Friday, March 24, 2017

Welcome to/about my Twitter story feed

(For regular readers of my story blog, this will become a pinned tweet for my Twitter story feed.)

First, about me: I’m an author of suspense fiction. To get a rough idea of my work, you may want to check out my Kentucky crime novel, Blood Flats, my “haunted road” novel, Eleven Miles of Night, or my coming-of-age supernatural thriller, 12 Hours of Halloween. I’ve also written a corporate thriller, Termination Man. 

And those are just the tips of the proverbial iceberg. I’m constantly writing new novels and short stories. 

BUT NO: I’M NOT TRYING TO SELL YOU ANYTHING. REALLY. This isn't a “buy my book(s)” post!

I sell books on Amazon, of course. But my social media presence (YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter) is where I serialize my stories into bite-size chunks for an online audience. 

My online serializations are 100% FREE. You don’t have to register for anything, or give me your email address. All you have to do is head over to my YouTube channel and watch/listen. Consume as much as you want—listen to entire books/stories, or sample them. (The stories that are serialized on YouTube are usually available on Amazon if you’d prefer to read.)

I add story videos everyday. I use Twitter to post updates. 

What won’t you find on my Twitter feed? Political rants, cat pictures, “memes”, and Internet drama. 

Anyway, I hope you follow me on Twitter. And even if you don’t, please visit my YouTube channel.

Thank you,

Edward Trimnell

12 Hours of Halloween: Reading #34

12 HOURS OF HALLOWEEN: A NOVEL:  On Halloween 1980, three young friends go out for "one last Halloween" in a suburb that becomes a surreal landscape of terror.

Visit my YouTube channel to catch the other story videos!





A large shape revealed itself by moving across several sets of porch lights. Although my instincts urged me to recoil (to run in the opposite direction, in fact) I forced myself to step forward by several paces, so that I could gain a better look.
Silhouetted against the moonlight, the oblong snout of a large bear revealed itself. 
Bears, of course, are practically unknown in the populated regions of Ohio; and the bears that do exist in the Buckeye State are smaller black bears. The specimen far ahead of us must have been a full-grown grizzly. There are no wild grizzly bears east of the Mississippi, or far south of the Canadian border. 
Some of these specifics would have been beyond my grasp on that night, but no one had to tell me that the bear’s presence was unnatural.
Nor was the bear itself a normal phenomenon of nature. The animal ambulated with creaky, jerky movements. After pacing back and forth across the road several times, it stood in the middle of the blacktop pavement and barred our path.
“Oh, my,” Leah said. “That—that thing is from the Dolbys’ living room. Don’t you recognize it, Jeff?”
It took me a moment to grasp what Leah was talking about. At the far end of our street lived an elderly couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Dolby. Despite the age difference, the Dolbys were well-loved among the neighborhood children. When I’d had a paper route two summers ago, Mr. Dolby had routinely tipped me extra when I came around for collections. The Dolbys were always good for the purchase of a raffle ticket to support little league, or a one-year magazine subscription to support the school band.
On one especially hot day, Mrs. Dolby had invited me to step inside their house while she retrieved my paper money (plus a glass of lemonade). That was when I’d noticed Mr. Dolby’s bearskin rug.
“Oh, that old thing,” Mrs. Dolby had explained. “That belonged to Mr. Dolby’s grandfather. I believe that his grandfather’s father shot the bear in Montana. That would have been sometime during the 1800s—not long after the Civil War, in fact.”
“I’ve seen the rug,” Leah explained now. “The bearskin rug. I remember it from a few years ago, back when I was still in Girl Scouts and we were selling cookies.”
That explained the bear’s almost mechanical movements. It was really a bear—a bear that had been dead for a very long time.
I recalled my mother mentioning something a week or so ago—about the Dolbys leaving early for Florida this year. So at least the reanimated bear carcass—if that was indeed what it was—wouldn't harm them. But our safety was another matter.
“We can’t go that way,” I said.
“Maybe we can go around it,” Bobby suggested. Bobby separated himself from us and stepped into the grass of the adjacent lawn. He took a few steps forward, in the direction of our intended destination.
The bear moved laterally to counter him. It bellowed—a hollow, unnatural sound, nothing like a real bear, in all probability. But the message was clear: If we tried to go directly home, we would have to contend with that thing first.
Bobby walked carefully backward, his gaze fixed on the bear. 
“I wonder if those jaws work?” he asked.
“Do you want to find out?” Leah challenged him.
The bear now moved two or three feet in our direction. It wasn't quite a charge, but it was enough to make us move correspondingly in the opposite direction—back the way we had been going. 
“We can’t go this way,” I said. “We have to go back.” I understood now what was happening—or at least I thought that I did. The bear was there for a purpose. We were not supposed to go home early—it wasn't going to be that easy.  



Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Some thoughts on short stories

From my YouTube channel: A few random thoughts on the continuing benefits of the short story, to both authors and readers:


Tuesday, March 21, 2017

12 Hours of Halloween: Reading #32

Remember: You can catch up on all the previous/ongoing story videos at my YouTube channel:




12 HOURS OF HALLOWEEN: A NOVEL:  On Halloween 1980, three young friends go out for "one last Halloween" in a suburb that becomes a surreal landscape of terror.

Reading #32:

I paused before answering. What Bobby was saying was essentially my interpretation of the situation, his obvious skepticism notwithstanding. 
For some reason, the unusual happenings of the recent days had made my friends not only jittery, but touchy as well. This would cloud their judgment, I knew. And the divisions between the three of us might widen. 
I was already scared, and I had reason to believe that the “curse” as Bobby called it, might be seriously dangerous as well as unnerving. So far, it had all been little more than a display of strange sights and sounds. But given the horrific nature of those sights and sounds, that was bound to change...



'12 Hours of Halloween', Reading #31

Remember: You can catch up on all the previous/ongoing story videos at my YouTube channel:



12 HOURS OF HALLOWEEN: A NOVEL:  On Halloween 1980, three young friends go out for "one last Halloween" in a suburb that becomes a surreal landscape of terror.

Reading #31:


It was the ghost boy. He was clad in his usual attire: army surplus jacket, tee shirt, and jeans. (Was there something wrong with his neck, though?)
The ghost boy was completely unsurprised by our presence there. He might have been waiting for us to show up. In retrospect, he almost certainly was.
“Hey! Why don't you guys come in and join the party?” he beckoned. With a sweep of one arm he made as if to invite us in.

There was indeed a gathering taking place inside the house, as could have been surmised from the noise—even when the door had been closed. The interior of the house was bathed in a dull orange-red light that prevented me from discerning many details about the figures milling around inside....




Monday, March 20, 2017

Notes for new Twitter followers (and those considering following me)

(For regular readers of my blog: This will be a pinned tweet for my Twitter feed).

1.) You may not know who I am. I’m a writer of suspense fiction. I write supernatural thrillers, crime fiction, and adventure tales. At present, I'm best known for the supernatural thriller Eleven Miles of Night. 

2.) I mostly use social media (YouTube, Facebook, my blog, and Twitter) to get my stories “out there” in the world. This usually takes the form of serializing my novels and short fiction in bite-sized chunks for an online audience. 

3.) I do make occasional posts about writing, publishing, and related items. But most of my social media presence is dedicated to storytelling, and to introducing readers to my stories. I talk a lot about my work, in other words.

4.) This means that I don’t post much in the way of standard social media stuff: cat pictures, political screeds, or ‘memes’. (I don't want to know your political/religious views, or thrust mine on you.) 

5.) It is not inaccurate to say that my Twitter feed is very focused on what I'm doing as a writer/storyteller, versus being all over the place with lots of different topics. I'm being upfront with you about this. My Twitter account is about promoting my stories, and not much else. 

6.) You may feel that my Twitter feed is too focused on my stories...as opposed to ad nauseam political debate, cat pictures, and glib 140-character remarks about celebrities and current events. If you find my Twitter feed too narrowly focused, please feel free to unfollow me. There will be no hard feelings; and you'll still be welcome at my story blog and at my YouTube channel.


*     *    *
So now you know what I do on social media in general, and on Twitter in particular. Thanks for stopping by, and thanks for following me!

YouTube update video: March 20, 2017

What's on my YouTube channel? What's ongoing? What's coming down the pike? Plenty, as it turns out. An update to all my regular readers/viewers. Thanks, as always, for stopping by!


BLOOD FLATS: Chapter 2 reading now on YouTube!

From my YouTube channel: me reading Chapter 2 of my Kentucky crime novel, BLOOD FLATS:






BLOOD FLATS: Heart-pounding action in the heart of rural Kentucky! Lee McCabe, an ex-marine and veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom, must do battle with local narcotics traffickers, mafia hit men, and a lawman with ulterior motives.

Chapter 2

Lee walked through the wood-paneled hallway toward the kitchen of his trailer. The trailer was old. Its flooring creaked and groaned beneath his feet. 
The trailer was temporary, of course—just like his present job as a lathe operator at the SJR Machine Shop. He had banked a fair amount of his Marine Corps pay, resisting the temptation to spend it on leave like there was no tomorrow, as so many men did—since there might well be no tomorrow for any particular person in a time of war. And the lathe operator job paid decent wages. In the fall he would begin to take evening classes. There was a satellite branch of the University of Kentucky right here in Hawkins County.  
It was funny how your power relative to others changed, he reflected, sometimes moving you upward, sometimes pushing you back down the ladder. In the Marine Corps he had been a sergeant, grade E-5, with authority over other men and responsibility for other men’s lives. Now he was a lowly lathe operator. That was all right. In Iraq he had given commands that had brought death—mostly to the enemy, but once or twice to men he was leading, through his own misjudgment of the circumstances, the superior tactics of the enemy, or plain and simple bad luck.
God, I have had enough of giving orders for one lifetime, he thought. From here on out, let me neither take orders nor give them. Let me simply enjoy my freedom.  
This was something that civilians seemed incapable of grasping. They all wanted to know what the war had been like—and how it felt to be back; but they gave Lee slightly embarrassed smiles when he told them that it was simply good to be alive and free in a familiar place where no one was taking potshots at you. 
No, civilians didn't understand. No matter how circumspect their questions, civilians all wanted to know about the violence. They were practically obsessed with it: Were you in any shootouts? Did you see any al-Qaeda fighters? And always that one unspoken question that no one dared to ask: Did you have to kill anyone? 
Lee avoided these questions as much as he could. He simply wanted to reacclimate himself to the ways of peace. He had gotten to know violence intimately, and he wanted no further part of it. And no, he had no interest in telling war stories. Perhaps he would tell them when he was an old man. But he had no desire to tell war stories now. This, also, was an inclination that civilians could not fully grasp, he supposed.
He was in the kitchen when he heard the heavy footsteps in the gravel outside his front door. His body stiffened. Judging by the heaviness of the crunching noises, three to four men were passing by his trailer. They were walking deliberately without any banter or conversation between them. 
Lee made an instant connection between these footsteps and the engine he had heard a few minutes ago. He let go of the notion that he could simply ignore the situation. Rational or not, it was bothering him now. 
He stepped to his front window and drew the white ruffled curtain back a few inches. There were in fact four of them. He could see their backs now: each one was wearing either a trench coat or a hunting jacket, which didn’t make sense at this time of year. Then Lee noticed an angular bulge inside one of the trench coats. This made the reason for their unseasonable attire immediately apparent. 
The men obviously were not planning to pay him a visit. They were headed toward the adjacent lot. The trailer occupied by Tim Fitzsimmons, and his girlfriend, a young woman whom Lee knew only as Jody. 
Just past the edge of his own trailer, one of the men briefly turned around, as if making a quick survey of the surroundings. Lee froze.
The man had a dark beard and a bulbous nose. He looked vaguely familiar, though Lee could not place him. When you lived in a small town, there were many people outside your circle of friends and acquaintances whose faces were nevertheless familiar to varying degrees. Probably this man was someone whom Lee had seen around town. He was definitely a local. 
The man apparently had not noticed Lee looking out the window. He turned back around and continued walking with his companions.  
One of the men pointed to Tim Fitzsimmons’ trailer and gestured to the others. Yes, that was definitely where they were going. Where else would trouble of this kind be headed?



Sunday, March 19, 2017

The Incredible Horror Box Set!

Two Chilling Novels, a Creepy Novella, and 16 Tales of Terror!





This INCREDIBLE HORROR BOX SET includes four complete books of horror by master of suspense fiction, Edward Trimnell:

12 HOURS OF HALLOWEEN: A NOVEL:  On Halloween 1980, three young friends go out for "one last Halloween" in a suburb that becomes a surreal landscape of terror.

ELEVEN MILES OF NIGHT: A NOVEL: A young filmmaker takes a walk down the most haunted road in Ohio. Hellhounds, malevolent ghosts, demons, and more!

LUK THEP: A HORROR NOVELLA:  A gripping international horror tale. Jane Hughes is an American executive who is pursued by a vengeful ghost from Thailand.

HAY MOON AND OTHER STORIES: SIXTEEN MODERN TALES OF HORROR AND SUSPENSE: Zombies, vampires, forest creatures, sharks, aliens, and dangerous humans. Sixteen unforgettable stories!




I thought it was time to put together a horror box set. I wanted to make this the biggest, baddest, horror box set available. 

There is a wide range of stories here. (You can check out the individual titles on Amazon for more information about each one.) And the price of the box set offers a very steep discount, compared to buying them individually.




Saturday, March 18, 2017

'Thanatos Postponed: a short tale of terror': Chapter 10 reading

From my YouTube channel: Reading Chapter 10 of my short horror tale set in Mexico:





Description:


Mark Bonner is a young college graduate from Ohio with an exciting new job. He has been hired as a private English tutor at the estate of Raul Garcia, a wealthy businessman of Zacatecas, Mexico.

But there is more to the Garcia family than meets the eye. The Garcias' oldest daughter, Ana, is inexplicably missing. And there is something about one of the guesthouses, which the rest of the family avoids. The maid, Marisol, crosses herself when she passes near the guesthouse, and whispers, "¡Brujas!"--the Spanish word for "witches".


Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher", "Thanatos Postponed" is a tale of a family with more than one secret, and a story of death "postponed".


Chapter 10


My lessons with the three remaining children—like most other normal activities on the estate—were suspended in the wake of the fire.
As I was making my way to the main house that morning, a security guard met me halfway. He told me, politely but firmly, that I should return to my quarters. Someone would bring breakfast. An hour later, someone did, an older woman who worked in the kitchen. Needless to say, I was desperate to see Marisol.
I was also terrified now that suspicion would fall on me, and that I would immediately break under questioning, and give myself away. 
Around noontime a security guard finally came and escorted me to the main house. I was taken to a private study where Raul Garcia was waiting for me. Garcia was seated behind a desk. Two large, rough-looking men were seated on a divan on the far side of the room. Their sport coats and Italian shoes didn't disguise the fact that they were violent characters. 
Garcia’s expression was very grave, but I detected no anger directed at me. He motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite the desk. It was an antique armchair with leather upholstery—not unlike the one that Ana had been chained to. 




Reading Chapter 1 of BLOOD FLATS, my Kentucky crime novel

From my YouTube channel, reading Chapter 1 of BLOOD FLATS:


Heart-pounding action in the heart of rural Kentucky! Lee McCabe, an ex-marine and veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom, must do battle with local narcotics traffickers, mafia hit men, and a lawman with ulterior motives.



On the morning that he became a fugitive from justice, Lee McCabe awoke with two persistent sensations in his consciousness. The first was the sound that Apache helicopters make when they land in the desert, and how the dust swirls beneath them as they raise up little tornados of sand. The second was the smell of a woman’s strawberry shampoo.
As he struggled awake—alone in the small bedroom of his rented trailer—Lee realized that the sound was not that of an Apache helicopter but the rumbling of an approaching motor vehicle. Sounds carried a long way this far from town, especially on a Saturday morning. 
He resisted the notion that the approaching car or truck might be something to worry about. He was still overly cautious, he knew. What else could he expect after two years of living in a war zone? ....




Friday, March 17, 2017

'12 Hours of Halloween': Reading #29

From my YouTube channel, reading #29 of my coming-of-age horror novel set in suburban Ohio in the year 1980.

In this installment, Leah, Jeff and Bobby continue their interaction with the neighbor woman who is not quite what she seems....




They’re fake, I thought. They have to be. 
She pivoted to drop candy into the bags held by Leah and Bobby. I noticed that her hand brushed Bobby’s. I saw Bobby stare back at the woman with wide-eyed amazement, then repulsion and fear. The woman shot a smile back at him. It might have been a private joke passed between the two of them. But Bobby turned away quickly, barely murmuring his thanks.
I stole a glance inside the house, which looked mostly normal, except for some atmospheric Halloween lighting. (This, of course, was nothing out of the ordinary.) My attention was drawn to something small and black that was walking jerkily past the woman’s feet in the foyer. 
The black cat walked like a robot, with stiff joints. The cat was no robot, though. Its black fur was genuine—and matted with blood. 
 “Hit by a car,” the woman said in response to my unstated question. 
Leah saw the cat, too, now, and she gasped aloud....


Thursday, March 16, 2017

Curious about "The Vampires of Wallachia"?

You can listen to the story on my YouTube channel. Alternatively, you can read it in my first short story collection, or as a standalone short story on Kindle. 

(Read it for free in either form if you have a Kindle Unlimited membership.)

In the video below, I talk about the short story and the inspirations behind it.


New YouTube channel welcome



I've updated the welcome video over at my YouTube channel. There are lots of story videos posted, and lots more on the way!

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

"Thanatos Postponed: a short tale of terror": Chapter 9 reading

From my YouTube channel, the ongoing reading of my long short story, "Thanatos Postponed: a short tale of terror":








Description:


Mark Bonner is a young college graduate from Ohio with an exciting new job. He has been hired as a private English tutor at the estate of Raul Garcia, a wealthy businessman of Zacatecas, Mexico.

But there is more to the Garcia family than meets the eye. The Garcias' oldest daughter, Ana, is inexplicably missing. And there is something about one of the guesthouses, which the rest of the family avoids. The maid, Marisol, crosses herself when she passes near the guesthouse, and whispers, "¡Brujas!"--the Spanish word for "witches".

Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher", "Thanatos Postponed" is a tale of a family with more than one secret, and a story of death "postponed".


Chapter 9

Marisol worked quickly. She brought the items I requested the very next night: a small container of kerosene—this being a plastic bottle that would allow me to disperse the liquid over a wide area—and a box of matches. 
As she left that night, she gave me her key. We had both nearly forgotten that last but all-important item.
“Are you sure you don't want me to come with you, Mark?” she asked.
“No,” I told her for at least the fourth time. This was a one-person job; and the extent of the danger it entailed was now fully dawning on me. There was nothing to be gained by putting us both at risk. 
“Okay, then. Bien.” 
I kissed her. I didn't know—though I could reasonably guess—that this would be our final kiss, at least for a long time. One way or another, the mission that I was about to embark upon would put an end to the evenings in my quarters. 
I waited several hours after Marisol departed. I wanted to wait long enough to be reasonably certain that the rest of the household would be asleep—especially Raul Garcia.
Finally the hour came when I could delay no more, when to wait any longer would put me unacceptably close to daybreak. I left my guesthouse with the key and matches in my pocket, with the bottle of accelerant tucked against my body.
Three minutes later, perhaps, I opened the door to the other guesthouse, stepped across the threshold, and closed the door behind me.
This time, Ana’s eyes were already open. The girl—or whatever was inside her—began to moan.....