She knew that her oxygen was going fast, so she gulped a very deep breath and pulled against the top of the box as hard as she could. Then, she raised her arms above her head as the dirt poured down around her body. It was heavy, much heavier than she had thought, but with her arms in position, she crooked her fingers and began to pull her way to the surface.
All the while, the digging sounds continued.
Praying to a God she’d nearly forgotten, she pulled herself up inch by inch, aiming for the same place where she heard the other scuffling sounds. She kept her mouth tightly closed, knowing that if she opened it, the dirt would pour into her throat and fill her lungs. She just had to reach the person who was digging on the other side.
Her fingers broke the surface, curled down, and shoved the dirt away from her. The digging sounds had ceased, but she heard a “Humph” sound, the sound of satisfaction. No hands reached for her to help in any way, and she was almost angry at this savior who had dug down at least two feet towards her, saving her half of the distance that she needed to crawl.
Wriggling, she moved the dirt from her face, seeing her blood-encrusted hands in the sunlight. Opening her mouth, she filled her lungs with good, clean air, and it had never tasted so good. Her sobs were coming, despite the sunlight that warmed her shoulders.
She was alive. She was alive, goddamit, and The Digger was going to pay.
She turned to thank her savior.
All she saw was the gaping maw of the grizzly bear, the strings of saliva dripping from its jaws, before its teeth crushed her skull and sank into her brain. As it pulled her from the earth like a weed from a garden, her last ironic thought was that today, at least, despite all the signs, she would be feeding the bears.
Holly Newstein
DIDN’T DISCOVER THE guilty pleasures of Richard Laymon’s books until a few years ago. Most of my genre reading was confined to the marquee names, as I struggled to learn the craft of writing horror. Then I had the privilege of meeting Dick at KeeneCon 2000—a charming, funny man with an equally charming family. I saw fans with boxloads of books lining up reverently to have Dick sign their collections. I was much intrigued, and decided I had better read something of his. I began with
Dick’s books are terrifying, bloody and gruesome, but they are also darkly, laugh-out-loud funny. No one will ever mistake his work for “lit’ra-chure,” but they leave the reader thoroughly entertained. Which is, after all, what a writer is supposed to do.
Dick understood the bargain between reader and writer—if the reader is willing to invest hard-earned money and precious time on the writer’s work, he or she is entitled to a rockin’ good time. And he consistently delivers just that. When I sit down to read
Ralph Bieber and I have tried to remember his legacy as we pursue our own writing careers.
Holly Newstein & Ralph Bieber II
OUR PRAYERS
“Yeah, right,” Ernie said from his battered recliner. He scratched the stubble on his chin and yawned. “Jesus, there’s nothing on at this hour but crazies and salesmen.” As he reached for the remote, Reverend Swann leaned forward into the camera. His eyes, dark and compelling, stared intently. Ernie’s hand froze in midair, his fingers hovering over the remote.
“What have you got to lose, friend? Your loneliness? Your illnesses? Your powerlessness? Your poverty? All it takes is a few minutes of your time and a modest contribution, and you’ll be well on the way to the life you deserve. What is the price of success, love, and peace of mind? You can have it all, right now. Right now, Ernie. Send your contribution to the address on the screen...”
“I need more coffee. I swear that guy just said my name,” Ernie muttered. But instead of getting up and refilling his cup, Ernie found himself scribbling the address on the back of a week-old
