Laurell Kaye Hamilton is an American fantasy and romance writer. She is best known as the author of two series of stories. Wikipedia
Born: 19 February 1963 (age 54 years), Heber Springs, Arkansas, United States
Spouse: Jonathon D. Green (m. 2001)
Parents: Suzie Klein
Education: Indiana Wesleyan University
Laurell Kaye Hamilton (born February 19, 1963) is an American fantasy and romance writer. She is best known as the author of two series of stories.
Her New York Times-bestselling Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter series centers on Anita Blake, a professional zombie raiser, vampire executioner and supernatural consultant for the police, which includes novels, short story collections, and comic books. Six million copies of Anita Blake novels are in print. Her Merry Gentry series centers on Meredith Gentry, Princess of the Unseelie court of Faerie, a private detective facing repeated assassination attempts.
Both of these fantasy series follow their protagonists as they gain in power and deal with the dangerous "realities" of worlds in which creatures of legend live.
Women in Horror Month (WiHM) is an international, grassroots initiative, which encourages supporters to learn about and showcase the underrepresented work of women in the horror industries. Whether they are on the screen, behind the scenes, or contributing in their other various artistic ways, it is clear that women love, appreciate, and contribute to the horror genre.
WiHM celebrates these contributions to horror throughout the year via the official WiHM blog, Ax Wound, The Ax Wound Film Festival, and with the official WiHM event/project database in February. This database—in conjunction with the WiHM social media fan base—actively promotes do-it-yourself annual film screenings, blogs/articles, podcasts, and any other form of creative media with the ultimate goal of helping works by and featuring women reach a wider audience.
This inclusive and positive movement is open to everyone, just as we believe the horror genre should be.
I have been a fan of horror from a very young age, reading the likes of James Herbert and Stephen King long before I should have. For me, horror encompasses all the genres - you can have action, romance, drama - all while going up against the bad guy or monster.
I remember visiting the video store as a kid, yes videos, I'm old, and always rushing to the horror section which was always disappointingly small. Friday the 13th ,Halloween, Critters, The Lost Boys were just some of the titles I watched.
When it came to books I read Goosebumps and Point Horrors, tame in comparison with some books, but still great fun to read.
I think that horror novels and movies give us a scare but they also tell us stories of good overcoming evil.
If you are not a horror fan I suggest you give it a go. It's not all gore, there are some great psychological horrors available. Be sure to check this blog for some great horror authors.
Angelica left his church feeling lighter and happier. She was not Catholic, and her father had been a very lapsed Christian, but she understood the peace one got from being around true servants of God, like this priest was. However, she was of the mind that God helped those who helped themselves, and she did not think prayers would help if she did not step up to her challenges as well.
She got into her car and the second she went to turn on the radio she jumped, immediately wanting to run right back out: Leander was in the passenger seat. She tried her door and it would not open. The car would not drive.
“Get the Hell out of here,” she hissed. “You’re fucking lucky I can’t kill you right now.”
Leander just smiled. “Hex bags. You got Harriet, AKA the Savior of the Covens, to come and help you, I see. I could never recruit her either, no wonder you’re associated with her.”
“So that’s what you meant by you wouldn’t hurt anyone and I’d come to you myself? You killed my friend!” she cried.
He held up a hand. “I said ‘threaten’, not ‘kill’ or ‘hurt’. Semantics, Your Highness.” He winked. “Before you go on berating me, I did not do it to persuade you. I did it to prove a point...which did not get proven.”
“A point? You killed a man to prove a point? What could you possibly want to prove that badly that it took murder?” she asked, her hands gripping the steering wheel so hard it was cracking. That will need replacing if I survive.
He nodded. “You look so surprised. As if you haven’t killed people yourself.”
“Not innocent people! ...Okay, fine, I’ll bite: what point were you trying to prove?”
“That you wouldn’t care if someone close to you died. I was wrong, and I freely admit that.”
Angelica could not remember the last time she had been so angry. Not even Fiona had brought out the rage that was building in her chest at that moment. “You killed Bart and expected me to not give a damn?” How had this monster once been human? She wanted to shoot him, dispel his demonic essence forever, but she knew he’d just disappear and she’d wind up putting a hole in her car.
“You’re not going cold quickly, and it made no sense. Finally, when I saw you just now, I realized why. You’re dying.” He said it conversationally, as if he meant, “your hair looks nice today” or “is that a new shirt?”
“Like I’m falling for that,” Angelica scoffed, hoping he couldn’t feel the cold hand of fear creeping around her throat.
“You’re drinking blood like crazy, but you’re still cold and weak. You didn’t drive this thing today for the fun of it, you did it because you don’t think you’re strong enough to run like you usually do,” he observed, sounding eerily like Brighton used to. “I can tell you how to stop it, but you probably won’t like to hear it.”
No, she knew she would not want to hear this. Not only did she hate that someone knew more about her than she did herself, but she hated having to take advice from a demon, the only creatures with no redeeming quality. Souls of pure black malice. And yet she had to trust this one, because she knew he was right. She knew it was not depression or stress. There was something very wrong with her, and she had not drank from Danny that day because she was afraid that she would not have been able to stop.
“Go on,” she said, struggling to keep her voice neutral.
“Vampires don’t need to kill to live, that is something you unfortunately proved. You are not a regular vampire by any means. Being from a line directly descended from humans, but born with vampiric blood, your body has been slowly breaking down ever since the moment you were fully turned. Particularly after you used much of your power against Fiona last year. Your body now can’t get enough blood to sustain it, because you’re not drinking it properly fitting to your unique condition,” Leander explained.
Angelica laughed, she couldn’t help it. “Not drinking it properly? Are you out of your fucking mind? I’ve been drinking blood since I was born. I think I know how.”
“Yes, but just as there is a difference in nutrition value between drinking from a pre-made cut or biting the victim, there is a big difference between drinking enough to survive, and enough to thrive. You need to drink a person dry, just once, so your body can get what it needs to thrive. Otherwise, I give you three months before you wither away to centuries old dust.”
Angelica’s mouth dropped as she received yet another bombshell blow of information. “How can I trust you?”
“You can’t...except that I need you alive, so therefore it stands to reason I wouldn’t lie about something that could keep you that way. Oh, and one more thing. I know how your mind works: you want to kill someone terminally ill, or perhaps in an institution or coma. That won’t work. You need a human in the prime of their life, under forty and over eighteen. Perfectly healthy.” He smirked. “Bon appetit, Your Highness.”
Women are typically the sole survivors in Horror movies, they are known as the Final Girls. A spoof movie was made in 2015 starring Taissa Farmiga, which explains what a Final Girl is. So what is a Final Girl? They are usually virginal, goody two shoes who end up facing off against the machete wielding maniac in the final scenes.
Some of the more famous Final Girls are Scream Queen Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween, Heather Langenkamp in Nightmare on Elm Street and a whole host of ladies in the Friday the 13th franchise. So how do you become a Final Girl?
You can't have a sex.
You can't drink or do drugs
You have the common sense not to investigate strange noises in your underwear.
By forgoing all this you get rewarded with a fight to the death with a crazed killer. Sounds like fun, right?
You can check out The Final Girls on Netflix now.
Born Kelley L. Armstrong
14 December 1968 (age 48)
Sudbury, Ontario, Canada
Pen name Kelley
Language English language
Genre Fantasy, horror, crime, romance
Kelley Armstrong (born 14 December 1968) is a Canadian writer, primarily of fantasy novels since 2001.
She has published twenty-one fantasy novels, thirteen to date in her Women of the Otherworld series, four in her Cainsville series, six in her Darkest Powers series and one in the Age of Legends series. She has also published three middle-grade fantasy novels in the Blackwell Pages Trilogy, with co-author Melissa Marr. As well, she is the author of three crime novels, the Nadia Stafford trilogy. She has also written several serial novellas and short stories for the Otherworld series, some of which are available free from her website. She likes programming.
Anger courses through my veins as I’m roused from my slumber by a knock at the door. How dare they wake me early.
I rise from my bed, checking the illuminated dial of the clock on the wall. I am supposed to sleep for at least three more days. They will pay for waking me. Without the proper time to rest I’m left in a weakened state. It is a ritual I abhor. Thankfully it only happens once every few decades.
The room is in darkness, soundproofed against outside noise. Whoever is knocking must be knocking hard enough to be heard.
Not bothering to dress, I wrench open the door to find a lackey on the other side. He is trembling, his eyes cast at the floor.
“The building had better be on fire,” I roar at him.
He shrinks back, “No, sire. I was told to summon you at once. It’s urgent.”
“The old woman. She says it can’t wait.”
If she’s here then it must be serious. I retrieve a shirt and pants and dress. The lackey stands obediently in the hallway, still looking at the floor.
As I pass him, I lash out. My fist strikes him in the face with enough force to snap his head back. It strikes the wall behind and he crumples to the floor.
I pass another lackey on the way, “Clean that mess up, will you.”
She is waiting for me in the study. She is seated on the love seat, her face hidden behind a long, black veil. Over the decades, she has had many names, most long forgotten. Now she is simply known as the old woman.
A seer by trade, I usually summoned her when I needed her services. The fact that she had come here by herself suggested that I wasn’t going to like what she had to say.
“What an unexpected surprise,” I said, not bothering to hide the anger in my voice.
“You’d do well to curb that tongue if yours. Especially since I am here to offer you something that you have always wanted,” she said. Her voice was a rasp.
“And what is that?”
“A way home.”
I smiled and lowered myself into the chair opposite her, “I’m listening.”
It took my brain a couple of seconds to recognize what my eyes were seeing; the darkness was not the black behind my eyelids. It was a dark that was not only in front of me but- as I turned my head- surrounded me on all sides.
I took a breath, the memories flooding back – I was in a coffin in my family mausoleum. The stun from the taser gun had worn off; I was now fully aware of my surroundings.
I pulled my right arm up and felt around on the dial of my watch until I found the light button. The illuminated numbers revealed that it had been twenty six hours since I’d been infected.
I had to remind myself to speak out loud so the microphones in the coffin as well as throughout the mausoleum could pick up all verbal observations coming from me. I counted backwards from one hundred, then ran through a mental checklist which assured me that my mind still seemed to be functioning.
“The time right now is five thirty p.m., twenty six hours since infection, I have awakened. No symptoms exhibited as of this notation; all mental functions and verbal pronunciations normal at this time.”
I wiggled my toes, flexed my facial muscles, brought my arms up to my chest and moved my fingers, individually at first, then bunched my fist.
“Physical motion has not currently been impaired; confines of the coffin seem to be the only limits on movement at this time.”
I went to push gently on the coffin lid and surprised myself when my arms shot out and slammed into the top, hitting it so hard that the lid actually bounced when the hinges reached their maximum distance; I did not command my hands to do that.
“Amendment to prior comment- control of motor skills seems to be diminishing; slammed coffin lid wide open when actual thought was to push gently.”
I sat up and grasped the sides; the intention was to slide myself out of the coffin. I made it halfway before a spurt of rage seemed to take over my whole system. I leapt out of the coffin, turned, then gave it a solid kick. One was all it took; the coffin went flying off the stone bier, heard it crack, watched it bounce when it hit the concrete floor. I was not in control of my motions; the slow boil of emotional rage seeming to rise up from my guts to encompass my physical frame.
“I have kicked coffin off of bier – now shattered and on the floor. Physical strength has increased; I am still in charge of my logical processes, but the virus seems to be starting to overlap and control my emotions – overriding emotion being rage- at this time.”
Jenna Deluise lives in a broken world. The dead walked, millions died. Here's what happened After.
I AM AN AUTHOR, BLOGGER AND A JOURNALIST.
“Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.”