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Contents shown in the approximate order they will appear in the finished zine.
Cover image by Daevid Ford
was published on
Setting the Record Straight
Let it begin, though I still don’t understand myself why I wish to set the record straight. Perhaps as I dictate to you, and you make your notes and recordings it shall become apparent to me. Perhaps, Andrew, when you draft this record of events and I read it, perhaps then it shall make sense to me. My name, well it is hardly of any use that I tell you my given name, no-one knows that. The records of events were changed so much when F… Jonathon Harker had Bram Stoker transcribe the notes into the melodrama called Dracula. In that tome, to protect my reputation (and more importantly that of my fiancé), they called me Lucy Westenra and so, to this record, that is what I will remain.
Much of what Stoker wrote was falsehood. Things were changed to preserve a sense of decorum, yet other things were changed to add a sense of melodrama to the events. Some have hypothesised that Dracula survived and caused Stoker to change the details. Let me tell you this; that the man you call Dracula did survive and I am sure would have much to say about the hokum that Jonathon invented surrounding the stay at his castle. Not least of all that he was a Draculea – or indeed Vlad Tepes, Vlad the third. The only similarity was in given-name for he was called Vladislav Farcas, though I suspect that he chose his own familial name, he does have a flair for the dramatic. The association with a Wallachian Prince was purely an embellishment by Stoker and, given I never met the fellow, I cannot say why he chose to confuse their identities. Anyway, dear Vladislav did not influence Stoker, there was no need.
Believing in Luck
Alfwin cringed. Although he’d opened the temple door without a sound, his entrance had been accompanied by an icy blast of wind. He closed the door quickly behind him and stayed where he was – in the shadows at the back of the temple.
My Pretty Pony
It was a given that when humanity made breakthroughs in genetic engineering and artificial wombs, our civilization would end in the insidious hell of a bioengineered microbe. I sometimes wonder in the Hour of the Rat, those early morning hours when my thoughts come out and gnaw on me, if we might have been better off?
Authorities in charge of New York City’s annual Tap City Dance Festival were alarmed when they received a letter from lawyers representing the city’s Monster Community. The monsters demanded the right to have 500 of their most talented zombies perform as tap dancers. What’s more they wanted the zombies to demonstrate their dancing talents in front of Fox News Studios on Fifth Avenue, so the entire world could see their performance on TV.
Curse Of The Moon – Part Two
The Literary Hollow
In Literary Hollow, a hundred trees burned bright with the luminous literary skills of writers long dead, and a few living still. Creative essence transmogrified into oaks, elms, willows and maples represented Keats, Hemingway, Tolkien, and Twain.
Revenge Of The Deformer
“Just because they’re a bit disgusting looking, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re bad people.”
We wanted the transfer to be so much more sporting than when you wiped out the Neanderthals. Call it overconfidence, if you like, but we wanted to give you a fighting chance.
That’s where the idea of the negotiations came in. One representative from you and one from us. They would meet one day a year, every year, with one rule each. No matter how outlandish the rule was, both races agreed to adhere to it. It was our idea, so we chose first. By my calculations we had complete control until year four.
The Skin Changer’s Enemy
Wild flowers bloomed under a sky of purest blue, seeming to come to life by the artist’s hand. Muttering as she painted the bright colors, working a spell with each stroke of the brush, the mural was finally completed. The artist stood back to inspect her work, to assess if what she had done was good. It was. She smiled.
Dusk was spreading her inky fingers all around as I trudged wearily down the long road. Snow danced through the air carpeting everything in white. I slowly came to a standstill and carefully looked around me. Everywhere appeared to be absolutely quiet and still. My heart was beating so fast, I could hear it thump-thump, thump-thump.
The Healing Process
She wakes to the same annoying square of sunlight that always finds her face every god-damn morning, no matter how she positions her head on the pillow at night. And she knows she doesn't move in her sleep, men have told her so. She sleeps like something dead. The sweet-scented woman in the crisp white uniform will be coming by soon, and she will have pills, pills that always take away the ache of uncooperative sunlight. She cannot look outside her window until she has her pills.
Boston was a City on a Hill. It was also a bunch of communities separated by water, connected by bridges: tall bridges, short bridges; old bridges and new bridges; artistic and plain bridges. It is hard to get anywhere in the area without crossing a bridge of some sort.
The apple is swollen, red like desire. Succulent it seems. Though, imperceptible, half its juices are dripping with poison. We are drawn by a hunger and a twinge of delight at the prohibited—a dream of the untasted. Sometimes in our craving, we choose the wrong side.
Listen carefully, because what I’m about to tell you, you probably won’t believe. The closest anyone else has ever come to believing it was to justify it as an ‘out of body experience’, or whatever else they tell people who’ve been pulled back from the brink of death. They tell them anything that sounds vaguely scientific, because that way they never have to wonder themselves if there is anything bigger than this, anything bigger than us. Science, technology, medicine. In the end is it just another faith dependant explanation for things we can’t understand.
I see you in strange aeons,
I see you dead but dreaming,
Your death was merely dying,
The grave it could not hold you,
(Image to follow)
The Gypsy Curse – Final Part
A woman stood in the doorway; she was at once beautiful and terrifying. The hair that streamed around her face seemed to have a life of its own, as a sudden breeze flowed past her into the cellar. There came a howling, which Paul knew was just the wind, but which sounded like a hundred tortured souls in hell. The girl next to him found her voice again and screamed, a sound which threatened to burst his eardrums with its power and pitch. He turned back to her, his gaze leaving the figure in the doorway for a moment, and tried to calm her. A voice boomed towards them, impossibly fierce for the woman he had seen.
(Don't forget that if you want to read the first two parts of
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