Stories by David Accampo, Joshua Alan Doetsch, Paul Montgomery, Chloe Myaskovsky, Christa Nahhas, Caroline Pruett, Cameron Rice, Jeremy Rogers, Jay Stringer, Darren Thomas and Tiffiny Kaye Whitney
What’s that slithering from the murky depths? What foul Evil plunges icy daggers into your still-beating heart? What strange beast is this? What is this red rage that drives a man to madness? Ah, it’s love. This anthology features eleven tales of enchantment, intimacy, and—naturally—the occult, as Sparrow and Crowe find themselves involved in the strangest and most lovesick of cases: a macabre swampland fairytale, a haunted bakery on Valentine’s Day, a nightclub songbird with more than a taste for men, a severed head that continues to talk, a love potion with unexpected results, the tragic quest of a forlorn knight from ages past… all tales from the darkest chambers of the human heart.
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EXCERPT FROM WEIRD ROMANCE
FINAL GIRL
By Jeremy Rogers
Matildhe Frame has her story down cold. The detectives and the local reporters soon to be broadcasting live from the scene of the crime will love the material she’s ready to give them. Her character portrait isn’t flawless—and it shouldn’t be—but it’s pretty fucking good and will get the job done. She’ll present the idea of the antagonist, knowing she’ll quickly become the primary suspect no matter who she tries to incriminate, real or imagined. The killer: a force of bad luck, a shadow-man wielding a butcher’s blade glimmering stark white with the reflection of the hunter’s moon, brought to life like Frankenstein’s creature in the mind of the spectators by their collective exposure to thrillers and horrors and countless television procedurals.
“The killer found a way into the house,” she’ll say.
Soon the media vultures will catch scent of another sensational transgression and pick it apart like coarse scavengers. Such is the fate of criminals in the modern world. On the flipside, she thinks, this modern world is a place where an assiduous platform for ratings-fueled programming and flash pan blogs offer a better than fighting chance for anyone wanting to entertain the possibility of their innocence, even the guilty. Ad revenue could run high for a crime like this, there will be logos created for the news channels, there will be doctored photos in the magazines, depicting her with horns and other Devilish likes.
Matildhe is confident she’ll be exonerated as long as she holds to the beats of her story. Striking, affluent women don’t kill people unless by vehicular manslaughter or the dividends of a life insurance policy—maybe as the capper to a violent fallout from an affair. She’s exhausted weeks creating a believable reflection, every part specific, every tangential thread ready to unravel premeditated for the best results. She knows there’s only so much she can do to prepare, and that sometimes critical mistakes happen despite the best intentions. There’s risk of being cast Veronica Cartwright opposite the public opinion’s Donald Sutherland, and she knows it.
“He must’ve climbed the fence into the backyard…” she’ll say, her trembling hand rising to cover her mouth.
She’s up late, third consecutive night this week, writing a Stephen King inspired horror yarn (talks shows and editorials will want the elevator pitch: a cave dwelling transient/creature of some yet-to-be-defined winged variety follows a close-knit group of pre-teen girls home from summer camp, terror ensures). Despite her ill-fit with Hollywood, Matildhe’s always been more interested in selling the film rights than completing the story as a work of prose, knowing that with a tentative title like GIRL CAMP BLOODBATH her debut novel will never land on any prestigious literary award shortlist. Artistic limitations aside, what matters at the moment is a novel, even a bad one, requires a serious commitment of time. And because her plan is to present herself as woman with a happy future (or at least a tolerable one), she’ll want a few polished chapters on hand before the knotty finger is pointed at her.
“There she is,” Donald Sutherland will say, rallying the nation. “Get her!”
Her baby boy, precious monster he is when awake, drops like the comatose around nine every evening. This should allow time at night for a glass of wine or a bath with her husband—under somebody else’s normal circumstances a couple might find themselves with the chance for a lot of things. For the past three nights, after putting the baby to sleep, Matildhe’s committed to secluding herself and writing two thousand words before heading to bed. Truth be told, she’s been enjoying her creative rupture, tormenting her bratty girls with sadomasochistic tortures, playing off their sexual awakenings to horrific effect, often forgetting the dark muse that’s fueling her newly sprung well of inspiration.
She’ll say Henry hasn’t been a supportive husband, hurrying through her rambles and questions, twitches of frustration never more evident than when he’s asked to read a passage and offer feedback. Beyond the rote machinations of work and parenthood, she hardly sees or hears from him much at all anymore. She misses him and his stupid charm that used to annoy her, his licentious affection that she used to think degraded her. Their detachment since the baby was born breaks her heart.
Boo-fucking-hoo, right? Marital distance, what a trite development torn straight from the pages of The Murderer’s Handbook: A Guide for Playing to Expectations. Uninspired as the troubles in their relationship might be, it’ll all make for a nifty discussions on the daytime talk show circuits in hindsight. Matildhe’s life and character, specifically her troubles and flaws, will matter to the curious onlooker. And won’t every goddamn news junkie/soccer mom (grief addicts, all of ‘em!) be curious? The slight chill in their marriage is a gilded feature of the story. There’s no rom/com fairy tale life here, and there’s no operatic trauma, either. She knows the importance of being relatable and that it will be better for her to provide shrewdly chosen imperfections then to let those looking to judge her pick their own.
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