banner art above by Charles Carter

Monday, December 7, 2015


by Vincent Daemon

Chapter I

Moon Glow

   The abrasive, twisted punk rock’n’roll of Cancerslug thrummed slowly to a stop in the background, as Jonathan Agar sat in the driver’s seat of his car, a frustrated exhaustion clogging every pore of his being. The very last thing he needed to deal with at this moment was yet another vehicular breakdown on the way to his loathsome job at the infamous Corman’s Petting Zoo. Especially in the 3 a.m. cold and black-as-pitch stillness of Middle-Of-Nowhere, Dolton, PA, where this night was indeed eerily silent and quite clear.

 He looked up above and seemingly every star could be seen, a strange and most exalted feeling of infinite isolation taking hold of his being, as the cloudless sky made him even more aware of his insignificance within these endless realms of ever-expanding universe. He pushed the thought from his head, as it only fueled his increasing, as-of-late near-consistent negativity.  
  John pulled on his smoke in a state of justified annoyance. It was most definitely the spark plug, and he was out of his stash of extra plugs (maybe out of spark plugs, but thankfully, for his own peace of mind, not good middies), as this was a regular issue with his shit-beater of a car. His only choice was to walk the frigid two miles to deal with this day’s oncoming nightmare scenario (he could just feel it), which included the drop-off of a shadily acquired and notoriously ill-behaved polar bear named Cyimir to the petting zoo.

 Yeah, it boggled John’s mind, but everything Corman did seemed to have that effect. It was to be for the annual Doltonwood (the nickname for the town center) Christmas Carnival, so that this year Corman could win the large monetary prize (that had eluded him for over a decade) that was supposed to be donated to a charity. Corman’s chosen charity? The Corman Petting Zoo and Preserve Protection Fund, of course. If he were to win. And Christ forbid Corman get the idea in his thick skull to let the kids pet or feed the damn bear at some point, which is something the cheap codger would do for an extra buck or two without a second thought. A polar bear for Christ’s sake? As if that damned nine-hundred-seventy-five pound duck weren’t enough. Or those creepy, giant blind penguins. Fuck, man, this is shit I shouldn't even have to worry about, let alone walking two miles in the sub-freezing cold in the dead of fucking night to get to this underpaid shitstain of a job John’s mind repeated as he began to bundle up for his dreaded walk.
 But, there may be another option to this whole walking thing, he figured. That option would be to call his essentially ex-girlfriend, Joan, which would definitely be pushing the limits of a tough boundary set of her choosing. The cold of the night seemed like the warmest, sweetest of days compared to Joan’s frigidity of personality. But that walk in this kind of bum-killing cold was ridiculous, and he figured she might pick him up, even though her track record of reliability, in any given situation–let alone an emergency–was virtually nil. This he knew from personal experience: she really couldn’t stand him, and openly admitted on more than one occasion that the only reason she kept him around was that he was “a good fuck” as she so graciously put it. He knew this, but options in Dolton were slight, and it fed his self-defamatory mindset anyway, so he just stuck with it. Besides, what else did he really expect from a dancer of her particular sketchy caliber? But the faulty ego-boost had long ago faded, the words “I Love You” meaning nothing more than “‘k, whatever” in her language.

 He made the call anyway.
 “What?” was the chilly answer. “What do you want.”
 “I was just on my way to work, and my last spark plug blew. I was kind of wondering if you were available to, I don’t know, maybe give me a lift to work, I’m still about two miles away, and it’s fucking dangerously cold out here.”
 “No,” was her quick and simple reply.
 “Joan, it’s fucking freezing out here, literally. Look, I’ll even pay you.”
 “No.” Not even a moment for her to contemplate a different answer.
 John could hear what sounded like several other females and males alike in the background. “Oh, I guess you’re busy right now...”
 “Yeah, in fact I am. Me’n some of the girls are hanging out at Laughton’s house. I’ll be here all night at least, so you can” the more Joan hurdled her drug-rant stripper-insults directly into John’s ear (words he knew he’d eventually hear from her wanna-be bad-girl goth-dancer mouth of self-deluded unattainability)the more his mind and heart seethed. John’s cell phone died, just then, in the middle of that horrendously hateful rant.  

 In fact, it all just suddenly stopped working. Everythingat some point he could never quite trace back tojust stopped working. His entire existence.
 John stood up out of his car and looked around into the clear, cold darkness, feeling truly alone, fighting back involuntary tears of burning frustration.  Looking up to mock a God he never knew if he ever believed in, John began to notice this darkness growing rather quickly into a blinding white-blue fiery light that emanated from a ball streaming through the sky, his teary gaze clearing finally as he looked up. This ball of flame was leaving behind it the most astonishing and beautiful tail of sparks and fizzling fiery pops and blasts, far beyond the faux-grandiosity he’d seen of so many staid and standard fireworks displays. Colors popped from it that he wasn’t sure he’d even seen before this moment. Odd glowing “reds” and “indigos”–really the best descriptions he could think ofthough those were not the colors, just the closest proximity to which he could relate them.  

 There was a heat that projected from this quickly shrinking ball that faded with the size of the unexpected meteor, or comet, or whatever this would be considered. The heat was, for a moment, like standing next to a bonfire too close, but as it fizzled out it was the same feeling as that bonfire rapidly dying down, a quick cooling off back to the cold of this early winter night. A noxious, sulfurous and methane-tinged scent began to linger in the air after the fiery ball from another place had disappeared into the thick tangle of woods that extended from the sides of the road, the outskirts of Dolton, an ever dark and mysterious place known locally as The Diabolos Hills.
 “Holy shit!” John exclaimed aloud. “I should make a wish or something I guess, heh,” he chuckled to himself. And just that he did, knowing of course that such silliness was the fodder of childhood dreams and magickal thinking (certainly something not new to John). His wish was simple, but he dare not even think it a second time, let alone mumble it aloud. He felt silly enough even doing it just that once, the mere thought, almost like an atheist attending Christmas Midnight Mass. But if there was even the slightest possibility of its occurrence, of this wish ever coming true, so to speak, he didn’t want that clusterfucked in any way whatsoever.
 Down that long, dark, and frigid road John began his walk to this job he hated more than anything other than possibly Joan at that moment. But he was happy the strange meteor or whatever it was in the sky stopped that wretched conversation. That was the actual very last thing he needed to deal with at that moment. In fact, he was just happy to have seen whatever it wasit was beautiful and unexpecteda rare quirk of cosmic, extraterrestrial nature he had just witnessed. Something most never get to witness. Amidst his shit-storm of a life that internally ate away at him like an armpit full of chiggers, he felt grateful to have been possibly the lone viewer of this spectacular natural event.
 He pulled a nicely rolled joint from his coat pocket, lit up, then began his long trudge down the cold, quiet and lonely late night highway.  It felt like, looked like, and even sounded like the perfect metaphor for his life.

Click Here to read
Chapter II

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Archive of Stories
and Authors

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's exact whereabouts
are never able to be fully
pinned down, but what we
do know about him is laced
with the echoes of legend.
He's already been known
to haunt certain areas of
the landscape, a trick said
to only be possible by being
able to manipulate it from
the future. His presence
among the rest of us here
at the freezine sends shivers
of fear deep in our solar plexus.

Konstantine Paradias & Edward

Konstantine Paradias's

Konstantine Paradias is a writer by
choice. At the moment, he's published
over 100 stories in English, Japanese,
Romanian, German, Dutch and
Portuguese and has worked in a free-
lancing capacity for videogames, screen-
plays and anthologies. People tell him
he's got a writing problem but he can,
like, quit whenever he wants, man.
His work has been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize.

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for
the Pushcart Prize in literature, has
also been nominated for the 2009
Rhysling Award and the 2005 British
Science Fiction Association Award.
His short stories have been published
over a hundred and twenty times in
four languages, most recently at
PerhihelionSF, the Red Penny Papers'
SUPERPOW! anthology, and The
Magazine of Bizarro Fiction. He lives
and works in Portland as a writer,
editor, spoken word MC and bouncer,
and is also a regular guest author at
the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival.

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz hails out of the shattered
streets of Philly destroying the air-
waves and people's minds in the
underground with his band OLD
FEZZIWIG. He's been known to
dip his razor quill into his own
blood and pen a twisted tale
every now and again. We are
delighted to have him onboard
the FREEZINE and we hope
you are, too.

Daniel E. Lambert's

Daniel E. Lambert teaches English
at California State University, Los
Angeles and East Los Angeles College.
He also teaches online Literature
courses for Colorado Technical
University. His writing appears
in Silver Apples, Easy Reader,
Other Worlds, Wrapped in Plastic
and The Daily Breeze. His work
also appears in the anthologies
When Words Collide, Flash It,
Daily Flash 2012, Daily Frights
2012, An Island of Egrets and
Timeless Voices. His collection
of poetry and prose, Love and
Other Diversions, is available
through Amazon. He lives in
Southern California with his
wife, poet and author Anhthao Bui.


Phoenix has enjoyed writing since he
was a little kid. He finds much import-
ance and truth in creative expression.
Phoenix has written over sixty books,
and has published everything from
novels, to poetry and philosophy.
He hopes to inspire people with his
writing and to ask difficult questions
about our world and the universe.
Phoenix lives in Salt Lake City, Utah,
where he spends much of his time
reading books on science, philosophy,
and literature. He spends a good deal
of his free time writing and working
on new books. The Freezine of Fant-
asy and Science Fiction welcomes him
and his unique, intense vision.
Discover Phoenix's books at his author
page on Amazon. Also check out his blog.

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar is an expatriate Bostonian
who has lived in New Orleans and Berkeley,
and currently resides in Portland, Oregon
with his beloved wife and fluffy gray cat
Dahlia. Adam wears round, antique glasses
and has a fondness for hats. His greatest
inspirations include H.P. Lovecraft,
Jack tales and coffee. He has been
a Romantic poet for as long as any-
one can remember, specializing in
the composition of spectral balladry,
utilizing to great effect a traditional
poetic form that taps into the haunted
undercurrents of folklore seldom found
in other forms of writing.
His poetry has appeared on the pages
of such publications as SPECTRAL
CTHULHU, and a poem of his,
"The Rime of the Eldritch Mariner,"
won the Rhysling Award for long-form
poetry. His collection of weird balladry
and Jack tales, THE LAY OF OLD HEX,
was published by Hippocampus Press in 2017.

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff is the author of the
following books: Ring of Fire (Eraserhead
Press, 2018), Flesh Trade (co-written
w/Edward Morris; published by Create-
Space, 2017), Punk Rock Ghost Story
(Deadite Press, 2016), Amazing Punk
Stories (Eraserhead Press, 2016),
Boot Boys of the Wolf Reich (Eraserhead
Press, 2014), Hunting the Moon Tribe
(Eraserhead Press, 2011), The Vegan
Revolution...with Zombies (Eraserhead
Press, 2010), and Screams from a Dying
World (Afterbirth Books, 2009).
David is a hardcore vegan and tireless
environmentalist. His contributions to
the punk horror scene and the planet in
general have already established him
as a bright new writer and activist to
watch out for. The Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction welcomes him and
his defiant vision open-heartedly.

David is a busy man, usually at work
on several different novels or projects
at once. He is sure to leave his mark on
a world teetering over the edge of
ecological imbalance.

Sanford Meschkow's

Sanford Meschkow is a retired former
NYer who married a Philly suburban
Main Line girl. Sanford has been pub-
lished in a 1970s issue of AMAZING.
We welcome him here on the FREE-
ZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking currently
resides in the high desert of Phoenix,
Arizona where he enjoys campy horror
movies within the comfort of an Insane
Asylum. Search for his science fiction
stories at The Intestinal Fortitude in
the Flesheater's World section.
The Memory Sector is his first
appearance in the Freezine of
Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Owen R. Powell's

Little is known of the mysterious
Owen R. Powell (oftentimes referred
to as Orp online). That is because he
usually keeps moving. The story
Noetic Vacations marks his first
appearance in the Freezine.

Gene Stewart
(writing as Art Wester)

Gene Stewart's

Gene Stewart is a writer and artist.
He currently lives in the Midwest
American Wilderness where he is
researching tales of mystical realism,
writing ficta mystica, and exploring
the dark by casting a little light into
the shadows. Follow this link to his
website where there are many samples
of his writing and much else; come

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's spiritually driven,
urban storytelling takes root at the
crossroads of myth and history.
With sardonic, uplifting and often
hilarious prose, Older draws from
his work as an overnight 911 paramedic,
a teaching artist & an antiracist/antisexist
organizer to weave fast-moving, emotionally
engaging plots that speak whispers and
shouts about power and privilege in
modern day New York City. His work
has appeared in the Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The ShadowCast
Audio Anthology, The Tide Pool, and
the collection Sunshine/Noir, and is
featured in Sheree Renee Thomas'
Black Pot Mojo Reading Series in Harlem.
When he's not writing, teaching or
riding around in an ambulance,
Daniel can be found performing with
his Brooklyn-based soul quartet
Ghost Star. His blog about the
ridiculous and disturbing world
of EMS can be found here.

Paul Stuart's

Paul Stuart is the author of numerous
biographical blurbs written in the third
person. His previously published fiction
appears in The Vault of Punk Horror and
His non-fiction financial pieces can be found
in a shiny, west-coast magazine that features
pictures of expensive homes, as well as images
of women in casual poses and their accessories.
Consider writing him at,
if you'd like some thing from his garage. In fall
2010, look for Grade 12 Trigonometry and
Pre-Calculus -With Zombies.

Rain Grave's

Rain Graves is an award winning
author of horror, science fiction and
poetry. She is best known for the 2002
Poetry Collection, The Gossamer Eye
(along with Mark McLaughlin and
David Niall Wilson). Her most
recent book, Barfodder: Poetry
Written in Dark Bars and Questionable
Cafes, has been hailed by Publisher's
Weekly as "Bukowski meets Lovecraft..."
in January of 2009. She lives and
writes in San Francisco, performing
spoken word at events around the
country. 877-DRK-POEM -

Icy Sedgwick's

Icy Sedgwick is part writer and part
trainee supervillain. She lives in the UK
but dreams of the Old West. Her current
works include a ghost story about a Cavalier
and a Western tale of retribution. Find her
ebooks, free weekly fiction and other
shenanigans at Icy’s Cabinet of Curiosities.

Blag Dahlia's
armed to the teeth

BLAG DAHLIA is a Rock Legend.
Singer, Songwriter, producer &
founder of the notorious DWARVES.
He has written two novels, ‘NINA’ and

G. Alden Davis's

G. Alden Davis wrote his first short story
in high school, and received a creative
writing scholarship for the effort. Soon
afterward he discovered that words were
not enough, and left for art school. He was
awarded the Emeritus Fellowship along
with his BFA from Memphis College of Art
in '94, and entered the videogame industry
as a team leader and 3D artist. He has over
25 published games to his credit. Mr. Davis
is a Burningman participant of 14 years,
and he swings a mean sword in the SCA.
He's also the best friend I ever had. He
was taken away from us last year on Jan
25 and I'll never be able to understand why.
Together we were a fantastic duo, the
legendary Grub Bros. Our secret base
exists on a cross-hatched nexus between
the Year of the Dragon and Dark City.
Somewhere along the tectonic fault
lines of our electromagnetic gathering,
shades of us peel off from the coruscating
pillars and are dropped back into the mix.
The phrase "rest in peace" just bugs me.
I'd rather think that Greg Grub's inimitable
spirit somehow continues evolving along
another manifestation of light itself, a
purple shift shall we say into another
phase of our expanding universe. I
ask myself, is it wishful thinking?
Will we really shed our human skin
like a discarded chrysalis and emerge
shimmering on another wavelength
altogether--or even manifest right
here among the rest without their
even beginning to suspect it? Well
people do believe in ghosts, but I
myself have long been suspicious
there can only be one single ghost
and that's all the stars in the universe
shrinking away into a withering heart
glittering and winking at us like
lost diamonds still echoing all their
sad and lonely songs fallen on deaf
eyes and ears blind to their colorful
emanations. My grub brother always
knew better than what the limits
of this old world taught him. We
explored past the outer peripheries
of our comfort zones to awaken
the terror in our minds and keep
us on our toes deep in the forest
in the middle of the night. The owls
led our way and the wilderness
transformed into a sanctuary.
The adventures we shared together
will always remain tattooed on
the pages of my skin. They tell a
story that we began together and
which continues being woven to
this very day. It's the same old
story about how we all were in
this together and how each and
every one of us is also going away
someday and though it will be the far-
thest we can manage to tell our own
tale we may rest assured it will be
continued like one of the old pulp
serials by all our friends which survive
us and manage to continue
the saga whispering in the wind.

Shae Sveniker's

Shae is a poet/artist/student and former
resident of the Salt Pit, UT, currently living
in Simi Valley, CA. His short stories are on
Blogger and his poetry is hosted on Livejournal.

Nigel Strange's

Nigel Strange lives with his wife and
daughter, cats, and tiny dog-like thing
in their home in California where he
occasionally experiments recreationally
with lucidity. PLASTIC CHILDREN
is his first publication.

J.R. Torina's

J.R. Torina was DJ for Sonic Slaughter-
house ('90-'97), runs Sutekh Productions
(an industrial-ambient music label) and
Slaughterhouse Records (metal record
label), and was proprietor of The Abyss
(a metal-gothic-industrial c.d. shop in
SLC, now closed). He is the dark force
behind Scapegoat (an ambient-tribal-
noise-experimental unit). THE HOUSE
IN THE PORT is his first publication.

K.B. Updike, Jr's

K.B. Updike, Jr. is a young virgin
Virginia writer. KB's life work,
published 100% for free:
(We are not certain if K.B. Updike, Jr.
has lost his Virginian virginity yet.)