Coming in mid June, the next issue of "Lovecraft eZine"...
Starry. . . yet . . ., by Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. No one writes like Pulver… he’s one of a kind, and I’m honored to publish another one of his tales in the June issue.
Invitation, by Siobhan Gallagher. It’s the waiting game that haunts me. Half-past midnight under a lone street lamp and, nothing. Empty streets and sleeping buildings. So unlike the roaring noise of day, with cars honking and engines starting, people yakking in voices louder than they need be on their phones. All headache inducing. It’s why I’ve escaped into the night, a personally pain reliever, and in my hand an invitation…
In Memoriam, by W.H. Pugmire. Written for Robert Nelson, one of H.P. Lovecraft’s correspondents. W.H. Pugmire says, I have been quite moved, the more I learn about this young suicidal poet, Robert Nelson. I like to pay homage to young doom’d souls, & thus I have writ this wee prose-poem, enclos’d, which I hope you will be able to use in ye Lovecraft eZine.
Station Waiting Room, by Simon Kurt Unsworth. Gaskin turned to go and caught movement from the corner of his eye. He glanced around expecting to see a mouse of rat or even bird, but there was nothing. The sounds of the train were louder now, its rattle an insistent message for Gaskin telling him to move, to go now, but he ignored it. In the far corner, what he had taken to be the remains of a fire was opening, tendril arms fluttering apart like some night-blooming flower…
Pickman’s Marble, by Peter and Mandy Rawlik. An enjoyable flash fiction story by Peter, writing with his wife. It was the work of another artist, both a sculptor and painter that drew me into a strange little shop off the main thoroughfare on a dark little side street, almost an alley. Unlike the other galleries, which took to displaying pieces in front windows to entice potential patrons to enter, the Gallery Giallo seemed to be trying to hide its displays, for the curtains were heavy, moth-eaten and an utterly distasteful shade of pale yellow…
Bus Stop, by Jerod Brennen. Michael’s dread deepened on the ride to school. Each time he dared to peek outside the window, he saw the same thing: more nothingness. Every street was empty, every business closed…
A Stranger at the Door, by Bradly Shelby. A very enjoyable read by a promising new writer. Sometimes I honestly don’t know which is worse- the tense silence during the days or listening to the door creak and moan as whatever the hell that thing is pushes on it all night long while endlessly, wordlessly screaming at me…
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