Have you ever worked on your craft while under the influence? Not going to judge if you have, or if you do. Several well-known authors have had worked on various books while under the influence. Stephen King drank mouthwash for alcohol and snorted rock star levels of coke while working on Cujo. The legend has even admitted he doesn’t remember how he even wrote the book, because he was so out of it. Ayn Rand was taking speed while working on Fountainhead. Of course we can’t forget Hunter S. Thompson, he wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while experimenting on mushrooms.
So, I extend the question to you. Do you write under the influence? If not, why not/ Have you ever, and if so what was it like?
Do you find yourself getting obsessed with rankings?
Do you use programs like KDSpy to compare yourself with others?
Maybe even take it further and really compare release by release, book by book, falling into a rabbit hole for what is essentially just a dick measuring contest?
While I enjoy competition and checking stats, I realize checking can become an unhealthy obsession of chasing. Comparing, analyzing, and even plotting. Why does this book do better than that one? Why is this book with this author doing poorly? What’s going one with this one release, why is it struggling despite great reviews?
As someone who grew up playing very competitive video games like Halo and Quake, I often find myself exploring these questions to then become obsessed. When I catch the obsession, I have to pull away and remind myself why I even do what is I do.
What about for you? Do you become obsessed with stats and Amazon rankings, chasing the stats in research for the perfect book to land that best-selling title?
July 2008, a sinister collection of gruesome tales is released under the banner Demonic Tome. These stories were originally offered for free directly from a site that no longer exists. This issue was lost and forgotten, until it was discovered by a historian that wishes to be anonymous. This brave sole found the July 2008 edition of Demonic Tome, and with his help, we’ve revamped the issue.
Deadman’s Tome July 2008 edition is reformatted and improved so that it will read better on Kindle devices and smartphones (obviously with the kindle app).
Buy a copy today for .99c or tweet at MrDeadmanDT to get a free digital copy. It’s not about the money. It’s about sharing the content. And this issue has some very potent stories. One in particular is so brutal even I had to walk away for a bit.
To some, Sunday is perceived as a day of lounging and relaxing, but one could make the case that Sunday is a day of horror, dread, and misery. It’s a day where God fearing folk are reminded of the horrors of Hell, a day of rough hangovers, and a day away from work.
Deadman’s Tome can’t relieve you of your hangover, it can’t bend time and make work go away, but it can give you world of horrors to distract and grant perspective.
Feel like your life sucks? Hung up on some drama? A Small Problem by Diana Arrelle and Candied by Sarah Doebereiner will surely give you a helpful perspective.
Dealing with the loss of a loved one? A Mad World by M. R. Tapia will take you on a dark and mysterious journey that’ll give you a sense of hope.
Haunted by the ghost of you-drank-way-too-much? Go for a crazy, violent, cross County ride in My 1963 Ford Galaxy by Gary L. Robbe and escape from the manics!
The forlorn mother put the twelfth candle in place. The basement was dark. The fetid smell of decomposing flesh hung heavy in the air. ―This has to work,‖ she whispered. ―This just has to work.‖
The mother‘s name was Bethany, and she was preparing to perform a ritual she discovered on a necromancy website. She followed the website‘s directions perfectly. Failure was not an option.
On her basement floor she drew a chalk circle inscribed with the image of a soaring raven. Along the circumference of this magick mandala she placed twelve candles. Eleven candles were white. The twelfth candle was red, made of wax crimsonly colored with her blood. Baby Bridget, her beloved daughter, rested in the circle‘s center. She was silent. She was lifeless.
Bethany was not usually the type to believe in magick. But this was her daughter. She had to try something. The website claimed the spell was genuine, translated from ancient hieroglyphs written by fallen angels. She was just desperate enough to believe that.
Bethany lit the candles one by one around the divination circle. The red candle was the last to be lit. She clasped her hands over it, closed her eyes, and spoke the website‘s incantation.
―Azrael, almighty Angel of Death,‖ she cried. ―Release this innocent child from your grasp. I give to you an offering of fire. Now rekindle the fire in this child‘s heart. Come, Azrael! Accept my tribute and let this child live again!‖
Bethany opened her eyes. The basement was silent. Nothing happened. She was ready to collapse in anguish, when suddenly she felt something. An eerie wind entered the sealed basement and began to blow the candles‘ flames toward Baby Bridget.
―This is it,‖ Bethany said tearfully. ―It‘s working!‖ The flames entered Baby Bridget‘s mouth, leaving the basement in total darkness. Baby Bridget opened her eyes and started to cry.
Bethany joyously arose and rushed to the circle‘s center to embrace her reanimated daughter. As she moved forward, though, she began to sweat. The basement grew hotter and hotter. Suddenly, Baby Bridget erupted into flames. She screamed and screamed and the flames grew higher and higher. Bethany stumbled backward and was caught in the blaze. The fire grew stronger with each of the baby‘s tortured wails.
The fire consumed the basement and eventually the whole house. It was only after everything was reduced to ash that the cries ceased and the fire died down. Bethany had hoped to bring her only daughter back to the world of the living, but she brought forth a demon instead.
The aged priest put the twelfth bowl in place. The basement was bright, but shadows surrounded him like dark sentinels. The smell of smoldering flesh hung heavy in the air.
The priest‘s name was Father Robert, and he was preparing to exorcise a fire demon from the basement of the Morris family‘s five-year-old home. He was meticulous. Given what this demon was capable of, failure was not an option.
On the basement floor he drew a chalk circle inscribed with a dodecagram. Along the circumference of this purification circle he placed twelve bowls. Eleven bowls were white. The twelfth bowl was red.
He filled the bowls one by one with holy water from a silver decanter. The red bowl was the last to be filled. He clasped his hands over it, closed his eyes, and prayed.
As Father Robert recited his prayer, he began to sweat. The temperature in the basement began to drastically increase. Then, fire spewed forth from the center of the purification circle. The light and heat were tremendous, but Father Robert stayed strong and remained in place.
From within the incredible inferno the fire demon appeared. It looked like a skinless human infant, a pulsating mass of charred muscle and tissue. With its daemonic red eyes it scanned the basement. It stared down at the purification circle, then directly at Father Robert. ―Who are you and what do you think you‘re doing?‖ it asked in a shrill, otherworldly voice.
Father Robert was astonished by the creature‘s ability to speak, but he kept his composure and responded. ―My name is Father Robert. I am here to bring an end to the suffering you have caused and free the soul of the girl you devoured.‖
―Girl?‖ said the demon, feigning innocence. ―What girl?‖
―You know full well! The little Morris girl! The innocent child that lived in this house who you burned alive!‖
The fiery creature chortled. ―Oh, I remember now! But you can‘t blame me for what happened to her. She‘s the one who sought me out. After her family moved into this house, she heard me crying and came to ‗comfort‘ me. She threw me scraps of wood to eat and squirted lighter fluid on me to drink. She made my flames grow bigger and stronger.
―Do you know how much that hurt? Can you imagine how much pain she put me in? I roasted her body and ate her soul! She tasted just like my dear, sweet mother.‖
―Devilish creature,‖ Father Robert said calmly in reply, ―I can see you are in a great deal of pain. However, that gives you no right to make others suffer. I am a servant of God, so I will send you back to the fires from which you were spawned.‖
Father Robert continued reciting his prayer. At first, nothing happened. The demon chortled, mocking the holy man. Then, the holy water in the bowls rose into the air.
The holy water rushed into the demon‘s mouth. It gurgled. It gasped for air. Finally, its flames were extinguished and it crumbled into a pile of ash. The fire demon was destroyed. Father Robert hoped that this would mean the little Morris girl could rest in peace.