Category Archives: paranormal

WIHM Interview – Sheri Williams

It’s still Women in Horror month, so please take a few minutes and get to know author Sheri Williams. I already knew she is a fun, amazing person and a talented writer, but there were a few things I didn’t know. Let’s find out…

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How long have you been writing?

Um….since second grade? No. I really started writing about 4 years ago.

What draws you to horror?

I like to kill people. Sounds horrible, but it’s true. I’m a super optimistic person and I try to be happy, so the anger has to go somewhere. Every annoying parent at school drop off…..they all die horribly in my stories.

Do you write any other genres?

Oh yeah. Romance. Fantasy. And middle grade under a pen name 😁

Is there a genre you’d like to attempt but haven’t?

Ummm. I’ve sorta tried a bunch, in different variations. I really love Gothic stuff so would love to play around with that more.

Do you think women horror authors have a hard time getting acknowledged?

Definitely.  It just doesn’t seem to be as recognized.  Although, the real fans are rabid!

What is the most difficult thing you’ve ever written and why?

My first book. Fairy tale romance. It’s still the book I’m most proud of.

Who are some amazing female authors (from any genre, any style, any time-period)?

Misti Murphy, she’s my wifey. She writes dead sexy contemporary romance. I’m a huge P. Mattern fan. Quenby Olsen writes fantastic books. Huge fan. Can’t forget Lindsey Goddard, that chick is awesome. And then there’s Anne Rice and Anne McCaffrey….my heroes.

Besides writing, what brings a smile to your face?

My daughters. My hubs. Books. Doctor Who. Geeky stuff in general. And donuts.

Did you have a favorite book as a child?

Alice in Wonderland.  Still my favorite to this day.

Here’s a tough one: What’s your favorite color?

Blue, color of my hair and the Tardis.

What are you working on now, and where do you see yourself in the future?

A middle grade alternative history, magical realism. And a paranormal (occult) thriller with a horror aspect.

Where can we find you on the web?

Everywhere.

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brazenbull

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www.thesheriwilliams.com

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Ashes of Another Life – a horror novella

ashes

When Tara Jane Brewer leaves her polygamous community behind after her family dies in a tragic house fire, she is plagued by ghastly images of death. Hunted by a member of the church who plans to bring her home to Sweet Springs at any cost, Tara Jane must fight to keep her freedom. But everywhere she goes, she sees the charred faces of her burned family, watching her, following her, all thirty-four of them, waiting for her to come home and resume her place in the family.

NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON from author Lindsey Goddard:author

 

“Lindsey Goddard has an impressive talent for getting inside the minds of her characters — both innocent and malevolent — which makes her scenes of horror all the more disturbing.”

-Graham Masterton, author of Charnel House

“Lindsey Goddard is a fine writer and if you appreciate such a wordsmith, I want to highly recommend her work. This story is heart wrenching and horrifying all at once. It’s not so much about a cult as it is about being hostage to unyielding ideas. It’s about loss, love, and the cruelty family members do to one another. There is raw pain, deep understanding, and a deft hand telling the story. Watch this writer in the future. She’s got what it takes.”

-Billie Sue Mosiman, author of Edgar-nominated Night Cruise and the new thriller, The Grey Matter

KINDLE: https://www.amazon.com/Ashes-Another-Life-Lindsey-Goddard-ebook/dp/B01KDD4ZCC/ref=sr_1_1_twi_kin_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1472084771&sr=8-1&keywords=ashes+of+another+life

PRINT: https://www.amazon.com/Ashes-Another-Life-Lindsey-Goddard/dp/0997971703/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1472084771&sr=8-2&keywords=ashes+of+another+life

Dark poetry by Rick Powell

Greetings, and happy Friday. Today I offer you the dark poetry of Rick Powell. If you like what you read, grab a copy of his book!

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She’s Waiting

She is waiting, crouched on the floor,
A trembling figure, covered in gore,
Clutched in her hand, a cold crimson knife,
She has relished this moment, waited her whole life,
Shivering and tense, her mouth a bloody grin,
Caring not of consequence, caring not of sin.

She remembers the times, his warm gentle touch,
Of candies and kisses, flowers and such.
Now, later every night, smelling of whores,
Once, whispers in her ear, now, yelling about chores,
The bed they used to lay in, was comfort from life’s storm,
The caress of naked flesh, their bodies were so warm.

Flesh entered flesh, she loved him so much,
Now, a bruised crushed breast, a hard dry thrust.
She came from the kitchen, to the bed where he lay,
With every plunge of the knife, the blood, a fine spray.

After she dials the phone,
She waits for them to arrive,
She never felt so free,
She never felt so alive.

Now, she is waiting, crouched on the floor,
A trembling figure, covered in gore,
Clutched in her hand, a cold crimson knife,
She has relished this moment, waited her whole life,
Shivering and tense, her mouth a bloody grin,
Caring not of consequence, caring not of sin.

Here, She Sits

Here she sits, near the edge,
Staring at the open sea,
The ocean blue all before her,
Nature’s beauty for all to see,
Of all that beauty, she sees not,
Of the nighttime sky and more,
All she sees is her destiny,
To lie at the ocean’s floor,
She’s done with all the living,
And with the life long fears,
She knows if she were to weep,
She would cry ebony tears,
Her life has been a waterfall,
A despairing cascade of sorrow,
She is done pondering about the past,
And dreading what is tomorrow,
She looks down at the waves,
As they crash on the vacant shore,
It will take a moment’s time,
Maybe a few minutes, nothing more,
She wishes for a distant voice,
To stop what will be done,
Maybe she will let this cold night pass,
And wait till the morning sun,
But for now, she will just sit,
Wondering if she will be missed,
With her feet, dangling over the edge,
“Should I dive, into the abyss?

It Was A Night Unlike Any Other

It was a night unlike any other,
The night that they first met,
The lamplight reflecting off the cobblestones,
In a darkened alleyway, the sun long set.

He went walking alone this night,
His heart full of remorse,
For a love that had abandoned him,
Her life had found a new course.

A long way he had walked to this village,
Streets with no name, passed houses unknown,
Passed businesses in need of great repair,
Passed dark, dirty windows, where light is not shown.

The only sounds in that dark night,
Were of his footsteps on the damp cold stone,
Not another soul about did he peer,
Glad in his misery, to be left all alone.

He turned into an alleyway,
To go back the way he came,
When out of the midst of the darkness,
He heard a soft voice whisper his name.

He paused, frozen, to see who would appear,
Then his gaze fell upon a shadowy form,
A hooded figure, still as the stone,
No other sound, except of an oncoming storm.

The figure took a few steps, silent and slow,
The dark robe whispering, to arrive where he stood,
A pale, slender hand touched at his sleeve,
The other cold hand then pulled back the hood.

A flash of lightning revealed the face,
The face of a woman, so pale and fair,
Lips so red, like dew on a rose,
Framing her visage, the darkest of hair.

What captivated him the most, was the depth of her eyes,
The color, indescribable, it made his soul swoon,
They were the brightest, as the sun on the sea,
And also the darkest, as the eclipse of the moon.

He meant to ask how she knew of his name,
But all of his words, over his tongue they did tumble,
No sound at all, passed over her lips,
The only sound in the night, the storm’s steady rumble.

She seemed to sense the misery in his heart,
When slowly she took him into her embrace,
He felt her cold breath upon his neck,
The feel of her locks upon his pale face.

He felt his misery leave his tired form,
Like dried leaves in the October breeze,
Though the pain was nothing like he could describe,
The hurt could not stifle how she set his soul at ease.

He felt his blood mingle with hers as she drank,
With every pump of his heart, his agony did drain,
Though the lightning did flash, the bolt he did not see,
Though his body did drench, he felt not the rain.

Now he walks these streets at night, no thoughts of past love,
Not thinking of woe, not of despair, agony or strife,
His home is with the darkness, he is at rest with the shadows,
All gone is the pain of his past, he has found a new life.

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If you enjoyed these poems, please visit Rick Powell on Amazon and show your support by buying/ reviewing his work: www.amazon.com/author/rickpowell

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