The Book Is Here!!

Some of you may remember that I had won first place in a poetry contest in the Darker Times Collection. The anthology is now available!!! To some of you multi-published authors this may seem old school, haha, so excuse my childish glee. Lol. 

 

If you want to buy the anthology where I’ve been published, visit these links below:

Darker Times Volume Two — Kindle Edition (in the UK)

Darker Times Volume Two — Paperback (in the UK)

Darker Times Volume Two — Paperback & Kindle (in the USA) 

 

I have been writing some experimental stories and would like to post them and get all of your opinions and feedback if you like? Not sure if that is something you all would like to get involved in, but let me know. I’m a little rusty since I haven’t shown any of my stories in almost a year now. Ack! I feel like I’m starting all over again.

 

Anyways.. HAPPY WEEKEND!! 🙂

A. Joleigh

 

The December 2013 Christmas Challenge Winner

Congratulations to Vanessa Wright for winning the Christmas Writer’s Challenge!!!! 

She is a 47 year old visual artist, author, mom and pug breeder. Two of her Afrikaans short

Vanessa Wright

stories have recently been published in My kort vir jou sop available on www.amazon.com as an e-book and soon to be released in soft cover. She has taken part in Nanowromo 2012 and 2013 and reached the target on day 26. She has also published a collection of short stories on Smashwords, titled Twisted. http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/361196. She has her own blog at http://iread1966.wordpress.com, appropriately named Humouring the dark where the muse has captured many readers’ attention and a book about the character is in the offing. She is also active on Facebook and Twitter and is a member of a writing group. She leads her own book club and is a true bookaholic. Writing has always been her passion, however the timing always seemed incorrect as daily life interrupted more frequently than not. Now, she has decided to go big or go home.

Twitter, Facebook

 

Vanessa’s Winning Entry

Sweat was running down his back in rivulets and pooled in his underwear. Christmas in the Southern hemisphere at an awesome 37 degrees, dressed in a red velvet suit, white beard, tasselled hat and black boots. He surveyed the manically shopping populace from his fake golden throne.  The true spirit of Christmas was painted on their faces in garish colours as they rushed to and fro. Santa Claus was his name and boosting sales hisgame.

According to myth the Claus was a fat, white man supposedly living in the North Pole, hence the dress code.  He commanded elves, reindeer and an ever pudgier Mrs Claus. In direct contrast Bongani Shabangu was ebony black, single, lived in a sweltering South

The Kiss by Mbongeni Nyadza (poem)

Darkness dicing with nightfall
Cool breeze fondling,romancing the dark
Full moon shining brightly,mistaken for the sun
Two sets of eyes forming a pair
Deafened by the heartbeat,ears are dead loud
Staring,gazing deep into the heart of the eyes
Reading a tale of a story from the eyes
Zoomed,paused into the moment of loud silent confrontation

Harmony and Discord by Amy Glamos

It was the wind that woke her, howling through the screens and lashing against the old house mercilessly.  The lone tree that graced their backyard scraped across the roof with its gnarled, naked limbs, refusing to relent.  Mariah turned to the glowing numbers on the alarm clock.  4:23.  Her eyes went to her husband, soundlessly sprawled on the pillow next to her.  The stark black ink of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the sheets called forth bygone nights that felt scattered by a wind just as strong as the one raging outside.  Her

Working Holiday by Rusty Rimes

“Man it’s cold out here, I think my ass is frozen to this crate.”

“Yeah Tony I know what you mean. You’d think with all the money these bastards make, they could at least put up a heater or two in this warehouse for us.”

“Yeah, you’re right Bill. Especially this time of year, when they really roll in the dough, with all that Christmas shipping crap.”

WRITING CRAFT: ALONE INTO DANGER by Rayne Hall

WRITING CRAFT: ALONE INTO DANGER

Have you written a horror story, or are you working on a frightening scene? Here’s a professional technique for making it even scarier.

Solitary adventures are more dangerous than group adventures. In nature, an animal which becomes separated from the herd is vulnerable to predators. To make your scene scary, let your heroine face the danger alone. 

“Blood Red” By Nicki Redes

Nicki Redes

I looked around when I woke up, seeing green and black. The canvas before me smelled of fresh acrylic. Sap Green and Mars Black. No, Ivory Black. A novice would have never seen the difference, but I was no novice. The colors were my life, coursing with my blood, pumping tirelessly through my veins, so much so that I could smell the difference. The paintbrush, gripped like death in my right hand, bled down the handle and onto my forearm in rivulets of green over crusted ribbons of black. My arm trembled slightly as it always does after a frenzy

Unseeing Eyes (poem) by Yolanda Marin

UNSEEING EYES

Rushing footsteps pound the pavement,
Passers by on way to work or play,
Look straight ahead unseeing,
A crumpled figure slouched,
Against a building doorway.
Tightly he wraps his threadbare coat,
Around his body cold and thin,
Shoes worn away from daily use,
Gray matted hair untidily on collar,
His head hung low in shame,
With vacant eyes devoid of hope.

Beside him hat holds meagre coins,
Thrown in by those who do not see,

Drew Satterwhite–Untitled

“You sure you want to do this?” Kevin asks.

Eric, head lowered, raises his eyes. “I’ve never been as sure.”

The car idles quietly, heat barely able to keep the brothers warm against an unexpectedly harsh winter.

“Are you going to be able to handle him? He’s a big guy.”

“Does it matter?” Eric asks rhetorically. “I don’t care if he’s armed. This is what I need to… I have to do.”

Matthew Eaton– Eternal Lover

Sleet pinging against dark glass behind him
Wind whipped leaves stampeding past his feet on the unlit path
An eerie howl screaming through the treetops
He knew he had trespassed against all reason and common sense
Yet he walked further, bent against the storm, forward to meet his nightmare face-to-face

Nariman Parker–BURGUNDY

Raindrops huge and insistent assaulted the glass behind him. Staring in his rear view mirror it looked like the dark was stalking him. He shrugged his jacket closer hoping the camouflage might shield him against the enveloping danger. The howling wind cried a tearful lament; warning him to veer off the unlit winding road where the only thing standing between him and the edge, were tiny pillars and the warning bells ringing in his head.

Jack cursed as a loose stone hit his windscreen. He drove on knowing he had trespassed against all reason

M. A Barr–Maskara

I remember visiting the Witch’s bamboo hut.  People came sick and with questions, bearing gifts of meat, vegetable, and fruit as payment for her medicine and fortune-telling.  I went there every day, the smoky smell of incense an inviting scent, watched as she made herbal medicines, and as she put on a brightly painted mask each time.  I remember asking her for one, she told me they weren’t for little boys to play with.  I asked and I asked until finally I asked…

Matt Ewens–Life Sublime

Life sublime

There had been no choice but to escape them; escape that false, fabricated life.  Escape the rules, the fake smiles and that unreal world he’d now left behind him.

It had all started when he’d found a secret camera lodged inside the broken video player. Initially he’d thought nothing of it, but curiosity had led him to recover the footage, discovering that his life was nothing more than a fabricated experiment. Of course his memory was erased, but eventually his dreams had told him the truth.

Christine Campbell–Untitled

The pain surprised her, she had thought it would hurt less this time. Looking down, a tear fell from her cheek and disappeared into the pool of warm blood. She needed to wash up, but her strength was gone, seeping out of her in that warm, sticky flow.

He’d gone now: gone to the pub. He’d be ‘drowning his sorrow’, as the saying goes, except it wasn’t his sorrow. It was hers. She looked at the implements of his torture, knowing she’d have to clean up before he came back. God knew she could do without feeling the weight of his fist on top of everything else.