MasukThere are a lot more truths in the books we read, than we’d like to admit. What if a book delves into the lives of the very town you live in? Reveals to you some personal stories of people you know? Or thought you knew. Bookstore owner Kevin Ellison faces this truth when a mysterious book shows up in Through a Mirror, Darkly by Kevin Lucia. Through a Mirror, Darkly is a Supernatural Thriller collection masked as a novel. With elements of mystery, suspense, and otherworldly horror, Through a Mirror, Darkly successfully delves into the worlds of Lovecraft, Grant, and the mysterious Carcosa. ©️ Crystal Lake Publishing Arcane Delights. Clifton Heights' premier rare and used bookstore. In it, new owner Kevin Ellison has inherited far more than a family legacy, for inside are tales that will amaze, astound, thrill...and terrify: An ancient evil thirsty for lost souls. A very different kind of taxi service with destinations not on any known map. Three coins that grant the bearer's fondest wish, and a father whose crippling grief gives birth to something dark and hungry.
Lihat lebih banyakAnd I Watered It, With Tears was originally published in serial format in Lamplight Magazine, 2012-2013.
“The Time has come,” the Walrus said, “to talk of many things.”
— Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found ThereLewis Carroll“The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide A face not of this earth, though none dares ask just what those features are, which bulge inside.”— H. P. LovecraftAUTHOR BIOGRAPHY:Kevin Lucia is the Reviews Editor for Cemetery Dance Magazine. His short fiction has appeared in several anthologies, and he is the author of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, the short story collection Things Slip Through and the novella duet Devourer of Souls. He’s currently finishing his Creative Writing Masters Degree at Binghamton University, he teaches high school English and lives in Castle Creek, New York with his wife and children. Visit him at: www.kevinlucia.com or add him on Facebook at either www.facebook.com/kblucia or www.facebook.com/authorkevinlucia.
ARCANE DELIGHTSI slowly close the journal, settle it in my lap and gaze at its black leather-bound cover. I rub its pebbled surface lightly, thinking.Only stories.These are only stories. Fantastical stories. A little more fantastical than I usually prefer, though well-written, by someone with a much greater command of the craft than I yet possess. The vivid characterization, meticulous attention to detail and a surreal sense of place makes me want to believe these stories happened, but I know they couldn’t have, and am ready to dismiss them as nothing more than fiction . . .Except for Father Ward’s story.Father Ward, priest at All Saints church and headmaster at All Saints High. Casual childhood friend and more recently: my former boss.The story depicting his return from military service overseas supposedly took place eight years ago, when I was still teaching at Seton Catholic in Binghamton, so I wasn’t around when those events supposedly happened. And by the time I came t
AND I WATERED IT, WITH TEARS1.He sits in his idling truck, staring into the rain-streaked night, feeling the engine’s throb in the seats. Rain hisses against the cab’s roof while wipers smear water across glass with sliding thunks.He presses his iPhone against his ear.Listens.Sighs “Goodbye.” Hangs up, drops the iPhone onto the passenger seat, sits back and closes his eyes, feeling the engine’s throb.***“Andrew. I signed the papers this morning.”“Rachel . . . please. Let’s keep trying. Just a little longer . . . ”“It’s been a year, Andrew. We tried. And I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.”“Rachel . . . ”“The papers. Sign them. Don’t drag this out. Please.”***Thursday5:55 PMStanding at the end of a line which hadn’t moved for thirty minutes, Andrew McCormick pulled his iPhone from his pocket, slid his thumb across its touch-sensitive screen and groaned softly at the time.5:55 PMThe New York State Electric & Gas payment center closed at 6:00 PM. His
ADMIT ONEBobby Maskel’s socket wrench slipped off the bolt he’d been trying to loosen for the past twenty minutes. His knuckles slammed against metal. Pain flashed across his hand. He cursed, barely stopping himself from tossing the wrench against the wall, remembering at the last second Mr. Greene’s lectures about “respecting the workplace and the tools with which we make our living.”“Living my ass,” Bobby mumbled as he clenched his hand into a fist, examining the damage. “Only one making a living off this shit is Greene and his dumb-ass son.”After a brief inspection, it was clear he’d done nothing worse than scrape his knuckles. It stung all the same. Still pissed but calmer, Bobby regarded the dismembered snow-blower on the work bench, glaring as if he could lay the blame for his life’s misfortunes on its engine block and chassis.He was working ‘The Pit’ this month. He hated working The Pit. Greene’s Metal Salvage accepted all kinds of scrap metal and paid competitive rates.
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