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Friday, December 11, 2015


by Vincent Daemon

Chapter V

Red Exposure

John had broken down and called Corman anyway, on the hospital phone, sending the unsympathetic bastard into a fit of profane, stressed rage of highly uncalled-for proportions, especially considering the situation. Jesus Christ it’s like I have Joan for a boss and Corman for a girlfriend John angrily thought as he left the hospital to return the truck, which according to Corman, the cost to fix was coming out of his pay. 
  Afterward, he waited in the cold, yet again, this time for a bus, to go back to the hospital and not only check on the woman he had helped, but to try to figure out just what they had seen.  

 While waiting for the bus his phone finally rang. It was Joan. Begrudgingly, he answered the call.  “I’m not going to deal with this anymore, John. Your shitty job, your shitty attitude, your shitty writing, your...” her tirade continued. He could tell she’d been smoking crack or something by the awful dry-muck smacking sounds of her dehydrated mouth as it raged its misappropriated venom in his direction. All he’d done was be there for her when she’d have her weekly psychotic breaks, or some drug dilemma, or any other number of idiocies having to deal with her dancer-drama lifestyle. He felt that his seemingly limitless patience had finally run its course. The fact that she also considered her own artwork some sort of brilliance, when it was barely more than smeary morbid crap, was also something he’d really had enough of. Her chronic small lies and omissions of truth, her incessant infidelity until it was finally declared (again, by her choosing) an “open relationship,” meaning in her language “I do what I want, you stay alone and deal with it yourself.”

 Standing there in the freezing cold, waiting for a bus that he may not have enough money to get on, and essentially just dealing with December 23rd’s general non-stop parade of strange and horrible happenings already, he’d reached his limit. “You know what, Joan? You can fuck off,” he said with the greatest of ease, a twisted smirk rising on his face, “I don’t need your problems, I don’t need your bullshit, and most all, I don’t need you.” The deadest of telephone silences he had ever heard from her strung itself out for a moment, before Joan replied. “Johnny, don’t be...”

 “No, Joan, fuck you. I know where you’re at, what you’re doing, and quite frankly, I can’t stand you anymore. Really, I just want you and your bad ju-ju gone, out of my life. I don’t need it anymore, any of it. I’m done. Goodbye.”

 He struck the hangup button on his phone with his finger hard enough to hear a faint crack, and couldn’t believe he just did what he did. But, for the sake of his own sanity, his own self-preservation which, until recently, was something he never gave a damn about, it was necessary. Still, knowing it shouldn’t have, it hurt. John knew he’d never really been anything but a novelty to Joan anyway, and just stood there alone in the cold, holding it in and accepting the situation for what it was. Paisley was right. He should have gotten rid of this grief-machine long ago.

 Now he had finally done just that, and it wasn’t really making him feel too much better. But not worse. Really, more confused than anything else.

 The bus finally pulled up, John flicked his cigarette to the ground before entering the bus and bumping straight into one of the cutest, most adorable-eyed strawberry blondes he’d ever seen. She wore thick glasses, intensifying the lightly hazel green eyes that shimmered in her temporary befuddlement of just being bumped into by this longish haired, leather jacketed stranger that reeked of petting zoo, cigarettes, and pot. Apparently, in their knocking into one another while both lost in their own thoughts and attempting to simply board the bus, John had accidentally knocked the cute blonde’s book to the ground, a typically klutzy move for him.

 He bent down and quickly retrieved it from the curb. Upon standing back up he bumped the back of his head right into her heavy and overfilled purse-satchel. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed with embarrassment. “I’m a bit of a clumsy arse, and new in town, please excuse me, I am so very sorry...”

 John, blush-red in the face as could be, and stricken with awe at the beauty that stood before him, managed to stammer out “No, apologies are all mine. I wasn’t paying attention, its been a long day, and I’m a clumsy ass anyway,” not really knowing where to go with it from there other than saying “after you” and offering her onto the bus first, accompanied with a not-entirely-comical chivalrous gesticulation of his arms. 

 They entered the bus, she first, and by default John found his face right at her backside as she paid the fair. He tried not to stare but it was almost impossible. She had the nicest little heart-shaped buttocks he’d noticed in quite some time, donned as they were in a tight and faded dark-blue denim stretch fabric that seemed painted on to shapely, strong legs, the denim disappearing at the knee into a pair of black faux-leather boots. 

 She took a seat all the way in the back, where it was empty, and John went to sit in the middle somewhere but she waved him back, calling out “Here, sit with me,” as she did so. Of course, he followed her suggestion and took a seat right beside her. “I’ve always preferred the backs of busses, personally,” she stated whilst rummaging aimlessly through her purse. 

 She stopped and looked over at him, from above the rim of her glasses, a look that instantly melted his heart. “I’m sorry. I’m Julie Adams,” and she smiled, her face lighting up like a million watt bulb, and extended her hand.

 “I’m John. John Agar,” he replied almost sheepishly, gently taking her soft and creamy-white hand, fingertips a shiny crimson polish, and accepting her gesture of a new found friendship. He was also a bit flummoxed that this adorable little thing he had just made a fool of himself in front of was so friendly and, well, seemed interested orsomething his gut was telling him that he desperately tried to ignore.

 Not quite knowing what to say next, nor what to do, it occurred to him the book he had so clumsily knocked from her hands moments ago was none other than one of his own favorite novels, I Am Legend, by Richard Matheson. “Amazing book. My favorite actually.” She didn’t seem disinterested yet. “In fact I happen to be a fan of most of Matheson’s writing.”

 “You’ve got to be joking. This can’t possibly be your favorite book. This is my favorite book. We can’t have possibly both have the same favorite book, now can we?” In an abnormally comfortable silence they each slowly began to chuckle with the other. “I’m in town to cover some sort of goofy Holiday Carnival. Not the gig I wanted, but it’ll suffice,” she nonchalantly blurted out to John. “It’s money, I guess.”

 “You’re a journalist then?” John was hoping his nervousness was well under wraps, and that the redness in his cheeks looked like nothing more than slight wind-burn. He wondered if he should mention he was a writer as well.

 “Unfortunately,” she smiled sarcastically. “What do you do?”

 “I work at the infamous, one and only Corman’s Petting Zoo,” John replied with all the zest and zeal of stepping barefoot into a pile of warm dogshit. 

 “Oh, the place with Cyimir the Polar Bear! And Quacks, the nine-hundred-seventy-five pound duck!” she exclaimed, knowing intuitively that both not only was something horribly amiss with this uniquely odd petting zoo, but that shadily acquired polar bears and mutant ducks made better infotainment (how she loathed that ridiculous, meaningless term, used by her boss incessantly) headlines than a mere hundred year old small-town carnival. Plus, not only did this John Agar fellow actually work for Corman’s, he had great taste in books (meaning he was literatea quality she justifiably found rather rare these days), seemed intelligent yet somewhat mysterious, and was incredibly cute to her eyes, as well. 

 They each seemed to feel a shy and mutual magnetic draw toward one another. “I write,” John suddenly blurted out himself, out of nowhere.

 Another unexpected intrigue with this fellow visibly registered on her face. “You do? What? I thought you worked for Corman’s?” 

 “Nothing I really get paid for, and I’ve only been published a couple times. It’s more that I just love to write. Always have. My brain is like a perpetual-motion engine, and that’s how I get it out, I guess.” Julie sat completely silent, enraptured with what he was telling her, which John noticed, so went on a little more. “It’s horror and sci-fi mostly, some verse. Nothing much. Pulp mostly, I guess, heh.”

 “I want to read some, and I highly doubt its ‘pulp’.” Her tone was gentle yet almost chiding. “Do not defamenate what you do. And yes, I said defamenatemy word.” Julie smiled a silly smile, then looked back down and began to nervously rummage through her mess of a purse again, chewing her lower lip on the left side, seemingly in a sudden state of thought. A moment later: “I think I’m going to tag along with you today, if you don’t mind. Or even if you do.”

 His heart almost jumped from his chest with an almost teenage-feeling of excitement. “Yeah, sure! I mean, if that’s really what you want to do. I don’t want to throw your little Dolton holiday history article off or...”

 “Oh fuck no, John, this is far more interesting, believe you me. And you seem like fun to hang with for the day or next couple, anyway.” The warmth of her smile seemed to radiate an angelic glow before him; he swore he could feel it like the heat from the searing comet he had seen just twelve hours prior. 

 Trying to keep his astonishment and quite sudden change of heart about the day very well contained, he gave her a caveat in case she suddenly opted on an out, as this seemed absolutely impossible to him. “Well, I have to go to the hospital first and check on someone, before I go back to Corman’s.” He thought for a second, looked into her eyes (which apparently had already most dreamily been staring at his) and decided to divulge what he thought perhaps he should not. But this chick was obviously already tapped-into the strangesomething he could just telland he had an unusual instinctive trust. “I’m going to tell you why we are going to the hospital, the exact reason.” He figured, fuck it. “Something very strange happened last night, and it may have something to do with why this woman is in the hospital.”

 Her expression became one of both instantaneous excitement and seriousness, as well as complete attention, though her eyes still gazed right into his. “Do you mind if I record this, John Agar?” she spoke into a little old-school mini-cassette recorder she had pulled from the mess of her heavy black and skull-patched purse. 

 “No, not at all. In fact, I’d like every word of this documented, because, Julie, I feel like I’m losing my goddamned mind.”

 “You did mention it was a ‘long day.’ Do tell.” She was genuinely intrigued. 

 “Heh, long doesn’t even begin to cover it. Hope you have enough tape on that cassette, or a very good memory.”

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Chapter VI of

by Vincent Daemon

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by Keith Graham

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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.)