Monthly Archives: October 2012

Because I am too busy to blog today…

Ghost Cities






Just as a special treat I thought I’d include with today’s post a selection of past Halloween-themed posts that have appeared on this site. Enjoy!

As The Days Grow Shorter…

A Halloween Tale

October Dreams

A Treat for All Hallows’ Eve

The Day of the Dead

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Guild Of Dreams

I’m honoured to have a fellow Nova Scotian and well-published author, Steve Vernon, with me as a guest at the Guild of Dreams. While Steve’s writings tend to venture into the darker side of things, it’s often done with a goodly dose of humour. He’s a prolific, dedicated writer and one of the hardest working wordsmiths I know. But why don’t I let him do some of the talking…

1) Who are you ?
Who am I? That’s an awfully good question. Sometimes I wonder about that. Sometimes I think that I am going to have to start scribbling my name on my pyjamas in reverse-backwards so that I know just who I’m shaving in the bathroom mirror.
The fact is – I am a storyteller and I am a writer. I am one of those weird dudes that would rather spin a yarn than breathe. I don’t socialize…

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Welcome Coffin Hoppers.

Every year a group of dedicated horror writers band together in a cross-blog event entitled COFFIN HOP.

Today, I would like to do my bit by posting my short-short tale “Beat Well”. It’s definitely my favorite Halloween yarn.

Read it once, chew on it – and then read it again. At 175 words it won’t take long.


This story came to my on a factory table saw. I wrote it down on a scrap of particle board. I had just watched the movie HALLOWEEN, and had the vision of those opening credits burning in my brain. I sent the story to twenty four magazines. Twenty four rejections quickly followed. The twenty fifth magazine TERROR TIME AGAIN, bought and paid for the story. It went on to be republished in SPWAO’s “best of” anthology ALPHA GALLERY; and David Kubicek’s original anthology OCTOBER DREAMS. I use the story all the time in my high school writing workshops to demonstrate the use of multiple voices in a story. Enjoy.

Beat Well

Let’s play a trick…
on old punkinhead.
nyah nyah punkinhead
nyah nyah pun…

* * *

(I remember poppy, he showed me how, he showed me first. First you slice opent the top. Dig out the pulp, thank god no seeds. Gouge out eyes, nose, and mouth. There. Oh. One more thing. There. Jack o’ lanterns.)

* * *

Old John lived way up on Carpenter’s Hill, so it wasn’t until morning when they found them. Propped against old John’s freshly whitewashed fence, staring sightlessly down upon the town below. The town where they had lived. The three boys still wore the costumes their folks bought at the five and dime. Shattered upon the ground was the remains of a broken jackolantern. The boys were dead. Hidden within the skull of each boy was a tiny candle, flickering quietly, where once only childish dreams burned. They found old John in the kitchen, making pumpkin pie.




If you liked this particular yarn why not check out my latest e-book release, FLASH VIRUS – EPISODE ONE.



The end of the world – as told by a teenager.

You can read more about FLASH VIRUS – EPISODE ONE right here!

Episode two is due out later this week.

yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon


So I’ve been talking about how I want to experiment more with self-publishing – and so I have.

I’ve just released the first episode in a serial-style YA novel that most adult dark fantasy genre fans will happily dig.

There’s about 11,000 words – approximately one-fifth of the full novel – now available for reading.

So what is it about?

Well – it basically is the end of the world – as told by a teenager.

“So as near as I could tell the end of the world began roughly about the time that Billy Carver’s butt rang – about halfway through the War of 1812.”

Sixteen year old Briar Gamble is having a bad day.

It started with the cell phones singing for Santa Claus.

Then came the tanks and the storm troopers.

The Black Masks, in their black fish bowl sunglasses.

And then along came Captain Albino.

The shooting started shortly after that.

Like I said – Briar Gamble is having a REALLY bad day.

And it’s about to get a whole lot worse.

It is available on Kindle –

also on –

And it is available through Kobo –

The cover is the brilliant work of Keith Draws.

Check out his blog –

Keith is great to work with. Very cooperative and professional. He asked what I wanted. He showed me a few ideas. He asked me what I thought. I told him. Then he gave me EXACTLY what I’d been looking for.

That – in  a word – is professional.


Let me give you just a sneak peek at the first chapter.


Chapter One – How Does High School Suck, Let Me

Count the Ways

So as near as I could tell the end of the world began roughly about the time that Billy Carver’s butt rang – about halfway through the War of 1812.

All right – so his butt didn’t really ring – but the brand new cell phone that he was carrying in his butt pocket went off awfully sudden and unexpected.

It was absolutely the weirdest ring tone that I had ever heard – kind of like a crossbred mix tape of rap-music-gargling and stained-church-glass-yodeling but I recognized the tune right off.

There wasn’t a kid on the planet who didn’t know that tune.

The tune was Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.

You know – better not pout and checking his list twice, watching when we’re sleeping – which is really kind of creepy when you stop and think about some fat old bearded man peeping at kids in their Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas – not to mention that whole bit about rooty-toot-toot and rummy-tum-tum.

Whatever the heck that meant.

In any case, that was the tune that Billy Carver’s butt was playing – which – when you think about it is a pretty weird tune to hear playing in the middle of the month of May – even if it was coming from a free butt-covered cell phone – which each of us had been given by a guy in a pair of fish bowl sunglasses.

Which I’ll tell you about in just a little bit.

Right now we are talking about Billy Carver’s butt.

Mind you – I was not looking at Billy Carver’s butt when his cell phone rang.

That’d be just weird.

Maybe not as weird as Santa Claus peeping – but weird just the same.

What I was actually looking at – the same way as I had looked at it for five days a week and nine months of the year for the last entire decade – was the classroom wall clock.

In fact, as far as I can calculate I have been sitting here for about a hundred years or so – give or take a glacial millennium – just waiting for that lunch bell to ring – even though I knew that we had thirty-two minutes and twenty-one and a half seconds before the lunch bell was actually supposed to ring.

It turns out that lunch bell wasn’t ever going to ring.

Not in the way that I expected it to.

Not unless you count the way that it rang when it hit the floor later that morning after being shot from off of the gymnasium wall by one of Captain Albino’s headphone-wearing stormtroopers.

But I’ll tell you about that a little bit later on too.

You don’t want to rush into the end of the world.

You want to take your time.

But first – I really ought to introduce myself before we get much further into this story.

My name is Briar Gamble – and if you want to know the complete honest truth – I have been waiting for a bell of some sort to go off for the last ten years or so – ever since that first horrible day when Dad had looked up from his Pac Man coffee mug in the middle of a Bugs Bunny cartoon that I had seen at least fifteen times before and had said those thirteen terrible words to me – “Well Briar, I guess you are old enough to go to school now.”

That was way back in grade primary – but even then I knew that there were about thirty million other places in the known and unknown galaxy that I would rather be living in than sitting here in some funky old classroom listening to one teacher or another spouting off about algebra, grammar and the War of 1812.

I just didn’t belong here.

I knew that – even back in grade primary.

I knew that before the first homework assignment got handed out – and forgotten.

I knew that before the first bully had ever wedgied my underwear up about three degrees beyond the pooping zone.

I knew that like I knew my very own name.

Which was Briar Gamble – in case you weren’t reading too closely, seven paragraphs back. My Dad said that he and Mom had named me after a weed – on account of the way I had sprouted up where I wasn’t supposed to be – whatever that was supposed to mean.

That guy sitting across from me? That little fellow, with his hair poked up like a hay stack that can’t spell “comb” if his life depended on it and that freckly bent up nose, slightly running? That’s my buddy Jemmy Daniels. His real name is Jeremiah but we all call him Jemmy on account of Jeremiah has about three too many syllables. Jemmy is my best friend – which is another way of saying that his head had been swirly-dunked nearly as often in the boy’s room toilet bowl as I had been – by Billy Carver and his so-called friends.

Jemmy had one short-coming.

Jemmy actually liked going to school.

Which was weird.

I don’t really know why I hated going to school so very much. I always have. It was like I was born hating it.

Nearly everyone else in the school seemed to be getting along all right – or else maybe they just took a while to catch on to the fact that school just plain sucked – but I knew that school sucked and high school sucked even worse than that.

I knew it just as soon as somebody first tried to teach me poetry.

Which was way worse than the War of 1812.

I mean – what is poetry? You say a bunch of words together, try and rhyme them, throw in the occasional thee and thou and you don’t really have to make sense if you don’t want to. You just say something like – “That bird flutter-pating upon yonder branch, don’t it make thou heart flutter too?”

I mean what is that supposed to mean?

Do you want to hear me read you some poetry?

Here goes.

How much does high school suck – let me count the ways.

Infinity one.

High school long-weekend-homework sucked.

Infinity two.

High school pop-math-quiz sucked.

Infinity squared – thee, thou and thine – divine apple rind.

Do you really need me to go on?

The truth to tell – going to high school sucked about as hard as all of the vacuum cleaners in the whole wide world being simultaneously flushed down a billion backed-up toilet bowls into the hugest black hole in the known entire universe.


So when that brand new free cell phone in Billy Carver’s back butt pocket went off in class like it was an alarm clock attached to some incredibly dangerous and life-threatening nuclear time bomb – halfway through Old Man Jenkins boring-as-peed-on-pencil-shavings lecture on the War of 1812 – I was absolutely ready for it.

I whole-heartedly welcomed the strange Christmas-sounding ring tone as a brief but happy diversion from the wall full of absolute and undeniable suckitude that I had been driving headlong at for the last ten years.

Namely, school.

“Well are you going to answer that?” Old Man Jenkins asked Billy Carver. “It might be awfully important – like maybe the President of the United States of America calling you up to ask you what time it is.”

Billy Carver smiled at Old Man Jenkins – like he didn’t even realize that Jenkins was just being sarcastic. I don’t know why teachers always think that they have got to talk to us kids that way – like we were too dumb and stupid to get their jokes – but they’ve been talking to us that way ever since cavemen first figured out how to fart.

And all we could do was sit there and grin.

Billy Carver was awfully good at grinning. He had that sort of a way of grinning a half-crooked sharp little sneer like he knew that he was going to be the first one of us boys to lose his virginity and most likely with the prettiest girl in school – rather than the blind, deaf and chronically stupid and most-likely figment-of-imaginary girl who might possibly get close enough for me to even think about grinning at.

Face facts.

Unless I was maybe the last boy in the universe and happened to be sitting beside the last girl in the universe and she was so completely bored out of her mind that she couldn’t think of anything better to do than to let me have my way with her – I figured I was doomed to a state of perpetual virginity until somebody shot me with a bullet of you-poor-dumb-numb-nut.

Billy Carver didn’t have that problem.

Billy Carver wore that grin of his like a lucky rabbit’s foot. He wore it like he was laughing out loud behind his back at the whole wide universe. He wore it like everyone just had to like him – like he hadn’t swish-dunked my head in the boy’s room toilet bowl just last week for the thirteenth time this month. He wore it like all of the teacherly sarcasm in the whole entire world wouldn’t ever really change a thing.

“What-ever,” Billy Carver said – breaking the word up into two separate pieces so that it sounded even ruder than it was – which is the perfect thing to say to any high school teacher who thinks that he is twice as smart for being double-rude at a student’s expense.

What freaking ever.

Billy slid the brand new cell phone out from his right butt pocket, snapping it open like he didn’t even know that he was actually trying to look like a younger and cooler version of Captain James T. Kirk – who we all still watched in Star Trek reruns when we didn’t think anyone was really looking at us.

The cell phone was flashing red-blue-green.

The flashing wasn’t coming from any of the buttons that you would expect to flash. What was flashing was the body of the cell phone itself – as if someone had stuck a flock of red and blue and green fireflies inside of the black plastic casing.

I had never seen a cell phone flash like that before and probably neither had Billy Carver, but he was way too cool to let us know that the fact that his brand new free cell phone was actually playing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and flashing red-blue-green over and over was about as weird as a tree full of ballet dancing rhinoceros.

“Yeah? Hello?”

Those were the last two words on earth that Billy Carver got out of his mouth before the Santa cell phone took him.

His face glazed over.

I could see it turning – like every single atom of emotion and individuality was being sucked simultaneously from out of his eyeballs, grin and ear holes. His face even paled a little as he turned. I could see the tone of it kind of devolving from a zit-scarred skin-color to a sort of shade of grayed-out newspaper ink.

And then he grew a cheek-to-cheek Santa-Claus-is-Coming-to-Town sort of a smile – sort of the same kind of plastic cheesy smile that a Ken doll might smile after he’d slipped a hot hard one to Barbie’s kid sister while Barbie was out cruising the cougar bars in her Barbie-mobile.

Then Billy Carver walked over to the classroom window and stared through the dirty glass like the schoolyard had just turned into Disneyland and candy – before dropping his gaze down to the cell phone in his hand – and whispering.

And that’s where his gaze stayed – like he was thinking about sending an absolutely important text message to God – only he hadn’t quite managed to think the words up – and his lips were moving like he was praying to himself – only there were no real words coming out of his mouth as far as I could tell – just that wet whisper-whisper-whisper noise that you usually save for the back of the theatre or maybe in the library.

He just stood there, gray and whispering.

Which was right about when the second free cell phone rang.

This cell phone belonged to Susie Diamond – who was probably the prettiest girl in our whole high school and therefore the girl most likely to sleep with Billy Carver on prom night – or maybe even before that. I knew that she was the prettiest girl because I had looked at Susie way more times than not – from the front and back – but even then I knew that I didn’t stand a flying hope in hell of spending any sort of real quality time with Susie unless she was struck deaf dumb and stupid in one single stroke of blind wonderful lightning.

I just wasn’t even in her league – which didn’t stop me from looking at the way her butt curved out and grinned in her blue jeans whenever she stood up in front of me.

Only right now she was standing up and her cell phone was playing the exact same tune as Billy’s was.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

“Don’t answer that,” I told her.

Too slow.

She had that cell phone open and up to her ear without even stopping to think about it.

Susie was a cell phone girl.

She was always talking on her cell phone.

I wasn’t all that certain – but I was pretty sure – that the first thing Susie Diamond did every morning was to check her text messages and then maybe she might breathe.

“Hello?” was the only word that got out – and then she was standing at the window directly beside Billy – and somehow or other Tommy Puckers – who we all called Kissyface Tommy on account of his unfortunate last name – had picked up his own free cell phone and had answered it even though no one else had even noticed it ringing – most likely because we were all too busy staring at Billy Carver’s back and Susie Diamond’s butt.

The three of them stood together – cold and grey and whispering.

“This is some kind of a flash mob thing, isn’t it?” I asked aloud to no one in particular. “Any minute now somebody is going to jump out and yell surprise.”

Which was right about when all of the free cell phones in the entire class room began simultaneously playing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and flashing red-blue-green.

Which was really weird – no two ways about it.

“There is no freaking way that I am answering that phone,” Burt Hertle said, throwing his free cell phone down onto the tiled floor.

Then Bert also threw the cell phone that his parents had paid good cash money for onto the floor beside the free phone that he’d been given today. He hadn’t really needed a free cell phone – but hey, it was free – but now the two of them lay together on the floor and he was stomping on them both like he had just seen a bug – with one mighty work-booted stomp after another. His own cell phone smashed completely but the free cell phone just bounced and kept on flashing red-blue-green like you couldn’t kill it with a sledgehammer.

Santa wasn’t stopping.

Burt stomped again – harder than before.

Santa kept on coming.

Burt kept on stomping, over and over – hard enough that I half expected his work boot to begin glowing red-blue-green all by itself.

Either that or the floor would break through.


“Santa is coming,” Burt whispered, between every stomp.

Stomp – stomp!

Santa is coming.




Episode Two will be available sometime next week. Things get dark and the situation begins to heat up. Bullets are fired. Someone will die.

Several someones.

Pick up a copy today and let me know what you think.

yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon

Charlie Brown and Linus Get Their Revenge

I’m about one blog entry and two guest blog entries behind today – but for now why don’t you have a look at my good buddy Paul Dail’s latest blog entry on The Great Pumpkin.

Dang. Now I want to go and watch The Great Pumpkin…

Charlie Brown and Linus Get Their Revenge.

TESSERACTS 17 – How Anthologies Work…

It is going to be a hectic month.

As you know from yesterday’s blog post – my middle-grade novel SINKING DEEPER has made it to the short list of the 2013 Silver Birch Award. That isn’t until the spring – but I’m already got a LOAD of preliminary work to do.

Besides that – it’s October. Means my busiest month of the year.

Let me tell you about the rest of the week.

This morning in a couple of hours I am off to entertain the kids at the Halifax Grammar School. They are having a HUGE Book Fair – put on by one of my favorite local bookstores – namely, WOOZLES. I’ll be telling stories to kids from primarty to Grade 1 – ALWAYS a challenge.

Then I grab dinner and head to work for a solid night shift.

Tomorrow I do get a morning to myself. I have a whack-load of correspondence to get to. I need to go through a few more submissions for TESSERACTS 17 – (more on that in my next blog entry)

Then off to work for a night shift. I am being picked up at the office at the end of the shift and driven to Annapolis Royal where I’ll spend the night. Friday morning I will give a short but intensive writing/storytelling workshop to two groups of high school kids.  Then a drive home and a little bit more quiet steady breathing.

Saturday is Election Day. I might end up voting online – but I don’t like that idea one bit. I don’t like the idea that we are eventually putting all of those seniors who come out every election and work a few hours out of work.

Then I catch a bus to Bayers Lake for a book signing at the Chain Lake Chapters outlet from 2:30-4:00pm.


But you didn’t open this blog entry to hear me whine, did you?

Let me tell you about anthologies…

Let me tell you about the anthology that I am working on as an editor.


Here’s the link to the guidelines if you haven’t checked it out yet.

We are a little behind schedule on turning around stories for TESSERACTS 17 – and by “we” I mean “me”. I am – I’m afraid – very definitely the weak link in our editorial team. My colleague Colleen Anderson has been NOTHING but the absolute epitome of organization.

I, sadly, am the definite Yang to Colleen’s professional Yin.

(Mmm, that sounds like a good title for a movie – “The Bitter Tea of Professional Yin”)

We are getting set to send out the first wave of rejections – which, as always, means that it is a good sign if you haven’t heard back from us yet. Means you might have made the “Maybe” pile.

You see – that is how most anthologies wind up working. The editor – or editors – will cull through the slush heap of submissions and will set them into three piles.

Pile One is the “this just doesn’t work for us” – which can be either “Oh my god I need to cut my nose off and feed it to my bulldog ‘cuz this story stinks so bad” – or, more often what it means is “Oh my god you sent a “haunted hat” story to an anthology built around “haunted shoe” stories”.

Pile Two is the “Maybe, baby” pile – which is where the editor will put the stories that might fit – “Okay, this guy is writing about haunted socks – which is pretty close to haunted shoes”.

Pile Three is the “If we don’t buy this story RIGHT NOW we might as well load a bulldog full of cut-off noses and haunted shoes and blow our collective editorial brains all over Pile One and Pile Two”. This is DEFINITELY the pile that you want your story to land upon – but it is DEFINITELY the shortest pile in the entire process. Editors don’t want to take that big leap right away – just because if they say YES-YES-YES to the first twenty stories that are submitted they might miss out on a truly wonderful story that comes in on the very last day of submission.

So we hold off. We play hard to get. We like to keep you guessing.

So – if you haven’t heard from us here at Tesseracts 17 yet – maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe you are on Pile Three – or at the very least Pile Two – unless maybe we’ve fed your story to the bulldog.

So – what are we looking for here at TESSERACTS 17.

Well, for starters – we are looking for CANADIAN authors.

Here it is – right from the guidelines.

“The Tesseracts anthology series is only open to submissions from Canadians, landed immigrants living in Canada, long time residents of Canada, and Canadian expatriates living abroad.”

Might I also add – NO MULTIPLE SUBMISSIONS. You send us a story – send us your best one – and we’ll look it over. We like it, we’ll keep it. I was just kidding about the bulldog. But you send us two stories at the same time and we’ll get confused trying to decide which one to keep. Means we’ll most likely wind up shooting both of them right back at you.


Put one foot forward. One story, one poem – let us read it. Don’t try to swamp us with your entire back catalogue of three hundred and sixty-eight trunk stories – no matter how wonderful your Mom thinks they are.

Lastly – let me tell you what I am looking for.

This is me talking – not my colleague Colleen – and not Brian Hades, our boss of all bosses.

This is me – the dude with the beard.

I would love to see a few stories that say “I AM CANADIAN”.

Some Canadian settings, some Canadian characters – something that tells the reader that he has picked up a copy of TESSERACTS – a by-god collection of Canadian speculative fiction.

That’s on my wish list.

Now I’ve got to get ready to go to school.

Yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon

PS: If you’d REALLY like to get an idea on what TESSERACTS is all about pick up a copy of TESSERACTS 16. And definitely take a look at my story “Three Thousand Miles of Cold Iron Tears” – which involves Bigfoot, the ghost of Sam Steele and the building of the Canadian Railroad – if you’d like to get a better idea about how I truly think.

order here –

Or here –

or here (for Kobo) –

or here (for Kindle) –

Speaking of Sea Serpents…

I’ve been teasing you folks with the news of a surprise announcement today. I can finally tell you all that SINKING DEEPER has made the short list for the 2013 Silver Birch Children’s Fiction Award.

What that means – right off the bat – is

 that approximately 3500 copies of SINKING DEEPER will be purchased for distribution to Ontario schools. In addition, I’ll be travelling to Ontario in the spring for readings, school appearances and bookstore signings.

This is GREAT news! Breaking into the Ontario market is a great boost to a regional writer such as myself.

Not to mention – as I announced a month or two ago – SINKING DEEPER has ALSO made the short list for the 2013 Hackamatack Awards – which means approximately 600 more copies sold as well as school appearances, library appearances and book signings.

So this Spring promises to be VERY lively for me – and I have already begun working on another Nova Scotia YA novel.

Yours in storytelling,
Steve Vernon

Let’s Talk Scarecrows…with RG2E Featured Author Steve Vernon

A guest-blog entry at RG2E (Reader’s Guide To E-Publishing)


Let’s Talk Scarecrows…with RG2E Featured Author Steve Vernon.


Check it out and leave a comment at RG2E for the chance to win a free e-copy of TATTERDEMON.


yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon

Are e-books any different than “real” books?

Just recently I was asked to give my opnion on whether or not the e-book was going to put an end to traditionally published books.

That’s a big question – and way more than I can answer in the few minutes I have got before I must go and catch a bus to work.

But – here’s my quick thoughts on the matter.

I don’t own an e-reader – but that’s mostly because I’m broke.

However, I’d love to own a Kindle or Kobo e-reader.

Here’s why.

I have fifty-four year old eyes. Small font is beginning to escape me. The ability to blow up a novel’s font – as you can do with e-reading devices – is a wonderful sales feature.

I have a fifty-four year old back, as well – and I do most of my reading on the bus on the way to and from my day job. Means heavy books get left behind. Just last week I had to give up on reading Ken Follett’s PILLARS OF THE EARTH because it was too damn heavy. E-books let you carry entire encycopedias in your hip pocket.

That’s another sales feature.

Finally – I just don’t believe that e-books are the horror that some folks picture them as. Whether you are scrolling with a button or flipping an actual page you are still reading a book. Saying that an e-book is any different than a traditionally-published book is a little like saying that hardcovers are “better” than paperbacks.

It just doesn’t hold true.

A book is a book is a book!


yours in storytelling,

Steve Vernon