Author Nickolas Cook lives in the Southwest desert with his wife and three pugs. His short fiction, reviews, interviews, and non-fiction articles have appeared in many print and e-zines, and have gone internationally viral. He is the writers group moderator for Shocklines and an editor for Dark Recesses Magazine. He is a practitioner of Krav Maga and Combative Tactics. More information about them can be found at MySpace. His books include "The Black Beast of Algernon Wood", "Baleful Eye" and "Paint it Black". To contact the author, feel free to email: Nickolasecook@aol.com or visit MySpace.

His short story titled Karma will appear in the upcoming premiere issue of The Ashen Eye. Here’s a brief extract from that story:

That night, as Forster was dropping into the well of sleep, a parade passed along the street below his room. The sudden sounds grew in volume, like some evil wind rising in nightmares not yet dreamed, the babble ripping him from his half sleep: The sound of many feet passing by; low voices singing some droning tune; a braying goat- anxious and scared, an undercurrent to the monotonic song; someone shouted an incoherent imprecation to a nameless deity. His ululations of mindless exultance frightened him, and Forster began to push himself from the bed. But then the sounds tapered, faded into nothingness again, and after a few moments of hearing only the night birds and the soughing of a cool wind, he was sure that he had dreamed it all, and so he rolled over and slept.

In his dream, an endless stretch of dark green jungle. And within the dense weave of tree and roiling gray sky, a vast creature of unimaginable size and ferocity squatted. Its great clawed hands swept through the jungle’s achromatic depths, snatching up handfuls of terrified Indians, stuffing them kicking and screaming into its cavernous maw. Bits of human offal dripped from its broken and yellow teeth. Its eyes rolled in bestial ecstasy.

A black skinned woman rose from the trees, her eyes white and furious. Forster recognized her from native artistic renderings—Kali, the goddess of death—as she stretched her many arms high into the air and smashed at the great hungry beast. The monster howled, toppling trees, shaking the world with its anger and pain. It fought back, pushing Kali away. Defeated, she fell back into the jungle depths, an enigmatic smile blossoming like a malefic flower on her awful lips.

Andrew Wolter is the author of the novels "The Rules of Temptation" and "Nightfall" (to be released Spring 2008 by Shadow City Press). Andrew has also moonlighted as a freelance columnist with over 85 published reviews and 15 published interviews.

Andrew’s most recent work (a short story entitled, "I’ll Be Home For Christmas"} has appeared in The Open Vein’s Christmas 2007 issue and was nominated in the category of Best Short Story Horror in the 2007 Preditor’s and Editors Reader’s Poll.

Andrew resides in Phoenix, Arizona where he is working on his next novel.

Visit Andrew’s Official Website or his MySpace page.

The following is an excerpt from Andrew’s short story Puppeteer, due to appear in the upcoming issue of The Ashen Eye:

…There is a slight piercing as the tip of the needle enters the crook of the arm. Surely, there is no difference between this and donating plasma at the local Red Cross. Though after extracting three vials of blood at a time in that especially tender part of the arm, there is bound to be bruising. In fact, it appears like the appendage of a heroin junkie—pinprick scabs over layers of flesh colored black and blue.

I know such colors well, those shades of abuse that had revisited my body from Dave’s constant beatings. There are times when I can easily recall having to wear long-sleeved shirts on a summer’s day because of the purple-colored imprint left behind from Dave forcefully tugging at my arm. Sometimes I remember having to use make-up to conceal the brown and yellow hues that encircled my eyes because of Dave punching me. Still, there are times when I see his face and I have to kiss him.

Carl ran down the stairs and out of Usher’s Fair Inn. Tumbling soda cans and sheets of white paper skipped down the dirt street. As Carl stared at the buildings on the North side of Main Street, he thought he could see things moving around in the cloudy windows. Watching the swings squeak and the childless playground melted his heart. His daughter never had the chance to go to school. School buses were smashed against the side of the police station. The hardware store, post office, and pharmacy looked like human skulls; lidless dark eyes with an unconscious wickedness resting within.

Carl walked away down the long brown side of Main Street and looked up at his car on the hill. At first, he thought a dog had jumped on the hood of the car. The sunless sky made everything dim and cold.

“Get off my car,” Carl screamed.

What appeared to be a wild dog, took on a fearsome and menacing form. Its crimson, repulsive eyes stared at Carl. The creature’s fur was coarse and Carl could see bald patches on the side of its abdomen. Once it exposed its long spiky fangs and blood-colored eyes, Carl turned around and ran back into Usher’s Fair Inn. Slamming the massive oak door shut and gasping for air, he immediately checked the windows and stared at the shadows on the top of the stairs. He knew that something unnatural was up there, waiting for him to lose his mind. And he realized that something grotesque was outside. Pushing back the curtains, he gazed out into the street and watched as the famished wild dog sniffed all of the doors. It was looking for him.

The previous is a short excerpt from a short story called Insomnium. It will be published in the upcoming issue of The Ashen Eye and is written by Jeffrey Buford.

Jeffrey was born in the small bustling riverboat town of Alton, Illinois on a cold day in hell. Born into a large family, he displayed a creative and often surprising interest in the arts. Other publications include "How to Tame a Werewolf with Baked Spaghetti", "The Cemetery of Glass Coffins", and "A Neighborhood of Cats." Currently he’s at work on a comic series titled "The 13th Key" and a novel, "Timothy’s Walk". Some of his other creative interests include illustrating and music, specifically the piano. He invites you to take a look at more of his work at Jeffrey’s Space.

Born and raised in scenic Uniontown, Pennsylvania, Mark A. Mihalko got his first taste of darkness and the unexplained in the Appalachian Mountains, listening to the folklore from generations of pioneers. These legends and lore hit close to home and opened his mind to the unseen world that exists. In conquering these possibilities, he has found his inner self and an outlet for his writing.

In May 2007, Mark completed “Walking Before Dawn” ($12.95 - Publish America – ISBN 1424176816), where he explores the worlds of the unexplained and darkness in his own poetic manner, venturing into the abyss that continues to haunt his soul. Through those words and his muse, he has discovered the secret to unlocking the brooding and desolate demons he harbors.

These same ideals led him to work on non-fiction and fictional items dealing with darkness, despair, and the unexplained. Mark A. Mihalko has had articles and stories published in “Mysteries”, “FATE”, “Haunted Times”, “Horrotica”, and “Revenant Magazines” and has been lucky enough to be the focus of the ‘Poet of the Hours’ for “The Graveyard Press”, the official webzine of the Vampire Nation.

You will find Mark’s intriguing poetry in the upcoming premiere issue of The Ashen Eye. In the mean time, here’s another one of his poems, titled Torment, for you to enjoy.

Torment
by Mark A. Mihalko

What is happening out there?
These people…These depraved creatures
Plaguing us like the locusts in Babylon
My mind cannot, will not comprehend what I have witnessed tonight
This ordeal glistening like a surreal testament from Argento
This nightmare cannot be real

I shake, trembling from the fear
I must stay strong
The others are counting on my vigilance
For generations it has been passed to me to have faith
Faith in what I ask
Truths and lies, heaven and hell
Depends on your perspective, doesn’t it?
I remember my grandmother enumerate scripture and verse
Words I saw promulgated by the corrupt and pretentious
In my mind, I can hear her now

It was allowed to fight against God’s people and defeat them
And it was given authority over every tribe, nation, language and race (Rev 13:7)

Are we in the midst of the 42 months of deceit?
Or has god finally forsaken us at last?
In my mind, the answer is clear
He did fuck all with these sins of torment
I must survive to find the truths trapped in this desperate visage
What has caused the dead to rise against us?
To crave our flesh?
I will never give in to their torture
I will face my destiny with my shotgun in my hand
They will not have me
At last, the brightness of the new day severs the crack
Time to wake the others
Time to regroup
Our night in hell is over
For now, we are safe
We survive.

Mark can also be found on MySpace. To visit his page and add him to your friends, please click here.

Lawrence R. Dagstine is a writer of short fiction and non-fiction since 1996. He has almost 300+ stories published or forthcoming in paying, print, and online genre magazines or speculative anthologies. Sam’s Dot Publishing is releasing his first short story collection in 2008, and he is the author of a western novel, called “Allegiance to Arms”. Some of his short story credits include: “Aoife’s Kiss”, “Atomjack”, “Black Ink Horror”, “Beyond Centauri”, “Down in the Cellar”, “The Fifth Di”, “The Martian Wave”, “OG’s Speculative Fiction”, “Jupiter SF”, “Nova SF”, “Sinister Tales”, “Mount Zion Speculative Fiction Review”, “Whispering Spirits”, “Whispers of Wickedness”, “Tales of the Talisman”, “The Willows”, “Written Word Online Magazine”, “The Sword Review”, “Escape Velocity”, “Purpleverse”, and many more just like it.

Here’s an excerpt from his short story The Ghost Painter, which will be published in the upcoming issue of The Ashen Eye:

“Thank you. Are you a good cook?”

”As a matter of fact, I am. I love good food. I love all the good things in life.” His tone was dry. “I mean to get them, too.”

“Oh, you will. You’re so young.” Thirty, she thought; I hope he says thirty.

He gave her a long, level glance. Then he said: “Twenty-eight. Why? Do I look like that much of a growing boy to you?” He gave a playful sneer.

Only seven years apart; she felt a sudden pang.

Again she had a sense of titillation. It was amazing how he could make that man-woman contact in a moment; it was as basic, as uncomplicated, as a quick thrust of an electrical plug into a socket, instantly turning on the current. But it was shocking, too. She must say something now, something that would reflect an amusement at his confidence, the kind of “now-now-I’m-a-good-girl-around-people-I-don’t-know” remark that would let him know that she didn’t let strange men look and talk to her like that.

But as she opened her mouth to say the words, they stopped in her throat. Some instinct told her that they would be a mistake, dull her shine in his eyes, reduce her in his mind to just another ordinary, conventional woman. He probably expected something far different from her.

She said slowly, staring into his face: “No. You look like a man.”

He didn’t say anything. Again they sat looking at each other as the seconds went by. This is crazy, Olivia thought, this can’t be happening―not this fast. It’s as if we were in bed together this morning and he’s doing marvelous things to me. And I’m letting him do them.

Abruptly, he said, “I don’t seem to be getting much eating done. You’re a very distracting female.” He began buttering a piece of his roll. “Do you live in the city?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, relieved that he had begun to eat, that he wasn’t looking at her. “About seven blocks from here.” Finally, she could breathe again.

“I’m even closer than that,” he said. “I live practically around the corner on 49th Street.”

“Really? Are there apartments there?” She always remembered the area as being commercial.

“Art studios. I rent out one of the galleries over the restaurants. Top floor.” He shook his head. “It’s an offbeat place but it has its charms. I sublet it from a curator friend. Oh, I’m Oscar, by the way. Oscar Harris.” He finally extended a hand.

“You’re an artist?” She was impressed. “I’m Olivia Maynard. I work in advertising.”

“I’m a painter. I have murals all over my walls.” He glanced up at her. “Come up and see my murals?”

“Um, well, I’m not sure… But what do you paint?”

“Ghosts, the afterlife, the beauty of the supernatural. Dark and brooding, yes, but with some watercolor and expressionism I give it new meaning and substance.” He was eating again, his gaze lowered to his plate. “You might as well tell me you don’t go home with strangers. I saw your face.”

She was startled but felt bad. “Doesn’t my being cautious mean something to you?”

“About as much as your green eyes. It would never get in my way.”

For more information, please visit www.lawrencedagstine.com