shy from the hard things. "The Glass Key" by
Dashiell Hammett probably had the biggest impact on why I do what I do in writing. It’s a
strange interweaving of mystery, character and allegory in a very modern style that is literary,
but very accessible. But then Richard Morgan went and wrote "Altered Carbon" and totally
upended my ideas about what you could do with blended genres—curse you, Richard! (mock
fist-shaking in the direction of Scotland.) I’m still in awe of all of these writers. 
THE BEST LITTLE
BOOKSHOPS
Around the World
Bargain Books
Notable Events in
MARCH
March 4, 2010
World Book Day
Go to http://www.worldbookday.com to
find events near you.
14426 Friar Street
Van Nuys, CA 91401 (818) 782-2782
March 24-28, 2010
Tennessee Williams/New Orleans
For over fifty years,
Literary Festival
Bargain Books has
http://www.tennesseewilliams.net
given the Los Angeles
San Fernando Valley a great place to shop
March 31-April 3, 2010
for used books. With rare books combined
The National Popular Culture &
with basic paperbacks at a great price, Bargain
American
Culture Associations Annual
Books is a must for any book lover. I, myself,
Conference
have bought numerous bestsellers within this
St.
Louis, Missouri
fabulous shop for a fraction of the regular
price. The building may be small, but don’t There will be a focus on horror as well as
vampires in literature, culture and film.
underestimate the contents. You will spend
http://pcaaca.org/conference/national.php
hours inside this cluttered kingdom of
literature, leaving with stacks of its amazing
treasure. 
L
I
G
H
T
3
A Girl’s Desperate Need for Friendship
Creating a Book Club:
Procrastination
T
By: Amanda Goossen
he name of the game this month is procrastination.
Holidays, much needed vacations and difficult family obligations forced the
girls and I to put our book club off not once, but twice. We’d made a promise
many months ago never to go more than a month and a half between meetings. We
came in just under our commitment. One day shy of six weeks apart we gathered
and it wasn’t all good news. I, the ringleader and book club creator, let myself down.
More than just that, I shocked my best friends. I did not finish the book. I put it off
a day, then a week and eventually three weeks. I told myself I would be fine. I have
crammed before. I read five hundred pages in two days and it could be done again. But I was wrong. The shock was apparent on everyone’s face. Surprisingly though,
there was a twist. This, the seventh month of our book club, we had the best book
discussion we’ve ever had.
The second novel in Stieg Larsson’s millennium series, “The Girl Who Played with
Fire” was our book this month. We chose it simply because we loved the first novel
“The Girl With a Dragon Tattoo” and couldn’t wait to find out the future of Lisbeth
Salander. Jelly and Susan dug right in. Both girls read the book within days of our
last meeting. Mine sat on my bedside tables, screaming at me with its bright orange
cover, to pick it up. I didn’t listen. I had a busy month and to be completely honest, I
didn’t feel like reading. I never thought it would come to this, I never thought I would
do the unthinkable.
Every month our meetings include hours of laughing and catching up. Ten minutes
before our meeting ends, I beg the girls to discuss the novel. I remind them that we
did in fact have a purpose for meeting and we quickly give a synopsis, with a few
personal remarks thrown in. This month, things were different. Seeing that I had
only gotten one hundred and fifty-two pages into the book, the girls were forced to
open up. Susan began talking, spouting off a hundred words a second. It was as if
she was suddenly a college professor, analyzing chapters and passionately acting out
4
Suspense Magazine March 2010 / Vol. 009
scenes. Anytime she couldn’t remember something perfectly, she would look to Jelly
who would then start in on the drama. The moment this was happening, smack dab
in the middle of the Cheesecake Factory bar, I wished I had a video camera. They
were comical and unbelievably informative. Creating a Book Club:
Procrastination may be an old demon from college, but I learned in the past thirty
days that it isn’t such a dirty word. Teachers may frown upon it and my parents may
have hollered at me in high school about it, but ladies and gentleman I am no longer a
kid. I have come to realize that not all things you learn
growing up are true. You can swim right after eating,
you can open an umbrella in the house and you can
wait until four days after your book club meeting
to finish your book. My girls were inspired by my
procrastination. I may tell them I didn’t
read our book again next month, just to
hear their enthusiasm
and chaotic plot
summary.
Next
time, however, I
will bring a video
camera
because
these girls are
downright hilarious.
A Girl’s Desperate Need for Friendship
I have since finished the novel and can say that my two gal pals new exactly what they
were talking about. Stieg Larsson spins a fantastic tale. Some chapters give a little
too much detail, when all you want to know is whether characters are alive or dead
but the intensity comes directly from the mass amounts of detail and you have to
live with the trade off. Lisbeth Salander plays a starring role in “The Girl Who Played
With Fire” and thankfully many questions about her are finally answered. She is once
again an unpredictable, free spirit, but this time we see it catch up with her. In the
last novel, it seemed that she was untouchable, however we discover no one is that
lucky. Although I originally had a tough time getting into this book, I soon discovered
it had more to do with my life than the story on the pages. Once I dove in, I couldn’t
escape. Book number three in Larsson’s millennium series “The Girl Who Kicked the
Hornet’s Nest” hits the U.S. in May 2010 and the girls and I will be waiting outside the
bookstore the day it arrives!
(We
haven’t
decided on a book
for next month. Look up Suspense
Magazine
on
Facebook and watch
for our decision.) 
5
Best Short Stories and Collections
When did it all Really Start?
By: S. Colson
There are short stories being written everyday and have been for quite some time. Many authors pen
brief yarns about differing subjects using various genres. Today, you may read authors such as Ray Bradbury,
Joyce Carol Oates, Anne Lamott and many more. But, let us not forget those classic, award-winners who were
instrumental in showing us what real short stories are.
Bret Harte, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Anton Chekov are just a few who have graced us with expert
writing of short stories and collections. Harry Golden said it best when he shared what he believed to be
true of most writers in “Are Writers Born?” He stated of people that “They cannot be writers unless they are
readers. For it is by reading that writers are able to relate to the past and it is only from a relation to the past
that we achieve a sense of the present, and a sense of what is going to happen next.”
Wonderfully put! To write in the present, we must examine what was written in the past. To fully
understand how to compose a brief saga, we should examine the works of Edgar Allen Poe, for example. The
Best Short Stories of Edgar Allan Poe (the Fall of the House of Usher, the Tell-tale Heart and Other Tales) is a
fantastic paradigm which we can all use to sculpt our stories. Am I suggesting we write like them? Absolutely
not; we still need to find and use our own style. What I am proposing however, is to look at the tools they
used: the building of characters, the use of set design and the like. I refer you back to the Art of Crafting a
Short Story lessons that appeared in this magazine in months prior to this. There you will find a wealth of
information on elements of how to develop your own story.
Ernest Hemingway was another excellent author. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954
for his novella The Old Man and the Sea and published six collections of short stories. Hemingway was aptly
quoted to say, “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry
Finn.”1 Even Hemingway had his role model. Washington Irving—who you may know by his works: The
Legend of Sleepy Hollow—is another classic author worthy of exploration.
If you examine some of these older works, you may find many of them are much longer than what
you see today. If Irving’s story was written today, it may be known as a novella. Things of that nature change
over the years, but the basic principles should always stay the same.
Another good example of one of my favorite classic authors, Nathaniel Hawthorne is his story
The Minister’s Black Veil. I found this website: http://www.americanliterature.com/Hawthorne/SS/
TheMinistersBlackVeil.html, if you wish to read the entire story. I would recommend it and if you do, pay
close attention to the characters and their development. You can also read many other classic stories at:
http://www.americanliterature.com/SS/ssindx.htm.
In The Writer’s Digest Handbook of Short Story Writing, there are several tools discussed to assist the
writer; such as “…a character seems alive for you as a reader when you realize him with your senses, react
to him with your emotions, follow him with your mind.” (Hogrefe, Pearl. “Bringing Your Characters to Life.”
39)2 If you read Hawthorne’s suggested story above, you will have noticed how his characters seem to leap off
the pages. Hawthorne created a character that scared even himself…to a point.
These are just examples. I encourage anyone who wishes to write a short story to visit these classic
authors. Read, study and examine their works. As Hemingway said, “Cowardice... is almost always simply
a lack of ability to suspend functioning of the imagination.”3 Are you willing to shelve your creative ideas?
(Endnotes)
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/ernest_hemingway.html
2
Oates, Joyce Carol. Writer’s Digest Handbook of Short Story Writing. Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books, 1982
3
http:www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/ernest_hemingway.html 
1
6
Cut
E
00
9 Short
Winner 2
o ry
t
S
e
Con
te
verything was a game to
Dennis. Their marriage
was only that of convenience for him.
She once loved him, but soon realized
he thought she was merely something
he could play with for a while. Tanya
Shepherd endured it as much as she
could; until he came home one night
with blood spattered on his shirt.
She was scared, but asked
what happened anyway. He sneered
by Starr Gardinier Reina
at her and punched her hard in the
cheek. She backed away from him
only to have him advance on her and start beating her. When Dennis was done, she was a bloody mess lying
hunkered down in the corner of their living room with her hands held over her head, her only measure of
protection.
He stood there, towering over her and said, “I should kill you just as I killed that other bitch!”
Tanya was too terrified to speak. He droned on and not realizing he was doing so, told her almost
everything.
“Iris thought she could blackmail me. Huh! She obviously thought wrong. Do you know she was
actually going to come here and tell you we’ve been having an affair? Stupid bitch! I told her you wouldn’t
care, but then she told me she knew all about what I did.”
Tanya looked at him with wide eyes, shocked at what she was hearing.
“I couldn’t have her tell the world what I did,” Dennis continued. “How would it look for a superior
court judge to be known as a murderer?”
“What have you done,” Tanya whispered as a statement instead of a question.
“I’ll tell you what I did. What do I care? A wife can’t be made to testify against her husband, now can
she? It was an accident; that boy shouldn’t have been there, but he saw me buy those drugs. So what if I get
high on occasion? He would have told. Don’t you understand? I couldn’t have that. I only meant to scare him,
not hurt him. I backed him into a corner of that alley and he ran up the fire escape. The stairs were apparently
slippery from the rain the night before. He fell and landed on his back. I’m sure he broke it. He looked like he
was in a lot of pain. I was helping him. Shooting him put him out of his misery. He wasn’t hurting any longer.”
He let out an evil laugh. Tanya didn’t know the man standing in front of her. This wasn’t the person
she married. What happened?
“She said she saw the whole thing. I told that bitch to wait in the car.
3rd Pla
Do you think she’d listen? No; Iris wanted to know what I was doing in
t
c
s
that alley. She couldn’t keep her nose out of my business. Well, she paid
for that. Now my darling wife, I do believe you know too much.”
He turned from her and walked into the kitchen, presumably
to get a knife to finish her off. She wasn’t going to stay around to
find out for sure. That’s when she took off. Tanya ran for all she was
worth. She ran through the dense woods behind their home, through
the playground in the park. She ran until she ended up at an old garage
that, at one time, used to offer gasoline to customers. She ran to the
front entrance where a sign hung that read ‘closed’.
She began to beat on the glass screaming for someone to let her in.
7
She ran over to the big, roll-up doors where mechanics brought cars in for repair. She banged on those, again
screaming.
When no one answered her pleas for help, she looked in the windows. It was dark and the only light
provided was from a street lamp nearby. She couldn’t tell what was in the building.
She knew Dennis wasn’t far behind her and figured she would only have minutes before he caught up
to her. Tanya didn’t want to think of what would happen when he did. She noticed an old tire iron lying beside
the unused pumps. She grabbed it and smashed in the window of the front door. Dropping the tire iron, she
reached inside and unlocked the door.
She was hoping the telephone was working so she could call nine-one-one. When she got inside, she
noticed cobwebs hanging everywhere and the old, battered counter was thick with dust. She ran around to the
other side and picked up the handset. No dial tone.
Oh, my god! she thought. If he finds me, he’ll kill me.
She darted to the back of the room and into the repair area. She needed to find a place to hide.
But where? she thought, looking around her.
She saw a door at the back in the far corner; she was starting towards it, when she heard glass
crunching in the front of the store.
Dear God! He’s found me, she thought.
Suddenly, he was there. His hulking frame engulfed the entire doorway, making it look like the place
was designed for children. She shrank back in the shadows underneath a work bench and whimpered.
“I know you’re in here,” he sang out. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
He must be insane. It was the only reason she could come up with for him acting like this. Admitting
to using drugs and committing not one, but two murders was not something she would have ever expected.
Then for him to try and kill her—his wife—was surreal.
This can’t be happening, she thought.
He called out for her again. She looked all around her for a weapon. She should have held on to that
tire iron. Not that it would really do much good. Tanya had a feeling that he was too high on drugs and he
would not feel any pain.
He began to walk back to the front part of the building. Knowing this was her one opportunity, she
quietly rose and ran for the back door. It was unlocked; she couldn’t believe her fortune. Not wasting time in
wondering how she got so lucky, she opened it and bolted outside.
She ran smack into Dennis’ chest.
“No!” she screamed into the cold night air.
They stood there, both rooted in the same spot.
“Cut!” the director yelled. “You two need to go back to acting school. What the hell was that? No!
You scream no! That’s not in the script. Take it from inside from Tanya opening the back door. This time try
acting!”
Tanya walked back inside and closed the door; Dennis stayed outside and stood waiting.
“Ready?” the director asked. “Action.”
Tanya opened the door, ran out and again slammed into Dennis’ chest. This time, no words came out.
Blood seeped from her mouth when she opened it to scream. Dennis pulled the knife back out and began
laughing.
“How’s that for acting?” he asked.
The director stood there with his mouth hanging open. Tanya slumped to the ground. Before anyone
realized what was happening, Dennis turned around and quickly sliced the cameraman’s throat.
“That’s not in the script either,” he laughed. 
8
From New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
WENDY CORSI STAUB
Secrets can scandalize
Secrets can shock
secrets can kill
NE W YO RK TI M ES BE ST
SE LL ER
“Solid gold
suspense ...
this one is
a wild ride.”
— LEE ChILD
www.WendyCorsiStaub.com
www.AvonBooks.com
WENDY CORSI
STAUB
#
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’T
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9
Fiction junkie
An Adventure to the Filming of “True Blood”
I probably speak for most of us when I say that I try to live
my life without regrets. I’m not talking about the kind of
regrets that cause me to apologize for something later;
I’m referring to regretting that I didn’t do something I
could have. I hate when that woulda, shoulda, coulda
feeling pulls at my insides. Therefore, when a somewhat
odd opportunity comes my way that I know I’d normally
enjoy, I try to take advantage of it—especially when the
only thing I have to lose is some couch and boob tube
time.
boots I phoned my friends—we’re
all fans of the books and now the TV
show, so I knew they’d be fired up. It
was already 8:45 and since they both
By Chelsea K. Baxter
have small children at home,
I knew the chances were slim
I’d get anyone to accompany me out into the wilds of
our town’s perimeter. Plus, since the information was
somewhat old, it’s possible that if we did make the trip,
we’d find nothing.
So, when my friend Nicole, avid reader of the Charlaine
Harris Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire Series and
fellow fan of HBO’s “True Blood,” informed me at about
8:30 p.m. on a Thursday that the TV show was filming
in my small suburban town, I knew this was one of those
instances where I needed to put down the TV remote,
and venture out into the late night air. Sure, I sat there for
a few minutes—like you do when you’re in shock and
trying to figure out your next move. But then, it became
obvious: What are the chances that this situation would
occur again? I couldn’t let this opportunity pass me up.
No, no regrets.
Tami was already in bed and couldn’t make it. But when
I spoke with Lisa over the phone, she paused, seeming
to think about it and then explained that first of all, that
dark and creepy back country is nowhere to go alone.
Then she said, “Why not? When is this going to come
around again?” We’re girls, so of course we discussed
our attire. We all have matching “True Blood” T-shirts
thanks to Tami. However, we both admitted that we
were dressed like bums (it was almost nine after all) and
planned to stay that way because we didn’t have time to
get done up. Plus, we were still crossing our fingers that
there was something left to see.
I got more information. Nicole’s friend lives near the
location where they were filming, which was an old barn
and rural property on the outskirts of town. It was set
back in the hills in an area I am scared to go in broad
daylight, not to mention the dead of night. They’d had
to sign a waiver hours earlier saying their house may
appear in the background during filming. My heart raced
at the thought that they may be finished and I missed it.
Once in Lisa’s car we started talking about the next
series of “True Blood,” which isn’t due to come out until
July! This would be the perfect remedy for our Sookie
withdrawals. We passed all the bright lights of shopping
center parking lots and headed into the black abyss of
our neighboring hills.
As I rushed to throw on a sweatshirt and some warm
10
Suddenly, bright, stadium-like lights appeared in the
sky to the left. Nothing that bright is usually back here,
so we both looked up and stared. I glanced back at the
road only to see a large yellow sign with bold black
font: BASE CAMP. I yelled at Lisa, “Turn here!” She
cranked the wheel to the right, barely missing the turn
and parked along a curb. We looked behind us, across
the street to an open gate filled with large semi trucks,
trailers bright lights, and a security guard. Holy crow.
We made it.
We stared at each other. I think we were both too taken
aback to move. This was really going to happen. Our…
fan-ness had really just brought us to the filming of one
of our favorite book series/TV shows. We stumbled out
of the car, pulling our sweatshirts tightly around us and
entered the windy night.
Across the street lay a piece of property that’s been here
probably since our city was founded. The house and all
its buildings are very, very old. The structures are nestled
amongst a citrus grove filled with scraggly old trees that
still stand in rows. The trucks and trailers were set deep
within the property and the lights lit the entire area so
that twisted shadows sprawled out from the old trees.
We crossed the road to the security guard. He confirmed,
“Yep. This here is ‘True Blood’ and we’ll be here until
morning.” Well, that figured. It was, after all, a show
about vampires, so filming all night made perfect sense.
Guessing the answer, we asked if we could walk through
the gate and check it out — heck we even tried to get in
as extras. And of course, although he seemed amused
and even chuckled, he turned us down. We asked if they
filmed out here a lot, and he said they’d been all over to
places in Southern California like Sun Valley and Malibu.
He told us we could walk the perimeter and take in
whatever sites we came across. We turned left along the
chain-link
fence and
headed
towards
the corner.
W
e
started
to hear
voices
and see
a softer,
lower
light
that shined over a few of the buildings in the back.
Once we turned the corner and walked down the
next street we saw the driveway to the house and the
buildings in back, a large number of people and Renard
Parish police cars (the parish in Louisiana where Harris’
story takes place). We decided to set up camp in front
of the driveway. We were still on the other side of the
fence, but we had a perfect view. We watched people
carry around the boom microphones and props. Every
now and then they’d turn off the lights and it got quiet.
Apparently they were filming in the buildings just
beyond our line of sight. Three neighbors and two of our
local police officers were the only other people standing
with us. The officers said they were here to block off the
street for a driving scene that would take place later in
the night.
We stood there for hours. We never got to see any
scenes acted out. We didn’t even get to see any actors,
although a few members of the crew did tell us that
Jason Stackhouse, played by Ryan Kwanten was there.
We essentially looked at almost the same scene for
nearly three hours, and I’d never take the experience
back. Standing there, in between the crisp, haunting
wind sending sporadic gusts through the lines of trees
and across the dirt, I felt it. We were on the wrong side of
the country, but I felt like I’d been transported to some
shack in the Deep South in a fictional city that Harris
created. At about midnight the crew took a lunch break
which they told us would last for about an hour. Lisa
and I knew we needed to head home. Sure, I could have
stayed there all night, but without another “True Blood”
aficionado, it wouldn’t have been the same.
We returned home to husbands who just shook their
heads and laughed, but we both knew it was worth
it. At first I was disillusioned at the thought of “True
Blood” being filmed anywhere but the south. But after
standing in that driveway and taking in the surrounding
sights, smells and atmosphere, I knew they captured the
essence of the book. I can’t wait to see what role my little
town plays in the next season of “True Blood.” When
we watch that episode, we’ll have no woulda, shoulda,
coulda feeling. Instead of regrets, our hearts will be
filled with more stories from that night that we’ll get to
continually revisit. 
11
Ask Your
Writing Career
Coachwith Tiffany Colter
QA
: Why aren’t there freelance jobs for writers?
: With a down economy many people are scrambling to find ways to make ends
meet. One under-reported statistic is unemployment. While the people collecting
unemployment due to layoffs is in the double digits, what isn’t reported is the
many self-employed people who don’t have the option of collecting unemployment checks, but
who are now without their livelihood.
Publishers and businesses are not immune to this squeeze as can be seen with sales numbers.
There is one upshot to the freelance writer in this economy, however. As companies tighten
their human resources belts, they are also looking for outside help to meet their current needs.
See, an employee costs more than their hourly wage. There is unemployment tax, social security
tax, rent of the office space, supplies, HR, etc. that must be covered. Therefore, companies are
happy to pay $20/hr for an outside editing job because overall they are still seeing a drop in
cost.
This brings us back to the original question: where are the jobs? One great source to find jobs
is “The Well Fed Writer” and “Back for Seconds”. These two books help teach freelance writers
where to find jobs, how to reach out to potential clients and build a freelance writing business.
There are also websites like Odeks.com and Elance.com that allow freelancers to bid on
individual jobs. Both of these are great ways to find work if you are willing to take a lower hourly
wage while you establish your reputation.
For those who are more confident [or aggressive] you can even cold call businesses to offer
editing or freelance services. The bottom line is the work is out there for people who want to
invest the time to look for it. Just as with every other aspect of developing a business, you must
be able to market yourself and be willing to let others know you are available and capable.
Ask questions or take advantage of the free resources available at my website www.
WritingCareerCoach.com. There you can also share your ideas about freelancing, ways to find
work and available markets. 
12
Gambling in
the Alley
By Tyrobia Harshaw
Tim stared down at the ground; his heart felt like a punching bag to
a heavyweight boxer. In one hand twirled a Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver pistol, a single .357 Magnum
bullet in the other. He shifted the bullet in between his fingers with an uncertain determination. Raindrops as
big as nickels pounded on the top of his head, breaking his slicked Mohawk down into a messy clump on either
side of his face. He spat the off-blue strands of hair trickling into his mouth away and squinted as he gazed into
the sky. The drops of rain seemed a mere subtlety to his conscious until that moment, but as the rain hit the
ground, he remembered how much he hated the stench of rain mixed with city as much as he hated the smell
of the city itself. On especially humid nights like this, those drops of rain only amplified the retched puke of
cigarette butts and garbaged litter around the alley. He fell back, leaning on the graffiti stained brick wall and
focused back on the gun and bullet, his lanky frame sliding down, sitting on the wet concrete, resting his neck
onto the wall before placing the gun on his bare stomach, toying with the bullet. The rain bashed against his
skin, wrinkling it into an even paler tone than he usually had. He wrapped his tattered, plaid shirt around him—
refusing to button it up—in a weak attempt to keep the gun dry. The rain had steadily soaked through his pants,
forcing them to cling to his legs in an intimate tango. The white in his shirt was hardly recognizable when it stuck
to his skin, while the black melted into him like a geometric tattoo. “Please,” a voice begged.
Tim looked up and met his eyes once again with the face of a man neatly tied to a bent out of shape
aluminum chair on the shaded, adjacent wall of the alleyway. He stopped struggling now as the ropes started to
soak in rain around his wrists, ripping and burning the more he struggled. The skin around his wrists started to
glow a burning red before long. The rain began to wash off the blood from his head. His previous struggling
had caused him to topple onto the concrete numerous times, bouncing his head violently. Tim was courteous
enough to return him in his upright position, tightening the ropes on his wrists behind his back and legs before
returning to his spot in the alley away from the light fixtures, occupying his attention back to the gun. He
never said anything when the man cried out for help. He never ran away when he screamed at the top of
his lungs. He knew nobody would hear him, and if anyone did, no one would intervene. They would just go
about their business, so Tim waited patiently for him to run out of steam, ruffling through the man’s wallet for
entertainment. His ID said his name was Richard Henson, an Average Joe. DOB: 10-16-61, almost twice Tim’s age, 286
lbs, near double his size, organ donor; it expired in two months. The picture offered no justice to Richard. The
clean-shaven, smiling, confident doppelganger with slicked auburn hair in the laminated photograph was
replaced by a terrified fart, quite a few pounds larger than his ID claimed, and a five o’clock shadow with his hair
in a mess, his cheap hair gel clearly washed away by the rain. When Tim asked if he knew about his upcoming
expiration, Richard met his question with a flurry of expletives and cries for help. He liked calling him a “bluehaired faggot.” He faintly smiled every time Richard belted out a yell, his triple chin fluttering at the vibrations
of his voice like the wattle of a turkey, rocking in his chair until he toppled over, pouring his fleshy stomach out
of his yellow dress shirt, ripping his brown suit jacket, bending that poor chair to hell under the pressure of his
weight. He found even more pleasure
when a police siren chimed from the
main street. Richard screamed as loud
Celebration of Short Stories
as he could. Tim informed him they
13
weren’t coming for him. They had better things to do, but he was welcome to try to grab their attention. Richard
screamed for the next two minutes before conceding, sobbing into two of his chins.
Richard’s tears meshed with the rain so intricately it became difficult to tell if he had cried at all, if not
for his pitiful sobs. “Please,” he repeated, “you don’t have to do this. Just let me go, ok? I won’t tell anyone. I’ll just walk
away. I promise. I won’t tell a—”
“How many times are you going to say that?” Tim growled. He started flipping the bullet in the air and
catching it. “How many times are you going to beg for your life? What’s funny is that you haven’t even asked why
you’re here.” He caught the bullet and shot him a curious glare. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Richard sniffled and shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t. You don’t want my money. I haven’t done
you any harm. I haven’t done anything to anyone else to deserve this. I’m a goddamn telemarketer, for Christ's
sake!”
Tim continued flipping the bullet.
“I have no idea why I’m here. No clue.” He paused and stared into Tim’s eyes. Their pale blue complexion
offered Richard no sympathy, comfort or security, no emotion. Instead, Tim’s eyes stared blankly back at him,
mind innocently wandering elsewhere, zoned out. “Please,” he continued, “just hear me out. I can keep a
secret. I’ve got a bank account with—”
“I used to have suicidal thoughts,” Tim interrupted. He grasped the pistol, letting the bullet fall and
slap his stomach, bouncing off on the concrete, rolling away a few inches before placing an index finger on it,
stopping it in its tracks. “I’d wake up every morning wishing I didn’t have them.” He picked up the bullet and
clenched it in his fist. “I hated my life. I hated my job.” He stood up. “I hated the tediousness and I hated the
people; most of all, the people.” He stared at the gun, alternating its barrel from the ground to his face.
Richard shook his head violently. “I’m not like those people! I’m a good man. I know how you—”
Tim ignored his dialogue. “I always used to fantasize how I would kill myself,” he said. “Hanging.” He pointed the gun at Richard. He cringed and shifted his head away. “Jesus Christ, man! I’ve got two children!”
“Slitting my wrists,” Tim continued, in his own world. He pointed the gun at himself. “Overdosing.” He
shrugged, dropping the gun to his side. “But none of those seemed right. Too cliché."
Richard gave Tim a confused look before crying harder. “I don’t understand! Why am I here?” he spat,
saliva bolting out of his mouth.
Tim placed the barrel to his temple, feeling the cold stainless steel rub against him as the rain sweated
down his face. “So I practiced putting an unloaded gun to my head and pulling the trigger.” He imitated the
sounds as he pulled the hammer back. “Click…click.”
Richard’s eyes widened as he cried out to Tim, “No!” Attempting to jump out of the chair to stop him, Richard launched forward and plunged down, scraping
his knees on the ground, grinding his stomach on the impact, and slamming his forehead once again into a
puddle on the concrete, splashing and bouncing off the ground.
Tim pulled the trigger. The hammer launched forward and slammed against the barrel. The matrimony
of the clashing metals let out a slight ticking sound, similar to a realistic toy pistol. “Boom,” he uttered. With a flick of the wrist, he whipped out the cylinder and stared into the six empty chambers, spinning
it absently as he spoke. “Calm down, Dick,” he said. “I never could bring myself to loading it.”
Richard groaned from the ground. Blood seeped out of his wound in a stream of red, diluted by the
rain. He desperately spat out the liquid pouring into his mouth, trying not to drown. Tim ignored him. “When
I’d drive my car, I’d always think about
steering over the median into oncoming
Celebration of Short Stories traffic,” he said, “but then I’d think about
14
the other person in their car I’d hit. All the things they
must be going through. Their lives. Their spouses. Their
children. All that stress.”
He looked at Richard and sighed. He glided over
and heaved his chair up, but Richard’s stunt caused the
front legs of the chair to bend backward, so when Tim
let go, Richard helplessly tumbled back down, replaying
o you have an article about
the action he completed moments earlier. Tim rolled
writing? How about a short story with
a mystery/suspense/horror base? Have you
his eyes and hoisted him back up, slamming him onto
ever
wanted
to see your work and name in print? If
the wall to keep him up. Richard’s cranium slapped the
wall with such force, his neck gave way and jolted his you answered yes, then this is for you.
head into his chest. Tim crouched down next to him, Suspense Magazine is looking for writers who might
staring forward at the circle of light on the ground in have an idea they’d like to share with other writers.
front of them. It was that time of night for the street Maybe a short story you’d like others to read and enlamps to turn on, to keep the alleyways clear and safe joy. We’re looking for your help.
from the muggers and the rapists that plagued the city. If you have an article or short story you’d like to
“I’d probably be doing them a favor ending share, please, email them to editor@suspensemagatheir life with my own.” zine.com. The work must be in the body of the email,
He took the bullet and placed it into a slot, no attachments will be opened. The subject line
spinning the cylinder one final time before snapping it should read ‘SUSPENSE MAGAZINE WORK’; anything else will be deleted.
back into place.
Richard made quick, shallow breaths as he The word count should be kept between 1,500 and
switched stares between Tim and the gun, shaking his 5,000 words per article or story. Any piece submitted
head in speechless disbelief, mouth gaping open. Tim over or under the word count will be disqualified for
tilted his head up and looked at him. His face was clean consideration. The deadline is the end of business on
of scars and blemishes; he looked like he could be an the second Friday of each month, every month for
altar boy for Sunday mass, but his eyes told a different said work to have a possibility of making it into the
following month’s publication. All submissions are
tale. “Then I realized,” he said, “I don’t really give subject to editing at the magazine’s discretion and
a shit what they’re going through. I hate people. What must be your original work, no plagiarism accepted.
makes that one person more special than me? If I Suspense Magazine makes no promises your work
die, what does it matter to me if they live or not? If will be published, but every piece submitted within
I live, what does it matter? Why do I have to face the the guidelines will be considered. If you’d like, every
story will also be read for admittance to our contest,
consequences and follow the laws of people I hate?"
He placed the barrel on Richard’s forehead and which can be read about in Suspense Magazine or on
line at www.suspensemagazine.com. 
flung it up, motioning for an answer. Instead, Richard
just sobbed. “Please,” he said, “don't do this."
Tim slammed the barrel on his head, knocking Richard to the side and grabbing his arm to keep him
from toppling over again. “I don’t think you understood the question,” he said, “so I’ll ask you again. Why do I have to face the
consequences and follow the laws of people I hate?"
Richard took a deep breath, snorting snot up his nose. “Um, b-b-because—”
Tim squeezed the trigger. The hammer pulled back and ran into the barrel, making nothing but a
clicking sound. “I don't!” he bellowed.
“You don't!” Richard squealed. He shook his head so hard he
moved the chair. He attempted flailing
D
Attention
Writers
15
his arms, accomplishing nothing but the rope repeatedly slapping the back of the chair.
Tim pressed the barrel of the revolver to his own temple once more and pulled the trigger. The hammer
slammed on the barrel and hit another empty chamber. He released a disappointed sigh. “Why do I have to pay
for the things that I need to live?” he asked, pointing the gun back at Richard.
“You don't!” Again, he squeezed the trigger. Again, no shot.
“Why should I pay for what I want? Why can’t I just take it?” He squeezed his eyes shut, shoving the barrel into his own mouth before pulling the trigger. He opened
them to find himself still alive, staring into Richard’s terrified face. The rain bounced off Richard’s body, forming
an almost angelic aura around him. Tim grimaced and put the gun into Richard’s eye, who quickly closed it. “Open your fucking eye and look at me!” he demanded. Richard’s eye slowly peeked out and stared into the vortex of the barrel. His eyes widened and he let
out a shrill scream.
“LOOK AT ME!” Tim repeated. His voice howled and echoed even through the harsh beats of the rain. Richard’s fear slowly focused in
and connected with Tim’s ferocity; his dark, almost black brown connected with Tim’s dead, pale blue. “Why! Why can’t I take it? Tell me!”
“YOU CA—”
Tim pulled the trigger. The hammer punched the barrel and slapped the bullet. The gun erupted in a
roar as the bullet screamed out of the barrel, pushing through Richard’s eye and clawing out the back of his
cranium, throwing his head back. It escaped through the wound and embedded itself in the wall. The blood
spattered onto the wall like the stream of a sprinkler. Tim looked at Richard, confused. His mouth quivered. He
grabbed the top of Richard’s scalp and pulled him up, examining his lifeless expression. His mouth gaped
open, frozen, forever trying to finish the word “can.” His eye immediately begun to cauterize, and as the smoke
escaped the hole so did the stench of gunpowder and slightly burnt pork roast. As soon as he caught a whiff,
Tim let go and twisted his head away to escape the aroma. Richard’s body fell with the chair and its broken legs
onto the ground making a large splash onto the puddle in front of them. "No," he said, devastated. He gazed into the barrel of that smoking Smith & Wesson, twitching his
eye. “No!” he repeated. He placed the gun in his mouth delicately—tasting the steel and bloody chunks of Richard, allowing the
gunpowder to fill his mouth, reminding him of a combination of pepper, copper, sulfur, rotten eggs and dirty
chitterlings—and pulled the trigger.
Then again.
And again.
And over.
And over again.
He pulled it one last time before dropping his arm to his side, defeated. A single tear rolled down his
cheek as he looked up into the sky, the clouds seemingly gathered above the alley, and the alley alone. “I’m not trying to be a god on Earth,” he uttered to himself, “and I don’t want to rule over anybody. I
just want to live my life on my own terms without adhering to a society that I don’t agree with. I want to enjoy
life again.”
The rain already began to wash down the blood on the wall. The blood in Tim’s hair washed into his
scalp, making his head look reminiscent of a mutilated American flag. Richard laid in the puddle, his head
submerged in the water, diluted blood funneling out his eye in a path toward the storm drains around the
alley. Tim returned his eye on the revolver and smirked. “And with this power, I will.” He put the pistol in the back of
Celebration of Short Stories his jeans and walked away. 
16
New Author
Peter Weiss
That’s Sufferwords to You!
You may know him as Peter Weiss, you may
know him as Sufferwords, either way fans all
over the world have been drawn to his blog page
for the past two years. Each night posting a new
Interview By: Suspense Magazine
short story, Sufferwords deftly illustrates tales of
real people struggling with the push and pull of
everyday life. Thirty of these short stories have been placed in an anthology, “Master Butterfly
Eats Tomorrow”, available for the first time without having to glare at a computer screen, but
released in a great new book that you can hold in your hot little hands.
Suspense Magazine was recently given the great pleasure of talking with Peter Weiss.
Suspense Magazine (S.MAG.): Many people may recognize you as the drummer of the legendary
Los Angeles band, Thelonious Monster, but has writing always been a part of your life or is this
a recent venture?
Peter Weiss (P.W.): From my earliest remembrances I've had some small facility for words. I never had any
facility to play music. I always wanted to write, maybe the word want is an unwise choice, I always thought
I could write but for whatever reason, probably the great lack of self-esteem that ruled me for most of my life, I
could never actually complete anything. For most of my life I was too concerned with the result of my efforts, that
my writing would lead to fame, money, women, so whenever I would start to write I would immediately become
frustrated, whatever I had written wasn’t good enough and I would stop. With music there were no illusions, I
knew I wasn’t talented, I just did it because it was there, it wasn’t my calling so there were no expectations.
It wasn’t until I had given up all expectations concerning my writing did I set myself free and then there was
an incredible outpouring of work.
S.MAG.: Your collection of short stories doesn’t rely on one style of writing or just one
theme. Did you have an idea each day about what you would write or were they instinctual
decisions as you sat down to write?
P.W.: I undertook my short-story career after finishing the first draft of my novel. I have never had any
discipline. As an experiment I challenged myself to write a short story a week and post it on a blog. It turned
out that once I started I couldn’t stop and I started to write a story a day. I began to attract readers from all
around the world. I had a few high-school girls in Pakistan as regular readers! The process was simple; I had
heard that the great author Yukio Mishima wrote every night of his life from midnight to 5 a.m. and that his
nickname was Cinderella. Every night he would disappear from wherever he was and go home to write. I began
17
New Author
to do the same thing. I felt an onus, a responsibility to these readers to post
something. Faced with a blank page every night and having to come up with
something freed me from the constraints of worrying about what to write.
I did the writing anonymously under the name Sufferwords, again taking
away the chance for any personal reward from the project and I was let loose
to write about whatever I pleased. I would write something and bleary eyed
I would press send and away it would go. There were many typos but I
didn’t care. In compiling the book I had to review most of the 650 stories
and I couldn’t remember writing 90 percent of them.
S.MAG.: Some of the stories talk about being in a band or
living in Los Angeles, how many are your real life experiences?
P.W.: The subject matter for the stories were akin to a nightly stock
taking. I might have heard a snippet of dialogue or something might
be on my mind and I would just go from there. All writing is about
the author. Although I've never been a twelve-year old girl I can still
place myself in that body and see through those eyes. Most often
when I would write about myself I would write through the eyes of a
woman, again trying to keep the focus from being about me and continuing my hope
for anonymity in the project. The times I wrote about the music scene were more a reaction to being
stuck for an idea then anything else. I am not a big fan of memoirs. Unless you have cured cancer in a hut in the
Himalayas then I really don’t care. We have all lived interesting lives and it’s not the events I care about but the
greater lessons to be learned from these experiences.
S.MAG.: You’re about to release your debut novel titled “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” about a troubled
man’s search for truth. Do you prefer the writing process of a short story or a novel?
Suspense Magazine Review on
“Master Butterfly Eats Yesterday”
Making my way through this quick-witted array of short
stories I was struck by one thing. Every so often I would
laugh because I had been there, in the exact moment author
Peter Weiss was writing about. “Master Butterfly Eats
Yesterday” is a compilation of stories Weiss wrote while
dedicating himself to a year of short stories. His final tally
was two years of work, six hundred and fifty stories and a cult
following. The short stories discuss life; the good, the bad
and the ugly. Emotions are exposed, disturbed points are
made and all the while readers will find themselves making
a connection. Weiss strikes a cord, using only a few pages
per story to unravel raw emotions and dig to the core of life.
18
P.W.: I never made a conscious choice
to write long or short form. I’m not a
writer. I believe a writer makes it his
life’s work. A lot of people can write,
I might be one of those people, but a
writer commits his life to it, realizes
that there are other aspects to writing
like making money from it, hustling,
promotion or an agent. I’m not
concerned with any of that. I write
because I can and the rest concerns me
little. I have a few more novel ideas I
want to get to but I can’t write long
form and also live my regular life.
The first draft of “Wouldn’t it Be
Nice” was written while I was on an
extended stay in the Mid-west and
New Author
removed from the trappings of my daily life.
S.MAG.: What book has changed your life?
P.W.: My thoughts about writing are that it must have some
meaning. Being from Los Angeles, Raymond Chandler has always
been important to me. I identify with Philip Marlowe, a man with
a code, a man with a distinct set of morals, even when stripped of
all else he still holds strong to his ethics. The character in “Wouldn’t
It Be Nice” is family to Marlowe though belief in this code.
S.MAG.: Your band Thelonious Monster is once again
playing shows; do you think this will spark more short
story ideas?
P.W.: Being from Los Angeles and rising from the curious milieu
of drugs and music has informed my work but as for being in a
band I rarely even consider it. It is just something that I can do.
I never really learned to play the drums and I see music now as
more of a way to hang with a small number of men I hold in high
regard. I have shared history with the guys I play with in Thelonious
Monster, if I had dreams of stardom I would have learned to play
my instrument well a long time ago.
S.MAG.: What comes next in your literary world?
P.W.: I plan to create a few more anthologies based on the writings
of the Sufferwords project. The first addition was compiled by
Alessandra
DeBenedetti
and her choices would not
necessarily have been mine so
I am in the process of culling
another 30 or so stories from
the 625 she didn’t choose.
To read more stories
by Pete email him at
ikigasan@gmail.com.
Also, look for him to
appear in Los Angeles
bookshops where
he reads his stories,
accompanied
by
a musician. Take
it from me, it's
an
awesome
experience. 
Peter Weiss is a born and bred Angeleno
through and through. As a high
school dropout Weiss never passed an
English class yet at the age of sixteen
scored a perfect 800 on the verbal
section of the SAT. Sadly, he scored a
200 on the math and with his humble,
lower middle-class background; there
would be no college education for this
one. Like many of the locals in his
hometown he was destined to work
in the Los Angeles version of the coal
mine, the movie business. Catching
a lucky break, he met filmmaker Paul
Schrader (Taxi Driver, American Gigolo)
at the world premiere of the punk
rock documentary Decline of Western
Civilization, and so began his movie
career on the set of the film Cat People.
The ferment of the late seventiesearly eighties music scene was too hard
to avoid and as a lark in 1984, Weiss
picked up a pair of drum sticks and
with only six weeks of practice created
the band Thelonious Monster. For years,
Weiss balanced movies and music but
the lifestyle of rock and roll, especially
playing with a notorious—even for
L.A. standards—band, was too much
and he sacrificed his movie career to
play music.
Years of local and critical success for
Thelonious Monster never translated to
monetary stability and by the end of
the whole affair, Weiss was left with
four albums that didn’t sell and a
debilitating drug habit.
Coming full circle Weiss is now a
card carrying union member in the
movie business, writes only because
he can and still plays with Thelonious
Monster. 
19
H
e walked into the hotel lobby and was immediately struck
by its familiarity. The feeling was profound, but was in no
way what one might attribute to Déjà vu or some other psychic
phenomenon. He didn't like the feeling. Immediately he felt jaded,
as if he already knew what to expect, as if he had lived this scene
one too many times already. He remembered walls painted this
same off-white as he had seen in those of Manchester and Berlin.
Although he couldn't recognize a single person in the lobby he felt
as if he innately knew everyone there. He was overcome with a dull
dread, almost imperceptible, but there it was.
By Peter Weiss
He looked at the desk clerks, young and attractive, well dressed,
sharp and efficient, smiling and willing to help. Although he needed to check himself into his room he could not
bring himself to approach them. He sat on the couch near the bar entrance and lighted a cigarette. He was familiar
with this as well, this cigarette would be like the last, the experience hollow, though each time he lighted one a part
of him expected more.
The flow of businessmen in and out of the bar, excited by their dealings, left him nonplussed. He had had business
dealings as well, but what was the end result? There was excitement early on. He felt on previous transactions as if he
concocted a great ruse and the closing of those deals brought him great satisfaction, but he had closed many deals
hence and those efforts became mundane.
He accumulated some great wealth and purchased fineries well beyond any hopes he once entertained, but after
some time the pursuit of business began to leave him. The pursuit of wealth too, everything began to ebb away and it
all became some rote practice.
In the lobby he watched a small group of women. They were beautiful, exquisitely dressed and unescorted. He had
known women like these. He spent nights in hotel rooms with them. He knew everything about them. He knew their
laughs, their smell, their charms. He knew just what to say to them and when to say it. This brought him no relief, nor
satisfaction.
He lit another cigarette. What he was waiting for he had no idea. All he knew was that something needed to happen.
The events in the lobby swirled about him, yet he was as if a ghost. It was if he were in a dream, a dream where he
saw everything around him but could not be seen. He was so filled of previous times that there was no room for the
present.
'My god' he said to silently, 'I need to unshackle myself from my previous experience.' It was the burden of his life which
was weighing him down and for the first time this thought revealed itself to him. 'It is not that everything here is familiar
it is only my perception that is familiar. I am the ghost. It is the ghost of my days that haunts me not this place.'
He snuffed out the cigarette and lifted from the couch. He stood and considered his surroundings and they had not
changed. The walls were still Manchester/Berlin white, the desk clerks still smiling and efficient.
As he rode the elevator to his room he became calm. The elevator sped higher and faster to the uppermost floors of
the hotel. He was alone and he watched as the numbers flitted by above the elevator door. By the time he reached the
penthouse, a feeling of serenity overtook him. The doors opened and he stepped out.
There were floor to ceiling windows before him and he walked to them. He looked out over the city and watched with
wonder. He saw below him a helicopter and then he lifted his gaze higher and saw an airplane on the wind. He saw
the street below and the cars looked like small insects scurrying about. It struck him odd that as far removed from
everything as he seemingly was, he suddenly felt connected to everything.
He entered his room and it was exceptional, but he expected that. He placed his belongings down and laid upon the
bed. He kicked off his shoes and tried to rest but couldn't. He stood up and moved to the window. Then for no reason
he turned and went back to the bed, but before he got onto it he picked up the mattress and looked under it. What
he was meant to find there he had no idea,
but he knew that somehow he needed to
Celebration of Short Stories see what might be there. 
Crying in
the Chapel
20
d
e
r
u
t
a
e
F
ist
t
r
A
Maryna
Butenko
21
U
krainian born artist, Maryna Butenko is
constantly learning. Raised in a family
of artists, she grew up watching her
mother paint. In 1997 she attended art school
in the Ukraine and graduated at the top of her
class, with a red diploma, which honored her
high level of skills in composition, art history,
sculpture, painting and drawing. From there,
Maryna went on to attend the Highest School of Art in Vinnitsya
City and received high honors in Decorative Painting and Design,
before moving to the United States where she attended The Art
Institute of Atlanta. Maryna describes her work perfectly when she explains “Painting
gives me an ability to express myself without having to say a word.
I like working with mixed media such as acrylic, oil, gouache, ink,
and pencil. I experiment with texture and space. As a result, my
work has a variety of looks. My paintings are very personal and
are influenced by my emotions and imagination. I have been lucky
to acquire an art education. However, I realize that ignoring the
“rules” of formal training is what makes my art truly unique.”
22
Suspense Magazine is thrilled
to share with our readers the
artwork of such a talented
woman, as well as the thoughts
she shared with us in a recent
conversation.
Feature
d
Artist
Suspense Magazine (S.MAG.):
Are their any artists who
influence your work?
Maryna Butenko (M.B.): My mom influenced my work more than anyone. I
still remember the smell of oil paint in her studio. I used to sneak in there to
go through her unfinished pieces and sketchpads and dream about being able
to paint like her.
S.MAG.: What inspires you?
M.B.: LOVE. Affection, Care, Trust...There are so many kinds of love. I get
inspired by feelings not things. I only paint when I'm happy so when a piece
gets sold it continues to radiate it's positive energy to its owner.
S.MAG.: Do you have a specific process that you must follow when you
begin a new piece?
M.B.: It's funny - I have been taught to follow some basic guidelines but I
honestly don't do well with rules and restrictions. When starting a new piece
I just let it flow and see where my brush takes me.
S.MAG.: Was it a struggle to re-establish yourself in the U.S.?
M.B.: It wasn't easy for the first few years but I’ve been lucky to meet so many
amazing people who helped me along the way. I went through all the typical
struggles of an immigrant but I am glad it's over and I feel at home in the
U.S. now.
S.MAG.: What is your biggest challenge professionally?
M.B.: When working on a commissioned piece a client usually wants to see a
detailed draft and that is a challenge for me. I can show the color palette, I can
sketch a basic concept but I can never guarantee that the finished artwork will
match the initial sketch. Every piece is so unique - it almost has a life of its
own. I can't predict what it will look like in the end but you just have to trust
that it will turn out beautiful.
S.MAG.: What projects are you currently working on?
M.B.: I have been working on a custom clothing line for about a year or so
23
and it's almost ready to hit the
market. A line of women’s
tops, tees and underwear
- a bit of everything.
Freehand drawn designs
on 100% cotton apparel.
Very feminine, clean, bright
- I put my heart and soul into
it.
Feat
ured
Arti
st
S.MAG.: Do you have an emotional connection to your
pieces?
M.B.: Yes and no. The whole reason I paint is for somebody to enjoy
the piece. I sell them, I give them away. I keep the flow going because I
don't want to be one of those artists who hold on to their art forever.
I want as many of my pieces as possible to be out there so people can
actually enjoy them - otherwise what’s the point of having a gift if
you can't share it with the world?
S.MAG.: What is the best piece of advice you have to offer
someone starting out?
M.B.: Don't listen to anyone who says you're not talented enough. Yes,
there are well-established artists, art professionals and many many
credible people in the field but their taste is not universal. Stick to
your own style and keep going. Remember, you don't need anybody's
validation to create what is beautiful to you.
For more about Maryna and her artwork, checkout www.
marynabutenko.com. 
24
Deep in the secret places of Sweetpatch Island,
the old ways—the dark ways—still hold sway. Mournful ghosts
and vengeful spirits stalk the living,
seeking revenge and restitution for past atrocities.
“King of Nod is part ghost story, part Southern Gothic, and part noir,
cloaked in the language of lush imagery and fed on social consciousness.”
—Marlene Y. Satter, ForeWord Magazine
“Gothic with a drawling sense of Southern style, this haunting and lyrical
literary treasure lingers like an old moving memory long after the story
is put down. Mr. Fad has created a masterpiece of epic proportions,
one destined to become a classic.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A masterful work of art that I couldn’t put down. This is the best book
I have ever read.”
—Janica Unru, BlogCritics Magazine
“A disturbing, spellbinding journey.”
—John Raab, Suspense Magazine
“Filled with frightening twists and amazingly vivid imagery. I could
barely put it down.”
—Julina K. Mills, Armchair Interviews
www.kingofnod.com
Available through Amazon.com and other ﬁne bookstores.
N a s h v i l l e , Te n n e s s e e
s
e
g
a
P
e
h
t
e
InspsenisedMagazine Book Reviews
Su
Think Twice
By Lisa Scottoline
With a brilliant mix of the perfect ingredients for gut-wrenching
suspense, Lisa Scottoline introduces fans to Bennie Rosato
and Alice Connolly in “Think Twice”. Identical twins—only in
appearance—these two women couldn’t be more different.
A focused, consummate professional, Bennie finds herself
fighting for her life when Alice decides to impersonate her.
Truly evil and extraordinarily creative, Alice easily slips into
her sister’s world with one goal. Personal gratification at any
cost.
In expert fashion, Scottoline constructs the anxiety in intense
emotional layers; peppering her story with humorous breaks
and heartrending moments only to slam readers back into
the chilling controversy without warning. Surpassing others in
her field, Scottoline’s “Think Twice” is everything thriller fans
crave and more. 

The New Dead:
A Zombie Anthology
by Christopher Golden
With an all-star cast, “The New Dead: A Zombie
Anthology” compiles the work of several bestselling
authors with nineteen all new and intriguing tales. Each
story offers a unique window into the frightening and
unimaginable world of zombies, beginning with John
Connolly’s “Lazarus”. Connolly puts his own chilling
spin on the popular biblical tale and readers are swept
back in time to the creation of zombies. Featuring
shocking and often gruesome pieces by David Liss
(“What Maisie Knew"), Holly Newstein (“Delice”) and
Jonathan Maberry (“Family Business”) to name a few;
it is difficult not to be impressed by this fresh approach
and clearly well thought out body of work. 
26
The Things That Keep Us Here
By Carla Buckley
It isn’t often that a book has a very profound impact on my life
and until now, it has never occurred to me when reading an
authors debut. “The Things That Keep Us Here” is without a
doubt one of the most powerful and realistically frightening books I
have ever read. At each unexpected turn, I found myself praying
for the best and wondering what I would do in such a situation.
Would I be brave enough to make the hard decisions to save
my family?
Ann and Peter Brooks—an average American couple—are not very
different from most of us as they face their own problems and
unsuccessful attempts to overcome personal tragedy. As an
elementary school art teacher and raising two daughters, Ann
never could have prepared for a global outbreak of the flu. In
fact—as it turns out—no one could. The first line of defense
seems easy enough, the immediate closure of all schools to
try to stop the spread or at the very least impede the progress,
quickly followed by a
full-scale citywide quarantine. But how do you truly begin to fight something you can’t see?
What do you do when neighbors and strangers turn against each other in their struggle to meet
the very basic needs?
Readers will find themselves inevitably swept into the lives of this family; sharing their fears,
heartbreak and success while watching helplessly as the systems meant to better everyone’s lives
break down. With staggering intensity, Buckley’s writing will leave you speechless. 
The Seventh Witch
by Shirley Damsgaard
In the seventh installment to the Ophelia and Abby series,
Damsgaard pens a fun-loving adventure full of eccentric
characters in “The Seventh Witch”. This volume takes readers
to the small backwoods family town in North Carolina, where
Abby grew up, for a monumental occasion. Warmly enveloped
by their enormously extended family—well, most of them—
upon arrival, Ophelia is shocked to find that this reunion may
actually have dangerous consequences for several members of
her family. In her unwavering search for the truth, she stumbles
upon more trouble than one nosey witch can handle.
Those new to the series may initially believe they are missing a
few key ingredients from previous editions as characters from
the past suddenly appear; however, Damsgaard takes special
care to preserve the forward momentum. With a healthy dose
of creativity, humor and romance, “The Seventh Witch” is a
pleasant weeknight getaway. 
27
MOVIES
Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre– Action Thriller PG-13

I wasn’t quite ready for Guy Ritchie’s
take on Sherlock Holmes. As a fan of
his past movies and an admirer of Robert
Downey Jr., Jude Law and Rachel McAdams
I was more than excited to see this film
and more than a little let down when it
was all over. The movie has its moments
and the actors are solid, but I couldn’t
help feeling it was trying too hard
to be a cool, new version of Sherlock
Holmes. The case Holmes is out to solve
seems more like an idea for a novel I’ve
heard way too many times lately, with a
religious group and the black magic it's
using to force havoc upon the people. When Holmes’ famous deduction process
occurs in the end, I was a bit confused
and annoyed. My conclusion with this
film is simple: I tried desperately to
enjoy myself, but I was simply bored.  In the Bedroom (2001)
Genre– Suspenseful R 
In 2001, In the Bedroom hit the ground running. It was a smashing success at its premiere with the Sundance
Film Festival as well as the box office. It had Academy Award nominations for best
picture, actor in a leading role, actress in a leading role and actress in a supporting
role. A critic even claimed In the Bedroom to be one of the most important films of
the past decade.” As you can see, this film received great praise, but it was worthy.
The story is based on Andre Dubus’s short story “Killings” and surrounds itself
around a happy middle class family. The story however quickly turns into how a
family must deal with the death of their child, a college age boy. The family is dealt
with an even bigger blow when the murderer is allowed to walk the streets, never
to face punishment for his crime. Tom Wilkinson and Sissy Spacek are brilliant as
grieving parents, each coping in their own way, slowly tearing them apart. This story
is sad, terrible to imagine and difficult to watch, but the acting is superb. As a film, it
is as amazing as critics claim it to be, but for a mother it is a tough one to take in. 
28
Rear Window (1954)
Genre– Classic Thriller PG-13
MOVIES

In 1954, Alfred Hitchcock made Rear Window. Developed from
the short story “It Had to be Murder” by Cornell Woolrich,
Hitchcock created a classic. Nominated for four Oscars, the
film was recognized for its greatness by film audiences and
critics alike.
The fabulous Jimmy Stewart plays L.B. “Jeff” Jefferies, a
photographer who breaks his leg and finds himself stuck in a
wheelchair in his apartment. His isolation forces him to stare
out the window and come up with what-if scenarios with
the people he see’s outside. He soon sets his sights on a man
across the street he can see perfectly through the window. He
believes from his observations, that the man has murdered his
wife and he is determined to prove his suspicions are correct. The magnificent Grace Kelly plays his girlfriend Lisa Carol
Fremont whom he pulls in to investigate the matter, even
getting her to sneak into the “murderer’s” apartment to collect
evidence, while he watches with his telescope from his living
room window.
The clever dialogue, real mystery and slight comedic moments
combined with two of the greatest actors American cinema
has ever known, make this movie a true masterpiece. Anyone
who has not seen his film needs to watch it tonight. Skip the
rental, buy the DVD…you’ll want to watch this one again and
again! 
memento (1954)

Genre– (2000) Crime Thriller R
Imagine being asked to complete a 500 or 1000 piece puzzle. You agree, sit down and
are fed the pieces one by one until the final pieces begin to click into place. Then you are
told that there are missing pieces. You have holes in your puzzle and are now left with an
unfinished image. Most people would find being fed piece after piece a counterproductive
way to go about this task and not feel satisfied at the end. Unfortunately, that’s how I felt
when the final credits rolled on Memento. Not satisfied.
Memento—based on the short story “Memento Man” by Jonathan Nolan—begins at the
end and ends at the beginning. It is the overly complicated story of Leonard Shelby who
lost his short-term memory after witnessing an attack on his wife. Leonard—played by
Guy Pierce—spends his time seeking his own personal justice and with this unexpected
handicap, he chases the perpetrator via notes he writes himself.
The redeeming qualities for this film are the first-rate actors. Carrie-Anne Moss (Disturbia)
and Joe Pantoliano (The Sopranos) join Guy Pierce, each bringing a very different feel to
the movie. Though this was not my personal favorite, Memento will appeal to those who
enjoy a ‘choose your own adventure’ feel at the end. It will leave you asking questions…unfortunately; mine
hovered around why I sat through the entire movie. 
29
First Flight Out
By: Wesley Levelle Dingler
nd Pla
2
c
st
S
00
Co n
y
r
te
to
n
Win er 2
9 Short
30
One instance occurred at age nine, on
a school bus, going to New Castle on a field
trip. Another instance occurred on her eleventh birthday, when a storm killed the power
at the skating rink where they were having
her party. Standing in the midst of the congested airport, she looked around somewhat
skittishly, taking in everything.
She stood in one of the three lines at the
security check at the head of the jet way, behind her parents. Rick and Judy had both
worn their jackets, but Scarlet was wearing a
blue tank top and dark jeans-with the strap of
her black satchel draped over one shoulder.
The weekly planner she saw on The Weather
Channel the night before said it would be better than seventy degrees in Southern California. She dressed accordingly. She did, however, stuff a sweater in her bag, just in case it got
cold on the plane.
Out the tall windows of the terminal, she
watched a gray and white Trans Continental
747 with thick, blue
stripes from its
nose to its
tail-gleaming in the
e a r l y
morning sunlight.
T h e
plane
was making a slow
left turn out
on the tar-
e
The Carmichael family-Rick and his
wife, arrived at the Pittsburgh airport at quarter of six in the morning. They would be taking flight 211, departing from Gate 17, to
San Diego, California as soon as they cleared
through security. For Richard Carmichael,
these airline flights never seemed to take very
long; by now he was used to it. He was an architect who had done business in all but four
of the fifty states. For him flying was just one
of those facts of life.
Judy and Scarlet, however, had never
flown before. And while the fact didn’t seem
to be so much as an afterthought to Judy, it
had begun to rattle young Scarlet. It started
from the moment she set foot in the airport.
Scarlet had looked forward to it all winter and
now it was March 10th; she was now feeling
terribly uneasy about the idea of flight-the
space, the plane, the people, the possibilitieslike a kid who was eager to ride a roller coaster, but thought suddenly different about it
when standing beside the beast. A paranoid,
unsteady feeling lodged somewhere in the
back of her mind. Her father admitted to her
his own personal anxiety the first time he set
foot on a commercial airliner. And he attested that it was just that; anxiety, rather than an
actual fear.
Scarlet was not much of an edgy girl,
but she had, in the past, shown tendencies to
buckle in areas of confinement. It was not to
the elaborate degree of that which would assess one as a claustrophobic (the two times it
had happened to her in the past, the instances
were opposed with a crowd of people), but it
was enough to keep her wary of such settings.
mac.
As she looked around, she thought of
the airport as more of an elaborate human
hive. The place was busied by the standard
flow of people darting around with their
wives or girlfriends, husbands or boyfriends.
One man buzzed through the line, passed
Scarlet, and headed for one of the nearby
seating areas–a Pizza Hut plate in one hand, a
soda cup in the other and a cell phone wedge
between his shoulder and his ear. In line behind her, were a girl and a boy in their early
twenties. Judging from the conversation, she
was his girlfriend and he was just at the airport to see her off, and she was flying out to
see her grandmother, and would be back in
two weeks.
To the left of the lines at the security station, people were standing at the wall where
the digital ETA boards were mounted; looking at the different arrival and departure
times. A man with gray hair stood, holding a
little girl’s hand, looking intently at the Delta
schedule. The little girl looked over at Scarlet, smiled and waved, and Scarlet smiled and
waved back at her.
Rick emptied his pockets and removed
all items from his person—keys, wallet,
watch and cell phone—and dropped everything into the small, green basket before he
stepped through the metal detector. His wife
followed. Scarlet, who was now putting her
brown hair up with chopsticks, placed her
satchel on the conveyor belt, and proceeded
to walk through, as well. They repossessed
their belongings as they advanced from the
ex-ray machine, and began walking.
“We are Gate 17,” Rick confirmed, as they
walked down the jet way.
Rick stepped through the entrance and
onto the plane. His wife proceeded after him.
But Scarlet (who was walking with little relish, if any at all) had fallen four persons behind them.
“Scarlet,” Rick called, looking around,
then looking at his wife. “Where is Scarlet?”
“I’m coming,” Scarlet replied.
She stopped at the door and two more
people walked past and boarded. Rick and
Judy were waiting through the door of the
plane, but Scarlet was suddenly stricken by
the time on the field trip bus going to New
Castle . The memory came in fully intact and
in flavor, so to speak. She had broken in a feverish sweat on the bus and she almost went
into seizure.
Three more people passed her and boarded.
“Scarlet,” her father called. “Come. We
have to find our seats.”
She shook her head as if she had been awoken from a slight daze, fixed the strap of her
black satchel over her shoulder and stepped
through the entrance and onto the plane.
“Soon,” her father said, smiling at her,
“you’ll learn to fight your way through these
things.”
Her parents walked down the aisle, looking for their seats. But Scarlet stood, still staring at the entrance doorway of the plane. She
watched, as the flight attendant (with the
name STEPHANIE stamped into the bronze,
winged name tag above her left breast) ushered in the last of the passengers, closed it
off and gave the locks a quick check. Scarlet
stared (almost hypnotized) and feeling like,
perhaps, someone had just sealed off her coffin.
“Can I help you with anything?” the stewardess asked, turning away from the door.
“No,” Scarlet replied, looking around the
cabin. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Scarlet,” her father called to her. “Come
and take your seat.”
Scarlet proceeded down the narrow aisles,
past where the kid in the Pirates cap sat with
his parents, past people who were taking out
their laptop’s and perching them on the tray
tables, past two women who were putting on
lipstick, past a guy roughly Scarlet’s age who
was huffing on the window next to his seat
and drawing a fist giving the finger in the fog
to where her parents were putting there personal items into the overhead compartment.
Scarlet took out a paperback copy of The
Catcher in the Rye, then placed her bag in the
31
overhead compartment, too.
She squeezed past her parents and took a
seat nearest the window.
“See,” Rick said, “this isn’t so bad. It’s really no different than a train or boat. They
may look big and intimidating, but just think
of planes as really big, docile animals.”
Scarlet looked at her father dumbly.
I’m not five anymore, she thought. That
sort of thing doesn’t work for me these days.
She didn’t say anything in reply though.
She just smiled at him and opened her book
and began to read.
By 7:03 AM the plane was making its way
down the tarmac.
There was a pregnant pause just before it
took to the air; one that took Scarlet’s stomach. And it wasn’t until the pilot had leveled
the plane horizontally that she realized she
had been holding her breath; probably since
she felt the wheels make the faint jump from
the blacktop below.
Once the plane was piercing through the
blue sky, it was only moments before the
FASTEN SEAT BELTS light died, followed
by a low chime, okaying the passengers to
remove their restraints. And less than ten
minutes later, a flight attendant walked down
the aisle, pushing a serving cart as she went.
She stopped at the couple behind the Carmichael’s, and then moved forward to Scarlet
and her parents.
Scarlet leaned forward slightly, looking at
the attendant.
Her name tag had CATHARINE stamped
in the metal and she had bright blond hair.
Like all the rest of the attendants, she was
wearing a white blouse (with a black ribbon
under the neckband, tied in a bow), neatly
tucked into a black skirt that fell just two
inches shy of her knees.
Rick glanced at her winged name tag, as a
way of looking at her breasts.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Catharine asked in a polite voice.
Rick thought for a moment. “Sure. I’ll
have a glass of bourbon.”
“And I’ll have a glass of Sprite,” Judy said,
32
turning to Scarlet. “Would you like anything,
sweetie?”
“I’ll have a Pepsi,” Scarlet replied.
Catharine gave them their drinks and proceeded down the aisle with the cart stopping
randomly.
Scarlet moved her head, looking around
the cabin curiously.
Rick and Judy were talking idly when
Scarlet marked her page with a dog-eared
corner and stood up to go to the bathroom.
She squeezed past their legs and out into the
aisle.
The lavatory was at the far back of the
plane and the door was shut. Scarlet knocked
once and when no one replied, she turned the
door handle and walked in. The door closed,
sealing off all noise (which was really more
of a low-toned rumble of mediocre conversations) that was arising from the passengers of
the flight.
After rubbing her dry and scratchy eyes,
she took a bottle of eyewash from her pants
pocket and sat it on the basin. She reached for
a tissue from the box on the wall and paused
suddenly when she felt the plane shake.
She dropped the tissue and gripped both
sides of the sink basin with her hands.
It’s just turbulence, she told herself. It’s
nothing. Nothing at all.
It shook again, making her pulse come
faster.
Turbulence. Nothing more.
Scarlet continued; making herself overlook the tremor that ran through the entire
plane.
She reached for another tissue; then the
plane shook again this time more violently.
The bottle of eyewash fell to the floor. As
Scarlet reached down to pick it up, the plane
shook once more; this time lunging her headfirst into the corner of the sink basin with a
heavy thud! The blow to her forehead was
hard and she fell to the floor, feeling the spot
with one hand.
Her blood quickened and her sight was
growing hazy and black (like a thickening
opaque foam), just before she began to lose
consciousness.
She began to sink deeper and deeper
into darkness, until she knew nothing at
all.
She was out and lying stretched across
the floor.
Scarlet regained consciousness, lying
face-down on the floor. She rolled over on
her back and with her right hand, felt the
cut the basin had left just above her right
eyebrow. It stung sharply, but was only
bleeding a little. She staggered to her feet
slowly and checked it in the mirror.
She pulled a sheet of tissue from the
box and batted the wound lightly. For a
moment, her head felt light all over again
as if she might blackout again. She didn’t,
though. But she did have a splitting headache.
Scarlet turned and opened the door
and exited the restroom. As she walked
through the door, she stopped frozen solid at what lay before her eyes.
The walls and the windows of the
plane were stained red, and spackled with
blood that ran in streams down the walls.
Remnants of the passengers were strewn,
as if everyone on A deck had been violently mauled and ripped to shreds, and scattered all over the floor and seats and walls
and windows. All of the oxygen masks
had been deployed and dangled from the
over-head emergency compartments.
The first thought (other than the feeling of sheer terror) that ran through her
mind was that it is only a dream.
Spots of shredded clothing hung on
some of the seats.
Just a dream.
Somehow, I’m still asleep, on the floor of
the bathroom.
A body of a woman lay back against
the row of seats on the left side; her clothing was shredded, most of it gone and her
stomach had been torn opened and hollowed out like a Jack-o-Lantern. Her bra
was cut in half, and lying on the floor to
either side of her, and her chest looked as
2010
Writing Contest
Suspense Magazine is now accepting submissions for the
THIRD annual writing contest!
Winners will receive the following:
Grand Prize: Twelve books (some autographed) from each
of the authors of the month for 2010. To keep updated on
the authors of the month check out the 2010 Author of the
Month page at www.SuspenseMagazine.com. All books are
brand new with many coming from the author directly.
Second Place: $50.00 gift card to Amazon.com.
Third Place: $25.00 gift card to Amazon.com.
GUIDELINES:
1. All Stories must be in the suspense/thriller/mystery
genre.
2. Stories must be at least 1,500 words and no more than
5,000. You will be able to submit as many stories as you
wish. Stories that do not fall within that range will not
be considered.
3. Stories must be submitted in the body of your email.
ATTACHMENTS WILL NOT BE OPENED.
4. Must have a valid email address, as this is how you will
be contacted if you win.
5. Contest runs from March 1, 2010 – December 31,
2010.
6. Winners will be announced in February/March 2011.
7. All stories will be judged by an independent panel.
8. Authors will be notified by email if their story is
published online or within the pages of Suspense
Magazine.
9. Email all submissions to contest@suspensemagazine.
com.
10. Questions should be
suspensemagazine.com.
directed
to
editor@
11. The Judges decisions are final.
12. All Stories must be original, any plagiarism will
result in disqualification of that story and no
additional submissions will be accepted from author.
www.SuspenseMagazine.com
33
if both of her lungs had been removed.
This isn’t real.
She only stepped forward three paces before twisting her ankle and stumbling over a
severed human foot. No body. Just the foot in
a two-inch heel, lying on the floor. And just
three rows in front of where she now stood,
and to the right, there hung a severed human
head, dangling, still tightly strapped into one
of the oxygen mask restraints.
This isn’t real.
A second later, a sound caught her ear,
coming from a few rows farther ahead.
This can’t be.
She walked towards the sound, trying not
to look at the disemboweled woman that lay
adjacent in the aisle—her face frozen (dead
and pale and sprinkled with red droplets) in a
position signifying an unconceivable amount
of agony.
As Scarlet grew closer, she began to discern the sounds better. It was the sound of
bone joints meshing together and being
popped forcefully out of place.
The sound grew louder as she got closer.
It was coming from the first row.
Scarlet stalled and beheld in view, one of
the flight attendants, hovering over a lifeless
corpse.
The flight attendant had brown hair,
which was splattered with blood and matted
in spots. The attendant appeared to be eating
the body.
Scarlet froze at the sight, her eyes widened, her skin crawled.
The body was a stocky man with broad
shoulders. His shirt had been torn off. His
face was pale and his bottom jaw was detached
from his head (nothing now but a dark, red
hole at the bottom of his face). His stale and
glazed eyes stared up at the attendant lifelessly as she pulled at one of his arms-pulling it
and twisting it until the skin tore at the shoulder and the arm broke apart from the torso
with a painful crack! The arm released a gout
of blood, as the attendant sank her teeth into
the scant flesh of the forearm.
Scarlet fell backwards in shock and unin34
tentionally let out a frightened cry.
The attendant paused, stood to her feet
slowly, turned and looked at Scarlet. There
was blood splattered across the woman’s face,
running down her chin and neck, and it was
patched across her white blouse. Her eyes
were red with it and gleaming in the light that
flooded through the round windows. Her
face warped into a methodical grin, as if she
had become very satisfied to see Scarlet-living, breathing, the works.
“Where did you come from?” the attendant asked, still smiling.
Scarlet turned and began to run back towards the restroom. The attendant dropped
the arm and ran after her.
Scarlet’s sneakers had become slippery
from the blood-soaked carpet of the plane
and she fell, sliding feet-first into the restroom.
She slammed the door and reached up to
lock it quickly.
For about three seconds all went silent,
and she could only hear the sound of her
breath coming so fast that she would let out
brief and squeaky shrieks in her gasps.
Suddenly, the woman crashed through
the flimsy door. She reached for Scarlet and
managed to grab one of her arms. Scarlet
screamed as the woman pulled at her arm
with great force, and seemingly limitless fury.
Scarlet swung one leg around and kicked the
woman in the side of her head in an attempt
to free her limb.
But it was useless.
The woman pulled harder, working to
snatch Scarlet out of the hole in the door.
In her panic, Scarlet scurried to pull the
chopsticks from her hair, and holding them
together in one hand, stabbed the woman in
the back of the neck with repeated blows.
It didn’t stop her though.
Scarlet reared back the chopsticks one
last time and with a single, violent lunge, she
stabbed them into the woman’s ear. Blood
sprayed out of the ear and ran down Scarlet’s
arm and drizzled across her blue tank top
and splashed across her cheeks. The woman
paused, let out a hideously malevolent scream on back.
and fell lifeless.
The screen flashed:
The body didn’t move. It just hung, bent
PLEASE SWIPE CARD FOR SERVICE.
over, through the hole in the door.
She punched the 0 with hopes.
Scarlet slid into a corner of the restroom
Nothing.
out of reach, and sat shivering as the body
She tried 9-1-1.
took to convulsing.
But the screen still flashed:
She looked down at her bloody arms.
PLEASE SWIPE CARD FOR SERVICE.
Scarlet sat for a moment with her legs
Scarlet dropped the handset and it swung
bent and her knees to her chin, watching the freely in front of her, still bound to the reblood drip and drizzle in sometimes synchro- ceiver by the cord. She stood up and walked
nized streams down the door and out onto across the aisle to retrieve her bag. It had
the floor. She closed her eyes for a moment, landed between in one of the seats, four rows
and felt tears running down her face.
down, and when she bent over to pick it up,
Once the body had quit moving all togeth- she saw something under the seat. Some arer, Scarlet stood and tried to open the door. It ticle of clothing, sticking partially out from
went slowly and had a lot of resistance from under the seat.
the body hanging through. But finally, after a
She reached further and took it in one
few stout tries, she got it open enough to get hand, but dropped it quickly when she realout.
ized what it was. She didn’t bother to take her
Scarlet walked toward row seven, where bag, only stepped back, looking at it lying in
she and her parents had been sitting. She the floor.
looked at the blood-soaked seats momentariIt was a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap.
ly, then looked away, with tears still running And it was covered in dark, clotted blood. An
down her face, trying not to think about what image drove through her mind of the kid that
must have happened to them.
walked passed her with his parents in the terShe reached quickly and opened
the overhead compartment, took out
her satchel and sat in the bloody seat
as she dug through it. Finally, she
drew her cell phone from the bag, and
opened it, praying for service. The
time was 9:37 AM, and service was
nowhere to be found that high above
the towers.
Scarlet felt a sudden rage channel
through her being, and she stood to
her feet, throwing the bag across the
aisle and throwing the phone, smashing it against the wall of the plane. She
dropped back into the seat, running
her hands through her hair. Her eyes
shifted around quickly, (the blood was
smeared across the window, her window) and then she saw the pay phone
on the back of the seat, above the tray
table. She took the handset off the receiver and looked at the digital screen
First Flight Out by Jesse D'Angelo
35
minal. Then she saw a picture of him sitting in
the seat as she boarded the plane.
He was only ten years old, for Christ’s
sake. Eleven at the most.
Scarlet looked back down the aisle, to
the flight attendant that was lying lifelessly
through the door of the restroom. She looked
at the woman with both fright and disgust.
She turned away and walked on, to the
shroud that separated the First Class section
and the Coach section—eyes moving quickly from left to right, almost gagging when she
walked past the body of the man that was
missing a jaw and now an arm. She hesitated,
then pulled the curtain open. The First Class
area was in the same gruesome condition as
her section. Only there were more remnants
and entrails from prior bodies.
Her shifting eyes caught a glimpse of a
light. The light was shining through the partially open door of the cockpit and she accelerated towards the door, in hopes of finding
someone--anyone.
Her pace quickened until she reached the
door at a slow running speed. Pushing the
door open she peeked in and saw a pristine
cockpit-sheathed in bright sunlight, which
made her eyes squint. There were no blood
stains there. No half-eaten passengers. No
sign that anything bad had happened. But
there were no pilots either. The plane was
guided by the auto-pilot system.
To the sides of the cockpit, in the corner,
was the crawlspace area that led to the lower
deck of the plane.
Scarlet considered it for a moment with
hesitation. Then considered just staying on A
Deck.
At least there’s nothing else threatening
here, she thought.
However, she had the strong, curious
(desperate) urge to scout out the rest of the
plane. And with a deep breathe, she walked
over and began to descend the ladder to the
lower deck.
She dropped in on the B Deck as quietly
as she could, but saw that there was nothing
there.
36
However, the vile macabre of the passengers of flight 211 from Pittsburgh to San Diego bore a striking resemblance to the above
deck. She turned to look behind and saw
smeared blood lines running downward on
the outside of the restroom door.
She heard something.
It was coming from Coach.
Screams!
Sharp, agonizing Screams!
Curiously and cautiously, she ran towards
the shroud. Drawing the curtain just enough
to peek one eye through, she saw, in the middle of the aisle, a man lying on the floor, about
mid-way through the rows. Next to him lay a
woman. Both still alive.
Scarlet watched, terrified, as three of the
flight attendants and one of the pilots hunkered down around the man and the woman.
Scarlet focused her gaze on the woman’s
arm flailing freely.
Her hand was gone; torn from its place.
Nothing left but a bloody stump.
Two of the attendants and the pilot held
the man and the woman to the floor by their
arms and legs. One of the attendants had a
knife in hand. She cut the man’s shirt open.
His screams were making the hair on Scarlet’s
neck stand on end.
The attendant placed the knife on the lower part of the man’s stomach and made a small
incision to the right of his umbilicus. She
leaned forward and licked the gash, as arterial
blood shot in spurts from his stomach. She
hesitated for a moment, then clinched the
skin from one of the torn edges of his wound
with her teeth. She pulled upward, toward his
chest, and the skin tore from his lower stomach almost to his neck, exposing the red flesh
and tissue under the skin of his torso. Blood
splattered across the attendant’s face. And the
man screamed loudly, sharp and shrill.
She slid her other hand through the tissue
of his stomach, felt around and pulled out his
small intestine.
She severed the intestine and pulled at it,
wrapping it around her arm.
Scarlet cupped her hands over her mouth.
Shocked and disgusted, she felt like the bottom of her stomach was trying to free itself
and the vapory taste of bile came to her
tongue. She felt certain she would vomit. She
didn’t, though. She looked back through the
shroud.
With one violent tug the attendant removed at least three feet of the man’s intestine. The man began to scream, but it only
came out as croaking noises, as he began to
cough and gurgle his own blood. One of the
other attendants was holding his head still
and emitting an evil laugh at the sound of him
choking.
They were enjoying it.
Scarlet stepped backwards two paces, accidentally knocking a dish off the serving tray.
This drew all of their attention.
Scarlet ran back towards the ladder as fast
as she could. She looked back just in time to
see them coming through the shroud after her.
She slipped at the ladder, landing flat on her
back; hitting her head on the floor and feeling
the muscles in her right calve pinch painfully.
Her leg cramped and it didn’t want to move
and her head pounded, but she pulled herself
back up with one hand and began to climb.
She felt her heart beating so fast that it
felt like it was either going to explode or leap
right out of her chest.
Scarlet was almost to the crawlspace when
something (a hand) grabbed her foot.
She kicked, but the grip didn’t release,
only tightened.
She kicked harder, this time, freeing her
foot.
She glanced down one last time, as she
ascended the ladder, through the darkness of
the crawlspace (one of the attendants had begun climbing the ladder after her, and the rest
would come, too), then looked back up.
Suddenly, a hand came down at her face,
reaching through the darkness. It was reaching for her.
She heard a voice, but couldn’t see through
the crawlspace well enough to make out anything on the other side of the darkness.
The voice called to her: “Little girl! Little
girl! Grab my hand!”
She hesitated for a moment, then reached
for the hand.
It pulled Scarlet up and one of the attendants reached for her leg again. This time,
she gripped Scarlet’s ankle, cutting into her
skin with sharp fingernails. Scarlet kicked her
again. Having let go of the ladder, she swung
around slightly, and with her free leg, kicked
the attendant in the face, until the woman’s
nose began to stream blood and she let go of
her ankle.
The arm pulled Scarlet up through the
crawl space, her heart speeding so fast it made
her arms sting.
Once she was back on A Deck, she saw
that her rescuer was one of the pilots.
“Follow me!” he said.
They ran out of the cockpit together,
hearing the hideous and deranged noises the
crewmen and women were making below
(they were still coming, climbing the ladder,
through the darkness).
The pilot slammed the door to the cockpit
shut, and pushed one of the serving trays in
front of it. He stepped on the lever, engaging
the locks of the wheels on the tray and tested
it making sure it would not move.
“That should hold them,” he said.
Scarlet jumped when she heard one of
them begin to beat on the door from inside
of the cockpit; then another, then another.
Standing behind the pilot (with blood
streaked across her arms, face and tank top),
she asked, “What happened to them? How
did these people get like this?”
Her voice was crumbly and trembled with
anxiety.
The pilot paused for a moment, then replied, “We have always been like this.”
Scarlet froze and the burning sensation
began to trickle through her arms and legs.
He turned and looked at her with a ominous grin stretched across his face.
She stepped back and wanted to cry for
help. But to what success?
At thirty-thousand feet, no one can hear
you scream. 
37
Short
38
t
o
r
i
e
s
To honor the thousands of short
stories we receive each year for the Suspense Magazine Short
Story Contest, the entire March issue has been dedicated to the
excellence and intricacy of short story writing. The authors we
spoke to this month include some of the best in the genre, authors who take multi faceted, amazing stories and cut them down
to a length we can sink our teeth into in just one sitting.
Vicki Pettersson is an expert at urban fantasy, creating Joanna
Archer, a casino heiress in Las Vegas who battles the Shadows
and their leader Tulpa, in the bright lights of sin city in her Zodiac series. Pettersson’s most recent work is her short story in
the anthology, “Dark and Stormy Knights” which includes stories from Jim Butcher, Llona Andrews, Carrie Vaughn as well as
many more. “Dark and Stormy Knights” will be released in June
2010.
Kat Richardson and Simon R Green are two authors
inside the pages of “Mean Streets”, which was released
early last year to critical acclaim. Kat Richardson who
was raised with a pen and paper in hand, has always
been a writer and shows her substantial knowledge for
her craft in every page she writes. Her “Greywalker”
series has developed a huge following after only four
years and is destined for many more years of greatness.
Simon R. Green is a mysterious man. Choosing to
hide in the shadows, little is known about this enchanting man, but his stories stand in a league of their
own. Green’s outstanding number of novels puts him
amongst the most hardworking and talented science
fiction writers of all time. His short story work adds
just another dimension to this man's incredible career.
We couldn’t do a short story edition of Suspense Magazine without speaking with the marvelous Laurell K.
Hamilton. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series has included numerous short stories, giving fans yet another way
to get their desperate Anita Blake fix. Our time with
Hamilton was both thrilling and informative; we are
tremendously excited to bring our readers our conversation with the mastermind behind Anita Blake and
Merry Gentry.
These authors are champions at crafting a short story.
We hope you enjoy the conversations Suspense Magazine had this month, we had a blast talking with such
an array of talented writers. 
39
Vicki Pettersson
Writing in the City of Sin C
reating stories comes natural to Vicki Pettersson. Maybe it
stems from growing up in Las Vegas; maybe it comes from
spending ten years as a Las Vegas showgirl. With a front row
seat in the “city of sin” it’s no wonder Pettersson writes marvelous
characters who reside in the very place she has spent her life. The
passion she has for her city and the love she has for writing shows
on every page.
Pettersson’s ability to create dark, supernatural tales, which develop
beautifully in a short story format, is truly her gift. Her talent for
establishing incredible imagery and well-rounded characters in
both full-scale novels as well as short stories make her a dream. Her
novels, which fall in her Zodiac series, take place in Las Vegas
with heroin Joanna Archer, fighting the battle of shadow and
light. Pettersson’s other stories have appeared in three short story
anthologies, “Unbound”, “Holidays are Hell” and “A Mammoth
Book of Vampire Romance”. Her most recent anthology, “Dark
and Stormy Knights” brings together her stories with those of Jim
Butcher, Ilona Andrews, Carrie Vaughn and many others.
“Dark and Stormy Knights” hits bookstores in July 2010. Suspense Magazine was recently given the
opportunity to ask Vicki Pettersson a few questions.
40
Suspense Magazine (S.MAG.): We’re sure that this has been asked of you at least a thousand times, but
is Joanna Archer based on anyone you know?
Vicki Pettersson (V.P.): She’s really not. I’m sure there are aspects of me in her, some of my temperament and
mores, but they’re both shinier and sharper on her moral continuum. When I write Jo, I think about her specific
background, her experiences, her environment … all the things that have shaped her. When combined, they’re
unique to her, which makes her as unique as any real person … at least to me.
S.MAG.: With the impressive advances in technology, I can easily envision Joanna Archer on the big
screen…who would you choose to play her? Any recommendations for Hunter?
V.P.: Again, they are their own people. It would be like trying to pick an actor to play me. I know myself so well –
both the physical and mental faults and attributes – that I could spot the differences immediately. It’s the same
with these characters. Of course, I’ve been happily surprised by an actors’ ability to make a character’s skin fit
their frame before. For example, could you imagine anyone else as the Joker after seeing Heath Ledger embody
that character? Or anyone more perfect than Michael C. Hall as Dexter? In other words, I wouldn’t be opposed
to seeing someone try.
S.MAG.: Do you ever push back from the desk thinking that you might have gone too far with a storyline
or character? Do you have personal limitations?
V.P.: Not so far, but probably only because the things I’m afraid or disdainful of writing never make it to the page
in the first place. I’ve played a lot with horror and violence in the
Zodiac series, but always from the safe distance of a fantastical
realm, which I think is a comfort to both the reader and me. I’ve
tried to imagine myself writing some of the stuff Dean Koontz
writes, and while I read and enjoy his work, and I think he’s
a fantastic writer and stylist, I’m not sure I could ever bring
into existence the brutal chaos he does on the page. Once it’s
there, it’s real for me. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I
can easily write realistic sex scenes (which, ironically enough,
are an awful lot like writing fight scenes) but will only do so if
it forwards the plot, and has more to do with the characters and
their emotions than the actual act. Gratuitous anything – sex,
violence, cursing, and shiny bow-topped endings – bore me.
Com
ing
S.MAG.: You mention online that you participate in at
least one anthology a year (which we love!); do you have a
certain criteria when choosing those shorter stories?
V.P.: Lately the criterion has been time. Sometimes “Real Life”
flares and demands more care and feeding, and lately that’s
been the case with me. Beyond that, the anthology theme and
the possible story idea have to excite me. I take a relatively long
amount of time to write even my short stories, so I know I’ll
Soo
n
41
Com
ing
be living with it for a while. So, an opportunity to expand on
what I’m already doing in novel form – tell a character’s story
that there simply isn’t room for in my main series – must still
be relevant in some way to the world around me, and let me
noodle a bit more about another facet of the human condition.
If I’m hitting the exact same note as I do in the main series,
there’s no point in creating it.
Soo
n
S.MAG.: Do you have several short stories waiting for the
opportunity to be published? Or do you create them when
you have agreed to participate in an anthology?
V.P.: I create them after I have a character I think can embody
and illustrate the anthology theme. It’s through character that
I find my story and world.
S.MAG.: Have you thought about bringing together your
characters in a series of Graphic Novels?
V.P.: Of course! I think the Zodiac world would be a natural
for the graphic form, but the timing and opportunity has to be
right. Novel writing is a relatively solitary art. A collaborative
effort, like a graphic novel, needs a number of parties all on the
same page – pun intended.
S.MAG.: Can you tell us what’s next?
V.P.: The fifth book in the Zodiac series, “Cheat the Grave”, is out this June, and considering the ending of the last
book, I know my readers are ready for it. This will be followed in July by another short, entitled Shifting Star, in
the “Dark and Stormy Knights”
anthology. It features a character
Suspense Magazine Review on “City of Souls”
from my main series named
Overflowing with razor-sharp wit and lightening speed action,
Skamar, and while it stands on
“City of Souls: The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac” takes readers on a
its own, it helps explain some of
journey into the thinly veiled world of the modern day Superhero.
her actions in “Cheat the Grave”
Focusing on those beings that quietly stalk the cities to protect us,
– a little something extra for
Pettersson continues to highlight the life of new inductee, Joanna
those readers who are following
Archer. Joanna and those like her have mastered the ability to hide
the series closely.
in plain sight, each living dual lives in order to protect their true
identities
and superhuman talents as they rise to meet the challenges
Suspense Magazine would like
of constant battle.
to thank Vicki Pettersson for
taking time out for us. To find
With a clear passion for creating intricate imagery, Pettersson
out more about Pettersson or
infuses her creation with frequent, unexpected twists, which will
her books, go to
appeal to more than the typical fan of paranormal fantasy. Readers
www.vickipettersson.com. 
will find themselves eager for the next installment, looking forward
to the unique and remarkable world that only Pettersson can offer.
42
How many children
grow up with the Odyssey
as their nightly bedtime
story? Kat Richardson
and her two siblings can
be placed on that very
short list. Richardson’s
father was an English
teacher with a degree in
Classical Literature and to
him this book only made
sense. This rambunctious
child grew up writing
fiction, creating fantastic
tales of “The Pickle Bush” and anything else her
imagination could come up with, all which were a
far cry from the classic literature that was putting
her to sleep.
Richardson began her career in magazine
editing before moving onto curriculum writing
and editing for the Gemological Institute of
America. Eventually, Kat’s creativity took over
and in 2006 the first novel “Greywalker” was
released, beginning her “Greywalker” urban
legends series. “Poltergeist” followed in 2007,
“Underground” in 2008 and “Vanished”, the fourth
of the series was released in 2009. Richardson’s
short stories stand out as some of her best works
and have appeared in numerous anthologies. Her
latest story, “The Third Death of the Little Clay
Dog" appears in the collection “Mean Streets.” Motorcycles, target pistols and swing dancing
take up a lot of Richardson’s non-writing time.
She has also been known to dance in Renaissance
Faire’s, to fence and to indulge in film noir. Her
with Kat Richardson
home is currently a sailboat in Seattle, where
she lives with her husband and ferret, Taz. Ms.
Richardson recently took some time out from her
fun filled schedule to speak with Suspense Magazine.
Suspense Magazine (S.MAG.): What prompted
you to participate in the “Mean Streets” collection?
Kat Richardson (K.R.): My editor. No, seriously: it
was a specific request. I think the Ace/Roc group was
turning an eye toward defining the noir-mystery end of
the dark/urban fantasy genre, as well as showcasing a
group of us who wrote in a similar style. It’s not that
there aren’t plenty of people writing the same sort of
Dark Fantasy Mystery Thriller material, but they’ve
been lost in the market perception of urban fantasy as
a light, romantic, “girly” genre—which it isn’t, but
still... the idea is stuck in a lot of heads. Not being an
idiot, I said “yes,” very quickly to the opportunity of
being associated with Jim Butcher and Simon Green in
print—who in my position wouldn’t? All three of my
co-authors are amazing and it didn’t hurt to be ganged
with the hardboiled boys in the genre. I love it!
S.MAG.: Did you have a novella “prepped and
ready” for placement within that collection?
K.R.: I have to be honest and say I had been toying with
the idea for “The Third Death of the Little Clay Dog”
for three or four years and didn’t think it had enough
meat to be a full novel, so the novella length opportunity
with such fantastic writers was irresistible. I hadn’t done
any substantive writing on it; it was mostly research
notes at the time Anne Sowards contacted me about the
collection. So I had to write it pretty quickly. At 25,000
words, it’s a quarter of a novel and it took me about five
weeks to do it, including additional research in libraries.
43
I unfortunately didn’t have the time or luxury to go to Oaxaca in person, though. S.MAG.: Is Harper loosely based on anyone….you perhaps?
K.R.: Oh, hell no! Harper is an amalgam of a lot of people I’ve known and
characters I’ve read. Originally, the character was a stereotypical, hardboiled PI
straight out of Chandler, but I had a hard time relating to him, so I made some
changes. Then the character was just too... cute and I didn’t think the market really
needed another witty, clever Mary Sue that all men fall in love or lock verbal
horns with. I took a lot of her isolation and reticence from Ross MacDonald’s
Lew Archer and her physical description is based largely on my step-sister, Casey,
who is tall, thin, athletic, and a brunette—as well as smart and funny. I’m curvy,
average height, and blonde. Harper does get her background in theater and her
crazy LA family from extremely exaggerated bits of my own past and friends’,
but they are just that: exaggerated. Even my friends and family at their nuttiest
are not as bad as Harper’s mother on her best day.
One thing Harper and I do have in common, though, is the desire to control our
own lives and do what is important to us on our own terms. But I think a lot of
writers feel the same way—that’s why they get into such a crazy business.
S.MAG.: As a previous ferret owner, I am often shocked at how these
wonderful creatures are horribly portrayed in most books and movies and it
was refreshing to read about Harper’s pet in a positive light. What pushed
you to become involved in the California Ferret Legalization program?
K.R.: I was born and raised in California and though I’d seen a few fugitive ferrets
there, I didn’t own any until I moved to Washington. I just fell in love with the
domestic ferret. It’s true that they are stinky little beasts—their latin name means
“stinky thief ”—but they are also affectionate, smart, and very sweet-natured if
handled with the same respect and training most people would give their cat or
dog. They don’t spread rabies or plague—as has been claimed by some—or any
other human-harming disease, except the common cold, which they catch from us.
They aren’t baby-killers—how could a two-pound ferret eat a ten-pound child and
why would it
even want to
if it weren’t
starving or
abused? They
aren’t rodents
and
they
don’t destroy
crops, which
is one of the
accusations
California’s
ag riculture
lobby
has
leveled
at
them. Ferrets
44
are carnivores of the otter family;
they aren’t interested in digging
up lettuce, only in eating the bugs
crawling on top. The propaganda
spread against them out of
ignorance just hurts to see. The
fact that California is one of only
two states in the US—which is
one of the only countries in the
world—where ferrets are illegal
because of that ignorance just
puts my dander up and I thought
I ought to speak up for “the little
guy.” Ferrets are less of a danger
to agriculture and humans than
domestic dogs and cats are.
Suspense Magazine Review on “Vanished”
We already live in a world that at times is difficult and disturbing to
navigate, often facing challenges that threaten to stretch our nerves
to the brink. I shudder envisioning what it would be like to live as
Harper Blaine for even a moment as she continues to defy the odds
in “Vanished”. Harper, a strong and compelling woman, is only just
beginning to unravel the true secrets behind her life, her death and
her purpose in this fourth edition to the Greywalker series.
Straddling the link between the living and paranormal, Richardson
has created an intricate cast of characters, weaving them through
the past, present and mystical with clever dialogue and intriguing
encounters. Never anticipating what may be hiding just ahead,
readers will find themselves swept into the Grey and unable to step
away from this exceptional tale. n Raab with Suspense Magazine
S.MAG.: You seem to have a
very close relationship to your
fans through the Greywalker Forum and your personal Blog and it feels like you are writing to a close
friend. How do you fit everything in when you have family obligations, book tours and deadlines?
K.R.: It’s kind of hectic sometimes. I have to push things off during the busy times and make up for it later, but
without fans, there just is no career. I owe them thanks for letting me do something I love as a full-time profession.
Making a little time in my schedule to do events, blog, and chat on the forum are my way of paying back all the
publicity, word-of-mouth, enthusiasm, support, and good times I get from them. Of course, buying the books is great
too.... ;)
S.MAG.: What can your fans expect to see from you next?
K.R.: At the moment, I’ve just finished revising "Labyrinth", Greywalker #5, and am doing research and taking
notes for Greywalker #6 (which doesn't have a title yet). I’m also writing a short, straight-mystery piece for
"Damn Near Dead II", a collection of short “geezer noir” stories that is being published by Busted Flush Press
and edited by Bill Crider. I have a couple of other non-Harper projects cooking on the back burners and proposals are in the works for a
young adult novel about a wannabe-superhero librarian and her misfit-genius sidekick who would like to grow up
to be a Sith Lord; a Western steampunk novel about a traveling show featuring mechanical puppets who might, or
might not, be gaining sentience; and an SF forensic thriller featuring a detective who is his own forensic lab on legs,
fighting to solve an “unsolvable” mass-murder on a resort-planet rife with corruption and ethnic strife.
Oh yeah... I’m finishing up a redesign on my website and I’ve just joined the League of Reluctant Adults online as
well. I’ll be out doing a few events with them in 2010 as well as the rest of my usual running about, as well. Both
the site and League will have giveaways and fun stuff for fans to grab, read, and do and I’m looking forward to
it all!
Thanks for letting me chatter away with you.
Suspense Magazine thanks Kat Richardson for spending time us. Learn more about Richardson by
visiting her website http://www.katrichardson.com. 
45
:
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a
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M e to
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Clemon R. Gree
Si
V
ery little is known about science fiction author, Simon R. Green. As he once said,
"I've always thought my work should be famous, rather than me." His work however
speaks for itself. His numerous novels and short stories place him among the greatest
authors in the science fiction and fantasy genre. His career began in 1976 when he sold his
first story, Manslaughter, but his success really boomed in 1988 when he sold an astonishing
seven novels. In 1989, Green received a commission to write the novelization of "Robin Hood:
Prince of Thieves", which became a major best seller and made him a well-known name.
Green has written four series of novels, two stand-alone novels and numerous short story
collections. His most recent short story comes to us in “Mean Streets” which includes short
stories from Jim Butcher, Kat Richardson and Thomas E Sniegoski. Suspense Magazine recently had the chance to ask Green a few questions and his answers
where clever and hilarious. He even answered a question we didn’t ask!
Suspense Magazine (S.MAG.): John Taylor is such a vivid character whose imagery only
slightly pales in comparison to his dramatic surroundings in the Nightside. Did one specific
incident lead you to building the incredible world?
46
Simon R. Green (SRG): It's no big secret that the Nightside is based on London’s notorious
Soho area. I used to live in London back in the 1970s, when Soho was still Soho. Glamorous,
sleazy, wicked and dangerous in all the best and fun ways. Every club a new experience, every
bookshop full of wonders and on every street corner a minor celebrity doing something unwise.
It's all calmed down a lot since then, with much of the old Soho told torn and built over. But some
of the old (black) magic still remains. The Nightside is, if you like, the legend of Soho. As I choose
to remember it.
S.MAG.: Do you ever push back from the desk thinking that you might have gone too far with
a storyline or character?
SRG: Never! In fact, that could be my writing motto; there's no such thing as too far. I've always
believed that you start by cranking it up to 11, and then accelerate. It is, after all, what I do best.
Other people may produce better plots, or better characters, but no one does weird shit like I
do.
S.MAG.: What prompted you to participate in the “Mean Streets” collection?
SRG: I was asked to; but I do like the fact that there is now a whole genre of this weird urban
gothic public eyes thing.When I started out, there was just me and the excellent Jim Butcher, and
neither of us knew what the other was doing. I'm just happy that so many others are following the
trail we blazed.
S.MAG.: What can you tell us about yourself that would surprise your fans?
SRG: I'm a Shakespearean actor; I've been performing Shakespeare in the open air for over
twenty years now, and I will soon start rehearsing for King Lear; a play I've always wanted to do.
I actually started out as a professional actor, back in the late 70s, but I couldn't get enough work
to earn a living. So, I ended up an author. Anyway who wants an insight on how I feel about acting,
should read my novel “Blood and Honour”; which has many insights and much venting.
S.MAG.: Based on your writing…we’re curious…what are you reading right now?
Suspense Magazine Review on
“The Good, The Bad, and The Uncanny”
Wildly bizarre in the most magnificent way, Green smoothly guides readers back into the fantastic,
dark depths of the Nightside with “The Good, The Bad, and the Uncanny”. As a first time reader of Mr.
Green’s work, I sat stunned, seduced by the elements of this unruly world.
Meeting PI John Taylor was an unexpected pleasure—though he is clearly not someone we would
want to run into in the real world—with his sharp intensity, unyielding ideals and dripping sarcasm.
Inevitably drawn to trouble, which is not a challenging task in the Nightside, Taylor begins this outing
faced with a personal dilemma. He is unsatisfied with his life. Though wealthy, in love and with a
steady line of paying clients, he truly has no good reason for this mood but can’t seem to shake this
unanticipated feeling. Considering his frame of mind, it is no surprise when he accepts assignments
from undesirable clients, launching the readers from one outlandish and hilarious situation to another.
With a knack for creating the unimaginable and weaving these oddities into a spellbinding storyline,
Green has jumped to the top of my personal “must read” list.
47
SRG: I've just finished re-reading Ray Bradbury's “Something Wicked This Way Comes”. I hadn't
read it in over thirty years, and I was delighted to find it even better than I remembered. Of
today's writers, I've just read David Morrell's “The Shimmer”, and Nick Harkaway's “The GoneAway World”. Both are absolutely marvelous. Authors I recommend; Jack Cady, M R James, Neil
Gaiman, Clive Barker and Avram Davidson.
S.MAG.: What is on your “bucket list”?
SRG: Metal, with a sturdy handle.
S.MAG.: What’s next?
SRG: Okay, I've just finished a John Taylor short story for an anthology, I'm half way through a
pirate novella, I've got to rewrite a screenplay for a low budget horror movie we'll be filming in
England this summer, then I've got to write the fifth Secret Histories novel, “For Heaven’s Eyes
Only”, the second Ghost Finders novel, and the final Nightside novel, “The Bride Wore Black
Leathers”. Then I may go and have a little lie down... ….and no, I'm not married; no one ever asked me.
A website for Simon R. Green has been created by his fans. Take a look at http://www.
bluemoonrising.nl/index.html. Suspense Magazine thanks Mr. Green for taking time out to
answer our questions. 
Autographed Copies Available at:
www.QueenWriter.com
sreina@queenwriter.com
48
An Interview
with
Laurell K. Hamilton
49
Laurell K. Hamilton has fought hard to be a writer. As an undiagnosed
dyslexic, Hamilton did not learn to read until she was seven years old. After
learning to read, she absorbed everything she could get her hands on, taking
great interest in “Charlotte’s Web” by E.B. White, learning many writing
techniques that she admits to using today when writing her novels and short
stories. When writing her first story at age fourteen, Ms. Hamilton created a
world of horror and from there continued down a road of darkness. Science
fiction, fantasy and horror are the realms for most of her stories, but in the
1980’s paranormal thrillers had not been established. Laurell K. Hamilton
was in a world of her own and finding her place was going to require a fight.
In 1993, Hamilton created Anita Blake, a character who would eventually
take center stage in nineteen novels. The Anita Blake novels have an immense
following, mixing romance with fantasy, mystery and horror. The novels have
even inspired a graphic novel by Marvel. Hamilton’s other series of novels‑the
Ballantine Series feature Merry Gentry a private investigator and Fey princess.
Hamilton has also put together three short story collections. The first of her
collections “Bite” brought together authors Mary Janice Davidson, Charlaine
Press Photo Credit: Stefan Hester
Harris, Vicki Taylor and Angela Knight. Her most recent collection released
in 2007 brought together her volume of short stories “Strange Candy” with a
new Anita Blake story. This combination was a dream come true for fans.
The eighth novel in the Merry Gentry series, “Divine Misdemeanors” was released in December 2009. Suspense Magazine
was recently given the great pleasure to talk with Ms. Hamilton and we are thrilled to share all she had to say:
Suspense Magazine (S.MAG.): What kind of music can we find on your iPod?
Laurell K. Hamilton (LKH): I listen to Disturbed, Drowning Pool, Seether, Breaking Benjamin, Nickelback and now Korn. I have lots
of that. I also have Sarah McLaughlin,Tori Amos. I have Audioslave, SheWants Revenge, Flyleaf and The Fray. A lot of the bands that
I really like, like Breaking Benjamin, are recommendations from fans. A fan made me a CD with them on there and they said if you
like it promise me you’ll buy. And I loved it and bought their album. Tori Amos was a recommendation from a fan. I had never heard
her music before. And now of course there’s Pandora Radio. I can pick a band that I like and want to listen to and it’ll bring up other
bands that sound like them. It’s a great invention. S.MAG.: What do you enjoy doing on your free time?
LKH: I don’t have a lot of time off, first of all. The idea that you have lots of free time in between is false from my experience. We just
got back from going to some place warm. We like to go on a couples’ long weekend. I like to spend time with family and friends, spend
time with my daughter and our dog. I’m like most writers, if you plan to take time off you can’t. If writing is really your calling as it
is for me, it’s all consuming. My husband is fine with that and understands. But not everybody is lucky enough to have someone who
does understand that. I actually know some writers where the spouses make rules:“no writing talk tonight”. A group of writers cannot
NOT talk about writing. It’s impossible. My work is very much who I am. S.MAG.: It’s our understanding that you were a biology major. How did you become interested in that field? LKH:I have a degree in Biology and English Lit. I went into college with the idea that I would get my degree in CreativeWriting. I’ve
always been interested in Biology. I wanted to be a wild life biologist or a writer. Then at around fourteen, I read my first collection of
fantasy and horror and that was it for me. I realized I wanted to do that. I was kicked out of my writing program in college for being
a corrupting influence to other students. The head of the writing program took me to her office and that’s what she told me. She kicked
me out of the program. I realized she wanted to "cure” me of wanting to write horror stories. And when she couldn’t “cure” me, she was
out to destroy me. She said I couldn’t write, that I would never succeed. She wanted to crush me. S.MAG.: What is your message to those who were not supportive and didn’t think that you would succeed?
LKH: This particular person—the head of the writing program—didn’t think I couldn’t write. She actually believed I could and
she made a moral choice. She believed what I wrote was evil. And I have done what she feared I would do. I have gone on to corrupt
50
millions. The thing is I believe in corruption. Everyone has a choice on what they read
and everyone should have choices. Other than her, no one else didn’t believe in me and
if they didn’t I really didn’t care. I am very self-motivated and very focused. At fourteen
or fifteen, I realized that if anyone was going to save me and I was going to get out of the
small town I was in and the circumstance I was in, it would be me. So I had to go to college
and get my degree because no one else was going to save me. People can be very negative. You have to be constant in your own self. You have to believe in your own dreams. You have
to believe! Why did I think a little girl from the middle of nowhere in a small town of a
hundred people could go on to be a writer when I didn’t know anybody? I don’t know. I
wanted to tell stories. It is my path, it’s what I wanted to do. When you have something
that strong usually you have a sense of surety. There’s something about a bad experience
that just makes you stronger. Just to prove to people. I guess I’m just stubborn in that
sense. Tell me something I can’t do, and I’ll go ahead and do it.
S.MAG.:You were inspired by horror stories, so what frightens you?
LKH: I don’t scare easy actually. I can tell you what I don’t watch. I don’t do grotesque
movies. I was never very fond of it. Doing research on real life crime and real people
killing others takes my taste away from it. Once you’ve seen it and know it can happen it
doesn’t scare you. Real life crimes scare me a lot more than fictional. S.MAG.: If you could help solve a crime would you?
LKH: I would. I’ve had police officers say I would be a great detective but bad in uniform. I have trouble with chain of command. I think like a policeman. I had to stop doing the
research on real life crime. I’m not Jessica Fletcher. I’m not going to be solving crimes. It’s not what I do. If I could I would. In real life, police frown on that. I’m really hoping
I have seen the last dead body. I much prefer my dead on paper.
S.MAG.: The Anita books are about vampires and the Merry books are about
the Fey. Why have you decided not to combine these two worlds?
LKH: Book five in the Anita Series had Fey and I thought I knew about the Scottish and
Irish folklore about the Fey since my family is Scot and Irish. When I started doing more
research for that book and the first Merry book. By the time I got done researching, I
would have changed what was done because I found new stuff I had to separate the worlds. I was already in grunts. Anita and Merry are written in first person narratives. So who
would I talk through? It’s that old saying, if I walked into the room I was already there.
I actually don’t think they would get along well.
S.MAG.:You have a large number of male followings. Have you thought about
writing from a man’s perspective?
LKH: I have actually; well I’ve done a few short stories. I have an idea for the future that
seems to demand a male protagonist. That would be interesting to see if I could do it justice
because I’m not a boy. Men and women are different beings, they really are. And I don’t
have that masculine energy, being a woman. So I’m a little hesitant to do a whole book. Also, it being me I don’t know if I could behave myself the whole book. So if we have sex
then it’s going to be how men see sex and how men see women. And I don’t see women
that way. I have performance anxiety just writing from the women’s perspective for all
the men’s parts. Men want to do well so if I were writing from the male perspective then
they’d really want to do well. And also if I do this, the character is physically tall and I
am not. The problems are a lot. If you have friends that are over six feet tall, what they
see is not what you see. It’s a different way of walking the world. For men in general,
there’s a sense of security that women don’t really have. Most men don’t see themselves
as potential victims. Laurell K. Hamilton is an avid blogger. Check out her website and blog by
going to http://www.laurellkhamilton.org. 
51
LIFE. LIBERT Y. HONOR .
Some purSuitS are worth any price.
After our nation’s capital is
devastated by a series of
explosions, counter terror
operative Mitch Rapp heads
up a team who must hunt
down those responsible—
by any means necessary.
But will the pressure of the
mission cause one of his
team members to crack?
—Glenn Beck
www.vinceflynn.coM www.siMonAndschusteR.coM
Photo © Peter Hurley
“Fantastic!”
freshman at the University of Florida, I would say I
have enough on my plate not to worry about the
super-natural. However, the campus is extremely old and it only
seems logical that an old-Florida town such a Gainesville would
house some haunts. I live in Broward Hall, and for those of you who that means
little-to-nothing, you can think of it as your average public
university residence hall. The dormitory rooms are small, the
bathrooms are cold and dirty, there's mold and dust and a sour
smell everywhere. The roaches never die and you can never
completely fight off the lingering feeling that you might suffocate
while you sleep at night in your hard, single bed. Our "neighbor" dorm, literally a less than five-minute walk,
is Beaty Towers. This is the highest building on campus, with
thirteen floors (though the top is labeled fourteen to help put
some superstitious minds at ease). I had never been inside Beaty until a couple months into my
fall term. I had heard from friends that Beaty Towers was spooky,
but when I first went inside I realized I had underestimated it.
The glass doors open into a small foyer, containing two
shiny metal elevators. The stairs are hidden. I noticed before as
I approached the Towers, looking at them for the first time, that
all of the windows were barred with rusting yet very solid looking
frameworks. This way no one could put more than a finger
outside his or her windowsill. I was told it was for safety reasons,
that the height of the building and stressful schedules of college
students did not make a good match. There is an urban legend that surrounds Beaty Towers. Ask
any student on campus and they'll tell you without hesitation
that those hallways are haunted. The story is about a college
student, a girl, some years ago, who had big dreams for herself.
They all seemed to fall apart for her though, when she wound
up pregnant and alone. She resented the man who had
impregnated her, she hated herself for allowing it to happen
and she felt her future fading. She was so downtrodden and
hopelessly lost that on a stormy night, she opened her window
and threw herself from her room on the thirteenth floor onto the
441 highway that runs alongside the building, ending her life.
The night was black and the rain made it hard to see, and the
legend says she was brutally run over multiple times before her
body was dragged off the highway. It is rumored that Tom Petty,
Ghosts of Gainesville
A
by Helen Cooney
on
i
t
ca
O
o
L
n
originally from Gainesville, Florida,
wrote his song "American Girl" based
on this story. It tells of a girl who "stood
alone on her balcony, she could hear
cars roll by out on 441".
The halls still have a tangible feeling
of despair and an eerie presence. I have
felt it myself. The thirteenth floor is dim
and quiet—no one wants to live there.
On rainy nights students have reported
feeling a hand on their shoulder when
alone in their rooms, or
hearing the sound of
bare feet padding up
and down the hallways.
Those who live on the
thirteenth
floor
say
there is a permanent
feeling of hopelessness,
and that when her
presence is felt, it is
nothing but sadness
that she radiates, not anger or aggression. Pictured (FROM Left to right): 1) Tom
Petty (Photo credit Dennis Callahan) 2)
Beaty Towers
Almost directly across 13th Street from Beaty Towers and Broward Hall is the building
Norman Hall, another place on campus rumored to be haunted. Norman is now the
College of Education, but many years ago it was a Pre-Kindergarten School. When the school was used for Pre K, only one elevator existed in the building. A terrible
accident happened one day while a class of children was inside the elevator. For reasons
unknown to anyone, the elevator fell, killing all who were inside. Now it is said that people hear children running and laughing on the third floor—the
floor the children had been trying to reach. These sounds can be heard not only at night,
but also during the day.
It has been told that attempts to remove the elevator from the building to replace
it were all unsuccessful, and cutting it out is a danger to the foundation of the building.
Students believe the children's souls are trapped in the elevator and until it is destroyed
they will continue to haunt the building. The elevator they died in is still there to this day,
untouched.
I have yet to discover a legend surrounding the dormitory that I live in, and I am
thankful for that. Though it would not surprise me too much now, after experiencing the
chills in these two buildings right next door, if I were to find one. I just hope that it doesn't
find me first. 
54
Meet the 2009 Short Story Contest
Winner Jesse D'Angelo
The NEXT Suspense Magazine Short Story Contest Winner could be YOU!
This years winner tells us how he created our favorite tale!
Where did the idea for "Claire" come from?
I've always wanted to do something that was a different twist on the typical zombie story. What if the person who
becomes a zombie doesn't lose their mind, personality and soul? What if it's still that person you love, conscious, suffering as
the processes of death affect them? And what if it was an innocent little girl? I started asking myself these questions until I had
something I thought was both creepy, and tragic.
Are you an avid writer or is this a lucky first try?
This is the first short story I've written in over ten years, since college. Mostly I write screenplays and have been
working on my filmmaking career. But I was forwarded this email saying that Suspense Magazine was looking for new
stories, and I thought "it would be nice to write a short story again." So I shifted my rusty gears from screenplay mode back to
short story mode , and tried to just tell a simple but effective horror story.
How do you spend your days, are you a writer or do you have another job? Hobbies?
I make a living as a storyboard artist mostly. I've worked in special FX shops and on films sets, performing various
duties since I was five years old. I love movies more than anything, and I've been working to get my writing-directing career
off the ground. I also love reading and writing, and would love to write more short fiction and possibly novels... And I collect
spores, molds and fungus.
What authors inspire you?
Shel Silverstein and Maurice Sendak definitely helped shape my childhood. Later on, I was obsessed with Stephen
King, Robert McCammon, Caleb Carr, Poe and Anne Rice. Robert E. Howard, Michael
Crichton, Peter Benchley... I also love comic books, with artists and writers like Alex
Ross, Stan Lee, Alan Moore, John Cassaday, Brian Michael Bendis. Plus all the
filmmakers and actors that inspire me, there's just far too many to list.
What book changed your life?
So many books I've loved, but one that just jumped out at me
was "Stinger" by Robert McCammon. I very rarely read a book more
than once, but I must have read "Stinger" four times. It's so fresh and
creepy and original. A new riff on a classic story, great characters,
great action. McCammon's writing is so engaging, it feels more like
watching a movie than reading a book. Man, I just flew through that
thing. That was one of those books that after I finished it I said, "I
want to be a writer." Of course, it was also one of those books that
made me say "I want to be a director and adapt this book into a movie."
Maybe I'll do both. 
00
ory Conte
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S
in n
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2
9 Short
eW
a
n
r
d
G
Priz
st
55
CLAIRE
By Jesse D’Angelo
“Just start at the beginning, Scott.”
The young man did not answer Dr. Song. He sat on the couch with his fingers enmeshed, staring at the floor.
His hands were rough and dirty, and he carried the smells of the steel mill with him. Dr. Song shifted in his
chair, letting out a sigh and putting down his pen and notepad.
“Look, your boss is paying for you to be here,” Dr. Song said. “And you’ve been coming to see me for over a
month now.”
“Yeah?” Scott remained motionless.
“Well, I’m just wondering when you’re gonna start talking to me.”
Scott would not look Dr. Song in the eyes, just sitting there tensed up in a ball of nerves.
“I have been talking to you,” Scott said.
“I mean really talk to me, Scott. What is this secret you’re hiding? What happened to you? Why don’t you like
to talk about your childhood?” The doctor leaned forward, hoping to corner his patient into a real answer.
But Scott became very uncomfortable.
“I just don’t.”
“Why? What happened?” Dr. Song kept pushing. “Before you were adopted, your birth parents… Did they
abuse you?”
No.” Scott snapped.
He knew his walls were crumbling. He knew this pushy shrink would just keep poking and poking. The
longer he refused to talk, the longer these tedious sessions would go on. Or he’d be fired.
“You’ll… you’ll think I’m crazy.”
Scott’s defenses began to fall. Dr. Song could see it, the way the young man exhaled, and the way his fidgeting
hands began to relax. The doctor sat forward, adjusting his glasses, being very careful and gentle with his
words.
56
“What happened to you, Scott? Why don’t you like talking about your childhood?”
Scott almost chuckled at the doctor’s question, an ironic, bitter kind of laugh. Scott looked up to meet Dr.
Song’s eyes. He hadn’t talked about this in twenty years, so he figured, what the hell?
“Something did happen when I was very young. I’d say I was about eight or nine at the time. We
were still living in the house in upstate New York…working class town. Anyway, uh…I had a
younger sister. And she, uh…she died.” Scott smiled, as if he had wrapped it all up just like that.
“How?” Dr. song asked, scratching his bearded chin.
“How…” Scott struggled. “How is not the easiest question to answer.”
Scott could see that Dr. Song was unwavering. The conservative little man sat with his legs crossed, still
as a gargoyle. He would never let Scott off the hook with quick, easy answers. Scott let out a breath and
surrendered, deciding to let it all out.
“Claire was two years younger than me, so I guess she was about seven at the time. She was a normal enough
kid. Very friendly and playful, and a little bit chubby. She could be a bit of a tomboy, but also liked being a
girlie-girl. She’d wear her dresses and have tea and Barbie-doll parties with her friends, then go climb trees
and chase toads around in the creek. She liked playing with our cat, Barley, who was gray colored and playful,
but fat and lazy. We lived on the edge of the woods, and it was a very small, friendly town. So us kids used to
just run amok back in those days…before people had to start worrying about their children.
“In the summer, we’d play stick-ball in the cul-desac where we lived. In the winter, we’d burrow these long
tunnels under the snow and have snowball fights. I tried not to hang out with Claire too much, ‘cause I didn’t
want my boys to think I was soft. So she would sometimes just run off into the woods by herself to play. She’d
always come back with rocks and sticks; one time she even brought home a wounded little bird, and she and
my mom nursed it back to health.”
Scott smiled, the memories coming back to him as if from an old and forgotten movie projector.
But then his smile faded, and he went on. “One day in the spring, she went off playing in the woods by herself.
It was a nice, warm morning, not a cloud in the sky, but by early afternoon it was getting grey and cold. It
started to rain, and my mom called us kids inside. Now I, who was sort of supposed to be keeping an eye
on Claire, had completely neglected to do so. She wasn’t at the edge of the woods where she usually played;
she’d gone deeper in, which meant I had to go in looking for her. So I jogged on into the woods, looking
everywhere for her. ‘Claire! Claire!’ I kept calling her name, but she wouldn’t answer.
“I ran back to the house to tell my mother, who was I guess, justifiably pretty worried. She threw on her
slicker, grabbed an umbrella and we went back out there together to find my sister. We walked down the
usual trails, but she wasn’t there. My mother was of course beginning to panic now, and decided to take
us deeper into the woods than we would normally go. ‘Claire! Sweetie!’ My mom kept calling, both of us
becoming cold and drenched from the rain, but still there was nothing.
“Finally, I saw her and pointed her out to my mother. ‘Mom, there she is!’ And there she was, sitting in the
middle of this old, overgrown meadow, I guess you could call it. The grass went up to her chest, and she
just sat there, pale and wet. My mother gasped and we both ran to her. She looked lost and confused, just
sitting there, shivering and staring into space. But she recognized us when we got there and threw her arms
around my mom’s neck. ‘Mommy!’ She was so sweet and innocent, just this scared, soaked little thing…
“ ‘What are you doing all the way out here, baby?’ Mom asked, holding her tight and still trying to keep the
57
umbrella above us. ‘I got lost!’ Claire said. And that was it. She was lost, scared, wet and cold… That was it.
So we took her home, and by that time Dad was back from work. He heard the story of this little scare and
gave Claire a hug before plopping down to watch the Mets game. Mom took Claire upstairs and drew her a
hot bath, then got her dressed and put her into bed to rest. I saw my mother go up to her room later on with
some hot soup, but I guess Claire didn’t want any. She wasn’t feeling well, so my mom just left her alone for
the rest of the night. She’d be better in the morning, right?”
Scott paused, hesitant to go further. He looked up to see Dr. Song in rapt attention.
“So what happened? Did she catch pneumonia or something? Is that how she died?”
Scott let out a little snort in response to this question, not even a chuckle.
Dr. Song leaned forward once again, “What happened then, Scott?”
“Nobody got much sleep that night. Claire kept moaning and groaning and waking everyone up. The first
time it happened, I just stayed in my bed, listening to my mom shuffle down the hall to her room. I heard her
say, ‘Oh baby, you still feel so cold! Here, let me get you another blanket.’ My mom did her best to comfort
Claire and get her back to sleep, but it didn’t last for long. After I had gotten back to sleep, don’t know how
long it was, she started crying again. This time, both my parents went to her room, and she seemed much
worse. Well by now, I couldn’t stand just laying in my bed, so I got up to see what all the fuss was about.
“I walked across the hall to her room and just stood in the doorway, afraid to go any further. I could see
mom and dad sitting on the bed with Claire, wrapping blankets around her and stroking her hair. Claire’s
face seemed pale, waxy. She seemed afraid, confused… My parents also looked pretty scared. Although they
tried to hide it and make her feel like everything was all right, I could see when they looked at each other,
that something was wrong. I remember my dad mentioned that they should call Dr. Feldman in the morning
– he was our family physician.
“My mother finally noticed me standing in the doorway and told me to go back to bed. Easier said than
done. The next morning was a Saturday, I remember ‘cause I was watching ‘Thundercats.’ I was still only half
conscious from the lack of sleep, and my parents both sat in the kitchen like basket cases, chain smoking
cigarettes and drinking coffee. Neither of them said anything and I didn’t want to be the one to break the
silence. But I didn’t have to, ‘cause the doorbell rang and my parents practically sprang up to get it. And it
was Dr. Feldman, of course, complete with his little black bag and everything. He came in with urgency in his
eyes, not the usual affable, jokey routine he usually did. There was very little small talk, and my parents led
him up the stairs to Claire’s room almost right away. I began to follow, but my mom stopped me, ‘Stay down
here, Scottie. Watch your cartoons.’
“So I did, or at least tried to. But I was distracted by the creaking floorboards over my head, the muffled
voices. Pretty soon, the voices became heated and it was impossible to concentrate on anything else. I heard
my mom and dad’s voices shouting in confusion. I heard Claire crying in fear. I could only make out pieces of
what they were saying, but it was enough to chill me to the bone and fill me with…dread. ‘Rigormortis’ was
a word I picked up on. I also heard the doctor say, ‘No heartbeat.’ My mother was crying and so was Claire.
My dad had at this point, lost his temper, and was having at it with the doctor. ‘That doesn’t make sense, Tom!
Look at her, she’s alive!’ That last thing he said really scared me. What the hell was going on? The doctor tried
to calm down my father with reason and logic, ‘Listen, Rich. We need to get Claire to a hospital, run some
tests…’
“The argument kept escalating, and finally my father invited Dr. Feldman to continue this outside to keep
from scaring the girls. I saw my father and the doctor shuffle back down the stairs, my dad almost pushing
him forward and hurrying him out of the house. They didn’t notice me at all as they slammed the door
58
behind them and went out into the back yard. I of course crossed around to the back of the house to where
I could get a good view of them, pacing around by the rope swing. They continued arguing. Both of them
seemed confused and upset, and my father seemed scared. I’d never seen him look like that before. Once
again, I only heard snippets of this conversation and after twenty years, most of those snippets have faded.
But I do remember Dr. Feldman saying, ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Rich, but that little girl needs help! We
have to get her to…’ My father cut him off in mid-sentence, pointing his finger in the doctor’s face, and if I
remember correctly, said, ‘You’re not taking my little girl to be your guinea pig! Poking and prodding…and
tests. We have to keep her here. Secret.’
“After a stern talk from my father, it looked like the doctor was honoring his promise to keep the secret,
whatever that secret was. My dad had to remind Dr. Feldman of how long they’d known each other, favors
owed and all that kind of stuff. Feldman agreed and left, shaking his head. My father fell into a sitting position
on the back lawn. The summer sun beat down on his head and fruit flies buzzed around. But he didn’t move,
just sat there and stared off into…nothing. Finally, what looked like an uncontrollable wave of pain just filled
up inside him, and he began to weep uncontrollably. I had never seen my father like this, and it scared me in
ways I can’t even describe.
“After that, everything just became a nightmare.
Claire was never let out of her room and I was
never allowed in. My mom and dad’s mental state
began to…go south. They ate almost nothing,
rarely slept, constantly smoked cigarettes. They
made sure that at least one of them was home at
all times, in case Claire needed anything. They
would go into her room with a tray of food,
closing the door once inside. But Claire was
never hungry, and once she even threw the tray
of food against the wall. My mom would come
out of Claire’s room crying, but trying to put
up a strong front for me. ‘Is Claire gonna be all
right, mom?’ I would say, to which she would
pat me on the shoulders and say, ‘She’s just
sick right now, Scottie. She needs to rest to get
better.’ ‘But what’s wrong with her?’ She would
never give me a concrete answer, just choke
back her tears and act like everything was okay.
By Jesse D’Angelo
‘She just needs to rest, sweetie. And we don’t
want her getting you sick too.’ And that was how it went for a week or two. The crying and moaning at night
had stopped, but now there was this mysterious sneaking around, and secrecy. My mind was spinning, trying
to figure out what was going on.”
Dr. Song leaned forward again, “What was going on?”
Scott could tell that his therapist was genuinely anxious to know. But some things can’t just be simply blurted
out, he thought. So he continued, taking his time.
“I think Dr. Feldman came back again only once or twice, and the last time he and my dad got into a big fight,
a fist fight. The specifics of it are kind of fuzzy, but I remember it being about Claire, of course, and what they
should ‘do with her.’ Anyway, Dr. Feldman stormed away with a bloody nose and I never saw him again. But
now I was more scared than ever, ‘cause he was like the smart, solid…y’know, voice of reason? And then he
was gone, and it was just me, my parents who were on the brink of madness and my sister Claire, who had
some disease so rare that no one would even tell me about it or let me see her.
59
“We became the outcasts of the town. Rumors started to fly. My father had missed so many days of work that
he’d been fired. Nobody had seen Claire in weeks. It got people talking. My dad, who usually took impeccable
care of his lawn, had now let it go. The grass was overgrown, leaves and sticks were all over it. Their stack
of bills had begun to get pretty high and I could see the stress in their faces more than ever. It followed me
to school, too. The other kids looked at me different; I could hear them whispering. I started to overhear
rumors about my sister and it really made me furious. Some kids were saying that Claire was sick with cancer.
Another kid said that my parents had killed her, and were covering it up. Well, I lost it and punched that
little shit in the face, had to go to the principal’s office. My parents were called in for a meeting and they both
looked so haggard. They were pale, had bags under their eyes from no sleep, and my dad hadn’t shaved in
god-knows how long…And they obviously didn’t care about anything the principal was saying; they were in
their own world, their eyes glassed over, trying to give off the illusion of normalcy. And so the rumors spread,
and by the end of the month, we might as well have been the Adams Family.
“Anyway, so school finally let out for the summer, and it was hot one. Over a hundred, some days. There had
been an unpleasant smell in the house for a while, but now it was getting worse. I was sure that our neighbors
must notice it too. I was at my breaking point. I was only nine years old and my world was just crashing down
around me. My parents stopped going into Claire’s room almost completely, as if they couldn’t stand it. My
father had become a heavy drinker by now and my mom was well on her way. But she also added painkillers
to her routine, and now spent her days obsessively folding her clothes. She would fold those clothes like she
was fucking assembling a machine or something. Like, she used a ruler to make sure each fold was perfect,
I swear to God!”
Scott sat back, taking a deep breath, knowing that the next part would be difficult for him. He began again
slowly.
“Claire’s door was always locked. I tried to go in a few times to see her, but it was no use, so I stopped trying.
But one night, I woke up late and had to go to the bathroom. So I went out into the hallway in my little
pajamas, having to pee pretty bad. And as I started heading for the bathroom, I suddenly noticed that Claire’s
door was open! I was shocked, and a little bit scared. Okay, I was very scared! I was little, it was three in the
morning, the hallway was very dark and I hadn’t seen my sister for almost two months. And I knew that
whatever she had was something terrible, so I was terrified to even get close to her. But still, I was too curious
to resist. I had to see her.
"I tiptoed over to her room, putting my need to urinate in the back of my mind. I looked through the crack
in the door, but the lights were off and I couldn’t see anything. I slowly opened the door and went into the
room and this rotten smell just suddenly hit me! All I could see in the room was the outline of everything
from the light coming from the window, and it didn’t look like Claire was in there. I covered my nose to block
that awful smell and took a look around, staying as quiet as I could be. Dirty clothes and rotting food were
on the floor, and various other stains and spills from God only knows where. She wasn’t there, but it made
me feel even more uneasy. I felt like I was in some kind of sewer, or cave, and that a big monster was about
to jump out and grab me.
“I got out of that room fast, having to pee now even worse, but then I heard something. Just some faint, soft
noise coming from downstairs. I wondered if Claire was down there and my curiosity overcame my fear. I
snuck down the stairs in the dark, which brought my fear level up even farther, trying my absolute best not
to let the boards squeak under my feet. When I got downstairs, the lights were off everywhere, and it was
completely silent, except for that one noise. It sounded to me like food being chewed, and I stood at the
bottom of the stairs trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. I heard it again, and knew this
time that it was in the kitchen. Now, by this time, I was about ready to burst. I had to piss so bad, but I was
too curious. I kept going, walking through the dark to the door of the kitchen….”
60
Scott stopped, looking up at Dr. Song, who was on the edge of his seat.
“Are you sure you want me to tell you more?”
“Yes, Scott! Please go on!”
“This is the part where you start to think I’m crazy.”
“You can trust me, Scott. I won’t think you’re crazy. But you have to let it out. You have to tell me!”
Dr. Song was no longer taking notes and being analytical, he was now just a passenger on this strange ride.
Scott closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to contain his emotion.
“Okay. So I walked into the kitchen, right? The light was off and I could barely see a thing. The chewing
sound was coming from in there, but I couldn't see anyone. And I knew someone was in there. And I tell
you, when people talk about getting a shiver up their back, that’s exactly what this was. I was just terrified, all
of a sudden. What would I possibly see when I turned on the lights? Out of fear, I whispered, ‘Claire?’ And
the chewing sounds quickly stopped. I could barely make out a shape in the shadows, someone sitting on the
linoleum floor against the row of cabinets. Then I heard her voice, ‘Scottie?’ It was harsh and raspy, not like
my sister’s voice at all, yet I could tell it was her. Unable to stand it anymore, I turned on the kitchen lights,
and I was blinded for a few seconds. But my eyes quickly adjusted and I finally got a good look at her.
“The first two things I noticed were her eyes and the blood. Her eyes seemed huge, bloodshot and bugging
out of her head, staring right at me. Her face was caked in blood, and so was her nightgown. The next thing
I noticed was Barley, our cat. He was dead, and Claire held his body in her hands, a big chunk ripped out of
his side! She was eating him, for Christ’s sake! And just when I thought I couldn’t be any more horrified, I
started to see more. Her skin, which used to be plump and flush, now was grey and pulled tightly around her
bones. Her skin also looked thin, almost transparent, and looked like it was…rotting. Some of her hair had
fallen out, and she just looked up at me with those big, red, blissfully ignorant eyes. ‘Hi, Scottie” she said to
me…and I just lost it.
“I began to scream. I screamed so loud, I swear to God. All I could do was stand there like a statue, screaming,
screaming and crying. Claire just looked up at me in confusion, as if she had no idea what was wrong with
her, or why I might be reacting this way to seeing her eating our cat. But I couldn’t help it; I screamed and
cried and made some low, aching sounds that I had no control over. I also wet myself, as I discovered only
later when I got back to my room. I backed up into a wall, not able to take my eyes away from her, even
though I was so horrified. Meanwhile she kept asking, ‘What’s the matter, Scottie?’ and reaching out her
bloody and shriveled little hand to me. Well, it didn’t take long before mom and dad heard me screaming and
came running into the kitchen. They gasped at seeing what Claire had done to the cat and my father quickly
pulled me out of there. As he brought me back upstairs, trying to calm me down, I could hear my mother
reprimanding Claire in the kitchen. My sister answered as if she’d got caught taking a cookie from the jar,
‘But mommy, I was hungry!’”
Scott looked up to see a perplexed and confused Dr. Song.
“I couldn’t sleep any more that night. In fact, I don’t even remember when I was able to start sleeping again.
I just lay there in bed, my heart beating like a hummingbird’s. I heard my mom bring Claire back up to her
room, making sure to lock the door. And there she was, right across the hallway from me… a monster!”
“I don’t understand,” Dr. Song said.
“You don’t mean… I don’t understand.” The doctor was in denial, looking to Scott to tell him the whole story
61
was a joke.
“You understand, all right. My sister died. How she died, I don’t know. Maybe she fell in the woods that day
and broke her neck, or maybe she ate some poisonous mushroom; but she was dead that day. Dead as a stone.
But her body just kept on…going, and rotting. Let me tell you, it’s nothing like watching it in the movies.”
“So what…happened…” The doctor couldn’t get the words out.
“Well, after too much longer, my father had a complete breakdown. He got extremely drunk, not able to
live with this nightmare anymore and he decided to end it. He grabbed his shotgun and headed upstairs to
Claire’s room. I remember my mother running over and scooping me up, hurrying me out of the house with
tears in her eyes. Before we reached the front door, I heard the first gunshot. Then I heard Claire’s cracking
little voice, squealing in pain, followed by my father’s sobbing cries. Then I heard the second gunshot as my
mom and I reached the front yard. My mother was weeping, and we could both hear my father crying, ‘Jesus
Christ, will you just fucking die already!’
“The old man reloaded the shotgun, I guess, because we heard two more shots. My mom and I had collapsed
into each other’s arms on the front lawn, and worried neighbors began to crowd around. And even after
four shots were fired, we could still hear Claire screaming and crying. And then we heard smashing
and crashing sounds from inside the house, along with my father singing maniacally and off key. By the
time the police arrived, my father had already started the fire and it was too late. The house went up in
minutes and by then the whole neighborhood had gathered. It took a couple minutes before my father’s
singing and screaming stopped, but I could still hear Claire screaming, still…alive, long after that… So
needless to say, that was when my mother was sent off to the nut farm and I was put into foster care.”
Dr. Song sat in shock, not knowing what to say. The humble psychiatrist’s office was silent, Scott sat back with
a cocky look on his face.
“So what do you think, doc?” Scott asked. “Pretty crazy, huh? No way I was telling the truth, right?”
“Come on, Scott. Come on. That’s not the truth. That’s not really what happened…?”
Scott looked up at the clock on the wall behind the doctor’s head. It read 6:10 pm.
“Time’s up,” Scott said, standing to his feet. “Looks like we’ve gone over.”
Scott scooped up his jacket and slipped it on. Dr. Song stood up as well, waiting for Scott to turn around and
say ‘Gotcha!’ or ‘Just kidding.’ But the young man just zipped up his jacket and headed for the door.
He turned around one last time before leaving, saying, “Thanks, doc. So, next Wednesday. Same time, right?’
Dr. Song stood bewildered, finally nodding his head and managing to say, “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s right.
Wednesday at five.”
“Okay, well have a good one, doc.” Scott said as he opened the door. “I’ll see you on Wednesday… Maybe
then, I’ll tell you about my adolescence.”
Scott cracked a small smile and closed the door behind him. 
62
The heart-stopping new novel from
#1 New York Times bestselling author
DAVID
BALDACCI
One DC cop must confront the dark side
of national security...even if it kills her.
“The master of the political
thriller.”
—New York Daily News
“When Baldacci is on fire,
nobody can touch him.”
—Booklist (starred review)
GRAND CENTRAL PUBLISHING
HACHETTE BOOK GROUP
www.hachettebookgroup.com
Author photo: Yvonne Taylor
BOLD. BRILLIANT. BREATHTAKING.
Available in hardcover,
as an audiobook,
and as an eBook
HIS BEST YET.
Ian Fleming
Ian Fleming was born in England in 1908. You may
not recognize his name, but you will most definitely
recognize the name of his very famous character,
James Bond. Ian Fleming wrote twelve novels
and nine short stories, which included this great
character. By writing Bond within short stories as
well as novels, Fleming showed that with a great
character and a fantastic plot, the length of the story
does not matter. Fleming sold over 100 million
copies of his James Bond books and also wrote the
legendary story “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”. Using his
own experiences as the assistant to the Director of
Naval Intelligence of the Royal Navy during World
War II, Fleming had great insights when creating and
developing James Bond. Many of the characters and
locations of these novels are rumored to be directly
from Fleming’s own experiences and relationships in
the war.
Like many authors, Fleming didn’t have success
right out of the gate. It wasn’t until President John
F. Kennedy mentioned that one of his favorite books
was “From Russia with Love”, that sales in the United
States jumped. The James Bond short stories that
became full-length Bond movies were “A View to a
Kill”, “For Your Eyes Only” and “Quantum of Solace”. In 1964, fifty-six year old Ian Fleming suffered a
heart attack that took his life. Though the author
64
was gone, the James
Bond stories did
not die. Fleming’s
literary
executors
hired other authors
to continue the
stories. In 2008, in
honor of Fleming’s
100th birthday Ian
Fleming Publications
commissioned
Sebastian Faulks to write “Devil May Care” the latest
in the James Bond stories.
It is our pleasure to have Ian Fleming as our premier
inductee into The Suspense Magazine's Hall of Fame.
Ian Flemings James Bond novels:
"Casino Royale" (1953), "Live and Let Die" (1954),
"Moonraker" (1955), "Diamonds are Forever" (1956),
"From Russia, with Love" (1957), "Dr. No" (1958),
"Goldfinger" (1959), "Thunderball" (1961), "The Spy
Who Loved Me" (1962), "On Her Majesty's Secret
Service" (1963), "You Only Live Twice" (1964), "The
Man with the Golden Gun" (1965)
James Bond Short stories:
"For Your Eyes Only" (1960), "Octopussy and the
Living Daylights" (1966) 
Confessions
By Catherine Rudy In 2007, when I founded Wolf Pirate
Publishing, I wanted to focus on category
fiction because it was what I enjoyed reading. I had never seen the appeal of “literary fiction”
for the simple reason I had my own drama to
deal with—and I could admit to some that
would make what was in literary fiction pale
in comparison. So why should I care to read
about someone else’s drama when I had my
own deal with. I wanted to read something
for an escape from life. Delving into mystery,
suspense, thrillers, horror, and yes, fantasy
was perfect for that. It gave me a reprieve
from life’s obstacles.
Before opening the publishing company, I
had already known there was a poor reception
for category fiction. Many “reputable” presses
frowned on category fiction as beneath them,
even stating in their submission guidelines
how they would NOT accept it. I began to
feel cheap and unintelligent because I had
disdained literary fiction; but not only that,
because I read category fiction. Yet I felt like
the serious literati were looking down their
noses at me. I was embarrassed.
For two and a half years, I kept the
publishing company open, reading submissions
and hearing the laments of category fiction
writers. Many of them were passionate
writers who faced the daunting task of finding
a home for their work because of the narrow
market for it. In the meantime, I discovered
something. I disliked the commercial and
marketing demands of the industry. Because
of that, I was a horrible saleswoman. Instead, I
turned all my energies to the literary aspect of
the company, shifting it away from publishing
and moving it toward education. I took that
direction because not many submissions we
received were of very good quality. It led me
to my next epiphany, that I was a demanding
judge of literature. I wanted to see literary
merit in category fiction.
Over the years, as a fan of category fiction,
I became disappointed with what I found on
the commercial market. I had always read
books all the way through, but then I began
forcing myself to finish some. Eventually, it
reached a point where I stopped reading a
book when I couldn’t take it any longer. Soon,
I couldn’t make it halfway through some. Finally, I found myself wandering bookstores
with the fear of wasting good money on
something I wouldn’t get past the first few
chapters. I opened the publishing company
with the hopes of changing the market. I was
disillusioned.
Changing the literary quality of category
fiction wasn’t going to come from publishing
excellent writers. Not as a small press. Small category fiction presses rarely get
reviewed in Publisher’s Weekly, a staple of
success in the industry; or find a distributor
to reach bookstores, unless they want to limit
themselves to online sales through BN.com or
Amazon.com. Small category fiction presses
rarely get accepted into “literary” associations
that have merit. And as I mentioned already,
65
I was a horrible saleswoman. I was a crack
editor, though.
Being a state-certified instructor and
involved in training for the past eighteen
years, I had been focusing my energies on
a completely different aspect than writing. But having worked on the sideline in the
literary field for almost twenty years and
having written several manuals and class
curriculums, I had subconsciously been
moving in a particular direction all along. It
wasn’t until I had gone through my experience
with my publishing company that I realized
what that was. I wanted to teach writers
what they were doing wrong.
I won’t go into a long list of deficiencies
with today’s emerging writers (published or
not), but I will expose my discovery of why
there is such a high-brow attitude against
category fiction. Readers, publishers, and
reviewers assume there is no literary value in
category fiction. I say, in part, they might be
right. However, I must remind these people
that literary fiction is not a separate genre in
itself, but a judge of the aesthetic value of the
work. Aesthetic value is not found exclusively
in literature that can’t be categorized as a
distinct genre. It is the quality of the writing,
not the category of the work that matters. The literati need to stop judging the book by
the genre and view the content between the
pages. They may find literary merit in works
that fall under the categories of romance,
mystery, thrillers, science fiction and even
horror if they look.
On the obverse side, writers of category
fiction must begin to write aesthetically if
they want to enjoy literary appreciation. True, many writers are content only to find
commercial success in the mainstream of the
general public. Even the majority of writers
I have dealt with were interested only in
getting published and not working on the
quality of their manuscript. I wished them
luck and sighed about the sad fate of category
66
fiction if that was the main direction of
writers. I did find a few serious writers who
wanted to take it to another level, though. My editors and I worked with them in the
Writer’s Workshop, spending months with
each to help them understand the philosophy
of literary merit. We gave them direction
and advice, and in return, they worked
hard. They were given a lot of latitude in
the course of what ultimately went into
their book, and two have subsequently found
publishers. We didn’t charge anything for
the service, but we were immensely rewarded
with gratitude, accomplishments and a sense
of doing something beneficial for someone. After a year of running the Workshop, we
decided unanimously to make it one of our
main goals. With some relief, we closed the
publishing aspect of the company and opened
a nonprofit organization to focus on education,
development and mentoring writers, as well
as drawing readers back into the realm of
entertaining fiction.
We welcome category fiction at the Wolf
Pirate Project, as well as “literary” fiction. In our effort to get the literati to change its
views about categorizing literature, we accept
everything. If it falls within the realm of
creative writing, we will review it. We want
to look at writers as assets to our culture as
human beings, not commodities. We do not
imagine we will change the marketing views
of the industry, but perhaps we can change
a few minds in the meantime about literary
merit. That means starting with writers and
getting them to view their work as something
more than just a money-making venture,
writing with an emphasis on the artistic value
of literature.
Catherine M. Rudy
Wolf Pirate Project Inc.
A nonprofit organization for the education and
promotion of literature as an art.
http://www.wolf-pirate.com 
I
By Victor Hoch
t was three o’clock in the afternoon and I was sitting across the table from a convict. Now
this was not any normal convict, her only crime was that she was a mother born to be a
mother. Her name was Pamela. She sat at the empty metal table. I had my notes sprawled
out on the other side so I could keep up with her. She had her hands folded very nicely in
front of herself and was very homely in her manner.
Her shackles clanked on the table as she moved around in her chair trying to make herself
comfortable. Her chair seemed just as personable as the table. Her dark skin hid her age from
anyone that looked upon her, but from her police record, I knew she was forty-eight.
“So you’re here to get my story from me?” she asked.
“Yeah, I am a part of a group of people looking to help people like you out.”
“How? No one could have foreseen any of this, not the laws, not anything.” She said. “Not even
the ritualistic burnings that the government televised and approved. How can a bunch of people
who let this happen want to fix this now? Why not years ago? Before it was this bad?” Her last
questions rang with a hint of due frustration. Her hands moved about as if to add to the emotion
she felt.
“They say hindsight is 20/20.”
“Ha. It all started with that president, what’s his face. No one stopped him.” She makes quotations
signs in the air with her fingers. “ ‘Let’s try and control population by limiting how many children
a set of parents can have.’ Really? Who the fuck thought that was a good idea?” She continued
without time for me to answer. “Apparently everyone who voted for him. But no one ever paid
attention to what his views were, only that he would legalize dope and make health care free for
everyone. Stupid shits,” she said that with a disdain for humanity that I have never heard before.
“That was ten years ago, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“Yeah. If I’d only known the hell I’d land in for that.” She chuckled. “There was a new law that
each family could only have two children. It was a paperclip law, just kinda added the way the
smoking illegalization was. It was a part of a bigger bill that everyone wanted to see go through. It’s
one of those bills people hate later, but never noticed. Well it wasn’t long after that that everyone
found out. I had two kids at the time and was six months pregnant with the third. Me and Jimmy
loved kids.” She paused. Looking down she smiled. The smile overtook her face; it was that one
of a lover remembering her partner, a partner she missed. “Our newborn son would be a fugitive.
You know how hard that is to live with?” Tears welled in her eyes. “Not even knowing what
the world would hold for you. We
never went to the hospital. They
would take him. We talked about
it several times. We decided we’d
67
raise him at home. So, he was born in
our own bed.” She smiled through the
tears. “His cry meant we would never
be the same, I knew that, but never
thought this. Would I have had him
if I knew I would lose my one love? I
don’t know. I have thought it over for
ten years and I’m still not sure.”
She paused for a long time. I didn’t
speak or say anything because I could
feel the heavy emotions she herself
felt. That same sadness enveloped the
room. Even the security guard had to
leave the room. I did my best to remain
composed. I was here to write her
story, maybe even connect with her. I
didn’t like crying either and needed to
be able to write and be clear headed so
the rest of the world can feel the same
thing that she felt right then.
“So what happened?”
By Maryna Butenko
“You mean with our son?”
I nodded. She smiled, and then looked me in the eyes with a blank conviction.
“We hid him in the basement. Our little row home in the city was big enough and the basement
was ours, so we figured it would be better than if we had him in the attic. His room and everything
was down there. We bought everything for him second hand, from people we knew. Nothing
he got was new, we couldn’t risk having questions asked. We even got him a fridge so his food
and things could be kept away from ours. The illusion that we were a four person family had to
be kept. No one knew we had him. I even had to quit the hostess job I had so no one even saw
me pregnant. You know how hard that is? To leave everything because you are going to bring a
miracle into the world that the public doesn’t want there?”
She waited, as if I should have answered. Her stare was one I had to look away from. I didn’t
know. I never had children, let alone one that wasn’t accepted, but I felt like I knew.
“So what did you do about schooling?”
“John’s brother and sister were going to public school and when he was old enough he would
have to be home schooled. If he went to the same school as his brother and sister people would
know. They would know that we were breaking the law and then they would come. They would
take him, like they took all the others.” She had an intensity about her now. “It was like walking
on eggshells. Everything we did had to be planned out, no room for error.”
“Then how’d they find out? Obviously something happened.”
68
She chuckled, lowered her head and
spoke softly enough that she seemed
like she was talking to herself.
“Jimmy was down stairs playing with John. John loved to dance. He used to do a tiny little twist
kind of dance, ones all young babies do. Jimmy had the music up too loud. I was in the backyard
digging up the flowers to go and plant new ones for spring. I heard a knock on the door.” She
knocked her knuckles on the table as if she was knocking on a door, hard and deliberate. “There
were three of them, police from the local station. They demanded to come in and see what the
noise was about. I didn’t even get to speak before they burst into the house and brushed past me
to the basement door. I tried to get between them but the second one held me back. Things slowed
down, like in those movies where they find the most important clue. They walked down the stairs
to find John and Jimmy.”
Pamela’s face changed to a pleading look. One of utter sadness.
“Jimmy was only protecting his miracle. That’s what he used to call John, his little miracle. He
lunged at the first officer to get down the stairs. The officer then reached for his gun. Jimmy
shoulder checked him as he let out this scream. It was the word ‘no’, the word that would be his
last. He landed on top of the officer and stood up to stop the second one and as he was getting
up he grabbed the gun from the first. He pointed it at the second officer. His hand shook. I saw it.
The tears streamed down his face like two parallel rivers. The second drew his gun and then they
were at a standoff. The first officer yelled for him to put the gun down, but he stood, I wished he
didn‘t, still crying. He knew what they would do to him and me. He didn’t want that to happen.
“They squeezed the triggers at the same time. The second officer was then clutching his left leg.
Jimmy had gotten him right above his knee. Jimmy’s arm fell and the gun dropped to the floor.
That sound still echoes through me. Sometimes at night I hear it in the distance, but I know it’s all
in my head.”
She sat silent for some time. She seemed to be replaying the events of that afternoon in her head.
She knotted her hands together on the table in between us. I felt I owed her this silence.
She pulled herself together and continued on.
“Jimmy dreaded the day that the police would show up. He said it was only a matter of time.
It’s hard to hide a miracle forever. We both knew that, but if we didn’t try what kind of parents
would we have been? No one should have to make the decisions we had to make. Especially over
someone you never had the chance to meet yet. We couldn’t let that happen. They took Jimmy
away in a bag, John was taken from me. His brother and sister were taken also and I was being
cuffed shortly afterwards. I don’t know what happened to my children, they won’t tell me.” Her
lips curled and the tears remained in her eyes, they were about to come rushing out.
“So you have no idea what happened to them?”
She just shook her head in response.
“Would you like to know?”
She looked at me with pleading eyes. She wanted to know, she didn’t have to say it at all. Her eyes
spoke for her.
“Your daughter and son are in an orphanage. They have been since you were arrested.”
She seemed somewhat relieved but she still had tears in her eyes. Her look was one of dread.
“And John?”
“I have a problem telling you
69
this.” I didn’t want to tell
her, but I felt since she
needed to know I would.
“He was taken to the
same orphanage. After
the case was investigated
and the date of his birth
was found out...” I had
problems getting the rest
of the sentence out. “He
was taken by the state.
The records took forever
for me to dig up but they
‘euthanized’ him.”
She broke down. Then
she stopped. She looked
straight at me and it
scared me.
“They did what? They
fucking killed my John?
He was a human being
and they killed him?”
She slammed her hands
on the table, palms
down. “How does that
happen?”
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“Every news station covered it. No one knew the extent that they would follow that law. When
they kil….euthanized him there was an outrage. There were riots on Capitol Hill. There was
a movement to remove it. Everyone involved with that movement has mysteriously vanished
recently. All the case files disappeared. Something is screwy around here and I need your story to
maybe make some sense of this.”
“You need my story to make sense of this? That’s why you want it? Who the fuck do you think you
are? I have been in here for ten years because I gave the world a fucking miracle and you want to
exploit that?” She grew angry.
“N-n-n-no,” I stuttered. “Your story will bring light to things that no seems to be able to remember.”
“Fuck you!” She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m done here.”
The guard came as if motioned by her and released the shackles that were around her ankles from
the floor. He grabbed her by the elbow and led her out of the room. He returned to escort me out.
I gathered my papers and felt the only respectful thing to do for her was to leave. Several days later Pamela’s story was seen all over the news.
70
The reporter was never heard from
again. 
25 Amazing Anthology/
Short Story Collections
1. JA Jance, “Bark M for Murder”
2. T. Jefferson Parker, “Hook, Line and Sinister”
3. Charlaine Harris, “Crimes by Moonlight”
4. Peter Straub, “Poe’s Children: The New Horror”
5. Dennis Lehane, “Boston Noir”
6. James Patterson, “Thriller”
7. Jim Butcher, “Mean Streets”
8. Austin S. Camacho, “The Gift of Murder”
9. Sara Paretsky, “A Woman’s Eye”
10.J.D. Robb, “Suite 606”
11.Mary Blayney, “Dead of Night”
12.Allison Brennan, “What You Can’t See”
13.Jim Fusilli, “Wall Street Noir”
jus
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14.Michael Connelly, “Between the Dark and Daylight”
15.Elizabeth George, “Two of the Deadliest”
16.Lee Child, “Killer Year: Stories to Die for…”
17.John Steinbeck, “The Book of Spies: An Anthology of Literary Espionage”
18.Nancy Martin, “Drop Dead Blonde”
19.Ian Rankin, “The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6”
20.Paul Levine, “The Prosecution Rests”
21.Lee Goldberg, “Hollywood and Crime”
22.Carole Nelson Douglas, “Unusual Suspects”
23.John Lescroart, “A Merry Band of Murderers”
24.John Lutz, “At the Scene of the Crime”
25.Agatha Christie, “Murder Short and Sweet”
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