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Issues:
Issue #5, June 2009 Issue #4, May 2009 Issue #3, April 2009 A Word From the Editor: Writing Greatest Horror Novels of All Time 138 Grant Street Five Minutes Alone Restoration Project Evidence of Susan The Strange Lady Nightline While Strangling the Cat Poetry Corner An Interview with Mark Orr Artist of the Month: Coles Phillips Issue #2, March 2009 Issue #1, February 2009 |
Issue #3, April 2009
Welcome back, to the third issue of Dark Realm Review, an online magazine dedicated to bringing you the best in short horror and suspense literature. We're excited by this issue since it includes stories by even more contributors and our first legitimate poems. In this issue you'll find stories by a wide range of writers, art by Coles Phillips, a well known cover and advertising artist in the 20's, and an interview with horror writer and editor Mark Orr. We here at DRR hope that you enjoy reading this issue 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 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: Writing by Brian Jackson
Staring at a blank page, I sit down to write. We all do it. We've caught "the bug". To some it comes easily, to others it's more difficult. We each have our ups and downs. But we all do it. It's as if we have no choice; it's encoded in our DNA. Some days it feels like pulling teeth getting each word down on the page. Other days the words gush forth as if from a geiser forcing us to stay up late for fear we'll lose touch with the muse. Most of the time it's something in between; a private world, where time speeds up and slows down, where we're sometimes briliant, more often mediocre, and less often yet downright horrible. But we always come back for more. Why? Could it be that there's nothing to compare with that feeling when you sit down to work and you're in complete control. You're writing can take you anywhere. Greatest Horror Novels of All Time by The Things in the Basement
Looking for a good read? Consider dusting off one of these oldies but goodies. Okay, they may not be the greatest (that's hard to say), but there's no doubt they're some darn good reads. The following is a top ten list of some of the best horror novels of all time. Enjoy. #10 Whispers by Dean Koontz An early Koontz that we still think is the best. It has nauseating scenes of horror and a good surprise ending. For once Koontz doesn't screw up the ending to a good book.
Bruno Frye is killed during an attempted rape. But if he's dead what is he doing up walking around?
#9 They Thirst by Robert McCammon Robert McCammon used to be one of the powerhouses of horror fiction. Then her retired. He's back with a truely awful book, "Speaks the Night Bird". This is a classic from when he was still good. 138 Grant Street by Brian Jackson 
Billy Norton knelt in the dirt, crouched down behind an overgrown hedge, mere yards away from the house at 138 Grant Street. Beside him knelt his best buddy, Ricky Livingston. Billy smiled at Ricky and Ricky smiled back. He hadn't expected Ricky to tag along; in fact, he'd expected to be all alone on this excursion. Now, here he was on the brink of the abyss and Ricky was rock steady by his side. That's what makes for a true friend Billy thought as he faced back to probe at the hedge. Reaching forward, Billy wormed his way between two bushes that made up the hedgerow in an attempt to see through to the other side. Eventually, he was able to wedge his body far enough within the foliage to spread the outer growth with his hands and get a peek at the yard that lay just beyond. As he struggled to do so, he heard Ricky doing the same beside him. The yard on the other side of the barrier was covered in weeds. There were even weeds growing out of the asphalt drive way. Some of the weeds grew so high that they obscured Billy's view of the house. Billy tried crouching a little taller but found that he could not see clearly without exposing his head above the top of the hedge. He did manage a clear view of the second floor. While stooping he wondered at the towers and broken windows of the old farm house, musing that they looked like claws and gaping mouths in the late afternoon light. Five Minutes Alone by JJ Ritonya
Peter entered the room through a glass door which faced a busy street. The door closed behind him shutting out the sounds of the city. The silence made him uncomfortable. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing to look at the newcomer. The bright fluorescent lights made them a little uglier and a slightly less real. Peter quickly spotted an open seat between an overweight woman in her forties and a scrawny teenage boy. He hurried over and sat down on the cold metal folding chair. The woman looked like she had ripped her dress off a shower rod, punched two armholes in it and popped her head through the top. The boy wore faded and torn blue jeans, a black concert t-shirt of a band Peter had never heard of and dark eyeliner around his eyes. Peter glanced at the rest of the group. Most looked nervous and very few talked. They all looked like Peter felt; like they'd rather be pushing needles into their eyes than sitting in this small, drab room with the rest of these losers. Not that he had any choice. His wife had made that perfectly clear. And what did he have to lose? The ad read: Five Minutes Alone. Fee Negotiable. What the hell did that mean anyway? If fee negotiable meant thirty five cents, some lint and a handshake, Peter was in business. Restoration Project by Mark Orr
Everett's accountant warned him it would take a fortune to restore the old Sullivan house. Everett didn't mind. He had several fortunes, and he planned to dedicate at least one to the city that had been so kind as to elect him its mayor. "This burg grew up all around this old house. It's only right she be fixed up as nicely as the city that she spawned," Everett told his architect as they surveyed to ravaged building set amidst the few skyscrapers the town boasted. Jack Reynolds was an expert in historic restorations, but he had a few issues with Everett's plans. "You do know, Mr. Everett, that there are a number of problems we're going to run into. The original structure is buried under cheap siding, the original roof's been leveled, the fixtures and decorative moldings were stripped years ago and used in other buildings all over town." "Not a problem, Jack. I'll track down every molecule that should go in or on this house, and rid her of anything that shouldn't." "Well, that's fine, Mr. Everett, if you can find them all." "Already in the works, Jack. Got my top people on it. Any other objections?" Evidence of Susan by Steve W. Jenkins
"Mind if I join you?" Kevin Drake raised startled blue eyes to the sunken face silhouetted in the weak glow of the overhead reading lamp and shrugged. "I guess not." "Thanks," the odd man said, folding his lanky form down. He offered a hand sporting nicotine stained fingers. "It seems like I've been riding forever. The name is Danny Boudreaux. Yours?" Kevin sank back into the interior wall of the Greyhound, cautiously accepting Boudreaux's hand. The skin was clammy and prune-like. "Kevin," he replied. "Where you heading?" Kevin wiped the moisture from his right hand onto his jeans, then turned away and opened the window. "Grand Springs. How about yourself?" "Same. Or maybe home." The Strange Lady by H. R. Knight
From: Caitlin Elliot
Dearest Daniel, You haven't even been gone one whole day, and I have to write to you. I'd call, but I know Atlanta is three hours later than here in Southern California. By the time I got all the stalls mucked out and the horses exercised and fed tonight, it was nearly eleven-your time. It seems so unfair that you have a business trip the week after we move into our new home. :-( Still, I know that your miserable, time-consuming company is the reason we can afford this wonderful ranch in the canyon. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed today, can you tell? An infant, a new ranch to run, and a dozen horses to take care of. But even with all the work, I'm glad that so many of the borders have decided to keep their horses here through the change in ownership-really I am. And I'm especially grateful that Dolores has agreed to stay on with us after Mr. Ehrlich sold the ranch. Without her to watch Cassie, I don't know what I'd do. Nightline by Brian Jackson
Lori sat in the alcove of her small downtown apartment, head leaning against the window pane, using the cool glass to ease the pain and swelling of her battered face and forehead. Rolling her head from side to side, she tried to focus on the rain falling outside. The hot tears running down her cheeks raced the cool drops of rain coursing down the window. The weather this evening was wonderfully dark and ugly, matching her mood to a tee. The one source of comfort she allowed herself lay in her lap. Her hands were draped gently upon it. It was neither companionable pet nor warm beverage, but instead an inexpensive telephone handset. As she watched the rain fall she waited for the phone to ring. Turning her head impulsively to the clock on the wall she noted that it was not yet time. Her mind wandered and she recalled when the phone calls had first begun. The first call had been an annoyance. She was cooking dinner, and rather than burn the chicken breast she was frying she had hung up on the caller after receiving no answer to her repeated greeting. The second call came two nights later and in this case she actually took the time to vent her frustration with the caller before hanging up. The third call arrived the next night, later in the evening. She put her fist to her face at the memory of apologizing to the caller for the lecture of the previous night. While Strangling the Cat by Brian Jackson
Billy Weber sat in a rocking chair on his front porch while strangling the cat. It was a beautiful, sunny, spring day. The grass was freshly mowed and showed a deep, verdant green. The flowers in the beds along the front of his house were in full bloom and the birds were twittering gaily as they winged back and forth across the yard. There was a gentle breeze that shook the large elm trees that shaded the street out front. Billy could hear kids playing tag several houses down, arguing over whether one or the other of them was safe or "it". The first tangible thought that came to Billy's mind while strangling the cat was weather Mrs. Holloway, his next store neighbor, would be baking today. It seemed that every sunny day in spring Mrs. Holloway was baking cakes, pies, and aromatic loaves of homemade bread. In fact, Mrs. Holloway was such a fair weather baker that the smell coming from her kitchen was a more accurate barometer of fair days to come than the local weather man. Ah, well, Billy supposed he would just have to take a saunter by and see if he could get a bite of something fresh baked after he was done. Yearnings for sweet apple pie alamode, heavily seasoned with cinnamon, and fresh baked cherry cobbler, straight from the oven, harried Billy's thoughts to distraction. That and the anticipation of Mrs. Holloway's freshly brewed chamomile tea. Poetry Corner with Claudia Syx
Bad Dreams It's a falling into darkness
A mixture into black and white
No more seclusion, guarded thoughts
Lost in a land forever dark
Mark Orr has placed a few dozen short stories, essays, poems and reviews in various online and small press periodicals and anthologies. He has lived in or near Nashville for most of his life, with time out to obtain a B.A. in history from the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. He currently works as a vocational rehabilitation counselor for the State of Tennessee. Mark and his wife of almost 28 years live in the same house with three daughters, one granddaughter, 10,000 books and too many cats. The following interview highlights Mark's writing philosophy and gives us a glimpse into the working life of an author. Artist of the Month: Coles PhillipsAll material © 2009 by the artists |
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