Being genre agnostic comes with a few hurdles: riding the ebb and flow of readers’ preferred literary tastes is but one of them. For instance, did you know that, out of all the genres we publish, there’s one that a small segment of readers refuses to read? Care to guess which genre that is? Yup, horror. Understandable, considering the range of gross, grotesque, and even demonic manifestations, well, manifesting in this arena. But it’s also a shame, because there’s a lot more to this category than merely blood and guts and slasher gore.

     The most notorious horror writer of our time is Stephen King, but if you actually crack open his books, you’ll find that he’s at his best for the same reasons every writer is: building creative worlds, strong, compelling characters, and tension. And maybe, sometimes, we need a little reminder: like how much brighter is the light when held against the dark?

     And if we’re being honest, isn’t a little tarnish more reflective of our actual lives than, say, a freshly pressed, pristine white shirt?

     Like way back – jeez, 20 years ago! – when I was a first-year apprentice, banished to this hellhole of a grain processing plant at the very edge of our local. They had this ‘expeller’ building that removed all the unwanted corn biproduct; it was loud, wet, everything was coated in this throw-up yellow/orange color, which you came out smelling of, even if you only took two steps in.

     One day, we were picking up parts in the shop, talking to Party Plant Pete, when his radio started barking. All plant employees had these cool-guy radios dangling over their shoulders – we were outside contractors, no dice for us. So the radio crackles, and behind the static, you can hear a guy screaming.

     We freeze, eyes narrowed on the dangling piece of plastic, unable to do anything but listen to the sounds of intermittent agony. Outside, the train rolls steadily by on creaking tracks.

     “My leg!” the voice screams again. “The train cut off my leg!!”

     Now that’s horror.

     And as dark as that is – and sure as hell was for me! I mean, nothing says “Welcome to the trades” like a man screaming about his dismemberment – it also makes for, yes, a good story. Admit it! And if you can weather that little vignette (don’t worry, I stayed well away from any moving railcars for the rest of my stint down there), then you can certainly consume the occasional odd horror story that we publish here. And with our reasonable prices, it won't even cost you an arm.

     Or a leg.

Dear Story Unlikely,

    I originally found you through the supremely helpful monthly submission list compiled by a fellow author, the talented Angelique Fawns. Since then, I have continued to follow, read, and submit to this delightful publication for two reasons primarily: one, the quality of work published (top-tier!), and two, the foundational mantra interwoven through Story Unlikely's canon - for authors, by authors, no BS! (a message that is both uplifting and grounding, especially for indie authors striving and struggling to climb the vertiginous steps of publishing. On this occasion, I was inspired to submit by the kind and generous feedback from Dan on my last story (thank you again!).

    And thank you, of course, for reading this one!

 

Sincerely,

 

by Kat Merrigan

 

Dear Editor,

     How do you sleep at night? How do you go home and look your family in the eye? How could you allow something as egregious as B.S. Thoreau’s latest debacle My Sweater and Me to sully your publication’s fine reputation? To add insult to injury, you then highlight it on the cover as your featured article?! Are you currently assessing whether or not to submit to a drug counseling program or attend some form of in-patient rehabilitation? I ask because only someone with a clear substance abuse problem would have ever allowed this nonsense to see the light of day.

     Did you even bother to read the piece? The man goes on for three long, arduous paragraphs about yarn. Three paragraphs about yarn! Now, if this were Knitters Weekly or Yarn Time or even Sacred Sewing Circle, I could understand. But may I remind you, that you, sir, are the editor of The Sunshine Encouragement Express! The sole objective of which is to “bring some encouragement and sunshine into your day.” Well, I can assure you, dear Editor, the only thing Thoreau’s blather brought into my day was an intense desire to stab him with his own knitting needles!

     Now, I am not a violent person, despite what some have said. And don’t think I don’t know what they’ve said. But these are small-minded, petty people. The very same people who might gush over phrases like this from Thoreau’s piece, “The first time I put on my sweater and gazed upon my reflection in the mirror, a single tear sprung forth.”

     I swear to you I shed more than one tear as I trudged through his drivel. I kept asking myself, How much money did Thoreau pay the editor to get this trash published? I can only assume there is some sort of unspoken payola situation at your organization to explain recent events; otherwise, why would my lyrical poem Moonlight, Magic and Mayonnaise have been rejected so quickly? Yes, it was 20 stanzas in length, nothing rhymed and some of it was in Pig Latin, but forgive me for being ahead of my time and not subscribing to all the same tired tropes we’ve all numbed our sensibilities into accepting. No genius is ever truly appreciated in their own time. But I digress.

     I write you today to let you know I am prepared to officially cancel my subscription, effective immediately. You read that right. I’m sure I can find better use for my $12.95/year. But think about this: you are losing an original member of the Sunshine Squad. How does that make you feel? And this letter is only the beginning. In conjunction with this correspondence, I am preparing an extensive and exhaustive campaign for social media to alert other poor, unsuspecting folks of your duplicitous nature. I fully anticipate #sunshineencouragementexpressruinseverythingandistheworstever to trend. Now if, by some strange twist of fate it doesn’t, I’ve got #sunshineencouragementexpressruinslivesandcrushesdreams also queued up and ready to go.

     Now, there is a way to avoid any further unpleasantness and the inevitable public scrutiny and backlash that is sure to come your way. I’ve listed certain measures that could be taken to rectify this situation:

 

     Step 1:    Thoreau’s article is retracted with an abject apology from you for assaulting your readers with such incoherent ramblings.

     Step 2:    Thoreau is permanently banned from further contribution to your journal and its sister publication Happy, Healthy and Hygienic.

     Step 3:    One of my poems appears in your next issue. (I leave it to your discretion as to which one. I have a full catalog as I am currently in between jobs and am dedicating my full time toward perfecting my craft.)

 

     I’m sure you’ll agree these requests are both reasonable and easily implemented. I must advise you, however, if you choose to dismiss them (as you have my 15 other letters to your desk), I will be forced to write a scathing blog post on my new site, www.sunshineencouragementexpressisforsuckers.com. And I’m quite certain none of us want to see that.

     As I mentioned earlier, I am not a violent person. I desire nothing but what is fair and appropriate for your loyal 40 subscribers (which will rapidly decline to 39 if my demands are not met in a timely manner). Yours is an audience with a discerning palate. Surely you wouldn’t continue to serve them hot dogs when they could be savoring literary wagyu beef?

     Should you still doubt my prowess, I submit this stream-of-consciousness sample as proof of my literary skills:

 

     Ding ding

     The laundry is done

     Time to fluff and fold

     The laundry is done

     Back into the basket it goes

     The laundry is done

     Packed into my car

     The laundry is done

     The basket sits in my room

     The laundry is done

     Put away six days later

     The laundry must be done.

 

     Now, if you could not feel the pathos dripping from those verses, then I must question if you even have a soul. If you couldn’t see how the layers of clothing are symbolic of the layers of our human psyche, well, I cannot help you and this has been a complete waste of my precious time.

     But I do have hope for you, dear Editor. You have proven yourself to be a person of integrity and humility in the past. Your Editor’s Note in Issue #12 was particularly memorable. You didn’t need to go back and correct the Impossible Pie recipe. Your savvy readers would surely know it was a typo. No one bakes that pie at 250 degrees. But you, sir, stepped up and righted the wrong. And here’s your chance to do it again. This time there is so much more at stake than some mere food poisoning around a dinner table. This, I dare say, can be your way of turning up the heat to make sure your readers’ minds are not poisoned with undercooked prose.

     The choice is yours, dear Editor. But know this: the clock is ticking. If I do not hear back from you by the 1st of next month, I will be forced to activate Campaign S.E.E. No More. At the present moment, I am the only one engaged in this effort. But I can guarantee you, once my hashtags take off and my blog post goes up, I’ll have so many volunteers for this noble cause, I’ll probably have to turn some away.

 

     You know how to reach me.

 

     Sincerely,

     K.A.

 

     P.S. Mom said she forgot to get eggs from the grocery store. Can you please pick up a dozen on your way home? Thanks, Dad.

 

~~~

About the author:

     Kat Merrigan was born and raised in NY. She’s a published author and actress who made her feature film debut in the independent movie Tried By Fire from Broadwil Films. Her work has appeared in Still Here Magazine, Mania Magazine, Bunker Squirrel, Spillwords Press, The Gilded Weathervane, Bluebird’s Scribe Review, Harrow House Journal, Soul, Poetry, Prose and Arts Magazine, Flights e-Journal and Instant Noodles. She has been featured in a Cloaked Press anthology, Calla Press, and Academy Of the Heart and Mind. She narrated one of her pieces for the Story Unlikely podcast. She hosts original content through IG: Kat Controversy and FB: Kathy Merry. 

 

by Diana Olney

 

Most of them are drawn to the carnival by the novelty. The change in pace. Comfortable chaos, prepackaged and tempered, the thrill of a summer storm only a few dollars a head.

     Most, but not all.

     Those who come later, come for a different sort of change. After the lights have dimmed and the children have been shepherded home in arms promising sleep and safety, they come, restless and needful as moths to flame, knowing that sleep can be elusive, safety an evanescent dream. Knowing that nightmares linger, that they have names and faces. Knowing that long nights can lead to tall ledges. Knowing that hope can be treacherous, a jagged edge eager to give way.

     You remember. After all, that is the reason you lie awake at night, isn’t it? Because you know that behind your eyes, that ledge is still there, waiting for you to slip. Know as well as the sinking beat of your own heart how unstable hope was the first time you tried to hold it, how quickly it shattered like shards of candy-glass in your hands: the first time you tried to change, to shed the stifling skin of sorrow and grief, to become sharper than the hurt you carried in the tender place where love and warmth used to be. To dig it out with tooth and nail.

     These are the teeth and talons we bare, for those who seek them. Who find us when the unadvertised attraction begins. When the night belongs to sharp creatures, grasping and rising and reeling in rampant chorus; inviting the lost and wounded to step closer, climb higher, ride the beasts of nightmares and witness them change in the spinning…

About the author:

     Diana Olney is a Seattle writer/poet of dark, speculative, and queer literature. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, optioned for film adaptation, and has appeared in publications by Blackstone Publishing, Small Wonders Magazine, Merganser Magazine, Memento Mori Ink Magazine, WordFire Press, Celestial Echo Press, and many others. She is also the creator of the horror comic series Siren’s Song. Her debut novella, Trauma Queen, will be published by Crystal Lake Publishing in 2027. And thanks to the assistance of her two sharp (and furry) creatures, all of Diana’s work is cat-approved! Visit her website dianaolney.com or Instagram @dianaolneyauthor for updates on her latest tales.

 

If you read Lessons From the Field Part 1, then you’re familiar with my paintball past. In one of those old forums, I heard a solid piece of advice that remains with me to this day: If you really want to elevate your game, start refereeing.

 

It didn’t just stick with me because it was so simple. It stuck with me because it was so true.

 

As mentioned, paintball was my life, and I was exceptionally good at it: dominating my friends out in the woods, and (more than) keeping up with guys from the big city who would go on to play professionally for Bob Long’s Ironmen (that’s like playing for the Chicago Bulls). Hell, one of those guys would never play me 1 on 1 when I challenged him to pump action only – preferring to hide his mid-level skills behind a wall of paint.

 

Yeah, I was good, but I got even better when I finally took that sage advice and started reffing. But how is becoming a referee the key to unlocking next-level play?

 

When you’re on the field, diving behind bunkers, your adrenaline is pumping, your teammates are screaming, paint is flying, and all you have is your narrow little vantage point. All you see is all you know: faces snapping behind plywood, barrels glinting, gelatin-filled orbs sailing inches from your skin.

 

There’s an entire game being played that you just can’t see.

 

But the ref can.

 

Whether taking the high ground in the woods, or standing at the 50 sideline on a speedball course, the ref sees so much more. Because he’s not in here, he sees every bad play, every blunder, every failed snapshot, every good move never taken. He sees the overly timid getting shot from a better angle. He sees the overly brazen getting blasted on a run. He sees all the opportunities for flag pulls never taken because the players on the field just didn’t know if anyone was guarding it.

 

Indeed, the ref sees so much more than those playing.

 

The lessons I learned from the field after only a season of refereeing made me nearly unstoppable, so much so that, forever after, I handicapped myself by using pump-action only guns (when everyone else was throwing down semi-autos at a dozen balls a second) just to make it fair.

 

And as in paintball, so in writing.

 

Do you want your stories to start dominating contests and lighting up publishing credits and awards? Then you, dear writer, need to learn the same lesson, and since we talked about the why in part 1, we’re going to delve into how…

 

Listen on:

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