Poets in Hell: A Heroes in Hell Anthology Compiled by Janet Morris + giveaway

In the underworlds, injustice always reigns: Join us and our damnedest poets for the crookedest poetry festival in perdition where language comes to die and no rhyme goes unpunished.

Poets in Hell: A Heroes in Hell Anthology

Compiled by Janet Morris
Genre: Dark Epic Historical Fantasy
The best, the worst, and ugliest bards in perdition vie for Satan's favor as poets slam one another, Satan's Fallen Angels smirk up their sleeves, and the illiterati have their day. Find out why the damned deserve their fates as Hell's hacks sink to new poetical depths!

The first Bible writer drafts a deal with the Devil.

Attila the Hun learns his punishment's just begun.

Mary Shelley and Victor Frankenstein make a monstrous mistake.

Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp get their unjust deserts.

Hell's Undertaker goes on holiday.

The Damned Poets Society slams away.

A nameless soul shows Dorothy Parker that fame is a bitch.

In the underworlds, injustice always reigns:

Join us and our damnedest poets for the crookedest poetry festival in perdition where language comes to die and no rhyme goes unpunished. 

Stories inside:

• Words - Chris Morris
• Seven Against Hell - Janet Morris and Chris Morris
• Reunion - Nancy Asire
• Hell-hounds - Bruce Durham
• The Kid with No Name - Jack William Finley
• All Hell to Pay - Deborah Koren
• Poetic Injustice - Larry Atchley, Jr.
• When You Gaze Into an Abyss - Matthew Kirshenblatt
• Pride and Penance - Tom Barczak
• Grand Slam - pdmac
• Undertaker’s Holiday - Joe Bonadonna and Shebat Legion
• Red Tail’s Corner - Yelle Hughes
• Faust III - Richard Groller
• Tapestry of Sorrows and Sighs - Bill Snider
• Haiku d’État - Beth W. Patterson
• A Mother’s Heart - Bill Barnhill
• We the Furious - Joe Bonadonna
• Damned Poets Society - Michael H. Hanson
• All We Need of Hell - Michael A. Armstrong

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Excerpt from Poets in Hell
Words by Chris Morris
In the beginning was the Logos, the Word. In the beginning come always the words. Words are the mortar of the mind.

“Look, you!” J the Yahwist, first author of the Old Testament, exhorted empty air, waving her hands about her on a blasted heath encircled by dark and cold.

As in ancient times, this command brings light out of darkness, souls out of nowhere. All the heath fills with them, the detritus of the damned, singing and keening and rhyming aloud at the top of their lungs, each trying to outshout the other: the prolix, the wordy damned of perdition. Here are the teeming illiterati, the poor poets of pride and ignorance, angry and bleating like sheep at the altar, romancers of death, hoping for slaughter, dreaming of surcease.

J would give them peace if she could, but she couldn’t: peace was oblivion, oblivion was escape, and escape was unattainable in hell. Death could be had, and cheap, but never lasted long: no sinning soul could win its way to heaven’s grace.

J’s god reigned as a jealous god, tempestuous; unfair, equivocal. As her skin glowed caramel, neither white nor yellow, brown or black, so her eyes were inconclusively hazel, flecking every color in creation. Like her god on high, set up from eternity before the earth was made, she belonged nowhere in damnation, not to this New Hell nor any other. She was only visiting here. Or so she thought; so she hoped.

“Look, you,” J called a second time aloud, and a thousand heads turned her way; a thousand mouths clamped shut as she began to tell her tale to their minds’ eyes.

Invariably, these words are her signal to infernity that she is ready to begin. Inevitably, those words summon not only story, but the Deceiver, a lord of hell himself.

Sensing joy, incensed by pleasure, now comes Satan, white- winged and glorious, amid his host of fallen angels, circling to land, streaming intolerance and wrath on all the fools below, who howl the more.

At times like these, J misses Solomon. That wise warrior-king (her fellow writer of words worth hearing) would enjoin even such rabble as this to vie with the lords of hell themselves, if she’d but ask him.

About the Authors:
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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and has since published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Christopher Crosby Morris (born 1946) is an American author of fiction and non-fiction, as well as a lyricist, musical composer, and singer-songwriter. He is married to author Janet Morris. He is a defense policy and strategy analyst and a principal in M2 Technologies, Inc. He writes primarily as Chris Morris, but occasionally uses pseudonyms.

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Excerpt: Pirates in Hell A Heroes in Hell Anthology created by Janet Morris + giveaway

Black heart buccaneers face fiery seas, monstrous krakens, and the wrath of the Devil himself! 

Pirates in Hell: A Heroes in Hell Anthology
created by Janet Morris
Genre: Dark Fantasy Pirate Anthology
Avast, ye readers! Here be Pyrates! Feast yer eyes on the cursed treasures before you! Hoist the skull 'n' crossbones! Walk the plank with hell's sorest losers! Join the damnedest buccaneers and privateers ever to sail infernal seas. Here be twelve tales of piracy spun by Janet Morris, Chris Morris, Nancy Asire, Paul Freeman, Larry Atchley Jr, Rob Hinkle, Michael H. Hanson, Joe Bonadonna, Andrew P. Weston, S.E. Lindberg, and Jack William Finley. Corsairs, freebooters and plunderers shiver their timbers and meet their fates as the devil's dupes learn why the deeper in hell you go, the colder it gets.

The depths of hell chill the boldest sinner as damned souls learn why the deeper in hell you go, the colder it gets.

Inside you’ll find:

Bitter Business – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Pieces of Hate – Andrew P. Weston
Evil Angel – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Who’s a Pirate Now? – Nancy Asire
Curse of the Pharaohs – S.E. Lindberg
Lir’s Children – Paul Freeman
Unholiest Grail – Larry Atchley, Jr.
The Bitter Taste of Hell’s Injustice – Jack William Finley
Serial Recall and Beautiful Tortures – Michael H. Hanson
Drink and the Devil – Rob Hinkle
The Pirates of Penance – Joe Bonadonna
Muse of Fire – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Hell Hounds (excerpt) – Andrew P. Weston

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Excerpt from Pirates in Hell – Unholiest Grail by Larry Atchley, Jr.



Over the threshold and into the shop strode a man with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and a mustache turned up at the ends with styling wax. He wore a tailored blue frock coat, tan trousers neatly pressed. He waded through ankle-deep standing water in black leather knee-high boots. “Welcome to Hellish Curiosities and Clothiers,” LaVey said. “Can I interest you in anything in particular?”

“Hell-o to you as well, my damned man,” the patron said in an oratorical voice. “My name is Sir Henry Morgan. I have heard it said that your shop is the place where the rarest items of special interest may be found.”

“So true. So true.” Purring, LaVey stroked his black goatee. Finally, a viable customer. “We specialize in unobtanium. What, precisely, are you looking for, dear sir?”

“A product. A very special product,” said Morgan. “I’ve heard rumors that a cup exists, a special cup — a cup which, when filled with alcoholic libations or possibly any liquid, allows the drinker to actually become inebriated. As I’m sure you can imagine, such an item would be very much in demand.”

“Your reputation does precede you, Sir. And your predilection for strong drink is well known.” LaVey said. “Do you know that, after your death topside, an entire rum distillery company was named after you?”

“Heh, oh yes.” Morgan grinned. “But they got my image all wrong on the labels. I’ve never worn anything so gaudy as that outfit they portray.”

“If such a cup were in my possession,” LaVey responded, “its purchase price would be quite dear. Only a select few of the damned would be able to afford such an item.”

“Naturally.” Morgan shrugged. “I have considerable resources at my disposal. What would you charge for such a wondrous unholy relic . . . If you possessed it, that is.”

“If an unholy grail such as you describe actually exists,” LaVey said carefully, “surely His Satanic Majesty would never allow a mere sinner to possess it. His rules forbid the pleasure of drunkenness to the damned, as you surely know. To own such an item would mean risking the wrath of all the lords of the latter-day hells.”

Morgan drew close to LaVey and said archly, “Mister LaVey, let’s end this charade, shall we? Everyone knows you deal in certain items of supposedly mystical, or even reputedly mythical, powers. Scuttlebutt has it that most of what you sell is counterfeit rubbish, that—”

“Rubbish!” LaVey interrupted. “I’ve never been so insulted in all my—”

“Wait! Let me finish,” Morgan ordered. “However, some souls whisper that not everything you sell is a sham. A certain spear comes to mind.”

“Now see here, my good sir! That whole business about a certain spear got me into a great deal of trouble with His Satanic Majesty. I’d really rather not discuss the topic further.”

“As you wish.” Morgan licked his lips. “I shall merely point out that if someone in New Hell knows where to find this unholy grail, you are that someone. You claim to run the only place where such items can be found. ‘Unobtanium’ you call it. It would be in your best interest to actually have this item, the fabled ‘real deal’. You’d be discreet about it, of course, so as not to rouse the suspicions of the Devil’s Children. So naturally you couldn’t advertise that you possess such a cup. Thus my question to you remains: Do you in fact have it? And, if you do, what would it cost me to buy it? Alternatively, if you don’t now have it, could you get it upon for a qualified buyer? Name your price, and I will gladly pay it.”

LaVey pensively rubbed his Mephistophelian goatee, thinking what riches might be his, could he find so important a relic for this inveterate privateer, once lieutenant governor of Jamaica, whence he’d raided settlements far and wide with such single-minded rapacity that he secured a license to attack and seize Spanish vessels for the English Crown. “If I’m going to risk His Satanic Majesty’s ire, my price will be substantial.”

“A soul could name his own price for an item that can make this hellish existence less vexing.” Morgan grimaced. “Only from great risk comes great reward.”

“Yes, great indeed,” LaVey said. But where in hell could it be, this grail which Morgan so desired that he’d buy it rather than steal it? Returning from the storeroom to the selling floor with a crystal sphere in her fingers, Madam Blavatsky caught LaVey’s attention, casting furtive glances toward the back room. “Excuse me, Captain Morgan,” said LaVey and followed her into the back, which smelled disconcertingly of mildew.

Once out of Morgan’s sight, Blavatsky sucked on the corners of her toothless mouth and whispered, “For ‘great reward’, we may be able to assist him. This grail has shown itself to me.”

LaVey lit up like a cannon fuse. “You know where it is? Why haven’t you mentioned anything about this before,” LaVey demanded of the infuriating, self-proclaimed mystagogue and leading proponent of Theosophy.

“Because no one has asked about it until now,” she replied. “Why must I have as my assistant the greatest idiot savant of the modern age?”

“I’ve only now seen a vision of it while you and the customer were bantering about its price,” Blavatsky said, giving him a nasty sidelong glare.

La Vey took Madam Blavatsky’s arm, and the two nonchalantly made their way to where Morgan stood, staring through the storefront window, holding a pair of brass Carl Zeiss Jena binoculars close to squinting eyes. “I don’t have it right now, but we know where the cup may be found,” LaVey said to Morgan. “One million diablos is my finder’s fee,” LaVey said.

“Whoa ho!” Morgan exclaimed. “You’ve the soul of a buccaneer. A princely sum indeed. Very well, Mister LaVey, you shall have your price—if and when you produce the cup. The real grail, the goblet of my desire, of course, and not some simulacrum.”

“Of course, Sir Henry.” LaVey rubbed his hands together, sensually anticipating the feel of all those diablos under his sweating palms. “To deliver, I must mount an expedition. Would you like to join us?”

“Join you? On an expedition? I’ll lead any expedition my diablos fund. First I must needs muster a crew—reavers who’ll take my orders, not yours. Even in hell, he who has the gold makes the rules.” Morgan chuckled at his own levity.

About the Author
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Larry Atchley Jr. is a writer of primarily science fiction, fantasy, horror, and poetry. His other interests include Qi-Gong Kung Fu, British Humour, hiking, mountain biking, everything about tea, sword fencing, traditional archery, reading and collecting books, and playing harmonica and guitar. He is a crewmember of the piratical poetry and musical performance group The Seadog Slam and is frequently a guest author at various literary conventions and other events. He is a contributing author to Janet Morris’s Heroes in Hell series. You can read his blog, The Short Pale Writer in the Long Black Coat, at www.larryatchleyjr.wordpress.com.

Giveaway
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1 winner each!
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Q&A with author S. E. Lindberg (Lovers in Hell A Heroes in Hell Anthology) + giveaway

Q&A with author S. E. Lindberg (part of the Lovers in Hell Anthology)

What is something unique/quirky about you?
Strange muses have inspired me for decades. By training and trade, I am a chemist and the intersection of science, art, and spirituality fascinates me (alchemy essentially). Alchemy largely originated in Egypt, so its Underworld of Duat serves a rich muse. For Perseid Press, I’ve contributed six alchemy-inspired tales to date (four for the Heroes in Hell series and two for Heroika) that all integrate Egyptian myths.
 

Who is your hero and why?
I have many personal heroes and role models, but my mind goes to sharing the heroes of this featured story: “Lovers Sans Phalli”. There are two! I have adopted the duo of Howard Carter (renowned archaeologist and looter of King Tutankhamun’s tomb) and Ernst Haeckel (discredited evolutionist and original ‘ecologist’) as tour guides for several Heroes in Hell stories. Why use them as protagonists? Both are deceased explorers who sought to unveil mysteries that resonate with my alchemical inspirations.

Their motives contrast: Carter adores material, artificial wealth as much as Haeckel is fascinated with nature’s riches. They roam the Egyptian world of the dead, Duat. Introduced in Pirates in Hell, the conflicted duo has four connected, yet stand alone, adventures (so far 😊): “Curse of the Pharaohs” in Pirates in Hell
“Lovers Sans Phalli” in Lovers in Hell
“Fool’s Gold? in Mystics in Hell
“Bait and Switch” in Liars in Hell

What inspired you to write “Lovers Sans Phalli”?
Given the anthology theme of ‘lovers’ and given my heroes are damned to Duat, I researched relevant myths for inspiration and locked onto that of Osiris’s murder. Osiris was the Egyptian god of fertility and afterlife who was dismembered by his brother Set. Osiris’ wife Isis collected his body parts, including his sacred phallus, to enable the conception and birth of their son Horus.

For “Lovers Sans Phalli”, a dozen cursed pharaohs (all named Ramses) team with the infamous, tomb-raiding Howard Carter and discredited evolutionist Ernst Haeckel to repair the penis-less Osiris (who has no sovereignty presently in a realm ruled by Satan). It’s fun to have Carter and Haeckel deal with getting calibrated to being ‘dead’ (with ‘bodies’ that may not be whole in the ‘living’ sense) as they seek out the sacred penis. Of course, serious themes are buried under wild predicaments and satire. The reflective Haeckel considers ‘Are genitalia need for love?’ while Howard Carter, ever the opportunist, wonders: ‘How much is a god’s penis worth on the black-market?’

What is your advice to new authors?
Experiment with non-writing roles that bring a high return on investment to better your craft.

An issue (feature?) with writing today is that authors cannot exclusively write; they are compelled to be marketers, reviewers, editors, reviewers, etc. Every role has an opportunity cost (all that energy could be spent elsewhere). So, the question is: what efforts (beyond writing) can one perform that provide as many benefits as possible? Most include participating in larger communities.

A decade ago, I began interviewing authors to learn from them and to share their experiences/perspectives; that led to publishing opportunities and networking. Also, reviewing books helped me learn about new markets, while connecting with editors and publishers when I shared those reviews. I’m not keen enough to create content via podcasts, but that is obviously another way to simultaneously network while bettering one’s craft. Attending & volunteering at conventions is another way. I’ve attended World Fantasy Convention and GenCon Writer’s Symposium (GCWS), eventually participating on panels and have been on the organizing committee for three years now (chairing in 2023; next one is early August 2024, in Indianapolis). Not only are these great ways to meet/listen to panels with authors you can learn from, but volunteering at conventions allows for direct access to all sorts of folks in the industry (publishers, illustrators, editors). Writing/Reading groups (either in-person local clubs or online ones like Goodreads) offer community & opportunities too.

Only fools fall in love, and hell is filled with fools.

Lovers in Hell: A Heroes in Hell Anthology
by Janet Morris
Genre: Dark Fantasy Anthology
Only fools fall in love, and hell is filled with fools. Our damned lovers include: Christopher Marlowe and Will Shakespeare, Napoleon and Wellington, Orpheus and Eurydice, Hatshepsut and Senenmut, Abelard and Heloise, Helen and Penelope, Saint Teresa and Satan's Reaper, Madge Kendall and the Elephant Man, and more . . . -- all of whom pay a hellish price for indulging their affections.

Shakespeare said "To be wise and love exceeds man's might," and in Lovers in Hell, the damned in hell exceed all bounds as they search for their true loves, punish the perfidious, and avoid getting caught up in Satan's snares. In ten stories of misery and madness, hell's most loveless seek to slake the thirst that can never be quenched, and find true love amid the lies of ages.

Includes:
Never Doubt I Love – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Love Interrupted – Nancy Asire
Lovers Sans Phalli – S. E. Lindberg
Fume of Sighs – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Calamity – Michael E. Dellert
Love Triangle – Michael H. Hanson
A Hand of Four Queens – A. L. Butcher
Devil’s Trull – Andrew P. Weston
Withering Blights – Joe Bonadonna
Wrath of Love – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Excerpt from Hell Gate – Andrew P. Weston

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“Lovers Sans Phalli” by S.E. Lindberg Excerpt

“May your spirit live, may you spend millions of years, you who love Thebes, sitting with your face to the north wind, your eyes beholding happiness.”

–Tutankhamun’s Wishing Cup Inscription and Howard Carter’s Epitaph

Parallel dams of fleshy refuse emerged on either side of Ammit. This sordid canal within the Lake of Fire guided them in a closed circuit. Regularly spaced obelisks, tilted at awkward angles, rose from the dikes. Mummies, suspended from these, wailed as they burned in harmony with their wind-snapped threads of cloth, flittering like ruined pennants from vanquished standards. Legs spread, their crotches and lower abdomens gaped, empty.

“They have lost their genitals,” Howard Carter gasped in horror.

“Indeed, they are not whole,” agreed Haeckel.

The tomb-raider’s eyebrows raised with excitement: “Ah ha, but I recognize that one!”

“Mister Carter, how do you know the identity of that mummy? Its screams are incoherent. There is no discerning mark on its body; it is burnt beyond recognition.”

“Ah, the cartouche beneath his crispy legs labels it. It must be Khafre. Ooh! Look at that one over there. That must be Snefru.”

Haeckel asked, “What is a cartouche?”

Howard pointed. “The enclosed inscription of hieroglyphs. They are signatures of royal Egyptians.”

Ramses III muttered in horror: “The next reads: ‘Menes.’”

Young XI, participating with reluctant enthusiasm, said, “And Narmer hangs just beyond.”

“A splendid game, this is!” Howard Carter identified a few more with glee: Amenhotep and Khufu.

Haeckel raised his heart to his compatriot in a friendly salute. “Prost! Gut gemacht.”

The defaced pharaohs could not play any longer. ‘Spotting-the-burning-pharaoh’ made the Rameses’ hearts grow too heavy for games. The displayed victims wailed continuously. Did they call out for help? Mercy? Or to mitigate pain?

Senenmut grew strangely excited. He began to recognize the landscape. There was hope, after all. He tried to inform Hatshepsut but she batted him away. “Shh. I am listening.”

“Djoser!” Carter flexed his arms victoriously. “I am winning!”

“Shut up, fools,” Hatshepsut commanded. “Can you not hear a boy screaming for his mother?”

“Yes, Ma’am . . . or . . . sir . . . I did hear a boy’s cries,” Carter confirmed to Hatshepsut.

All quieted until Ammit’s torso rocked suddenly. Her riders staggered and squatted to maintain balance as she steered her bulk through the canal. The chimera burped.

The abject ostrich feather previously anchored to her teeth shot free, floated in the air, and landed on Hatshepsut. What did it mean to hold the feather of Maat again? She placed it into her ebony hair, above her right ear.

“A boy! Over there,” shouted Young XI.

Hatshepsut’s heart beat faster with hope and anxiety. “Where?”

“On the right. Up ahead. Beside a chariot with wheels upended.”

The ghostly, scab-encrusted boy sat cross-legged atop the ruined vehicle, his right thigh bone splintered. The dangling ankle smoldered. A large hole in his left breast revealed his empty ribcage, his missing heart. Bony hands clutched an alabaster chalice filled with the blood-red offering of the Lake. Blistered skin pebbled his brow. His skull gazed with vacant eye sockets toward them while his mouth opened. The shattered boy rasped, “Make a wish.”

“What did he say?” Hatshepsut asked of any who might know. “Is that my Thutmose?”

Despite the missing cartouche, Carter identified the burnt remains silently. The victim’s height marked him a teenager. The floral cup carved from white rock could only belong to a single pharaoh. Oh, dear Tutankhamun. Your Lotus Chalice would sell very well. Carter salivated. No need to educate the others. Time was of the essence. “No matter his identity, we can save the boy. We must. We move swiftly on this creature’s back, but we can retrieve him. Hold my heart for a moment.” He tossed the organ to Ramses IV. “I’m the tallest with the longest reach. I think I can grab him as we pass. As I lean over the side, someone please counterbalance me.”

Ramses III held Carter’s left hand, allowing the tomb-raider to lean far starboard as Ammit’s advance brought him closer.

The injured boy outstretched his hands to meet his savior, extending his reach by holding out the alabaster cup.

Carter seized the chalice. The boy pulled oppositely. King Tut whispered with charred lips, “You! I recognize you. You shall not have my cup, thief! Instead, I shall have you.”

Tutankhamun released the Lotus Chalice to seize Carter’s forearms.

Ammit did not slow. Carter pulled King Tut from the grotesque levee. The youth pulled furiously at Carter while towed along. Ethereal water splashed violently against the boy’s face, filling his open mouth to pour from his opened chest. To all bearing witness, it appeared that Carter was trying to reel in the boy. In truth, he could not let go.

Tutankhamun’s skin finally peeled off. His skinned hands failed in their grip, leaving the boy bobbing in dark waves. The chalice dropped and sank.

“No!” Carter wept real tears and retrieved a handkerchief from his vest pocket to mop the mucus streaming from his nose. “I tried to save— I tried”— he sniveled, glaring at his empty hands— “the . . . the ca . . . cu . . .”

“Tutankhamun!” Hatshepsut finally recognized the adolescent pharaoh.

Carter squinted helplessly toward where the chalice had sunk.

About the Author:
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S. E. Lindberg resides near Cincinnati, Ohio working as a microscopist, employing his skills as a scientist and artist to understand the manufacturing of products analogous to medieval paints. Two decades of practicing chemistry, combined with a passion for the Sword and Sorcery genre, spurred him to write Dyscrasia Fiction: graphic adventure fictionalizing the alchemical humors.

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Interview: Fantasy Author A.L. Butcher + giveaway

What is something unique/quirky about you?
I’m not sure anyone is ‘unique’, quirky yes but the forces around us, and within us mean we cannot be wholly ‘unique’.

Quirky things about me:
When I was little I wanted to be a squirrel when I grew up.

I’m afraid of dolls, puppets and clowns.

I probably have dyspraxia – I fall over often, walk into things, trip over my own feet, drop things, I have poor spatial awareness, and absolutely no sense of direction.

Can you, for those who don't know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?
I’m British, currently living in the Southwest UK – Bristol, although I grew up in a small town North of London. I write adult fantasy – sword and sorcery with sizzle, historical fantasy, short gothic horror and poetry.

I’ve been a storyteller for as long as I can remember, raised in a household filled with books and stories. I was always the one writing the story or poem for the school event, and I was considered ‘imaginative’ and daydreaming at school. I think a storyteller is what you are, not what you become. Of course you can learn the craft – the technical side of it – but the actual stories – they come (whether you like it or not).

I published the first novel in 2012 – the first of The Light Beyond the Storm Chronicles series of dark adult fantasy/fantasy romance. The idea came from an adventure I’d written for a role-playing game (yeah, I am a nerd), which never got used and I adapted it to a world I’d created for a different project. The rest of the series, and the companion series came about from that.

At the time my mother was in the last stages of cancer and I was determined to finish book one so she could see it and she told everyone – and I mean EVERYONE. Writing is therapeutic, it helps one lose oneself in new worlds and new situations, it’s creative (obviously) but it’s a puzzle – what happens next? Who are these people in this story, what is going to happen to them? It gives the brain something to focus on, which is away from the real world.

My Legacy of the Mask series stems from characters from the Phantom of the Opera – one of the enduring loves of my life. I’ve been captivated by that story, it’s tragic antihero and the love and mystery of it for over 35 years.

Who is your hero and why?
Gaston Leroux, Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley – for writing some of the great gothic horror tales.

Agatha Christie – because her mystery stories are superb and she’s the best selling author ever.

Alexandre Dumas and Victor Hugo– because epic novels rock.

Tolkein – because of the world building and the mythic telling. Lord of the Rings is at the heart of much British fantasy.

David Attenborough – because he’s the foremost naturalist of our age and his love of nature inspires me.

Which of your stories/novels can you imagine being made into a movie?
I really hate this question, I actually have no idea. I’d guess my second novel – The Shining Citadel. It’s a fun adventure.

What inspired you to write Abode of Woe?
The main characters are Cassandra – the prophetess of Troy, Calchas – seer of Agamemnon, the Reverend Henry Prince – a Victorian era ‘messiah’ of sorts and his rival/second in command John Hugh Smyth-Piggott. We have two ancient mystics who between them influenced the fall of Troy and two Victorian wannabee messiah who set up the Abode of Love and ‘persuaded’ gullible women to hand over their virtue and worldly possessions to be ‘blessed’. They are fun characters – very different, and there’s a lot of dark humour.

I love ancient mythology, I have a background in Classical Studies and Troy and its fall fascinates me. The two Victorian gentlemen - charismatic and surprisingly successful. They are interesting characters. And I wondered what would happen if they met one another.

Hell is a challenge to write, but it’s an amazing shared world and there’s a lot of scope for mischief.

Convince us why you feel your story is a must read.
There’s dark humour, a fiend called Kevin and a duel – with cannons…. Two ancient mystics, two modern (relatively) would-be messiahs and lots of mischief.

The Heroes in Hell series is a lot of fun – darkly humorous, very dystopian, and where else would you find famous people from history – from ancient to modern - living side by side and having very unusual adventures? Not for the faint hearted or those who like a happy ending – it’s Hell. Mankind’s final and eternal damnation, but it’s clever, and varied and anything happens.

What is your advice to new authors?
1) Write what you want to write, and what makes you happy.

2) Before you publish make sure you read all the FAQs and Terms of Service of the site/publisher. Ensure you are clear what is required of you, and if you’re self-publishing ensure you understand what is involved and don’t cut corners.

3) Success is relative.

4) Don’t worry about reviews – there will always be someone who doesn’t like your book, but there will be someone else who thinks it’s great. Reviews are one person’s opinion. Nothing more, nothing less.

Join the doomed on their vision quests in eleven stories by the damnedest writers in Perdition

Mystics in Hell: A Heroes in Hell Anthology
by Janet Morris
Genre: Dark Fantasy Anthology
Mystic Madness!

Join the doomed on their vision quests in eleven stories by the damnedest writers in Perdition: Janet Morris; A.L. Butcher; Joe Bonadonna; Andrew P. Weston; Gustavo Bondoni; Seth Lindberg; Tom Barczak; Michael H. Hanson; Louis Antonelli; Christopher Crosby Morris.

Mystics in Hell is the latest volume in the notorious Heroes in Hell series of anthologies and novels created by Janet Morris.

A Frame of Mind by Janet Morris & Chris Morris
Kit Marlowe treks back from exile, where he has encountered three witches. Carrying a skull which he found on a blasted heath, he arrives at the Globe, where Satan and the angel of death accost him. At their displeasure, he’s banished once more, this time to return instantly via the powers of the Fates. Satan meets him at a cast party and decrees that Kit not only will spy for him, but play Banquo, beheaded in each subsequent performance of Macbeth.

The Come Right Inn by Andrew P. Weston
Where we meet up with one of Satan’s most secretive agents. A charming woman with a finger—and most other body parts—in every pie. She’s bewitching, beguiling, and bedeviled to be sure, but won’t think twice about skinning you alive if you cross her.

Abode of Woe by A.L. Butcher
When the self-proclaimed anti-messiah builds a temple on their doorstep and ruins business, Calchas and Cassandra look to some devious means to bring down the walls. Dueling mystics and misinformation bring mayhem to the underworld.

Fool’s Gold by S.E. Lindberg
A tale of the Egyptian god of mysticism, Thoth, who seeks conspirators to retrieve the Philosopher’s Stone; with it, Thoth could usurp Satan’s control of the realm of Duat. Taking up the charge is Howard Carter, infamous antiquarian and tomb raider, and the disgraced evolutionist Ernst Haeckel. They discover that King Midas’s alchemical ability to transmute flesh into gold relies on the stolen stone, and Midas is producing Hell’s new gastro-currency: buttcoin. They infiltrate the Mortuary Mint and sabotage the currency’s production. Instead of returning the stone to Thoth, the duo uses it to build up their own fortune. The auditors of Hell, namely the First and Second of the Sibitti, police the matter.

The True Believer by Lou Antonelli
Few national leaders of the 20th century had as much of a negative and controversial impact on history as Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd, prime minister of South Africa from 1958 to 1966, when he was assassinated. Commonly referred to in South Africa as “Dr.” Verwoerd, he had a PhD in psychology, and went down in history as The Man Who Invented Apartheid. Now in Hell, Dr. Verwoerd refuses to acknowledge his infernal fate and gets a special visit to set him straight.

By Any Means Necessary by Gustavo Bondoni
Umberto Eco knows he’s in Hell; the suffering and multiple deaths that never kill him permanently are more than enough of a clue for a man of his learning. But when he gets forcibly recruited by Nazi Commando Otto Skorzeny to prove the theories of one of history’s greatest charlatans, he thinks things can’t get any worse. He’s wrong. Hell can always get worse.

Excalibur by Tom Barczak
When dealing with the harsh reality of the Afterlife: Hell can be hard. But Rasputin has something even harder, and Lafayette Ronald Hubbard desperately needs it if he is going to pull off the greatest magic trick Hell has ever known.

On The Run by Michael H. Hanson
Tells of Sufi mystic Rumi, Zen Buddhist Dōgen, and Charlatan Spiritualist Mina Crandon using their new-found magics on the grandest of all quests, to find powerful talismans that will allow them to escape Hell itself.

The Sorcerous Apprentice by Andrew P. Weston
Daemon Grim learns new tricks from an old dog. And just as well. There’s a fallen saint to bring to heel, and she’s not known for playing ball . . . crystal or otherwise.

The Colossus of Hell by Joe Bonadonna
Doctor Victor Frankenstein and computer scientist Alan Turing want to build a cyborg. Quasimodo wants to win the hand of the French fortune teller, Marie Anne Lenormand. Rasputin and Cagliostro want to open an exclusive, private club. And a mysterious damned soul, known only as the Orange Ogre, wants revenge against anyone in Hell who ever cheated or betrayed him, laughed at and humiliated him, or even ignored him—especially His Satanic Majesty himself.

Strange Arts by Janet Morris and Chris Morris
In a Tower cell, Marlowe’s head struggles to regain consciousness and rejoin his body. Here he finds his Elizabethan spymaster, Walsingham, waiting with J the Merciful and three mysterious Sisters. After painfully stitching together his body and soul, the five entreat him to join their most secret conspiracy.

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From The Abode of Woe by A.L. Butcher 
Paradise’s dim light grew ever dimmer as the hell-lights began to glare with the blue glow of sulfur. It was an unforgiving light for the unforgiven. Word had got around, and crowds had begun to gather for the evening’s entertainment. Calchas had started a book on the outcome of the battle, and the diablos were rolling in.

“Two to One for the Pig Man!” yelled a grifter clad in the sharpest suit of the evening.

“Seven to Four for the Prince!” bellowed another voice, shrill in the crowd.

Kevin the fiend grinned. He was having the time of his unlife; he’d read the small-print.

“Are they ready?” Calchas asked, eying the large and sinister cloth-covered mounds on opposing sides of the temple.

“Yep. Ready for mayhem, master.” A smiling fiend is not something to stir the heart with confidence or joy and Calchas sobered. He wondered if he should feel guilty, but he had enough of that to last a thousand lifetimes and these New Dead had brought it on themselves. At least that is what he told himself and Cassandra.

“Ego fighting ego will bring no good for either. A temple built in haste to honor mere vanity and lies will surely fall to dust.” Cassandra stared at the mounds, hoping these fire-spiting death machines would not bring them all to the Undertaker’s door. Were they too close? She closed her eyes and let her mind wander.

“Will we be punished for this venture?” He’d asked, thinking too late they may have erred and voicing both their fears. He hoped nothing would backfire; plans in hell oft went awry. And he knew that sooner or later he’d pay the price for this deceit.

“This is Hades. Punishment is inherent. But I think not . . . at least not on this day. ‘Rue thy former life, and revel in thy afterlife, for thou art damned.’ Is that not the advice you once gave me? We are the damned. We must survive as we may. But those infernal and wicked weapons of the new-dead — Surely the walls of Ilium would have fallen on the first day.” She paused, “Would we have fought with such demon-weapons of war?”

Calchas gazed over to the two looming cloth-bound shapes. “Probably. Priam and Agamemnon would have found some means to destroy one another, no doubt. Man’s capacity for war outweighs his capacity for reason — and this place is full of the testimonials to that.”

“They will fall in dust as vain men are wont to do.” Cassandra told him.

“They won’t go through with it. It would be suicide. That building will fall down in the next hell-storm,” Calchas replied, doubtful.

They’d watched the crowd assemble from a reasonable distance. “Pack up. In case. And I will try to steer the mayhem from our door to be on the safe side, should the range of those war-weapons be enough to hit us. Make sure you are careful where you stand.

“Look there’s old Assisi. Out for the entertainment, along with everyone else by the looks. Let’s see — drinks are half-price.” Calchas would not let this opportunity pass.

Cassandra nodded, “Where did you get the fire-spitters?”

“Che Guevara owes me a favor. It might be useful to keep one—just in case. How hard can they be to use? Look, come there are our two brave heroes.” Calchas separated himself from Cassandra, still in the guise of the department man, and wandered over to the two Prophets.

“So, gentlemen, are we ready to settle this? Remember the winner gets control of that site, should it still be standing. The loser, or losers . . .will have more immediate issues to deal with.” Calchas motioned to the nearer of the covered shapes. “Who would like Big Bertha?”

The Reverend Henry Prince stared doubtfully at the shape. “That’s not a sword, or a firearm.”

“Give that make a Heck-Cookie!” Kevin chortled. He’d been milling and warming up the onlookers. With a flourish he tugged the cloth away — to reveal a howitzer, pointing towards the Temple of Woe. It was an evil-looking device, as were many man-made machines of death. “Humans, they do like to kill one another in all sorts of inventive ways! Welcome Big Bertha. She’s a friendly girl!”

“And the other?” Smyth-Pigott asked, his voice tremulous.

They walked across to a lower-slung shape. “Gentlemen, meet Roaring Meg, the deadly maiden of the English Roundheads,” Kevin chuckled.

“Not your era, I suppose, but they do the job. They are primed for combat. Meg has helpers: she fires but one ball at a time, yet she’s a fiery lass and one of the more knowledgeable operatives of hell has evened the odds.” Calchas held his palm out, containing dice. “Whoever rolls snake-eyes gets first choice, but Meg is a little slower, and older, and thus she fires first.”

“What happens if we refuse this ridiculous plan?” Henry Prince could not take his eyes from the cannon.

“Refuse? I wasn’t aware that was an option.” Calchas feigned surprise.

Kevin murmured something in Calchas’ ear, “My associate says it is an option but if a refusal is forthcoming then all rights are revoked to build now and for infernity, Sentence will be the six-hundred and sixty-five years of cleaning Perish sewers, and you must publicly affirm your rival as the true Chosen One, the true heir and the ultimate seer. And as both are equally guilty you will have to work together, and your women too, forever. If both refuse, then it must be done at exactly the same time. Whomever speaks first is deemed the greater coward.”

About Spotlight: A. L. Butcher
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British-born A. L. Butcher is an avid reader and creator of worlds, a poet, and a dreamer, a lover of science, natural history, history, and monkeys. Her prose has been described as ‘dark and gritty’ and her poetry as ‘evocative’. She writes with a sure and sometimes erotic sensibility of things that might have been, never were, but could be.

Alex is the author of the Light Beyond the Storm Chronicles and the Tales of Erana lyrical fantasy series. She also has several short stories in the fantasy, fantasy romance genres with occasional forays into gothic style horror, including the Legacy of the Mask series. With a background in politics, classical studies, ancient history and myth, her affinities bring an eclectic and unique flavour in her work, mixing reality and dream in alchemical proportions that bring her characters and worlds to life.

She also curates speculative fiction themed book bundles on Pubshare - for the most part - the Here Be Series

 
Alex is also proud to be a writer for Perseid Press where her work features in Heroika: Dragon Eaters, Heroika Skirmishers – where she was editor and cover designer as well as writer – as well as Lovers in Hell and Mystics in Hell – part of the acclaimed Heroes in Hell series. http://www.theperseidpress.com/

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