My newest poem, Trans Rage 2: The Reckoning is available now over at Strange Horizons to read for free. Below is a link and an excerpt.
This was an exciting piece to see published because when I wrote it, I thought for sure it would have a hard time finding a home. Luckily the editors at SH liked it as much as I do. It was created in response to transgender depictions in horror media, which almost entirely relegate trans individuals to the role of sexually deviant killers, monsters, or disgusting stereotypes.
Excerpt:
What’s Your Favorite Scary Movie?
Psycho Sleepaway Cam- Silence of the L-
Always the slasher and never the final girl.
Notes from the severed studio heads:
If she does survive, she needs to be legless or blind, eyes gouged out or wheelchair bound.
The George A. Romero Foundation and Bloody Disgusting are looking for aspiring writers to create stories for their upcoming fiction podcast “The Dead,” created in the spirit of George A. Romero. Here’s my 100 word submission:
That the smoke had drawn the hoard to the valley, they were certain. None had seen the dead in such numbers. Thousands shambled into the mouth of the valley, scrambling over fallen trees, it defied sanity.
If only it would rain. Downpour. Then they could escape through the pass. Connor turned back toward the wildfire burning in the east.
There was only one way now. Convince the factions to stop fighting each other and row to the center of the lake, to the compound on Druid Island, home to The-Church-Of-Silver-Dawns, isolated since the fall, and beg sanctuary from the cult.
…
This story is titled “Dead Mountain” and focuses on four groups who have survived the zombie apocalypse by eking out an existence in a narrow mountain valley, far from the civilization that fell:
The Rangers: Former members of the forestry service, who still man the lookout tower on the peak of Glass Mountain. They monitor the roads and woods, relaying information by radio to the others below.
The Survivalists: Conspiracy theory doomsday-preppers who finally got to meet the end of the world. While they began the apocalypse well stocked, their supplies are now dwindling. So far, they have been content to trade with the others for what they need, but a new leader has taken over and they want more.
The Campers: The remnants of Camp Tamarack, a summer camp for troubled youth. The few members of the staff, councilors, and campers who did not evacuate have turned the camp into a refuge where they grow crops, hold classes for the children, and try to find a sense of normality. They are the largest group.
The Church Of Silver Dawns: A highly secretive religious organization that has largely remained isolated since the fall. Their compound is located on Druid Island in the center of Lake Tamarack. They are regarded as a fringe cult organization.
Existence in the valley is often tense and fraught with conflict, but thus far the groups have achieved an uneasy peace. However one year after the fall, a wildfire threatens their way of life. To make matters worse, an enormous hoard of the undead has been drawn into the narrow mouth of the valley by the smoke. It will take everyone in the valley to survive what is coming, but can they join together in time?
Last fall I was proud to accept the award for best micro-fiction story from the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival. Here is a link to the announcement and a list of the other winners:
My new dark fantasy poem Remore is out in the latest issue of Typehouse.
I went back some years ago and saw them from a distance, what had become of my people howling atop the castle gate, the moat run brown-red with silt and man…
Slaughter, laughter, and virtual reality collide in this piece up over at Liquid Imagination. For this piece I was inspired by Dark Souls, Silent Hill, and the short story “I Have No Mouth and I must Scream” by Harlan Ellison.
Post-apocalyptic survivors thrive in a mountain sanctuary in this poem up over in the new issue of Strange Horizons. SH is a great magazine and I’m very excited to be featured there for the first time.
I’ve seen Will ‘o Wisps and St. Elmo’s Fire, mostly them in the Southlands graveyards near bayous or swamps.
I once saw an entombed woman come back to life three days after her death, I had just slipped the ring off her finger pale and bony, when she gasped and rose with a cry.
One summer I lived in the catacombs beneath Paris and for nigh on a month never once saw the light of the sun, only pale torchlight cast across fields of bones, wooden chests rotted to their hinges.
I have walked the hall of ashes and seen the rotting face of John the Baptist.
Once in Afghanistan, I even spied a ghoul prowling the trenches near dawn picking the corpses of both sides equally.
These are my qualifications, such as they are; few know as much about death and the places of the dead as grave robber, so believe me when I tell you, there is nothing beyond the grave, but me.
No voices or tunnel of light just darkness, dust, and these two dirty hands, trying to make a living.
Mack W. Mani 