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Contributors include such literary luminaries as Neil Gaiman, Joe R. Lansdale, Caitlín R. Kiernan, Karl Edward Wagner, Elizabeth Bear, and Nick Mamatas. The monsters are lovingly rendered in spectacular original art by World Fantasy Award–winning artist John Coulthart (The Steampunk Bible).
Legions of Lovecraft fans continue to visit his bizarre landscapes and encounter his unrelenting monsters. Now join them in their journey...if you dare.
don’t get no business in mind,” she said. “This isn’t like the old days. I need your help, and I need to know I can count on you.” “Well, I kind of like the kind of business we used to do, but all right, we’re friends. It’s cool.” “I hoped you’d say that.” “You got a car?” I said. She shook her head. “No. I had a friend drop me off.” I thought, friend? Sure. “All right then,” I said, “let's strut on out.” I guess you could say it’s a shame Alma May makes her money turning tricks, but when
the thieving squirrels; and trains in Krav Maga, grappling, and kickboxing, which are of no use at all against the squirrels. Connect through his website (BRIANHODGE.NET) or on Facebook (FACEBOOK.COM/ BRIANHODGEWRITER) and follow his blog, Warrior Poet (WARRIORPOETBLOG.COM). The New York Times recently called CAITLÍN R.KIERNAN “one of our essential writers of dark fiction.” Her novels include The Red Tree (nominated for the Shirley Jackson and World Fantasy awards) and The Drowning Girl: A
god. They ate the blood-red remains of the docile herd with long tough teeth and slurping lips. They licked the goat shed clean. They gnawed off Kris’s legs as she lay face-up in the grass with barely blinking eyes—and then they wandered into the forest, following the scent of the great and ever-wanting Goat. Agus was left squatting in the grass with his broken arm, begging to be loved. THEY WERE DOWN to the last leg of the trip, miles of iron-gray ocean skimming three hundred feet below the
behind her, he was watching. She stayed down until her lungs began to ache, then pushed free of the stone and rose to the surface, where she purged the snorkel with a gust of spent air, then flipped to return to the seabed. Closer this time, mere feet between her and Marsh as she settled again, no longer needing the compass—she found her bearing naturally, and time began to slow, and so did her heartbeat in spite of the fear, then the fear was gone, washed away in the currents that tugged at her
twilight, pink and gold, with an authority that reduced the surrounding elements (the clutter of greenery, the outlandish verdancy of the jungle) to a shadowy backdrop. The machine was presently feeding, a strange business that Rudge found endlessly fascinating. Great mechanical tentacles, armored like the carapace of a millipede, stretched to the tree tops, clutched branches, and broke them with its segmented strength or severed them with small spinning blades. The thin, tapered end of a