Tag: literature

Devil’s Eye

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Devil’s Eye is a thrilling, action packed tale of swashbuckling adventure on the high seas, featuring excessive amounts pillage, plunder and PIRATES!!!

After the crew of the Devil’s Eye stage a successful mutiny they find themselves in possession of a very valuable hostage who could could alter their fate forever. With the chance of becoming rich or dead men, the stakes have never been higher.

Captain Blood is the infamous captain of the pirate galleon Devil’s Eye, but his long and illustrious career is about to come to a swift and bloody end at the hands of Crimson Jack and his henchmen. Having disposed of the old captain and his officers and placing themselves in command of the ship the pirates must bring their crew a worthy prize that will cement their positions.

Upon capturing a French ship in the Caribbean, they take a valuable hostage who will bring them a fortune in gold, if they can return them to France. Standing in their way is a flotilla of Spanish warships, a huge English galleon, French forces and other pirates out to claim the hostage and the ransom for their own. With little chance of success, the pirates embark upon the voyage of a lifetime with all guns blazing.

But a gathering storm looms over their heads in the form of the threat of yet another mutiny being staged by loyalists to Captain Blood and new additions to the crew loyal to another captain. Multiple parties on the ship have their own motives for wanting control of the ship and possession of their hostage, but the tense political situation on the ship threatens not only the success of the voyage itself, but their very lives.

Can Crimson Jack and his men maintain control of the ship long enough to complete this most perilous of quests, collect the ransom and cement their positions as commanders of the Devil’s Eye? Or will the risk of mutiny, competition from other pirates and being hunted by the naval powers of several nations prove to be too much and send them all to their watery graves?

You can find Devil’s Eye available on Amazon, Smashwords, Apple Books, Scribd, Lulu and Kobo.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/986119

https://www.amazon.com/Devils-Eye-Cameron-Walker/dp/1708437932/

Glorious Son (sample)

On By forsakenpressIn Short StoriesLeave a comment

This piece is the beginning of the novel Glorious Son currently in development by Forsaken Press author and Social Media Manager Jenna. It is being included in this section to help showcase the variety of talent and diverse writing styles that Forsaken Press and its wonderful team of writers have to offer:

Samael woke up Monday morning like every other morning.  That is, the alarm went off, he took a moment to bemoan his existence where nothing exciting or interesting ever happened, and he wandered off to make coffee to ease his pounding headache.  He wasn’t sure why he still set an alarm–it wasn’t like he had anywhere to be, after all.  Since he lost his job a few months ago, the best he could hope for was a few hours trolling job boards for an opportunity that never seemed to come, followed by a few hours of writing things he was sure no one would ever want to buy.  Sure, he could freelance enough to pay most of the bills, usually–an article here and there, after sifting through all those who wanted to pay in exposure, or worse to have you pay for the opportunity to do their work for them. But he really wanted to write something that would change the world, and clickbait was getting old fast.  Still, he tried to keep some hope alive.  He’d feed the cat,  and turn on a podcast for some background company, as he loaded up yet another webpage filled with more of the same, and waited until a respectable hour to open a mickey.  He may have been a drunk, but dammit he was a high-functioning one.  At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

When he saw it, he gasped.   There on the screen was an opportunity that seemed to be made exactly for him:

Wanted: Someone to collaborate on an epic fantasy novel with the broad themes of chaos and change.  Research and travel will be required.  We expect this to be your full-time job and will pay you accordingly.   Contact Ms. Tuesday by email with a cover letter, resume, and sample of your work.

Too good to be true?  Obviously.  Nobody just posts out of the blue looking for someone to write a novel.  If they want it written badly enough, they write it themselves.  But really, what did he have to lose?  He clicked apply now and got to work, expecting that any second the whole thing was going to explode in a fiery ball visible from space.  That was his luck, after all.  When he was born, his parents misspelled Samuel, leaving him with an unpronounceable mess.  Then things got worse.

No time to think about that now. In spite of himself, he actually felt good as he hit the submit button and nothing went sideways.  He got a response almost immediately, which he shook off as a form letter at first, but decided to open it just in case.  He was glad he did, as he read:

Samael:
We have been expecting you.  To ensure that you are up to our task, meet us tomorrow morning, 9:00, at 616 Northern Boulevard.  We look forward to working with you.
Ms. Tuesday and associates

“Okay that’s odd,” he thought.  But, with the misguided courage of someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain, he opened up his phone calendar, only to find the interview was already entered into it.  Hey, that was easy!  He talked to the cat, who was sitting in his lap, because he was just a little bit silly that way:

“Miss Princess Fuzzlebottom Squeakface!  What is your Daddy going to do?  Is your Daddy going to get a job?  Yes he is!  Yes he is!  Who’s a pretty kitty? Who’s my little Princess?  Is it you?  I think it’s you!”

Princess Fuzzlebottom Squeakface, who answered to Princess as much as any cat answered to anything, purred and pretended to understand the happy noises coming from her servant’s face.  As long as he kept the food coming, the bed stayed warm, and he occasionally scratched between her ears, she was willing to put up with him doing strange things like this.

That night, he set his alarm a little earlier, let Princess snuggle up to him, and dreamed of strange beautiful creatures he had never seen before.  He woke up not sure if that was strange or not, as he usually didn’t remember his dreams.  These stuck with him, though, as they were both dark and colourful at the same time, some with wings, some with horns, some with both.  The strangest appeared to be created from black flames.  Anyway, he felt a sense of purpose as, instead of walking over to his computer, he got dressed and made his way out the door.

A gorgeous woman in a long flowing black dress greeted him and said she was Ms. Tuesday. He thought she was overdressed for a simple interview, but pushed it out of his mind.  Artsy people were always a little strange, so who was he to judge?  Had he looked up at the walls, he would have seen the creatures from his dreams the night before.  But he was too nervous to look anywhere but the floor.  He followed Ms. Tuesday into an office where a well-dressed man already sat silently staring at him. 

“This is my co-president, Mr. Lysmith.  We are so glad you have come to us.  Are you ready to start now?”

Samael wasn’t sure how to respond–he hadn’t even been asked any questions and they wanted him to start?  What kind of interview was this?  To his surprise, he heard, “Yes, what would you have me do?” emerge from his lips.  He didn’t talk like that!  He shrugged it off as the stress of being interviewed.

Samael was an intelligent man, and had he actually been paying attention, he would have seen parallels between the story he was to write of an everyman unknowingly contracted by forces of chaos to bring about a revolution and stave off–or was that bring about?–the end of days, and his current situation.  As it was, he was trying too hard to keep from sweating through his clothes to fully comprehend what he was hearing.  It didn’t even dawn on him when he was told that his first duty was to dive headfirst into researching chaos history in order to make the book more realistic.  He just nodded as Ms. Tuesday handed him a thick black tome with golden runes on the cover.  But he did hear one thing: Don’t look up too much information about this book before you read it.  Take it as it actually is, not stories about it.  Weird, but okay.  Everybody’s got their quirks.  This sounded like an order and it was easy enough to do.

The Book of Chaos described a world which was a lot like ours, only instead of being controlled and orchestrated by an overall lean toward order, it was controlled by chaos in all things. 

Our world did lean toward order, didn’t it?  Samael wasn’t sure he believed in much, but he believed in that.  Whatever started the universe off started it off on some kind of trajectory–things didn’t just happen.  Everything had a place and everything wrong with the universe was just stuff in the wrong place.  Somehow everything would end up in the right place and everything would be great.  All you had to do was keep your head down and do what you’re supposed to do, stay in your place.

Had Samael disobeyed the order and researched the book, he would have learned that its author began with the same kind of viewpoint he had, but over the course of researching beliefs about chaos came to embrace them, especially that there is a thread of chaos through everything and the best we can do is keep this chaos from being harmful.  The society the author lived in labeled him as insane for this view, and he lived out the rest of his days as a hermit.  Samael might not have kept reading had he known that. He liked his nice, simple worldview: black and white, right and wrong, no grey areas to confuse him.  But he didn’t know, so read he did.

A week later, Samael’s eyes were buggy, but he had finished the book.  He felt like he had been made privy to some kind of forbidden knowledge, although he didn’t understand what exactly it was or what any of it meant.  All he knew was that somehow something was changed. Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  He also knew he never wanted to read a book like that again.  But if you had asked him why, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you.  It was just unsettling. In any case, Ms. Tuesday wanted him to return to the office to discuss what he read and what to do next.  He could do that.

He didn’t expect the warm welcome he got–the stern faces that had glared back at him last week grinned huge toothy grins and he half expected them to hug him.  His back stiffened in preparation–he felt hugs were far too intimate to share between practical strangers, but if you said no, you were a social pariah.  To his great relief, they noticed his discomfort and dropped the hug idea, settling for handshakes instead.

“We are very pleased.  We have chosen the right person for our mission.  We have promised to pay you, and we hope this is sufficient,” said Ms. Tuesday, handing him an envelope.  He opened it and found $1000. 

“There must be some kind of mistake!  All I did was read a book!” Samael protested.

“You have done research and prepared for our mission.  There is no mistake.  Now you will begin to write.  Should you require assistance, Mr. Lysmith acts as my eyes and ears on the ground and has been instructed to provide you with anything you may need.  Next week, we expect a basic plot idea and at least one chapter.”

Samael suddenly realized he didn’t know how to contact anyone who was supposed to help him.  He asked and was told not to worry; they would know, and they would be there.  Ms. Tuesday’s demeanour made it perfectly clear the case was closed and there was to be no more discussion on this matter.

With more questions than answers, Samael went home to begin writing.  After all, an outline and a chapter in a week was a difficult task, especially when the majority of his writing to this point was fan fiction and clickbait articles. Even though he still wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to be writing, he found that the words came easily, almost as though they were being given to him by some unseen force.  He had a strange compulsion to keep writing and not to read what he had written.  He guessed that this was what other writers called inspiration, so he kept going.

A week later, there he was in Ms. Tuesday’s office being warmly praised.  Samael was still uncomfortable and couldn’t look either of them in the eye, but he could tell you every detail of the office floor:  37 black tiles, 37 grey ones, white grout that was a little too white, with white spirals that meandered along in no particular pattern, and the whole thing was altogether too shiny.  He still hadn’t noticed the art on the walls, which was probably a good thing.  He didn’t consciously remember the dream from a couple weeks ago, but it was tucked away in his subconscious, and seeing them would have brought it back to mind.

“But I didn’t even proofread!  I don’t even know what I wrote!” protested Samael.

Ms. Tuesday smiled.  “So much the better.  Remember, you work for us now.  We know what you are writing and that is what matters.” With that, she handed him another envelope and shooed him out the door.

$2000.  Not bad for a week’s work.  A guy could get used to this.  But now what?

With no idea what he was supposed to do next, and everything he had written previously apparently wiped from his hard-drive during the meeting, Samael decided to return to some semblance of his old routine. Alarm. Ugh.  Feed the cat.  Coffee.  Podcast.  Write.  Consider getting smashed.  But there were changes.  Now, someone was paying him, even if the amounts didn’t seem to have much connection to the work he did, or to any kind of logic, really. Some weeks he got $500, others $5000. The words flowed effortlessly most of the time.  He began to notice that whenever they didn’t, a raven would come up to his window.   Even though it was silly, he liked to think he was having a conversation with the bird about what he was writing.  In any case, after the raven left, he was able to write more.

He had less time to drink now, and found himself missing the bottle as though he had lost touch with his best friend.  He didn’t miss the blackouts, though.   Although he was certain he had never harmed anyone–could never harm anyone–waking up not knowing what had happened the night before scared him, and it happened more often than he cared to admit.

The days turned to weeks, and he could swear the raven was following him around now.  That was crazy, of course, but he couldn’t shake it.  Other strange things were happening too.  Like the day he went to the liquor store, only it wasn’t there.  Or the way people seemed to treat him with a new fear-tinged respect, like there was some kind of dark aura around him.  If he believed in those kinds of things, that’s what he would think.  But of course, he didn’t. 

Keep your head down, Samael.  Stay in your place.  You’re just working too hard.  Take a break.  You’re being oversensitive.  You got distracted and drove too far.  There are birds everywhere.   You need a drink.  He kept telling himself that even though it sure felt like the world was cracking and breaking around him, those kinds of things didn’t actually happen.  Of course, they didn’t.  A place for everything. And nothing in its place.

Through the Gates of the Silver Key: The Best Collaborations and Ghost Writings of H.P. Lovecraft

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Depending upon whom you ask, the collaborations and ghost writings of H.P. Lovecraft are either an underappreciated gem in the literary canon of American horror fiction, or an interesting, yet ultimately forgettable collection when compared to the main body of Lovecraft’s work. It is in this editor’s humble opinion that this body of work, while less known and not as appreciated as Lovecraft’s main canon, stands on its own, not as a lesser alternative or dismissive sub-body, but as a strong and equally as rich compendium that acts as an extension of the Lovecraftian world that is so revered.

The Call of Cthulhu, The Dunwich Horror, The Shadow over Innsmouth, At the Mountains of Madness, all have their counterparts in Lovecraft’s secondary body of material with Under the Pyramids, Bothon, Through the Gates of the Silver Key, The Horror in the Museum and The Mound all standing strong on their own against anything from Lovecraft’s primary material. But I would like to present the question, should comparisons be made? Do they even need to be made to begin with?

Lovecraft compilations abound in print and Ebook formats and it seems not a year can pass without a slew of them being published by publishers here, there and everywhere. What sets this compilation apart from the rest? To begin with the vast majority of them tend to focus on Lovecraft’s main body of work with ambitious publishers hoping to make a quick buck by cashing in on the more popular and well-known works in the Lovecraft canon. Often lovingly crafted with high quality paper and hardcovers, elaborately packaged in their presentation, they all ultimately amount to much the same thing. Since Lovecraft’s work now resides in the public domain, anyone with the will to do so can release a compilation of his works and draw an income from it.

This compilation focuses on his lesser known and far more scarce collaborations and ghost-written work, of which collections of are relatively few and far between, with a best of collection such as this being virtually non-existent. Wanting to increase exposure to Lovecraft’s secondary body of work that often goes overlooked and underappreciated I decided to compile this compilation of the best of his collaborations and ghost written work as a loving tribute to the material.

So with a will and a way, and a fledging publishing house to promote and provide material for, I took it upon myself to compile just such a collection and spent many hours researching the stories behind the content for facts, trivia and details to include that would add to the majesty of this overlooked and underappreciated body of work. Not content to just engage in my own hubris I dedicated hours of additional research to ensure a “best of” collection included just that, the best of Lovecraft’s secondary works. Research was conducted online to validate the popularity, reputation, ranking and significance of the works included to ensure they were indeed worthy of inclusion into this anthology.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft is incontestably a pioneer and master of modern horror. His work has inspired generations of writers for the past eighty years, and has a lasting cultural influence upon western civilisation. His unique narrative style, voice and universe combining elements of horror, science fiction and fantasy allowed him to create a vibrant and complex mythos that has stood the test of time well beyond his death, and has only increased in popularity and relevance. Known primarily for his main body of work, Lovecraft none the less compiled a significant number of collaborations and ghost writings for other writers in a lesser known body of work that often goes overlooked and underappreciated. The purpose of this anthology is to compile the best of these works into one cohesive volume that is a tribute and testimony to their brilliance.

Featured within this volume are the stories:

Under the Pyramids
The Curse of Yig
The Mound
The Man of Stone
The Horror in the Museum
Winged Death
Through the Gates of the Silver Key
Out of the Aeons
Till Aèthe Seas
The Disinterment
The Night Ocean
The Diary of Alonzo Typer
In the Walls of Eryx
Bothon

Jenna’s Side: The Roots of Marvis Jedd (Review)

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Hello, my name is Jenna, welcome to Jenna’s Side, the Official Forsaken Press reviews page.  I’m 33 and I’m the Social Media Manager for Forsaken Press.  I live in a small town in Saskatchewan, Canada, and I’m slowly but surely working on my first novel.  I like books more than most people, and I also like books more than most people.  Ba dum tish.  So when Cam asked me to write regular reviews for the Forsaken Press blog, I jumped at the chance.  Let’s start with our newest release, The Roots of Marvis Jedd by Ken Dixon.

The book’s blurb:

“Returning apprehensively to his home town of Thune, writer Clay Reston endeavors to document the early years of enigmatic musician and fellow Thune native, Marvis Jedd. At every turn, he is reminded of the many reasons they both left as soon as they could.

The Roots of Marvis Jedd is a satirical, somewhat absurdist portrayal of small town life in the United States. Baring similarities to the work of existential philosopher Albert Camus, Clay Reston struggles to find a sense of meaning and purpose to his own existence and the people and events taking place around him, while writing a biography on his home town’s most famous son, Marvis Jedd.”

Do you love music? Mysteries? Stories of dysfunctional families and what passes for drama in small towns? The Roots of Marvis Jedd by Ken Dixon has all of this, and since I love all of these things, I love it. It turns the traditional literary pilgrimage story on its head, when Clay Reston somehow gets more and less than he bargained for at the same time.

My friends and I used to affectionately refer to a fun escape as a “turn-off-your-brain” story, and that’s what this is. But don’t mistake that for stupid or poorly written. The characters are engaging, although most of them would consider that an insult rather than a compliment. I relate strongly to Clay’s position as an outsider, wondering when or if he had ever belonged in the town, and trying to decide if he even wants to belong.

If you grew up in a small town like I did, you’ll recognize Thune.  The only thing everyone can agree on is Things need to be Done. But what things, and how?  Shrug.

If, like me and like Clay, you left and then came back, you live in Thune.  “No one ever comes back,” seemingly ignoring the many who do. I can hear the coffee row gossip at the diner in Thune now:  there’s Something Wrong with that boy. It’s said in hushed tones not quite hushed enough, because it isn’t just gossip, it’s public shaming with plausible deniability.  Because no one ever comes back really means no one leaves and gets away with it.

In addition, Ken Dixon perfectly captures the small-town waiting for something but pretending you’re not, caring deeply but pretending you don’t vibe, in a way that is slightly reminiscent of a combination of Waiting For Godot and Corner Gas, or like a town from a David Lynch or Terry Gilliam movie, for those of you not familiar with the prior examples.  Nothing ever happens, of course it doesn’t. Except for when it does.

Although he writes that he doesn’t live in Thune, I bet Ken Dixon did at some point.  He handles all of this with the dark humour of someone who has been there. This makes what could be a really depressing story into one which allows you to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

So if you’re looking for a good fun quick escape read, look no further, you’ve found one. If you are looking for some social commentary, you’ve found that too.

Rating:  5/5.

The Roots of Marvis Jedd

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“Returning apprehensively to his home town of Thune, writer Clay Reston endeavors to document the early years of enigmatic musician, and fellow Thune native, Marvis Jedd. At every turn, he is reminded of the many reasons they both left as soon as they could.”

Forsaken Press is proud to present Ken Dixon’s satirical, absurdist comedy, The Roots of Marvis Jedd. Now available on Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, Apple Books, Scribd, OverDrive, Tolino, Gardners, Baker and Taylor and Bibliotheca CloudLibrary.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B082FY5R69
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/994304

The Roots of Marvis Jedd is a satirical, somewhat absurdist portrayal of small town life in the American mid-west. Baring similarities to the work of existential philosopher Albert Camus, journalist Clay Reston struggles to find a sense of meaning and purpose to his own existence and the people and events taking place around him.

When Clay Reston returns home to Thune, a place he despises, he finds the small town hasn’t changed at all in the fifteen years he’s been gone, the place and the people are exactly the same as he remembers it, much to his chagrin. But Clay hasn’t returned to Thune to reminiscence on the good old days, or reunite with old friends, he has returned, somewhat reluctantly, to write a biography chronicling the early years of the career of Thune’s most famous son, the mysterious musician, Marvis Jedd. Running into many colourful characters along the way, both familiar and unknown to him, Clay is reminded of what makes Thune such an enigmatic place.

“The town itself looked like a bunch of big tossed dice. Nothing was planned and if you didn’t grow up there you may as well give up trying to find what you were looking for. No one would help you because it was really none of their business. That attitude goes a long way toward explaining why Thune never really found its niche as a tourist mecca; “Who cares?” would never have made it as a slogan.”

“For a reason known only to him, old Arvil liked to plant himself right out in front of his property just to glare at whoever drove by. I think that’s pretty much all he did, except when LuAnne would get him to come inside and eat his lunch. With all that practice, he got that glare down to a science and it really was something to see. If you gave even the slightest thought to stopping in Thune, chances were good that you would keep right on going once Arvil got a bead on you. “


A Dream of Pirates

On By forsakenpressIn Short Stories1 Comment

“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. Drink and the devil did for all the rest, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.” Treasure Island, the first book I vividly remember reading. Well I didn’t read it. My dad read it to me of a night before bed, after we had moved up the coast, away from the big city to a small country town by the seaside. For the first few months after our move we lived in a small caravan park by the beach.

I found myself falling asleep every night to the sound of the distant waves crashing upon the shore, vivid images of cutlass wielding pirates, buried treasure, tropical islands and galleons doing battle upon the sea coursed through my mind, fueling my imagination and filling my dreams with tales of adventure, debauchery and battle, ruthless buccaneers, handsome heroes, beautiful damsels in distress, and exotic far off places. Looking back this early obsession with pirates plays a significant role in my fascination with history, and most of all my love of reading and literature later on in life.

Sometimes of a night, once my parents had gone to bed, and I felt the need to pee, or get myself a drink, I would sneak out of the caravan, being careful to not make a sound as I slipped outside and wondered down to the beach. I recall one such occasion with such clarity, as if it happened only yesterday, not some twenty-five years ago. I can’t say if what I saw was a mere figment of my excited child’s imagination, was in fact a dream of such detail and vividness that I confused it for reality upon waking, or was indeed a ghostly vision of a time centuries before. As if somehow my fevered imaginings had opened a portal through space and time, allowing me to see through the veil of the centuries and into the past. What I can tell you is I had an experience that whatever its nature, was of such profound significance to me, that it stayed with me all these years with a vividness and clarity of detail, unlike anything else I have ever experienced.

I was taking one of my regular late-night strolls from our caravan, winding my way through the labyrinth of caravans, campers, tents and cottages before turning onto the path towards the ocean. Shrubs, mangroves and grasses lined the sides of the sandy track as it snaked its way through the dunes, down towards the beach. Something rustled in the grass among the dunes and a bird of some sort cawed in the trees above as I strode along the path, my bare feet sinking into the soft, cool sand, leaving a track of footprints in my wake. I descended onto the beach, the sand becoming noticeably deeper and colder as I wondered across the sand. I strode down the sand until I came to the line where the waves reached their peak upon the shore and followed it for a time. I stopped to stoop down and retrieve some pebbles and began to toss them into the water, seeing how far I could hurl them out to sea.

Unexpectedly a curious sensation came over me and I stopped to take in my surroundings, giving my full attention to the night that engulfed me and now tickled at my senses with an indistinct feeling of surrealism. Everything suddenly felt vague and ethereal, like being trapped in a dream which one could not awake from as my hair stood on end and my pulse increased, my breathing becoming heavier as I became more alert and aware of the night around me. The steep cliff face of the large hillside that flanked the beach loomed menacingly above the shore, casting the beach nearby in a dark, malevolent shadow devoid of light. Hiding the rock pools below the cliff, where hermit crabs and small fish frolicked, from sight.

The waves lapped lazily at the shore, rolling up onto the sand before receding back upon themselves. The sea was eerily calm with the swell of the waves laying quite close to shore. Beyond them the ocean lay as smooth as glass, the pale light of the crescent moon reflecting upon the surface of the water and making it shimmer like the stars that blinked down upon the earth from the heavens. Several large clouds drifted across the night sky, the light of the moon giving them a ghostly visage, so they appeared as phantoms floating among the stars that glittered like jewels within the black, abyssal darkness of space. The trees rustled in the breeze that blew through the night, cavorting to a song only they could hear. It was then that I spotted it.

Out beyond the waves a ship glided over the sea, its large rectangular white sails fluttering in the wind as its bow cut a path through the inky darkness of the water. As it came closer I recognised it distinctly as an old sailing ship from centuries past and ran up the beach towards the headland that overlooked the bay gave unobstructed views of the vast ocean beyond. Unable to believe my eyes I stood there in a state of shock and awe, staring at the mysterious ship as it approached, gradually growing as it loomed closer and closer.

Shaking myself out of my trance I raced across the sand and up the rocky path that snaked its way from the beach into the rolling hills of the coastal field that overlooked the beach. Once cattle grazing land it now served as a recreational area for tourists and locals alike to have picnics, play sports and relax away from the sand and surf while still providing them with scenic views of the beach and ocean beyond. Breathing heavily and with my legs aching from the physical exertion of the uphill run I finally reached the top of the hill and looked out across the bay at the advancing ship.

The ship had turned with the tide and was making its way towards me as it followed the coast south, coming about on her starboard side to reveal two rows of ten cannons along her top and gun decks. Thanks to my reading of books on pirates, sailing and naval warfare during the age of exploration I identified her as a small galleon. A relatively fast, well-armed and formidable ship capable of not just hunting down prey; but severely punishing anyone who dared resist.

As she skirted the coast past the headland the skull and crossbones flag hanging from her masthead was clearly visible, fluttering lazily in the night wind with its infamous grinning skull mocking all unfortunate enough to set eyes upon it. Men scrambled amongst the rigging, swinging from ropes, racing deftly over narrow beams and scurrying up and down the ratlines as they shouted and cursed to each other through the forest of masts, ropes and timber beams and posts.

“Heave to ya bilge rats, come on ya godless sons of whores, on yar way,’ shouted a large portly officer, who stood amid ship barking orders at the men around him, encouraging them to pick up the pace. The pirate in the crow’s nest kept a vigilant eye out for trouble, or the prospect of an easy target that could bring them some quick booty. More buccaneers raced around on deck tending to the variety of tasks that consumed their daily lives. A group of men feverishly scrubbed the deck, scrapping off the layer of salt that built up while others polished the ship’s cannons, cleaning out their barrels and clearing any obstructions. A large burly sailor stood at the helm, steering the large wheel with practised ease as several other pirates crowded around a map and conversed nearby.

The bustle of conversation, shouted orders, curses and song piercing the night in a cacophony of noise as I stood amazed by the sight before me. As the galleon sailed past the headland I got a good look at the men on board as they rushed about their work under the light of the pale glow of the moon, seemingly oblivious to my presence upon the hill. Covered in piercings, tattoos and with a fair share of eye patches among them they were a fearsome bunch of hardened criminals, rebels and outcasts who had shunned society and made a life of their own on the sea where they were the masters of their world and the scourge of all who would dare oppose them.

I stood watching the phantom ship that had appeared out of the abyssal gulf of time, emerging from ages past into the modern era via some mystical means unknown to man and beyond the reach of science. Watching as it followed the coast in a southern trajectory for some time before turning to her port and moving back out to sea, casting a ghostly shadow upon the waves as she glided over the water and disappeared beyond the horizon.

Interview with Cassandra Castaneda: On Writing

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Welcome to another edition of our On Writing series of Forsaken Press collaborator interviews. For this edition I sat down with Sci-Fi/Fantasy writer Cassandra Castaneda to discuss reading, writing and what makes her tick, as a writer of course.

When did you first start writing and what got you into it?

I was really young actually, the first “book” I wrote was a short story I made for a school contest, where you made a short picture book about any story you wanted to tell. Me, being the ubernerd I was decided to write a book about dinosaurs, about the different types of dinosaurs, and different theories on how they went extinct. I won first place for the school, although, as far as I recall I didn’t make it at the county level. Beyond that, I continued to be a heavy reader and writer all the way until adulthood, although the last few years I have slacked quite a bit.

What’s your favourite novel?

Without a doubt, The Neverending Story. More than any book I have read has this one influenced the way I write and how I develop worlds. The book in and of itself is sort of a love letter to the art of storytelling, with the Nothing representing the lack of imagination that often comes with adult life. I would almost call it a proto-Millennial mindset in many ways. If you’ve read The Neverending Story, you can pick up little hints and nods I throw towards it in my various writings. My character Storyteller, who appears in many of my stories, although in many forms and names is representative of the idea of certain beings being able to travel across worlds, be it from Earth to Fantastica, or in her case, from Earth, to the Aether, to the Nine Realms, etc.

Who are your greatest influences?

Aside from Michal Ende and his novel, I actually have quite a few literary influences. Kevin Dean Anderson, Michael Crichton, Dean Koontz and, of course, H.P. Lovecraft. It’s hard to say who has had the most influence on me, and they are a great many more I could list here, these are just the ones who come to mind.

You’re currently working on your debut novel Aether Station, what inspired the story?

This is a long story. So, I had been working on a tabletop roleplaying game, the original idea was actually to create something I could play for a Mass Effect themed game, but I decided it would be more fun to create something that was my own, although you can sort of see a small reminder of the influence in some of the races I created, the Arkdavieans and the Leirynn being similar to the Salarian and Turians, although much of that is superficial now. As I wrote down more of this universe I started to fall in love with it. I decided to write a series of short stories, that were meant to help the player (the novel takes place 100 years before the events of the game) immerse themselves in a universe that was rich in lore and not just a generic Sci Fi game. That is sort of why there are 4 parts in the novel, each part was originally a short story reworked into a novel.

What’s the most challenging thing about writing for you?

I have really bad ADHD, combined with anxiety and depression, its hard for me to motivate myself into writing. It really sucks when you have all these ideas and they seem to refuse to come out, like some sort of reverse writers block where its not that you don’t know what to write, but so many ideas you don’t know which one!

How do you create your characters?

Depends. Sometimes I create stories around characters I come up with, sometimes it’s the reverse. To narrow it down, in the case of Alicia I created her because I wanted a hero who was like me, a neurodivergent, Mexican woman. While I am not a super-scientist, many of her personality traits, especially her negative ones are very much mine. Comparatively, Rebecca was created to be a counterpart to her, to be the bad bitch I always wished I was.

What advice would you give to someone thinking about writing a novel of their own?

Read more. Not even kidding. When I started writing the first draft of Aether Station 5 or so years ago, I realised I had not read much in awhile and you can’t be a good writer if you don’t take the time to see what people want to read.

What kind of fiction do you like to read?

I’m not super picky, I do love Sci—Fi and Fantasy but I will read just about anything. I have been reading a bit of True Crime lately, most recently The Phantom Killer: Unlocking the Mystery of the Texarkana Serial Murders by James Presley. 

What is it about Sci-fi and fantasy that you find so alluring?

The escape. I was bullied a lot, and as an awkward LGBT person, having a fantasy realm to escape to was an important coping mechanism. I think it’s a lot of why I fell in love with The Neverending Story, the idea I could just disappear into another world, if just for a bit, was more than I could ever ask for.

What is your favourite story you’ve ever written and why?

Bob the Dieting Turkey. Wrote it when I was 12 and it was about a thanksgiving turkey that came back to life and forced the family to go on a low-carb high-protein diet. I was 12 and have no fucking clue why I thought it was funny, but me and my mom still have a laugh about it now and then.

How would you describe your writing style?

Accessible. I try to use language that conveys ideas, emotions, actions, etc without being pretentious. I think this is something I try to take from JK Rowling, wording that tells a deep story while being understandable to all groups of people.

What’s your favourite thing about writing?

Being lost in my own head for hours, coming up with new stories, new places and new people to meet!

Solitary Confinement (Issue 6)

On By forsakenpressIn Solitary ConfinementLeave a comment

The official weekly Forsaken Press Newsletter:

Issue 6: 07/12/2019

From the desk of the President and Editor in Chief, Mr. Cameron Walker.

Hello all,

It’s been a very chaotic week outside of Forsaken Press for many of our staff. What with people losing employment, having university finals, financial issues, sick pets and high anxiety provoking jobs. That’s without even getting to the issue of me trying to find more work to support myself and having both of my cats be sick and lose their appetites because of the haze of smoke that lingers over the city of Sydney. So as you can see its all on behind the scenes, but through it all we will persevere and do our very best to bring you some excellent new reading material from unknown writers.

First thing’s first. As per Murphy’s law of “If something can go wrong, it will,” we’ve had a few complications with the release of the paperback version of Devil’s Eye that was originally slated for release on December 14th. To cut a long story short, to ensure the novel is of the very highest quality we’re currently re-editing it in order to bring you a more streamlined, exciting and vibrant tale of high seas adventure. This process is taking longer than originally anticipated, hence we have had to cancel the December 14th release and reschedule it for December 30th instead. In addition to this the Ebook version of the novel will reflect the changes made in the paperback edition and will feature a brand new cover specially designed for the physical book.

We’ve had to reshuffle things with our release schedule around a bit as a result of that and other external factors, but the good news is all three of our promised releases for December will be still happening this month and we have another release slated to take Devil’s Eye’s place for a release date of December 14th.

On December 14th we will be releasing Ken Dixon’s, The Roots of Marvis Jedd. Which is a satircal look at small town life in American, seen through the eyes of journalist Clay Reston, as he seeks to write a biography on his home town’s most famous son, the mysterious Marvis Jedd. The novella will be launched for a pre-release on the 7th of December.

Other than that we are happy to announce the beginning of two new Forsaken Press programs to help promote the company on Facebook and Social Media. The first being our “Promotional Partnerships” program with other individuals, pages, companies and entities as a mutual promotion program. I am very happy to announce that our first promotional partnership is with our very own consultant and accomplished Indy writer Roxanne Bland, who’ has won numerous awards for her work.

The second being the Official Forsaken Press Web Team. Which is a group of dedicated supporters helping to promote Forsaken Press on Social Media by liking, commenting on and sharing our posts across Social Media to help expand our presence and let more people know who we are.

That’s it from me for now, but before I go I would just like to point out that we have now reached 500 followers on Facebook, which is a huge accomplishment. Thank you so much to everyone who liked our page and we hope to see you getting involved in the fun.

Warm regards and sincerest thanks,

Cameron Walker,
President and Editor in Chief,
Forsaken Press.

Interview with C. Priest Brumley: On Writing

On By forsakenpressIn InterviewsLeave a comment

Hello ladies and gentlemen, Forsaken Press President and Editor in Chief Cameron Walker here. I recently had the pleasure of interviewing Forsaken Press writer, our Head Graphic Artist and the maestro of madness, Mr. C. Priest Brumley for the next edition of our On Writing series of interviews. We discussed writing, horror and how writers can find inspiration for their imagination and ideas. I hope you enjoy reading the interview as much as we enjoyed conducting it……..

How did you first become interested in writing?

-Always was, growing up. I recall wanting to be a writer as far back as primary school. Hell, I tried writing my first novel in 6th Grade. Fun times. I don’t know what drew me to it, it’s just always been, like sunlight or Ozzy.

Who are the major influences on your style?

-Lovecraft was a MASSIVE early inspiration. Others include Stephen King, Thomas Harris, Rosemary Edgehill, Piers Anthony, Jo Rowling, and Jim Butcher. I’m also greatly influenced by comics, in particular the works of Brian Michael Bendis, Warren Ellis, and Jeph Loeb.

You’re someone who is really into music, how does that impact upon your writing?

-Not as much as you’d think, to be honest. While I am a devoted metalhead, it’s rare for themes from the music I enjoy to find their way in to my works. My writing is much more inspired by film scores and recently synthwave albums. They both provide a proper ambiance conducive to me shutting my brain down long enough to write.

How do you find inspiration for stories?

-Nightmares and the human condition. I’ve had a number of medical issues over the years, primary of which is my eyesight. To combat that, I have to get injections IN my eyeball every four weeks or so. Ladies, Gentlemen, and that gorgeous technicolour rainbow in between, that is NIGHT TERROR fuel. So you save those terrors, write them down as best you can after waking, and expand on them later. Makes for effective subject matter, I’ll tell you that.

What is it about horror that makes you focus primarily on that genre?

-It’s fun and it’s versatile. Horror can be such a wide range of things, from campy and comedic to heart-stopping terror. It can be about something as generic as vampires to something as specific as spousal abuse. It’s literally anything you want it to be, and I love that.

Your first release is a collection of short stories, do you have plans to write any novels or are you primarily a short fiction writer?

-Short fiction. My span of attention is horrible, and every time I’ve tried writing longer narratives I lose track/interest/plot details/etc. super easily.So I circumvent that by not doing it. Seems like a reasonable solution to me, at least.

What part of the writing process do you find the most challenging?

-All of it. I see writing in much the same way Thomas Harris does: it’s torture. It’s a painful process that I have to be miserable to do in any meaningful capacity. Hence going 6 or so years between stories. There’s a reason I focus on my other big love, graphic design. Designing book covers gives me no end of pleasure, from the puzzle elements in finding just the right font or tweak, to the messages of elation when an author loves the cover I’ve made for them. Makes my entire day.

What is it about writing that you love the most?

-The feeling of completion after it’s done. That pure feeling never grows old.

Horror movies these days get a lot of criticism from old school fans of the genre, what’re your thoughts on the current horror movie scene?

-It’s a two-sided coin. On the one hand, there’s the studio-engineered stuff, the PG-13 bullshit that the big corporations want to shove down your throat purely to increase their profit margins. It produces the occasional gem (Occulus, etc.). On the other hand there are the artists, like always. The people who aren’t afraid to push boundaries. The Soska Sisters, Robert Eggers, Ari Aster, and more are beautifully changing the game one film at a time, and I love it. So long as there are always artists, there’s always hope.

Do you have a specific ritual in place for when you’re sitting down to write to get yourself in the mood?

-Not really. On the rare occasion that a story idea comes to me anymore, I just write it down as quickly as possible. When I go back to it for expanding/revision, I like to be in my living room where I’m comfortable, with a decent film score or synthwave album on in the background as white noise. That’s about it, really.

What’s your favourite story you’ve written and why? What’s it about?

-Nine times out of ten I’m going to say Conversations With Dead People. In the pseudo-Universe I’ve created in my stories, I’ve made zombies work slightly different than normal, being part of a hive system. This was the first true example of that, and also features my absolute favorite death across any of my stories (except maybe for The Red Recliner). As for what it’s about, well, you’ll have to read it for yourselves.

Is there any underlying social criticism or message to your stories that go beyond being entertainment?

-Yes. Take care of your eyesight, kids. It’s important. Joking aside, not really. They’re primarily morality plays, particularly the Masach stories.

Can you give us an example?

-Yes. Childish Negotiations is a warning about taking the time to be there for your children before they’re gone forever. Other stories follow along similar routes.

How much inspiration from your life experiences and surroundings can be found in your work?

– As much insofar as dreams are comprised of the collected events of the day combined with one’s rampant imagination. Sometimes they’re informed by exagerated versions of things I’ve witnessed in life, sometimes wild stories brought about from my younger days of wild drinking.

What do your friends and family think of your writing?

-They’ve been supportive from the off. The majority of my family has been really cool with the fact that I’m a creative type, even if they’re not too keen on the stories themselves. Now, I’m not too close with the majority of my family, mostly because I like to stay in my corner away from most people. But those that I do feel close to are supportive and I can only express gratitude at that fact.

The Merciful Deal

On By forsakenpressIn Short StoriesLeave a comment

TThis short story about pacts with dark forces is a cautionary tale that comes to us from the warped mind of horror writer C. Priest Brumley. A valuable addition to the team here at Forsaken Press. 

“Oh for fuck sake, just leave the kid alone already, huh?” The sound of Dad’s voice rang out from the living room, muffled slightly by the sound of the football game on in the background. “He got C’s; what the fuck do you expect from him? He’s a fuckin’ sinful retard, Linda. C’s are probably the best we can ask for!”

Mom’s voice answered from the laundry room. “Yeah, but he can still study, can’t he? And if he can study, he can get better fucking grades, Greg!”

The entrance to my room was always open, ever since Dad took my door off the hinges a year ago after they accidentally caught me masturbating. According to them I was now “sinful” and “not trustworthy”. So instead of having privacy, I now have to listen to them bitch all day: about me, about finances, about me, about each other, about me… On and on it went, day after day. I swear, I’d sell my soul for a reprieve from this bullshit.

The column of fire in the center of my room was sudden, and before I could call out for help was gone, leaving only a slight scorch mark in my rug. Oh, and it left behind a man. He was tall, but not like NBA tall. He wore a pair of tailored pants, a nice shirt, tie, and HOLY FUCK HE HAS HORNS.

“Who are you and what do you want?” My voice was barely above a whisper, trying to not alert my asshole parents to the sudden intruder in our house.

“Good afternoon, Robert. You can speak plainly. To your parents and everyone else you’re fast asleep on your bed. Don’t want to interrupt our chat, you know.”

I nodded without thinking, eyes still drawn to the pair of jet-black horns jutting from his upper forehead. “Okay, that’s great and all, but who the fuck are you? And why are you here?”

The man chuckled to himself before answering. “Well, straight to the point. I can appreciate that. To answer your first question, my name is Masach. Pleased to make your acquaintance!” He stuck his hand out towards me, a pleasant smile on his lips.

I stopped looking at his horns long enough to watch his face and look at the proferred hand. Got nothing to lose, right? I reached up and shook his hand. It was warm, and his hands were exceptionally soft. Huh.

“Excellent! Well, Mister Robert, as you have more than likely guessed by now, I am here to fulfill your attempted barter.”

My mind finally tore itself away from Masach’s horns and tried to grasp what he was saying. “What do you mean, ‘fulfill my attempted barter’?”

Masach nodded once. “I see. Do you not remember mere minutes ago? I do believe the thought was, and I quote, ‘I swear, I’d sell my soul for a reprieve from this bullshit’. Was that not you?” His eyes arched upwards in what looked to me like genuine curiosity.

I let out a small laugh. How he knew that I had no idea, but it probably shouldn’t surprise me. “Yeah, it was. So what are you gonna do to help me?”

“Well, I can proceed in many ways, but the more pressing matter is when would you be willing to hand your soul over to us? The sooner the better, obviously.”

I threw my hands up in indifference. “I honestly don’t fucking care. You could take it right now if you want. I just don’t want to have to deal with their bullshit anymore.”

Masach’s face lit up. “Are you sure of that?”

“Yes! I don’t fucking care! Fuck, if it’ll get rid of them I’ll do anything! Do you know what it’s like to live like this? They won’t let me play video games or have a phone or even have a fucking door!”

Masach nodded sagely. “May I sit?”

I felt tears running down my cheeks without even realizing I was crying. I tossed my arm to the side, showing him it was okay. Masach snapped his fingers once and sat down next to me on the bed.

“I do. I was there, too, once. Why don’t you tell me what they do to you?”

I jumped to my feet, sudden anger bursting through my veins, threatening to tint my vision as red as Masach’s skin. “They refuse to let me be me! I don’t wanna go to fucking church and they fucking drag me there, I can’t whack off anymore, they think all my friends are trying to lead me down some bullshit ‘life of sin’ so they took away my fucking phone and, get this, changed the password on my computer so I can’t use it without them watching my every move! MY COMPUTER! On top of that they think all video games are gonna do is cause me to be violent but they don’t realize THEY’RE MAKING ME VIOLENT ALREADY!”

“Er-hem.”

My stomach dropped to my feet. I knew that voice. I’d had my back to the door as I ranted and raved to Masach. I looked at Masach’s face, watching the sad smile form there. “Wasn’t I supposed to be asleep? Wasn’t this supposed to be in my head or something?”

“Yes, and I do apologize about that. But you’ll understand relatively soon, Mister Robert.”

I heard the jingle of Dad’s car keys attached to his belt loop. I didn’t have to turn around to know my mom was probably standing right behind him as well. I didn’t know what was coming, but I knew it wasn’t anything good.

“C’mon, Robbie. You wanna talk shit about us, you’re gonna get out here and face us like the man you seem to think you are.” I turned at long last to see my dad standing there with eyes as cold as death, filling my once-empty doorway with his massive frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the fading Marine Corps tattoos he’d accumulated over the years.

I tried to shove past him to go to the living room to take my beating. Instead I was met with a fist on the side of my jaw.

“You wanna talk about us? Talk shit about The Lord? Boy, your retard ass just fucked up big time. Get up! You want to be a man, right? Get up and fight me like one!” I went down to one knee with the impact of the second blow. Dad’s breaths were coming faster and deeper now as he advanced on me. I heard mom scream as I felt another fist collide with the back of my skull.

My world went black. And it was peaceful.

Thank you, Masach. Thank you for your mercy.