Midnight Rum

jonolsonauthor:

MIDNIGHT RUN by Pen of the Damned’s Blaze McRob

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:

A dark night. Clouds and no moon. No wonder he almost falls over the tombstones. Has nothing to do with the fact he’s flying high, caught in the loving embrace of the alcohol numbing his senses.

“Lights,” he mutters. “They need lights in here at night!”

The absurdity hits him. Who needs to see in here? The dead? No one else should be here. But he is. This is the perfect place to drink his ill-gotten hooch.

He was one drunken bastard before he even went down the alleyway behind the liquor store, but he was aware enough to notice old Harold, the evening counterman, standing at the far end of the building, having a smoke and trying to cop a feel from Lucille, the town’s resident hooker.

That left the store unattended. All those bottles screaming out to him, insisting he give them a good home. Ed listened to…

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“The Carnival 13″ and Authors Writing for Scares That Care!

jonolsonauthor:

THE CARNIVAL 13 and Authors Writing for Scares That Care!

Originally posted on Our Darkest Fears:

Click to purchase. All sales go to Scares That Care. Click to purchase. All sales go to Scares That Care.

Two summers ago, I worked with a group of thirteen amazing authors to put together a book with the goal of raising money for Scares That Care. Here is their mission from their website:

“Scares That Care is an approved 501(c)(3) who fights the REAL MONSTERS of childhood illness, burns and breast cancer by helping families that are experiencing these extraordinary hardships cope with the financial burden.

Our non-profit organization provides money, toys and other items to help sick children. We have two other programs consisting of “Scares For Pairs,” where we help women fighting breast cancer and partnered with horror icon Kane Hodder for the “I Helped Kane” program, where we provide assistance to those children who have suffered serious burn injuries.

We are a 100% VOLUNTEER organization in order to maximize our supporters donations to those who…

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Helplessly Above It All

jonolsonauthor:

My story HELPLESSLY ABOVE IT ALL is up this week at Pen of the Damned

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:

I’m fourteen days, three hours and twenty seconds into the mission. So far the spacecraft has performed flawlessly, surpassing all expectations. It’s been rather comfortable as the capsule was designed with more room for the occupant than previous spacecraft.

When I was selected to be the commander of this mission, my wife got the biggest kick out of watching me jump around our little apartment with a big shit eating grin on my face. She said that…

…she said… why am I even bothering to mention her?

She’s dead.

So is everybody else.

I should never have taken this assignment. Prior to the launch, the administrators had told me to say a proper goodbye to her as tensions were high with our rivals across the pond. The risk of nuclear exchange was at its greatest, even more so than during the Cuban crisis.

I didn’t take it seriously.

The…

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MEMORIAL excerpt

jonolsonauthor:

Joseph Pinto shares an excerpt from his story MEMORIAL

Originally posted on Author Joseph Pinto's Horror (and things not so horrible) Blog:

What better way to kick off summer than with a horror tale about a torturous and heartbreaking love?

Of course, I’m talking about MEMORIAL, my short story released specifically for Kindle platforms.

Intrigued?  Well please allow me to entice you a bit more with an excerpt fromMEMORIAL:

“I believe it’s pointless to ask, Anthony. Those days have long past. Plainly you can see this.” With mournful eyes, the man sipped his bourbon, while into his chest, as if some wounded animal, burrowed a mercilessly bandaged hand.

Anthony’s hand lingered across the tacky remnants of liquor upon the table; within balled fist, a cold wad of bills. He glared upon the sullen man seated before him. “See? Yes, I can.” Fist inched forward, awkward in its urgency. “And as you can plainly see, a job well done will be rewarded.”

“What I do…what I did…never constituted a…

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The Remains

jonolsonauthor:

THE REMAINS by Pen of the Damned’s Magenta Nero

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:

Emily was woken by the sound of chopping wood. Jimmy was swinging his axe early that morning. Thick logs cracked, split in two and fell with a dull thud. It was a familiar and comforting sound.

She didn’t have the energy to move around much anymore, even the slightest movement left her gasping with pain. Emily gazed at the large glass of water on the bedside table, wishing she could reach for it. Her throat was scorched and her mouth was sour. She coughed and her chest felt like a rattling heap of bones. Her breath was a loud, tender wheeze.

Jimmy would be in soon. He would stroke her hair and smile down at her. She closed her eyes and pictured him out there in the cold, preparing for their evening fire. She began to recall all the fires they had shared together. It was an exercise she…

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The Itch

jonolsonauthor:

THE ITCH by Pen of the Damned’s Craig McGray

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:

Have you ever tried to get dried blood out from under your fingernails? Not just a little, but a good soaking of it. It’s a real bitch, trust me. No matter how many times I find myself standing over the sink scraping the dried up flecks from my nail beds, it never gets any easier, but the itching just won’t stop.

At some point, you just scrape too much until fresh blood starts to mix in with the old shit and it becomes even more of a mess. At least I know I’m still alive, because I bleed. If it weren’t for that, I’m not sure I would know if I was alive, dead, or something in between. Even with the bleeding, I guess I’m still not totally sure what the hell I am. I haven’t felt pain, love, happiness or sadness since the day that bitch Liza took…

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Silence

jonolsonauthor:

SILENCE by Pen of the Damned’s Joseph Pinto

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:

Beneath the shovel, the earth turned easily; he could taste its peaty grittiness along his tongue. The groping fingers of a rainstorm lightly stroked his neck.

He had found the shovel deep in the yard, down near the corner of the shed, at the end of the trail that led him where now he stood. He had followed that trail; it matted the grass down, bent the grass blades, beckoning him forward; there, like an x marking the spot, the shovel, driven into the ground. The top of the handle muddied a shade darker than the rest of the wood; well used.

From their home, his wife cried, cleaving the lulling silence much as the shovel cleaved the lawn.

Together, they had chosen this idyllic neighborhood, his wife and he, for its rolling hills, colonial houses, for its grocery store where the butcher memorized names, memorized meat cuts for…

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