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BETWEEN THE CRACKS with E. F. Schraeder

Each time that Sirens Call Publications releases an anthology, we like to delve a little into the minds of the authors whose stories appear between the covers just to find out why that particular story line came to them. In Between the Cracks, twelve fantastic stories appear and each of the authors was asked to write a post sharing their inspiration for it. Seven authors answered the call… Next up is E. F. Schraeder, author of Something in the Water

What’s in the Water?

Could be if you drove down this street you’d never notice anything wrong. You’d barely notice anything at all. With the windows rolled up in the car, it’s like any one of a million streets in the U.S. You’d never notice anything but the lush green lawns cut at identical lengths, perfectly edged sidewalks, and the great big SUVs and sedans parked in pairs in the cement driveways. Blink and you’d easily miss the welcome mats and flags set outside for the seamless accents and oddly similar personal touches.

Maybe you’d miss that one beautiful monarch butterfly moving across the backyards of this simple suburban street, flitting from purple coneflowers to a clump of yellow black-eyed susans, but I saw him. The lawn mowers are buzzing and the scent of fresh cut grass fills the air. And then another scent comes, pungent. Acidic. Chemical. You’d feel it burn in your nostrils and throat if you breathed it too long.

You’d perhaps see, as I did, children running across a row of bright green front yards, laughing. Jumping across neatly pruned hedges, crushing flowers beneath their feet. The laughter pauses, then their voices pitch, yelling. The game they play seems less and less like tag, more and more like pushing and shoving. Then the screaming. A cacophony of noise erupts from all directions. Whether they are injured or angry is hard to tell, but they’re definitely cruel.

There is a house that looks empty. Foreclosed. The leftovers of the real estate bubble wreckage from Adjustable Rate Mortgage loans that crushed people out of their homes. Look closer, you’ll see a man in one yard gripping a hose with heavy black rubber gloves, spraying an unnaturally demonic blue fertilizer. Beside him in the next postage stamp plot another man rattles a cart of pesticides across the lawn. The smell is easily overpowering if you linger, but you don’t. Two people talk across their driveways, comparing cars like old ranchers sizing up the competition. Are they happy? In their eyes you can almost see glimpses of petty-minded rivalry. You close the window and drive away.

Creepy abandoned houses replete with cobwebs and ghosts, cemeteries and mausoleums, asylums are wonderful settings that conjure up delightful terrors, to be sure. But what of the places where the surface seems smooth and cool? Places like the placid streets and sidewalks of a neighborhood, while the bastion of conformity bursts with unseen pressures, an evil lurking just beneath the veneer.

The suburbs. What could be more frightening than living in close quarters with people obsessed with pretense, themselves, and the next new thing? Pick a row of cookie cutter houses and peek into the chaos of judgmental, nosy neighbors, perfect lawns, and locked doors.  Then dare to wonder what happens behind those closed doors and curtains. What if the poisons poured onto the earth are doing more than greening the lawn and feeding the flowers?  What’s in that water, anyway? You may want to ignore it, just keep driving. Don’t think about it too long. Maybe you missed the street, or maybe it’s quite familiar. Hell, it’s like any one of a million streets anywhere in the U.S.  See that house with the moving truck parked in the driveway? Take a moment to meet the new neighbor…

***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Schraeder’s creative work has appeared in journals including Voluted Tales, Corvus Magazine, Haz Mat Review, Dark Gothic Resurrected, Sirens Call Publications, Clare Literary Review, Lavender Review, and others. Schraeder’s work is also included in these anthologies: Carnival of the Damned, The Kennedy Curse, Kicked Out, and Between the Cracks.  Schraeder studied literature and philosophy in graduate school and is author of a poetry chapbook, The Hunger Tree.

***

And here’s a little information about Between the Cracks

BetweenTheCracks_Promotional_800pxA crack, a split, a rend, a tear – all of these fissures open up a new world for us to gaze upon. But what if the things we see aren’t friendly? What if the things that spill from beyond are dangerous and unwilling to be contained? What if evil lurks just below the surface waiting for its chance to strike?

In this collection of diverse and multi-faceted tales, you’ll find a computer program twisted into a nefarious tool, elves who are more than mischievous, a Creole House where those who dare to cheat fate meet with an unsavory end, and something evil lurking within the water. Are you brave enough to look Between the Cracks? There is only one way to find out…

***

Between the Cracks is available on:

Amazon: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

Amazon Print: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

CreateSpace (Print)

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

iTunes Store

***

And now for an excerpt from Something in the Water

The truck beeped as Cory backed into the sloped drive, head hung out the window to navigate. “Shit.” The word stung the silence of the otherwise quiet suburban street. She bit her lip when she noticed a blonde man poking his head out of a front door. Watching.

The truck bumped over the stone driveway edging and onto the blonde neighbor’s grass. Cory waved apologetically. Then she pulled forward and backed up a second time, straightening the wheels. Blondie stepped onto his small porch and settled into a green plastic lawn chair as Cory hopped out of the yellow truck.

“Moving in?” Blondie asked. He pushed his hands through the thick mop of luscious hair.

Cory forced a smile. Duh. Then replied, Yep.” Cory hoped he wasn’t going to be the kind of neighbor who liked to talk. Especially when she was obviously busy.

He stepped off the porch onto the green stairs, dangling a slippered foot over the edge of the last step.

Great.

“Alone?” he asked, adding, “I’m Tom.” He held out a soft, tanned hand that briefly hovered in the air.

Cory noticed it looked plump and smooth. The kind of hand that had probably never seen the business end of a wrench. A huge cardboard box pressed awkwardly to her chest. Tom’s hand dropped, and he watched Cory fumble with the door one handed. He smiled, but made no venture to assist with the door. He smacked his wrist and frowned as something bit him.

 “I’m Cory.” She sighed, heaving the door open with her shoulder then held open the screen door with her foot as she glanced back toward her neighbor. “Nice to meet you,” she added. The door creaked shut behind her. She set down the first box in the hallway and saw Tom leaning over his porch, peering at her door like a hawk looking for a mouse.

Cory closed the storm door, blocking Tom’s view. She forced a deep breath and eyed the pale, cream hued walls of her empty kitchen. “I should stop assuming the worst before I get to know someone. This is a new start.” She walked back outside.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked Tom.

“Forever, feels like.” Tom set down his newspaper and looked at Cory. “Raised five kids here. Some of ’em older than you, I bet. You married?” Tom peered into her moving van.

She ignored his question. “Wow, five kids. I can’t imagine. You don’t look old enough to have kids my age!” Cory grinned. How Dick Clark. Hope that anti-aging formula is in the water.

Tom smiled. “You don’t look old enough to be buying a house,” he paused, sucking the inside of his cheek, then added, “alone.”

Cory wrinkled her face in a question, half flattered, half aware he was judging. Cory quickly turned back to the truck.

Tom switched subjects. “We’ve got a great family neighborhood. We look out for each other.”

Tune in tomorrow when we’ll hear from Deb Eskie!

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BETWEEN THE CRACKS with Rebecca Fung

Each time that Sirens Call Publications releases an anthology, we like to delve a little into the minds of the authors whose stories appear between the covers just to find out why that particular story line came to them. In Between the Cracks, twelve fantastic stories appear and each of the authors was asked to write a post sharing their inspiration for it. Seven authors answered the call… Next up is Rebecca Fung, author of The Woman Who Cried Elf

Rebecca Fung – The Woman Who Wrote About Elves

Elves around the house seemed the only logical explanation for all the strange things that do happen. The “elves are doing it” is a real joke that I have made in my home. I’d be walking in the hallway and – oops – flat on my face. What was that parcel doing there? Well, it couldn’t be me. I’m a logical, sensible creature. I don’t go around tripping myself up. What else could explain something that was so obviously carefully placed just to see me go flying face down.

Some supernatural force around me is at work. Something beyond my own reach.

Elves!

Elves!

What other explanation when the remote control goes missing and it’s under a bunch of magazines you’re positive you haven’t read for months. Or when, like Robert in the story, you can’t find your keys in the morning?

It has to be elves.

Unlike Lisa, in my story, I’m not a shoe fanatic. But like her, I do make jokes about elves in the house. And I’ve often had fancies about the supernatural beings that must jump about and delight in a bit of house rearrangement.

I’m not the first to have thought of little beings jumping about like this. Roald Dahl wrote a story called “The Gremlins” (later the famous movie) based on Royal Air Force folklore. The original Gremlins were mischievous beings that meddled with stuff in the Air Force. They were the explanation for when something went wrong on a plane. I like the idea – but I was looking at a household.

I’m a huge fan of fairytales and folklore, and my story was an opportunity to explore two well-known tales – The Elves and the Shoemaker and The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

In The Elves and the Shoemaker, the Shoemaker and his wife find benevolent elves at work in their house. Elves who love nothing more than to stitch shoes and make the shoemaker very, very rich. There’s a mystery in Lisa and Robert’s house, but it’s nowhere near as kind.

When my story came to me, after quit e a few trippings-over and bruised shins, and lost sets of keys, I began to envy the Shoemaker and his elves. At least his elves stuck to making shoes and making him a fortune. Why did my house elves insist on rolling my socks up in non-matching pairs – just to infuriate me? It seems not all elves are created equal.

So I began to write The Woman Who Cried Elf. At first I thought the malevolence, the horror, of the story would come from the naughtiness of the elves. Let’s face it, these were not the nice kindly shoemaker kind of elves. We’re talking about elves who are creatively mean. First it’s misplacing keys. Next you’re ‘accidentally’ putting salt in stuff instead of sugar – or was that by elvish design? And then you are forced to think twice, every time that toilet is clogged!

As I wrote the tale I found myself feeling the horror grow from somewhere deep in Lisa’s brain. As well as loving fairytales and folklore, I love horror because it’s a real chance to explore something fascinating about people – what makes them shiver. I found myself shivering with Lisa. Lisa is not a bad person even though she orchestrates her own ending – much like the boy who cried wolf – and that, too, fascinates me.

***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Rebecca Fung is a legal editor based in Sydney, Australia. She loves to edit in the light … but writing brings out her dark side. She has previously had her dark fiction published in Midnight Echo, Voluted Tales and Eclecticism magazines and is a regular contributor to the “Demonic Visions” anthology series. Her work has also been published in a number of other anthologies and her ebook “Dead Lucky” is published by Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing in their “One Night Stands” series in October 2014.

***

And here’s a little information about Between the Cracks

BetweenTheCracks_Promotional_800pxA crack, a split, a rend, a tear – all of these fissures open up a new world for us to gaze upon. But what if the things we see aren’t friendly? What if the things that spill from beyond are dangerous and unwilling to be contained? What if evil lurks just below the surface waiting for its chance to strike?

In this collection of diverse and multi-faceted tales, you’ll find a computer program twisted into a nefarious tool, elves who are more than mischievous, a Creole House where those who dare to cheat fate meet with an unsavory end, and something evil lurking within the water. Are you brave enough to look Between the Cracks? There is only one way to find out…

***

Between the Cracks is available on:

Amazon: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

Amazon Print: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

CreateSpace (Print)

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

iTunes Store

***

And now for an excerpt from The Woman Who Cried Elf

Lisa was the first one to mention the house elves, though Robert kept reminding her of their existence.

“Where are my keys?” asked Robert.

“Where did you last put them?” asked Lisa.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking where they are. I’m almost certain I laid them next to the fruit bowl. Or maybe it was next to the little glass vase, said Robert.

“Don’t look at me, I haven’t touched them,” said Lisa.

Robert ran around frantically for five minutes, and then he cried triumphantly, “Found them. Now how did they get behind the sugar bowl?”

“Must have been little house elves, messing around with your things,” suggested Lisa.

“Ruddy elves.” Robert gave Lisa a peck before he bounded out the door. “Have a good day!”

Lisa smiled. House elves, eh? It would explain a lot. It had just come into her head, but now that she thought about it… she imagined a spritely elf dancing on the shelf, taking Robert’s keys and putting them under a stack of dirty dishes or inside the toaster. Maybe that was why she could never find an umbrella when she wanted one, or why she found a boot mysteriously paired with a sandal in her shoe closet.

“Should I wear boots today, or heels, or flats?” she mused. “I’m wearing red, but I’ve got some cornflower blue in the trimmings, so should I go for blue shoes or red, or something safe like the skin-coloured pumps?” Lisa sat in front of her wardrobe and stared at the rows and rows of shoes. Robert always thought this was highly amusing; he had about five pairs of the same, serviceable brown slip-on leather shoes he wore almost all the time. He never had a fashion crisis.

Lisa could not live like that. Every time she passed a shoe-shop window, a different design begged to be bought—heels or bows, yellow or blue, sparkle or leather or sequins, straps or buttons, buckles or laces, she loved them all. Each shoe fitted her for a different mood.

She chose a pair of red slip-ons with happy bows on the toes to start the day. She was feeling a little girly and these would perk her up. Oh, what fun it was to have as many shoes as you liked and a wardrobe big enough to house them all!

Lisa snapped on her shoes and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. Two more tumbled off.

“Who stacked those like that? Elves!” laughed Lisa to herself.

“House elves,” laughed, or grumbled, Lisa and Robert, when little things in the house didn’t run perfectly. It was the easiest way to explain things, and besides, who wanted to listen to some pimply teenager calling himself a plumber coming out with some long-winded explanation for a clog in the pipe when house elf would explain it just as well?

Tune in tomorrow when we’ll hear from E. F. Schraeder!

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BETWEEN THE CRACKS with Kyle Rader

Each time that Sirens Call Publications releases an anthology, we like to delve a little into the minds of the authors whose stories appear between the covers just to find out why that particular story line came to them. In Between the Cracks, twelve fantastic stories appear and each of the authors was asked to write a post sharing their inspiration for it. Over the next week, you’ll hear from seven of them… First up is Kyle Rader, author of Pipe Dreams of the Soul Eater

Of Goth and Monsters

Why, oh, why did I write Pipe Dreams of the Soul Eater?

I think Cormac McCarthy said it best:

“I don’t know why I started writing. I don’t know why anybody does it. Maybe they’re bored, or failures at something else.”

Actually, neither is true for me. Well, not entirely true.

Pipe Dreams of the Soul Eater is, at its core, a Gothic piece of fiction. While it has elements of the fantastical and of the horrific, I personally am not sure it is a “true” piece of horror literature. And, you know what? I think that’s fine. Let the readers of it decide for themselves, as once you write something and put it out there, it kind of belongs to the readers as well as the author.

I write in a lot of different genres. As McCarthy insinuates, I do tend to get bored if I am writing in the same genre or the same style all of the time. Thus, I like to take on challenges and in writing that means writing outside of the ol’ comfort box and trying new things.

Bringing us to Pipe Dreams of the Soul Eater.

I wanted to create a dream-like environment for the protagonists to exist in. A place that exists within the “normal” world, yet is not quite right. For me, a true, classic Gothic tale exists in the past, a time when there was still a bit of mystery left in the world, when humanity didn’t quite yet act like we were too big for our britches, in a sense. Taking some cues from Poe and Lovecraft, I set this piece a few centuries ago, in New Orleans, a city filled with old country folklore, mysticism and the unexplained. Not to mention it is a city slowly being swallowed by the sea, which is a great writing prompt in and of itself.

The bulk of the story takes place in an opium den. This is a bit of an old chestnut for the Gothic genre. If not directly referenced in a story, chances are the authors themselves were chasing the dragon. Or, at least it would seem, anyway. However, my idea was to take this plot device and turn it on its head by placing a real monster in one of these such places, where souls go to get lost.

Bringing us to the monster itself: the Soul Eater. When I decided to place a monster in the opium den, I wanted to find a monster that was original-ish, or even create my own. The traditional ones are played out in my opinion, so I scoured the legends, the varying folklore from all over the globe, from times past and legends forgotten. This research, while interesting, proved to be a major pain and left me frustrated. Then, one evening after a terrible day at work, I came across an African legend from the Hausa people, mostly in Niger and Nigeria.

The Soul Eater.

The legends vary, as most do, but some common traits were spread out across them, enough for me to work with and make the creature something original-ish, per my original intent. One of the shared aspects is that the Soul Eater leaves it’s victims either in piles of dust or with a terminal wasting disease. One has to wonder if this is how they explained things like cancer or tuberculosis. They also believed the soul existed as blue stones in the pit of the stomach, and would try to suck them out of the victim’s stomach.

Another fun fact about the Soul Eater is that they are generally considered to be cannibalistic, meaning that they are, in fact, human. This was interesting, but not what I wanted, so I played a bit loose with that and turned them into creatures that emerged from the primordial ooze that existed long before humanity.

Anyways, if you are looking for some good, classic Gothic fiction, you’d do well to pick up Between the Cracks and devour my tale Pipe Dreams of the Soul Eater contained within it.

It beats watching I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant for sure.

***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Kyle Rader is a writer who doesn’t like to color inside the lines. He has written across multiple genres with the expressed goal of doing the unexpected and, above all, not boring his readers. He lives in New Hampshire and enjoys playing guitar poorly, yelling at his television, and annoying his long-suffering fiancée. His most recent publications have appeared in the ‘Canopic Jars: Tales of Mummies and Mummification’ anthology published by Great Old Ones Publishing, Fiction Vortex, Dark Moon Eclipse, The Rusty Nail Magazine, and the soon to be released ‘Bugs’ anthology also from Great Old Ones Publishing.

Twitter: @YourOldPalKile

Website: http://kylerader.net/

***

And here’s a little information about Between the Cracks

BetweenTheCracks_Promotional_800pxA crack, a split, a rend, a tear – all of these fissures open up a new world for us to gaze upon. But what if the things we see aren’t friendly? What if the things that spill from beyond are dangerous and unwilling to be contained? What if evil lurks just below the surface waiting for its chance to strike?

In this collection of diverse and multi-faceted tales, you’ll find a computer program twisted into a nefarious tool, elves who are more than mischievous, a Creole House where those who dare to cheat fate meet with an unsavory end, and something evil lurking within the water. Are you brave enough to look Between the Cracks? There is only one way to find out…

***

Between the Cracks is available on:

Amazon: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

Amazon Print: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

CreateSpace (Print)

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

iTunes Store

***

And now for an excerpt from Pipe Dreams of the Soul Eater

My father, a stern man devoid of most emotion save for rage and disdain for my brothers and I, often said that a man could never truly know himself until he came face to face with his own mortality. I never paid his wisdom much heed. I ran from our tiny village in France once I realized that escaping was a possibility.

Yet, as my ship, a commercial vessel dubbed The Dover, arrived in its port of destination, the great city of New Orleans, his words returned to haunt my thoughts. My spirits, jovial as a standard, quickly soured as a bout of melancholy formed within me so severe that I confined myself to my bunk and did not budge.

The state of ennui continued after we moored. The mood of my fellow sailors provided a stark contrast to my own inclinations. The men, at sea too long, were ready to descend upon the city like a conquering army. My bunk mate, a young Scot named Ewan, did his very best to get me to join in their merriment, but my malaise would not allow for it.

I explained to my friend how I had felt this sense of despair and dread since seeing the city appear on the horizon, that if I set foot upon the shore, something sad and terrible would befall me.

His eyes narrowed and his fingers drifted to a St. Christopher’s medallion that he wore around his neck.

“Oh, come off it, Gabe,” he said, calling me by a nickname he himself had coined and knew that I loathed. “Ol’ Teddy has already won the Golden Blanket Award for this voyage with twelve days in a row. There ain’t no way you can give him a proper contest now. Besides, you want women, you are going to have to get your lazy arse out of that bunk and seek them out.”

And thus, I found myself standing behind him as we waited for our First Mate, Mr. Diggle, to dole out our pay. Diggle was an all-right sort of fellow, despite his rampant know-it-all nature and the way he disparaged the crew in one of six languages in which he was fluent.

As I reached for my fairly earned pay, Diggle held it back from my outstretched hand. “Aren’t you getting a tad on in years to be associating with types like Mr. Ewan here?” A glint of superiority shone in his sole eye (the other forever shut behind a cracked leather patch) as the words left his mouth.

Cries of ‘Get on with it!’ from the impatient men saved me from what would have been a lengthy lecture from Diggle. “Hmph,” he said, planting my money in my hand with a hard slap.

Tune in tomorrow when we’ll hear from Rebecca Fung!

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SUBMISSIONS CLOSED: The Sirens Call eZine – Issue #22 – Supernatural

Submissions for the 22nd issue of The Sirens Call featuring the theme of the Supernatural are closed. Sirens Call Publications would like to thank all of the authors who submitted work for consideration. We’ll be in touch as soon as we can be with our decisions.

To any authors or publishers looking for Ad space, please contact Julianne at Julianne@SirensCallPublications.com for details.

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RELEASE: Between the Cracks

Sirens Call Publications is pleased to announce the release of our newest anthology titled

Between the Cracks

BetweenTheCracks_Promotional_800pxA crack, a split, a rend, a tear – all of these fissures open up a new world for us to gaze upon. But what if the things we see aren’t friendly? What if the things that spill from beyond are dangerous and unwilling to be contained? What if evil lurks just below the surface waiting for its chance to strike?

In this collection of diverse and multi-faceted tales, you’ll find a computer program twisted into a nefarious tool, elves who are more than mischievous, a Creole House where those who dare to cheat fate meet with an unsavory end, and something evil lurking within the water. Are you brave enough to look Between the Cracks? There is only one way to find out…

Table of Contents:

Wiped Out — Steve Foreman

Pipe Dreams of the Soul Eater — Kyle Rader

Kill or Be Killed — Guy Burtenshaw

Something in the Water — E. F. Schraeder

Horrifying — DJ Tyrer

The Ghost Writer — Joe Giatras

Distant Relations — James C. Simpson

In Your Image — Sean Keller

Complacency — Deb Eskie

Family — Tom Folske

The Tower — Christopher Bleakley

The Woman Who Cried Elf — Rebecca Fung

***

Between the Cracks is available on:

Amazon: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

Amazon Print: US | UK | Australia | Canada | Germany | Italy | France | Spain | Japan | Mexico | Brazil | India | The Netherlands

CreateSpace (Print)

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

iTunes Store

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OPEN SUBMISSION: The Sirens Call – Issue #22 – Supernatural

Sirens Call Publications now accepting submissions for our 22nd issue of The Sirens Call — a FREE online publication. This month’s theme is ‘Supernatural’ and just in case you’re wondering what we’re looking for…

Definition of the term ‘Supernatural’ as offered on Google: A manifestation or event attributed to some force beyond scientific understanding or the laws of nature.

Examples of the supernatural:

a supernatural being” – paranormal, psychic, magical, occult, mystic, superhuman, supernormal.

supernatural powers” – ghostly, otherworldly, spectral, unearthly, unnatural.

Our definition of ‘Supernatural’: Anything not proven by modern science as being part of the natural world.

Is a vampire part of the natural world? Arguably yes, based on the fact that it may or may not exist in nature, but what makes it Supernatural is the fact that it’s not a scientifically documented creature. Is a werewolf part of the natural world? The same answer would apply.

A ghost or specter haunting your waking dreams, a demon, Bigfoot, Nessie, the shadow you glimpse in a corner that’s gone when you look back, a gypsy who for a coin will trade you the genuine secrets of your future, or a Voodoo priestess who for a lock of your hair and the promise of your soul will mix you a death potion to kill the most vile of enemies; all of these things have one thing in common – they fit our definition of Supernatural. Yet they are not exclusive, many other ‘things’ may be considered supernatural as well; surprise us.

We are asking for dark stories of the Supernatural. We aren’t restricting it to any particular type of supernatural being or occurrence, only that it be out of the realm of scientifically proven fact.

As always, we will not be accepting stories of bestiality, pedophilia of any nature, or descriptive scenes of rape. Other than that – all else goes. If you have a question as to whether or not your idea is appropriate given the nature of the call (particularly the bestiality angle), please inquire with submissions@sirenscallpublications.com – we don’t mind answering.

Previously published pieces are most welcome.

Submission Deadline: August 1, 2015

Short story word count: 1,000 – 2,500

Flash fiction word count: 300 – 1,000

Poem length: minimum 10 lines; maximum 50 lines (limit of five submissions per author)

Drabbles: 100 words (limit of five submissions per author)

Reprints are acceptable as long as you currently hold the copyright.

All submissions MUST be submitted to: Submissions@SirensCallPublications.com

Full guidelines can be found on our website – www.SirensCallPublications.com

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RELEASE: The Sirens Call – Issue #21 – Eco-Horror!

Sirens Call Publications is pleased to announce the release of the 21st issue of The Sirens Call!

2015_June_ezine_cover_V1This month’s theme was Eco-Horror and this issue is packed full of 113 pages of Mother Nature fighting back! Pick up your #FREE copy filled with poetry, flash fiction, and short stories along with interviews with photographer Tammy Ruggles and author K. Trap Jones. This issue also features stunning photography from Tammy Ruggles and an excerpt from K. Trap Jones’ One Bad Fur Day.

Get your free download by visiting out website – www.SirensCallPublications.com!

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