This week we are spotlighting Crystal Ord and her story Monster City.

Crystal Smalls Ord is a writer and freelance illustrator who resides in the deliciously dark and dreary climate of the Pacific Northwest.

Her first short story and several illustrations, including the Winter Issue cover, have appeared in Underneath the Juniper Tree. She is currently working hard to see her comic-turned-novel, Holy Dark, published. Her next project is as an illustrator for a children’s book that will be released this summer.

When she is not writing or drawing she is probably thinking about writing or drawing.

You can find out more about Crystal, her art, and her writing at http://www.wix.com/fynn47/author-website.

MONSTER CITY

Written and Illustrated by Crystal Ord

Her teddy was looking at her. Round, shiny, black eyes, fixed on her face.  His fraying yarn smile never faltered despite the late hour and the silent, ominous darkness.  She hugged him closer.

“Don’t worry Teddy, I’ve got you.”

She turned him around to face the closet, still holding him tight around his middle. “And you’ve got me, right?”

Teddy didn’t respond. He just lay there in his owner’s little arms, soft and fuzzy, staring into the strip of darkness between the open closet door and the jamb.

Eventually she fell asleep, naively comfortable and trusting in her Teddy to protect her, as teddies had done since the beginning of time.

But the strip of darkness widened. Teddy watched.  Long shadows reached out from the closet as the door creaked open and thudded gently against the wall. Teddy should’ve been up by now, ready to fight. Teddy should’ve been earning his place in this nice warm bed.

But Teddy didn’t move.

###

Slither, scratch-scratch, SCREAM!

###

The Oso brothers sat on the edge of their bed arguing over who would distract and who would attack, a common argument since The Teddy Takeover.  For centuries humans and Teddys had a common enemy, monsters. Teddys and humans had worked together amicably to keep the world free of monsters; Teddys fighting the monster battle at night and humans taking care of Teddys by day, giving them shelter and love, stitching their wounds, and passing them down reverently to new generations that would continue to rely on them for safety. But, fed up with fighting and with the human’s dwindling respect for their sacrifices, the Teddys rebelled. Humans were forced to comply to a new regime in which human’s battled monsters by night and suffered almost constant confinement to their rooms by day.  Freedom was a thing of the past, fear was the new motivator.

The Oso brothers’ whispers carried throughout their room, growing harsher as each tick of the clock brought the minute-hand  closer to midnight.  Tommy’s little face was obscured by alternating lines of shadow and streetlight that shone through the blinds of their only window.

“I’m always the bait.” Tommy hissed.

“Because you’re littler and faster than me.” Jack explained, twirling a large knife in his hand. Each rotation looked as though it might slice his thumb clean off, but he spun and caught it with such skill that Tommy found himself momentarily mesmerized. The blade flashed bright with each twist as it moved through a stream of streetlight and out again.

The minute hand ticked closer to the twelve.

“I’m sick of this.” Tommy whispered, sinking to the floor and gripping his short hair in his fists.

Silence.

Another minute.

Jack glanced at the Teddy that had been assigned to monitor them that night. It sat on their pillow. A little one. Its beady eyes staring, watching, making sure that the job of monster slaying was done to satisfaction and that there were no murmurings of an uprising.  Jack slid to the floor out of its view and crouched beside his brother. Tommy’s silhouette rocked gently.

“I have an idea.” Jack whispered almost inaudibly.

Midnight.

The closet door creaked. Jack stood.

The door hit the wall and a long block of black shadow crawled slowly across the floor.

###

The following night.

###

“You can’t tell anyone.” Jack hissed, checking over his shoulder. The alley, one of many in the labyrinthine city, was empty. Normally humans were never out after sunset but the Teddys wouldn’t be up just yet. It was the safest time and place to talk. “Not until things settle down.”

“How are things going to settle down?” Tommy squeaked. “You killed that Teddy guard! The other teddys are gonna find out and we’ll be dead!”

“Shush!”  Jack glanced around the alley again. “How are they going to know? There were no witnesses,” Jack scowled at his little brother, “unless you’re planning to squeal on me.  And anyway, we won’t have to fear the Teddys much longer. Soon enough the monsters will take care of everything. Soon enough we’ll all be free of the Teddys’ tyranny.”

“Or everyone will turn you in for siding with the enemy!” Tommy whimpered. “Nobody steps out of line, Jack. Nobody defies the Teddys.”

Jack smirked. “Nobody talks to the monsters either, but I just did that.” Jack’s grin dropped slightly as if he’d realized something. He gripped Tommy’s collar and pulled him close. “Hey, are you turning on me?” He growled through clenched teeth. “We gotta be together on this.”

Tommy stared into his brother’s dark eyes, almost as lifeless as a Teddys.  Most everyone looked that way, there wasn’t much life left in the world. Eating and breathing and moving around were about as close as it got.

Jack loosened his grip and sighed. “Look, don’t you want to be free?”

“Well, probably everyone does…it’s just not safe to think about.” Tommy said. “And turning to the monsters? I don’t know if that’s really freedom, Jack.”

“It’s better than what we have now. Humans used to be in charge, Tommy. Children used to cuddle stuffed bears before bed and rely on them for a sound night’s sleep. And that’s how it should be.” Jack let go of Tommy and straightened. “I’m gonna call a council.”

###

“Jack, light the candlestick. It’s too dark.” A girl said.

“You’ll have to get used to it.” Jack’s voice replied.

Tommy sat silently beside his brother in the abandoned warehouse Jack had chosen for his council. It was cold, pitch black, and hollow.

“Why are we here? We should be at our bed posts.” A boy’s voice complained.

“Yeah, the Teddys don’t like this kind of disobedience.”  Someone else said.

“And it’s almost midnight, the monsters will be out soon.” The first girl added.

A brief hush fell at the thought.

“Exactly,” said Jack.

Just then a slither and a scratch came from a dark corner. Tommy curled in on himself, leaning hard into his brother’s side.

A girl shrieked. Someone scuffled to their feet. “What was that?” A boy shouted.

The slithering sound entered the center of their dark circle. Tommy could hear a girl next to him hyperventilating with fear.

“It’s okay.” He whispered. At least he hoped it was. He hoped Jack knew what he was doing. Jack had seemed to know exactly what he was doing when he had dropped his knife and held up his hands, vulnerable to the monster that had emerged from the closet the previous night. It had been enough of a shock, seeing a young boy without any protection or intention of attacking, to make the monster stop and listen to Jack’s plan.

Jack stood, leaving Tommy cold and alone.

“Say hello to our freedom.” Jack announced. “Say hello to yours, Monster.”

The horrific, invisible-black presence before them sucked in a rattling breath then snarled a blood-curdling greeting.

The girl beside Tommy fell into his lap, limp. A boy across the circle shouted, “This is suicide! Are you suggesting we side with the monsters? The Teddys will have our heads. Keeping my head down is what has kept me safe and alive.”

“Alive?! You call this life?” Jack spat. “With the monsters as our alibis we can go out at night again, not sit by our closets in fear of what’s within them and whether we’ll survive the fight. We can play and work during the day, not watch our city fall to pieces while the Teddys cavort around the town pretending to run our toy stores, our restaurants, our libraries as if they are us. We were never meant to kill monsters and Teddys were never meant to be human.”

Tommy passed a hand over the hair of the girl who lay unconscious in his arms. It felt soft and fuzzy with curls. “At what cost do we get this freedom?” Tommy asked his brother.

The monster in the room slithered quickly over to Tommy. It slid some long, slimy limb around Tommy’s shoulder and squeezed. “One sacrifice, all dark.” The monster breathed down Tommy’s neck.

“A sacrifice?” A boy said. “Like human?”

Jack spoke up. “Since the monsters won’t be getting the usual human flesh feast they’ve enjoyed since the beginning of the Teddy Takeover, they demanded, and I have agreed to  a single human sacrifice every night. The monsters will share the body amongt themselves  and, of course, they will be allowed as much teddy fluff as they can get their claws on. Our other agreement; no lights, ever. No nightlights, no fridge-lights, no headlights, or streetlamps, nothing.

“What about during the day? We can’t block out the sun.” Someone shouted.

“During the day the sun will still rise, but what does sunlight create when it hits on anything in its way?

“Shadows.” Tommy whispered.

“Not a bad trade for freedom, I think.” Jack said. Tommy could hear the smile in his brother’s voice.

“I don’t want to live in the dark.” Tommy admitted. “Do we have to turn to monsters to survive?”

“The Teddys didn’t give us a choice.” Jack said low. “Sometimes you have to do a few dark things to survive, Tommy.” His tone very clearly suggested that Tommy shut his mouth.

“What are you getting out of it?” Someone asked.

“Yeah.” Another girl’s voice rang out across the room.

Tommy had no idea how many people Jack had invited. He had said it would be small until they knew whom they could trust. Apparently Jack trusted more people than Tommy did.

“I approached the monsters first. I will be the one to control them.” Jack said.

The monster in the room growled.

“I will be the one to run things with them.” Jack amended. “They won’t harm me…or my brother.”

“That’s not fair!” Someone yelled.

“It’s how it is!” Jack hollered.

Silence.

Jack cleared his throat. “Monster,” his tone was formal, “get your friends. It starts tonight.

###

The massacre was something to behold. Teddy fluff littered the streets. Marble eyes and yarn hung in windows and around necks like trophies. Fur of every color stuck to the grime on the streets and floated almost angelically on the evening breeze. The sun sank below the horizon. The cold pinprick of raindrops hit Tommy on his face and arms as he stood, aghast, in the middle of the street. The shadows of buildings stretched out in front of him, taking over the city in blackness. The sound of thousands of closet doors creaking open echoed in the night. No longer waiting for midnight the monsters immediately claimed their first sacrifice. Only one, as agreed. The scream was loud but short lived.

And a new life began.

“You want to hit up the arcade?” Jack asked, chewing a large mouthful of doughnut.

###

One year later.

###

Jack lounged atop the hood of a car. Tommy leaned on a smashed out headlight, arms crossed, staring out at the night. He jumped at the sound of some random scream.

A girl, one of many young kids out and about, walked beside a hulking mass of monster that was somehow completely hidden in her shadow.

A small Teddy sat in an alley just ahead of them, cowering in the dark. Its expression, despite the yarn smile set in place long ago, seemed to plead for forgiveness. Its plush body sat still, never moving for fear of being spotted. But monsters were hunters.

Tommy couldn’t tell in the sudden violent chaos that followed which arms were monster and which were human as girl and monster tore the Teddy to shreds before walking on. This behavior was commonplace now. Too commonplace.

As Jack whooped at them Tommy turned away. “I can’t be a part of this anymore.” Tommy mumbled.

Jack stopped hollering to stare at his little brother. “What?”

Tommy squared his shoulders uneasily. “We should never have relied on monsters to take care of our problems.” Tommy pointed at a small monster who had been gnawing at a bone and relaxing in Jack’s shadow. “We are becoming like them. Mindlessly killing anything in our way…we may have more power, but fear is still fear, Jack, and that’s all we are surviving on.”

“This is how we protect ourselves!”

“With sacrifices and darkness?” Tommy asked softly.

Jack dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “A small price to pay for our safety.”

“I don’t think the Teddys are the threat anymore, Jack.” Tommy accused, his voice raising. “You know the sacrifices aren’t just one a night anymore and it isn’t just monsters carrying them out either.”

Jack huffed an un-amused laugh. “So.”

Tommy frowned. “I’m ending this.” He backed away. “I’m turning on the lights.” He edged further away from his brother till his heel hit the curb. “No more shadows and no more monsters.”

This time Jack’s laugh rang true. “You think you can change something by turning on a light? You’re so naïve.” Jack stood up on the hood of the car scowling as Tommy continued to escape. “Fine! You want to betray me after I kept you safe from every sacrifice, go ahead. You’ll just end up as monster food, like all traitors!”

Tommy ran. Jack called out for monsters to follow.

Tommy bolted through the doors of an office building, up a zigzagging staircase, and down a long hallway. Snarls echoed off the walls and the deafening slither of countless monsters came up behind. The hall dead-ended in a dark room. Tears welled up in Tommy’s eyes as he came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. Trapped.

He swallowed. He lifted his chin. He turned.

The sound of attack rushed toward him in the pitch-black.

He reached his hand up to the inside wall of the room and felt for the smooth flat rectangle of the light switch cover.

Slither…

With one small finger he found the switch.

…Scratch-scratch…

Up went the switch, flooding the hall with light.

…Screams.

TL Milligan has been making up stories and playing with imaginary friends since she was a little girl. Stubbornly refusing to grow up, she insists that the crazy, colorful world inside her head is much better than reality. As a Young Adult author aspiring to publication, she devours literature for children and teens when she isn’t creating magic with her pen. She’s a self-proclaimed Potterhead, grammar nerd, believer in Wonderland, and lover of most things dark and weird. She has a BA in English and is a member of SCBWI, and she currently resides in a small town near Atlanta with her mischievous, wolf-like collie named Stella.

by TL Milligan, illustrated by Ken Lamug.

Lora never ventured outside alone. It was too easy to get kidnapped that way.

She spent day after day with her forehead pressed against the window, watching the outside world but never entering it.

Because outside, there were monsters.

Mother came and sat down beside Lora. She tugged on Lora’s braids gently, then swept her bangs off her forehead so she could press a kiss to her cold skin. Lora closed her eyes briefly, letting herself forget things she wished she didn’t know, for just a moment.

“Daddy will be careful, Lora,” Mother whispered in her ear. “He’s always careful. Come away from the window. Come sit with me in the kitchen.”

Lora wanted to believe her mother, but she couldn’t. The monsters were the reason Daddy had to go outside today. Alone, with only a shotgun and an old Bloodhound named Tag for protection.

The monsters had taken her brother, Christian. Lora knew, as certainly as they all did, that Christian wouldn’t be recovered. He was gone now. It was no use.

But Daddy had to go anyway. Because it was the right thing to do. Because not going meant giving up hope, and hope wasn’t something they could afford to relinquish.

And because Daddy loved Christian as much as, if not more than, he loved Lora.

“Daddy’s never gone alone before. Never.” Lora turned tear-filled brown eyes on her mother.

Mother’s face went ashen. Her eyes widened, betraying a flicker of fear, but she composed her features, offering Lora a small smile. “Daddy is strong and brave, Lora. And we have to be brave for him. Can you do that? It will help. We can help Daddy if we are brave, too.”

Lora nodded slowly. She swallowed over a lump in her throat, fingering a tiny gold cross she wore around her neck.

Daddy had given it to her. Daddy had taught her to pray. She could hear his words, echoing around inside her head. When the monsters come, we pray, Lora. When the monsters stay away, we pray. When the monsters take one of ours, we pray. We always pray, Lora. We never stop praying.

Mother noticed Lora touching the cross. “Come into the kitchen with me, and we will pray, Lora. Would you like that? Would it make you feel better?”

Lora thought back to a few nights ago, before Christian had disappeared. He had been arguing with Daddy in the kitchen. Lora was supposed to be sleeping, but she had been sitting at the top of the stairs, listening. Lora didn’t sleep anymore. Nobody slept anymore.

Christian’s words from that night cropped up in her mind. We are forsaken. Praying is useless. God doesn’t care what happens to us. If he did, he wouldn’t have let those terrible abominations take my betrothed, Emma, from me!

            “Christian didn’t pray. Is that why they took him, Mother? Is that why he’s gone?”

“No, Lora. No,” Mother cooed as she pulled Lora into her arms. “No, they took him because he wasn’t safe or careful. They took him because he went looking for Emma, at nighttime, and he shouldn’t have. He should’ve stayed home. He should’ve stayed here, with us.” Mother’s voice cracked. Lora pretended not to notice.

“But Christian said—”

“Christian was wrong, sweetie. God doesn’t want to hurt us. Sometimes bad things happen, and there isn’t anything we can do about that.”

“I’m scared, Mother,” Lora sobbed into her mother’s shawl. “I’m so scared.”

“We will pray, Lora. We pray when we’re afraid, remember?” Mother held Lora tightly in her arms. Slowly, very slowly, she rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Mother whispered the Lord’s prayer, her lips pressed into Lora’s hair. She began to cry too. The teardrops streamed down her face, landing on the tip of Lora’s nose.

Then Mother started to sing a lullaby, one that she had been crooning to Lora her entire life.

For a little while, the only sound was Mother’s soothing lullaby, and everything was quiet and serene. For a little while, Lora forgot the monsters and the threat of impending death and the desperate beat of her heart.

For a little while, Lora escaped from the harsh reality of her world.

Then, a disturbing sound came from outside, and the peaceful moment was gone. There was a gunshot, followed by a strangled yelp, a howl of fear and pain. A chill skittered down Lora’s spine.

“Tag,” Mother gasped, clutching Lora closer to her.

“What are we going to do, Mother?” Lora’s sobs were louder now, and she clung to her mother’s chest.

“Shh, Lora. It’s all right. Everything will be all right—”

Mother stopped short when suddenly, the front door burst open, and there, framed in the doorway, was a tall, dark figure.

Lora screamed, burying her face in the folds of her mother’s dress. Mother’s head whipped around. “John! Oh, thank God. I feared you were dead!”

“Daddy?” Lora lifted her face up, and relief washed over her body: there was her father, alive, standing in the doorway. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and in one hand, he clutched his shotgun. Tag was missing.

Daddy slammed the front door shut, locking it swiftly.

Mother got up from the chair, worrying her fingers at the apron tied around her dress. “We heard the gunshot, and Tag crying out, and I thought for sure you were dead.”

“Where is Tag?” Lora asked.

Daddy offered Lora a sympathetic glance. “He’s dead, darling. I had to shoot him. I didn’t have a choice. One of the Skineaters, it got him. It was only a matter of time…he would’ve gone mad with it. He was bitten. Couldn’t risk letting him…live.”

Lora’s heart sank. She pulled her legs up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees, hugging herself.

“John, what about Christian? Did you find him?” Mother’s voice trembled with fear.

Daddy finally looked at Mother. He shook his head slowly, sadly. Lora had never seen him look so defeated. “He’s gone, April.”

“Gone?” Mother swayed, clutching at the back of Lora’s chair for support. “Dead?” she whispered.

Daddy shook his head again. “One of them, April. He’s one of them now. A Skineater.”

“Christian’s a…monster?” Lora’s mouth went dry, her palms suddenly clammy, her eyes widening. She could feel the panic rising in her chest.

Christian would lead the other monsters to them. Lora’s family would be next.

Ignoring Lora’s question, Daddy said hurriedly “April, we have to fortify the farm. I need your help. There isn’t anyone else now. We have to do what we can to slow the Skineaters from breaching the grounds before we can figure out how to get away. Lora will have to go into the cellar.”

“The cellar? Alone?” Lora’s voice was shrill, and full of terror.

“You’ll be safe in there, baby.” Daddy cupped his hand around Lora’s cheek. “You can’t come with us. We can’t risk you getting hurt. You’re just a little girl.”

Mother grabbed a bonnet from a hook on the wall and tied it around her head. She dashed into the kitchen for a moment, and reappeared carrying a lantern in one hand and a large knife in the other. There was a hard, unnerving glint in her warm amber eyes, something Lora had never seen there before. “I’m ready,” she said to Daddy.

Daddy nodded once. “Into the cellar, Lora. Now.”

“But I want to help—” Lora began to protest.

“Say your prayers, Lora,” Mother whispered as she pressed a hasty kiss to Lora’s forehead and gave her the lantern. “That’s how you can help. Pray for Daddy and me. Pray for God to protect all of us.”

Lora wrapped her fingers around her cross necklace, giving it a squeeze. “I will.”

“Good girl.” Mother draped a shawl around Lora’s shoulders. Then she reached out to grasp Lora’s hand, and they followed Daddy as he walked toward the back door.

An icy wind assaulted them as they stepped outside. Lora shut her eyes briefly, pulling her shawl tighter with one hand. Mother walked Lora over to the cellar doors, opened them, and waited for Lora to climb down the stairs.

“It’s dark in here,” Lora called up to Mother.

“You’ll be safe, Lora. Don’t be afraid. The darkness can’t hurt you,” Daddy said.

“We love you, sweetie. We’ll be back soon. Remember to pray.” Mother blew Lora a kiss as they closed the cellar doors. And Lora was alone in the dark.

Lora lifted the lantern up, shedding light on her surroundings. She couldn’t remember ever being inside the cellar, and certainly not alone.

When illuminated, the cellar didn’t seem so frightening. There was a cot, and a small wooden table, and a couple of chairs. On one wall, Lora could see various weaponry hanging, an assortment of menacing guns and knives and pitchforks.

How long have the monsters been attacking our village? she wondered, taking a seat in one of the chairs and placing the lantern on the table.

Now there was nothing for Lora to do but wait. And pray. Lora folded her hands and closed her eyes, and started to whisper the Lord’s prayer, just like her mother had done only moments ago.

She mumbled the words over and over and over again, until—

A bloodcurdling scream came from outside. Lora gasped, opening her eyes. “Mother?” she said into the darkness.

Another startling scream followed the first one. Then another, and another. The last one was longer, raw, and desperate.

Lora got up from her chair. “Mother? Mother!” she shouted at no one and nothing.

More chilling screams. Lora didn’t know what she should do, but she knew she had to find some way to help her mother. She picked up the lantern, searching around the room once more. Her gaze fell on the weaponry wall again. And Lora knew what she must do.

Lora quickly moved toward the weaponry wall, and without hesitation, she selected a small knife, which she tucked into a pocket in her dress, and a large shotgun. She’d never fired a gun before, but she’d watched Daddy and Christian shoot them enough times to know how to use one.

Carefully cradling the gun in one arm and holding the lantern with one hand, Lora walked up the cellar stairs. When she reached the top, she shoved the doors open, and stumbled out into the night.

Lora glanced around her. Mother and Daddy were nowhere in sight. Leaving the lantern on the ground beside the cellar doors, Lora took a few resolute steps forward, ready to face the horrifying, monster-filled world she lived in.

Lora walked as far as the center of the field, her home behind her and thousands of haunting trees before her. The Black Forest, the place where the monsters hid.

Lora lifted the shotgun and cocked it, preparing for the attack that she knew would come.

Out of nowhere, Christian appeared at the foot of the woods, but he didn’t look like the outspoken, protective older brother Lora knew: his skin was ashen, a sickening shade of gray, his eyes bloodshot and hungry, his fingers curled and claw-like. His body had already started to rot, his flesh open, exposing his bones, blood seeping from a large gash in his head. He bared his bloody teeth at her in a nasty snarl, and moved with a slow, unsettling gait, dragging his left foot as he walked. Behind her brother, she could see more of them—more monsters. More Skineaters.

Lora longed to clutch at the tiny gold cross that hung around her neck, but she held fast to the gun with both hands, one finger resting on the trigger, the wind lifting her braids in the air. She turned her head to the side, waiting, listening.

            Deliver me, Lord, she silently prayed.

       * * *

]]> http://underneaththejunipertree.com/2012/04/23/tl-milligan-winner-of-the-february-horror-challenge/feed/ 0 http://underneaththejunipertree.com/2012/04/15/ch-ch-ch-ch-changes/ http://underneaththejunipertree.com/2012/04/15/ch-ch-ch-ch-changes/#comments Sun, 15 Apr 2012 14:52:42 +0000 Marjorie Merle http://underneaththejunipertree.com/?p=1668 Dear faithful, grotesque, macabre, and dedicated readers of Underneath the Juniper Tree:

Almost a year ago, Marjorie Merle came to me and asked if I would like to gather some macabre children’s literature with her after the death of Crow Toes Quarterly. This past year has been more than we could have ever dreamt. We’ve gathered writers and artists from all over the globe who have fearlessly and generously given their time and talent to our humble little magazine. And we’ve been able to create something for the unusual child.

We thank you all from the bottom of our black hearts.

Recently, Marjorie and I have been contemplating turning the magazine into a printed quarterly which would operate on a subscription basis. The content would be of the best caliber as it would only release four times a year.

As we figure out the details and get this process going, we have decided to cut back on how often we release the online magazine in order to give us more time to focus on the ins and outs of the magazine publishing world.

We will release a Summer Issue and in the fall, start releasing every two months until we have figured out the business model for the printed quarterly. If you would like to contribute to the summer issue, please have all submissions in by June 1st.

Thank you, every single one of you. We look forward to the future of UTJT.

-Tex

Chris is one of our double-threats, in that he not only writes like a maniac, he also draws the scariest little doodles known to exist. He is also the creator for The Legend of Headless Dieder (illustrated by Jason Smith) and the fantastic character Billy Bones. Everyone, please say hello to Christopher Lincoln.

How long have you been honing your craft for?

I was an animator in my first career, so I’ve been drawing silly things for many, many years. I sketch on smallish pieces of paper, scan those, and then bring them into Photoshop.

Which artists influence your style the most?

Edward Gorey, Charles Addams, Tim Burton, Henry Selick, and Jules Feiffer, to name a few.

What do you do or where do you go to get inspiration? And what do you do when you’re feeling “blocked”?

Read, or listen to audiobooks, and watch lots and lots of movies. When I’m feeling blocked, I turn off my words and let my subconscious take over. I work early in the morning, while my dreams are still fresh.

Stephen King once said, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” Which books do you find yourself always going back and reading over again?

Unfortunately for me, I was not a strong reader when I was young, so I’ve had to work on building up my reading foundation. There are so many books I need to catch up on that I don’t often go back for seconds—except when it comes to the Harry Potter series. I’ve enjoyed those a number of times first as books then as audiobooks.

How do you start a story? Do you start at the beginning, or do you dive right in the middle?

I always attempt to start with an intriguing concept, try to figure out what’s a nice dramatic beginning, and then go from there. When I get stuck I often jump a head a bit and then circle back to the sticking point.

Do you have any rituals before you start writing? Do you need to warm up? Or do you go right into it?

 Typically, I doodle before sitting down to write.

What is your dream project?

Working with Tim Burton, Henry Selick, or Neil Gaiman on something. Or, failing that, getting one of my WIPs published.

Thank you so much to Christopher for taking the time to chat with us. You can catch up with The Legend of Headless Dieder beginning in our October 2011 issue!

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Don’t forget to check out our April Issue!

Thank you once again to our amazing contributors and editors and wonderful, WONderful fans. Scary stories are delightful things to share amongst friends. So go share!

Speaking of which, we have an announcement to make, but not yet. So consider this a pre-announcement announcement. Keep your ears open and your eyes wide.

Now, for the horrors we promised you. I hope you have your toes tucked in somewhere safe!

How long have you been honing your craft for?

I knew I wanted to be an artist at around six-years-old and started my career immediately creating a colorful portfolio for the refrigerator. Back then, crayons were my preferred medium. Now? Pencils, ink, and Photoshop.

Which artists influence your style the most?

I love comic book art. I really started getting serious about my own art after encountering the talents of Todd Mcfarlane (Spawn), Michael Turner (Fathom), Marc Silvestri (The Darkness),and a little Peter Chung (Aeon Flux). Right now, though, I’m going through a serious Abigail Larson phase, she’s incredible…I may need an intervention.

What do you do or where do you go to get inspiration? And what do you do when you’re feeling “blocked”?

DeviantArt is a great place for inspiration. Tons of artists, tons of support, tons of tutorials, and tons of mind-blowing art to waste a good deal of time gazing at. It’s awesome. Music and movies play a big part in getting me into the drawing mood as well, but when I’m blocked I remind myself to stay open, just be, and keep creating even if it’s crummy for a while. Then, inevitably, inspiration will come, whether in the form of an overheard conversation, a killer story in UTJT, or simply in the way that shadow over there looks like the outstretched claw of a hungry demon…

What is your dream project?

Well, finishing my graphic novel hybrid and seeing it published is my big dream, so I guess working on it is my dream project. Then again, I kind of feel like I’m in the middle of a big dream project every time I illustrate something for Underneath the Juniper Tree. There is so much support here and so much inspiration and so much talent that I could see myself curling up in Tex’s attic for quite a while.

Thank you so much Crystal for taking some time out of your busy schedule to answer our unending questions. We hope to see more of your beautifully haunting work in future issues.

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Orphanage — Part 3 featured in the February Issue

Illustration by Jason Smith

Emelyn is one of our newest found gems at Underneath The Juniper Tree. She is the mastermind behind the incredible series Orphanage. We had the wonderful and dark delight up catching up with her and getting to know more about how she writes the way she writes. Everyone, meet Emelyn Parker.

Stephen King once said, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” Which books do you find yourself always going back and reading over again?

While I respect and agree with Stephen King’s statement, for me, personally, my writing is deeply affected and influenced by music.  I tend to listen to artists who could be described as ‘literary,’ both in the subject matter of their songs and, in turn, what actually influenced the song’s creation in the first place, as well as the actual lyrics themselves.  Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds definitely come to mind.  I also listen to certain classical music whenever I’m trying to pick up on a specific atmosphere or tone I’m trying to set for some scenes.  That being said, I’m a very big fan of various graphic novels/comics, such as the works of Warren Ellis (Transmetropolitan), Jhonen Vasquez (Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, I Feel Sick), Jason Lutes (the Berlin series) and, of course, Neil Gaiman (Sandman series, Creatures of the Night).  I was also raised on Calvin and Hobbes and have an extensive collection.  As far as ‘actual’ books go, I have a collection of 20th century ghost stories that I don’t mind breaking open every now again (featuring Truman Capote, Elizabeth Bowen, Tennessee Williams as well as countless others), as well as The Hot Zone by Richard Preston and And the Ass Saw the Angel by none other than Nick Cave.

How do you start a story? Do you start at the beginning, or do you dive right in the middle?

It tends to vary.  Sometimes I’ll imagine the beginning of a story and go from there, but more often than not I’m seeing an image or a scene in my mind and fixate on it, and base my work off that, extending upon it.  This allows the particular scene or image to be placed wherever it needs to in an almost organic sense.  Sometimes it’s in the middle, sometimes it’s near the beginning or end.  It’s all very fun and exciting!

Do you have any rituals before you start writing? Do you need to warm up? Or do you go right into it?

It depends on my mood.  I can dive right into it if I have that fixation that I just feel a need to create and get out; sometimes the image or idea is still too murky to extend on, so I have to go out for a walk or a jog or even just a drive just to let it gestate and become something more.  It just needs to be mulled on, from time to time.

What is your dream project?

Oh, I have a few…I’ve been working on sort of a pulp/film noir-type story which is vastly different than the scary things I’m more accustomed to writing.  Slightly more complicated.  I’d still like to tie in some scarier elements with all the mystery/twists and turns, so we’ll see how it goes.  One of my goals would definitely be to write something as powerful as Shelly did with Frankenstein, and something as prolific and dynamic as both that and Dracula was for Stoker.  But, isn’t that every sci-fi/horror novelists’ dream, really?

You can check out more of Emelyn’s work here, including the this short story:

‘As I walked long, weary strides along the path, some part of the sensation looming throughout the cemetery started to come over me. My thoughts began racing, blurry images in my mind playing with my actual eye sight, things seeming strained in front of me. I felt something crawling inside me, writhing underneath my skin. I felt it creep along my spine, causing my whole body to shudder. I felt my muscles tense up. Suddenly, for no reason, I felt a burning within my very core, and I lashed around, screaming and striking the closest thing to me. My fist hit the delicate features of a granite statue, a man in a cloaked hood standing guard at one of the mausoleums, half his face hidden–only a sullen mouth and stern chin to be seen; a moss-ridden bible in his hands. My hand, now completely dulled with pain and stuck in a tight grip, came back to me. A new, shiny, perfectly straight slit appeared on my thoroughly calloused middle knuckle, while two bright new red dots on the opposing sides stared back at me. Powder from the stone breaking against my skin coated the open wounds. I looked back at the statue.

My blood made perfect little imprints into the slight indentation I made on its gray skin, along the chin. And as I stared at it, the statue seemed to raise its head, as if raising its gaze toward me, its mouth straightening into a tight grimace. I froze, startled.

The statue…shook its head very, very slowly at me. As if it were saying ‘No, no, no…’

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Two little old ladies from Berlin,
Decided to go out for a spin.
Forgetting to brake,
They plummeted into a lake,
And now they reside therein.

Two Little Old Ladies
Written by Lisa Hashem
Illustrated by Sara Richard

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]]> http://underneaththejunipertree.com/2012/03/18/two-little-old-ladies-lisa-hashem-sara-richard/feed/ 1 http://underneaththejunipertree.com/2012/03/16/artist-spotlight-matthew-j-price/ http://underneaththejunipertree.com/2012/03/16/artist-spotlight-matthew-j-price/#comments Fri, 16 Mar 2012 11:00:32 +0000 Marjorie Merle http://underneaththejunipertree.com/?p=1540 Matthew’s whimsical, dark work tickles our toes. We want to eat the work up, blood and all! He sat down with us for a cup of tea to tell us about his work. Meet Matthew J. Price.

How long have you been honing your craft for?

Well, believe it or not I’ve been painting for about 10 years now. Granted the beginnings were humble, as I worked through almost expressionism at that time. I knew nothing about painting, or drawing for that matter, as I had never been formally trained in anyway. All I had was the desire to create and to share it with the world. My style progressed and changed over time. I changed a little here and a little there, with the intention of bringing my inner vision closer to the outer world. I originally started out with acrylics on canvas, and painted with those up until a few years ago. But currently I am painting in oils on panel, and I must say, oils suite me much better.

Which artists influence your style the most?

This is important for all artists. To have a desire for art, and to love it. If I was wealthy I would collect art. As for inspirations where do I begin. I love so many styles of art, and appreciate them in different ways. But if I was to narrow it down I would say I am most drawn to figurative works. I love classical romantic paintings of overly idealized people and landscapes. Works from the 1700 and 1800’s. Baroque and Rococo art.
As for living modern day artists I particularly like Aaron Wisenfeld, Nicoletta Ceccoli, & Kelly Vivanco.
I love classic illustrators like Arthur Rackham and Harry Clarke. I think “The Red Tree” by Shaun Tan might be one of my favorite written and illustrated short children’s stories.
It’s hard to boil down all my influences because I just love so much from so many time periods and genres.

What do you do or where do you go to get inspiration? And what do you do when you’re feeling “blocked”?

Yes, inspiration. First I would say “Don’t wait for it”, because it’s probably not coming. Instead think more like “what do I feel inside?”, let your everyday life experiences guide your imagery. That should also help when you are blocked. If that doesn’t help go for a walk and clear your mind, let the ideas develop while you are relaxing. Oh, and always write them down somewhere, or you will be sure to forget it.

What is your dream project?

I’m not sure if this is a project, but I would love to be able to someday make a living doing just my art. Whether my art is seen and fine art or illustration is in the eye of the beholder I suppose. I am always interested in using my art in publications, but mainly have been focusing on being a gallery artist.

Thanks for tying tales with us, Matthew! If you like what you see here, you should go like Matthew’s Facebook page and show him some love.

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Written by D.M. Cunningham

Art by M. Stagi