Wandering Star

I killed the crew of the Wandering Star—

humanity’s last hope.

On a desperate mission to find a new home,

far from our forsaken star.

I caused the ship to crash—

after gouging out the eyes

of the captain—

into this lonesome planet of obsidian

where I now find myself.

 

Maybe I’ve lost my mind,

but I heard a voice calling me here—

a soft whisper in the dark.

They called me insane,

said I’d gone

AWOL,

tried to lock me up.

Now they’re gone.

 

I wander the surface,

guided by a whisper,

until I stand in its shadow—

an upside-down

colossal pentagonal

black pyramid

floating high,

high above.

I weep when I realize why

I’ve been led here—

to bear witness to the leviathan’s arrival,

declaring the end

of all things.

Picture of Elliot Pearson

Elliot Pearson

Elliot Pearson is a writer of speculative fiction and is also a poet. His work has appeared in various anthologies, journals, and magazines, including several past issues of The Stygian Lepus.

A Free Sample

I slid my hand from the back of my neck up to the middle of my head. It was a warm, hairy, wet mess. I hesitantly brought my hand to the front of my face to find dark thick blood dripping from my fingers.

“Why?” I looked up at him.

He can’t even look at me. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but just turns around and leaves. I can see his fists clutched tight as he walks away. I knew this wasn’t going to be the last time.

I went to the hospital and told them I had a trip in the garden and hit my head on the concrete steps. Everything looks good. They do an ultrasound and some blood work to make sure the twins are okay, too.

The blonde ultrasound technician smiles at me. “You’re twenty-six weeks along, right?”

“Yes, they are heavy.”

She giggles. “You mean, healthy!”

I return home and get ready for bed. John never came home that night. I open my eyes into the next morning and look over at his side of the bed—empty and cool to the touch. Today is the farmers’ market downtown.

We could use a walk. My little Sadie and Sarah should be here in a few weeks.

I pass by booths of honey, vegetables, and handcrafted soy candles. Pumpkin spice and cinnamon fill my nose. The chill autumn breeze blows my bangs out of my eyes, and I catch a glimpse of a peculiar booth; one filled with trinkets, elixirs, potions, and more. As I trace my eyes and fingers along the words on the glass bottles filled with thick liquids, I lock in with two bright green eyes on the other side of the table, a tiger’s eyes no less. She has golden hoops hanging from her pointy cat ears, a large smile, with large teeth, and lots of large jewelry hanging from her neck—a gypsy. She is intimidating, but then, I see it: “Love Potion” the bottle reads.

“A love potion can heal an existing relationship, you know? Doesn’t always have to be a love-at-first-sight situation.”

John hasn’t been romantic or intimate since we got pregnant… But I can’t afford this.

“Would you like a free sample?” The gypsy tiger steps closer to me.

My eyebrows raise in interest. “Free?”

The gypsy flashes me a smile that makes my palms and in between my fingers sweaty. A gradual cheshire cat smile. She knows she has me.

“Nothing to fear, Mama”—she walks even closer to me—“but just a little advice from an old gypsy, nothing is free in this world.” I can feel her soft paws place a small vile in my hands. She winked at me and said, “You’ll see me again one day when I might need a favor from you.”  She softly pushes my back and I start to walk off, glancing back towards her after a few steps. She never stopped smiling.

As soon as I return home, I examine the bottle again.

Seems simple enough, right? Just drink the liquid and John will be head over balls in love with me again.

I down the potion like it’s a shot of tequila, which felt strange being pregnant, then I hear the garage door open.

John…

His footsteps make my heart palpitate.

Did I just make a huge mistake? What if it doesn’t work? What favor am I going to owe that gypsy?

He comes around the hall and meets my eyes with his. He stops in the doorway of our bedroom where I’m sitting on the bed. He looks at me up and down and then gives me a smile that makes my palms and in between my fingers sweaty. A gradual cheshire cat-like smile. My heart stops as he bolts towards me. And I scream.

“What? What is it? Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” John concernedly takes to his knees and kisses my hands one by one. I let him.

Then I let him lift my shirt and kiss my large pregnant belly.

Then I let him kiss much more than that.

John lay me down and made me scream in a completely different context.

It worked.

 

***

 

The remainder of my pregnancy was amazing. One full month of pure happiness and orgasms, and now the twins are coming.

Sadie and Sarah are very early.

“Can I get you some ice chips, my love?”

“Yes, babe, please.”

As John leaves in search of ice, a familiar smile enters my hospital room. A cheshire cat smile that belongs to a gypsy tiger.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in here?” I asked the gypsy.

“My darling girl, I’m here for what’s mine.”

“Nothing here is yours.” I started shaking.

“Nothing in life is free, I once told you before. I will leave here with one of your babies after you deliver them today, and just to sweeten the deal, I will give your husband a lifelong potion that will keep him as he is now. One baby and one amazing man, doesn’t that sound like a fair deal?”

“Fair! You want one of my children? They are mine! These are my babies!”

“Fine,” the tiger growls at me. “Once you deliver your babies, your husband’s generous love will be gone, and he will return to exactly the man he was before.”

Suddenly the scar on the back of my head starts to itch, and I remember the warm, hairy, wet mess. With difficulty, I stand up out of the rollaway hospital bed and walk up to the gypsy tiger, so close that I can feel her breath moving my bangs.

“What kind of monster makes a woman choose between her husband and children?”

The gypsy tiger gives me one last gradual cheshire cat smile and says, “A hungry one.”

Picture of Tiffanny Haacker

Tiffanny Haacker

Born in Heidelberg, Germany, Tiffanny Haacker has a unique perspective on the world. Her experiences growing up in a multitude of different cultures between Europe and the USA have shaped who she is today. She is ready to share her stories with the world. As a current full-time student at Full Sail University, she loves writing short stories during her free time and is a sucker for anything horror, thriller, or romance. She loves leaving her readers frustrated and hungry for more.

Embrace the Darkness

I embrace the darkness like a lover. It gives me solace in this vast emptiness because it is my darkness.

I don’t know exactly when I decided to claim it. For a very long time, I seemed to wander like a wraith without form or substance in the great void, reaching out with limbs which were no longer present, yet the memory of them still fired in my sentient regions. Like phantom limbs. It took me much longer to realize more than my limbs were missing. I could not count toes or fingers or even a nose or ears. I had become the Great Nothing. And I did not like it one bit. I was bereft. I wanted to sob endlessly, but it was impossible as I had no tear ducts because I had no eyes. Yet how did I manage to see?

I have encountered many times in my existence where things did not quite work out the way I had planned or even hoped. I eventually came to understand that was often the case and it was part of being alive and dealing with whatever fate handed me. I’m not one to knuckle under or allow myself to be taken for a ride, but sometimes, no matter how hard you resist or how long you fight, you just don’t win.

Yes, I’m a fighter. That is probably part of the problem and what might have contributed to why I am here talking to you right now. By the way, are you even listening or am I whispering these words of wisdom to myself?

Ask me if I even care. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t even exist. I can shut you out just as easily as I might allow you in. All of this is entirely under my control.

When I first realized I had changed and I was no longer what I used to be, I had some agonizing spells of rage and absolute panic. I don’t know how long that lasted as time does not really matter here. You might have heard me howling or weeping and gnashing my teeth. I’ve been told that is a normal reaction when you first become aware. I don’t even know who told me that because, as far as I can tell, I am mostly alone.

So, now you are wondering where here is? So many questions. Always the grimy little questions: Turn on this light if you mean yes. Blink the flashlight twice if you mean no. Say your name. Do you remember your name? Are you looking for someone? Your lost son? Are you lost? Do you understand English or shall I try another language? I have a language translator program on my phone.

All these electronic devices. It is quite wearisome. What if I lived during the 1800s and had never even seen anything electronic? Have you given thought to that? Or would you consider me to be ignorant just because you have access to these “new-fangled” things and I might not even know of their existence? I’m not going to rant on and on about this, but it is a sore point with me and one that does not have an answer. I don’t get answers. All I receive are those infernal questions.

I’m getting used to the idea that I cannot point my finger and poke it in your eye if I need to do so (which is really what I wish to do), but I have learned to toss things about. You and the others sigh and ooh and aah and talk about someone called a poltergeist. Believe it or not, I watched television and I know what that is and, if the mood strikes me, I might get into flinging things but if I am going to expend that much energy, I sure as hell will be trying to hit you or someone. Just to get your full attention. It’s only fair. After all, you’re the one who has come here disturbing my peace and my darkness. You ought to pay some price for the inconvenience you are causing me.

It’s not like I’m totally alone here. The truth is, I can choose to be alone or not, but there are others here at various stages of comprehension. Some are very old and having studied history at one point, I find their recall of historical data to be quite fascinating and, obviously, more accurate than the textbooks, though a defender of the swill that is put into some history books might well argue that their memory might be fallible. I’m not one to judge. All that crap left me long ago. Or at least it seems like it was long ago.

I don’t really have any burning issues. I can turn on their little light and I can speak into their voice recorder and I deliberately garble my voice and try not to laugh. They are such freaking fools over this. Sometimes I think they wet themselves when I speak an intelligible word.

Just thinking about what my laughter might sound like, a Vincent Price Wannabee for sure. The thought gives me chills, or it might if I had the ability to feel. I’m working on it. I never give up once I have a goal in mind.

The problem is, I am feeling a bit aggravated. I remember so much and it’s coming back to me stronger with each effort whenever I reach back and try to pull a memory forward. Otherwise, I suppose it would just go all gray and be swallowed up and no longer exist, but I don’t want that. I want to remember. At least, I believe I need to remember some things and some people. Those issues are important to me. Even now.

I can see quite well in this darkness. I don’t even need my old glasses. Yes, I do remember wearing those clunkers and then moving up to contact lenses and feeling almost young again, until I scratched my cornea and injured my eye during one of my fights. Note to others; remove your glasses or your contacts when you’re planning to brawl.

Here they come again. Shh. I like to listen in on their excited chatter and then that guy with the camera who is scared shitless of the dark but won’t admit it and the one who leads the crew doesn’t really believe in any of this but he’s doing it for the views on YouTube.

Damn. That one girl is vomiting. She really is scared. Now the place reeks of puke and no one is happy about that. And yes, in case you care to ask, I can smell if I want to. In this case, I’ll just shut off my hyperosmia.

This is actually kind of cool. I have a lot more control. All of my sensorium has expanded in many ways and I have to say that it is quite entertaining. There’s nothing else to do here in the darkness. There’s no TV or radio. Only the visits from these crews that come through.

Some of them reek of alcohol, and I know they had to booze it up to find the courage to come down here.

I’m getting quite a rep. More and more of these groups come through looking for a cheap thrill so they can run home and tell their mama or their friends about this experience. Or post it on social media for sure.

I admit, I have done a few dramatic things. Just for my own entertainment. Actually, I had them squealing and running like three blind mice. It was disappointing no one gave me a knife to cut off their tails.

If I need a knife, I can find one. I don’t have to wait for others to make decisions or choices for me. I am free in this domain of darkness and I feel the rush of it as it feels me, despite my lack of corporeal substance.

I can even turn the lights on in this dark basement. It’s lots spookier with the flashlight illumination and I can make their lights flicker and go out. That’s when the screaming really begins and they try to trample over each other to get out of here. Even that big guy. He really is a scaredy cat.

It’s been quiet for a while now. I wonder what happened to that group who used to come all the time. I’m not getting bored or anything, but I do like to play a little game whenever they trundle down those stairs.

So many questions. Sometimes the questions hurt.

“How did he die?” One girl asks and her voice is all shivery.

I’m not sure what she is asking and whether I’m the one to answer. I could give her my name if she asked politely, or I could be obstinate and not answer at all.

I am straining to hear the answer to her question, listening with these ears I no longer possess. But the response sounds jumbled or mumbled as though someone or something is deliberately interfering or editing, so I will not hear the answer to that important question.

Now there is only silence and the darkness and the memory of that question. It seemed crucial in so many ways which I cannot explain. I feel as though I’ve been reading a book and some nasty creep tore out the last page, so I might not ever know the answer to that question.

Someone died.

Then I remember I am here nearly alone in the darkness and I have no fingers or toes and yet my brain seems to be working just fine. I try to keep it charged up. It’s not like I am just doing nothing here in this darkness. I am thinking. I am also planning. I don’t want to be here forever. Whatever that means. Even when I try to ask the others, they grow silent. Is there some conspiracy keeping me from knowing?

Thoughts of escape are filling me now. Then I remember running and knowing that I could not escape. I can feel the heat of my breath as I gasp for air and run from my pursuer, but it is not enough.

If I close my sightless eyes, I even see the blood and the axe coming down on my head again and again. And I still do not know why.

And now I remember this is where I met my brutal death. A part of me wishes to be swallowed by this darkness and to forget the horror.

There is a strong memory now and I can see his face, splattered with my life’s blood. I shall never forget that hideous and hateful face. I don’t even know why I had to die.

When I become aware again, I know I am not ready to forgive or to forget, and I am coming up with a plan. I will escape and I shall find that one who held that axe so brutally and bludgeoned my brain into what he thought would be nothingness. But I am here. I am awake. I shall find him, as it doesn’t matter how long it takes. If he does not return to the scene of his crime, then I will grow stronger and shall shroud myself in malevolence and the power of retribution.

I have the time. I have all eternity

Picture of Linda Sparks

Linda Sparks

Linda Sparks is a poet and author of horror poetry, stories and books. She has been published by Ravens Quoth Press, Clarendon House Publishing, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillwords, Kaidankai and many others. She also served as editor for Valkyrie Magazine.

The Dark House by Max Bindi

As I went down along the road,

A strange dark house

I saw through the fog

with no windows on the walls

but a tall, wide-open door.

So, I stepped inside mesmerized

by the indoor music and the dim lights

and weird things came to my sight

like wild dreams before my eyes

I walked through a somber, cobwebbed hall

which led to an ancient staircase

and as I climbed the creaking steps,

I felt caught in a spellbound daze.

So, I came to a room on the upper floor

where the music flew into a muffled roar

and a white lady stood eerily there

her face framed with long black raven hair

she turned to me a long hypnotic stare

and her eyes compelled me to follow her

So, both we went through a corridor’s glare

into the very seat of madness and despair

we entered a chamber full of raging fires

we sank into that hell as if in a deep mire

and I saw the flames morph into snakes

and their bites hurt like all my life’s mistakes

and then those poisonous fangs reached for my neck

and all around me went completely black.

When I woke up, it was almost dawn

the house and the fog were both gone

leaving no mark on my flesh and bones

but a maiden’s name etched in my heart of stone.

Picture of Max Bindi

Max Bindi

Max Bindi is an Italian Author/Translator/Poet. His work has been featured in Poetry Anthologies by publishers such as The SFPA, HellBound books, The Ravens Quoth Press etc. as well as in a variety of international Literary Magazines both online and in print, including: Aphelion, The Horror Zine, The Sirens Call eZine, Lovecraftiana (Rogue Planet Press), Raven Cage Zine, Better Than Starbucks and elsewhere. He was nominated for the Dwarf Stars Award in 2023.

Obliteration – Part Three by Jodi Jensen

Abby’s arms ached. Her daily jogs had done nothing to prepare her for carrying a thirty-five-pound sleeping toddler all night over rough terrain. As dawn broke, she shifted her son yet again and stifled a yawn.

Lance stopped abruptly in front of her. “Look,” he pointed down the slope at a half-dozen red rooftops peeking through the trees.

They watched for a moment, but didn’t see any signs of life.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Abby whispered.

Lance brought the rifle to his shoulder. “Only one way to find out. C’mon.”

She trailed behind her husband, her anxiety growing as they got closer to the cabins. With every step, leaves crunched underfoot, making her cringe, but still nothing stirred.

Lance glanced back, then nodded at an older blue pick-up truck parked near the first cabin. He met her gaze and placed a finger over his lips.

Abby nodded and held Eric closer, grateful he was still sleeping. She fell back a few steps while Lance approached the truck. Once he’d looked in the windows and truck-bed, he lowered the gun and motioned for her to come closer.

“Wait here while I check the cabin,” he whispered.

Her gaze darted around the forested landscape, and she turned back to him. “I won’t be able to see anything coming through the trees. I’d rather stay with you.”

He hesitated, his eyes on his son, then agreed. “Stay behind me and keep quiet.”

Abby followed him as he crept up the front steps and peeked in a window.

With a quick look over his shoulder, he shook his head, then lifted a fist to knock.

A soft crunch nearby had her reaching for her husband. She touched his arm, then motioned to the corner of the house. “Did you hear that?”

Lance turned and cocked his head as a loud rustling sounded in the bushes. He shoved the rifle tight against his shoulder. “Come on outta there!”

A brown snout appeared around the corner, sniffed, then suddenly a blood-covered Golden Retriever bounded in their direction, half-barking, half-whimpering.

Eric’s head popped up as he let out a wail and Abby stumbled backwards on the porch, away from the dog.

Lance held out a hand. “Hey, there. It’s okay fella, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The animal slowed, its tail swishing hesitantly.

“That’s it,” Lance cooed, “you’re okay.” The instant his fingers brushed the soft fur under its chin, the dog’s entire body wagged in delight.

Abby breathed a sigh of relief. “Look, it’s a doggie.”

Eric clung to her neck, his small body trembling.

“It’s okay. See Daddy petting him?” She took a step closer, trying not to cringe at the blood soaking its fur and nudged her husband. “He’s hurt.”

“I don’t think it’s his.” Lance ran his hands over the dog. “I don’t feel a wound anywhere. There’s a collar though.” He fingered the tag. “Sadie. Is that your name, Sadie?”

The dog licked his hand, tail swinging with wild abandon now.

Lance shot Abby a quick look. “Wonder what happened?” He patted Sadie’s head. “Where’re your owners? Are they hurt?”

Eric finally peeked at the dog. “Oggie?”

“Yes, baby, that’s a doggie.” Abby frowned as she glanced around, even more uneasy than before. “Surely they wouldn’t just leave her here like this.”

Lance scrubbed a hand through his hair, pausing before turning to the front door once more. “Just let me look, I’ll be quick, I promise. Whoever’s blood that is might be inside.”

“I don’t feel safe out here alone.” She was struggling to keep Eric in her arms. Now that he was fully awake, he was squirming to get down. “That person could just as easily be out here somewhere, or worse, the person who caused that,” she said, with a nod at the blood-stained dog.

“I can check the inside faster than out here.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Sixty seconds. Stand with your back to the wall and stay alert.” He snatched his pistol from his waistband and handed it to her. “Fire if you need me.”

Biting her tongue, Abby backed up against the wall and nodded. “Hurry.”

Lance twisted the knob, and finding it unlocked, slipped inside.

Abby settled Eric firmly on her hip, then looked at Sadie. “Can you sit?”

At the familiar command, Sadie sat, her tail sweeping the porch behind her in a continual show of happiness.

“Good girl,” she muttered, “now, stay.” Hopeful the dog would obey, Abby scanned the trees again as the seconds ticked by in her brain.

As promised, Lance was back before she’d mentally hit sixty, his face pale and drawn. “C’mon, we can’t stay here.” He jiggled a set of keys. “Let’s see if that truck starts.”

Abby’s gaze flew to the door. “What did you see in there?”

“An old couple, both dead.” He touched her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

She gripped her son a little tighter and followed Lance to the truck. “What about—” Before she could get the rest of the question out, Sadie ran down the steps and went straight to the truck, whining by the back tire.

“Guess she’s coming, too.” Lance lowered the tailgate, and she jumped in.

Abby climbed in the front and snapped the seatbelt around her and Eric, relieved when the truck roared to life.

For the next half hour, Lance systematically checked five other cabins, all with the same result. No one was left alive, and all had died violent deaths, their bodies ripped apart and shredded, he’d said.

At the end of the dirt road, back from the main cluster of homes, was one more cabin. A luxury two-story with floor-to-ceiling windows and a balcony over the front porch. Half of the roof was missing, and a thin pillar of smoke rose from behind.

Lance parked, and as with the other cabins, left her the pistol and went to investigate.

Eric fussed in her lap, so she set him in the middle of the bench seat. “Are you hungry, baby?” His little face lit up at that and she smiled as she reached for the survival bag. “Let’s see what we have in here.” She rifled through the contents until she found a sleeve of crackers. “Here we go.” While Eric munched happily, she kept watch for Lance. After several long minutes, he appeared from behind the cabin, his face grim.

She expected him to get back in the truck, but instead, he came and opened her door. “What is it?” she asked. “What’d you find?”

“There’s one of them back there. It’s dead.” His mouth tightened in a deep frown. “I think it’s what killed all these people.”

“I want to see it.” She moved to get out, but Lance stood in her way.

“I don’t want you going back there alone, there could be more of them.” He glanced at his son. “And I definitely don’t want him to see.”

“Then come with me,” she said, passing Eric over to him. “You can hang back a little, keep him turned away. I need to see it; to know what we’re dealing with.”

Lance nodded, though his frown didn’t diminish. “C’mon, Sadie, you can come, too.”

She followed her husband to the back of the truck as he let the dog out. “What if she runs off?”

“I don’t think she will, not unless she’s chasing something. She’s used to people, and now hers are gone. We’re all she’s got.” He patted his thigh as they headed around the side of the cabin. “Sadie, come.”

With the dog trotting beside her and Lance right behind, Abby approached a pile of smoking metal.

Oh, my God! It isn’t a meteor, it’s a ship!

Next to the smoldering remains, lay a body. A human body. A man.

She turned to Lance, a question poised on the tip of her tongue.

“Over there.” He nodded at the back deck.

As she approached, two more bodies came into view. One, a man with a gun lying next to his lifeless body. His throat and torso had been slashed to ribbons and blood splattered gore covered the otherwise pristine deck.

Her stomach turned.

The other body, the alien one, had a definite human-like form, with two arms and legs attached to a torso. What exposed skin there was looked like flat gray clay. The head was bald, slightly larger, rounder, with only small holes where the ears should have been. Wide sightless eyes stared up at the sky, their solid black color making her shiver. The hands were more like claws; long, skinny, and ending with razor-like fingertips. Blood-covered razor-like fingertips. The creature’s mouth was small, no lips, just an opening filled with spiked teeth. The being wore a one-piece cargo-type of coverall with clawed feet showing at the bottom. The torso was riddled with bullet holes.

She covered her mouth and nose with one hand and held her stomach with the other as she turned back to Lance.

“Inside is clear.” He passed her their son, then grabbed hold of the dog’s collar. “Take him inside, find whatever food and first-aid supplies you can while I burn this thing. Go around front. I unlocked the door for you.”

Abby clutched her son to her chest and hurried to the front of the cabin, eager to escape the stench of blood and death.

Once inside, she glanced around at the ruined space, filled with a sadness she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t as if she knew these people, yet, somehow, she mourned the loss of the man who’d died defending himself and his home. And he’d taken the creature down with him.

“C’mon, kiddo, let’s see what we can find.” She set Eric down and took him by the hand into the kitchen where she found a cupboard containing pots and pans. She left it open for him to play with the contents while she rummaged through the other cupboards, setting canned goods, packages of dried fruits and nuts, and bottles of water on the countertop.

By the time Lance joined her, she’d also collected a can opener, a couple of knives, some plastic plates, and silverware and a small pile of bandages, hydrogen peroxide, and pain reliever pills.

“It’s done,” he announced. “Let’s find something to put all this in.”

“Can’t we just load all of it in the back of the truck?”

“For now,” he agreed. “But once the gas runs out, we’ll be walking. We need to take what we can carry.”

“I’ll look around, I know the kinds of places I’d store backpacks and bags.” She left her husband with Eric and went upstairs to search the bedrooms. She found what she was looking for in the hall closet and returned with two backpacks, a duffel bag, and a shoulder tote to which she’d added soap, towels, and sunscreen.

While she packed the supplies, Lance took one of the backpacks and used a knife to cut two holes in the bottom.

“What’re you doing?” Abby frowned at him. “How’re we going to carry anything in that now?”

“It’s for Eric,” he said. “Here, put this on and let me see what else I need to do to make this thing work.” Obliging him, she stood still while he tightened all the straps, then picked up the baby and slid his legs through the holes. Eric giggled as Lance made a few more adjustments. “There we go, snug as a bug in a rug.”

Abby walked across the room and back, testing the weight. “It feels pretty stable.”

“We can take turns carrying him.” Lance grabbed the other bags. “Let’s get moving.”

Once everything was loaded, they drove, sticking to the dirt roads, higher into the mountains, until the gas ran out. After that, they took as much as they could carry and walked.

At dusk, they came across an overgrown set of railroad tracks overlooking a valley.

Hand in hand they trampled through the weeds as they followed the train tracks.

There had to be more survivors, they just had to find them

Picture of Jodi Jensen

Jodi Jensen

Jodi Jensen grew up moving from California, to Massachusetts, and a few other places in between, before finally settling in Utah at the ripe old age of nine. The nomadic life fed her sense of adventure as a child and the wanderlust continues to this day. With a passion for old cemeteries, historical buildings and sweeping sagas of days gone by, it was only natural she’d dream of time traveling to all the places that sparked her imagination.

Ω Editor Dean Shawker

Dean Shawker

Dean Shawker hails from Bracknell, UK, and now lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Dean is co-founder and editor of Black Hare Press.

Having found that his BSc in Bioengineering and BA in Digital Media were as useful in real life as calculus and geometric proofs, Dean now works in commercial non-fiction during the day and moonlights as a minion of the hell hare, Captain Woundwort, in the dark hours.

He writes speculative fiction and dark poetry under the pseudonym Avery Hunter, and edits under the name D. Kershaw.

You’ll usually find him hanging out with the rest of the BHP family in the BHP Facebook group, or here as a servant to the Stygian Lepus.

Ω Editor Jodi Christensen

Jodi Christensen

Small town Utah is where Jodi calls home. She spends her days in a turn-of-the-century farmhouse, reading, writing, editing, and mentoring other writers. Her daily companions consist of her rambunctious and adorable six-year-old grandson and two rowdy dogs, all of whom bring her great joy.

Jodi has had a love of books for as long as she can remember. As a child, she filled her backpack weekly at the library, devouring story after story and returning the books early to trade for a new stack. She wrote her first adventure at the age of nine, a fanfic Boxcar Children story, and since then, has let her imagination be her guide.

As an author, Jodi writes time travel romance and dark speculative fiction. As an editor, she works on anything and everything that finds its way across her desk. Some of her favorite stories to read, write, and edit include; post-apocalyptic fiction, dystopian stories, and end-of-the-world adventures. She also enjoys dark romance, time travel romance, historicals, and horror stories, particularly the psychological kind. Above all else, she’s a sucker for a great character.

Ω Editor Kara Hawkers

Kara Hawkers

Kara Hawkers is a poet and author of short, dark fiction.

As Editor-in-Chief, Kara devotes most of her time to operating The Ravens Quoth Press, along with her partner.

If left unsupervised, you’ll find her dabbling in other arts.

Just three ravens in a trench coat.

Eating the Elephant: Packaging by Kimberly Rei & Dean Shawker

Whether you are overhauling and relaunching one of your books, or launching a new one, the cover and blurb are two of the most important factors.

 

Make your cover sparkle

Your book’s cover is vitally important because it serves as the initial visual representation of the content.

It’s the first thing potential readers see, and it often shapes their perception of the book’s genre, tone, and quality.

A well-designed cover not only attracts attention but also communicates key elements of the book’s story or subject matter, helping to align reader expectations with the actual content. Additionally, in an increasingly crowded marketplace, a striking cover can make a book stand out against the competition, increasing its chances of being noticed and picked up.

 

It can seem like you need to make your cover a disjointed mishmash of every single element, but tone down that creativity. Just choose one or two things you want to convey and use that. Or something abstract that conveys a mood. And always remember images are the copyright of the artist. Get properly licensed images, create your own, or commission something. You can get images from websites like depositphotos.com, shutterstock.com, stock.adobe.com. istockphoto.com, amongst others. Don’t just download one off the internet because you liked it—imagine someone stealing your story, all your hard work, then sticking it in a book with their own cover image. That’s what you’d be doing. Ethically and legally wrong, so don’t do it.

 

Determining what would make a good cover for your book involves considering several factors:

  1. Genre and Audience: Understanding the genre conventions and preferences of your target audience is crucial. A cover should reflect the style and imagery commonly associated with your genre while also appealing to the specific tastes and expectations of your readership.
  2. Theme and Tone: The cover should visually convey the overarching themes and tone of your book. Whether it’s whimsical and light-hearted, or dark and mysterious, the design elements should align with the emotional experience you want readers to have.
  3. Visual Impact: A good cover grabs attention and creates intrigue. Strong visuals, bold typography, and vibrant colors can all contribute to the overall impact of the cover, making it more likely to catch the eye of potential readers.
  4. Professionalism: Investing in a professionally designed cover is essential. A well-executed cover design not only looks polished and appealing but also signals to readers that the book is of high quality and worth their time and money.
  5. Branding and Consistency: If your book is part of a series, or you’ve established a brand identity, it’s important to maintain consistency across your book covers. This helps readers recognize your books and reinforces your author brand.

 

Ultimately, a good cover should be visually compelling, thematically relevant, and effectively targeted to your specific audience, enticing them to explore further and ultimately choose your book.

 

 

What’s a blurb?

A blurb is a concise summary or endorsement typically found on the back cover of a book and in promotional materials. 

It’s a teaser, providing potential readers with a glimpse into the book’s content, themes, and style. 

well-crafted blurb is essential to marketing your book because it acts as the second point of contact between the book and its audience, enticing them to pick it up and learn more. A compelling blurb can capture attention, spark curiosity, and convey the book’s value proposition, ultimately influencing a reader’s decision to purchase and engage with the material. By effectively communicating the book’s unique selling points and generating interest, a blurb plays a crucial role in driving sales and building an audience for the book.

 

Crafting a compelling blurb involves several key elements to capture the readers’ attention and entice them to choose your book.

  1. Hook: Start with a captivating opening that grabs readers’ attention and makes them want to know more. This could be a thought-provoking question, a compelling statement, or an intriguing scenario related to the book’s plot or subject matter.

In a world dying due to toxins in the air, water, and soil, no babies have been
naturally conceived in years.

  1. Synopsis: Provide a concise summary of the book’s main premise, central conflict, and key characters. Focus on the most engaging aspects of the story while avoiding spoilers. Highlight what makes your book unique and why readers should care about it.

But RaShell Bionics has a solution to solving the problem of the decreasing population; genetically engineered hybrid clones with the ability to reproduce.

That is, until the discovery of an underground settlement and its secrets changes everything.

Now Sabine Reed, a geneticist from RaShell, has fled her lab to join the settlement and uncover the key to restoring the world. With the help of ex-security officer, Xander Mitchell, she hatches a plan to convince the head of RaShell Bionics to stop using clones to reproduce.

  1. Emotional Appeal: Appeal to readers’ emotions by conveying the emotional stakes of the story or the relatable struggles of the characters. Show how the book can evoke powerful emotions such as excitement, suspense, empathy, or inspiration, making readers eager to experience the emotional journey themselves.

But when her plan fails, the cost is higher than she ever could have imagined.

  1. Social Proof: Include endorsements or accolades from reputable sources, such as bestselling authors, respected publications, or notable figures in your genre. Positive reviews or endorsements add credibility and reassure potential readers that your book is worth their time and investment.
  2. Call to Action: Encourage readers to take the next step, whether it’s purchasing the book, downloading a sample, or joining a mailing list. Use persuasive language to motivate readers to engage with your book immediately.

A futuristic thriller from Jodi Jensen to keep you on the edge of your seat. Grab your copy now and discover the spine-tingling world of supernatural suspense.

 

(Editor’s note: now we have you captivated, go buy Children of RaShell by Jodi Jensen here – https://books2read.com/Jensen-RaShell).

 

When putting together a blurb, consider the following tips:

Keep it concise: Aim for a length of around 100-200 words to maintain reader interest and avoid overwhelming them with too much information.

  Focus on the most compelling aspects of your book: Highlight what sets your book apart from others in its genre and why readers should choose it over alternative options.

● Use vivid language: Paint a vivid picture of the book’s world, characters, and themes using descriptive language that engages the reader’s imagination.

 Test and iterate: Once you’ve drafted your blurb, seek feedback from beta readers, critique partners, or professionals in the publishing industry. Revise and refine the blurb based on their feedback to ensure it effectively communicates the essence of your book and resonates with your target audience.

 

By incorporating these elements and following these tips, you can create a compelling blurb that captures readers’ interest and motivates them to pick up your book.

Picture of Kimberly Rei

Kimberly Rei

Kimberly Rei, in addition to writing creepy tales, is an editor with Black Hare Press and takes joy in offering the wobbly wisdom of her experience. She does her best work in the places that can't exist...the in-between places where imagination defies reality. With a penchant for dark corners and hooks that leave readers looking over their shoulder, she is always on the lookout for new ideas, new projects, and new ways to make words dance. Her debut novelette, Chrysalis, is available on Amazon. Kimberly lives in gorgeous Florida where the Gulf hides monsters and the sun is a special kind of horror.

Picture of Dean Shawker

Dean Shawker

Dean Shawker hails from Bracknell, UK, and now lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Dean is co-founder and editor of Black Hare Press.

Having found that his BSc in Bioengineering and BA in Digital Media were as useful in real life as calculus and geometric proofs, Dean now works in commercial non-fiction during the day and moonlights as a minion of the hell hare, Captain Woundwort, in the dark hours.

He writes speculative fiction and dark poetry under the pseudonym Avery Hunter, and edits under the name D. Kershaw.

You’ll usually find him hanging out with the rest of the BHP family in the BHP Facebook group, or here as a servant to the Stygian Lepus.

2024-Edition 15

A Free Sample by Tiffanny Haacker
Don’t Call It the Blues by Joan Mazza
Drafting a Memoir by Joan Mazza
Eating the Elephant: Packaging by Kimberly Rei & Dean Shawker
Embrace the Darkness by Linda Sparks
I Wonder by Elliot Pearson
Inauguration by Carol Stewart
Moriah by Leon Marks
Nightus by Caitlin Donnelly
Obliteration – Part Three by Jodi Jensen
Redress by Nick Young
The Dark House by Max Bindi
The Distance Shrivels by D.A. Cairns
Wandering Star by Elliot Pearson
Wonderland by Mortem