Nightmare Magazine Issue 7 (April 2013)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This month, we have original fiction by Marc Laidlaw ("Bonfires") and Weston Ochse ("Gravitas"), along with reprints by Elizabeth Hand ("The Bacchae") and Angela Slatter ("The Coffin-Maker's Daughter").
We also have the latest installment of our column on horror, "The H Word," plus author spotlights with all of our authors, a showcase on our cover artist, and a feature interview with bestselling horror writer Sarah Langan.
doors to digital image making. Nowadays, my work has shifted more into photography-based image making, but I can’t honestly say that my background in graphic design doesn’t play into my work in a big way. Most of my work is quite conceptual in the way that I usually have a pretty good idea of what the final image should look like before shooting relevant elements. While shooting my elements, I do always keep processing options in the back of my mind, so realistically photography and
do feel that some of my images carry a message or an emotion. I often refer to my work as “escapism” in style . . . it ties into a fascination of the concept of reality. I’m amazed at the ability that humans have to look at the same thing but feel very polar emotions, be that through religion, politics, art, language or any channel of communication really. One man’s god is another man’s devil. To me there’s an importance in seeking out extremes. It helps us define our space and place in the
pulling back when I try to explore the honeyed cave of her mouth in turn. She giggles breathlessly, chest rising and falling, as if this is nothing more than an adventure. She does not quake as I do, she is a silly little girl playing at lust. I know this; I know this but it does not make me hesitate. It does not make my hope die. I reach out and grasp her forearms, drawing her roughly in. She falls against me and I show her what a kiss is. I show her what longing is. I let my yearning burn into
thought for a while there I might actually have to let you tumble me! Still and all, it would have been worth it, to have him safely away.” She sighs. “You did such beautiful work, Hepsibah, I am grateful for that. Don’t ever think I’m not.” I am not stupid enough to protest, to weep, to beg, to ask if she is joking, playing with my heart. But when she passes me a cup, my hand shakes so badly that the tea shudders over the rim. Some pools in the saucer, more splashes onto my hand and scalds me.
Hector Ballantyne these last eight months, not since what appeared to be an unseasonal cold carried him off. The blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying, should look ugly, unpalatable in the lovely oval face, but grief becomes Lucette D’Aguillar. Everything becomes her, from the black mourning gown to the severe, scraped back coiffure that is the heritage of the bereaved, because she is that rare thing: born lucky. “Yes?” she asks as if I have no right to interrupt the grieving house. I slip the cap