Stitched Saturday

Greetings, horror fans!  We've now entered the most horror friendly period of the year - the evenings are drawing in, there is the hint of a chill in the air and - best of all - it's nearly Halloween. In two weeks time, I'll be taking submissions for a special Halloween Stitched Saturday, but in …

Stitched Saturday

Happy weekend to all you Stitched souls!  We have just one story submitted this week - but what a story - We have the absolutely outstanding Hair of the Dog by Aiden Leingod, which has to be read to be believed.  And, because we believe in spoiling you with excellent fiction, we have the seventh instalment …

Stitched Saturday

Hi, horror fans! You still have until next weekend to get your stories in for the next Stitched Saturday - details on last weeks blog - but you'll still get your horror fix this week in the form of the next installments of Born Of A Witch by Nick Paschall and In Dire Straits by …

Why I Spend My Sundays Watching Football

My writing is very personal. Even though it's fiction, it's born from the dark recesses of my mind and personal experiences. It comes from a place that the people around me can't get to. Don't get me wrong; I have an amazing support system, and therefore am better able to handle my depression than a …

Stitched Saturday

Three pictures to provide horror inspiration this week, and you have two weeks to get your pieces of short fiction in for submission on the blog - no word count this week, so let your imaginations run wild!  If you submit a tale, post it as a comment to this thread making a clear indication …

Houston Relief Charity Anthology #OpenCall

We are taking donations for short stories and poems for a charity anthology to help in the relief and recovery of Houston due to Hurricane Harvey.  Title & Theme: It Came From The Water Word Count: No Limit Reprints ok with proof of rights Deadline: September 30th Payment: None - 100% of proceeds will be …

Spree

He’s after me. The errant thought makes no sense. He can't be after me. He doesn't know me. Still, I run. My sneakers skid on the ancient tile, the squeal a harsh grate against the whining ping of ricocheting bullets. Slicked with cold sweat, my hand slips off the door knob. I fumble, manage to …