Whisperings Hint of Big Things on the Bedlam Falls Horizon

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on May 15, 2012
Posted in: NEWS & Events. Tagged: , , , . 7 comments

With less than a week to go before the announced drop date for my novel Grave Undertakings – the chilling sequel to Asylum Lake – you would think that the PR machine would be in high gear.  Yet as the release day approaches all has been silent on this front.  Some might consider that an odd promotional tactic and I can’t say that I disagree.

You see, certain plans/opportuntiies have been in the works for the last several weeks and it was only this last week that final details had been arranged for me to take the proverbial next step in my writing career.  It’s much too early for specifics with all-together too many details still to work through, but I do feel a certain obligation to share one piece of news with you – Grave Undertakings will not be released on May 22, 2012.

In fact, in the very near future Asylum Lake will also disappear from bookshelves and the Kindle store.  This blog, my author page on facebook, and perhaps even my twitter account may go dark for a bit, too. I’m taking a huge leap into uncharted waters. Some may claim I am selling my soul to the devil – and they might just be right.  I, for one, am willing to give the devil his due and see just wear his slick black cadillac can take me.

I fully understand that the vagueness of this announcement may simply turn off readers and followers and for that I sincerely apologize.  If you had pre-ordered a print copy of Grave Undertakings all charges will be refunded.  Although I cannot give you the when or where of what happens next, I can tell you this — the story of the Lake View Asylum will be told in full – in excutiatingly painful details and with surprisingly consequences.  I only ask for your patience and understanding as I move forward with my own grave undertakings to ensure that my dark stories will continue to be read by an even wider audience.

If you want to vent your frustration, pass along notes of congratulations, or simply reach out with for no real reason – please direct all correspondence to my email raevanswrites (@) live (dot) com.

Cheers from Bedlam Falls!

R. A. Evans

News Headlines Often Provide Inspiration for Horror

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on May 7, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Musings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . 2 comments

It’s the second most frequently asked question fans and readers pose at events and signings – “Where do you get your ideas from?”  I am sure the question is posed to nearly all authors – regardless of their chosen genre. With horror, however, the inquiry always seems to be laced with a healthy dose of fear – which is good – because fear is the fuel which powers my gray-matter engine. Everything I write boils down to me trying my very best to elicit fear in my readers – the humor and warm & fuzzy scenes I sprinkle into my stories are merely icing on the proverbial “nightmare cake”.

Dive Into the MysterySo where do I get my ideas? The answer might just surprise you.  Asylum Lake/Grave Undertakings started as a journal entry about struggling with the death of my father and the memories I would sometimes encounter when I travelled home to the small town where I grew up. Of course, there was no abandoned psychiatric hospital in my neighborhood or haunted board games to deal with. The inspiration for the story and the dark turns I take that inspiration are two very different things.

For FLIGHT, the project to follow the release of Grave Undertakings, inspiration came from a TIME Magazine article about the military’s use of passenger aircraft to transport the bodies of soldiers killed in action during the Gulf War.  The practice was eventually discontinued, but I oculdn’t get the visual out of my head of those flag-draped boxes next to the luggage in  the cargo holds of planes.  I merely, added a diabolical pharmaceutical company doing military rsearch and a spreading zombie apocalypse – just small elements which  make the actual story much more interesting (insert evil laugh here).

The lesson I’ve learned is that inspiration is a real bitch and that you sometimes have to take what the world gives you and turn it to your own dark devices.  You can imagine my glee when this headline from the BBC scrolled across my computer - SOUTH KOREA TO TARGET POWDERED HUMAN FLESH CAPSULES.

Will I do anything with this story? The jury is still out. I’ve been wrestling with a vampire story inspired by an article from Newsweek. You see, apparently scientists are on the verge of identifying the gene responsible for causing mosquitos to crave blood. Once modified, these malaria-carrying insects could be erradicated or at least controlled to no longer spread dangerous diseases.  In more capable hands this story would practically write itself.

So what will I do with these powdered human flesh capsules? As much as i would like to turn my imagination loose on developing the horrific who, what, where, and why – I just don’t have the time.  For now, I’ll just allow myself to quietly wonder what a powdered human flesh capsule tastes like and whether it is a  better strategy to  swallow them whole or to bite through and enjoy every last grainy morsel? 

Cheers from Bedlam Falls!

R. A. Evans

A Brush with Greatness: Killing time in Line at the Bank

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 26, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Musings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 11 comments

I had to run a few errands on my lunch hour yesterday – pick up a prescription and deposit a royalty check at the bank.  Of course, when I arrived at the pharmacy my prescription wasn’t ready. I insist on using my corner pharmacy in an effort to “buy local” but when my son has an ear infection I kinda need to get the antibiotics relatively quick. You can imagine my mood when I pulled into the bank and saw five cars ahead of me in line for the ATM.  The world, it had seemed, was conspiring against me.

I opted for a quick run into the bank in hopes that most of the with banking needs were just as lazy as I usually try to be and were exercising their right be lazy by  not walking the thirty feet from the parking lot to the lobby. Sadly, the line was long inside, too. 

I took my place in line and quickly morphed into full people watching mode. I love to people watch, In fact, it has to be one of my favorite past times.  That’s when I noticed the woman standing in front of me in line – she was reading her Kindle. After a few failed attempts to peek over her shoulder I was finally able to decipher what she was reading – ASYLUM LAKE.

I could tell she was far enough in to have made some sort of commitment to the book – somewhere in Chapter 9 if my memory serves. Brady had already had several encounters with the Scrabble Board and young Lionel was beyond his visit with the Reed family. If this woman were going to bail on the story she probably would have done so by now.

The line dragged along slowly as I watched this woman page along on her Kindle.  The internal debate was raging – do I introduce myself? Do Iask her if she is enjoying the story? I could feel my anxiety level rising as I wondered what to do.  Would an introduction be a cool and memorable moment or might it just come across as desperate and strange?

The pace must have picked up as I stood there debating my options. Without warning the woman was called to the counter and was soon out the door. Later, as I drove back to the office, I thought about her missed oppportunity to meet the author of such a fine tale (insert sarcasm). That’s when it hit me – the missed opportunity wasn’t hers. I had missed the opportunity to thank a reader for investing their time – and $2.99 unless she downloaded it on a free day – into my debut thriller.

You see, at the end of the day the fact that I published a book really isn’t any great feat. Trust me, anyone with a computer can upload an ebook to Amazon and call themself an author. It’s having readers that allow me to be a SUCCESSFUL author – and even that is subjective. I shouldn’t feel as though I am making a reader’s day by introducing myself, I need to focus on the fact that they have made my day by choosing one of my titles to spend their time with.

Whoiever you were, mysterious woman in line at the bank, just know that I think you’re great!

And that, my friends, was my brush with greatness.

Author Ciara Knight sits down with Tardon from her acclaimed fantasy novel THE CURSE OF GREMDON

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 19, 2012
Posted in: Guests Posts. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 2 comments

In the words of the immortal Forrest Gump, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are going to get.” Well, the same can be true when speaking of books. Although I write horror, when it comes to reading I’m a sucker for a good story – no matter the genre – and THE CURSE OF GREMDON definitely fits that bill.

I’ve had the pleasure of connecting with Ciara Knight and am thrilled to have a completely unique and surreal character interview and excerpt from her novel here for your reading pleasure.  Fantasy is a tough genre to write and she does it with a skill that makes me more than a little jealous. She may appear sweet and innocent but something tells me that she could make writing the grocery list entertaining.

Without further delay, I bid you enter the mind of CIARA KNIGHT and her fantasy novel THE CURSE OF GREMDON.

Tardon opens the massive wood door and summons me inside. “Sit”

I pause and scan from his calves to his broad shoulders. I know I wrote the man, but geesh, he’s even more intimidating than I thought he’d be in person. His arms are as big as both of my thighs put together, and I was a dancer. I force a warm smile, but he only returns a grunt and a nod before motioning me to sit at a table inside his family chamber.

Kendar, Tardon’s servant, enters with a tray filled with some fruit and cheese.

I sit and retrieve my pencil and paper from my backpack. Tardon eyes my writing utensil, but I don’t give him a chance to investigate. Good thing I didn’t try to bring my lap top that would have really freaked him out.

“We must begin. I am uncertain how you traveled here, but it will be too dangerous to leave once night falls upon the castle walls.” Tardon takes a swig from his cup.

With a broad smile, Kendar hands a wooden cup to me and backs away. I sip the pale purple beverage and nearly choke, but I manage to clear my throat and continue despite the bitter residue remaining on my tongue. “Tell us a little about your childhood. Did you always live locked in a castle?”

“No, my family worked the land. We lived free beyond the walls.”

Short and clipped. Yep, he’s a man of few words but lots of action. “When did you move into the castle? Tell us a little about that night.”

Tardon gripped the cup in his right hand and snarled. “Elder’s sent Enforcers to move us into the castle. Stated the curse was taking over the land. They warned the amulets would no longer protect us and that we needed to abandon our homes. My father refused at first, but the Enforcer grabbed me and informed my father that the Elder’s decreed that any family refusing to leave would sacrifice their eldest son to the evil creatures that approached.”

Kendar shuffled forward and poured more drink into Tardon’s cup before retreating back to the shadows.

“That’s harsh. Okay, so you move into the castle. How was that?”

Tardon shrugged. “The Elders were kind and protected us from the Curse. My parents were given a family chamber where my grandfather, my parents, and I lived.”

“How did you go from young boy in the castle to Elite Warrior?” I bite into a piece of fruit in an attempt to extinguish the lingering flavor from the beverage.

“When my parents were Cursed, I was left to live with my Grandfather who took to his bed. At that point, providing food, shelter and care for my grandfather became my burden. That is when I began training as a warrior.”

“Who is the best warrior in the Castle?”

Tardon sits straight and pulls his shoulders back. “I am the top ranking Elite Warrior in the castle.

Yeah, I should’ve known he’d say that. Dumb question. “Okay, who is the next best warrior?”

“There are several warriors that train hard and will have a chance at Elite Warrior status in only a few moons.”

“Have you ever lost a fight?”

Tardon stiffens and juts out his chin. “Only once, but I was…distracted.”

Kendar snickers but Tardon snarls at him, and waves a hand to summon Kendar to cut some bread at the end of the table.

“I’m sure he was a formidable opponent. I mean, you are one huge man.” I struggle to keep eye contact, but can’t help but steal a glimpse of his bulging biceps.

“The warrior was Arianna. As I said, she distracted me. It will not happen again.”

I stifle a chuckle myself. “Is Arianna an Elite Warrior?”

“No. She has been promised the opportunity to test, but I do not believe that the Elders will allow a woman to earn the title of Elite Warrior.”

“Will you have to fight her if they do?”

Tardon’s eyes grow distant and he scrubs his chin. “No, most Elite Warrior matches are between two warriors that wish to earn their status. If I did have to fight her, she would not stand a chance.” His voice dropped to even a deeper octave, lacing his words with sadness.

“I see.”

Kendar winks at me and smiles.

The door swings open and a grizzly of a man dressed in black shrouds the torchlight from the hall. There is more to that story, but I’m out of time. The narrowed gaze from the freak of nature Enforcer will not allow another minute.

Since our interview is being cut short, how about a sneak peak at what happens in The Curse of Gremdon.

Exceprt from THE CURSE OF GREMDON

They exited the tunnels and, even with the overcast skies, he still shielded his eyes from the sun, the brightness a stark contrast to the darkness of the dungeon.

Voices echoed down the cobblestone path that led to center court. When he reached the opening, all the inhabitants of the kingdom’s eyes were on him.

Many chanted his name. A dirty-faced woman tried to touch him.

Shouts erupted.

“Burn the woman!”

“She’s a witch!”

Hatred spread faster than death fever through the crowd. How quickly the people betrayed a woman who had protected their families from evil beyond the walls.

Shouts continued from the nameless, faceless crowd. Guards guided Tardon through the mass of people and he stepped onto the center block where most sentences were carried out. He opened his mouth and the crowd fell silent in respect. As he stood there, needing to speak, burning to speak, no words flowed.

The inhabitants of the castle looked at him, waiting for his declaration of Arianna’s magical seduction. Arianna needs you. With a cough, he cleared his throat and raised his chin. “I speak to you today to clarify events, to answer the charges against myself and my fellow warrior, Arianna.”

“Send her to the fires!”

“She must burn!”

Tardon raised his bound hands to quiet the crowd, and he noticed fellow warriors lining the back wall. They stood with hard, blank stares as well-trained warriors should. His biceps strained as he pulled at the chains between his wrists. “I pray you, listen to my words. Arianna is a warrior and possesses no skills as a witch.”

“He lies,” a man’s voice carried from deep within the crowd.

“She still has him under her spell,” a woman shrieked.

“No! It was not Arianna who betrayed the Elders’ laws, but me.”

A hushed mumbling overtook the peasants, shopkeepers, and warriors. The ones Tardon had protected now stood in judgment over him.

“I…I confess to forcing myself on the innocent warrior Arianna.” Tardon choked on her name. The chains rattled but he steadied his shaking hands despite his longing to end this farce. Never had he witnessed so many faces contort in disgust at him. He’d been a person that others desired and idolized. Now he stood as a traitor to his people and a monstrous enemy to women.

“Burn him!”

Tardon sucked a welcome breath into his stale lungs. It worked. They believed him, Arianna would be spared.

“Burn them both!”

“Yes, burn them both! Neither is innocent.”

“Bring the woman out!” one voice rang loud. Then the words spread like fleas on a donkey, and the crowd chanted, “Burn them both! Burn them both!”

His gut twisted with grief. “No! I am to blame. Why do you not listen?” The chains clanked as he pushed toward the crowd.

Arianna appeared at the edge of the court in torn and dirty clothes, but at least they’d clothed her decently in a peasant dress. The Enforcer that had discovered them grabbed her now short hair and dragged her to the front. Tardon spotted raw, red swelling on her cheek and temple. Someone had struck her.

A desire to kill whoever had hurt her burned to the surface of his skin. Cracks sounded as he strained against the iron shackles. The guard next to him stepped back to summon reinforcements.

“Burn ’em both! Burn the warriors! They take our food and live like Gods while we starve!”

“More food fer us,” a tangle-haired woman called from below.

Tardon’s shoulder burned as he continued to fight against the shackles. “Warriors, take notice. These are the people we die protecting.”

Warriors stepped forward in defense against flying insults, but the Elders stood on the tower, motioning the fighters to remain at their positions. Tardon observed the other warriors’ disgust, but all he cared about was Arianna being pushed and shoved like a disobedient servant.

Arianna smiled at him as she stumbled up the wooden steps. No time for remorse at defying the Elders’ laws, the people called for blood, and they would both burn in the fires now.

Tardon shuffled to Arianna, knocking a guard out of the way.

Arianna lifted her bound wrists over him and let the chains fall down his back. “If we are to burn, let us give them a reason.” Her eyebrows rose, and a soft smile curved her lips before she opened them and pressed herself against him, her sweet mouth opening against his.

Screams of shock rang out from below, but Tardon ceased to worry about being branded a traitor and gave in to his passion, hoping it would follow him to the next life. The world spun and the screams diminished into a distant lull, while the sweet, berry taste of Arianna urged the passion inside him. Every hair on his body stood to attention. His hands roamed down her hips and squeezed them close to his. Their heartbeat became one pounding rhythm, echoing through their souls.

Hands wrapped around his bicep and throat to rip him away. Her chains pulled hair from his scalp as they raked across his head.

“Burn ’em, burn ’em now!” The chanting shattered his dream state as they were dragged from the town square to the inner fires.

He fought as they maneuvered the tiny cobblestone walkways, leaving a line of disabled guards in his wake. Warriors were ordered by the Elders to subdue him.

The group rounded the corner, bringing the wooden post of the Fire Pit into view. At least Arianna and I will die together. Warriors, his former friends, bound him to the wood.

“May the Elders forgive you in the next life.” The mumble came from his comrades while they removed his chains and tied his wrists together behind him.

Arianna’s soft hand found his and they interlaced their fingers.

An Apprentice shouted from the tower, “May this be a lesson to all who defy the Elders.”

Tardon’s pulse thudded and he squeezed his sweaty palm against Arianna’s. Fear threatened to take hold as he imagined Arianna suffering. Desperate, he addressed the crowd one last time. “She is innocent. Her blood will be on your hands if you do this.”

A guard approached with torch in hand and held it in the air, waiting for the Apprentice to give the order. Heat radiated from the orange flames dancing at the end of the stick.

Tardon held his breath, hoping the Elders would spare Arianna, but the Apprentice’s arm lowered and the guard stepped up to light the fire.

Smoke attacked Tardon’s lungs. Unable to shout his protests any longer, he tried to turn his head to see Arianna behind him. Even over the smoldering debris, he detected her unique scent. “I am sorry I brought this upon you. Die knowing this was not of your doing.” His lungs seized with a cough as the debris below the wood smoked, and his head dropped to his chest. “I failed you.”

The orange and yellow glow spread and crept out from below the wood. Arianna moaned from behind, and he stomped his feet rapidly to find relief from the burning.

His mind reeled, searching for a way to save her. As the flames grew and danced against the wood, he realized he was unable to save the most important person in his life.

Today, they would both die.

 

Buy Links

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

About Ciara Knight

Ciara Knight writes to ‘Defy the Dark’ with her fantasy and paranormal books.  Her debut novel, The Curse of Gremdon, was released to acclaimed reviews, securing a Night Owl Top Pick and five stars from the Paranormal Romance Guild. Also, her young adult series, Battle for Souls will be released this year.

Inside the Story of Grave Undertakings

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 13, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Musings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 6 comments

According to Native American legends, the souls of the dead are carried to the afterlife on the wings of a crow. Sometimes, however, the manner of death is so vile that the soul is weighted down by sadness, grief or guilt. In these instances, the crow is unable to carry the soul to the land of the dead, leaving the  soul in limbo.  These unfortunate souls, carried by crows, cannot rest until those wrongs have been righted.

For those of you who have read my thriller Asylum Lake you know of the restless souls searching to right the wrongs which still hold them captive. It is through their tormented eyes that many of the secrets of the mysterious abandoned asylum will continue to be revealed. Their souls, however, are not the only burden carried on the wings of the crow.

Other legends provide vastly different accounts of the crow.  These legends speak of the black-winged bird as a scavenger of the dead, a feeder on the flesh of the departed, and even a devourer of the souls of the living.  It begs the question – to what use would a crow put the soul of a man?   Is it merely a coincidence that the crow  flies higher into the heavens than nearly all of its feathered bretheren?  Perhaps it is the stolen souls of men which carry the crow ever-closer to the creator.

In Grave Undertakings you will learn much more about the neverending  journey of  the soul.  The veil which separates the living from the dead has been parted, allowing the most restless of souls to revisit their grief, anger, and loss upon the living.  This parting, however, also provides the living an opportunity to prey upon the souls of the dead.

The cast of characters widens with Grave Undertakings as the story moves both forward and backward in time to reveal even more secrets.  Although much of the story is spent within the walls of the Lake View Asylum, readers will also journey beyond Bedlam Falls to follow the trail of Dr. Wesley Clovis.  From the coal mines of West Virginia to Gray’s Crossing, Indiana, the search for answers eventually leads back to The Lake of Tears.

I look forward to the unearthing of Grave Undertakings on May 22nd and hope you find as much enjoyment in reading my dark tale as I have had in writing it.

Cheers from Bedlam Falls!

R. A. Evans

Asylum Lake is FREE on KINDLE!

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 11, 2012
Posted in: NEWS & Events. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . 1 comment

I talk a lot about prostituting myself to sell books, and if that’s the case then my pimp is gonna be pissed because today I’m giving it away for FREE! You have until 11:59 pm PST to download the indie smash Asylum Lake for free on Kindle. Don’t own a Kindle? No problem, simply download the app to read great books like Asylum Lake on your smartphone, PC, or laptop. Heck – you can even read Kindle titles on your iPad!

CLICK HERE to download your FREE copy of Asylum Lake and I’ll even throw in a week’s worth of nightmnares at no additional cost!

Nothing to Fear Anymore: Guest post from author Colin F. Barnes

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 11, 2012
Posted in: Guests Posts. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 7 comments

The problem with being a horror writer, or even a die-hard fan for that matter, is that at some point, all the exposure to horror films and literature can desensitize us to the scares so that they no longer have the same effect on us. Sometimes this just comes with age as we get ever more cynical about our world and realise there in fact is scarier things than ghosts or serial killers: like not being able to pay the mortgage, contracting a terminal illness, or Joan Rivers’ face. Other times it’s just through sheer familiarity. There’s only so many serial killers you can read/watch before they become old news.

This heightened awareness of the world and the grim reality of life diminishes the wide-eyed wonder and fear of the unknown that we have when we’re younger. As a kid I remember growing up with the spectre of The Exorcist, Nightmare on Elm Street, Omen and The Thing lurking in my bedroom shadows causing me all kinds of nightmares and irrational fears. I remember the spine-tingling excitement as I finally managed to sneak a classic horror VHS tape from my dad’s collection and watch it late at night with a friend, revelling in the sheer terror of the unknown.

But of course, that wonderment doesn’t last. Like a heroin junkie, the first hits are mind blowing. You’re soon hooked and looking for more terror highs. They come for a while, each one hitting the right spot, but then soon you’re scrabbling about in old dusty VHS/DVD shops or secondhand bookstores for some obscure italian title rumoured to blow your mind. You soon resemble Golem as you crawl out of your mother’s basement in search for your next horror hit — but they’re never quite the same.

And then we end up with weak trash like Human Centipede or Saw. Torture porn is the lowest form of horror, and an extension to the search for the scares that have long since diluted.

So what is the solution?

As a writer, we have to acknowledge what came before, but not chain ourselves to its legacy. We have to see what is in the current milieu and seek ways of differentiating ourselves. Dispense with common tropes and find new ways of drilling into the psyche of our readers. Easier said than done of course, but there are ways, such as:

- Looking outside of our culture. Look to other folklore and mythology and draw parallels to present the fear in new and unexpected ways. (like The Ring did for instance, taking a ghost story and splicing it with a technological medium: the VHS tape)

- Go further into psychology and away from cheap torture scares. Gore isn’t scary, neither is it shocking. Especially in this day and age of televised war. You have to find what it is thatintrinsically causes fear in the brain and exploit that. More times than not that means doing bad things to the people that your protagonist loves, or taking the control away from the protagonist.

A good psychological fear will hit harder and longer than a pus-filled zombie every single time.

- Take your reader out of the comfort zone. Go somewhere new and unknown. The internet has made the world so small that we are aware and familiar with almost all the cultures. With Google Maps and Google Earth we can see directly into almost any corner of the world. There are few surprises anymore. One could, back in the day, write about headhunters, or weird cults in a foreign country and that would be enough, but not anymore. More imagination in setting is required. There are metaphysical places to explore, multi-verses, dreams and the subconscious. New settings, new rules, and new laws will give fresh ways of delivering the scares.

As a reader/watcher, (and like most writers, I’m also an avid consumer of horror) how do you get that childhood terror back? Personally, I think you can’t, not completely anyway. Therefore cherish those memories, you can’t replace them. However, by seeking material that’s not in the mainstream is one way of finding the good stuff.

The mainstream, by its nature, is somewhat watered down. It’s art by committee. Most films follow each other and their only concern is the dollar. Whether the film is truly scary or not is irrelevant. It’s the same with books. Many horror books these days from the traditional publishers are derivative, safe, and bland. The best horror literature in my opinion was written in the 80s and early 90s. And before that during the pulp era where guys like H.P. Lovecraft was writing unique works.

However, we have a new paradigm in publishing, one that isn’t written by commitee. For good and for bad, indie publishing offers the reader a fresh look at the genre. Within the indie movement there are new stories being told from fresh new perspectives.

For your scares, you need to look away from the mainstream and dig in the fertile ground that is the independent movement, whether that be literature, film, or art.

 

About Colin:

Colin F. Barnes was found alone, swaddled in stained bandages, at the back of a crumbling Greek necropolis. Mewling in a basket, he was taken to a village on an unnamed island, by a quintuplet of lesbian crones. Under the careful watch of an English sailor, he was taken across a number of oceans (go look them up on googlemaps or something), and deposited on the grim wastelands of Essex, England.

Being mute, the only way he could communicate during his childhood was through interpretive dance and the written word. The artwork that he originally tried to use as a communication device landed him on a three month psychological assessment program. He no longer draws.

Education

Despite having no known scale in which to rank his mental abilities, Colin managed to bluff his way through a comprehensive educational structure, excelling in English, Science and Wilderness Survival. He then agreed with the powers-that-be to focus his energies through a formal English Degree.

Professional Career

The jobs he held are inconsequential compared to his desires: that of extricating the maelstrom of stories that are generated in his booze-addled brain. But for the conventionalists, he held positions as follows:

  • Snake Poison Collector
  • Laboratory Technician
  • Web developer
  • Copy Editor / Proofreader
  • Celebrity Funeral Consultant
  • Somalian Pirate
  • Rare Book Dealer
  • Violent Somnambulist
  • Panda Breeder

* One of those is a lie.

What and why does he write?

Colin F. Barnes herds words in  an often random order — not unlike a room of monkeys battering away at typewriters with their poop covered paws. (Do monkeys have paws or hands?). The usual outcome of this seemingly random plucking of words is a glimpse into a dark world of psychological malopropisms, dystopian nightmares, and fluffy children’s stories. *one of those is a lie.

The work itself is a blend of science fiction, horror and thriller concepts. He avoids obvious tropes and seeks to write something resembling an original piece of literature. Although, it was proven on his ‘program’ that he has mass delusions of grandeur. And most of this can be safely filed under ‘bollocks’.

Publishing Credits:

City of Hell Chronicles

Dark Metaphor

Connect with Colin:

Personal site: www.colinfbarnes.com

Black Friday: Eddie Vedder Cancels U.S. Tour

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 6, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Musings. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 6 comments

Saddened by the news today that Eddie Vedder has cancelled his 2012 solo U.S. tour  due to nerve damage in his arm.  I’ve been a fan of Pearl Jam for more than 20 years and have wanted to take in one of Eddie’s solo performances for quite some time – and this was going to be the year!

Concert dates are being rescheduled and who knows – maybe I’ll still make it to see him this year; Halloween in Vegas does have a nice ring to it. Needless to say I’ll be mourning this in my own unique way – cranking my iPod to 11 and doing some writing about things dark and dangerous!

Tonight’s writing session playlist will surely include my top 10 Pearl Jam tracks/covers/performances of all time. I thought I would share them with you here (including Links to videos on YouTube):

10. The Waiting

9. Throw Your Arms Around Me

8. Let My Love Open the Door

7. Come Back

6. Evenflow

5. Wishlist

4, Nothingman

3. Betterman

2. Yellow Ledbetter

1. Alive

 

And I would be remiss if I didn’t little bonus.

I’m Still Here

 

How about you – what’s your Pearl Jam playlist?

Welcome to Devil’s Pawn: A Soul Proprietorship

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 3, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a Comment

The Devil’s Pawn

A Soul Proprietorship

 

Welcome to Hell, an unincorporated stretch of land in Southeast Michigan. With an advertised population of 666 and a playful proclivity to garner attention from its infamous name, nobody batted an eye when the self-proclaimed “Prince of Darkness” chose Hell to set up shop. But as business booms in his Soul Proprietorship, rumors begin to swirl. Who is this mysterious stranger and what is really being bought and sold behind the doors of The Devil’s Pawn?

 

The voice on the phone said, “This is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.” The caller ID showed the number as unavailable, causing an already aggravated Brooke to toss the phone onto the passenger seat as she returned her attention to the rearview mirror and her mascara.

“Fucking asshole credit card companies,” she fumed, ignoring the impatient horns and shouts from the unfortunate drivers filling the lane behind her white Range Rover. Of course, the call could have just as easily been about her car loan or condo lease. Hell, maybe it was Columbia House finally tracking her down for all of those CD purchases while in college. Regardless,

Brooke’s immediate concern was her lashes.

Two green lights later, Brooke’s Range River finally sped through the intersection. The distraction of the phone call forgotten, she was oblivious to the dark sedan riding her bumper.

 

* * *

 

Michael had found the ad online. Collections Agent. No experience necessary. Some travel required. The description suited him perfectly. He had found himself on the wrong end of collections several times, had no real job experience of any sort, and was looking for any reason to put some distance between himself and the bright lights of Vegas. It all seemed too good to be true when the brief telephone interview turned into a real job offer.

Of course, things are rarely what they appear and the ex-con knew that nobody hires a recently paroled mafia hit man as a best business practice. Still, the $2,500 check to cover moving expenses was real enough, even if it was drawn under a rather unusual name—Devil’s Pawn, 666 Sulfur Street, Hell, MI. Surely somebody’s idea of a joke, he mused.

Michael had still yet to meet his new employer face to face. Beyond a name, Lucien Burns was a complete mystery. He wasn’t even completely convinced that the gentleman he spoke to on the phone during his brief interview was in charge. The entire affair felt a lot like his prior work with a certain unnamed family out in Vegas. But this was Hell, Michigan—far from the lights and glamour of the Strip. Michael was wise enough to know that his work was best handled on a need-to-know basis and not to clutter his mind with useless details.

As expected, the target guided her Range Rover into an office park. Michael followed, wondering just what this crazy bitch could have done to get herself into this kind of trouble.

 

* * *

 

“I want to be beautiful,” she whispered, eyes darting around nervously. The Pawn Shop was empty, save for the well-dressed man who had greeted her entrance. Of indeterminate age, the man exuded a raw confidence and sexuality that made Brooke both strangely at-ease and uncomfortable. He was not what she had expected.

Brooke had found the ad online. Everybody Has A Price. What’s Yours? Call 734.666.6666. The ad’s simplicity is what had initially piqued her interest. What did it even

mean? A price for what? Even the phone number seemed to be a joke. Yet for two straight days Brooke had carefully considered what harm could come from simply calling. She would block her number from the caller id, of course.

“Ms. Jennings, so nice of you to call. How may I be of service?”

Brooke hesitated, unsure how the stranger on the other end of the line could possibly know her name. “I, uh, um.”

“Please, take a moment to collect yourself. I can only imagine how nervous you must be. It takes great courage to embark on this journey,” the man’s soothing voice continued. “My name is Lucien Burns and I assume you are calling in response to the advertisement?”

Brooke’s racing mind made it difficult for her to form a cohesive thought, let alone an apt response. “Mmm hmm.”

The next several minutes passed with Lucien’s hypnotizing voice providing scant information about exactly what it was he was peddling. Yet, within moments, Brooke found herself taking down a few scribbled notes and an address for a business in of all places, Hell.

“Shall we meet at say, seven-thirty tomorrow evening, Ms. Jennings?”

Now, at precisely the agreed-upon time, Brooke stood in Lucien’s presence, baring her soul of its greatest desire—beauty. At just under two-hundred fifty pounds, beauty had always been the proverbial carrot dangled in front of her obese form. From diet programs to health club memberships, nothing had granted Brooke her soul’s deepest wish. Nothing, that is, until now.

“Ah yes, beauty,” Lucien responded with a knowing smile. His closely cropped hair was the color of cigarette ash, granting him the appearance of being both wise with age and virile in youth. Dressed in a well-tailored black suit with a starched white open-collared shirt beneath, Brooke’s attraction to the man was instantaneous.

“So elusive, beauty,” he continued, staring deeply into Brooke’s eyes. “Tell me, Ms. Jennings, at what price does beauty come?”

Brooke broke Lucien’s gaze, “Any,” she whispered, bowing her head with embarrassment.

Lucien reached forward and gently placed his delicate fingers beneath Brooke’s chin, raising her head to recast her gaze. Warmth spread throughout her body as she stared deep into his eyes.

“Let’s talk terms, Ms. Jennings.”

 

* * *

 

Michael parked two rows beyond the Range Rover and watched the white SUV from his rear view mirror. Again, the driver was busily applying makeup. Turning his attention from his target, Michael rummaged through the glove box and pulled forth a manila envelope. Written in flowing script across it’s surface was a name—Brooke Jennings. The ex-con opened the flap and emptied the envelope’s contents onto the passenger seat.

He glanced again into the mirror; no movement from the Range Rover. A single photo rested on the sedan’s leather seat. Michael recognized his target immediately and turned the photo over where the same flowing script provided his brief instructions.

 

Beauty is only skin deep.

Cut it out—along with her eyes.

L.B.

 

Again, Michael reached into the glove box. His hand emerged holding a pair of black leather gloves and a hunting knife with a six-inch serrated blade. The knife disappeared quickly up the sleeve of his jacket as he slid the gloves over his already sweating hands. Casting another glance into the rear view mirror, he emerged from his car, setting the timer on the explosives beneath the driver’s seat. Ninety seconds, he thought, walking briskly in the direction of the Range Rover.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called as he approached his target. “Ms. Jennings,” he called again, now standing at the door of the SUV. A wide smile split his lips as he gazed upon quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered. Pity, he thought, the muscles lining his jaws tiring from the forced smile. Sixty seconds.

Brooke turned her attention from her lipstick application and looked with obvious annoyance at the man standing at her window. Rolling her eyes she reached for the button and lowered the SUV’s window.

“Yes, can I help you?” Her tone clearly implied helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.

Michael leaned forward, sliding the blade free from his sleeve, as the smile fell from his face. “I’m here to collect a debt.”

The blade bit into Brooke’s throat spraying blood and slicing her vocal chords with a single twist. A torrent of blood flowed from her gaping mouth as she struggled to scream.

“Some cultures believe the eyes are the portal to the soul,” Michael stated from memorized instruction as the blade’s serrated edge tore into her porcelain skin. “Lucien was very specific,” he added, plunging the tip of the blade into the corner of her left eye. Glancing over his shoulder at the desolate parking lot, Michael noted the time and continued his task. His target’s sky-blue eyes were soon out and deposited safely into his pocket.

“Tell me, Ms. Jennings,” Michael asked, taking in his handiwork. “What is the price of beauty?”

His target responded with a final gurgle and gasp before her lifeless head fell to the steering wheel. Michael smiled and walked briskly from the parking lot, tossing his blood-soaked gloves and knife into his car as he counted the remaining seconds before detonation.

 

* * *

 

Seated safely behind the wheel of the car he had parked around the block the night before, it wasn’t until he was miles away that Michael finally relaxed. The drive back to Hell would take approximately forty-five minutes—depending on traffic. There would be no follow-up at “the office.” His task was done. At the end of this car ride he would simply climb the stairs to the apartment above The Devil’s Pawn and wait for another envelope to arrive under the door.

His stomach tightened into nervous knots at the approaching sound of police sirens. He stared through the windshield and watched the approaching red and blue flashers of law enforcement as he guided his car to the shoulder. The handful of other cars on the road did likewise. His anxiety lessened as three police cruisers sped past toward the direction of the blast.

He exhaled in relief as he guided his car into the first available lane of traffic. The bumper sticker on the car in front read ‘No rest for the wicked.’ The Collection Agent laughed. Those poor bastards didn’t know how right they are.

 

Flirting With Greatness: Reaching the Top 100 Kindle Charts

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 2, 2012
Posted in: R.A.'s Musings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 9 comments

There are certain milestones which every author strives to achieve. First – just finish the damn story. This is usually the most difficult milestone to achieve.  The internet is littered with the carcasses of half-finished manuscripts and pitch letters for projects which never make it from thought to fruition. For me, I am most proud of the fact that the idea of Asylum Lake actually became the novel Asylum Lake.

The second noteworthy author milestone is actually getting someone to pay for the privilege of reading it. It’s one thing to get a pity read from your mother and something altogether different to have a complete stranger part with a few bucks to read the fruits of your labor. I still recall with wonder watching the pre-orders roll in for Asylum Lake. It was both gratifying and terrifying at the same time. Now, having just launched pre-orders for Grave Undertakings, I find that same odd combination of fear and pride taking root somewhere between my heart and my lower intestine. I’m still gratified that people are buying into me and my creepy tales, but also afraid that I will in some way disappoint them.

My most recent milestone achieved is purely ego-driven. Asylum Lake is currently taking up a bit of real estate on the Kindle Top 100 List for horror – #83 last I checked. What a rush to see my novel listed with some of the heavyweights of the horror genre. As I write this Stephen King’s The Stand sits squarely in my rear-view mirror at #84 and Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor is within spitting distance ahead f me at #70. Now, I’m not foolish enough to compare Asylum Lake to those titles, but apparently – for the time being at least – enough people are intrigued  by my ghost story to push sales figures into the rarefied air of two of my idols – Mr. King and Mr. Kirkman – and I think that is pretty fucking cool!

So please forgive me this moment of self-adulation. Its not every day that I get to rub shoulders with greatness and something tells me that by this time tomorrow I will be cast back into the abyss of anonymity.

If you would like to do your part to keep Asylum Lake on the Top 100 Kindle Charts for horror, CLICK HERE to download my 4.4 star rated thriller. It’s only $2.99 and you probably have that much sitting in the cup holder in your car. Don’t have a Kindle? No problem, you can easily download the Kindle app for your smartphone or computer and still dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake.

Cheers from Bedlam Falls,

R. A. Evans