Let's get reacquainted

I originally started this blog to drum up some interest in my writing. But since I'm not the most disciplined person, it's been a definite victim of neglect. I think it's time to change that.

From here on out I will try to keep this page up to date for those of you who may be interested. 

So, here's what's new. 

Sanitarium Magazine has accepted another of my stories. It's entitled And His Heart Burned. This is, in my opinion, one of the best things I've written to date. It will appear in issue 18, available February  27th. Grab a copy and support independent horror.

Also, in keeping with my pledge to actually maintain some sort of online presence, I have started a twitter account. You can follow me @AuthorJDThomas   No idea what I'm actually going to post over there, but I'll be doing something. Follow me and we'll find out together.

Also if you happen to be viewing this blog and haven't already liked my Facebook page, go like that shit.       

https://www.facebook.com/JoshuaDThomas13

Basically, I just want to let it be known what I'm all about. I may be green in regards to my presence on the interwebs and my publishing history. But let me assure you, I live and breathe horror. If you hate today's watered down, PG-rated pseudo horror as much as I do, hang around for a while. I aim to scare the shit out of you.

 I've been slammed at work lately and just realized it's been way too long since I did anything with this blog. So I figured I'd put up another story. I had almost forgotten about this one, I originally wrote it as a kind of cheapo Christmas gift for my family and friends. I think it was about four years ago or something like that. So here it is. It's not literary gold by any means, but I had a good time writing it and I still think it's kind of fun.

A Christmas Tale for Family and Friends

Or

Ho-Ho-Holy Shit

By

Joshua D. Thomas

The snow fell steadily outside, adding to the 8 inches that already blanketed the ground. Dominic sat in his armchair, cleaning his double-barreled shotgun while Agatha ushered the kids into their bedroom..

The gun cleaned to his satisfaction, Dominic loaded the 12 gauge and leaned it against the wall within easy reach. On his way to the kitchen to pour himself a drink, Dom paused in the hallway, listening as his wife comforted the children.

“He won’t come tonight, will he momma?” asked Ralphie, the eight year old.

“No, honey, he won’t come. Just go to sleep, okay?”

Agatha stepped out into the hallway, her hand on the doorknob. Before she could shut it, Marcie, their eleven year old girl spoke up.

“Yeah, you better go to sleep, or he’ll get you.” Then, singing in her high, sweet voice, “He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake…”

Agatha interrupted her, yelling out, “Stop that, Marcie, you stop singing that horrible song right this instant.”

The girl fell quiet and Dominic continued into the kitchen. Agatha walked in as he was pouring a tall glass of Chivas Regal over ice. They looked at one another for a long moment, worry clear in both of their faces.

“Did you give them the Benadryl?”

“Yes,” Agatha replied, her face tense. “I put it in their milk.”

Nodding, Dominic drained half the glass of scotch.

“Go get your pistol, Aggie,” he said. “Make sure it’s loaded and keep it with you, I don’t care if you’re just going to the bathroom, keep it with you.”

Agatha stood where she was for a moment. It was clear from the look on her face that she wanted to say something, but, apparently thinking better of it, she turned and walked out of the kitchen. Dominic finished his scotch and poured another glass, knowing he shouldn’t. He needed to stay alert all night long, but the scotch helped calm his frayed nerves and the temptation was too strong.

Taking the bottle with him, he turned off the kitchen light and went into the living room. His armchair was directly across from the fireplace, where he could keep a good eye on the fire. The shotgun, within arm’s reach, wasn’t close enough for Dominic’s comfort. He grabbed it and laid it across both arms of the chair, then poured another glass of scotch.

After a few minutes, Aggie walked into the living room, shut off the light, and sat down on the couch to Dom’s right. She laid her pistol on her lap and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. The pistol, a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum, was a little big for her hand, and the recoil should have been punishing for such a small woman. But Aggie had fired thousands of practice rounds with the handgun, and she was a crack shot.

The house was pitch dark, except for the roaring fire, and the night was eerily quiet. A mere 10 years ago, there would have been a Christmas tree glowing with festive lights, presents wrapped in bright paper nestled underneath it. Now no one dared have any light in their home, save for a roaring fire to discourage the Saint from sliding down your chimney.

They kept watch for hours, neither of them making a sound. Dominic continued to drink and, by 3 a.m. he had nearly finished the bottle. He slouched back into the soft chair and was just beginning to doze off, when he heard a sound outside. Sitting bolt upright, he held his breath, listening intently.

There it was again, the beating of huge wings.

“Oh my God,” Aggie gasped. “Dom…”

Dominic shushed his wife with a finger raised to his lips. Clutching the shotgun, he listened as the sound of wings came closer, growing in volume until he knew it must be right over top of the house. The Saint had never passed so close before. In past years they’d heard the sound of his passing, the distant sound of his flying beasts. Now, another sound was audible, a jingling noise that brought to mind bells, but different.

After what seemed an eternity, the sounds began to recede. Dominic exhaled the breath he’d been holding and relaxed his aching hands. The danger had passed, his babies would be safe for another year.

“He’s gone,” Aggie whispered, her voice breathless and giddy. “Oh God, Dom, he’s gone.”

Dom started to reply, a smile forming on his lips, when a small voice interrupted him.

“Mommy.”

Ralphie had walked into the living room, his steps utterly silent in the soft feet of the pajamas he wore. The boy looked terrified, his eyes wide, mouth open in a little O that would have been comical under other circumstances. Agatha jumped up and hurried over to shush him, but the damage was done.

That one little word was enough.

The sound of beating wings returned, closer, louder than before. Suddenly, there was a loud thump from the roof, just above their heads. Next came three heavy steps, then silence.

Dominic stood up, pressing the stock of the shotgun against his shoulder and leveling it at the fireplace. A long silence followed, and he cut his eyes toward his wife and child, seeing them huddled together on the floor.

The fireplace exploded.

Bricks and flaming logs shot into the room in every direction. Dominic had just enough time to register a dark, hulking shape in the chaos of the living room before a chunk of brick struck him in the forehead.

Dominic came to lying on the floor, his head throbbing. For a moment he couldn’t remember what had happened. A splintering crash, followed by two gunshots, brought it all flooding back.

The kids!

Grabbing the shotgun, Dominic climbed to his feet and ran down the hallway. Agatha was lying on the floor of the children's room, groaning softly. Snow was blowing into the room through a giant hole in the wall.

The children were gone.

Dominic knelt by his wife, saw that she was breathing, then ran through the hole into the night. He rounded the corner of the house and stopped cold.

Huge, black, and draped with chains, the Saint’s sleigh was parked in the back yard. Dominic’s blood ran cold when he saw the creatures hooked up to it. They were huge creatures, the size of Clydesdales, with thick black fur covering their bodies and giant, leathery wings. They stamped their clawed feet and snorted like bulls, eager to be off again.

Standing at the back of the sleigh, tying the top of a large red bag, was the Saint of Claws. He was well over seven feet tall, a hulking brute, fully two ax handles wide across the shoulders, with skin as white as the snow. He wore a tattered red fur coat and a long fur cap that was pierced in a dozen places by the horns that rose from his massive head.

Dominic was terrified, but he saw the bag squirming and knew his children had been stuffed inside. He forced himself to take a dozen more steps, putting the Saint within good shotgun range.

He pulled both triggers.

The Saint staggered backward, roaring like an enraged bear, but didn’t go down. He turned burning red eyes on Dominic and rushed at him. Reversing his grip on the shotgun, Dominic brought it crashing down with all his might, splintering it across the Saint’s thick jaw. The blow had absolutely no affect.

The Saint struck Dominic with a heavy backhand blow, sending him flying against the side of the house. Dominic landed on the tarp-covered woodpile, scattering logs everywhere. Before he could recover, the Saint was on him. Up close, Dominic could see every detail in the beast’s face, more than he ever wanted to see. It resembled a huge gorilla’s head, but it’s mouth bristled with what must have been hundreds of cruelly curved teeth. That enormous jaw opened impossibly wide, wide enough to devour Dominic’s head in one bite.

A shot rang out, followed quickly by two more, and the Saint turned away from Dominic. Agatha was standing in the yard, the .357 pointed at the beast. The thing growled, a low rumbling like some huge dog. It started toward Agatha slowly, crouched down like it was preparing to pounce.

Dominic looked around, searching for a weapon, and he found one. The ax he used for splitting firewood was lying five feet to his right. Forcing himself to stand, ignoring pain in a dozen places, he grabbed the ax and ran toward the Saint. Winding up, he swung with all his might, burying the blade between those massive shoulder blades.

The Saint roared, louder this time, and spun on Dominic, knocking him to the ground. By some miracle, the ax had pulled free and was still in his hands. The beast towered over him, thick strands of drool dripping from its fang-filled maw. Agatha fired again, the bullet struck the Saint in his left cheek, just below the eye. His head snapped to the right, he staggered, and for a moment Dominic thought the monster would finally go down.

Pulling himself back to his feet, Dominic wound up with the ax again. The Saint stood back up to its full height. Thick, black blood oozed from the wound on his cheek, but there was no exit wound. Dominic swung the ax, sinking it into the Saint’s left hip. Finally, the beast fell to the ground, clutching at the ax. Dominic wrenched it free and swung again, striking the same hip again. He yelled to Agatha, who was struggling to reload her pistol with shaking hands.

“Forget the pistol, Aggie! The children are in the back of his sleigh, in that bag.”

She took off in a dead run, her bare feet kicking up snow as she went.

“Watch out for those…,” he paused, unsure of what to call the things hitched to the sleigh. “Whatever the hell those are!”

Dominic had taken his eyes off the beast laying at his feet for a split second, but it was long enough. The Saint rolled into his legs, knocking him to the ground again. He was helpless, pinned under its bulk. Instead of finishing him of, however, the Saint clambered to its feet and hurried toward his sleigh, dragging its wounded left leg.

Dominic ran after it, wanting desperately to catch the thing before it could reach his wife. But, when the Saint reached the Sleigh, it climbed into the seat and lashed the beasts with a wickedly barbed whip. They reared up, spreading their huge wings then began to move forward, getting up their speed for takeoff.

Agatha, leaning against the sleigh and struggling with the bag, fell to the ground when it jumped forward suddenly. The ax still clutched in one hand, Dominic lept, grabbing hold of the bag and pulling with all his might. It was heavy, had to be over 400 pounds, and the wriggling forms inside made it hard to keep a grip.

As the sleigh began to pick up speed, Dominic pulled himself into the back of it, struggling to lift the bag. The Saint turned in its seat and roared, reaching back with one hand and grabbing hold of the bag. Dominic grabbed up the ax where it lay on the floor of the sleigh and brought it down on the thick, white wrist.

The sleigh began to rise into the air, tilting upward. Dominic tumbled to the ground, followed by the bag. Painfully, he pulled himself up and untied the rope holding the bag closed. Inside, he found his children along with eight others. They were all terrified, but seemed unhurt.

Dominic and Agatha huddled together in the snow, comforting the children as best they could. The Saint’s sleigh was just visible in the distance, passing in front of the moon.

But Dominic knew that next year, the Saint of Claws would be back.

Merry Christmas

Here it is, Sanitarium Magazine #11 is now available. Grab a copy and read my story, On The Farm.
This is the amazon link. Also available on iTunes and for apple, android, Windows 8, Playbook and online reading via Pocketmags.com.

Be sure to leave a review when you've checked out your copy. Print edition available soon.

Sanitarium on Amazon

Magazine Cover

My name on the magazine cover. Click the picture to check out Sanitarium Magazine's website.

Flash fiction post #2

Since I've been getting some positive feedback, including some love from my man Jimmy Pudge, I have decided to post another little piece of flash fiction. This is cheating a little, I suppose, since it is actually a fragment of a longer piece of fiction called Unlonely. Unlonely is, in essence, a collection of several small snippets like this. This one just happens to be my favorite. Hope you enjoy it.

                                                                         *   *   *

She’s lying on her back, one arm crooked so that her head rests on the delicate forearm.  Long golden hair fanned out around her head like the mark of divinity in Victorian paintings. Tiny ants, hundreds of them, crawl on her face. Piss-ants, my grandmother called them, although I’m sure they have a proper name.

            The ants form a long column from Angela’s pale face to a window across the room. When I woke to find them yesterday, I crushed dozens of them with an ashtray, brushed them away from her face. But watching them now, I see that I was wrong to interfere. They have their jobs, their place in the world, just as I do. I admire them, the way they go about their business with such detached, emotionless efficiency. Try as I might, I’ve never been able to detach, to transcend emotion, and this is what holds me back from greatness.

            There’s a smell in the air, not really unpleasant, but there all the same. The coppery scent of blood, jasmine from Angela’s perfume, the first sickly-sweet hint of rot, and beneath it all something indefinable but utterly feminine. A fly lands in the corner of her left eye and pauses, perhaps drinking what moisture remains. Outside, a door slams and I leap to my feet, clutching the knife. Heavy footsteps approaching, I freeze, hold my breath, wait. The footsteps come closer, pass Angela’s door, a car door slams shut and an engine roars to life. All the breath comes out of me in a whoosh and I calm down. Just another resident of the apartments, going on with their life, unaware of the small drama taking place in number 9.

            It’s nearly dark and I know I should be going, make my escape and leave this mess for someone else to clean up, like all the others. Three days is too long, I’ve overstayed my welcome. But just like always, the damned emotions get in the way. I light a cigarette and settle back onto the floor beside her.

            It’s so hard to go.

Welcome to my blog, here's a litle treat.

Although I've been writing and submitting stories for years, today marks my first venture into any sort of online promotion of my creations. Since this blog in completely devoid of content, I thought that I should post something to make this space a little less...empty, I guess. I figure that the most logical thing for an unknown author to post is something he has written. Therefore, I present to you a little piece of flash fiction that I wrote about 5 or 6 years ago. This was an attempt to write a story using nothing but dialogue. I realize it is far from perfect, but I've always gotten a chuckle out of this one.

Of course, this story is my own personal property and I would really appreciate if nobody steals it. 

On the Wagon

By

Joshua D. Thomas

“I promise, Janie, I’m on the wagon.”

“I’ve heard that before, Roger.”

“I know, honey. But that was the old me. The new me is stronger, smarter, and completely dedicated to giving up this awful habit.”

“I don’t know, Roger. I mean, I want to believe you. But I don’t want to get hurt again, I don’t think I can take it.”

“I know, baby. God, I hate myself for what I’ve done to you in the past. But things are different now, I’m different. This is my 28^th day on the wagon.”

“Oh wow! 28 days, I’m so proud of you Roger.”

“It feels great, my head is so clear now. I just feel so…focused.”

“Well, you’ve really impressed me, Roger. I really never thought you’d find the strength to quit.”

“So, does this mean you’ll give me another chance?”

“Well, I think we can start talking about getting things back on track. But don’t expect me to let you spend the night tonight. You’ve got to prove to me that you are dedicated. To this and to me.”

“Oh, I know Janie. I’m not trying to rush into things, but it makes me so happy that you’d even consider taking me back.”

“It’s a good start, Roger, and we’ll just have to see where it goes from here. Now, it’s late, we’ve been sitting here in your car for an hour. Walk me to the door and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Ok. Yes, definitely, I know you have to work early in the morning. I’m telling you Janie you’re not going to…”

“What’s that sticking out of your trunk?”

“Huh? I don’t see anything.”

“That’s hair, Roger. Whose hair is that?”

“Wha…I don’t…that’s not hair.”

“Yes it is, it’s a woman’s hair. Open the trunk, Roger.”

“I…No, I’m not going to stand here and be accused…”

“Give me the keys, GIVE ME THE KEYS! I’ll see for myself. Oh hell Roger, who is that?”

“Janie, I can explain.”

“There’s a woman’s head in your trunk, Roger. I don’t think I need an explanation. You lied to me. 28 days on the wagon my ass.”

“Today is my 28^th day. It was just one little slip, honest.”

“This isn’t going to work, Roger. Get away from me and don’t come back until you’ve gotten some help. Recreation is one thing, but this is just out of hand.”

“Janie come back! Janie, please, just one more chance! Please!”
"Come on, Janie. Janie! No, don't shut the door. No!"

“Well, Cindy, looks like my schedule just opened up. Wanna go back to my place?”

 As I already said, this was a fun little experiment that I wrote years ago and I hope you enjoyed it. Coming up this Saturday, July 20th, I will be featured in issue #11 of Sanitarium Magazine. This will be a milestone for me, my first published piece of fiction after years of writing and submitting stories. Pick up the issue, give my story "On The Farm" a read, and let me know what you think.

Also, stay tuned to this blog and my Facebook account for news about upcoming projects. I'm just getting started folks, so get ready, things are about to get messy.