Tainted Tea

"Pagan fable" by Nathan Jonathan David Lee Rowark

2011-06-18T11:57:00.001-04:00

I looked into the darkness bound and found a wonderful site.
It wasn't blackest, bloody hell...it was the light.
And as it shone upon my face and it's warmth from cheek to chin.
I realised all the accepted lies concealed a bigger sin.

I accepted all the blackest truths surrounding all about.
And left the darkest circle cast in search of truths way out.
A pagan god of green and good became a devils skin of red.
And women who would teach a tribe to thrive were witches it was said.

Those who gathered secretly to sing a ritual sound
Were dragged to inquisitions court before being gagged and drowned
Yet in the mist of chaos wrought by those who said the truth they sought.
Came a stranger tale by far, for not all who practised were caught.

Fleeing to a foreign land that lay a thousand miles at hand.
Covans sprung from every state as feet would dance the muddy sand.
For bringing twenty first alive, the wise ones walk scapes far and wide.
Despite the twist of saints in awe, the celtic gods still stand with pride.

About Nathan:

Nathan Jonathan David Lee Rowark was born in the pagan county of Hertfordshire, England. Nathan has been writing since he was six years old and wrote his first novel at the age of twelve when he moved to Essex.

Nathan is Wiccan which he feels, along with life experiences, has helped to form ideas for his poetry. His family's surname was originally Warlock and it means, according to Norse sailors, "to bind with words," or "spell singer." Therefore, words are in his blood.

His first complete poetry collections, 'Age of the Warlock' and 'Social Hymn' are available to buy in e-book form now from: www.inspired-words.co.uk

"The Ha Ha Man" by Wendy Schmidt

2011-06-09T16:01:00.003-04:00

Club cheese and paper, an odd combination but they put Kaukauna, Wisconsin on the map. The place is not particularly charming or considered an essential tourist’s destination. The people are no nonsense types, hardworking and family oriented.

They like football, Sunday services, cookouts and big wedding receptions. These down to earth folks aren’t much interested in local gossip or circulating rumors. That’s why the events that took place in the summer of 1967 still baffle us and stay stuck in our memories even though they happened 30 years before.

Once a week a few of my old high school chums and I meet at Ho Ho’s Coffee Shop. We gather for girl talk and some reminiscing. One cold winter’s day I happen to mention a creepy bit of our local history that’s not well known outside the city limits. A few of the women around the table became much more animated and it wasn’t because of all the caffeine they’d been guzzling. Each one offered up different pieces of information. After several hours we managed to put most of the puzzle together. I wondered why this weird little blip of a story still held our interest. Perhaps because it was our first experience with the seamier side of life? Whatever the reason, it was a strange addendum in a place where the most exciting thing that occurred every year was the VFW Picnic. By the end of the afternoon we still didn’t have a reasonable explanation for what actually happened that summer.

When I was growing up our town was considered a safe community to raise a family. The paper mill was the main source of employment. We had a downtown of sorts, which offered a grocer, Five and Ten, a corner Rexall, and a hardware store. Most people didn’t worry about locking their doors or allowing their children to have the run of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, it didn’t offer much in the way of organized activities for kids. We spent a lot of time jumping rope, climbing trees or riding our bikes to the local Piggly Wiggly. For cheap entertainment we’d sit on the curb, lick blue Popsicles, and stick our tongues out at the passersby.

One thing we did have was a pool. It didn’t offer super slides or even a diving board. In fact, it was little more than a rectangular dugout. But to us it was an oasis in the dry desert of small town living. Every summer hundreds of hot, sticky kids waited in long lines to enter the cement watering hole.

The Kaukauna Community Swimming Pool was located at the top of Beaulieu Hill. It was a tough climb in the summer heat. Most of the locals knew of a short cut. They’d follow a narrow trail through the woods called Cutler’s Path. Deep shade and flatter terrain made it cooler and easier to walk. Taking it during the daylight wasn’t a problem. But at night the woods were pitch black. With no street lights or houses nearby more than one child had lost their way. It was easy to get hurt tripping over unseen branches and bulging rocks. In addition, there were some local legends connected to the place. The grounds were thought to be haunted. Most kids knew better than to walk the path alone.

In the summer of 1967 the town hosted a number of evening Splash Parties. Twenty five cents would buy you pool privileges, a free Popsicle, and piped in music. They were very popular with teenagers. The event started at 7 and usually ended around 11 pm. Afterwards everyone walked home tired and ready for sleep.

A few weeks passed and the parties were in full swing. It’s around this time that the rumors began to circulate.

Some of the teens reported seeing a figure of a man hiding behind the trees as they ran through the path, usually around dusk. He was described as tall and thin and wearing dark clothes and boots.

At first nobody took it seriously. The police were suspicious of the reports. It wouldn’t have been the first time a few

adolescent smart alecks had put one over on them. They checked out the woods and found nothing but pop cans, a few candy wrappers, and cigarette butts.

One night a group of high spirited youths who called themselves “The Beaulieu Bandits” decided to take the path home.

They hoped to spot the mysterious man and brazenly dared one another to approach him when they did. According to the group, suddenly and without warning the man leapt out of a hiding place, stood before them and tore open his coat. They were shocked when they realized he wasn’t wearing any clothing underneath. He laughed wildly and quickly vanished into the darkness. The boys were left wondering what in the world they had just witnessed. None of them felt the pressing need to follow him into the woods. In fact, they sheepishly admitted to running home as fast as their legs could carry them.

Over the next few months other kids claimed they were seeing the lewd, laughing man. They dubbed him the Ha Ha Man.

The authorities continued to investigate throughout the summer. They set up a secret stake out to catch the laughing lunatic.

It came to nothing and left them with no proof to substantiate the twisted tale.

By the middle of summer every kid within 10 miles of the pool was frightened to stay out past dusk. As far as the police could tell the flasher had only been sighted on the path or in the surrounding woods. Yet to many children he was becoming something akin to the Bogey Man. He could jump out at any second or from any grove of bushes or cluster of trees. He could be waiting for you if you were foolish enough to ride your bike home at night. No one was safe from the the Ha Ha Man’s creepy clutches. The story took on a life all its own.

The Splash Parties were quickly losing their appeal. Not many teens wanted to attend a party with the possibility of such a nasty surprise attached to it. City council members were frustrated and so were the parents in the community. What had started out as a great idea was quickly turning into a nightmare. The parties were canceled with very little opposition from kids or adults.

Despite all the drama the Ha Ha man seemed to disappear quite undramatically along with the summer. The pool closed for the season. The school year began and no one saw or heard from him again. As far as the authorities were concerned there was no reason to believe he had ever actually existed.

Several months later a couple of kids were fishing in the Konkapot Creek not far from the pool. They reportedly found a black rain coat and boots stuffed in the underside of a small footbridge spanning the water. The police and city council were not keen on dredging up the story again. The discovery was ignored and people were happy to go back to their ordinary lives.

To this day there are still some who insist that the Ha Ha Man was real and may have been a person who lived in the area.

But whether real or an urban legend he remains a disturbing memory for many of the people who attended the 60’s Splash Parties.

Little is left of the path today. It’s badly overgrown with weeds and no longer extends to the pool. The trees are sparser and light filters in at night from several homes built over the last decade. A few kids wander through it now and then. Some have even claimed to hear strange laughter coming from the deeper, darker parts of the woods. Perhaps Cutler’s Path is still the Ha Ha Man’s favorite haunt.

Ponder this:

2011-05-03T10:26:00.000-04:00

Do souls have genders?

Sample Query Letter

2011-04-14T00:04:00.005-04:00

If you're not sure what to write in a query letter, here's an example of what we're looking for:

Dear Mr. Toogood and Ms. Fossett

Attached is my story, "The Real Thing," for consideration for publication in Tainted Tea.

It is approximately 6,500 words, and is a short horror story about a young writer, struggling with her prose, who discovers one of her characters sitting in her apartment at three in the morning.

I am the editor of Tainted Tea, a quarterly horror ezine. My articles have been published in The Temple News, Temple University's campus newspaper, and The Compendium: Philly's Music News. My fiction has never been previously published.

Also, this is a simultaneous submission, and I will inform you if it is published elsewhere.

Thank you for your consideration.

Kris Fossett
(XXX) XXX-XXXX
email_address@gmail.com

Kickass Trailer: "Apollo 18"

2011-03-15T18:32:00.002-04:00

According to IMDb, Apollo 18 is "about the real mission to space in the 1970s that was canceled by NASA."

In this found footage film, the audience watches as their moon mission becomes one from hell when the crew, one by one, begins to get killed off by aliens.

Learn more about Apollo 18 and it's April 22 release here.

Hello from Eastern State Penitentiary

2011-03-10T18:15:00.005-05:00

Sorry, but no guest post for this week. Instead, take a look at these photos I took during a recent visit to Eastern State Penitentiary, a former prison in the center of Philadelphia's Fairmount neighborhood.

It's supposedly one of the most haunted places in America, but I didn't see any ghosts (well, except for maybe this cute little guy I found on a wall).

However, it is a very creepy, ruined, looming building that's worth checking out for the atmosphere alone.

Ghost Cats is an art installation in the prison. These cat statues are everywhere, representing the stray cats that resided in the prison after it closed in 1971.

Some writing I found on walls of a cell.

Prison cell where no famous criminal stayed.

Prison cell where Al Capone stayed.

"There is No Bird" by Richard Dansky

2011-03-03T13:07:00.005-05:00

There is certainly not a golden bird, caged just above my heart.

That would be silly. He’s on the other side. A little higher than the heart, I think–that’s where I feel the fluttering. When I cough, or lose my breath, or just hold very, very still when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

The fault is mine. I caught him. I put him there. One lung down, the other failing, and so I did what any sensible man would do – caught a mythological creature, bound it to my breast with half-understood magics, and lived in fear of its leaving every moment thereafter.

Because the bird will leave someday. That I know. He will burst through the bars of his prison and shatter them. Shatter me. Leave me behind, broken and gasping and empty, and forget me as he flies away. He is immortal, after all. Were I to keep him for a hundred years, it would be as nothing to him. But he will be free.

This will happen. I have seen it in a dream, heard it in the song he sings late at night when sane men have long since gone to sleep. He is warning me, I think. It is a kindness, or a warning, or a torment. His ways are inscrutable, as, perhaps they should be. He is, after all, eternal. He is, after all, not human.

He hasn’t left me yet. I don’t know why. Pity, perhaps. Or fear.

Silence.

Flutter.

I wait.

About Richard Dansky

Named one of Gamasutra’s Top 20 Game Writers, Richard Dansky is the Central Clancy Writer for Ubisoft/Red Storm. He has written for groundbreaking series such as Splinter Cell, Ghost Recon, Far Cry, and Rainbow Six, as well as contributing extensively to tabletop RPGs in White Wolf’s World of Darkness setting. Richard is the author of five novels, including Firefly Rain. He lives in North Carolina with his wife and their inevitable cats.

Winter 2011's Letter from the Editors

2011-02-25T15:48:00.004-05:00

I write because I love it. There’s no other reason. Yes, literary fame and glory would be amazing beyond my wildest dreams, but it’s not the end goal. I write for me. For my benefit.

I don’t have an explanation, either. Many people seem to expect one, but to me, it’s like asking someone why they breathe or why they wear a coat outside in a snow storm. It’s just the natural thing to do.

And I can see why some people don’t understand. Writing is hard. It’s hard to form a cohesive idea, it’s hard to get motivated and start writing (like this editoral), and it’s hard to continue and finish to the end. Writing is messy. Ideas don’t often come in chronological order. And most of all, writing is risky. It’s nerve-racking to put so much of yourself in one project that might fail and be the subject of ridicule for all to mock.

But, as Philip Pullman wrote, “What is worth having is worth working for.” Writing is exhilarating. There’s nothing more thrilling than saying, “Fuck it,” tossing all your fears and doubts out the window, and just facing your words and ideas. Nothing is better than just telling yourself, “That’s what revision is for,” and just watching one sentence become a paragraph, a paragraph become a page, and a page become a story. That’s what writing is all about.

Writing is my own private thrill. It’s my passion and my pain.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tainted Tea Winter 2011 is available now on Lulu.com.

For a complete list of contents and a free preview, visit the Web site.

"Cat Nip" by Len Kuntz

2011-02-24T16:08:00.003-05:00

I didn’t know how the cat got in. You weren’t allowed to have pets in our building, and I certainly didn’t own one. I hated animals.

When I opened up the shower curtain, the thing bristled and hissed at me. It had pus-colored eyes and smelled like sewage. When I told it to get the hell out of there, it leapt up and ripped its claws across my cheek. Bloody paw prints were all I saw once my eyes stopped burning.

Returning from work that night, I heard chaotic bumping and shuffling noises in 42B. I might have suspected wild romance, but my neighbor was Mrs. Kindling, seventy-seven and sluggish. When I knocked, all the motion inside ceased. I put my ear to the door. I thought I smelled sewage. I thought I heard mewling, then a ripping noise.

There was a work party the next night. I drank too much, flirted with the boss’s wife. Decided to walk it off. Took an alley I shouldn’t have.

Six dozen of the creatures were waiting. They flew at me like bats. I saw a blizzard of fur, felt their swipes like razors.

The cops who came to the hospital didn’t believe my story. They said I was suffering from shock, trauma.

The press dubbed my assailant The Slasher. On the news I saw a reporter describe my attacker. Then she showed a “disturbing and graphic” picture of my face, covered with row upon row of stitches.

Coming home, I noticed cat fur coating the carpet like cottonwood fluff. I stopped at Mrs. Kindling’s door. Knocked. Nothing.

When I wrapped on the Superintendent’s door, he buzzed me in and the hinges sent the door swinging open.

It was dark. I stepped on something meaty and wet. I bumped into a chair. I called, “Mr. Andoni?”

The door slammed shut. The light flicked on.

A huge calico, wearing an eye patch and chomping on a stubby cigar, sat across the desk.

“What the hell?” I said. “Where’s Andoni?”

The cat burped up sandalwood and licorice notes—Andoni’s cologne! “You killed him? Ate him?”

The cat raised his paw, curled a claw. He wanted me to sit.

When I did, he flipped his lap top toward me. On the screen were four separate stories—Cleveland, Seattle, Memphis, Bismarck—about a certain Slasher on the loose.

“You gave us the idea,” the calico said.

“So, you’re, you’re attacking innocent humans?”

“You should try subsisting on rodents and Kibbles your whole life.”

“This is insane.”

I sprang out of the chair, but a posse of black felines had my passage blocked. Seated on their haunches, fangs bared, most foamy-mouthed, they looked a demonic crew.

“You can’t do this.”

“No?”

“Please.”

“Say the secret password, and we’ll let you go.”

“Secret password? I don’t know.”

“Tough luck then.”

“Wait! How, how about abracadabra?”

“Nope.”

“Open sesame?”

“Nah.”

“Please.”

The cat chortled, motioned his men forward and said, “I like mine a little on the rare side.”

About Len Kuntz:
Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State. His writing appears widely in print and online at such places as The Ramshackle Review, Blue Print Review, Troubadour 21, and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com

Fall TV Lineup: ABC's detective drama, "Poe"

2011-02-23T13:37:00.000-05:00

Illustration by Byam Shaw, Source: Wikipedia

Despite his lack of leading-man potential (and the fact that he wasn’t a detective), it still seems fitting that Edgar Allan Poe, whose early mystery stories were the foundation for future detectives in literature, will be getting his own detective drama on ABC this fall.

According to Deadline.com,

Human Target executive producer Brad Kern has been tapped as executive producer/showrunner on ABC’s drama pilot Poe. The crime procedural, from writer-exec producer Chris Hollier, Warner Bros. TV and Dan Lin's Lin Pictures, follows Edgar Allan Poe, the world's very first detective, as he uses unconventional methods to investigate dark mysteries in 1840s Boston. Kern previously served as showrunner on the WB’s Charmed.

It’s reported that Alex Graves will direct the pilot.

Known prominently for his Gothic tales of terror and revenge, Poe was the author of several detective stories that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said were “a root from which a whole literature has developed...Where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?”

Read “The Murder's in Rue Morgue” here.

Later this year, John Cusak will star as Poe in the James McTeigue-directed film, The Raven. The movie is a fictionalized account of Poe’s mysterious last days—spent, as speculated by some, following a serial killer inspired by his horror stories.

Cusack as "Father of the Macabre," Edgar Allan Poe, in the upcoming psychological thriller The Raven.

Excerpt from "State of Nature" by Eric Victor Neagu

2011-02-21T16:26:00.004-05:00

By autumn, when she was well into the third trimester, he had written no more than a hundred pages of his book. His private goal to complete the novel before the baby arrived seemed nearly impossible. He marked the days of her pregnancy to add productive pressure to the writing. Each morning when he began, he notched a strong black stain into a piece of bleached oak he found on the shore. But after a few weeks it just reminded him of how poorly the novel was moving, and he gave this up.

Meredith was uncomfortable with their new arrangement. She thought they had become more like roommates than lovers. It seemed like a good idea to poke her head into the office periodically to ask questions about the book, something Michael hated to discuss. Head poking soon became walking in and sitting down. His best efforts to dissuade her intrusions failed. Offering only monosyllabic responses and a variety of grunts for conversation, still she came.

After her stylistically slight, almost inaudible, knock one afternoon, Michael lost it. “Can you not leave me alone for one day?”

She poked her head in, “I just wanted to know if you were hungry.”

He kept his back to her, squaring his shoulders, “Let’s make a rule. I will come get you when I need something. How about that? Can we make that rule?”

She responded quietly, “I like to see you sometimes, to know you’re there.”

“Where, exactly, the hell else would I be?” His voice was too loud, and he knew it. The door closed. There would be sobbing on the couch that he planned to avoid.

That night he watched the autumn sun fade over the lake, the moon rise, and a bottle of cheap bourbon dwindle to almost nothing. He did not leave the office until morning, when the sun was bright and breakfast ready. Eggs, bacon, and orange juice had been laid on the table alongside a solitary place setting. It was the first night they had not slept together at the cabin. Anticipating an argument, he was surprised when Meredith said nothing and sat quietly in her rocker knitting a child’s blanket.

Michael wanted to thank her for breakfast, but the sound of the rocker built a wall of resentment that he could not climb. Hard wood to soft carpet went the wooden runners of the chair. She sped the back and forth and he ate quicker. The cabin began to feel like a rustic dollhouse. The rocking was faster now and he was nearly done with breakfast. The food helped sobriety to catch up to him. If only, he thought, I can get through the book. Everything will be normal if I can get through the book.

Stuck in thought, he did not notice the rocking stop until he heard a great gasp and thud from across the room.Meredith fell to the floor, writhing like a dying snake. She grabbed at her neck with one hand and her belly with the other.

“Hey,” he said loudly, “You alright?”

When she said nothing, he ran to her and lifted her head to stop it from bouncing against the floor. Her face was gaunt and her limbs were fragile and sinuous. A too small tank top showed off three-dimensional stretch marks and a navel that reminded him of a small fleshy rocket ship leaving the launch pad. He could see movement in her massive belly, and he noticed a black and blue Rorschach bruise around her rocket ship. He stroked her hair with helpless violence waiting for it all to stop. The writhing became periodic twitches, and the twitches became deep heavy breaths.

When she could breathe and her eyes found focus, her voice quivered a weak sentence, “I was thinking, and,” she paused to breathe, “It choked me.”

“What did?” asked Michael.

Her face screwed into a conflicted knot, and she corrected herself, “Nothing, never mind.”

“We should go to a hospital. I’ll get your coat.”

“No, no hospital.” She smiled at the visible motions in her belly and said, “It’s two hours away, by then I’ll be fine.”

Michael tried to protest, “It might be a seizure or something…”

She grabbed him tightly by the wrist, “I said no hospitals.”

To read "State of Nature" in its entirety, download Tainted Tea Winter 2011.

About Eric Victor Neagu:

Eric Victor Neagu lives, writes, and works as a sustainability consultant in Chicago. His undergraduate degree is from Purdue University in civil engineering, which he uses to redevelop former industrial areas. Eric also has a graduate degree from The University of Chicago, which he mostly uses to give driving directions to Barack Obama's house when people ask. Other work can be found in Simon Magazine, The National Ledger, Bartleby Snopes, Bewildering Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Write Place at the Write Time, A Long Story Short, The Camroc Press Review, and Hackwriters.

"The Icicle" by Rick McQuiston

2011-02-17T08:45:00.000-05:00

Grace stared at the crystal-clear spike of ice. It dangled precariously outside of her bedroom window, hanging down from a loose gutter her dad had meant to fix but never got around to. It was the biggest icicle she’d ever seen; twice the size of the one Jenny and Alyssa had knocked down the previous year on their way home from school. She still remembered how the ice snapped loose from the tree branch with just the slightest nudge. She had watched it crash to the sidewalk and shatter into a thousand jagged pieces.

That icicle was big, at least a foot and a half long, but this one, eroded down to an unusually sharp point at its tip, was bigger, maybe two or even three feet.

Grace crawled out of bed to get a better view of the icy formation outside her window. She studied it through the glass, noting how her reflection in it was slightly distorted: her short black hair was longer, flowing gently around her pale face, and her eyes had a bluish tint to them, unlike the dark hazel that they normally were. There was also a feral beauty in her face, a savage, tangible aspect that she simply had never seen before or thought she could ever possess.

Cringing in fear Grace felt weak and disoriented. She backed away from the window, never taking her eyes off the icicle. It had grown a little from when she had first noticed it earlier, undoubtedly due to the trickles of water streaming down from its base and refreezing. With a troubled mind she fell back into her bed.

The moonlight lit the room amply, casting a looming shadow of the icicle across Grace. She felt violated by it somehow, as if it were leaking into her bedroom, trying to gain access to her private domain. But she wouldn’t let it in. She was a closed door, her strength untested but definite.

Eventually sleep crept into her body, overtaking her in its calm embrace. She drifted into past realms that she cherished: birthday parties; playing in her sandbox; the first crush she had on a boy; her first kiss. The memories all danced around in her head like children vying for the attention of an adult.

And then she slept.

"Icicles," Photo by J. Toogood

Grace rolled over and moved her pink satin pillow out of the way. She focused her groggy eyes on the alarm clock. 7:24 a.m. stared back at her. With lazy effort she slid out of bed and planted her bare feet on the floor. Instantly a chill swept over her body. She glanced over to the window, as if somehow trying to attach the cool draft to the large icicle that had been there since the night before.

And it was still there, only bigger. Its streamlined shape was much more pronounced, the tip hanging a full three and a half feet below its base.

And it was sharp. Very sharp.

Grace watched it, again noting how her reflection was distorted slightly. But although it was she still appeared beautiful. Her face was smooth (a complexion fitting of a professional model), and her hair was full and glossy. She stepped closer to the glass, marveling at her newfound looks. Another draft of cold air blew past her. It caused her to shiver in her pajamas.

And then the thought drifted into her mind as if someone had planted it there, allowing it to take root and spread out, urging to her listen.

Why not go outside and get some fresh air? Just think how pretty you’ll look in the icicle’s reflection up close. You’ll be more beautiful than anyone else.

Yeah, maybe she would go outside. It would be really nice to see how she’d look in the icicle up close.

Slipping on some clothes Grace ventured out of her bedroom. Behind her, hanging above her desk, the pages of her puppy and kitten calendar fluttered when the air-conditioning kicked back on. All of the days for July were crossed off up to the 22nd, the previous day. But Grace didn’t notice as she walked past her desk. The only thing she was concerned with was reaching the icicle. She was helpless to resist it.

And outside the bedroom window the icicle shuttered with excitement. The tiny arteries inside it pulsed with blood, pumping it from its base to its tip. It leaned forward slightly, tapping the glass, causing a thin crack in the pane.

The icicle then bent back to its original position and waited for Grace.

"Mother Sewing" from the Winter 2011 Issue of Tainted Tea

2011-02-17T08:32:00.000-05:00

Pencil, Shane R. Toogood, Feb. 2011

Excerpt from "Barista" by David Massengill

2011-02-16T14:48:00.004-05:00

“I think I’m having some kind of an allergic reaction,” Trent said. His eyes were round and panicked. “My neck started itching in my office, while I was drinking my Americano, and then things got worse. The bleeding only stopped a moment ago.”

Paul eyed the bumps on Trent’s neck. Most had a white, pus-like spot in their centers.

Trent returned to dousing himself with water. His hand was shaking.

“I felt like someone was stabbing me all around my neck,” he said. “As if they were trying to take my head right off.”

Paul saw his own eyes widen in the mirror. He thought of Cynthia taking a fork to her figure, and her words: “There are so many bastards.”

***

Paul avoided looking into Expresso as he headed toward the tower’s exit. He was nervous about making eye contact with Cynthia. He relaxed as he pushed on the revolving door, but the sight outside caused him to tense up again.

Cynthia stood smoking by one of the thin, leafless birch trees that lined the sidewalk. She held a large violet purse covered in stitch lines that made the bag look as if it had been wounded. Paul wondered if the effigy of Trent was in that bag.

Cynthia grinned at Paul. “I was hoping I’d catch you on your way out,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, not pausing. “I really can’t talk. I’ve got to get to the dry cleaners before they close.”

Cynthia walked beside him. “I just wanted to thank you for talking to me in the alley today,” she said. “I appreciate your empathy.”

“I don’t know if I’m so empathetic anymore after I saw Trent suffering like that,” Paul said.

Cynthia was quiet as they neared an intersection. Paul interpreted the silence to be evidence of her guilt.

“What are you saying I did?” Cynthia asked in a cautious voice.

Paul stopped on a corner, and he and Cynthia became obstacles for throngs of 5 o’clock commuters.

“I don’t know exactly what you did,” Paul said. “I do know something terrible happened to Trent this morning, and I think it was your sculpture that made it happen.”

Cynthia glanced down at the sidewalk, as if she were considering something, and then her eyes met Paul’s again. Her eyes brightened. “You really think my art has that kind of power?” she asked.

To read "Barista" in its entirety, download Tainted Tea Winter 2011.

About David Massengill:

David Massengill’s short stories and works of flash fiction have appeared in various literary journals, including Word Riot, 3 A.M. Magazine, Eclectica Magazine, Flashes in the Dark, and MicroHorror, among others. To read more of his work, visit www.davidmassengillfiction.com

Winter 2011 Now Available

2011-02-15T23:32:00.004-05:00

Tainted Tea Winter 2011 explores the horror in ordinary situations: a young couple expecting their first child, a wealthy man jumps the gun, a barista deals with nasty customers, a mother who loves her son too much, a child's party, and a rabbi's unexpected appointment.

This issue features stories by Eric Victor Neagu, James G. Piatt, David Massengill, Richard Godwin, Marshall Moore, and Sharon Goldner. With art and photography by Kristina Gehrmann, Kris Fossett, Tim Yockey, and CAT. Tainted Tea is a quarterly ezine that publishes dark fiction, poetry, and art.

For a free preview and more information, go to the Web site.

Excerpt of "The Eleven O'Clock" by Sharon Goldner

2011-02-14T19:14:00.005-05:00

The Rabbi looks at the picture and pushes it back in the eleven o’clock’s direction. “You are a bright young lady. With all of this enthusiasm and spark, you should consider finding a cure for a disease along with a nice husband and lots of grandkids for your parents.”

She points to her proof. “This is a photograph of Paul Bunyan’s foreskin, Rabbi. Naturally, the entire thing is colossal so this is only a partial picture of the fossilized foreskin. Carbon dating. Lab analysis. We’re right on target with this.”

Though his Judaic studies were much more intensive than those secular in nature, the Rabbi knows this: “Miss, Paul Bunyan is legend. He was never real.”

The eleven o’clock was hoping the Rabbi wouldn’t be like everyone else. “Okay. Well then. How do you explain the foreskin, Rabbi? I mean, it’s huge. DNA testing proves that it’s from Paul Bunyan, and the only men to routinely get circumcised back then were the Jews. Christian settlers and colonists did not; they kept themselves in one piece. Come on, Rabbi. Just think—when word gets out to the media and the public that Paul Bunyan’s foreskin has been discovered, it’ll shed a whole new light on Judaism. I see an exhibit, Rabbi. A traveling museum all across this country: Paul Bunyan: The Myth, The Man, The Frontier Member.

“People will look at the Jews differently. Everyone loves Paul Bunyan, so everyone will love the Jews. Articles. Hollywood will be scrambling for movie rights. Some of the biggest box office names will want to play Paul Bunyan, Jew with an ax. Oiy vey, right? Who knew? Broadway could turn this into one heck of a musical. And then Hollywood would turn the Broadway musical into a movie version of the musical. Paul Bunyan will do for Judaism what Jesus Christ did for Christianity. Oh gosh, I’m sorry. Am I allowed to say ‘Jesus Christ’ in front of you?” The eleven o’clock is flush with her own fervor.

The Rabbi is gentle. “The Jews do not need a PR campaign. We’ve existed thousands of years without one. We have our heroes: Moses, Judah Macabee, King David...but Paul Bunyan? He’s not mentioned in the Bible.”

The eleven o’clock tells the Rabbi that had the biblical writers continued writing, Paul Bunyan surely would have been mentioned. “One day they’re chronicling events, the next day, nobody’s writing anything anymore. I mean really, what’s up with that?”

The Rabbi shakes his head.

The eleven o’clock looks away from the Rabbi. The foreskin picture looks blurrier as her eyes fill. She has all her years of education, study, and devotion. She probably hasn’t had a home cooked meal in years. No date since forever because what boyfriend wouldn’t feel threatened by a woman immersed in her academic life? And well, the foreskin is just so damn huge.

She grabs her stacks. She grabs her briefcase. “I’ve been to all of the other synagogues in the state. I’ve written letters to synagogues all over the country. They all said they’re not interested. You were the last one. I almost didn’t know you were here. My friend, she’s working on Alice’s Wonderland. They think it was an ancient city…on another planet! I mean if they can find water on Mars...Anyway, she got lost driving and passed by your poor little synagogue. ‘This is the one,’ she said to me. ‘This one will believe.’ You have to believe, Rabbi. And I’m not leaving until you do.”

The Rabbi says, “I walk home for lunch every day, young lady. Shainamaidel leaves to count her children. You’re going to have to go. Her husband is a rabbi and a urologist. I’ll have her mention this to him. Perhaps you can switch your sights to the medical community, and they can use your work in a prostate commercial. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

The eleven o’clock undoes her hair. It falls from the bun on the back of her head like streamers down her shoulders. She shakes it out, feeling it the way it is meant to be felt. “A prostate commercial? Why do you insult me, Rabbi? I need for you to believe. I need you to embrace Paul Bunyan as a Jew.”

The Rabbi apologizes. He cannot.

The eleven o’clock braces herself against his door. “Well, then. I’m not leaving until you do. I put too much into this to get a final rejection. There’s no one left. There’s only you.”

Read "The Eleven O'Clock" in its entirety in the Winter 2011 Issue of Tainted Tea.

About Sharon Goldner:

Sharon Goldner is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her short stories have been published in literary journals across the country & in England, and her plays have been produced. She resides in Baltimore, MD where she lives out her life's lunacy, sometimes days at a time. No letters were harmed in her manipulations of the alphabet.

From Winter 2011

2011-02-12T23:31:00.005-05:00

"Smile" by Kris Fossett and Tim Yockey

Tainted Tea's Winter 2011 issue will be available for download later this week. Winter 2011 also includes three paintings from Kristina Gehrmann.

View the complete list of contents here.

Kickass Trailers: "Don't Be Afraid of the Dark"

2011-02-12T10:21:00.002-05:00

A young girl sent to live with her father and his new girlfriend discovers creatures in her new home who want to claim her as one of their own.

For more information, visit the official Web site here.

Source of synopsis

Bringing Home Horror by Derek Hayes

2011-02-10T10:48:00.008-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night. No, no it wasn’t, but that’s okay. A great horror story doesn’t need to start in the dark, or in the middle of a thunderstorm, and to be honest it doesn’t even have to occur at night. Contrast is what makes the horror genre so interesting, and appealing. Sure, good and evil exist in various states across literary lines, but nowhere else is the line so diverse, polarized, and/or gray. This is not to say other genres cannot share in this eternal struggle, but they may have binds with the antagonist being a young boy who commands the death of those around him, a la The Omen.

But how do we spot these intricacies in real life and get them onto the page? What moments take our hands and close them around the electric fence of terror? They’re easier to spot than you may think. So much of a writer’s life is spent as an active observer, it is of the utmost importance to keep our eyes and ears open, and our damned mouths shut.

You see a man on a train, brown eyes glazed, newspaper propped on one bent knee. He’s there in the morning when you board, and he’s sitting in the same seat when you get out of work nine hours later. Normally, you’d pay no mind. There are hundreds of people on the train everyday, but look a little closer; stretch your memory banks to the day before, the week before, and if you were paying enough attention you’d notice that the newspaper in the man’s wrinkled hands has a headline declaring “Crazy Train: Man Dead for Days Without Notice.” The picture below the heading details the same scene viewed from your eyes. A man on a train, brown eyes glazed, newspaper propped on one bent knee.

The above story is a fictional representation of why it’s important for writers to pay attention and notice details that others would surely overlook. The next fragment is autobiographical, but pertains to what we can do with our imaginations to turn simple coincidence into something strange.

For an entire summer, there was a young girl, probably twelve or thirteen, who would ride her bike around the shop where I worked. Cindy was a gangly creature. All legs, arms, and a head of hair beauticians would deem ‘frazzled’. She was a sweet girl, waving to me every morning that I drove in the parking lot. Nice as she was, after awhile, she became a little too nice. On multiple occasions she had tried to hug me and my co-workers, which we dismissed as politely as possible. This minor inconvenience turned into something worse rather quickly, as she rode her bike into the building and narrowly escaped being swatted like a bug by a thousand pounds of hard steel.

Cindy was barred from the premises; a liability for sure. I’d still see her riding her bike in the middle of the road from time to time, and on a Friday late in July, she cornered me in the parking lot as I walked toward my truck. She said hello and I smiled, opening the silver door of my pick-up, hoping she would understand that I was on my way out. No such luck. She pounced between the opening and put both arms around my neck. I kept my hands planted on the steering wheel in shock. She loosened her grip, backed up just enough to kiss me on the cheek, and said, “Be careful.” She giggled and closed the door to my truck. By the time I finished making sure no one had seen what may have been mistaken for some perverted activity, Cindy was gone.

I made it about a hundred yards before I saw the first car accident. It was only another mile before number two. By the time I reached my house, twenty-five miles and two hours later, I had witnessed six accidents. Ambulances, police cruisers, fire trucks; black bags, white sheets, red and blue flashing lights filled my sight, but all I could think about was Cindy and her cryptic message. How many others had she told? Better yet, how many others did she tell something different? Was her presence akin to the “Kiss of Death” or just the opposite? The answer to these questions is what drives me to write, and the instances that provoke them are what makes writing horror so rewarding.

About Derek Hayes:

Derek Hayes is a graduate from Goddard College’s BFA in Creative Writing program. He can be reached at djhayes87@yahoo.com or at his Web site www.silentepitaphs.com

Photos courtesy of the World Wide Web

The Dirty One: Part 2 by Jana Gifford

2011-02-03T15:46:00.000-05:00

Editors' Note: This is the second part of "The Dirty One." If you missed Part 1 , click here.

Two days later they told me that my husband, Fred, also did not exist. That’s when I rose up out of my bed and lost it. I yanked an IV needle out of my arm, hearing it rip my skin, and sank the long silver thing into Dr. Madison’s left temple. He had white hair and grey whiskers from an incomplete aging process.

But I let him know, standing there, screaming on my bed, how I thought a child must have felt after being left outside in the yard too long, then pouring himself down a forgotten, bottomless well. I was powerless to save him, to save myself, or to save Dr. Madison. Blood trickled around his black-rimmed eyeglasses. I stepped on these glasses and he did not stare at me anymore.

At trial, in the Judge’s oak-built courtroom, attorneys drank water from two little silver pitchers in paper cups and wanted to know why I lived in an abandoned old house, anyway. I told them the truth: my mother raised me in that house, until she and the angry man she slept with left. I couldn’t go with them, so I stayed at the house, eating tomatoes and some peppers out of the garden and playing with sticks until Fred came into my life, into my forest, and we had a child.

“Faida,” the lawyer said, in sharp black suit, “you are ill.”

Then he went off on a long speech I didn’t understand, so I shut him up by wailing one word: Jason. He looked around. But I didn’t say anything more until they shackled me in a pure white asylum. No dirty leaves were there, no cleaning up after Jason’s bath, no holding Fred’s hand any more. Why was it so clean there?

A gnarled old woman listened to this tale with pity in her watery blue eyes. She reached out a gentle hand to stroke mine during socialization time. “You are the dirty one,” she said. I cried on her shoulder.

Someday I will wash my hands and go find Jason’s body. His presence haunts my dreams, and I know he existed. The only way to heal the way things truly are is to prove that I have changed myself. When I am released, I will look in the well for him. But for now, Jason does not exist.

About Jana Gifford:

I am on the Dean’s List at Ashford University. During quiet times, I enjoy reading about psychology and mysterious happenings.

Currently, I am crafting a graphic novel called The Involuntary Vow of Silence, which is coming in June from iUniverse. Also, I am collaborating with a film director from The Art Institute in Portland on a certain script. Slake your thirst for perspective at www.janagifford.blogspot.com

Tainted Tea Winter 2011

2011-02-02T15:59:00.008-05:00

Featuring...
Short Stories
"Barista" by David Massengill
"Foolish Anger" by James G. Piatt
"Mother" by Richard Godwin
"A Balloon Party" by Marshall Moore
"The Eleven O'Clock" by Sharon Goldner
"State of Nature" by Eric Victor Neagu

Art
"Last Man Remaining"
'Taking Home the Bride"
"The Tormented"
All pieces by Kristina Gehrmann

2011-02-01T11:50:00.000-05:00

"Write with passion! Write with love!" ~Ray Bradbury

The Dirty One: Part 1 by Jana Gifford

2011-01-27T11:21:00.004-05:00

I am one of the gifted ones. I cry at night because I see things as they really are. I want my pain to go away. There is only one way: I must change myself.

My child’s presence still lingers here, though others have said he did not exist. But I know my five-year-old existed, because I know how he died…

Jason was playing in a well. Neighbors said to me—told the cops even, when I called them—that for over six years I have gone out to the dirty, empty well behind Fred’s and my house, and pretended to drink from it. That is, until Jason died.

I thought it would be obscene to go drink from a body of water in which my child had perished. I heard him screaming, and I thought he was in the woods playing with fireflies (he liked to pretend he was a fairy combing his blond hair with sticks he found in the leaves). I ran out there to comfort him from crying. I found my son hanging on the edge of the well, drinking with only his lips. He told me that he screamed when he saw his face shining on the top of this pool. “Why is it there, Mommy?” He asked. Then he waved, and fell in.

I was devastated that he fell in head first, for the well was narrow, and I didn’t clean it or use the water. The tarp that hung over it was gone, blown away with the wind. I had to run 300 hundred yards from the porch to the boy’s place of drowning.

But the paramedics took me away, instead of exhuming the body, the one I couldn’t find with a long stick even after I had reached in and tried to pull him out. I was screaming and spitting foam nearly, so they loaded me up and told me the well was empty of the water I claimed Jason drowned in. But they did a search of the woods and my house. I guess they got discouraged when they found no toys or clothes belonging to a child, only a bottle of antidepressants on the shelf above the fridge.

Later, when I lay calm and dressed in white with blue dots against my will, I told them I loved Jason. I didn’t know what was happening to me. Why had the doctors kidnapped me? Why had they made this long list of orders? Why had they used the word “hallucination?”

Editors' Note: Read "The Dirty One: Part 2" next Thursday, Feb. 3.

About Jana Gifford:

I am on the Dean’s List at Ashford University. During quiet times, I enjoy reading about psychology and mysterious happenings.

The Diry One by Jana Gifford

2011-01-26T16:33:00.003-05:00

Read "The Dirty One" by Jana Gifford, a murderous tale in two parts. Part One premieres tomorrow.

Winter 2011 Cover

2011-01-26T15:42:00.002-05:00

Tainted Tea Winter 2011 will be available this February.

Happy Birthday, Edgar!

2011-01-19T09:55:00.000-05:00

This is the 202nd birthday of one of America's most celebrated authors (and a Tainted Tea favorite), Edgar Allan Poe. On October 3, 1849, when he was 40, Poe was found disheveled in Baltimore, ranting.

According to Joseph W. Walker, the man who found Poe, the author was "in great distress, and in need of immediate assistance." He was taken to a hospital, where he died broke and drunk (or poisoned, or of a brain tumor, or of rabies, depending on who you hear it from).

To celebrate Poe's 202nd birthday, here is his most famous poem, "The Raven," first published in 1845:

The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
                               Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
                               Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
                               This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door;--
                                Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
                                Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
                               'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
                                Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                                With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
                                Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
                                Of 'Never -- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                                Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
                                She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite -- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore--
Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                                 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                                 Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

Learn more about Poe here or read Harry Lee Poe's excellent "illustrated companion," Edgar Allan Poe.

Read more of Poe's stories here or in the Winter 2010 Issue of Tainted Tea.

Shane R. Toogood's Short Story, "Cluster," in Blood Moon Rising

2011-01-17T16:59:00.004-05:00

My short story, "Cluster," has been published in Blood Moon Rising, Issue 43. Click here to read it.

Afternoon Shorts: "Fear Clinic"

2011-01-13T12:04:00.000-05:00

Guest post by The Writing Nag

2011-01-13T09:33:00.010-05:00

"A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket." ~Charles Peguy

Whether you write horror, suspense, poetry or non-fiction, the words you choose can turn a dull piece of writing into a piece that is powerful, memorable, and exciting. All creative writers can add to their vocabulary by reading and writing across genres, and actively adding new words to their writing. Many creative writing teachers will suggest keeping a notebook with you at all times to jot down words, phrases, and snippets of conversation. I've kept a word collection notebook for years...many times it's this notebook and a favorite word that sparks a writing session.

On Saturday I went to a poetry workshop where we played with words. Using Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge's book Poemcrazy, everyone in our small group wrote nine words on small pieces of paper (Wooldridge calls them "word tickets"). The small pieces of paper were gathered together and we all started freewriting.

As we wrote, the instructor walked around and tossed words in front of each writer. Sometimes one; sometimes two or three at a time. We were instructed to keep writing our piece but to integrate the new words into our writing. Because these weren't my words the new words in front of me felt fresh and exciting. Adding the words changed the direction of my writing but it didn't change my voice.

Consider trying this prompt even if you're not in a group: If you're stumped for new words, try flipping through a stack of magazines and snipping out words or word phrases that speak to you. Practice integrating these new words in your writing when you feel like you've reached the end of a writing session, you may be surprised where a new word can take you.

The Writing Nag blogs about creative writing, poetry, and the practice of writing daily at http://writingnag.blogspot.com.

Brinker's Contract: Part 4 by Michael A. Kechula

2011-01-06T17:53:00.002-05:00

Editors' Note: This is the final part of "Brinker's Contract." If you missed them, read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Brinker asked the waiter if the woman was a zombie.

“I’m not sure. Ask her to come closer. The exorcist sprinkled blessed salt around the café to keep those monsters away. They cannot cross the salt. If she refuses to come near, she may be one.”

“Hey, lady,” Brinker called. “Come here, and I’ll buy you a drink.”

When she didn’t move, Brinker went to her. “Take me to Zambulu,” he said, waving fifty dollars.

“Do…you…believe?” she asked.

“Believe in what?”

“The…undead.”

“Yeah, sure. Next you’ll tell me you’re one of them.”

“I…am…zombie.”

“And I’m Spiderman,” he snickered. “Do you wanna make fifty dollars or not? I don’t have all night.”

As they rode slowly in the carriage along a jungle path, she sang a strange voodoo melody. It was the weirdest thing he’d ever heard. He found himself so unnerved, he wondered if she really were a zombie.

“Stop the carriage!” he yelled. “If you’re a zombie, prove it.”

“Look…my…face.”

When her countenance took on a greenish glow and vibrated, he was glad he’d worn the armor.
“If you can make your face do that during the day and in front of a camera, I think you could get an important part in a new movie. How would you like to go to Hollywood and play Queen of the Zombies? Not only that, if you can point out more zombies, I’ll pay you two dollars for each one. Is it a deal?”

When he reached out to shake her hand, she lunged for his stomach.

Slamming her head with a blackjack, he knocked her out of the carriage. When she hit the ground, he heard growls. Dozens of figures with green, vibrating faces came out of the jungle and headed toward him.

As he tried to get away, the horse bolted, throwing Brinker out of the carriage. Dazed and disoriented, he didn’t realize he was staggering toward the approaching zombies.

Mulu knocked him to the ground from behind. Baring mottled teeth, she ripped his shirt open and went for his stomach.

“Stop it!” he yelled, punching her face. “Don’t you wanna be a movie star?”

He screamed horribly when her teeth pierced the armor and slashed his stomach.

His body flooded with so much adrenalin he managed to break loose and disappear into jungle thickets. He ran until he blacked out.

When they asked him at a hospital how he got there, he couldn’t remember.

* * *

Galaxy Pictures paid his medical bills for a few weeks. When he didn’t improve, they canceled his contract.

Medical doctors couldn’t understand why Brinker’s stomach kept discharging pus. Nor could they comprehend why space-age medicines couldn’t stop the flow. They scoffed when he told them it was a zombie bite.

But Haitian folk doctors didn’t scoff. Though they sacrificed countless chickens to jungle gods, nothing stopped the pus or kept Mulu from invading Brinker’s lucid dreams and feasting on him while he slept.

One morning, he woke and found he was hemorrhaging. Mulu was chewing his intestines.

Too weak to fight her off, he groaned, “Please stop…I can…still…get you…to Hollywood. You…can…become…a great…movie star.”

She tore at his guts until he took his final breath.

About Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula's stories have been published by 134 magazines and 41 anthologies. He’s won first place in 12 contests and placed in eight others. He’s authored three books of flash and micro-fiction: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperbacks at www.amazon.com. His latest book, Writing Genre Flash Fiction The Minimalist Way - A Self Study Book, will be released December 2010.

Kickass Trailers: "The Troll Hunter"

2011-01-06T11:44:00.000-05:00

A group of students investigates a series of mysterious bear killings, but learns that there are much more dangerous things going on. They start to follow a mysterious hunter, learning that he is actually a troll hunter.

Source IMDb.

Ponder this:

2011-01-05T11:39:00.000-05:00

Michelangelo said, "Every block of stone has a statue inside it, and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it." Do you think that's the same with writing? Is there a story or poem in every sheet of paper?

Brinker's Contract: Part 3 by Michael A. Kechula

2010-12-30T20:38:00.001-05:00

Editors' Note: If you missed them, read "Brinker's Contract" Part 1 and Part 2.

Brinker put on his stomach armor and headed for the café.

When he arrived, he ordered rum and coke. As the waiter placed the drink on his table, Brinker said, “I hear this is the place when I can find zombies. Any around tonight?”

“No, Sir. They don’t come here anymore. They stay away ever since the new owner brought in priests to exorcise the café.”

“Where can I find some?” He flashed a ten-dollar bill.

“They say many have gone to Destrudo.”

“Where’s that?”

“In the jungle. They say it’s a terrible place of black magic and terrifying voodoo ceremonies.”

“How do I get there?”

“I don’t know. But I urge you, for the sake of your mother, don’t go there.”

Brinker gave him the ten and pondered his next move.

After three drinks, he went from table to table offering fifty dollars to anyone who’d take him to Destrudo and back. He figured he’d take a quick look. If it seemed promising, he’d rent an SUV and go back the next day with his zombie-capturing gear.

Nobody would take him.

“What the hell’s the matter with you people? Doesn’t anybody want to earn fifty dollars? Know what that can buy in this miserable country?”

“Perhaps Mulu will take you,” somebody whispered. “She’s from Destrudo. Some say she’s a zombie. She’s in that carriage across the street. The one with the large horse.”

About Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula's stories have been published by 134 magazines and 41 anthologies. He’s won first place in 12 contests and placed in eight others. He’s authored three books of flash and micro-fiction: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperbacks at www.amazon.com. His latest book, Writing Genre Flash Fiction The Minimalist Way - A Self Study Book, will be released December 2010.

Disneyland Haunted Mansion Holiday

2010-12-24T06:35:00.000-05:00

Tim Burton Productions to Produce Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter film

2010-12-23T13:53:00.000-05:00

"Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?"
Source: Esquire

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

"When the mother of future United States President Abraham Lincoln is murdered by a vampire, he begins a lifelong vendetta to rid the world of the heinous creatures." Or so goes author Seth Grahame-Smith's 2010 novel, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.

Grahame-Smith has teamed up with Fox and Tim Burton Productions to write the screenplay to his novel. According to The Wrap, Australian actor Eric Bana (Troy) may be playing the stake-wielding, Great Emancipator (despite the U.S.'s 16th president's lanky, 6'4" frame).

The film is scheduled for release on June 22, 2012.

Get a head start, and buy the novel on Amazon.com.

Brinker's Contract: Part 2 by Michael A. Kechula

2010-12-23T00:26:00.003-05:00

Editors' Note: Did you miss Part 1? Read it here.

Four days later, Brinker arrived in Haiti. He was in a holiday mood until he stepped off the plane. Though he’d been in a lot of weird places during his bounty hunting days, none had ever made him feel so creepy. Something about the atmosphere seemed unholy. Ethereal sounds of jungle drums rode on humid breezes, fading in and out. Strange voodoo symbols fes-tered on graffiti-covered walls. He found himself getting the willies.

On the way to the hotel, he asked the cab driver where he could find zombies.

Laughing, the driver said he’d seen too many horror movies.

The hotel clerk said the same thing.

Somebody knocked while Brinker was unpacking his suitcase.

A chambermaid entered, carrying a vase of flowers. “Compliments of the hotel,” she said, putting the vase on a table.

When Brinker handed her a tip, he noticed a small black figurine with red eyes hanging from her cheap looking necklace.

“That’s quite interesting,” he said.

“What is, Sir?”

“The black thing on your necklace. What is it?”

She grabbed the figurine and tucked inside the top of her maid’s uniform.

“It’s nothing, Sir.”

“Then why did you hide it?”

“It is not for the eyes of unbelievers. Please, Sir, I do not wish to anger the gods.”

“Which gods?”

“I must leave now,” she said in a shaky voice.

“See this? It’s five American dollars. It’s yours if you answer my question. What gods will be angry with you?”

“Mazuzu and Azolu. The gods that protect me from zombies. They do the same for anyone who offers sacrifices to them. I must leave now.”

Brinker dropped another five on the table. “I have another question.”

She picked up the money and said, “What is your question?”

“Have you ever you’ve seen a zombie?”

“Many times. Like everyone else in Haiti. You’ll see them too, if you stay here long enough.”

“I have three more five-dollar bills. They’re yours if you sit down for a few minutes and answer a few more questions.”

Realizing how many chickens she could buy with so much money, she took a chair.
“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with your name.”

“Bahody.”

“Well, Bahody, here’s the situation. I made a bet with some of my friends back in America. They said zombies don’t exist. I bet them $10,000 that they do. So to win the bet, I must find some zombies and take their pictures as proof. Where can I find them?”

“Zombies prowl everywhere in Haiti. Especially tonight under the full moon.”

“Perhaps you can tell me exactly where to go so I can find some, especially females.”

“You should never have made such a bet,” she said. “Especially about the living dead. It’s bad juju.”

“I’ll take the risk. Tell me where to go.”

“Café Rico. It’s not far from this hotel. It’s an unholy place. They say rats drop dead when they get too close.”

“When I get there, who should I see to get in touch with zombies?”

“Don’t go. You’ll lose your soul.”

“It’s more important that I don’t lose my $10,000 bet. How do I get there?”

“Any cab driver will know the way.”

“It’s such a nice evening, I prefer to walk. Who knows, I may even see a zombie or two along the way.”

Clasping her black figurine, she hoped the gods would forgive her for leading the foolish American to zombies. But she needed the money he offered. "When you leave the hotel, turn left. Go three blocks. Turn right, and go six more.” She grabbed the money and hurried out.

About Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula's stories have been published by 134 magazines and 41 anthologies. He’s won first place in 12 contests and placed in eight others. He’s authored three books of flash and micro-fiction: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperbacks at www.amazon.com. His latest book, Writing Genre Flash Fiction The Minimalist Way - A Self Study Book, will be released December 2010.

Brinker's Contract: Part 1 by Michael A. Kechula

2010-12-16T02:56:00.007-05:00

“Do you believe in zombies,” asked the beautiful, leggy lawyer representing Galaxy Pictures.

“About as much as the Tooth Fairy,” replied Brinker, a private investigator.

“I’ll bet you’d change your mind if Galaxy Pictures offered you a lucrative contract to find some.”

“Why give me the honor? This town’s full of hungry PIs who’ll do anything for a buck.”

“You’re the only one in Los Angeles who used to be a successful bounty hunter. If you found elusive fugitives, we figure you could find zombies. But before I say more, I’d like you to sign a confidential nondisclosure agreement.” Removing a document from her attaché case, she handed it to Brinker.

“Hmm. It says when I sign this you’ll tell me about one of Galaxy Pictures’ confidential projects. And if I mention it to anybody, especially to Galaxy’s competitors, your company will prosecute me to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Right. If you violate this agreement, I’ll make it my personal crusade to ruin your life. I assure you, Mr. Brinker, I’m very good at my job.”

Brinker couldn’t believe how such a gorgeous, innocent-looking woman could sound like a mafia bone buster.

He signed the agreement out of curiosity.

Tucking the document into her case, she said, “Galaxy is planning to produce a spectacular new movie. Something no studio has ever dreamed of much less attempted to produce. This will be the biggest project in the studio’s history. I’ve read the script. It’s dynamite. We expect ticket sales in the billions. Plus it could lead to a dozen sequels. Mr. Brinker, Galaxy intends to make the first movie in history that includes real zombies.”

Brinker chuckled. “That’s one of the craziest things I ever heard. Zombies don’t exist. Better inform your boss in case he hasn’t heard.”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “I’ve been to Haiti. I’ve seen one. Let me get to the point. Galaxy Pictures will hire you to go to Haiti and capture as many zombies as you can. We have lots of parts to fill in the new movie. However, you must include at least one female to play the key role as Queen of The Zombies.”

“What happens after I snag them?”

“Take them to the airport where we’ll have a chartered airliner waiting to fly them back here to Los Angeles. The company will pay $5,000 for each one you capture, as well as $300 per day for expenses. And once the zombies reach Los Angeles, you’ll be paid a bonus of $100,000. Do you believe in zombies now, Mr. Brinker?”

“You bet,” he said. “For that kind of money I’d believe there was an Emperor of Mars, and deliver him to Galaxy’s main gate. By the way, is it true that zombies eat human brains?”

“No. That’s an invention of Hollywood.”

“What do they eat?”

“Human intestines. But don’t worry. Galaxy’s model shop has developed tummy armor that’s thin, extremely strong, and very flexible. We’ll fit you before you leave. Make sure you wear it when you go zombie hunting.”

“How much time will you give me to deliver them?”

“Two months.”

“I’ll do it,” Brinker said.

Editors' Note: Read "Brinker's Contract: Part 2" December 23.

About Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula's stories have been published by 134 magazines and 41 anthologies. He’s won first place in 12 contests and placed in eight others. He’s authored three books of flash and micro-fiction: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperbacks at www.amazon.com. His latest book, Writing Genre Flash Fiction The Minimalist Way - A Self Study Book, will be released December 2010.

Brinker's Contract By Michael A. Kechula

2010-12-14T17:10:00.003-05:00

"Brinker's Contract" by Michael A. Kechula is a weekly, four-part serial about Brinker, a bounty hunter sent to Haiti for one thing: zombies.

Part One coming this Thursday.

Kickass Trailers: "Monsters"

2010-12-12T16:26:00.000-05:00

Six years after Earth has suffered an alien invasion a cynical journalist agrees to escort a shaken American tourist through an infected zone in Mexico to the safety of the US border.

Writing Prompt: "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble."

2010-12-11T21:30:00.000-05:00

Write a made-up magic spell, including ingredients, chants, and actions. Now, turn it into a poem.

Source Writer's Digest

Kickass Trailer: "Rare Exports"

2010-12-08T21:44:00.000-05:00

From the Rare Exports official Web site:

A film for those who think they don't believe in Santa Claus anymore

In the depths of the Korvatunturi mountains, 486 metres deep, lies the closest ever guarded secret of Christmas. The time has come to dig it up!

This Christmas everyone will believe in Santa Claus.

Based on award winning shorts of director Jalmari Helander that have already acquired a cult reputation in the internet.

The Unexpected Horror: The Road by Cormac McCarthy

2010-12-02T15:36:00.014-05:00

The Road by Cormac McCarthy is a bleak, harrowing story of a nameless father and son struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. Though darker than Stephen King's The Stand and Richard Matheson's I Am Legend combined, you'll never find The Road, winner of the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, categorized in the horror section at bookstores.

Like King's and Matheson's works, McCarthy creates a desolate landscape of destruction where there are "nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than that had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world." However, unlike King and Matheson, McCarthy offers no glimmer of hope and no explanation for the destruction. The world is reduced to a blackened ash, and it will never recover.

Unlike traditional post-apocalyptic horror stories, The Road has no supernatural elements. There are no zombies, no vampires. Just regular people. Regular people who have turned savage and cannibalistic, killing, raping, and eating any survivor in their path. Though these people are only seen in fleeting passages, the father and son are in constant fear of their presence. As the father and son journey south in search of a warmer climate, they stumble upon signs of the cannibals, including, "a charred human infant headless and gutted and blackening on the spit."

The father and son are surrounded by despair. Conversations between the father and son are shown in quick bursts in between the blackened imagery of the landscape. "I wish I was with my mom," the son says. "You mean you wish that you were dead," the father replies. Throughout the course of the story there is an overwhelming sense of dread. The father is trying to remain strong for the sake of his son, but deep down, he knows there is no hope.

McCarthy's writing style is sparse and intense. The characters are constantly threatened by other survivors, harsh climate, and the lack of food, and as a reader, you will feel the threat, too. Each door opened may lead to a world of devestating horror, and your heart will pound every time the father "takes a look." Though the situation may be hopeless for the father and son, The Road is still worth the journey.

The Road written by Cormac McCarthy
Vintage International, 2006
287 pages

Kickass Trailers: "Live Freaky! Die Freaky!"

2010-12-01T11:53:00.001-05:00

Kickass Trailers: "Cold Fish"

2010-11-18T18:09:00.000-05:00

Inspired by true events, Cold Fish depicts a troubled family whose lives are changed when they meet the fate of a serial killer.

Now Accepting Short Comics!!

2010-11-16T19:11:00.003-05:00

Short Comic Submission Guidelines
All comics must be ready to print. We cannot accept scripts, sketches, or proposals. Comics must tell a complete story. Though there is no specific length, ideally, we are looking for comics 15 pages or less. Please email all comics as a JPG file. Comics must be clear and readable in a digital format.

To get a taste of what we publish, visit our Web site.

"We should become prosperous by working hard and then donate generously." ~Atharva Veda

2010-11-05T22:50:00.000-04:00

It's not too late to contribute to Tainted Tea like the folks below. To keep the magazine going, contact Shane & Kris at: taintedtea.editors@gmail.com

You can also do your part by purchasing your copy of the zine here. All the money goes to making the zine even better and eventually paying our contributors.

Illustrations in Fall 2010

2010-11-05T16:09:00.005-04:00

From "...When the Devil Drives" by Zach Black. Photo by Kris Fossett

Zach Black's "...When the Devil Drives" tells the story of Doug, who stumbles upon more than he bargained for when he decides to walk along the train tracks late at night.

From "A Halloween Treat" by Harold Kempka. Illustration by Kris Fossett

Harold Kempka's "A Halloween Treat" is the story of Billy, who learns the hard way why no one ever knocks on old Mrs. Stout's house on Halloween.

To read these stories and more, download Tainted Tea Fall 2010 from Lulu. Click on the button below.

Fall 2010 Now Available

2010-11-04T13:06:00.003-04:00

Stories:

"...When the Devil Drives" by Zach Black

"A Halloween Treat" by Harold Kempka

"Q & A" by Brian Rowe

"Buyer Beware" by M.C. Brody

Poetry:

"The Sacrifice" by J.C. Crumpton

"Serenading Sister Death" by Joseph Rodgers

Artwork:

"Susannah Martin, Hanged, July 19, 1692" Shane R. Toogood

Features:

"Terror Through Time: Horror Elements in The Legend of Zelda" by Tim Yockey
"Geek Love: A Book Review" by Kris Fossett
Movie Spotlights by Shane R. Toogood (see trailers below)

Download Tainted Tea Fall 2010 from Lulu. Click on the button below.

Scream 4 Trailer:

Child's Eye 3D Trailer:

Kickass Trailers: "ThanksKilling"

2010-11-04T10:38:00.001-04:00

"There's no such thing as an evil turkey..." Or is there?

For more info about this movie, visit their Web site.

Visit their MySpace page at myspace.com/thankskilling

Geek Love: A Book Review (An Excerpt)

2010-11-03T23:38:00.006-04:00

Like the Binewski's Carnival Fabulon, Geek Love by Katherine Dunn disturbs, shocks, and revolts. This is the story of the Binewski family, a family of purposely made freaks, told from Olympia's perspective, bouncing between her childhood in the traveling show to her adult life where she trails her grown-up daughter who isn't aware of her existence. Her daughter, Miranda, has a curly, foot-long tail.

Despite their appearances, the shocks and chills do not come from the Binewski children, except for the murdering, manipulative Arturo. Rather, it's the so-called "normal" people that make the reader gasp and cringe. While growing up in the carnival, Arty acquires a massive cult following. Known as Arturism, these people chop their limbs off, once piece at a time, until nothing but a torso remains. The limbs are then fed to the carnival tigers. As grown Olympia stalks her daughter, she meets Mary T. Lick, a wealthy woman interested in deformities. Eventually, Mary tells Olympia a secret: she pays attractive woman big money to mutilate themselves, like burning their skin away, sewing their vaginas shut, or removing their breasts.

While Dunn's descriptions are creepy, spot-on and poetic, this novel is far from perfect.

To read the rest of this review and discover why Kris Fossett thinks this novel is far from perfect, download Tainted Tea's Fall 2010 issue from Lulu. Click on the button below.

Terror Through Time: Horror Elements in The Legend of Zelda by Tim Yockey (An Excerpt)

2010-11-03T01:46:00.008-04:00

Death Mountain has exploded, erupting as a volcano and burning the skies with its ash. Even the once beautiful plains connecting the various locations of this world are occupied by ghosts during the day and werewolves by night.

Ganondorf, the fiendish wizard, has stricken his rivals with malaise to prevent them from rising up against him,: freezing one town in ice and capturing another town’s population to sacrifice to a hungry dragon that dwells inside Death Mountain’s volcanic depths. The remaining remnants of human civilization have flocked to a small village nearby, waiting for a hero to come save them. A young man named Link just happens to be the answer to their prayers.

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time...is an open-world, 3D adventure compared to its lineage of top down dungeon crawling. The contrast between a gloomy yet beautiful childhood and a twisted, corrupted shell of its former glory as an adult made for a compelling reason to take down the dastardly Ganondorf and free the kingdom of Hyrule from his tyrannical grip.

The Great Deku Tree has gone barking mad.

Zelda gives a fright in a more non-traditional manner. One of my favorite moments is when the player is deep in a dungeon, slaying monsters like it’s their job (which it is, actually) and solving frustrating puzzles.

Link enters a seemingly empty room when a shadow emerges underneath him. Not knowing why, the shadow appears to be shrinking until a giant, disembodied hand plucks our intrepid adventurer from the ceiling and takes him back to the beginning of the lair, having to face all that the dungeon has to offer once more.

To read more of Tim Yockey's feature article, download Tainted Tea Fall 2010 from Lulu. Click on the button below.

Top Five Favorite Horror Films by Shane

2010-10-29T19:06:00.000-04:00

When it comes to something or someone we love it can be hard to choose sides or pick favorites. My sister has five kids--identical twins on the way--and we know that it would not only be difficult, but absurd to pick favorites. So when I decided to compile this list of my favorite horror films weeks ago the list gradually got bigger. I'll just write a Top 10 List, I thought. But my expectations failed when ten turned to eleven which turned to twelve to thirteen, etc. Then I realized that my tastes constantly change. Years ago one of my favorite horror films was Slugs in which these gigantic slugs devour people (one scene shows a woman eating one of the creatures in her salad by accident, but it still managed to kill her), now I realize, as horror has evolved so have my tastes. Below are some of the horror films that have stuck with me and I'm not sick of 'em yet:

5. The Blair Witch Project
Terror arises from the mass hysteria of the three filmmakers: is the Blair Witch real or is the audience witnessing three college-aged documentarians going insane as they believe the folklore?

4. Trick 'r Treat

Smartly written and visually orgasmic, writer-director Michael Dougherty weaves together a new classic in his debut.

3. The Candyman
Based on Clive Barker's short story "The Forbidden," this contemporary urban legend is accentuated by Philip Glass' haunting music box score and the raw direction of Bernard Rose.

*Spoiler Alert*

2. Scream
Like great literature,Wes Craven makes reference to pop culture and other great horror movies in his hit Scream. The film redefined the slasher flick and in doing so spawned one of the greatest horror franchises since Halloween and Friday the 13th. Craven plays with the human psyche combining suspense and humor.

1. Halloween

This Hitchcockian slasher combines the essence of Halloween and suspense with harrowing darkness that symbolizes impending doom, smooth camera moves and no gore or cheap gimmicks (save for the occasional heightened music).

Others worth mentioning: Carrie, Drag Me to Hell, Dead Snow, The Exorcist, Grace, Nightmare on Elm Street, Poltergeist, Parents, Psycho, The Shining, The Sixth Sense, The Wolf Man, Zombieland.

For more horror movie reviews, visit Tainted Tea at

Coming Soon...Fall 2010!

2010-10-28T00:33:00.004-04:00

Featuring...
The Sacrifice by J.C. Crumpton
My Best Side by Simon Walsgrove
A Halloween Treat by Harold Kempka
Serenading Sister Death by Joseph Rodgers
Q & A by Brian Rowe
...When the Devil Drives by Zach Black
Buyer Beware by M.C. Brody
Susannah Martin, Hanged, July 19, 1692 by Shane R. Toogood

Plus features by Tim Yockey, Kris Fossett, and Shane R. Toogood

This issue will be available for download later this week. Come celebrate one year with us. And if you can't wait for this issue, don't forget to download our first issue for free from our Web site.

Read an excerpt from Brian Rowe's story here.

Kickass Trailers: "Scream 4"

2010-10-21T00:33:00.000-04:00

Ghostface is back this April!

For more info, sign up at the official Web site.

Kickass Trailer: "Saw 3D"

2010-10-20T13:14:00.000-04:00

It's the final chapter and in 3D. What else do you need to know?

Popcorn Movie Review: "Let Me In"

2010-10-20T12:37:00.000-04:00

Innocent and alluring--just as a vampire--Let Me In is not a vampire film, but a tale about the relationship of two misfits that find love and trust in a world of evil. Would it be cliche to say that the connection between Chloe Moretz and Kodi Smit-McPhee was that of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca? The tweens' acting abilities alone are phenomenal. The twitch and whispers of the misunderstood, bullied Owen (Smit-McPhee) to the untainted yet sensual smirks and stares of Abby (Moretz), these two make the film amazing. Their characters know deep down that they should not be friends, but in this contemporary spin on Romeo and Juliet, the two confide in each other and form a bond. They rely on one another, both unable to survive (almost literally and metaphorically) without the other. The film, at times, moves a bit slow, but with it's lofty storyline and brilliant characters (much like Where the Wild Things Are) Let Me In should not to be missed.

Although this is considered romance, it's safe to say that Let Me In leans to the horror genre, too with it's tactful scenes of mutilation (oxymoron?) like that in The Wolf Man to it's frightening storyline of the commitment to a lifelong task made at such a young age before one can comprehend the audacity and consequences of said task.

This review was originally posted on Rotten Tomatoes. For more Popcorn Movie Reviews, click here.

Excerpt from "Q & A" by Brian Rowe

2010-10-14T21:49:00.004-04:00

“Mr. Hauser! Theo!”

The man with the briefcase skipped up to the director in a droll manner that suggested he was a child in a grown man’s body.

“I’m sorry,” the director said. “I have to go. Good night.”

“I just have one more thing for you to sign, I promise.”

He put his briefcase down and pulled up the guitar case. He started to open it when the side door of the limo unlocked.

“Good bye,” the director said.

He opened and shut his door before the man could stop him.

“No! Wait!”

“Go!” the director shouted at his driver.

As the limousine started pushing forward, the man started chasing after it. He pressed the palm of his left hand against the side window and dragged his heavy guitar case with the fingers of his right. He lost his grip when the limousine made a right on busy San Vicente and started speeding down the center lane.

The director closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until he knew he was out of Santa Monica and back on the freeway, heading toward his home in the San Fernando Valley.

Another crazy fan evaded.

About Brian Rowe
Brian Rowe is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles, California. He graduated from Loyola Marymount University in 2007 with a B.A. in Film Production. He has written five feature-length screenplays, as well as over fifty short films. His short story “Kelly” was published in Mobius Magazine, and his short story “Pumpkin Milkshake” was published in Horror Bound Magazine. He has recently finished his first novel.

Editors' Note: Read the rest of "Q & A," a tale about a cult slasher film director and a fan who loves his work a little too much, like a cross between Tales from the Crypt and Joe Hill's short story "Best New Horror," in Tainted Tea's Fall 2010 issue.

Afternoon Shorts: "Chainsaw Maid"

2010-10-11T18:19:00.006-04:00

I know we say that horror isn't just the gore, but this claymation short is good, campy fun. The title says it all. Thank you, Pes, for sharing.

And in other news, Shane and I are putting together the Fall 2010 issue. Release date coming soon!

Kickass Trailer: "The Whisper in Darkness" & Short Story

2010-10-10T09:23:00.001-04:00

Based on H.P. Lovecraft's short story of the same name, "HPLHS Motion Picture release [this] classic tale of alien horror shot in genuine Mythoscope by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society."

Tainted Tea in The Delaware County News Network

2010-10-08T01:56:00.003-04:00

We have a new feature about us published in The Delaware County News Network. Read the article here.

Blood and Puppets Cabaret Seeks Performers Dec. 7

2010-10-06T14:41:00.000-04:00

Dear Ghouls, Goblins, Reanimated Corpses and Generally Grotesque-Looking Individuals,

Have you been seeking the opportunity to recite a frightening tale, perform your dark side, inflict utter horror upon a semi-expecting audience? Blood and Puppets is seeking interest and proposals for a horror-themed cabaret (a macabaret if you will) that can include, though is not limited to, burlesque, drag, poetry, story-telling, original music and cover bands, humour, visual art, and puppet theater.

Performances should be no longer than 15 minutes in length and be in the genre of horror or have dark undertones(obviously).

Blood and Puppets will take place on Tuesday December 7th at the Rotunda in West Philadelphia.

Please spread the word like an infectious flesh eating disease (though hopefully more pleasantly).

Most(ly)Sincere
Geppetta

**This cabaret will be a benefit for the Sent(a)mental Project, a memorial to LGBTQ suicides http://sentamentalproject.weebly.com/**

Kickass Trailers: "Let Me In"

2010-09-23T06:14:00.001-04:00

Kickass Trailers: "The Morgue"

2010-09-20T20:16:00.002-04:00

Six strangers who find themselves stranded overnight at a rural morgue.

"Sweet Tomb" by Trinie Dalton

2010-09-13T14:50:00.000-04:00

I’ve foreseen my death since the day my Mom named me: Candy. It will happen after I’ve binged on my gingerbread walls, eaten the frosted windowpanes, and chewed hunks off the peppermint fireplace. The cause: Sweetheart Attack, a.k.a. Sugar Overdose. It’s a classic witch affliction. After all, a witch’s house isn’t solely built to lure starving children. They design them with their favorite treats, with tips from the Witch’s Home Journal. The magazine runs a column called 'Houses To Nibble At.' Last month’s winning house had the following caption beneath its photo: This devilishly delicious Witch’s House, with its broken candy glass path, cookie graveyard, licorice barbed-wire fence, and spooky hilltop shack with graham cracker roof, will delight a crowd of 20. I took the graveyard suggestion and have been busy baking tombstones to give my family some recognition. Everyone I’m related to is out back, mostly in the form of scattered ashes.
-----
In Sweet Tomb, Trinie Dalton tells the story of Candy, a candy-addicted witch who resents her inherited lifestyle. After a fire burns down her gingerbread house, she leaves the forest and ventures out in search of the excitement of a more urban environment. Along the way she encounters a self-mutilating puppet, tastes meat for the first time, and falls in love with Death, a skeletal woman with a shoe fetish.

Trinie Dalton is the author of the story collection Wide Eyed, an installment in Dennis Cooper’s 'Little House on the Bowery' series for Akashic Books, and of the novella A Unicorn is Born. She is also the co-editor of Dear New Girl or Whatever Your Name Is, an art book of confiscated notes from high school students, and the editor of MYTHTYM, a collection of essays, artwork, and miscellany on a variety of mythological and horror-related subjects.

For more information, or to purchase Sweet Tomb, visit Trinie's Web site here.

“Is it progress if a cannibal uses a knife and fork?” ~Stanislaw Lee

2010-09-09T06:55:00.000-04:00

You have been captured by cannibals. How do you try to convince them not to eat you? If that fails how do you attempt to get away?

Source: Writer's Digest

Kickass Trailers: "Rabid Grannies"

2010-09-09T06:29:00.002-04:00

Need I explain?

Afternoon Shorts: "Lullaby"

2010-09-08T20:09:00.000-04:00

Midnight Movie: "Night of the Demons"

2010-09-05T20:01:00.000-04:00

Kickass Trailer: "Chopping Mall"

2010-09-02T10:38:00.001-04:00

Kickass Trailer: "The Walking Dead"

2010-09-02T09:52:00.000-04:00

AMC's original show The Walking Dead looks very lively...yeah, I said it.

For more info, read the Press Release here.

Meet Skeletina

2010-08-26T21:55:00.000-04:00

If you "Like" us on Facebook, you may have seen my post on the Haunted Paper Toys. Well, while surfing the Internet tonight, I came across this. I've always liked skeletons...especially if they're in funny dresses.

Courtesy of Pritty Litter: Paper Dolls & Me

Kickass Trailers: "I Spit on Your Grave"

2010-08-26T20:03:00.000-04:00

A beautiful woman from the city, Jennifer Hills, rents an isolated cabin in the country to write her latest novel.

Soon, a group of local lowlifes subject Jennifer to a nightmare of degradation, rape and violence. Left for dead, she returns for vengeance. Trapping her male attackers one-by-one, she inflicts acts of physical torment upon them with a ferocity that surpasses her own ordeal.

When the carnage clears, victim has become victor.

The synopsis is courtesy of the official Web site where you can learn more about this remake of the 1978 film of the same name:

Summer 2010 Issue Now Available

2010-08-26T00:13:00.008-04:00

Featuring stories by Allen D. Reed, Theresa Nienaber, Donna Burgess and D.A. Hernandez; poetry by Adelaide Windsome; artwork by Simon Walsgrove, Lawrence Boos a.k.a. Undead Ed, Adelaide Windsome and J. Toogood; and features by Jim Kennedy and Tim Yockey.

The Summer 2010 Issue of Tainted Tea is available for download on Lulu.com with a free preview on our Web site.

For a taste of what's in the Summer 2010 Issue, read an excerpt of "The Host" by D. A. Hernandez here. Or grab a free cup of Tainted Tea here to celebrate one year.

You read about them in Tainted Tea, now watch the trailers of the films that Jim Kennedy Spotlights in the Summer 2010 Issue:

Devil

Buried

Summer 2010 Cover

2010-08-25T00:36:00.001-04:00

Available for download this week. Artwork by Shane R. Toogood.

Kickass Trailers: "Wes Craven's My Soul to Take"

2010-08-24T07:07:00.001-04:00

In the sleepy town of Riverton, legend tells of a serial killer who swore he would return to murder the seven children born the night he died. Now, 16 years later, people are disappearing again. Has the psychopath been reincarnated as one of the seven teens, or did he survive the night he was left for dead? Only one of the kids knows the answer…

The film is set for release on Oct. 8, 2010.

Kickass Trailers: "The Last Exorcism"

2010-08-23T18:37:00.000-04:00

To learn more about the film, visit the official Web site.

Kickass Trailers: "Black Swan"

2010-08-20T06:54:00.000-04:00

Not sure what this film is entirely about except that we know shit's going down.

Watch out or the Trekkies might just "Klingon" to your limbs

2010-08-19T10:05:00.002-04:00

As Kris and I anticipate our first *ahem* trek to Monster-Mania 15, I have been extremely dorky the past couple of days with my reading Batman comics and watching nostalgic films and TV shows like TailSpin, Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Back to the Future. So, while applying for an internship (which is not dorky), I came across the novel Night of the Living Trekkies by Kevin David Anderson and Sam Stallon on Quirk Book's Web site.

I've never been a fan of Star Trek; just never watched it. However, I've always respected Trekkies and their devotion to the deep-space phenomenon. However, I am a fan of horror, zombies being one of my favorites, so I can't wait to read this. The cover, in the style of a Hardy Boys (side note: look at this!) or Nancy Drew novels, is particularly striking. Who doesn't love dead Spock holding an arm doing the Vulcan salute (yes, I had to look that up)?

The Facebook fan page has this to say about Night of the Living Zombies:

"This sci-fi/zombie/comedy/adventure follows a group of rag-tag Trekkies getting together for the fifth annual GulfCon (billed as the 'largest Starfleet Convention in the western Gulf Coast region').

"Of course you don't understand. You don't have the brains to understand. All you have is printed circuits...and I'll eat them, too!"

Our heroes are dressed in homemade uniforms and armed with prop phasers-but soon find themselves defending their hotel and convention center against hordes of flesh-eating undead. Suddenly, all of their useless knowledge about particle physics and old Star Trek episodes has genuine real-world applications! And while hotel employees and regular civilians are dying left and right, our Trekkies summon strength and courage by emulating their favorite starship-voyaging characters.

Packed with hundreds of gags referencing Star Trek, Star Wars, comic books, and fan conventions, Night of the Living Trekkies reads like the strange lovechild of Galaxy Quest and Dawn of the Dead. Journey to the final frontier of zombie science-fiction satire!"

"Live long and prosper...but not for long!"

Spierig Brothers to Direct 3D Power of the Dark Crystal

2010-08-18T20:23:00.000-04:00

Note: This may not be deemed "horror," but it scared the shit out of my brother when he was younger.

In a joint announcement by Omnilab Media's Christopher Mapp and The Jim Henson Company's Lisa Henson, Australian based Omnilab Media is teaming up with The Jim Henson Company to bring the fantasy sequel Power of the Dark Crystal to the big screen in stereoscopic 3D.

Power of the Dark Crystal will be produced by the Australia-based production arm of Omnilab Media, Ambience Entertainment. The Jim Henson Company's executive producers are Brian Henson, Lisa Henson and Jason Lust. Omnilab Media's executive producers are Christopher Mapp, Matthew Street and David Whealy. Cinemarket Films' Peter D. Graves (Terminator Salvation) rounds out the executive producer team.

Peter Spierig and Michael Spierig, writers and directors of Undead and most recently, Daybreakers, have come aboard to direct the screenplay written by Australian Craig Pearce (Moulin Rouge!, Strictly Ballroom, Romeo + Juliet) based on an original script by Annette Duffy and David Odell. The legendary fantasy artist Brian Froud will reprise his role as conceptual designer of the film, which will use a mix of live action and traditional puppetry combined with visual and special effects produced entirely in Australia. Omnilab-affiliated Iloura (Where the Wild Things Are, "The Pacific," Don't Be Afraid of the Dark) has already begun work on the film's complex CGI elements. With this team in place, next steps will be to secure worldwide distribution.

"Power of the Dark Crystal is an exciting and ambitious undertaking and, having worked on previous projects with the top-notch talent and crews that Australia offers, we know we have assembled the right team to deliver the sequel to one of the most enduringly popular titles in the Henson library. Peter Spierig and Michael Spierig are sure to create a film that will continue the legacy of the original and exceed the expectations of our loyal fans," said Lisa Henson, CEO of the The Jim Henson Company. "We are especially enthusiastic to be working with Omnilab Media, a strong and growing force in worldwide film finance and production."

"We are very pleased to be producing this wonderful and fantastical film in Australia. Power of The Dark Crystal will showcase the depth of talent Australia has to offer up on the international stage, including the extremely gifted directing team of Peter Spierig and Michael Spierig. The Jim Henson Company has consistently delivered an amazing range of entertainment over generations and is an iconic creative studio that we are proud to have partner with us," added Christopher Mapp from Omnilab Media.

Michael Spierig said, "We feel a tremendous amount of responsibility in telling this story with the same meticulous care that Jim Henson and Frank Oz gave the 1982 original." Added Peter Spierig, "This is a chance to take the world of puppetry into the modern age by using modern techniques (like motion capture CGI) and the tried and true methods (like puppetry and animatronics) to create a one hundred percent real world that is unique to The Dark Crystal."

Set hundreds of years after the events of the first movie when the world has once again fallen into darkness, Power of the Dark Crystal follows the adventures of a mysterious girl made of fire who, together with a Gelfling outcast, steals a shard of the legendary Crystal in an attempt to reignite the dying sun that exists at the center of the planet.

Source: Omnilab Media, The Jim Henson Company

For those of you unfamiliar with the 1982 film, watch the trailer below:

Daily Dose of Monster (It's like coffee only better)

2010-08-18T12:28:00.004-04:00

How did we miss this Web site The Daily Monster?

"Monster Mania: A Deadly Good Time" by Jim Kennedy

2010-08-18T11:35:00.002-04:00

Being the awesome editors that we are, we failed to post Jim Kennedy's blog about his trip to Monster-Mania 14. Kris and I are attending the event tomorrow, Saturday August 21 and will be covering that as well. Here's what Jim had to say:

In 2007 I was given an official poster from the movie theater where I work for Rob Zombies Halloween. I was then able to get it signed by Daeg Faerch, Danny Trejo, Danielle Harris and Kristina Klebe, some of the cast from that film. So, this Monster Mania was exciting for me because attending the convention this year were Malcolm McDowell and Scout Taylor-Compton, who played Dr. Loomis and Laurie Strode in the remake. Other big names at this years con were Gary Busey, Eric Roberts, Italian horror director Dario Argento and cast reunions from the original My Bloody Valentine and the classic horror gem Night of the Creeps.

Besides the autographs, the convention is also good for fans to be able to search for any kind of horror/sci-fi merchandise they can usually find only online. I was able to purchase two DVDs, one for the British horror comedy Doghouse and the other a horror film titled Pig Hunt.

The next Monster Mania convention will be held the weekend of August 20-22 at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. On the slate guest wise as of right now is A Nightmare on Elm Street 5 reunion as well as genre veteran Julian Sands and Barbara Steele. If you’ve never been to one, attend, you don’t know what you’re missing!

Puppets from the film series The Puppet Master

Jim and actor Malcolm McDowell

Jim and actress Scout Taylor-Compton

Free Download for Our Anniversary

2010-08-17T18:47:00.004-04:00

Even though it's not October yet, the editors are celebrating their One Year Anniversary early with a free download of the first issue. Click here for the PDF.

A big thank you to all our readers and contributors. We couldn't have made it this far without you.

Tainted Tea

"Pagan fable" by Nathan Jonathan David Lee Rowark

"The Ha Ha Man" by Wendy Schmidt

Ponder this:

Sample Query Letter

Kickass Trailer: "Apollo 18"

Hello from Eastern State Penitentiary

"There is No Bird" by Richard Dansky

Winter 2011's Letter from the Editors

"Cat Nip" by Len Kuntz

Fall TV Lineup: ABC's detective drama, "Poe"

Excerpt from "State of Nature" by Eric Victor Neagu

"The Icicle" by Rick McQuiston

"Mother Sewing" from the Winter 2011 Issue of Tainted Tea

Excerpt from "Barista" by David Massengill

Winter 2011 Now Available

Excerpt of "The Eleven O'Clock" by Sharon Goldner

From Winter 2011

Kickass Trailers: "Don't Be Afraid of the Dark"

Bringing Home Horror by Derek Hayes

The Dirty One: Part 2 by Jana Gifford

Tainted Tea Winter 2011

The Dirty One: Part 1 by Jana Gifford

The Diry One by Jana Gifford

Winter 2011 Cover

Happy Birthday, Edgar!

Shane R. Toogood's Short Story, "Cluster," in Blood Moon Rising

Afternoon Shorts: "Fear Clinic"

Guest post by The Writing Nag

Brinker's Contract: Part 4 by Michael A. Kechula

Kickass Trailers: "The Troll Hunter"

Ponder this:

Brinker's Contract: Part 3 by Michael A. Kechula

Disneyland Haunted Mansion Holiday

Tim Burton Productions to Produce Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter film

Brinker's Contract: Part 2 by Michael A. Kechula

Brinker's Contract: Part 1 by Michael A. Kechula

Brinker's Contract By Michael A. Kechula

Kickass Trailers: "Monsters"

Writing Prompt: "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble."

Kickass Trailer: "Rare Exports"

A film for those who think they don't believe in Santa Claus anymore

The Unexpected Horror: The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Kickass Trailers: "Live Freaky! Die Freaky!"

Kickass Trailers: "Cold Fish"

Now Accepting Short Comics!!

"We should become prosperous by working hard and then donate generously." ~Atharva Veda

Illustrations in Fall 2010

Fall 2010 Now Available

Kickass Trailers: "ThanksKilling"

Geek Love: A Book Review (An Excerpt)

Terror Through Time: Horror Elements in The Legend of Zelda by Tim Yockey (An Excerpt)

Top Five Favorite Horror Films by Shane

Coming Soon...Fall 2010!

Kickass Trailers: "Scream 4"

Kickass Trailer: "Saw 3D"

Popcorn Movie Review: "Let Me In"

Excerpt from "Q & A" by Brian Rowe

Afternoon Shorts: "Chainsaw Maid"

Kickass Trailer: "The Whisper in Darkness" & Short Story

Tainted Tea in The Delaware County News Network

Blood and Puppets Cabaret Seeks Performers Dec. 7

Kickass Trailers: "Let Me In"

Kickass Trailers: "The Morgue"

"Sweet Tomb" by Trinie Dalton

Recommended Reading: "Kittens" by Dean Koontz

“Is it progress if a cannibal uses a knife and fork?” ~Stanislaw Lee

Kickass Trailers: "Rabid Grannies"

Afternoon Shorts: "Lullaby"

Midnight Movie: "Night of the Demons"

Kickass Trailer: "Chopping Mall"

Kickass Trailer: "The Walking Dead"

Meet Skeletina

Kickass Trailers: "I Spit on Your Grave"

Summer 2010 Issue Now Available

Summer 2010 Cover

Kickass Trailers: "Wes Craven's My Soul to Take"

Kickass Trailers: "The Last Exorcism"

Kickass Trailers: "Black Swan"

Watch out or the Trekkies might just "Klingon" to your limbs