Only fools fall in love, and hell is filled with fools.➱ Lovers in Hell Dark Fantasy Anthology with Janet Morris, Book Tour with Guest Post and giveaway
Only fools fall in love, and hell is filled with fools.
Lovers in Hell
A Heroes in Hell Anthology
by Janet Morris
Genre: Dark Fantasy Anthology
Only fools fall in love, and hell is filled with fools. Our damned
lovers include: Christopher Marlowe and Will Shakespeare, Napoleon
and Wellington, Orpheus and Eurydice, Hatshepsut and Senenmut,
Abelard and Heloise, Helen and Penelope, Saint Teresa and Satan's
Reaper, Madge Kendall and the Elephant Man, and more . . . -- all of
whom pay a hellish price for indulging their affections.
Shakespeare
said "To be wise and love exceeds man's might," and in
Lovers in Hell, the damned in hell exceed all bounds as they search
for their true loves, punish the perfidious, and avoid getting caught
up in Satan's snares. In ten stories of misery and madness, hell's
most loveless seek to slake the thirst that can never be quenched,
and find true love amid the lies of ages.
Includes:
Never Doubt I Love – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Love Interrupted – Nancy Asire
Lovers Sans Phalli – S. E. Lindberg
Fume of Sighs – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Calamity – Michael E. Dellert
Love Triangle – Michael H. Hanson
A Hand of Four Queens – A. L. Butcher
Devil’s Trull – Andrew P. Weston
Withering Blights – Joe Bonadonna
Wrath of Love – Janet Morris and Chris Morris
Excerpt from Hell Gate – Andrew P. Weston
**On Sale for Only $2.99 until the end of the month!**
“Lovers
Sans Phalli” by S.E. Lindberg Excerpt
“May
your spirit live, may you spend millions of years, you who love Thebes, sitting
with your face to the north wind, your eyes beholding happiness.”
–Tutankhamun’s
Wishing Cup Inscription and Howard Carter’s Epitaph
Parallel
dams of fleshy refuse emerged on either side of Ammit. This sordid canal within
the Lake of Fire guided them in a closed circuit. Regularly spaced obelisks,
tilted at awkward angles, rose from the dikes. Mummies, suspended from these,
wailed as they burned in harmony with their wind-snapped threads of cloth,
flittering like ruined pennants from vanquished standards. Legs spread, their
crotches and lower abdomens gaped, empty.
“They have lost their genitals,”
Howard Carter gasped in horror.
“Indeed, they are not whole,”
agreed Haeckel.
The tomb-raider’s eyebrows
raised with excitement: “Ah ha, but I recognize that one!”
“Mister
Carter, how do you know the identity of that mummy? Its screams are incoherent.
There is no discerning mark on its body; it is burnt beyond recognition.”
“Ah,
the cartouche beneath his crispy legs labels it. It must be Khafre. Ooh! Look
at that one over there. That must be Snefru.”
Haeckel
asked, “What is a cartouche?”
Howard
pointed. “The enclosed inscription of hieroglyphs. They are signatures of royal
Egyptians.”
Ramses
III muttered in horror: “The next reads: ‘Menes.’”
Young
XI, participating with reluctant enthusiasm, said, “And Narmer hangs just
beyond.”
“A
splendid game, this is!” Howard Carter identified a few more with glee:
Amenhotep and Khufu.
Haeckel
raised his heart to his compatriot in a friendly salute. “Prost! Gut gemacht.”
The
defaced pharaohs could not play any longer. ‘Spotting-the-burning-pharaoh’ made
the Rameses’ hearts grow too heavy for games. The displayed victims wailed
continuously. Did they call out for help? Mercy? Or to mitigate pain?
Senenmut
grew strangely excited. He began to recognize the landscape. There was hope,
after all. He tried to inform Hatshepsut but she batted him away. “Shh. I am
listening.”
“Djoser!”
Carter flexed his arms victoriously. “I am winning!”
“Shut
up, fools,” Hatshepsut commanded. “Can you not hear a boy screaming for his
mother?”
“Yes,
Ma’am . . . or . . . sir . . . I did hear a boy’s cries,” Carter confirmed to
Hatshepsut.
All
quieted until Ammit’s torso rocked suddenly. Her riders staggered and squatted
to maintain balance as she steered her bulk through the canal. The chimera
burped.
The
abject ostrich feather previously anchored to her teeth shot free, floated in
the air, and landed on Hatshepsut. What did it mean to hold the feather of Maat
again? She placed it into her ebony hair, above her right ear.
“A
boy! Over there,” shouted Young XI.
Hatshepsut’s
heart beat faster with hope and anxiety. “Where?”
“On
the right. Up ahead. Beside a chariot with wheels upended.”
The
ghostly, scab-encrusted boy sat cross-legged atop the ruined vehicle, his right
thigh bone splintered. The dangling ankle smoldered. A large hole in his left
breast revealed his empty ribcage, his missing heart. Bony hands clutched an
alabaster chalice filled with the blood-red offering of the Lake. Blistered
skin pebbled his brow. His skull gazed with vacant eye sockets toward them
while his mouth opened. The shattered boy rasped, “Make a wish.”
“What
did he say?” Hatshepsut asked of any who might know. “Is that my Thutmose?”
Despite
the missing cartouche, Carter identified the burnt remains silently. The
victim’s height marked him a teenager. The floral cup carved from white rock
could only belong to a single pharaoh. Oh, dear Tutankhamun. Your Lotus Chalice
would sell very well. Carter salivated. No need to educate the others. Time was
of the essence. “No matter his identity, we can save the boy. We must. We move
swiftly on this creature’s back, but we can retrieve him. Hold my heart for a
moment.” He tossed the organ to Ramses IV. “I’m the tallest with the longest
reach. I think I can grab him as we pass. As I lean over the side, someone
please counterbalance me.”
Ramses
III held Carter’s left hand, allowing the tomb-raider to lean far starboard as
Ammit’s advance brought him closer.
The
injured boy outstretched his hands to meet his savior, extending his reach by
holding out the alabaster cup.
Carter
seized the chalice. The boy pulled oppositely. King Tut whispered with charred
lips, “You! I recognize you. You shall not have my cup, thief! Instead, I shall
have you.”
Tutankhamun
released the Lotus Chalice to seize Carter’s forearms.
Ammit
did not slow. Carter pulled King Tut from the grotesque levee. The youth pulled
furiously at Carter while towed along. Ethereal water splashed violently
against the boy’s face, filling his open mouth to pour from his opened chest.
To all bearing witness, it appeared that Carter was trying to reel in the boy.
In truth, he could not let go.
Tutankhamun’s
skin finally peeled off. His skinned hands failed in their grip, leaving the
boy bobbing in dark waves. The chalice dropped and sank.
“No!”
Carter wept real tears and retrieved a handkerchief from his vest pocket to mop
the mucus streaming from his nose. “I tried to save— I tried”— he sniveled,
glaring at his empty hands— “the . . . the ca . . . cu . . .”
“Tutankhamun!”
Hatshepsut finally recognized the adolescent pharaoh.
Carter
squinted helplessly toward where the chalice had sunk.
Q&A
What
is something unique/quirky about you?
Strange muses have inspired me for
decades. By training and trade, I am a chemist and the intersection of science,
art, and spirituality fascinates me (alchemy essentially). Alchemy largely
originated in Egypt, so its Underworld of Duat serves a rich muse. For
Perseid Press, I’ve contributed six alchemy-inspired tales to date (four for
the Heroes in Hell series and two for Heroika) that all integrate
Egyptian myths.
Who
is your hero and why?
I have many personal heroes and role
models, but my mind goes to sharing the heroes of this featured story: “Lovers
Sans Phalli”. There are two! I have adopted the duo of Howard Carter (renowned
archaeologist and looter of King Tutankhamun’s tomb) and Ernst Haeckel
(discredited evolutionist and original ‘ecologist’) as tour guides for several
Heroes in Hell stories. Why use them as protagonists? Both are deceased
explorers who sought to unveil mysteries that resonate with my alchemical
inspirations.
Their motives contrast: Carter adores
material, artificial wealth as much as Haeckel is fascinated with nature’s
riches. They roam the Egyptian world of the dead, Duat. Introduced in Pirates
in Hell, the conflicted duo has four connected, yet stand alone, adventures
(so far 😊):
- “Curse of the Pharaohs”
in Pirates in Hell
- “Lovers Sans Phalli” in Lovers
in Hell
- “Fool’s Gold? in Mystics
in Hell
- “Bait and Switch” in Liars
in Hell
What
inspired you to write “Lovers Sans Phalli”?
Given the anthology theme of ‘lovers’
and given my heroes are damned to Duat, I researched relevant myths for
inspiration and locked onto that of Osiris’s murder. Osiris was the Egyptian god of fertility and
afterlife who was dismembered by his brother Set. Osiris’ wife Isis collected his
body parts, including his sacred phallus, to enable the conception and birth of
their son Horus.
For “Lovers Sans Phalli”, a dozen
cursed pharaohs (all named Ramses) team with the infamous, tomb-raiding Howard
Carter and discredited evolutionist Ernst Haeckel to repair the
penis-less Osiris (who has no sovereignty presently in a realm ruled by Satan).
It’s fun to have Carter and Haeckel deal with getting calibrated to being
‘dead’ (with ‘bodies’ that may not be whole in the ‘living’ sense) as they seek
out the sacred penis. Of course, serious themes are buried under wild
predicaments and satire. The reflective Haeckel considers ‘Are genitalia
need for love?’ while Howard Carter,
ever the opportunist, wonders: ‘How much is a god’s penis worth on the
black-market?’
What
is your advice to new authors?
Experiment
with non-writing roles that bring a high return on investment to better your
craft.
An
issue (feature?) with writing today is that authors cannot exclusively write;
they are compelled to be marketers, reviewers, editors, reviewers, etc. Every
role has an opportunity cost (all that energy could be spent elsewhere). So,
the question is: what efforts (beyond writing) can one perform that provide as
many benefits as possible? Most include participating in larger communities.
A
decade ago, I began interviewing authors to learn from them and to share their
experiences/perspectives; that led to publishing opportunities and networking.
Also, reviewing books helped me learn about new markets, while connecting with
editors and publishers when I shared those reviews. I’m not keen enough to
create content via podcasts, but that is obviously another way to
simultaneously network while bettering one’s craft. Attending &
volunteering at conventions is another way. I’ve attended World Fantasy
Convention and GenCon Writer’s Symposium (GCWS), eventually participating on
panels and have been on the organizing committee for three years now (chairing
in 2023; next one is early August 2024, in Indianapolis). Not only are these
great ways to meet/listen to panels with authors you can learn from, but
volunteering at conventions allows for direct access to all sorts of folks in
the industry (publishers, illustrators, editors). Writing/Reading groups
(either in-person local clubs or online ones like Goodreads) offer community
& opportunities too.
S. E. Lindberg resides near Cincinnati, Ohio working as a microscopist, employing his skills as a scientist and artist to understand the manufacturing of products analogous to medieval paints. Two decades of practicing chemistry, combined with a passion for the Sword and Sorcery genre, spurred him to write Dyscrasia Fiction: graphic adventure fictionalizing the alchemical humors.
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