Issue #2, March 2009

Plates in the Sky © 2009 by Richard Magruder

Welcome back, to the second issue of Dark Realm Review, an online magazine dedicated to bringing you the best in short horror and suspense literature. We weren't sure we would make it at first, but here we are with two whole issues. And this one is a corker.

In this issue you'll find bad poetry, short stories by a wide range of contributors, more exceptional art by our artist of the month, Richard Magruder, and an interview with the published horror writer, H. R. Knight. We here at DRR are excited by this issue and hope that you enjoy it as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

So, let us tarry no longer. Scroll down to view the contents of this issue or use the navigation bar links at the top of the page to learn more about the site or even submit your own works of fiction for consideration in future issues.

As is always the case, the material at this site is copyrighted by the artists. Feel free to contact us with questions and comments regarding the contents of this site.

A Word From the Editor: Bad Poetry by Brian Jackson

Alright, you caught me. I admit it. I am a closet, bad poet. I had to go to college to learn how to write bad poetry. I suppose I could have been a good poet, but this is more fun. Note that there is a certain artistry to writing bad poetry as exemplified in the following three pieces that I submit for your enjoyment.

Love You So Bad...

If you're a fan of the things in the basement, then you're in luck. They're back again this month to unveil their favorite Playstation 3 horror games.

This will be a short review. When it comes to Playstation 3, there is only one great game, and fortunately, that game is a horror release.

The Janitor by Melanie Jackson

This short story is actually the epilogue to her book, Divine Fire. Although it appears at the end of the book, it works quite well as a standalone short story.

If it wasn't one damned thing, it was another! Karl complained to himself as he rode downward in the service elevator. First, there those damned cops all over the place. And where there weren't cops there were friggin' second string reporters who were in a feeding frenzy, looking for a story that would make them big-time piranhas. And worse still, there were everyday gawkers. Hell! A man couldn't hardly find a quite place to spark up. He'd finally had to pretend to Mr. Ruthven's secretary that there was something wrong with the drainpipes and go up on the roof. It was barely worth it. He got his smoke but he'd damned near frozen his ass off in the snow.

Heart and Soul by Mark Orr

Heart and Soul © 2009 by Richard Magruder

I sat on my ass in the gravel and watched the two-year old Chrysler Imperial convertible roar down the road at me. I was so stunned by the wreck I'd just crawled away from I hardly realized what it was doing. At the next to the last second, the driver slewed around and braked, spraying me with limestone dust. When the air cleared the big ragtop was sitting athwart the road. From behind the driver's wheel, a man wearing Ray-bans and a porkpie hat grinned at me.

"Have an accident?"

In Walked Trouble © 2009 by Richard Magruder

I was working late in my office Saturday night, typing up some notes on the Harrison case while enjoying a bourbon, straight up in a dirty glass, and a butt, when in walked trouble. I knew ahead of time that trouble was at my door by the sound of the footsteps in the hallway. You see, they were the footsteps of a dame; and in my book, and at this time of night, a dame almost always spells trouble. I didn't know just how much trouble I was in until I got a look at the broad. Then I knew for sure that trouble had finally found me, and found me in spades. But here I get ahead of myself. Let me backtrack to earlier in the day and start over again at the beginning.

The First Ghost © 2009 by Richard Magruder

"The caretaker will meet you at the door," Miss Eddington had told him yesterday. "If he's sober, that is," she'd added apologetically.

In the deepening twilight Trevor recalled her words. The tyres of his Vauxhall crunched along the gravel drive.

She'd been such a timid little woman-like a caged bird let free in the living room for the first time. The sort who wouldn't say boo to a ghost, Trevor thought. The turn of phrase amused him.

Center Divide © 2009 by Richard Magruder

They say that any landing you can walk away from is a good one. So, Harry couldn't feel too badly about the landing he'd just made on the center divide of the San Diego freeway two blocks south of the Sepulveda Boulevard off-ramp. Freeway landings are seldom preferable to those at FAA approved airports and a cement barrier topped by a, now accordioned, chain link fence could never provide the gentle touch-down of freshly laid tarmac. However, having lost all power in his single engine Cessna while flying over the San Fernando Valley, Harry found the horizontal nature of a freeway landing preferable to the verticality of the building landing he'd narrowly avoided during his approach. He also viewed the saw-toothed surface of the center divide as plush in comparison to a head-on collision with a suburban assault vehicle in the fast lane.

Fading Photographs © 2009 by Richard Magruder

"Claire," Ben called in the general direction of the stairs. Receiving no immediate reply, he tried again. "Claire, I've found a box of old pictures, and letters, and stuff," he elaborated, lifting a faded photograph from the top of the stack of letters and other memorabilia stored in the cardboard box he'd just opened in the corner of the basement.

The photograph was of a pretty, young women dressed in formal wear sitting with what appeared to be a rakish young gentleman, replete with sword and waxed mustache, adorned in full military regalia. The picture was faded with age and had received water damage as had so much of the contents of the basement. However, Ben could clearly make out the face of the girl within an embossed oval, which suggested the picture had once been framed. The couple sat close together on a love seat, tentatively holding hands, the girl the spitting image of Claire's great aunt Jennifer whose possessions they were currently sorting through in the basement of her recently vacant house.

The Gifts I Bring To Thee © 2009 by Richard Magruder

Billy sat at the bar, his face long, his life longer, and grimaced as an uneven edge of the wooden stool bit into the seat of his pants. This couldn't possibly be the place. Either he read the ad wrong or it was fucked up, misprinted, and if that were the case, he'd be on the phone with the paper the second he got home. Someone sure as shit would be paying for his wasted tank of gas. But the addresses did match, and now he found himself here.

He didn't really want to be here, here being this shithole of a bar, but his options were dwindling and desperation had him grasping for straws. But this was worse than straws - this was... him whiffing at thin air, trying to catch clouds from his back while in the middle of a grassy field. It wasn't working, but he tricked himself to feel like it was anyway.

A storm was coming. Maurice could both see the clouds that allowed only occasional beams of feeble moonlight to pass and hear distant thunder hinting at foul weather to come. He had hoped that the moonlight which had guided him from his front stoop to the weathered stable at his back would prevail to light his way home. However, while regretting the loss of illumination, Maurice recognized that the darkness which hampered the prey could also deter the hunter. For in addition to the inclement weather, of which he was ultimately most aware through his aching, creaking joints, Maurice could sense that the wolf was afoot this evening, not mantled in fur, tooth, and claw, but instead in grey wool and carbine - the regalia of sentries from the local German Wermache barracks of the 8th motorized infantry division, French occupation force.

An Interview with H. R. Knight

H. R. Knight attended journalism school at the University of Missouri and film school at U.C.L.A. He has worked in educational television and radio, the insurance industry, and software marketing. Eventually, he gave up trying to convince the people around him that he was normal, and dropped out to write horror stories and mysteries. His first novel, What Rough Beast is published by Leisure Books. The following interview highlights Harry's love of literature and cooking and gives us a glimpse into the working life of an author.

If you want to learn more about H. R. Knight, please visit his home page at http://www.harrySquires.com.

Richard Magruder © 2009 by Richard Magruder

Richard Magruder spent the first twenty years of his life in Louisiana, dividing his time about equally between New Orleans and Starhill, a very rural community that remained deeply fixed in the 19th century. Since then he's been lucky to travel widely in North America and Europe, especially the British Isles, while pursuing his fascination with languages, history, photography, art and architecture, political science and law. He's worked as an actor, playwright, photographer, standup comedian, attorney, and creative writer for major film studios and projects.

Welcome Mr. Magruder. Are you comfortable? Can I get you a glass of wine? Well, if you're ready to put the bong down, lets get on with the interview.