Deadman's Tome remembers the former days. A time when we published stories under a different name. A name that instilled terror into the hearts of everyone that say it. A name powered by occult and netherworld influences to banish those faint of heart. A fond sense of satisfaction comes over us when reflecting on those darker days, and we want you to experience it with us. We searched through our archives, digging for stories to share with our fans, along with those merely passing by. But we had difficulty gathering up just a handful of stories, for all of them are good in their own right. So, even though this edition features ten intense, gruesome, horrific, and terrorizing tales there are more that were left out simply because of space.
We hope that our readers enjoy this nostalgic trip just as much as we did. Now I know that you all want to download this edition, but for a limited time it will be available only through Amazon's Kindle Marketplace for the minimal price of .99 cents.
If you don't have a Kindle E-reader, there is one other way to get a copy. Send us an email telling us why you like Deadman's Tome. Tell us about your favorite story and author and we will send you a copy via email.
The Bleeder Collection: The First Five Stories of the Bleeder Series
The tone of all these stories is quite strong. Yes, it's dark, but it's really beyond that. There's a helplessness in this stories, a look at the world that is beyond bleak, and that worked really well for the relatively small part of the world the Bleeder found himself struggling within. The only real spark of light, of non-jadedness, was Abigail. The rest of the world, including the police officers, seemed numb to the violence they witness. The cultists weren't exactly as numb, but they were so twisted and plain-out evil. There seemed to be two ways to survive in this world, become a predator (the cultists) or just try to survive while keeping your head down (the civilians and even the cops).
Philip Roberts provided our current issue of Deadman's Tome with a story that not only carries strong Lovecraft influence, it offers with it a dash of originality that should not go overlooked.
AN Undead Love story?
When you read that bullet point you probably did a double take just to make sure you read correctly, but I kid you not. This issue features a story written by Maria Mitchell that dares to test the waters with a character that is living past his expiration. Can't a ghoul find some love? You really ought to read it to get the full dose of what it is really about.
Review of War of the Worlds: Frontlines
We had the chance to review the new anthology from northern frights publishing. We give you a quick glance at three stories from the collection as well as a honest question about genre lines and how horror and sci-fi can bleed into one another very easily. After all what is a good sci-fi conspiracy story without fear, without the horror of being controlled?
The July 2010 edition will be out for E-readers soon enough.
Mitchell is the film score reviewer of the Innsmouth Free Press. She writes speculative fiction and composes music for piano.
Recommended Title: Second Coming
Second Coming
by
Maria Mitchell
Sometimes I dream of stones. I've never known why. They're there none the less, lingering menacingly over a vast desert horizon. It’s a dream that's always a relief to awaken from. I hadn't even realized I had dozed off until Anne spoke suddenly.
"Everything alright with Dr. Cyclops?" she asked me with a derisive smile.
"Yeah, it's functioning fine now," I began, sleepily, and giggled at the pet name for the x-ray telescope. "A reflector cracked and had to be replaced. Good thing to, or we would have missed out on a whole slew of photos from that storm taking place on the lower right quadrant of Neptune this morning," I brightly told her. She smirked unpleasantly and I then I realized she hadn't been referring to the x-ray telescope, but rather the man responsible for its maintenance. Said man and telescope were interchangeable around here, like Frankenstein and his monster.
Kerry isn't ugly but not a handsome man either. Odd looking, really, since he has spectacled eyes and a chubby nose. His auburn thatch of hair is thinning at the temples. He kind of waddles when he walks, not so much fat as pudgy and awkward. Many of my co-workers at the observatory think he's odd and eccentric. I thought this too at first.
In due course, though, my thoughts around him took on a different shade. I would fall asleep and feel a pull from the depths of my mind tugging me down to dark dreams of seeing him lost among vast desert sands. I started to envision him among great rows of stones with his eyes craned to the sky, as though waiting with the patience of eternity for something he yearned for with an all consuming intensity. That intensity flashed to me every time I saw him in the observatory. He had such animation and effulgence when he spoke to me of the stars and was listless and bored when he spoke to anyone else. I feared for him. I feared for him because he was so obvious about his oddities and social unease. It didn't make him popular around here. That felt so wrong to me since I knew just about everyone who aspires to be a scientist has at one time or another been ridiculed in school and college for being bookish dorm rats with no social lives and no sense of fun just because we found knowledge more interesting than drinking and cavorting around. Now that we had all converged here from our parallel lives, I was outraged that instead of reveling and uniting in our separate erudition, those same hierarchal cliques you see at a high school football game started forming here. And at the bottom was Kerry, the pudgy, spectacled, x-ray telescope technician. (read more)
Featured Exclusive: The Master's Torment
....Through the expansive gallery he walked, and with each step his resistance towards the very idea morphed into an icy indifference. His steps echoed off the glamorous walls, which were decorated with fabulous paintings and pieces of polished armor. He paused before a small side door with fingers wrapped around the handle. The servants that walked by were ever curious, some with concern, others with fear, while a small portion with knowledge of why he hesitated. Moranet pushed on the door and stepped down into the shallow waters of the Queen’s interior Garden. The moisture soaked into his boots, water logging his feet, but he gave no acknowledgment.
The overgrowth of vines and other greenery masked the walls, dominating the hard rough stone with intrusive branches and roots. Roses layered a corner all to themselves, while lilies at another, but in between lay a hybrid of different flowers; combining the beautiful with the carnivorous, producing a man-eating plant that attract the curious hand. However, the charm faded into a dull, brownish, and grey hue that expressed the malnourishment it had endured. Just as the Queen predicted, her prized creation suffered because of lack of attention. The servants have been slacking, and refused to lure anymore villagers for feeding what they considered a monstrosity.
Moranet demanded the gardener to come closer with hand ready to punish for any refusal. “This Hydra, why does it look ill, as if it hadn’t been fed for weeks?”
Cowardly, the grey, wrinkly, and cock-eyed man lumped a few feet, while dropping the tool he had in hand. He feared the splash of the water would be the last of such noise that would act as prolog to his death. “Oh, Sir Moranet, please spare my neglect, for it was only done in your respect.”
“This plant is dear to the Queen and it is in a state that could no longer prove useful. How, you shivering disgrace, could that be respectful?”
“Your mind echoes with her command, but not without resistance. I only ask that you see reason, and allow this to go ignored. The kingdom will thank you, I’m sure of it,” said the Gardner, in a stronger voice, followed by an ominous laughter. (Download your free copy today to read more)
Fields of Rot contest prizes:
Those that participate in the contest are eligible to receive one of the prizes listed below based on the overall rating from a combination of reader votes and internal judges. We wish everyone the best of luck.
1st place: $50 gift card to Amazon.com
2nd place: $25 gift card for Amazon.com
3rd place: The sweet taste of victory
All three of these places will be featured in the online magazine with all sorts of praise.
Remember, this is overall place. During October and August we will be reviewing submissions to find our top four and place them into the online magazine in November 2010 for our readers to place their votes. Their votes will act as the final say.
10 Reasons why you should read Deadman's Tome
Besides supporting the many contributors and authors that make the magazine possible? The stories we select are the ones that force their gory, uneasy, terrorizing presence into your face, causing you to question your sense of reality and even sanity.
Content like Chris Castle’s “Bus Full of Dying” which tells a chaotic story of a freak accident on a bus in once thriving city that had changed into a desolate wasteland once the carnival had left. Combining both over-the-top description and strong focused narration, Chris Castle delivers a piece that will keep you coming back.
Hardcore mysteries like Ty Johnston’s “Forlorn” feed you with gruesome scenes of murder, as the slain bodies continue to pile up, and though you might think of yourself wise enough to figure out the suspect, you’ll be pleasantly surprised over and over again.
In the December 2009 issue we featured a fascinating, gripping story entitled “The Body By The Bridge” by Nick Medina, which positioned itself as a dark mystery in which the suspect is already assumed, but her fight for innocents, and the struggle of her damaged psychosis keeps you devouring line after line.
Interviews with award-winning authors like D. Harlan Wilson, author of Technologized Desire: Selfhood & The Body In Postcapitalist Science Fiction, Blankety Blank: a Memoir of Vulgaria, The Kyoto Man and more.
Globalized talent. We have submissions pouring in from just about everywhere on Earth. So you’re not just supporting American talent, you’re also supporting authors from Spain, Sweden, United Kingdom, Australia, Germany, Africa, South America, and more.
Edgy originals that you won’t find anywhere else such as “The Bleeder” series or “The Master’s Torment”.
Lastly, the online magazine costs you NOTHING to download and is formatted in an easy access, easy to navigate PDF file. You can even see us on Kindle, transfer us on an E-reader, and work out at the gym with your mind distracted with our awesome content. Download Deadman’s Tome and support the craft!
Deadman’s Tome Presents
Fields of Rot
A Zombie themed Writing contest
Accepting submissions beginning Aug 1st to Oct 25th
Absolutely no entry fee.
Accepting short stories from published and non-published authors with lengths no greater than 5000 words.
Multiple submission okay, but only one story per contestant can win.
Submissions must be original. No reprints will be accepted.
Now, August may seem like a long way away, and for those brain eating, zombie loving fiends the wait just got worse, but use this time to generate some awesome pieces.
Speak Your Mind!
Not an author, but pressured by the need to complain? Then this is the spot for you. Deadman's Tome wants to hear your opinion about anything and everything, and who knows, you might just get a response from Mr. Deadman.
In order to give our readers a great experience with the magazine, we would need to offer more than just assorted poems and stories. In the past we ran editions that contained various columnists, fan mail, and the occasional review, and these items brought to the reader a connection that we would love to keep alive. Unfortunately for us, some of the past columnists are unavailable, but that leaves us open for you to consider. We would like to hear what you have to say about the world, society, literature, media, and anything else that pisses you off. We want you to contact us with an email loaded with off-the-wall, in-your-face objections and critiques so that your voice could join our ranks. Contact Us the email address, for those without an integrated email, is Legato10@swbell.net or Dedman@demonictome.com
Daddy's Little Girl by Christopher L. Knives There was little light. It was the perfect setting for his dark charade, as he was the conductor of a gruesome and sadistic ploy. After violently shaking the family into fractured regiments, the scum of existence landed on his greatest manipulation. It was the daughter of a middle class family that was playing the corporate game. A family that lived for making the big impression, a mother that never stayed home for more than an hour and a dad who might as well remain nameless. This sacred piece of the family was a savored piece, as she was an example of how a woman in a youthful age should never be. She loved herself in way that raped respect, skinning the very meaning of it into a belittled category of meaningless proportions. People used her as she let herself be used. She was more of a contaminated piece of filth that somehow bore a soul. She became one with her disease as it built a feeling of belonging. Unfortunately, the feeling of being alive only lasted as long as her partner.
It was in her plot to go from pleasure to pleasure that gave the beast his reasoning, if there ever was any. Her craving for attention and for respect, created for her, a desire to scum to the bottom of the trough and become a wasted girl that fucked on camera. It wasn’t hard for her to force exploitations upon herself, but it was hard to earn a buck doing it. She didn’t live in Las Angeles, California. She lived in a small Wyoming town, which was the most underground place of places to start. She was doing the work of a porn star and getting paid a hookers wage, if even that. Hundreds of guys would treat her like an open house and wreck whatever orifice she had. They had full control of her and could have done her a favor. Being as helpless as she was, her life was spared for many months and somehow, disease and pregnancy missed her. With the horde of men that she had endured it was a blessing, but the only one(More)
The Charge by M.R.L A young girl was lain ungarnished across the wide, round oak table, with her extremities spread and pulled tightly by various ropes to prevent any great struggle she might attempt. Her eyes, wild and pleading, were ignored by the small congregation of men and women benched around her. They chattered excitedly as their dining servants filled their cups and cleared their plates and utensils, as this ritual traditionally did not require them. A sharply dressed man entered the room and warmly acknowledged the applauding guests as he made his way to stand at the edge of the table. He smiled and started to mouth a speech in a language that the girl did not understand. She felt sickened every time he laid his dark eyes on her nude outstretched form. The volume of his voice heightened, drawing his speech to a close. The guests applauded again and raised their goblets to a toast. Every one of them then stood and undressed themselves completely. All eyes were on the girl struggling against the restraints that fixed her to the center of that table. Their stares showed a bestiality that caused her to cry out uncontrollably and try to violently wrench herself free. (more)
Old Mother by D. D. Bell It was early morning in the near deserted police station and officer, Alec Ballack, sat slovenly at his desk reading the Nottingham Evening Post when he should have been working at his backlog – a large mug of sweet tea steamed at his elbow to complete the unfortunate tableau. There was nobody about to check up on him so he did as he pleased; Sergeant Dalton was still out on patrol and Kelvin had his head down in one of the empty cells. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as if an impulsive draught had come across him. He threw down his newspaper and spun around on his chair to face – there was nobody there for him to see.
“Kelvin.” he shouted out in panic.
He heard rapid footsteps coming up from the corridor and then the young police officer, Kelvin, rushed into the office straightening up his tunic as he went. He rubbed at his bleary eyes. “What’s up? Is Dalton on his way back?” he gasped.
“N… no…” stammered Ballack. “It… It’s happened again… Kelv… it happened again.”
Kelvin let out a groan. “You woke me up to tell me that load of old rubbish… there is nobody else here but me and you… you fat twit.”
“I felt its breath on my neck again.”
Kelvin turned. “Bugger this I’m going.” Before he went he made the shape of a phantom and let out a theatrical groan.
“It not funny, I tell you this place is bloody haunted.”(more)
