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Always Drink and Read

There is hardly anything like a great drink to compliment a good story. I’ve said before to another horror author, Kelly Evans, that when I read that I have a thing for drinking or eating something that pairs with it. What do I mean, exactly?

When I read American Psycho, I prefer to drink a glass of J&B on the rocks. Why? Have you read American Psycho? It’s okay if you haven’t, but knowing that it’s focus on materalistic wallstreet yuppies doing what 80’s wallstreet yuppies were known to do: coke, hookers and scotch.

When I read Lovecraft, I prefer to drink a glass of absinthe. Nothing like chasing that green fairy while you’re navigating H.P. Lovecrafts allusive and amorphous descriptors. Don’t worry, you’re not going to see Cthulhu or anything like that, but you might get a certain urge to do his bidding.

When I read Beowulf, I like to do it with a glass of mead. If I had a Viking horn I would totally drink it out of that. I tend to pull out Beowulf in those moments when the power goes out and the house is lit with candle light. Does that make me a fucking pretentious hipster? I don’t know and don’t care. It’s about capitalizing on a moment that would best compliment the story being told!

Am I the only one that likes to pair his reading with a prefered drink or even food of choice? Let me know in the comments section below.



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Sensationalized Pulp Fiction Horror!


What is pulp fiction? There’s the insanely popular Tarantino movie, with its famous lines and scenes that have become culturally fossilized, but what is pulp fiction exactly? Pulp fiction was used to define stories published on cheap pulp paper. The stories would usually consist of a cheap thrill usually with a sensationalized topic with cultural relevance.

Pulp fiction was a labelled applied to stories that exploited controversial topics, sexual taboos, and gratuitous violence for a quick buck. Titles like Satan was a Lesbian and Lesbian Captive are examples of literally exploitation films in the form of a novella, but they work by exploiting an alluring premise. straight, homosexual, lesbian, asexual, whatever it is to be attracted to toasters, you can’t honestly tell me that these titles do not catch your attention.

Pulp fiction with a catchy title and low price of a dollar would find their way in the hands of those curious enough to take the bait. Some stories delivered, while others were simply a cock tease.

A Corpse Can’t Laugh, however, is a fine example of a pulp fiction horror short that delivers the thrill.


A Corpse Can’t Laugh is a fine example of ultra-violent pulp fiction at its finest. A Corpse Can’t Laugh takes a controversial topic like school shootings and mass murder and runs with it, while incorporating the all too common narrative that violent video games like Doom, Quake, and Call of Duty are murder simulators and the result is awesome. Thew one element that is missing, and the would that my perverted mind could easily add, is an element of gratuitous sexualization. But, it’s not a fault that no way ruins the experience, believe me.

The build of tension as it opens with a girl on a school yard waving at someone only to be brutally murdered. Her death kicks of a series or relentless and merciless deaths of a school yard shooting spree by a very pissed off teenage girl. The level of detail on the blood splatter. The cold and calculated violence without a shred of respect to those that it might offend. Oh, and offensive it most certainly is.

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Fat Actress Who Played The Fat Freak on American Horror Story Doesn’t Want to be the Butt of the Joke Anymore

It’s all that bread. Cut that out and your weight will drop.

Chrissy Metz, best known for her role as the Fat Lady on American Horror Story: Freak Show, claims that she is tired of fat people being the butt of the joke. A fat actress that played a character so fat that they had to erect a tent to undress her because she could not fit in into her trailer now wants to advocate for respectful roles for “plus-size” women. This reads like the beginning of an Onion article. How do you go from being the fat freak to the poster child for how fat actresses should be treated?

Chrissy, you dominate the camera honey.

Honey, that ship had sailed the moment agreed to play the fat freak on American Horror Story. Not only that, but if the ship were to return, you wouldn’t be allowed back on due to maximum capacity issues. Not fat shaming, but I am dishing out reality that her ego may weigh more than her. Someone else could probably be the poster child for better roles for “plus size” people, but not you.

Fat people have been used as the butt of the joke for the longest because of there is something about fat people doing stuff that is just funny. Is it low-brow humor? Is it cruel? Is it exploitive? Yes to all three, but honestly, jokes always require someone or something to be the butt. Why, though? Are people just assholes that like to laugh at other people’s expense? Sometimes. Is there something funny about fat people? Also yes. I’m not being a cruel, soulless asshole. If fat people weren’t funny then how do you explain Chris Farley or Melissa McCarthy?

Look, if Chrissy Metz wants to ask for better roles for fat women than go right ahead, but don’t expect to play the lead for a romantic comedy without your fatness becoming the butt of the joke. It’s just not going to ever happen, ever. A fat woman could play a lead in a horror film, but the movie would likely end in the first chase scene. Not a so fat she’s slow joke, but a simple observation of how cardio works. If Laurie Strode weighed 300 pounds, there would be no third act of the film. It would end with a fat Laurie Strode passing out due to cardio and Michael stabbing her like a plump pig. Is this offensive? Then that’s why certain roles just will never ever be offered to “plus size” people. If you’re so fat to where your chest is an armrest, then you’re too fat for a lead role in horror or a romance. You might have a lead role in a drama or in a comedy, but don’t expect much.

Chrissy, Dexter could use your stomach as a kill table.


An actor can embrace their exploitive fat role, let’s say like Chris Farley or Melissa McCarthy, and then they can even break out for supportive roles that don’t require jokes at their expense like Jonah Hill. 

One reason is that Hollywood’s insistence on typecasting and micro-managing producers wouldn’t allow overweight actors and actresses to losee weight in fear that it may effect their prospects. 

Besides that, I think the real reason as to why is because it’s just not an embraced normality. It’s just not. Obesity is common and tolerated and expected, but it’s just not embraced, and it will never be. Weighing 300 pounds is not something to embrace and own. As a 280 pound dude with a beer gut, I can honestly say that I’m okay with the fact that my body is shit, but I do not expect it nor do I want it to be a norm. If everyone in a zombie film was a 280 pound beer gut motherfucker, then the even the slowest of the slow zombies would win.

This woman embraces her fatness without shame. Learn from her Chrissy Metz

My advise for Chrissy Metz? Own your weight, bitch. Just own that weight without any shame. Be like those overweight prostitutes that boldly sell their body without any shame. Be like that. Don’t kill your career with this advocacy bullshit. it’s not going to ever work, otherwise your career will become the butt of a joke.


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Horror Hates Cats

Deadman’s Tome is home to Book of Horrors, a horror anthology loaded with terrifying horror short stories that’ll chill you to the bone!

Available on Kindle

Cats are either adored or hated with disgust with very little in between. Ancient Egyptians treated cats as if they’re divine, while medieval Europeans would burn them for being witch familiars. And while cat commercials may shower the feline with love, horror genre as a whole seems to loathe them. cats seem to only have one role in horror, to serve as a bad omen, curse, or even KILL!



The Black Cat by Edgar Allan Poe: A classic example of a cat suffering mutilation and death by the hands of a raging alcoholic that is later overcome with guilt. The black cat is hated, but then


Stephen King’s Pet Sematary: As an homage to “the Monkey’s Paw” the cat dies, is buried, and then later returns but not as its former self. The cat is a bit smelly and a little dead.


Rats in the Walls by H. P. Lovecraft: Nigger Man helps the narrator discover the insidious rats in the walls, leading the man to discover a world of evil living under his house. It takes an evil feline to detect an evil entity.

Sergio Martino’s Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key, is a retread of The Black Cat, one of the main characters is afraid of a cat named Satan. The plot mostly deals with murder and betrayal rather than guilt, with an annoying cat giving away the location of the body. I wanted to talk about this film only to showcase the beauty that is Edwige Fenech. That’s a face that armies would die for.


Cats with a taste for human flesh cropped up in Rene Cardona’s Mexican schlocker Night of a Thousand Cats , where a misogynistic woman killer feeds his victims to his half-starved pets. The purr-fect (horrible, I know) plot line for a Deadman’s Tome story, but through a cat biting off a dick to outweigh the misogyny.

Speaking of cats in horror, check out Oreo – Blair Frison. It may not read like Edgar Allan Poe, but it definitely borrows from it. Can’t have enough cat stories.

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Oreo – Blair Frison

Deadman’s Tome is home to Book of Horrors, a horror anthology loaded with terrifying horror short stories that’ll chill you to the bone!

Available on Kindle

DISCLAIMER: Deadman’s Tome is a dark and gritty horror zine that publishes content not suitable for children. The horror zine proudly supports the freedom of dark creative works and stands against censorship. Hardly any subject matter is too taboo for this horror zine. As a result, Deadman’s Tome may feature content your mother would not approve of. But she doesn’t control your life, right?

Oreo by Pharaoh Laboa

Oreo – Blair Frison

I’m a terrible person.

I’ve used people in the most shameful ways. I’ve been violent with people I love. My whole life seems like a sickening crescendo, and it scares me to think of where it’s heading.

I know some of you will hate me, and rightly so, for what I’m about to confess. I hate myself too – but, for what it’s worth, I didn’t have much of a chance to begin with. I’m not trying to justify my actions, but my childhood is a catalogue of abuses. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

My story begins about five months ago. I was seeing a girl named Megan. She had come back into my life after quitting me almost a year earlier. She told me she loved me and wanted me back. That she had made a terrible mistake and wanted to make things right. I was only too eager to take her back, fool that I was. I should have known better. Love has fangs. And the poison she brewed for me in the cave of her heart soon took hold.

She even said she wanted my baby. This was a shock at first but the idea grew on me, to the point where we would stay up all night discussing baby names. I  loved her and wanted to spend my life with her so I told her I was ready.

I don’t know what went wrong.

She suddenly started cancelling our dates, and our daily conversations (by phone) were becoming shorter and colder. It was obvious she was losing interest, but when I questioned her about this, she didn’t want to discuss it. Finally, after not seeing her for almost a month, I decided to end it. I told her if she couldn’t make time for me, I was done. I was hoping she would realize she made a mistake and try to fix things. I was at least expecting an apology. But her reaction was something along the lines of “If only I could give a fuck.”

 I haven’t talked to her since. But that same day, after we ended it, I killed my cat. I can’t explain it. I just saw red. It wasn’t even my cat – she belonged to my daughter. I got her as a kitten for Sophie on her sixth birthday. I won’t go into the details but I also won’t deceive you. The cat suffered. It wasn’t a quick death. Her name was Oreo and my daughter absolutely adored her.

When I said I was a terrible person, I wasn’t lying. But I pride myself on being a good father. I realize this probably seems doubtful, but you must believe me. My daughter is my soul.

She was devastated when I told her Oreo was missing. That very day she was helping me pick out a new kitten. We settled on a black and white one with a color pattern very similar to Oreo’s. Sophie insisted that the new cat keep the name of her predecessor; I tried to dissuade her but to no avail. For all intents and purposes, Oreo was back.

As she grew, she resembled the original Oreo more and more. She was treated well and I never hurt her. Killing Oreo was a mistake and I swore to myself that I would never lose control again. For Sophie.

Almost two months had passed since the incident and I was still disturbed that I could kill a living thing so easily. I began to self-medicate, first with Percocet, and then OxyContin. By this time Megan had become just another scar, fading and barely noticeable – but still there.

Then, about a week ago, something strange happened.

I had just laid down and was about to nod off when I heard whispering. I couldn’t make out the words but it was coming from the next room where Sophie was asleep. I got out of bed quietly and approached her room. I gently pushed the door open and the whispering grew louder. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed the cat was in bed with Sophie. The whispering continued but I still couldn’t make out the words. I came closer to the bed and I could’ve swore the cat was whispering in Sophie’s ear. Before I could get closer the whispering stopped and the cat turned and stared at me for a moment. Then she jumped from the bed and ran past me.

I know this sounds silly and I would’ve shrugged it off, were it not for what happened the next morning. When I woke Sophie for breakfast, she told me that she had a bad dream. She seemed genuinely disturbed. I asked her what it was about and she told me. She dreamt that I killed Oreo. That I broke her legs and drowned her in the bathtub. That I buried her in the backyard..


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Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes horror short stories and horror flash fiction. The online magazine publishes dark and gritty content from professional horror writers, Bram Stoker award nominated horror authors, along with talented newcomers of the horror writing craft. Deadman’s Tome features chilling, terrifying horror shorts ranging from ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, monster horror, and even horror erotica. Deadman’s Tome is one of the best online horror zines to publish horror short stories, horror flash fiction, and dark flash fiction. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the horror authors.

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Deadman’s Tome Podcast Tonight at 10pm

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Tune in to Deadman’s Tome podcast LIVE Friday (8/12/2016) at 10pm (CST) to catch Mr. Deadman talk about North by Due North – David M. Hoenig, Horror 2016 Olympics, REJECTED – the recently announced writing contest, the arrival of HORRGASM, and a brief reading of DOSE by Marc Shapiro!

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Writing Inspiration – Music

Turbo Slut 5K – SexBots with deadly bodies dare to fight against the sex trade.

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Writing Inspiration – Music

The urge to write beckons you to the keyboard, but the blank screen kills the muse. The sudden wave of stress and pressure shatter your confidence and all those accomplishments under your belt do nothing to the mocking voice of doubt.

Relax, every writer has been there. From accomplished seasoned writers to amateur newcomers, we’ve all had to face the dreadful blank screen. What you need is inspiration to help distract you from all that self-destructive noise.

Music is my go to. Music, specifically certain genres, do wonders on easing through those stressful moments.

The Sword – March Of The Lor is a metal instrumental with a dark and gritty sound that may seem more fitting for dark fantasy, but I found it suitable for those tales about the descent into madness.

Dozer – Vultures: An album loaded with a gritty distorted sound with some hot riffs. The whole album seems fitting for a post-apcolyptic setting.

Karma to Burn – Thrity Four: A dark and gritty crunching guitar with a simple beat that combines to deliver an ideal soundtrack for any action intensive scene.

Of course, we all have different tastes, and certian projects require certain genres for sure. I’m not a huge fan of industrial metal, but I listened to bands like Crossbreed and Static-X while working on Turbo Slut: Eat More Pussy – Mr. Deadman because the sound was fitting for a dark cyberpunk dystopia.

I am sure I’m not the only that uses music as a way to feed the muse. What are your go to genres? Do you find that certain sounds, styles, and melodies affect your writing?



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A Corpse Can’t Laugh by Salem Martin and G. B. Holly

HORRGASM delivers six solid terrifying mix of horror and sex!

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DISCLAIMER: Deadman’s Tome is a dark and gritty horror zine that publishes content not suitable for children. The horror zine proudly supports the freedom of dark creative works and stands against censorship. Hardly any subject matter is too taboo for this horror zine. As a result, Deadman’s Tome may feature content your mother would not approve of. But she doesn’t control your life, right?


A Corpse Can’t Laugh by Salem Martin and G. B. Holly

A shadow, long and spindly, like something from a fever dream, betrays the teenage girl. She crouches in the shade of the rusted bike shed, her chest rising and falling in snatched, shallow breaths with one hand on the corrugated steel. She is looking out towards the empty recreation yard, a neatly tied ponytail hanging, glossy blonde, over one shoulder.

Time stands still for one perfect second, its cogs jammed by inevitability as I watch. I appreciate the way she has been created, the attention to detail in this blissful moment; from the restrained sobs to the way her gingham skirt ripples against her tanned legs in the breeze. A small plastic bag flutters along beyond her, distorting in the mid-day heat.

She senses me and turns with a strangled gasp. Those green eyes, once spiteful and judgemental, are now glazed over with tears. She raises one hand, with perfect polished nails made for scratching and hair pulling, in a ‘stop’ gesture, but it’s too late. Her head explodes in a firework of claret.

Blood rains down from the sky like red confetti. It is so beautiful. One droplet lands on the concrete in front of me, it is a perfect square of ruby. It settles and then starts to dissipate with the grace of a melting snowflake.


“Headshot!” the deep angry voice reverberates around me. It echoes across the recreation area, and some crows in a nearby tree are startled into flight. The delivery and inflections remind me of long nights sitting alone, a joypad my only grip on reality, whilst arguments raged below.

The decapitated corpse lies on her side, back against the wall of the old shed. She is beginning to fade. I can barely make out her tongue protruding from the stump of her neck. It is swollen like a fat, pink leech. “Who’s the ugly bitch now?” I find myself saying.

Satisfied, I turn back to the main building.

A square-edged sun sits beaming in an endless blue sky as I approach the double doors, scuffed and worn with frequent use. One of the adjacent windows is ajar and as I check my inventory for ammunition levels I can hear frightened sobs, and whispered shushes in perfect stereo clarity. I am reminded of my mother’s tears as she sits in the living room amongst the broken furniture, a purple welt on her thin, frightened face.

“Get your mother an ice-pack” she had said to me; her voice so pathetic that I almost cried. It wasn’t the first time I had to assist with first aid, it certainly wasn’t the last.

The doors push open with the squeak of metal on metal. I can almost smell the nostalgic scent of old wood, chalk and sweat.

“Heeeeeere’s Julie!” I boom down the echoing corridor, and I can’t help but chuckle. This is an empowering role reversal. Whilst some of the girls here claimed to own these hallways, I was at home racking up high scores. Who’s queen now, bitches?

“Eeeney. Meeney. Miney. Moe,” I recite slowly, deciding where to go next. “Decisions, decisions.”

“Don’t waste too much time,” the deep demonic voice says, I can sense that it is hungry for more death.

There is a sudden noise up ahead and I am distracted by one of the bins clattering onto one side, spilling its contents all over the floor. There is a shusshhhh of trainers skidding on linoleum as a figure runs away. The teenager’s arms pump like he is trying for the one hundred meters. Tall and gawky, he is not much older that I am. The green tracksuit he wears is similar to that of a video-game plumber with whom I grew up.

I raise the gun. Shoot. The bullet thuds into a noticeboard, but I quickly reload and aim for a second time, a tinnitus whine ringing in my ears. The second shot hits the green tracksuit in the base of his spine with a wet thwack. He carries on running for a couple of yards, a magenta stain soaking around the small of his back, before drunkenly losing control and smashing into a table at the far end of the corridor. It collapses under the impact and he skids face first into the wall, surrounded by pixelated splinters. He coughs once, arches his back, and then lies still.

“Spinal tapped!” the voice booms. A smile quickly flashes across my face.

I see that the bullet has not completely passed through him when I kick him over, but a trickle of blood runs down his distorted face. His eyes are open and stare up at the ceiling, glassy and lifeless. His final expression is one of mild surprise. It reminds me of their faces when I told them about the divorce. I thought that it had worked, that they would stop hurting me out of sympathy. Maybe they would feel sorry for me. It was a short respite.

“And to think you just watched as they did what they did to me,” I hiss at him. “You didn’t even go for help…” I can feel a tear welling up in my eye as a memory fleetingly enters my mind before I force it back out again. Using the sleeve of my jumper I wipe my blurred vision. I need to concentrate, need to be on my game.

Dink. There’s a hollow, metallic noise behind me, and I quickly spin around with my gun raised. A woman stands there, she has emerged from a nearby door that gently clicks closed behind her. Her trembling hands, neatly painted with red nail varnish are raised level with her thin-lipped face. She smiles nervously, and her eyes flit briefly down at a soda can that has spilled from the bin.  

“Please, Julie,” she begs, her voice trembling. She licks those thin lips. “I’m so sorry, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“You made me feel like it was all my fault.” I reply coldly, “You made me think that I was the reason my dad left..”

She looks confused, like she had lost the thread of a conversation. “Julie, I don’t understand what…”

She doesn’t see the grenade coming. Her innards project outwards at velocity, and for a frozen moment in time the woman is a blossoming pixel-art flower. The concrete behind her is like a giant chessboard, spattered with alternate squares of red and black all the way up to the ceiling. She has been reduced to a glitch, still smoldering from the explosion; her body lies half in and half out of the wall. I can smell the sweet and metallic aroma of fresh blood.

“Over their dead body!” the voice roars in my head. It reminds me of the man that gave me life, and almost took it away. A person who had a judgemental opinion on every little thing that my mother and I did, provided a running commentary on our failures.

“My Commentator.” I whisper aloud. I can feel my eye twitching, but I don’t know why. My kill ratio must be impressive now, even by national standards. But it’s not over yet.

A semi-transparent map appears in front of me, floating in mid-air like a hologram. I am surprised by its presence at first, but this quickly turns to fascination. It shows a top down view of the building. I can see where I am standing, marked with a red skull. The others, all huddled in one of the rooms to my right, are represented by pale blue dots.

Ensuring the gun is fully loaded, I march towards the frosted glass of the library. First, I press my ear up to the crack between the doors. I can hear muffled whimpering and frightened whispers. Good, the more terrified the enemies are, the larger my point multiplier becomes.

I let things become deathly silent before kicking open the doors. The frosted glass shatters as it bounces off the walls. I hear a collective intake of breath, and I catch sight of students and staff huddled under tables and behind bookcases.

As if that will save them.

“Slaughter time! Kill as many as you can within the time limit!” the Commentator is shouting instructions for this area. A grinning skull icon floats in mid-air, at the upper edge of my vision, leering at me. He wants to feed on their exquisite suffering. The more I kill and the more brutal the kills, the more points I get. I’ve gotten far. I’m doing well. I can’t fail now. I need that high score.

“Heads will roll!” the Commentator roars and I spring into action. A symphony of bullets tears through tables, books, and bodies. A tapestry of gore stains the walls and floors. Shrieking and yelling rises to a deafening level. Everything is so crisp and clear. The audio and visuals are stunning. I can hear the crack in a girl’s scream. I can make out pieces of skull in the bloody pulp that used to be someone’s head.

“Bloodbath!” the Commentator shrieks with glee. I see his skull icon transform into a more demonic form. He grows twisting horns, his teeth become razor sharp, his smile becomes unnaturally wide.

“Brutal kill!” the Commentator roars again as I send Mrs. Thomas flying over a table with a storm of bullets.

“Brain drain!” Mike, the school’s best basketball player, is now leaking all of his education through a hole in his forehead.

“Break a leg!” Jared won’t be running track anymore.

“Pain in the neck!” Karen’s singing voice is useless now as she clutches the wound in her throat.

“Ass Blaster!” Mr. Taylor will no longer be able to sit behind his desk to scold me.

“Belly up!” No more stealing my lunch, Joseph.

“A little off the top!” Oh no, now Lucy can’t wear her crown when she gets voted prom queen.


I hear the Commentator’s raucous laughing as I stop to catch my breath. I gaze around at my handiwork. It looks like a scene from a horror movie. There isn’t one inch of the library that isn’t splattered in wet crimson. People are lying on the floor, riddled with steaming bullet holes. Many of them are missing chunks of flesh that have been blown off. A few are even missing half of their faces.

They look like they were savaged by a pack of wild animals. I can’t believe the detail and work that went into the character models. Some of the bodies twitch, but I haven’t missed anyone. This definitely has to be a new high score. It just has to be.

I allow a smile to grace my lips. I wipe away some drops of blood from my cheek. I look down at my hand and see that it’s not blood, but tears. I quickly wipe my hand on my skirt and exit the library.

“You’re not done yet,” the Commentator says. His voice is much deeper now. It resonates in my skull. I rub my temples.

I hear something far off. It’s coming closer. It’s something loud and piercing. It sounds like sirens. That means my time to complete this level is running short. I have to get moving.

I make my way down the silent corridors. Every so often, I search a classroom for useful pickups. I receive bonus points for finding and killing any characters hiding in there. I would like to check every room, but my time is running out. I can hear the sirens growing closer.

I make my way to the other side of the building. There are large double doors with windows that make up almost their entirety. These lead out into a courtyard and the street. I peer between a flyer for the autumn dance and one advertising the chess club that are taped to the door windows. Outside I can see men and women crouched behind cars with flashing blue lights on top.

“This is it,” I whisper to myself as I pull away from the window.

The Boss.

I didn’t think he would have so many minions though. My hands become sweaty as I grip the gun. I feel a tightening in my stomach. I have to win.

“Come out with your hands up,” I hear a magnified voice blare. I locate its source and see a man with a large megaphone and a grim, hardened expression. That must be him. If I take him down, I win.

“Kill him,” the Commentator instructs in a silky voice. As I stare at the Boss, a ray of sunlight shines down, as if highlighting him.

It is in this moment that I notice that the sun is not square at all, but a perfect sphere, and I see an ambulance next to the shed, men are loading a gurney into the back of it, a pair of tanned legs poke out at the bottom of the white sheet. I can feel and smell the sticky syrup of blood all over me, and around me. It’s all so…real.

“Let’s keep calm here Julie!” the megaphone booms, off to my right. He’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security. There is an echo of metallic crunches, as weapons are raised.

“We know what your dad did to you, Julie- and the bullies. We sympathise with what happened to you, and your mother, but there is absolutely no need for this- what you have done is wrong. The first step to redemption is acceptance…”

I blink more tears from my eyes, the left one twitching like crazy. My head hurts, it hurts so much. What have I done?

“Come out quietly, Julie…please…we’re here to help you,” he continues.

“Finish them,” the Commentator growls in my ear.

I grasp the brass doorknob in a sweaty hand and twist it slowly. They don’t seem to notice outside. I ready my gun. My heart is pounding in my throat. I can taste the adrenaline. I swing the door open and step out onto the concrete steps, raising my gun to my target.

“She has a weapon!” I hear several of the minions shout. My vision dances with red dots as lasers crawl over my body like fireflies.

My finger, sweaty and shaking, places pressure on the trigger.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.



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Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.


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Too Taboo For Horror

Deadman’s Tome is home to Book of Horrors, a horror anthology loaded with terrifying horror short stories that’ll chill you to the bone!

Available on Kindle


Too Taboo For Horror


Horror strips away the layers of comfort and expose characters and the reader to life-threatening scenarios. This requires the author to pull from what he or she fears, and more often than not we as human species share a common thread of fears. We don’t like it when our comfort is removed. We don’t like it when our safety is undermined. We definitely do not like it when our life or the life of a loved one is at stake!

Horror isn’t a genre for lovey-dovey and good feelings. You don’t snuggle with a Stephen King novel for comfort. No, you snuggle up to horror because you want to feel the sense of dread, because you want the re-assurance that your life could be bad, but isn’t. Horror exists for one purpose and that purpose is to exploit our fears! But at what cost? To what degree do we allow horror fiction to shine light on the things we fear?

I do not believe at all that there is a topic too taboo for horror to explore. Whether it be gruesome violence, brutal torture, or even rape, it’s all fair game, as long as it’s merited. The power in horror is being able to exploit our deepest and darkest fears, and relevance to those deepest and darkest fears is essential. Some might argue that some might be motivated to imitate certain taboo topics and therefore it should be banned. But I argue what sense does that make? Death and violence is potent throughout horror, and we enjoy the tension and the suspense without ANY study showing a relation between violent media and rate of violent crime. Friday the 13th has been seen by millions and yet we do not see millions of Jason imitators, not even a good dozen.

Some might say that horror shouldn’t explore certain topics because it may offend people. How do you expect to exploit people’s fears without offending them to some degree? Good horror makes us uncomfortable. Good horror challenges our sensibilities, right?

Maybe I’m wrong. Let me know what you think.