Hello FlipSide followers! Due to an unforeseen injury, I’ll be taking a small break from all posts that are not currently scheduled to feature an author or a book. I’ll be back soon!
Today I have the pleasure of showcasing an interview with author Dean Harrison. Let’s take a few moments and get to know Dean a little better…
Dean Harrison is a longtime fan of horror fiction. His published work can be found in the anthologies FEM-FANGS, FELL BEASTS and TWISTED TALES FROM THE TORCHLIGHT INN. His first novel, THESE UNQUEIT BONES, will be released by Odium Media in early 2013.
Welcome Dean! Using ten words or less, tell me about your book.
Troubled teen uncovers the skeletons hidden in her family closet.
Interesting premise. What song would you want to play during the opening credits of your book were it made into a movie? Why?
Black Sabbath’s “Back to Eden”, because it fits the theme of Adam hunting down Eve in order to bring the world back to Paradise.
Who would you want to direct the story of your life? Is there anyone specific you’d like to play you?
Tim Burton. Edward Norton.
Short, simple and to the point – I like it! What is your writing process? Are you a planner or a pantser? Do you prefer to hand write your works or type them directly into your word processor?
I write for about two hours every weekday morning before work, and whenever I have the chance over the weekend. I don’t outline, but I keep a log of character notes and plot points. I prefer to type directly into the word processor. In my teens, when I first started dabbling in fiction writing, I was able to work longhand in spiral bound notebooks. No more. I feel the words flow better when my fingers are tapping the keys. Longhand just frustrates me, and I feel somehow limited and trapped. I guess it’s the illusion of space and freedom the computer screen provides.
That’s an interesting point. What advice would you give to a younger version of yourself: something you wish you knew then that you know now?
Just write. Don’t obsess over every little sentence and paragraph because there is no such thing as a perfect first draft. If you strive for perfection, you’ll get nowhere. So let the first draft be shit and you’ll get something done.
What are the 3 (three) books that really inspired you to become a writer?
In the order I read them, from preteens on up:
1) S.E. Hinton’s THE OUTSIDERS
2) R.L. Stine’s FEAR STREET series (Yes, I’m counting them all as one.)
3) Douglas Clegg’s THE HALLOWEEN MAN
Now it’s time for the Rapid. Fire. Questions.
- Coffee or tea? Coffee. In the morning, it turns me from zombie to human in two cups.
- Cats or dogs? Hmm… tough one. I have 2 cats and 2 dogs. But because I spent most of my life not having a dog and always wanting one, I’ll go with dogs.
- Snow or sun? I live in Mobile, Alabama, aka The Deep South, aka Hell’s humid furnace. I wouldn’t mind some snow every once in a while. I’m sure my friends up North would love to send some my way right about now.
- Print books or eReader? Print. Still haven’t jumped aboard the eReader train. It’s only a matter of time, though.
- Nachos or potato chips? Nachos. You get a little bit of everything with nachos.
- Baked or fried? Baked.
- Candy or chocolate? Chocolate.
- Comedy, Romance, or Horror? Is this a serious question? [Yes, it was…]
- Action, Science Fiction, or Animated? Not a big fan of any of these, but I’ll go with Action.
- Classics or Modern? Classics. Modern sucks these days.
- Old World or New World? Old World with New World advances.
- Sweet or spicy? I swing both ways.
- Comfort or Speed? Comfort. Speed kills.
Not let’s take a look at These Unquiet Bones…
Trying to get behind the truth of her mother’s death, Amy Snow unleashes the skeletons lurking in the dark of her father’s closet, and learns a terrible, twisted truth about her family tree. Meanwhile, a man named Adam is on a mission to restore Paradise to its former glory. To accomplish this, he must find “The Lost One,” a girl he calls Eve, and sacrifice her to the god she betrayed the day a talking serpent slithered into the Garden of Eden.
Don’t forget the clicking on the cover will take you to Amazon!
An Anthology from 7DS Books
A million times we’ve been told the tales of the haunted. We easily forget the original victims. Revenge. Truth. Love. Confusion. Resistance. Lurk inside the pages and discover seven soul-filled stories of why our haunters LINGER
Clicking on the cover will take you to Amazon!
Since this is a book one of my stories appears in, I’m going to give you a tidbit, a teaser if you will for my story that is contained within. Here’s a little bit from ‘Dead Things Don’t Play Nice’…
The tiny fingertips grasped the edge of the porcelain tub with all of their might, desperately trying to keep her head above water. The smooth surface was slippery but still the child strained, her knuckles turning white with exertion.
Trying a different tactic, the nails scraped at the hands that held her trapped beneath the surface. But drawing blood did not make those hands release her.
As she stared up at Mother, through the crashing waves caused by her frantic struggling, her eyes pleaded for release, for forgiveness, for anything that would stop the torment.
She knew Mother was sick. She’d even heard the doctor talking to her father when she was supposed to be playing quietly in her room. But Mother had been taking her pills and things had gotten better.
The ladies from Church barely came to visit anymore and she knew it made Mother very angry. She had seen Mother in the kitchen cursing them and promising herself she’d do something to make them notice her again.
Mother thrived on the attention she received; the pity in their eyes. It made her feel better, worthy in some odd way. The saddest part was that Mother had taken to hurting her own daughter just for the sake of that pity. First it was a broken arm, next a deep gash on her leg with a knife from the butcher’s block in the kitchen. Of course it had hurt, but she never stopped loving Mother. Believing that one day Mother would show regret for the things she’d done.
Instead it had gotten this far. It was late when Mother came into her daughter’s room, the smell of alcohol strong on her breath. In the background, the rush of water echoed against the tub’s walls down the hallway, the light from the open bathroom door dispelling the shadows in the far corner of her room. Mother sat down on the edge of the mattress, her hands busying themselves with different tasks like tucking her in and picking at a spot on the bed spread.
It took only a few moments for Mother to lift her up and whisk her down the hall into the bathroom. The heat of the water burned the tender skin as she was submerged, her lungs gasping for air. As hard as she fought, she was no match for the determination in Mother’s eyes.
One final gulping breath of water and she lay still; the fight easing from her muscles. Looking up, she knew Mother didn’t feel remorse—the big smile on her face was testament to her cruelty…
Want more? Pick a copy here…
All Rights Reserved © 2013 Julianne Snow
Eyes burning, you lay awake, unable to close them for blessed sleep. You cannot will your body to obey so instead you beg, plead, promise anything for just a few restorative moments. You need them, want them. Insanity clawing at your brain, shadows moving in each corner.
Muscles tired, tossing and turning doesn’t help. There’s nothing that can be done to make it better. Lying awake is exhausting, draining more precious energy.
You start, awake again. The singular moment blissful, but painfully short. The tears begin to escape down your face as your body racks with sobs. You only want a minute or two… Is that too much to ask?
All Rights Reserved © 2014 Julianne Snow
Today I’m going to be giving you a little more than 5 lines since this piece is exactly 300 words long. It appears in The Sirens Call Issue #13 – Women in Horror and is my flash contribution to our feature cleverly titled Comparative Flash Fiction.
What Nina and I do is select a photograph and each write 300 words using it as inspiration. This was our photo for this issue…
The first stone pinged off the side of the vehicle with animosity, thrown by a protestor from the crowd. Her angry face shone brightly before being lost among the sea of acrimony the bus travelled through. The passengers could only sit and stare, unsure of what was really going on and what would become of them. Herded up like animals, they’d been forced onto buses, their meagre possessions stripped from them by masked guards. Silently they sat, in a state of collective shock, their powers of comprehension failing them in the face of such secrecy and overwhelming authority.
The children cried and cuddled into their parents, not wanting to witness their fate, not understanding what was going on. All along their route, the people outside hurled their insults along with rocks, the outer casing of the bus only managing to keep out the rocks. As the windows weakened, so did the resolve of the worried inside. The masked and armed guards could see the collective composure slipping away with each barb, their poison spreading and infecting even the most determined. And then the screams of hatred and words of abuse exploded inward as the web expanded across the surface of the glass. The angry roar of the gathered filled the interior of the bus until there was no space for anything else. The air reeked of smoke, stale sweat and fear.
Slowing to a stop, great wrought-iron gates loomed in the front windscreen; they had arrived. But no one knew where they had been brought to. The gates opened and the bus rolled forward. Fences and makeshift buildings had been erected inside the walls—the space designed to keep those who inhabited it inside, while the others were kept out. But which side of the wall was clear of infection?
If you’d like to pick a copy of the eZine and see how Nina used the photo as her inspiration, you can download it for FREE on our website!
Today I have the pleasure of hosting an interview with James Glass, author of the newly released The Dispossessed (Book 2 of the The Metatron Mysteries). Let’s take a moment and learn a little more about James…
James Glass enjoys his privacy, but frequently finds that he plays an unwilling host to Xircon. When not visiting red light districts of red light cities, he can frequently be found contemplating life in the seediest of libraries.
Welcome James, now let’s get to the questions. Using ten words or less, tell me about your book.
Demon possession: not all it’s cracked up to be.
Sounds very interesting. What song would you want to play during the opening credits of your book were it made into a movie? Why?
‘The Devil His Due’ by Chris Randall because it would set the perfect tone for The Dispossessed, and because it is very much a go-to song when I need inspiration while writing.
Who would you want to direct the story of your life? Is there anyone specific you’d like to play you?
Stanley Kubric. I know that wish may never be granted, but one can dream. No one in particular as far as actors go.
Yes Stanley Kubric could bring an element of the fantastical into anything… What is your writing process? Are you a planner or a pantser? Do you prefer to hand write your works or type them directly into your word processor?
For the Metatron Mysteries the process has been more planned out. If I fail to plan and plot I tend to lose the flow of the story. For once, I need a roadmap.
Oh a roadmap is an excellent way to describe it! What advice would you give to a younger version of yourself: something you wish you knew then that you know now?
The biggest piece of advice I could give my younger self? When Xircon knocks, don’t open the door, and most certainly do not drink more than ten shots of Jack Daniel’s in one sitting.
Great advice on both counts! What are the three books that really inspired you to become a writer?
I can’t say it was a book that inspired me to become a writer. I have just always been a writer, albeit one trapped in an artist’s body.
Fair answer. Now it’s time for the Rapid. Fire. Questions.
- Coffee or tea? Yes.
- Cats or dogs? Yes.
- Snow or sun? Snow.
- Print books or eReader? Yes.
- Nachos or potato chips? Chips.
- Baked or fried? Fried.
- Candy or chocolate? Chocolate, hands down.
- Comedy, Romance, or Horror? Horredy.
- Action, Science Fiction, or Animated? Yes.
- Classics or Modern? Classics.
- Old World or New World? Old World.
- Sweet or spicy? Yes.
- Comfort or Speed? Yes.
I’d like to thank James for taking the time out of his busy tour schedule to answer my questions. For those of you who would like to connect with James, you can find him on Facebook, or on Sekhmet Press’ website. You can learn more about The Metatron Murders on Sekhmet Press as well.
Now let’s take a closer look at The Dispossessed…
Don’t forget to click on the cover to be taken to Amazon!
And here’s an excerpt for your pleasure:
Smith kicked at small bits of gravel as they made their way to the bar. For such a small town, it felt endless to him now. Pieces of the case were falling into place, but there were holes in the stories worrying him. He reviewed the details in his head, trying to make sense of it all.
The devil is in the details, Metatron spoke from the back of his mind.
No kidding, really? Smith thought with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
You’re no help, you know that?
The angel seemed to shrug at him and Smith could almost feel its smugness. It was times like this he hated the angel in his head. He would have sworn at it, but somehow it felt like it would be a sin.
The quartet reached their destination and found Jack sitting alone in an empty bar, head down. His position and the eerie quiet was unnatural and the hair on the back of Smith’s neck stood on end as he paused in the door. Lily turned to look at him, a question in her eyes.
“Something’s not right,” he whispered.
The grim set of her mouth told him he had just confirmed her own suspicions. She gave a small nod and motioned for him to come in.
The two demons had clearly had the same feeling and stood a cautious several paces from the table where Jack was sitting with hands folded and head resting on them as if he had taken a nap.
“Oh crap, he’s dead isn’t he?” Smith muttered.
The napkin holder on the table where Jack sat launched itself across the room, missing Smith’s head by mere inches. The detective dove to the floor with a cry.
“What the hell?!”
The waiter’s head snapped up. The man was clearly terrified.
“It’s not what you think!” he cried as they rushed toward him.
In my travels through the vast expanses of the internet, I sometimes come upon a gem of a site that keeps me coming back for more. One of those sites is run by my new friend Jerry Benns.
Please come and take a Trip Through My Mind…
Okay it’ll be a trip though Jerry’s mind, but he really does a great job of presenting content that is interesting and informative. From posting about other sites he enjoys to crafting articles based on topics that strike all authors from time to time, you can find Jerry exploring it all.
In fact, he recently posted an article that touched me deeply and it’s something I think you should all check out…
And with that I will leave you with a few words from Jerry himself:
Trip Through My Mind is the place where I vent and explore my perspective of the world around me. Join me on the journey.
Fear the Reaper (Joe Mynhardt, ed.)
This is a journey into the life of Death; a journey through this world and the next on the words of twenty one of the best horror writers around.
Will you follow them to stare into the eyes of the Grim Reaper? Can you handle the true story of the birth of Death, or the minute details behind catching or escaping Death, becoming Death? Dying? These are not just stories but horrific experiences of pain and death: the deaths of lonely people, famous people, entire worlds, and the death of innocence and the pain of those left behind as they wait their turn, wondering what it will be like – no one is safe from the Reaper!
Click on the cover to be taken to Amazon!
“Are you cold?” Annette stared at the figure huddled in the corner, piss and shit staining the concrete under its feet. There was little response aside from a shudder down the exposed spine. “There, there. It’ll all be over soon.”
Soon it wouldn’t matter; he’d be dead. And with his death, retribution. Her only regret: it wouldn’t last long enough…
Smearing the lip balm over her supple lips, Annette clicked the cap back into place. “Shall we begin?”
All Rights Reserved © 2014 Julianne Snow