K. Marvin Bruce

  “Claresta won’t appreciate you walking in without knocking.” Terah turned around.   The bearded man behind him was large, looming, and unkempt.   “Sorry,” Terah managed.   “I’m new to the neighborhood.” The light was failing and Terah didn’t cherish spending the cold night outdoors.   His right leg still ached and he was exhausted. “We don’t have a realtor,” the large man boomed, “but nobody’s in number 27.” “I appreciate that,” Terah said, remaining cautious.   “Name’s Cal.” “Hagrid,” the stranger nodded.   “It’s this way, Cal.” With the light fading fast, determining the number of houses was impossible.   “If I may, what’s this place called?” “If you may?   Where are you from, finishing school?   Here we just ask questions.   It’s Dickinsheet.   And what brings you here?”   His faux polite manner was mocking, but didn’t seem malicious. “On my way west.   If I—   Do the authorities know about this place?” “Wha...

  As the stream began to climb, it had formed a natural setting for a mill.   Dilapidated, the remains of one crouched alongside the stream.   This was far from where anybody now lived, like the Deserted Village in Watchung Reservation.   Danielle had taken him there.   Technically Feltville, it had been a place where a community had thrived, but had eventually been abandoned.   Houses still stood, falling apart, but the area was now being preserved.   Of course, in New Jersey nothing was really far from anything else, but here?   From the mill Terah saw scattered, clearly forsaken houses, up on the hill. Some towns, like New Amsterdam, caught on and became New York City.   Others, like Pithole City near where he had entered the world, were left to rot.   It was like when you had an idea and began to follow it, but others dropped out when it wasn’t an instant success.   Terah recalled that Weird New Jersey had designated the area a...

  It wasn’t Lindsey.   Instinctively he darted behind a tree and held his breath.   He heard footsteps but saw no one.   Thoughts of Billy returned.   The boy had been convinced the ghosts were calling him.   When Terah had got him on the trail back to their tent he boy stood panicked, flashing his light into the treetops.   “The voices,” he cried, “they’re coming after me!”   Although it’d been summer, Terah shivered. “Billy, you’ve got to believe me!   There are no voices!”   He’d had some psychology at college, but nothing had prepared him for this.   Indeed, his religious classes hadn’t exactly convinced him that his faith was wrong, but he’d come to doubt the supernatural.   Science courses found a mechanistic universe much easier to comprehend.   Could Billy really be seeing ghosts?   The way he darted his flashlight beam around was creepy, unsettling. Now Terah found himself in the woods on a sunny January day....

  The dogs were barking at the plow.   No police.   Not yet. Snow-plow drivers, Terah surmised, heart sprinting, had tunnel vision.   He based this on experience.   Once, when waiting for a predawn February bus, a set of three overlapping plows came down the snow emergency route where the bus stopped.   A hooker for capitalism, he stood under the streetlight near the stop.   The plows didn’t swerve.   Or even slow down.   Onward they came, duty foremost.   Finally Terah leapt backward as a rooster tail of scraped snow taller than himself showered down from the blade scraping the asphalt.   If he hadn’t jumped, he’d have been baptized with dirty frozen water.   Tunnel vision. So he assured himself as he tried to climb the hill with the heavy pack on his back.   He leaned forward attempting to launch himself upward to a nearby trunk.   He’d then pull himself to it and try to repeat the maneuver.   He reckoned he’d ...

  So, just when I get started picking up steam in fiction, something drags me back to non.   I suppose the fact that I’ve had four nonfiction books published while my novel has been repeatedly rejected has something to do with it.   In any case, “Easy Chair” is now available on Coffin Bell . One of my Breck stories, this tale was inspired by my experience in higher education.   It’s a hostile environment.   If you’ve ever lost a job as a professor, you know what I mean.   Revenge is something that frequently comes to mind. A fun bit of horror that considers if trying revenge is really a good idea, “Easy Chair” had a relatively easy time with publication.   Unlike almost all of my stories, it was never rejected.   I revised it quite a few times before sending it out, but still, that’s remarkable. My very first published story as an adult (I don’t really count those from high school—who knows anything then?), “Hide and Seek,” was also never rejected...

  I’ve been doing some thinking.   I have dozens of stories written.   Most of them aren’t very good, but several of them are.   I’ve been trying to get them submitted. Part of the problem with being a graphomaniac is that you have so much material that you begin to forget it.   I’ve read some of my own stories that I have no recollection of writing.   One that I recently finished was “Squirrel Play.” Recently finished stories I remember.   I wanted this one to get read, so I decided to aim high.   The Horror Zine is a phenomenon that took off.   I’ve tried to publish there before, without success.   I decided to try again. Much to my surprise, it was accepted.   I’m thrilled beyond words! As a struggling writer I wrestle with self-doubt constantly.   I wasn’t given much encouragement as a writer, except by two English teachers in my high school.   Although that was nearly forty years ago, I only got the courage to submit...