A couple of weeks ago I talked a little about my story, "Unholy Spirit," and how it had been accepted for publication in "Under the Bed" Magazine. I'm happy to report that day is now. You can order it at this address: www.fictionmagazines.com
A story blurb and excerpt are included below. Also, a review of this issue can be found at: http://stayingscared.blogspot.com
Finally, for a limited time, all "Under the Bed" issues are on sale at 50% off. So enjoy!
“Unholy Spirit” Blurb:
Keisha Cartwright is a misanthrope. Not content with just idly hating her fellow human beings, she yearns to be more proactive. She’s also rich, cunning, dedicated, and ever so patient. Her deliberate misinterpretation of an anti-war novel gives her obscene inspiration.
Keisha’s victims are a mix of ages, races, genders, and home states. They do have one thing in common, though—the unspeakable atrocities that have been done to them. They’re prisoners held both behind literal walls, and within their own flesh.
The victims’ agony, and Keisha’s glee, continue on for years. Her busy schedule results in still more “clients” for her twisted schemes. Will anybody ever stop her? And even if they do, is it even possible to truly save her victims?
Keisha saw a photo of herself with (as he liked to be called) Mammon in college. He was dressed like a Goth guy, with dyed black hair, black painted fingernails, black long coat, and a Van Dyke beard. What a bunch of losers that group had been! Those Satanists had been almost as bad as the Christians. “Pray to the Dark Lord.” “Kneel before the Light Bringer.” Screw that. Prayer was for codependent, weak-willed assholes, no matter who it was to. Plus, all the witchcraft and magic was silly, too—did they really believe all that crap? She wasn’t even 100% that a Devil existed. And wouldn’t a God of Evil hate subservience, even in his favor? Maybe she was taking a chance, but she figured it was actions that were important, not trivial kneeling and recitation of bad poetry.
She was near the end of the pile of photos and keepsakes now. Ah, she remembered these ones, too. Serial killer trading cards. “Collect Them All!” it said on the packet, in dripping blood red letters. There was Ted Bundy, Gary Heidnik, Ed Kemper, Dean Corll, and even a lady, Belle Gunness. Shit. She thought she had the complete set of 64—where were the others? She flipped each over in turn and checked out their “stats.” Ah. There had been a time when she’d considered emulating them. But then reason had won out. Killing was so simple, so cliché. Any fool could, and did, commit them. It was so quick, too, usually. And there were spiritual considerations. If you killed a good person, you just sent them to their eternal reward that much faster. How was that punishment? And torture had it merits, but was kind of limiting as well. In the big picture, it was over too fast. And if it lasted for long, years even, the victim might get used to it, not suffer enough. She’d thought long and hard about this—what was the worst thing you could do to a person? There were lots of good candidates, like rape, but she wanted the crème de la crème of abuse, the pinnacle.