Shock Totem 4: Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted

by Shock Totem

  PUBLISHER/EDITOR

  K. Allen Wood

  ASST. EDITOR

  John Boden

  ASST. EDITOR

  Nick Contor

  NONFICTION/SUBMISSIONS

  Mercedes M. Yardley

  SUBMISSIONS

  Sarah Gomes

  DIGITAL LAYOUT/DESIGN

  K. Allen Wood

  COVER DESIGN

  Mikio Murakami

  Established in 2009

  www.shocktotem.com

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2011 by Shock Totem Publications, LLC.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written consent of Shock Totem Publications, LLC.

  The short stories in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The views expressed in the nonfiction writing herein are solely those of the authors.

  ISSN 1944-110X

  Printed in the United States of America.

  NOTES FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK

  Welcome to issue #4!

  Feel free to jump ahead if you want to get straight to the bloody stuff. I’ll make it quick, either way.

  So here we are once again. Another cold one down. I’m always nervous when a new issue comes out, never quite sure how people will react to it. Each one thus far has featured an eclectic mix of dark fiction, fairly different from the previous issue, and with that always comes the possibility of alienating readers if they can’t fully know what to expect. Trust me, I’ve heard it from a few readers. People like guarantees, you know. I understand that.

  Problem is, the only guarantee we can make is that we’ll publish the best of what we receive during the months between issues. If one issue leans more toward the traditional horror realm, and the next one dips a little deeper into dark fantasy, then that happened purely by chance, not intent.

  And this latest issue was no different. We’re always at the mercy of chance—and that’s just the way we like it.

  Even if it is a bit nerve-racking in the days before those first opinions come in.

  So let’s discuss this issue for a moment. Last time around we published “Eye, You,” by Joseph Morgado, a rare story told in second-person POV that actually worked well. Somehow lightning has struck twice! Ahead you’ll find Lee Thompson’s “Beneath the Weeping Willow,” a sad and bittersweet tale of an autistic boy. It is also told in second-person POV, which as you read it you’ll realize is the only way it could have been told. I hope you’ll give it a chance, because it’s a great story; the ending is pure poetry.

  Also on offer is a new tale by horror favorite Weston Ochse, one that mixes music with horror and is tailor-made for Shock Totem and our black-black hearts.

  We brought some humor back for this issue, which was last seen in “Murder for Beginners,” by Mercedes M. Yardley, from our first issue. But where that story was dark and quirky, Tom Bordonaro’s “Full Dental” takes the humor to an absurd Monty Python level. Which we fully endorse. Our nipples explode with delight!

  And there’s more great fiction from up-and-comers, like A.C. Wise, Michael Penkas, and Justin Paul Walters, who provides us with our first story told in verse. We’re also proud to be home to David Busboom’s first sale, with his excellent nod to the master, H.P. Lovecraft. A fine tribute, indeed.

  Last year we sponsored the Café Doom short-story competition. From the top ten chosen by participants, we chose our favorite. That story was Jaelithe Ingold’s “Fade to Black,” which is published here for the first time.

  I took on the role of writing the essay for this issue. It’s a deeply personal piece called “Living Dead,” and despite it reading like fiction, it is entirely true. A dark tale with a happy ending.

  We also have interviews with Bram Stoker Award winner Kathe Koja and Rennie Sparks, writer and founding member of the alt-country band The Handsome Family.

  The second installment of Bloodstains & Blue Suede Shoes, the collaborative series between our very own John Boden and Simon Marshall-Jones, tackles murder ballads and some of that old tragic blues.

  And there be additional bells and whistles ahead.

  As always, Dear Readers, Fellow Writers, my staff and I cannot thank you enough. You rock!

  We hope you enjoy this one as much as we do.

  K. Allen Wood

  June 8, 2011

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Notes from the Editor’s Desk

  Miracles Out of Nowhere

  An Editorial

  by Nick Contor

  Beneath the Weeping Willow

  by Lee Thompson

  Full Dental

  by Tom Bordonaro

  Tragic and Gorgeous

  A Conversation with Rennie Sparks

  by Mercedes M. Yardley

  Web of Gold

  by Rennie Sparks

  Fade to Black

  2010 Café Doom Competition Winner

  by Jaelithe Ingold

  Weird Tales

  by David Busboom

  Strange Goods and Other Oddities

  Playlist at the End

  by Weston Ochse

  Lobo

  by Justin Paul Walters

  Living Dead: A Personal Apocalypse

  An Article

  by K. Allen Wood

  Dead Baby Day

  by Michael Penkas

  Long Live the Word

  A Conversation with Kathe Koja

  by Nick Contor

  Bloodstains & Blue Suede Shoes, Part 2

  by John Boden and Simon Marshall-Jones

  The Many Ghosts of Annie Orens

  by A.C. Wise

  Howling Through the Keyhole

  MIRACLES OUT OF NOWHERE

  An Editorial

  by Nick Contor

  Motivation is so much more than a tired cliché for bad method actors. Whether it’s your children, your parents, your spouse, or even yourself, knowing why someone took a particular action often provides the light-bulb moment into comprehension of that action. Why did I throw that punch, take that drug, or write that novel? Motivation is the key that unlocks a wealth of information about life and the way we go about living it.

  In writing, it’s the difference between a complex and a simple character. While there is a place for simple characters, the fictional people that grab hold of your imagination are usually written with depth. It takes no insight to write down an action, but sweeping aside the cranial curtain to show the internal mechanism that set that action into motion is the stuff literary careers are made of.

  When I was asked to assist in starting up Shock Totem, there was no hesitation. If I could have leaped through the computer screen to scream out “Yes,” I would have. But why? Why are we—or more specifically, why am I—doing this? I won’t pretend to speak for anyone else, although I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that many times similar actions stem from similar motivations.

  I’ve always been in love with words. Whether they are novels, poems, short stories, or song lyrics; I’ve always been mightily impressed with a well-turned phrase. And in conjunction with that admiration, I’ve always tried to write, to create my own works that try to
evoke in others the same emotions that the better writers were stirring in me. I haven’t been as successful on my end as I’d like, but I still try.

  And I’m proud to be associated with this magazine, my fellow staff members, and most importantly, the fine writers that we feature here. Why?

  Not for money, that most ubiquitous motivator of all. There’s rarely a living to be made as a writer or small-press publisher, let alone a fortune. If I wanted cash, I’d be better off spending my time learning plumbing. Likewise, Shock Totem is not a moneymaking proposition for any of us. Quite the contrary.

  Power? Ha! While journalists can have quite a bit of sway over people, I’ve never been too interested in that kind of writing. There is a place for didactical fiction, but I have little desire to write that way, and we have shied away from it as editors here as well. We’re not interested in being preachy.

  How about fame? While I’m certainly gratified when someone praises the magazine or a particular story, it’s mostly because I think it deserves it, not because I want a pat on the back. I didn’t write these stories, I’m just glad to be privileged enough to be a part of bringing them to you as a reader.

  So why am I doing this?

  It’s a bit tricky to be able to discern one’s own motivations. The mental landscape is a minefield, and we are often not conscious of our reasons for taking a particular action, as anyone associated with the mental health field can testify to. But in those moments when I am as honest with myself as I can be, I’d say my primary motivation for putting time and money into Shock Totem is simply the desire to leave something behind that I can be proud of. Something that lasts. In my interview with Kathe Koja in this very issue, she touches on this idea. She put it much better that I could have of course, but it’s an idea that resonates with me.

  When I shake off this mortal coil, what will I leave behind? It’s a concept I have thought an awful lot about. A hundred years from now, will anyone even know that a person named Nick Contor existed? It’s one very strong reason why I keep coming back to my own writing and music. It’s the desire to leave something of value for future generations. Now, as for whether anything I’ve produced has any value, I leave it to others to decide, but at least I’ve left something. There’s a chance.

  While Shock Totem will likely never make any of us rich or famous or powerful (although I won’t be upset if it did), I do know one thing. In forty years, if I am allotted that much time, I can take one of our issues off of a shelf and show it to a grandchild. I can tell them, “I was a part of this. See my name, right here?”

  I’m looking forward to that because I’m proud of this magazine, and of the stories we are printing. In my opinion, what we are doing here has the quality that just might prove itself worthy of the longevity that a good work of art can produce. No guarantees of course, but it might.

  In a hundred years’ time I will be gone; off to discover for myself what, if anything, is awaiting us after death. But there will still exist the possibility that someone rooting in a dusty bookshop or rummaging through a box in an attic somewhere could find this issue.

  They could open this magazine and read these words, or better yet one of the stories that follows. It’s a magic trick that’s real, like a miracle that is formed ex nihilo as a byproduct of the creative art. It's the possibility of communication between two people separated by time and distance. A cerebral connection between two people who will never meet face to face.

  It’s the closest thing we have to telepathy. That’s the power of the written word.

  And that’s why I’m here.

  —//—

  BENEATH THE WEEPING WILLOW

  by Lee Thompson

  You listen to your parents argue as you sit on the bottom step. It is night, you are twelve, and you hear a word over and over—autistic—and though you don’t know what it means, you know how it feels and everything is either wonderful or frightening, everything is laughter or pain, and everything blurs in a rainbow of colors, but all of those colors are only shades of black or white.

  Their voices rise and fall like a crashing storm, filled here and there with sudden stillness, heavy silence. The moon lights the steps behind you and you lean forward, afraid that if it touches you it will burn your pale flesh like it has before, when Jacob laughed and called you crazy.

  Their voices rise again so you cover your ears because it seems like Mom is on one side of you screaming and Dad is on the other and they act like the only way they can tear at each other is through your pounding skull. But even with your ears covered you can still hear them and feel the force of their voices like a fist thudding against your chest, because your name—David—comes up a lot and Mom is crying.

  You can’t see them from where you sit, but you picture her in your mind’s eye—this woman with long dark hair, a rail-thin form, and a huge mouth that is either too soft or too hard, her teeth large, and fingernails like razors even though she is gentle with you. But sometimes there are accidents.

  Her voice bounces along the living room walls, desperate, full of ache, “You can’t just leave! What about the boys? What about Davey? He needs you!”

  Your father grunts and his shadow climbs the wall in the dining room as he moves away from her and the lamp by his chair. He curses God and himself for creating something so weak and helpless, saying, “What difference does it make if I’m here or not? I can’t change one thing and you know it!”

  She yells and goose bumps riddle your flesh. Dad slams the back door, leaving to smoke or drink, his face that ugly shade of red, probably. You can picture it, you’ve seen him upset, and he looks like a monster on the TV you’re not supposed to watch but your older brother shows you when they’re gone.

  Mom cries and moans, “You’re a coward!”

  Glass shatters in the living room.

  The wind sighs.

  A step above you sags.

  Looking over your shoulder, hands still cupped over your ears because you expect more yelling, more hurtful things, more pain swirling around the house in the dead of night, you see something move in the shadows high above you.

  All grows still.

  Peering up through the darkness you see a pale shape descending the steps. You hold your breath, wanting to stand and run, but unable to move because other things are scratching at the roof and inside the walls. You whimper until the outline of a boy nearing manhood materializes, and through the tired haze and confusion it takes you a moment to realize who it is.

  You whisper, “Jacob,” and cower again, back to the wall, feeling more trapped than ever, as if you lay wounded in a box full of starving animals.

  Jacob eases down a step. Moonlight paints the risers with a surreal hue that bleeds into the darkness climbing the wall. Jacob is fifteen, thin like Mom, and his eyes always seem to sparkle, especially in near-darkness. He grins, teeth growing bright like his eyes, and somewhere else in the house a door slams and Mom cries, “God! You are impossible! Be a man for once!” Which didn’t make any sense because your dad is a man. He’s a giant of a man who tells you he loves you but his eyes fill with tears sometimes and his bottom lip quivers and he wants to touch you but can’t, he says he can’t, because Dad’s afraid he’ll hurt you and he doesn’t want you to endure anymore pain.

  Jacob creeps down the steps, pajamas whispering, voice hollow and soft as he says, “They hate you, you know that? You’re nothing but a burden to them, to me, to everyone. You should run away, get out of here.” He stops a few steps above you, runs his hand over the moonbeams, plays with them. He says, “They don’t hurt me because I’m normal.”

  You stand slowly, a sick feeling in your stomach and tears burning your eyes because you can still hear your parents fighting, an echo that will continue ringing forever, and Jacob keeps smiling, his eyes now like black stones inside his skull. You lower your head, not sure what to say, uncertain why Jacob hates you, or if there’s a way you can somehow make him love you. Just once. That’s all you
want. For him to just sit quietly with you.

  He whispers...

  Different.

  Run away.

  And your chest fills with a sharp pain as you clench the bottom of your shirt and look out the window near the bottom of the steps as Jacob’s breathing softens, as if he’s been sleepwalking and now he’s awake again. You glance his way. His hands are balled and knuckles pointy. They have hurt you a lot when he has swung them in sharp arcs against your kidneys, when no one was looking or your parents were at work.

  You grab the window casing, stare out over the land your parents own—the small shack across the driveway where they’d once nursed a fawn back to health before setting it free again—lay smothered in gloom, and beyond it, dark and foreboding, the tall weeping willow that seems to scratch at the sky, forever there on the muddy bank, its branches like slim tentacles, shifting spirals in the soft breeze teasing the pond just beyond it.

  Jacob says, “Everything you love is a lie. And none of it loves you back.”

  You shake your head.

  Lies, you tell yourself. Jacob lies.

  Your whole face aches as you pull your hands away—disturbed, and threatened—even though Jacob has drifted back upstairs and you are left only with the sound of your breathing and Mom’s muffled weeping.

  You turn back to the window. Your vision blurs and you wipe your eyes, attention falling on a dark patch dangling from the lowest branch of the willow. Staring at it for several moments, unsure why it sets your skin crawling, unsure why it feels like there is something horrible living in the gloom beneath the thick branches, watching your whole family. It feels as if the night has hypnotized you, that it wishes to let you in on its secrets if you’re willing to pay the price.