Up, Out Of Cities That Blow Hot And Cold
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Charlee Jacob's a name to watch and this Stoker nominated collection is bound to be the gateway to bigger things. This collection features 15 tales and more than 70,000 words of fiction from one of today's premier horror writers. 236 pgs. Introduction by Tom Piccirilli. About the Author Charlee Jacob will be forty-eight years old in June 2000. She lives in Garland, Texas with her husband, Jim. She has been a digger of dinosaur bones, a slinger of hash, an actress, a runner of a laundry mangler, and a seller of designer shoes and rags. Writing full time since 1992, she has placed almost 200 stories and almost five hundred poems, primarily favoring horror although she also has published in both the science fiction and fantasy genres.
interstate, killing twenty-four people in the chain reaction? There had to exist a celestial or otherworldy reason for our suffering. One that studied with detachment our pain, steeped in great purpose. There could be nothing senseless, mundane or split-second foolish in what was so final.) (Had the plane crashes in what had come to be named the Appalachian Triangle happened because of hillbilly magic? Were the locals causing it so they could — what? — supplement their poverty? So that the
house was in the city and the many bright lamps smudged the starry panoply — her eyes were special, always had been, and she could see the Ferris wheels of frothy nebulas, the complicated carousel of constellation animals. Mr. and Mrs. Bell had put off naming her at first, after she’d been born. They already had a son, Cecil, and wanted to choose something special for their daughter. But then they discovered she was very different from them. There was a mobile of cartoon characters that spun
removal, then covered them with pads and promptly called an ophthamologist. “There, there,” Daria repeated, although she wasn’t sure if it was to the patient or to herself. There, there, now you can’t look at me. “At least we won’t have to cut her hair,” Nurse Fremont said bleakly from the other side of the bed. “All of it was burned clean off to the roots. Probably never grow back.” Candace must have heard this because she began to cry. Except that she couldn’t with the scorched tear ducts.
turning black in their mouths, backs stiff and upright with a springy poise as the metal coils of the mattresses now replaced their ribcages and spines. The stereo was stuck on the smouldering voice of Miss Peggy Lee, crooning, “You give me fever, in the morning, fever all through the night...” Rani had not burned. But she’d felt the heat fanning across her, through her, trying to burst out and up like an atom bomb, flavor of ash and firestorm in her mouth. She’d fled the horror, meat roasted
tear, a single diamond of release. Nothing. Yet the cold beast which had taken part of her over was as wild as its ghastly, bitter stupor would permit. It smiled a thin nihilistic smile, a tracery of the pattern found in the gradually crumbling mortar of inner city structures. (Except the crashing rumbles from every block in evidence belied that these structures were crumbling slowly anymore.) Its inhuman limbs clacked chitinously within her own until Daria began to shiver with its tremors. She