Book Review: Klarissa Dreams Redux: An Illuminated Anthology – produced by Shebat Legion

If you’re looking for a good read, Chris has an endless supply of them. Pop on over and follow that blogger!

Book Title: Klarissa Dreams Redux: An Illuminated Anthology

Authors Reviewed: Daniel Arthur Smith, Andrew Robertson, Deanne Charlton, P.K. Tyler, Ann Stolinsky, Jessica West, Charles Barouch & Samuel Peralta

Produced By: Shebat Legion

Publication Date: November 6, 2019

Available on: Amazon as an eBook and as a paperback

Indie Athenaeum Rating: 5 out of 5 Stars

Dreams. We all have them, we all experience them in some way, shape or form. Sometimes they’re frightful or captivating, conjuring something from our imagination and making it real, if only inside our minds. Sometimes a dream is an aspirational goal, a driving force to move forward or the pursuit of a lifetime. Dreams affect us our entire lives. But what if those dreams are curtailed by a sickness that has the potential to cut our lives short?

The exploration of this idea…

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Get Your Own Yardstick

A while back (maybe two years, best guess), a writing buddy of mine shared a pro tip for writers that really resonated with me. Today, I finally realized why it struck such a deep chord for me.

Drew Chial once said something along the lines of, “Don’t measure your success by someone else’s yard stick.”

At the time, I thought, Well, that makes a lot of sense. But there’s so much more to that idea than what’s on the surface.

Before I explain that, you need to understand a few things about me. I’m fearless. Confident. Easily broken. That doesn’t make any sense at all, I realize, but I can assure you it’s all true.

I’m not afraid to try or to fail. I approach everything I do with the same attitude: I will learn how to do this, then I’ll learn how to do it well. There’s no room for, “I don’t think I can do this.” For me, that thought doesn’t usually enter into the equation until much later, when someone puts it there.

And that is my biggest weakness. I’m working on changing that. I don’t want anyone to have that much control over me.

“Talk to me when you’re actually making money. Then I’ll be impressed.” (Money is just something we need to buy things. It’s not a reason for doing things.)

“There are better ways you could spend your time.” (Not for me.)

“You’re not actually doing anything.” (I’m actually doing a helluva lot more than you do, daily.)

I’m a different kind of person than anyone I’ve ever known prior to diving into the publishing world and Twitter. I’m finding, more and more, that I’m not alone. It just feels like it when I’m offline. I think I finally know why, or one reason anyway.

Wake up at 6 am, get ready for the day, go to work. Come home at 5 pm. Eat supper. Bathe. Go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

This isn’t the kind of life I was meant for, I know that now. I don’t thrive on a rigid structure. It’s bearable, to an extent, but it’s not good for me. And the whole “measuring success by someone else’s yardstick” thing took on a whole new meaning for me this year.

I measure every aspect of my life by someone else’s yardstick. We all do. And, to an extent, we have to. I started homeschooling my girls this year, and I learned that the typical yardstick simply doesn’t work for everyone. I’ve always struggled to wake up early. It’s something we have to do, something I’ll probably always have to do. And it will always be a struggle. That’s simply not my natural sleep cycle. Maybe I could move to a time zone that compliments my sleep cycle, or maybe I’d just adapt and struggle again. That’s a train of thought for another day.

My point is that not everyone benefits from waking up early and getting right to work. For homeschooling, whether we wake up at 6 a.m. or 8 a.m., we start school at 9 a.m. This is the time when my kids are most alert (not counting 9 p.m. when it’s time to go to bed). It’s when they’re most productive. It’s when I can teach them and they absorb the information and are best able to apply it. If I start ELA at 9 a.m., we’re done by 9:30. For several weeks, we were getting up early and getting started first thing. And at first, it was okay. Everything was new and exciting.

The new has officially worn off. We’re several weeks into LEAP and iLEAP test prep with one week to go and shit. just. got. real. But we’ve also settled into a routine that all of us benefit from. I had to learn that yardstick pretty much everyone in the history of ever is held to (the early bird gets the worm) is bullshit. We get our worms at 9 a.m. and there’s no one competing for them. Because my girls are learning at a pace that suits them and in an environment most comfortable for them (blanket fort-desks, anyone?), they are thriving.

The oldest is two weeks ahead in her studies and the middle child is one week ahead. We do science experiments all the time and actually enjoy them. When learning about measurements this past week, we had fun in our kitchen! Fun isn’t something that happens at the ass-crack of dawn. Not for us.

When we’re up too early (earlier than 6 a.m.), we’re exhausted all day and can’t sleep that night (oddly enough, it throws our sleep schedules all out of whack). So that particular yardstick is bad for us. And this got me thinking about success and yardsticks.

What if it’s the yardsticks that are causing so much failure?

At this time, I’d like to submit Exhibit A: Standardized Tests.

First, let me say that I do believe there are benefits to standardized tests. They are one way to assess a student’s progress. But some people freeze under pressure. And make no mistake, kids are people. So for those people, those tests actually do more harm than good. Because some people (especially impressionable young people) believe they aren’t smart or aren’t good enough when they fold under that pressure and “fail.” But what have they failed at? At taking a test. Not at mastering a specific set of skills. Just at demonstrating on paper that they’ve mastered those skills.

Now, this post isn’t about schools or kids or tests, it’s about yardsticks. But I think that’s a great metaphor for writers. We have expectations. Some of them are perfectly reasonable. Some are completely outside of our control. But when we’re measuring our own successes, we need to take a good hard look at our yardsticks (or whoever’s yardstick we’re using). We need to make sure we’re not taking this test just because it’s expected, or even because it will demonstrate our mastery of a specific skill set.

Why are you writing? If you have a goal in mind, great! That’s your yardstick. There are many yardsticks like it, but this one is yours. If you don’t have one, then you may need to do some soul searching and find yours. Have you ever looked at a yardstick? A ruler is basically the same thing, just 1/3 the size. But it’ll do for our purposes. If you don’t have a yardstick, grab a ruler. Or google it. Or just follow along. 🙂

You know how long your yardstick (or ruler) is: 3 feet (or 1 foot). That’s 36 inches (12 inches). That’s important to note. Each inch is a mini goal that will mark your progress along your yardstick. Have you marked your mini goals? Might want to get on that.

There are smaller units of measurement, too. Within each inch, you might have a 1/2 goal. You may divide the two halves of each inch into 1/4 goals. You can go even further than that, and when you do, you have tiny, easy to achieve goals.

So take your yardstick, and measure your goals. Don’t worry about what Dave is doing. Dave has his own yardstick, and you have yours.

Deathdream: Guest Post by Thomas S. Flowers

Let’s Talk About Deathdream (1974):
April 2016 Blog Tour
By: Thomas S. Flowers

There is something very intimate going on in Deathdream. Something very personal is going on, and maybe it has to do with the film’s low quality, the early 70s B-movie vibe and dang near grainy steady-cam picture, or perhaps the intimacy has to do with the atmosphere, the utterly believable world, as it is likewise chilling and raw, where a part of you doesn’t want to exist, but it does. Most of the realism is thanks in part to the incredible cast of actors and actresses, taking on the role of characters that are mirror images of people walking the streets in a small town that could possibly exist, because it probably does, somewhere out there. And this is the vibe, the feeling we get. This movie is real. This is real life. And when the supernatural takes hold, turning our blood to ice, we’re caught off guard. These things cannot happen. The dead stay dead, those are the rules. But for Andy Brooks, the protagonist (or is he the antagonist?) in this story, those rules no longer apply. Andy has come home. And I think this is the root of the intimacy. Andy, by all accounts of the rules of reality, should not have come home.

The most second most important scene in the movie, we’re brought into the kitchen of the Brooks family. Mother. Father. Sister. Everyone is merry, or as much as they can be with a loved one deployed to Vietnam. They make small talk. They laugh. Everything will be okay, this scene tells us, so long as they remain strong, for Andy’s sake. And then someone knocks on the door. Who is it? They don’t know. It’s awfully late for a neighbor to stop by. The mood drops temperature. Two uniformed soldiers are standing at the door. It’s a telegram, the worst kind, the one no one at home wants to receive. “I’m sorry to inform you,” the Class-A dressed solider announces, “but your son is dead. Killed in action.” Shock. Cold pricking goosebumps. “My son? Dead?” Its laughable, how could their son, brother be dead? These things don’t happen to them, they happen to other people, people on the news, people far away from the safety of the dinner table. No, not Andy. Not their Andy.

The grief here at the dinner table is very raw and heartfelt. The mother weeping. The sister in shock. The father…doesn’t want to accept the news. I’m not sure how you are taking this scene, for me, this moment in the movie is very real. After serving for 6.5 years in the Army, and having deployed three times to Iraq, watching the Brooks family is how I might imagine my own family reacting to the news of my death. Hence the name, Deathdream. Yes. It’s a horror movie. A 70s horror movie at that. But it is more. It’s real. And director Bob Clark wanted you believe as much.

Now, what happens next is where things get a little odd. There’s a knock at the door. The family, just getting to bed after hearing the terrible news, tread the stairs thinking, “What now?” The father answers. There’s a buildup of suspense, as if something really horrifying is going to be at the door. It’s Andy. “It’s Andy!” they all shout. Everyone is overcome with joy. There must have been a mistake. “Can you believe, they actually told me my son was dead?” the father says. Everyone is happy, and rightly so, but there’s something…wrong with Andy. Something he’s not saying. He’s pale and stoic. He doesn’t want to be around crowds, not even friends or family. Again, they recall the evening’s event, nearly hysterical, “They sent a telegram telling us you were dead.” And Andy answers with, “I was.” And here we get a glimpse of the horror to come, the Brooks family doesn’t know how to react. Andy is different…

Now, as stated before, the above is the second most important scene in the movie. The strange homecoming. As the film progresses, we’re given other little snippets of post-war life. Andy, though we’re not too sure (we weren’t privy to his life before the war), but we’re given the impression had been at some point a very happy go-lucky sort of chap. All the neighborhood is abuzz with the news of Andy’s return, even the local kids want to stop by and say hello. But Andy isn’t the Andy they remember. He doesn’t want to play. He doesn’t want to interact. And everyone is taken aback. They don’t know what to make of this new Andy, in fact, they don’t even want to see Andy as being different. The father gets mad, retires to the local bar, and gets drunk. The mother, keeps vigil, maybe Andy will get better, she promises herself. The sister hides amongst her friends. And the neighborhood kids? Well, they all run away screaming.

I won’t get into all the detail, you really ought to watch this film for yourself, but speaking personally, this scene, among others, also resonates with me. Am I the same Thomas Flowers that existed before the war? Not at all. I’m different, and through the years have come to learn how my experiences have changed me, and I’m still learning, every day. Andy doesn’t have that luxury. Andy isn’t your typical veteran. He’s a ghost. A memory of a shadow, made of stolen blood that somehow keeps him whole, walking amongst the living. His character isn’t going to learn anything or develop or change. There is only one progression for Andy, the ultimate progression you might say. And so, you might be asking, “What’s the point of the story?” Well, being careful not to take the movie out of context, this is a 1972 (74 maybe?) story. Being drafted into the Vietnam War is a huge fear in the minds of most American families, especially for those with sons, brothers, uncles, and husbands already deployed in combat. But, there is also an ambiguous question clawing its way out the grave. What is it, you ask? What is the question?

Let’s talk about another important scene, though certainly not the most important one. When Andy’s father seeks outside help to discover what is amiss with his son, Andy ends up following Dr. Allman, the gentleman who had been working with Andy’s father, trying to solve the proverbial mystery of what was “wrong with him.” Andy confronts the good Doc in his office, stating, before draining him of his blood, “I died for you, Doc. Why shouldn’t you return the favor…? You owe me…” And then, in a scene mimicking the escalation of drug abuse common among combat veterans, Andy “shoots up” the drained blood with a hypodermic needle. This scene, for obvious reasons, is full of dark ambiguous questions. But it’s not the most ambiguous scene. This scene simply lays on another series of questions.

Here we are. The most important scene. Before we move on, I need to mention the ending. I know, spoilers and all, but I need to talk about what happened. Throughout the movie, Andy is slowly decaying. He’s becoming what he already is, dead. After a few murders, the truck driver and Doc Allman, and I think perhaps one more (I can’t quite remember), the cops are now on to him. Delirious, Andy’s mother agrees to take Andy away, but during the chase, Andy directs her to the town cemetery. Cemetery? Why there? The sirens are wailing. Tires screeching. Guns drawn. Will there be a final showdown, man verses monster? No. We are denied such luxuries of simplicity. In the final moments of screen time, Andy, nearly dissolved of energy and flesh, crawls to a grave he had prepared for himself sometime previously. He lowers himself, clawing the dark rich earth, covering his body. His mother watches, in tears, protesting, “Why? Why?” And Andy, unable to speak, gestures to his impromptu tombstone. “Andy Brooks, born 1952. Died 1972.” Slowly she realizes that her son is in fact dead, and helps cover his body. The cops arrive on scene shortly before the final act, pistols in hand, ready to slay the creature. But the creature is already dead. They’ve been robbed this battle of archaic man, of Stone Age man, but their faces are not disappointed, their faces are full of question. And this is why the final scene is the most important scene in the movie. Why? Because it deals with a mother and her son. It deals with our children, the future generations and the things we’ll ask them to do. No. Deathdream doesn’t answer any of these questions. The answers to all these ambiguous questions are up to the viewer. As witnesses, we will have to answer for ourselves.

Emerging FRONT — FREE at Amazon for a limited time, or FREE with Kindle Unlimited! You’re welcome. 🙂 Click the book’s cover to go to its Amazon page.

Author-Pic-Thomas-Flowers-400x400 — Thomas S. Flowers is the published author of several character driven stories of terror. He grew up in the small town of Vinton, Virginia, but in 2001, left home to enlist in the U.S. Army. Following his third tour in Iraq, Thomas moved to Houston, Texas where he now lives with his beautiful bride and amazing daughter. Thomas attended night school, with a focus on creative writing and history. In 2014, he graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in History from UHCL. Thomas blogs at machinemean[dot]org where he reviews movies, books, and other horror related topics.

The Support System Struggle: For Writers

9 out of 10 writers will tell you that writing is a solitary endeavor. After just a few years in the game, I think I know why.

As a writer, there’s a part of you-a pretty damn big part, depending on just how obsessed you are with your ‘hobby’-that you have to protect from almost everyone you know. And there are two reasons you have to do this.

1- You can’t share your struggles.

If you complain about how hard any part of this is, you’ll inevitably be met with some variation of this response: “If you hate it so much, why do you do it?” It boggles the ‘normal’ mind why a person who is perfectly capable of pursuing any number of interests would pursue one that challenges them so. You know why you do it. The motivation behind each of us is different, but it all comes down to one very simple thing: you’re simply compelled to write. The world is dark when you keep all your words inside you, and grows darker still the more you force it down. But when you write … bliss. It’s fleeting, like a butterfly that alights nearby but flutters off the second you try to reach out and grasp it. But for that one moment, if you just be still and enjoy whatever small success you have achieved, you know peace. Speaking of successes, that brings me to my next point.

2- You can’t share your successes.

At some point, you’ll manage to pull off something you’re really proud of. Go ahead and tell someone that short story you blogged got 30 likes. Unless it’s a fellow writer or blogger, “they” won’t get it. They may even respond with something like, “Talk to me when you’re making enough money to pay the bills and then I’ll be impressed.” They are effectively telling you that you’re wasting your time by doing what you’re doing and wasting their time telling them about it.

It’s not this way for everyone, but it is this way for enough writers, collectively, that we have accepted that writing is a lonely endeavor. I don’t think I have any advice on how to deal with this. I’m struggling with it myself.

I do have a great support system, just not close by. The online writing community has saved my shattered confidence more than once. And, of course, my #1 fan: my mom. And I do have friends who know, instinctively, that “Congratulations” is the appropriate response when I share news I’m excited about, and that “It’s okay, you’ll get past this” is what I need to hear when I’m venting.

I guess if I had any advice on how to deal with the support system struggle many authors face, it’d be this: protect your successes and your struggles from those who simply cannot understand them. And share them with those who do.

Keep doing what makes you happy. To borrow a line I’m particularly fond of from someone whose name I’ll have to google …

“Don’t let anyone steal your joy.” -[Google was not helpful with this one. Apparently there are many versions of this, and it seems to have originated from the bible. So there you have it. Even God agrees I’m right about this much. :P]

Broken Man

Bent and broken, the man continued to crawl across the dark parking lot. Overhead lights sparkled their reflections in hundreds of glassy shards. They bit into his flesh, through denim and flannel. He dragged himself along, oblivious, leaving a trail of blood and gore behind. Worse than this apathetic creature was what followed his gruesome path.

Armothides. From a distance, one might confuse them with armadillos. That is if armadillos grew to the size of bears and had six appendages instead of the usual four. Its two forearms, giant pincers, remained raised in a boxer’s stance.

No one knows for sure what led or bred these beasts into existence. Of those who survived long enough to give it any thought, some believed God’s wrath had been visited upon the Earth; others that the government’s experiments went horribly wrong. Most blamed aliens. Not that the creatures themselves were aliens. No, just that aliens had visited Earth to try their hand at creation or evolution.

In any event, the three beasts following the emaciated fellow paused. The one in front began a slow rotation. Just before turning the full 360°, it stopped.

Pincers held high, the monstrosity reared up on its hind legs. As it stood, the gray ridges along its back scraped against one another like nails on a chalkboard.

Its two companions turned in the direction their leader faced, rising and adding their shrill grinding to the echoes of the first, even as it returned to its previous posture.

Six pincers clicked.

Three monsters gave chase.

The broken man paid them no mind. He continued on his path, leaving traces and bits of himself behind.

Jessica West (West1Jess) February 10, 2016

Trying my hand at Omniscient PoV. 🙂

♪♫♪♪

I’m a little awkward, full of doubt.

Here is my foot and here is my mouth.

When I get all flustered just look out,

‘Cuz you never know what’ll come out.

♪♫♪♪

tea-party-1138915_640

Just having a bit of fun. Photo courtesy Pixabay.

One Last Run

Okay, folks. I had to fight for it, and I had to dig deep, but I got something so I feel a bit better. 🙂 It’s rough–no research or editing or looking back, I’m just getting back into a groove–but it’s something. Here’s to 2016 and writing more stories. Lots and lots of stories that have no purpose other than to sit pretty on this blog because I need them here instead of weighing on my heart and pacing the halls of my mind. And hopefully, it does something for you too.

It’s worth it. In the end, it’s all worth it.

Cowboy Cartoon

Toby sat on the bull, one hand gripping the pomel and the other hanging loose at his side, staring at the last horns he’d ever see, God willing. If he took home the pot tonight, he could buy his little girl that pony she’d been after since her first rodeo.

Her mama didn’t care much for the cowboy kind of life, but she’d let the little one ride. The new had wore off not but three years after little Emma was born. Too many days and nights spent raisin’ a baby alone will do that to a woman.

Shelly had agreed to name her after his grandmother back when she still liked him. She hated him so much now, she’d have changed little Emma’s name if she could have, just to spite him. She tried, but he had a lawyer just as good as hers and she just ended up looking like an ass.

He felt bad for that. Shelly was a hard woman because he’d made her that way. She was soft and generous and everything a man could want in a woman before the rodeo circuit wore grooves into her heart.

No, she didn’t care much for him, but little Emma still said he was her hero. And that was enough to get him through this last ride.

He was gettin’ too old for this shit real quick. When the cold weather set your bones to aching, it was time to hang it up. The dull roar of the crowd sounded like a freight train pulling in and he was ready to ride that train back home. Nothing waited for him but a two-bedroom cinder block house on a piece of land somewhere the world seemed to have forgotten. That and his horse Ben and little Emma. But he was ready to go home. For good this time.

A garbled announcement blared over the speakers and the roar kicked up a notch. Time to get to work.

He adjusted his grip and strained to hear the familiar sound of leather creaking under his fist. Not over this crowd. Seconds away from retirement, he leaned forward, clenched his thighs, and held his free hand aloft. The horsepower thundering in his chest could have beat a Hennessey Venom in a ten second sprint. He only needed eight to win.

With a nod from him, a rodeo hand pulled the latch, the gate swung wide, and the bull shot out. He threw his hand high up in the air, riding the motions of the bull’s battle to throw him.

Eight seconds and he could retire, buy little Emma that pony. His whole body jolted from one impact after the next.

Seven seconds and he’d never have to spend another night so far away from home. Inflamed shoulder muscles begged for release.

Six seconds, just six more seconds. Sweat trickled down his back and made his palm slick inside his glove. He’d have blisters for sure this time.

Five seconds in, his hand sliding inside his glove burned from the heat of friction.

Only four seconds left, the only thing keeping his hand on the pommel was sheer strength and determination. He grit his teeth and held on tight, keeping his free hand high and clear.

For little Emma, he could hang on for three more seconds.

The bull stopped thrashing around, planted its front hooves into the dirt, and kicked its hind legs high up behind them.

The recently healed fracture in his arm screamed a warning and Toby cried out. He was too close, he couldn’t let go now. Win or lose, this was his last rodeo.

He lost count of the seconds. Time was frozen anyway, the excruciating moments stretched out forever. But he’d ride this bull to Hell before he’d let go. Tears sprang to his eyes and heat spread through his arm and up his shoulder.

He closed his eyes and rode the bull. Felt nothing but little Emma’s tiny arms around his neck. Saw nothing but what her smile would look like when she saw that pony. Heard nothing but the squeals of a little girl he hoped like hell would always be so happy to see him.

The buzzer sounded. He loosened his grip and jumped free of the already tiring bull. They knew when the game was up. Toby’s whole right side felt like it was on fire, but it was worth it. In the end, it was always worth it.

But this time, he truly meant it. This was his last ride. He had a little girl to get home to.

I'm Stuck.

Hey, guys.

I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard from me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve opened a document or this dashboard to write flash fiction or a short story. Something just for fun, like I used to. I’m mightily afraid I’ve lost my touch. Funny how it’s almost always fear that tosses a wrench into my writing plans. Sometimes it’s a fear that I can’t do the story I have in my head justice. Sometimes it’s a fear that nobody really wants to read what I write.

This past year, I put my mind to writing for a goal. I had a purpose and I chased that purpose until it translated to words on a page. And I’m proud of all I’ve accomplished. I can’t even tell you how many words I’ve put down. Good ones, too. I didn’t write a bunch of stories, I focused my attention on what I needed to accomplish and got it done. That’s good, but I seem to have lost the ability to write with abandon, like I used to. I have to have a purpose now. I need to get back to the place I was before 2015, the year of big plans, big dreams, and “big” writing. But I need to stay right where I’m at too. I need to do both.

So here I am, just rambling away instead of writing a story (of any length) because I’m stuck and I’m scared. But I’ve been here before, countless times. I know I can do this, I just need to let go. I feel like a monkey reaching into a jar and gripping a cookie, unwilling to let go even though I can’t get my hand out of the jar and come out with that cookie. I know I’ve gotta let that cookie go to get my hand back. But what is that damn cookie? What do I need to let go of so I can have my free-writing spirit back?

Perfection? No, I’m not a perfectionist. I set out to tell the story honestly, as close to how I “experience” it as possible. I’ve always done that, and disregarded everything else until it was time to edit. Maybe that’s the cookie I’m holding on to.

This past year, a good friend of mine trained me to write and edit and write and edit mercilessly. It was thrilling. I could write and edit a first draft simultaneously by the end of the year. Each scene was mapped out ahead of time. Every session was exciting because I could see the story so clearly. I never needed so much beforehand knowledge. I used to could take a prompt and run with it. I want to do that again. But I find myself needing a purpose, a plan.

That’s my cookie.

I’m not afraid to write. I’m afraid to write without a plan. My god, what have I become?

“Well, there’s an eye opener, make no mistake.”

Yep, you’re right Sam. Now what to do about it?

“Do or do not, there is no try.”

Okay, Yoda. I’ll, er, do.

Wish me luck, guys. Or, at least, some words that don’t add up to total suckage.

I’m Stuck.

Hey, guys.

That’s my cookie.

I’m not afraid to write. I’m afraid to write without a plan. My god, what have I become?

“Well, there’s an eye opener, make no mistake.”

Yep, you’re right Sam. Now what to do about it?

“Do or do not, there is no try.”

Okay, Yoda. I’ll, er, do.

Wish me luck, guys. Or, at least, some words that don’t add up to total suckage.

Dwelling by Thomas S. Flowers

DWELLING by Thomas S. Flowers

Subdue Series, Book 1

Publisher: Limitless Publishing

Release Date: Dec. 8, 2015

: : : SYNOPSIS : : :

A group of inseparable childhood friends are now adults, physically and psychologically devastated by war…

A horrifying creature emerges from a sandstorm just before Ricky Smith dies in battle. Forced to leave base housing, his widow Maggie buys a home on Oak Lee Road in the town of Jotham. Maggie is isolated in the historic house…and disconcerted by strange clicking sounds inside the walls.

Jonathan Steele attempts to drink the painful past away…

Jonathan was wounded in that fateful battle and now suffers from PTSD. He wants to put the nightmare behind him, but when Ricky’s ghost appears with cryptic warnings about Maggie’s house, he begins to question his sanity.

Bobby Weeks is a homeless veteran struggling with a lycanthropic curse…

Afraid of bringing harm, Bobby stays far away from those he loves. But after a full moon, a mysterious woman approaches him and reveals a vision about a house with a sinister presence, and he realizes staying away might no longer be an option.

Minister Jake Williams lost his faith on the battlefield…

While Jake will do anything to reconnect with God, he turns to vices to fill the religious void. But a church elder urges him to take a sabbatical, and a ghost tells him to quit the ministry, and his life is more out of control than ever.

When Maggie wakes in a strange subterranean cavern, she can’t deny her home harbors dark secrets. Desperate, she sends letters to her old friends to reunite in Jotham, and events conspire to draw them all to the house…unaware of the danger awaiting them.

The friends have already been through hell, but can any of them survive the evil dwelling beneath the House on Oak Lee?

: : : PURCHASE YOUR COPY : : :

KINDLE: http://amzn.to/1lVX86K

PAPERBACK: http://amzn.to/1YFDjP5

: : : EXCERPT : : :

Chapter One

THE BATTLE OF AL-HURRIYAH

Johnathan

Iraq, 2004

Something caught his eye. A glimmer. A shadow in the dark yellow fog.

The fuck? He reached for his binos in the turret. Across the street, Johnathan spied through the dust scratched lens vendors hastily tucking and clutching whatever goods they could get their hands on. Only the most meager of items remained on the street. Even the sound of the Humvees seemed to fade, as if the entire world was holding its breath.

What’s going on? Johnathan shook, his nerves pricked. Hairs stood on-end. His knees locked. He watched, hands resting on the M2 .50-cal. He searched for someone, anyone to put the tightening in his stomach at ease. Where are they going? Shadows snaked in between the empty spaces and seemed to grow larger. The yellow dust whipped the air. Al-Hurriyah was being consumed by it.

Johnathan could feel the lump in his heart become heavy. He pulled his scarf off. He choked on the dust, tasting all the nastiness of the Baghdad ghetto, but paid little heed. The soldier scanned his field of fire. Anticipation boiled in his veins. Then the yellow sand darkened again.

The glimmer returned, taking shape, forming in the dust. His mouth fell agape. “What the fuck is that?” He screamed inside, his mind rattled and confused and terrified.

From the alley across the road the shadows dissolved, giving form to some massive Thing with skin covered in bristle-like hair as black as tar. The bulking torso hissed, and swelled, hissed and swelled. Its thin, but otherwise muscular, fragile-looking legs twitched in the sand, protruding and stretching out, pulling down the tarps of the vender huts near it.

How many legs does this thing have? What is this? I’m dreaming, have to be. This can’t be…

In the dust-whipped wind what looked to be mandibles where its mouth should have been opened and then snapped shut. It was hissing, but the hissing sounded like clicking, the rattle of teeth in a glass jar or a snake poised to strike. On its head was an unmistakable shape, as frightening as it was. Bulging from its head, two swollen red eyes taking up nearly all of the creature’s face glared in the dust, compound, like the eye of a fly, gazing directly at him.

Its antenna drooped low, and then it began talking to him with a wild rush of clicks in its throat. The sound was terrible, reminding him of spring months back home, the swarms of cicadas that blanketed the canopy in his parents’ backyard every few years or so and the eerie sound they made, the clicking, horrible hissing, just like in that one movie Ricky loved to watch when they were kids around the same part of the year, the 1950s atomic-age science fiction flick, the one with the giant ants.

Partially hidden in the dust, the height of the hideous Thing was hard to guess, but whatever is was, it wasn’t possible. None of this was possible. It couldn’t be real, yet there it was all the same, hulking out from across the street, large and hungry looking.

“Are you seeing this?” Johnathan croaked, his voice pained with fear and doubt.

“What?” asked Ricky. He turned in his seat, looking out the driver’s side window. Searching. “I don’t see anything.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!” Johnathan yelled, panic stained in his voice. He kicked the driver’s seat.

“Dude, we’re about to dibby out. Stop being so jumpy,” Ricky scolded. “I don’t see anything, man.”

“Look, you asshole!” Johnathan kicked the driver’s seat again with his boot.

“Dude!” Smith turned fully around and peered in the direction Steele was gesturing. He fell silent for only a moment and then he yelled, “Get down!”

“We need to do more than—” Johnathan had started to say, but was cut short. He looked back to the alley where the Thing had been, but the monster was gone, replaced by a man with a shaved head shouting something terribly familiar and propping an equally terrifying object across his shoulder.

Is that?

“RPG!” Ricky screamed on the radio.

The air sucked back. Johnathan thought he was going to puke as he watched a plume of white smoke rocket toward him. The world was motionless for a second, perhaps less. In that moment he thought of Karen and Tabitha, he thought of his childhood and his friends that filled it. Then the explosion hit, lifting his Humvee upward into the air.

The large metal behemoth came crashing back to earth with a thunderous moan. He fell inside. His head smashed against the gunner’s platform below. He saw nothing, only white, burning light. Outside, he could hear the crackle of gunfire faintly against the ringing in his ears, like fireworks in a neighborhood a block away.

People were shouting. His squad mates, maybe. Language seemed beyond him at the moment. He could smell sulfur and the awful hint of something else…like overcooked meat on the grill, he imagined, dazed and numb. Through the broken window he watched the battle of Al-Hurriyah with disbelieving eyes.

Another explosion struck somewhere nearby. Pebbles or chunks of the police station perhaps rained down on his truck. The radio was abuzz with noise, fire direction, casualties. Someone yelled through the mike, “Death Blossom.” Death Blossom…? Are we under attack…? Yes…Ricky called it out, didn’t he? His head rung with the battle cry.

Johnathan shifted his weight. One of his legs fell from the strap he used as a seat, the other felt strangely dead. He looked. Among the yellow dust and stars that filled his eyes, he could see, though blurred, the gnarled remains of what was once his right leg.

“Shit!” he screamed, clinching at his thigh. I can’t look. I can’t look. Ricky. Ricky? “Smith? Ricky? Are you okay, man?” he winced, straining to get a look at his friend.

No answer.

More rattling pinged off his truck. Someone nearby yelled, “Got you, you fucking bastard!” Another voice screamed in language not entirely unfamiliar.

Must be some of the Iraqi police, he thought vaguely caring. Death Blossom…those assholes are going to ping someone in the back…

Something was pinching his neck. He reached and felt warmth and something hard. He dug whatever it was out and pulled his hand to see. He glared dumbfounded at what looked like a tooth.

Not mine, he thought, testing his teeth with his tongue. He looked at Ricky, but his form was covered in haze.

Gunfire continued to crackle outside, but in the broken and torn Humvee, the world felt like a tomb.

He could see Ricky now, lying awkwardly in his seat, one hand still clutching the radio receiver. Smoke wafted from his body. He didn’t move. And the smell…the smell was terrible.

Johnathan blinked. Not real. Not real. “Ricky, you son of a bitch, answer me! Are you okay?” he yelled. Hot adrenaline coursed through him like a drug, pooling in a venomous sundry of dreadful sorrow and hate, lumping together in his heart, stealing his breath. Maggie’s face flashed in front of him and then Karen’s, but he pushed them away.

Please, God. No.

“Ricky!”

: : : THOMAS S. FLOWERS : : :

Thomas S. Flowers is the published author of several character driven stories of fright. He resides in Houston, Texas, with his wife and daughter. His first novel, Reinheit, was published by Forsaken. He also has a short story, “Lanmò,” in The Sinister Horror Company’s horror anthology The Black Room Manuscripts. In 2008, he was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army where he served for seven years, with three tours serving in Operation Iraqi Freedom. In 2014, Thomas graduated from University of Houston Clear Lake with a BA in History. He blogs at machinemean[dot]org, where he does author interviews and reviews on a wide range of strange yet oddly related topics.

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