PUBLISHER/EDITOR
K. Allen Wood
ASST. EDITOR
John Boden
ASST. EDITOR
Nick Contor
NONFICTION/SUBMISSIONS
Mercedes M. Yardley
SUBMISSIONS
Sarah Gomes
DIGITAL LAYOUT/DESIGN
K. Allen Wood
COVER DESIGN
Robert Høyem
Established in 2009
www.shocktotem.com
Digital Edition Copyright © 2012 by Shock Totem Publications, LLC.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written consent of Shock Totem Publications, LLC.
The short stories in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The views expressed in the nonfiction writing herein are solely those of the authors.
ISSN 1944-110X
Printed in the United States of America.
NOTES FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK
And so we enter the digital realm.
The debut issue debuts once again! The print version of issue #1 was published in July of 2009, and some would say this is long overdue. I’d agree—to an extent. The delay, if it can be called that, was mainly due to my desire to do it right.
It’s easy to do something wrong. I could have whipped up some half-assed conversion to digital format and uploaded it online, but I’ve been on the unfortunate end of downloading similar products in my short time as a digital-fiction consumer. I’d like Shock Totem to be better than that.
So I had these grand plans spinning around in my head and I set out to make our digital editions the crème de la crème of digital editions. Then I learned that the technology—namely with the e-readers—was still fairly limited. So I think those ideas will have to wait a bit longer.
But I think we’ve done a good job with what’s possible now.
Some things of note for this version: Some of the reviews—and the editorial—are a bit dated. Some of the interior images from the print version are gone, as well as the novel excerpt. Some formatting herein is different from the print version, particularly when it comes to fonts. The rest, however, the stuff that really matters, is the same.
And that’s it.
As always, thank you for your continued support.
Dig in and enjoy!
K. Allen Wood
March 1, 2011
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Notes from the Editor’s Desk
Stronger Than Friction
An Editorial
by K. Allen Wood
The Music Box
by T.L. Morganfield
‘Til Death Do Us Part
by Jennifer Pelland
One Foot in Darkness
A Conversation with John Skipp
by John Boden
Murder for Beginners
by Mercedes M. Yardley
First Light
by Les Berkley
No Superheroes Here
A Conversation with Alan Robert
by K. Allen Wood
Complexity
by Don D’Ammassa
Mulligan Stew
by Brian Rosenberger
Strange Goods and Other Oddities
Below the Surface
by Pam L. Wallace
Slider
by David Niall Wilson
On a Hellish Road
A Conversation with William Ollie
by Michelle Howarth
The Dead March
by Brian Rappatta
Thirty-Two Scenes from a Dead Hooker’s Mouth
by Kurt Newton
Howling Through the Keyhole
STRONGER THAN FRICTION
An Editorial
by K. Allen Wood
Welcome to the first issue of Shock Totem!
I believe this is where I’m supposed to blather on like I’m narrating the trailer for the next Hollywood blockbuster and tell you how we’re going to change the face of small press and the underground horror community. That seems to be the way of things when it comes to the new kid on the block making his grand entrance. Pop the collar, light a smoke, and let the swagger roll—and throw down some bold, arrogant words for good measure. Then, as happens too often, crash and burn.
I don’t think any of us were ever so cocksure, but I was definitely bold—and defensive—when we first announced our launch a year ago. Upon reflection, that was simply bravado borne of fear. I just didn’t get it. I expected open arms, maybe even a parade and some fireworks, not bored expressions, hairy eyeballs, and clenched fists, and a universal sigh of “Ugh...not this crap again.”
See, it was just a few years ago that I made the decision to abandon a career in music and pursue one in writing. Before that, I had never paid attention to the droves of new publications that popped up weekly, only to disappear in a blink, often taking with them a bit of many authors’ patience and trust. And thanks to those literary hit-and-runs, Shock Totem was guilty by association, just another half-baked startup walking a deeply-rutted path littered with the bones of past failures.
But I think we’re different, I always have, because we want to learn, we want to grow from our mistakes (or not make them at all) and be looked upon as one of the best publications out there. More bold words for sure, but of a different sort this time. We’re not here to be the party; we’re here to join the party. If you’ll have us.
HOW MANY LUMPS?
We’ve evolved—out loud—since that first inkling of an idea flittered through my head. Initially, we were to be an e-zine. We were excited, too, but quickly realized that reading stories on-line, especially longer stories, wasn’t ideal. So I began researching the possibility of Shock Totem becoming a print magazine. I love a magazine just as much as the next person, but most of those in my house are in a basket next to my toilet. That’s not quite where I wanted our publication to end up.
It was Apex Digest (the print digest) and Black Gate and Glimmer Train, three fantastic digest-sized publications, that set my mind racing. These publications are on my bookshelf, and that’s where I want readers to house Shock Totem.
So here we are.
We began this journey with a simple vision: publish stories that we love to read. And we set out to do just that.
As the days wore on, we realized the stories we had accepted were vastly different from each other, rendering our early tag line of Dark Fantasy and Horror inadequate, too restricting and misleading. Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted seemed to capture the essence of what the publication had naturally become.
Long story short: We set ourselves on a course of change. Many of those changes we made came from our own hard work and discoveries, while others were made because people verbally beat us sensible. We have taken our lumps, that’s for sure, but we’re grateful and stronger for it. Humbled.
And through it all, our vision has remained the same. Shock Totem is a publication full of stories that we, as readers, enjoyed the hell out of.
And we hope you do, too.
NOT THAT METZGER!
In the early days, John, Nick, and I knocked around a long list of possible names for the magazine. There were some cool but not quite fitting names, like Papercut Stigmata, Nightfall Overture, and Shades & Shadows. But for every one of those, we had a Purgastories or Bleeding Pens (or as everyone would have called it, Bleeding Penis). Eventually, we whittled it down to
a short list of potentials, Shock Totem being one of them. As things began to take shape, this name continued to stand out, especially in light of each word’s definition.
shock: a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities.
totem: anything serving as a distinctive, often venerated, emblem or symbol.
For a magazine of dark fiction, this struck us as a perfect combination of words to describe what we were about. It was later, after we’d settled on using it, when we discovered an old book titled Shock Totem, by Thom Metzger. It was published in 1991, and John, who had suggested the name, had long ago read the book in college. He had not realized this, though, when the words first popped into his head.
So we had on our hands a bit of a dilemma. We discussed coming up with a new name, but we’d grown fond of Shock Totem. You can’t copyright titles, so we were free to use it without worry, of course, but instead, to clear our conscience, John contacted Metzger through the university he teaches at in New York. John asked for his blessing, Metzger gave it, and we were on our way.
Hopefully we’ll someday see Metzger’s work between our covers.
WORDS AND MUSIC
Some of you will notice that, throughout our pages, website, and forum, we have many references to music, whether subtle or obvious. We do these things as tributes, not because we shirk creative responsibility. Music is a big part of my life, as well as John’s and Nick’s. It’s a natural extension of who we are, so it’ll creep into our pages from time to time. And why the hell not? There is a virtually untapped well of talent in the music industry that crosses over into the horror community. Why not create an open connection between the two and give them a voice?
Rest assured, though, we’re not a music magazine, nor will we ever be.
THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT
(AND THE VOODOO DOLL)
Many people helped and inspired us along the way, both directly and indirectly. If I may, I’d like to take a moment and acknowledge a few of them. Big thanks to Mari Adkins and Jason Sizemore at Apex Publications; Stephanie Lenz and all the fine people at Toasted Cheese; John O’Neill and the always brilliant Black Gate; Bizzy and everyone at the WBBS. Your input and inspiration has been invaluable. Special thanks to Thom Metzger for the name. And our undying gratitude goes out to all those cool cats at the Heart of Metal forum, the birthplace of Shock Totem. Horns up! And to the authors who took a chance with us, whether we accepted your work or not, we cannot thank you enough.
I’d personally like to thank the cast of nasties working behind the scenes at Shock Totem. Without you guys, this would still be an idea floating around in the pudding that fills my skull. You rock!
But more importantly, thank you, the reader, for giving us a chance.
THE MUSIC BOX
by T.L. Morganfield
Kevin tucked Rodney's favorite stuffed elephant, Snowflake, inside the diaper bag. Snowflake got comfortable, leaned back on a pile of diapers as if they were pillows, and wrapped his worn trunk gently around Kevin’s fingers, to show his appreciation. Kevin gave him a secret smile, which immediately vanished once Cheryl came clicking into the kitchen in her high heels, complaining of the time.
“We should have been on the road a half hour ago,” she said.
The telephone rang, and Cheryl snatched it up.
Snowflake poked his head out between the open zippers just in time to see Rodney come in after her, sucking his fingers and dragging a stuffed teddy bear that wore a blue shirt that had “Boo!” written across the front in black letters. Snowflake cursed under his breath. No doubt Cheryl would insist Rodney take Boo Bear instead of him.
“The little whore, for you,” Cheryl told Kevin, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece as she held the phone out to him.
Kevin grabbed the receiver and covered it with his hand. “What is wrong with you, Cheryl? Are you trying to get me fired?”
Of course she is, Snowflake wanted to say. She's always doing crazy crap like that. But he remained very still, just in case Cheryl looked in his direction.
“She has no reason to call you about work on Thanksgiving,” Cheryl snapped.
“We're in the middle of a big project—”
“I've heard it all before, Kevin.”
He sighed and took the phone into the living room. “And hurry up,” Cheryl called after him, then turned to Rodney. “Would you let Buster in so he can eat his breakfast before we leave for Grandma's?”
Rodney pulled up on the wooden slat covering the dog door with all his strength. The Golden Retriever puppy squeezed through the half-open slot, knocking Rodney aside in his excitement. He then covered Rodney's face with slobbery licks.
“Go eat your food, Buster.” Cheryl picked up the bear Rodney had left on the floor—her favorite childhood stuffed animal—and took it to the diaper bag. She cringed, though, when she saw Snowflake, with his messy patchwork of mismatched fur and cloth stitched together with black thread.
Numerous times Snowflake had overheard her trying to convince Kevin to throw him away, but Kevin adamantly refused. As Boo had been Cheryl’s childhood companion, Snowflake had been Kevin’s.
And just as Snowflake expected, Cheryl pulled him out and said to Rodney, “You can only take one with you, okay? You'd rather take Boo Bear, right?”
“I want to take Snowflake.”
“But he's falling apart, sweetie. Look—his legs are barely holding on,” she said, though Kevin had, in fact, just reinforced the worn stitching on them last night, after Rodney nearly tore off one of Snowflake's legs swinging him around by one foot. From any other child, Snowflake might have begrudged such rough treatment, but he knew Rodney loved him, just like Kevin had when he was a boy.
“I want Snowflake!” Rodney stomped his foot.
Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Okay, you can take both then.” She put Snowflake back into the bag, and set Boo Bear next to him. “Now let's get your coat on.”
Once the kitchen was quiet, Boo Bear turned to Snowflake and sneered. “Always ruining everything for me, aren't you, Frankenstein?”
Dim light filtered into the open diaper bag. Snowflake glared at the bear and said, “Bite my ass, Velcro-paws.”
Boo Bear narrowed his shiny, black marble-eyes at him, then climbed down under the pile of diapers Snowflake sat upon. “We'll see who's going to be doing the biting.” He shoved upward and tossed Snowflake out of the bag, onto the kitchen counter.
Snowflake clambered for a hold but he'd already slid over the edge. He bounced off the trashcan lid and landed butt-first in the dog's water dish. He raised his trunk to trumpet an insult at the crafty old bear, but then he noticed the oafish Golden Retriever pup staring at him from across the room, his ears perked and tail fanning. Oh no! Snowflake wondered if he should try to run.
The puppy trotted over and snapped him up in his wet, shit-smelling mouth—what does that dog do out in the yard all day? Buster checked over his shoulder to make sure no one had seen—yes, the mutt was as smart as he was smelly—and slipped quietly out the dog door with his prize.
But within minutes, Snowflake heard Rodney screaming and crying for him, and soon enough Kevin came out into the backyard to have a look around. Buster had managed to tear Snowflake's left eye out with his needle-like teeth—oh, how I wish I had teeth like that, Snowflake had mused while the dog worked on his head. When Buster saw Kevin, he tried to hide in his doghouse. It took Kevin a couple more minutes to pry Snowflake from the dog's mouth.
“He's bleeding, daddy!” Rodney bawled when he saw his favorite toy oozing stuffing-brains out of its head.
“It's going to be okay, pal,” Kevin promised him. “The Toy Fairy will fix him, just you wait and see.”
“You should just throw it away, Kevin,” Cheryl said. “It's ruined, and just disgusting.”
“I'm not throwing him away,” Kevin snarled, and Cheryl stepped away from him as if he were a beast. He glared at her and she returned the look. “He'll be fixed. Jus
t you wait and see. We'll come home and he'll be good as new.” He said it just as much to Cheryl as he did to Rodney, though his angry stare was fixed on her.
Ignoring him, Cheryl told Rodney, “You can hold Boo Bear instead, dear.” She held out the blue-shirted teddy bear.
But Rodney wrinkled his nose and sniffled. “I don't like him. He smells gross.” Both of her parents were chain smokers, and no matter how much she washed him, the smell remained soaked into his stuffing.
“Stop trying to force the damn bear on him,” Kevin said. He grabbed Boo Bear from her and handed him to Rodney. “Why don't you take Boo Bear to the basket and get a different toy to take with you?”
Rodney snatched the bear and hurried into the living room. Snowflake couldn't help but let a faint smile come to his worn face.
“Always have to have things your way.” Cheryl stormed after her son, but returned a few seconds later to add, “When you stop with the fucking elephant, I'll stop with the bear.”
Kevin opened his mouth to respond but she was already gone. He looked down at Snowflake, checking the patchwork of his body; the yellow fur joined with purple denim, which was sewn to electric-blue chenille, all of it salvaged from other stuffed animals over the years. There was nothing left of the original Snowflake on the outside; only on the inside, deep in the stuffing: a little music box—Snowflake's heart—filled with years of love and friendship and devotion.
Kevin flicked away leaf fragments from the polyester fuzz bleeding from Snowflake's face. “It was that damn bear, wasn't it?” Snowflake didn't need to answer; Kevin already knew. That's how connected they were. “An eye for an eye, pal,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He placed Snowflake's trunk in his hand and smiled at the gentle, reassuring movement he felt against his palm. He set Snowflake down on the table and left with his family for the holiday meal at Grandma's house.
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