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TWISTED TAILS III: Pure Fear is here. Eighteen stories of the twisted kind, ready for you to sink your reading teeth into and, as always, we hope you can come away from it in one piece. Mangled a bit, maybe, but alive. Fear, we all know, comes in a lot of guises and doesn't affect everyone in the same way -- but it does leave its mark on all who experience it. What it will do to any one person will be different for each and the one who is lucky enough to escape with his/her life has to sort out what has happened and how they have been changed by their experience. The publisher, the authors, and the compiler/editor take no responsibility for what may happen to the parties who elect to read TWISTED TAILS III. From this point you're on your own....

Foreword to TWISTED TAILS III....

"...Those who have read other books in the Twisted Tails series already know that genre is not the driving force behind them. There is a general theme, sure, but no specific limits to where a story can take off from or a destination to which it should travel. We thrive on surprise and that is what makes the Twisted Tails books unique. Each story ends in the unexpected. Sometimes that’s a little subtle, but most of the time the reader is cautioned to be careful of his/her footing. The authors of these little whiplash generators are masters at providing the required back-wrenching twist, so do be mindful of your step and we bid you welcome.

In this book, Twisted Tails III, we are dredging up fear and wallowing in it as if it were something to be played with, cuddled and fingers lovingly run through its fur like a cherished pet. What we’re doing here is tinkering with terror of the primal kind. You know what I mean, the sort of fright that lies coiled and ready to spring from the dark corners of the mind with no warning. It awaits all, lurking in the deeper shadows of consciousness. No one is immune and, frequently, there is no cure, you just sink into its roiling depths and are no more. If you do manage to escape, life will no longer be what it was before and you will find yourself glancing nervously over your shoulder whenever you hear something strange in the darkness or see a shadow move in the night…or day. Enjoy…."

TWISTED TAILS III: PURE FEAR REVIEW:

I have always been a sucker for good horror stories. I cut my teeth on the work of Algernon Blackwood and for me, a setting somewhere old with something dead but still moving and lurking nearby are the ingredients guaranteed to set my pulse racing. This modern anthology is a new experience for me and one I would happily repeat.

Twisted Tails III Pure Fear is a varied collection of eighteen twist-in-the-tail stories written by twelve authors, including the editor, linked by the theme of fear. It does what it says on the cover. All are well written by able authors who present the reader with believable and engaging characters in compelling situations. The cover illustration by Deron Douglas might suggest a sword-and-sorcery theme with its armored and winged beast and chained maiden, but these 266 pages span several genres, stories like Coming Alive by John Klawitter, a compelling tale of man versus machine intelligence, alongside but contrasting with Divine Messenger by K.L. Nappier. Set during the depression of 1933 Southern Missouri in which newly wed Emily dupes Death to save her husband's life, Divine Messenger is beautifully rendered and memorable tale with mythic resonance and a clever denouement.

Even where themes are similar the outcomes are strikingly different. In Lunch Was Not Enough by Kim McDougall, Flora has recently lost her husband but what is the presence that joins her between the sheets, texts her mobile phone and finally leaves her naked in the snow? In J. Richard Jacobs' The Beast in the Basement Angela attends the funeral of Eleanore, an old friend. The locals seem nervous. Why did Eleanore insist on sleeping with the light on and was it really fear that killed her, or something else...?

Reviewed by Bill West

If you want to read the entire review go here:

http://www.theshortreview.com/reviews/TwistedTails3.htm

Here's a brief excerpt from THE BEAST IN THE BASEMENT by J. Richard Jacobs....

Eleanore Twining’s funeral was a flop, as funerals go. Oh, not that funerals can be rated on a one to ten success scale—not even pass or fail. It was rather that the turnout was dismally small. Two patrol cars from the Laurelville PD, one hearse, the good reverend’s stretched limo, white with gold where chrome usually goes, and ten cars. From the ten cars, sixteen people emerged to gather at the graveside. A chilling midmorning drizzle descended on the little group. None brought umbrellas because the meteorological gurus stated in open defiance of the opposing weather gods that an early Spring had arrived in Laurelville and the day would be clear, temperatures in the high seventies with—no wind. Well, the temperature soared all the way to the upper forties and the sun remained hidden in a thick, low cloud curtain, gray as death drifting overhead, so to speak. The wind was beginning to build to something just short of gale strength.

The pastor turned his back to the coming storm, which meant he was also turned away from the future, eternal home of Eleanore Twining. A forbidding auger, Angela Langley thought. He hunched over to shield the bible with his trembling body and began droning out the prayer for the recently departed.

Angela couldn’t help noticing that the prayer he was mumbling out didn’t make much sense, either. It was obvious to her that he truncated and frequently cut full sections in some weird places, plainly anxious to get this menial chore done with so he could return to the shelter of his little, ornate and ostentatious church in the Nob Hill district. In many ways there hovered a darkly comic air over something that should, she guessed, be at least serious, if not somber. An old friend lay cold and pale in front of her in a fancy ebony box with ornate polished bronze hinges and latches. But then, Eleanore always could afford things such as those glistening reddish-gold fittings attached to real, imported ebony and indeed used them to inform others of her elevated station. A yawning grave gaped, hungering for its due.

The gravedigger poked the business end of his shovel impatiently, repeatedly at a mound of dirt that was turning to muck under his feet. A bright yellow backhoe rented from Digger Dan’s sat a couple of yards behind the small brown mountain, its noisy diesel engine pinging and clacking, helping the wind to drown out the pastor’s squirrel-like weak voice. It was just as well.

My God, what a farce, she thought. Good thing El can’t see what’s going on. After all, she had paid an extravagant sum for all this in advance and Angela knew, although she was sure Eleanore had no idea what was transpiring, that El expected much more for her money than what she was getting.

As for the turnout, that wasn’t much of a surprise, though it was a bit of a disappointment. Eleanore had never been the outgoing type. She didn’t make friends with any ease. Not even in school, back when she had youth and good looks working for her. Breasts that stood up and out without the aid of a specially designed uplifting bras. Breasts that jiggled just so as she walked—strutted was a better description. She sported a tiny waist astride broad hips and prominent buttocks that rocked, both in appearance and movement—the kind of motion that would bring a steaming, bubbling lather to the lips of the long dead and, supporting it all, a pair of legs most women would kill to possess. To top all of that off, she wore a face framed in golden-brown hair that was as perfect as any face could be...with a complexion to match. She never married and, as far as Angela was aware, never so much as sat at the same table with a man...