Yellow Mama Archives II

Chris Alleyne

Acuff, Gale
Ahern, Edward
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
Aronoff, Mikki
Ayers, Tony
Baber, Bill
Baird, Meg
Baker, J. D.
Balaz, Joe
Barker, Adelaide
Barker, Tom
Barnett, Brian
Barry, Tina
Bartlett, Daniel C.
Bates, Greta T.
Bayly, Karen
Beckman, Paul
Bellani, Arnaav
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc
Beveridge, Robert
Blakey, James
Booth, Brenton
Bracken, Michael
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
Campbell, J. J.
Cancel, Charlie
Capshaw, Ron
Carr, Steve
Carrabis, Joseph
Cartwright, Steve
Centorbi, David Calogero
Cherches, Peter
Christensen, Jan
Clifton, Gary
Cody, Bethany
Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
Cumming, Scott
Davie, Andrew
Davis, Michael D.
Degani, Gay
De Neve, M. A.
Dillon, John J.
Dinsmoor, Robert
Dominguez, Diana
Dorman, Roy
Doughty, Brandon
Doyle, John
Dunham, T. Fox
Ebel, Pamela
Fagan, Brian Peter
Fillion, Tom
Flynn, James
Fortier, M. L.
Fowler, Michael
Galef, David
Garnet, George
Garrett, Jack
Glass, Donald
Graysol, Jacob
Grech, Amy
Greenberg, KJ Hannah
Grey, John
Hagerty, David
Hardin, Scott
Held, Shari
Hicks, Darryl
Hivner, Christopher
Hoerner, Keith
Hohmann, Kurt
Holt, M. J.
Holtzman, Bernard
Holtzman, Bernice
Holtzman, Rebecca
Hopson, Kevin
Hubbs, Damon
Irwin, Daniel S.
Jabaut, Mark
Jermin, Wayne
Jeschonek, Robert
Johns. Roger
Kanner, Mike
Karl, Frank S.
Kempe, Lucinda
Kennedy, Cecilia
Keshigian, Michael
Kirchner, Craig
Kitcher, William
Kompany, James
Kondek, Charlie
Koperwas, Tom
Kreuiter, Victor
Larsen, Ted R.
Le Due, Richard
Leotta, Joan
Lester, Louella
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Luer, Ken
Lukas, Anthony
Lyon, Hillary
Mannone, John C.
Margel, Abe
Martinez, Richard
McConnell, Logan
McQuiston, Rick
Middleton, Bradford
Milam, Chris
Miller, Dawn L. C.
Mladinic, Peter
Mobili, Juan
Mullins, Ian
Myers, Beverle Graves
Myers, Jen
Newell, Ben
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl
Nielsen, Judith
Onken, Bernard
Owen, Deidre J.
Park, Jon
Parker, Becky
Pettus, Robert
Plath, Rob
Potter, John R. C.
Price, Liberty
Proctor, M. E.
Prusky, Steve
Radcliffe, Paul
Reddick, Niles M.
Reedman, Maree
Reutter, G. Emil
Riekki, Ron
Robson, Merrilee
Rockwood, KM
Rollins, Janna
Rose, Brad
Rosmus, Cindy
Ross, Gary Earl
Rowland, C. A.
Saier, Monique
Sarkar, Partha
Scharhag, Lauren
Schauber, Karen
Schildgen, Bob
Schmitt, Di
Sesling, Zvi E.
Short, John
Simpson, Henry
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snell, Cheryl
Snethen, Daniel G.
Stanley, Barbara
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Taylor, Richard Allen
Temples. Phillip
Tobin, Tim
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Varghese, Davis
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Al Wassif, Amirah
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
Weisfeld, Victoria
Weld, Charles
White, Robb
Wilhide, Zachary
Williams, E. E.
Williams, K. A.
Wilsky, Jim
Wiseman-Rose, Sophia
Woods, Jonathan
Young, Mark
Zackel, Fred
Zelvin, Elizabeth
Zeigler, Martin
Zimmerman, Thomas
Zumpe, Lee Clark

Written by Slade Stevens

by Chris Alleyne

I had been writing for five years. There was never any question for me about what genre I would write. Any novel with the ‘Written by Slade Stevens’ tagline on the cover was guaranteed to be two things; bloody, macabre, and horrific, and a book that you could not put down once you had opened it. Or that’s what my publisher used as their marketing blurb.

It made no difference to me; I just wrote them. Prolifically. At the rate of one every eight months, it seemed. I had been blessed with an inherent feel for plot, words, and grammar, to the point that my books needed only minimal editing. In a way, it was scary, and I kept waiting to turn out something that was total crap, but I would write until that happened. Then, three books into my writing career, I picked up an unlikely fan. William Ravenscroft was an Englishman who had become famous, equally for the quality of his food, as for the vulgarity of his demeanor.

In England, it was unlikely that he would have achieved the level of fame that he had done in the good old US of A. The networks clamored for him to sign extended contracts to do his shows with them, but he never signed for more than a single season at a time.

And he loved my work. His endorsement was always free; every time I released a new book, the hardback copy was featured prominently on his counter, no matter what the network. And it cost me nothing! The networks were constantly running me down for advertising, and my publicist was always turning them away, more vigorously, unless they had a Ravenscroft cooking show scheduled for release. We saved hundreds of thousands in advertising.

His expletive-laden descriptions of my work guaranteed more sales than any other form of promotion would have. Occasionally, I condescended to do an interview, especially if it was close to a Ravenscroft special.

They all knew it, and I shamelessly exploited the situation. One comment from William, like, this is the most fucking fantastic read that you can pick up this spring. Or, if you enjoy horror stories, this one will have your tummy turning collywobbles from page 1; by page 10, you’ll be shitting yourself! was worth a few thousand sales.

Then, one day, he called me directly. I mean, yeah, I was making a name for myself, but William Ravenscroft was a star!

Then he turned up unannounced for a visit. Not driven in an entourage, but simply pulling his Porsche into my yard, bouncing out cheerily, sticking his hand out, and saying. “How the fuck are ya, Slade? I hope you’ve got a few minutes for your #1 fan.”

Shit! Did I?

“Come on in, William. Always have time for you.” We went into the house, and I poured two stiff shots of Scotch, handing one to him.

“So. To what do I owe this visit? I’m honored.”

He patted the leather couch next to him, and I sat as he started to talk.

That conversation started me off in a different direction with my writing. It became a national secret, and no one got a look at my manuscript without signing a really onerous non-disclosure agreement.

William became a regular visitor, arriving in nondescript Japanese vehicles which needed painting and staying out of sight of anyone who might recognize him.

Today would be the big reveal. William came over to meet my agent. When the three of us were sitting there, Scotches in hand, I handed an envelope to Mike McGinley, the man who had been my agent when I was still producing crap for online magazines.

“Mike, have a look and let me know what you think.”

McGinley pulled out the 80,000-word manuscript and looked at the front. He paled. “Jesus, Slade, William, without reading any further, I can say that this will be HUGE!” He read for a half-hour while we sipped our Scotch, refilling the glasses once.

The book was auctioned to a list of the top publishers in the world and yielded an initial advance deep in the six-figure range. After that, it flew through the cover design phase and a cursory edit, as did all of my work. Then it went to the printers.

Three months later, we were ready to launch. It was all set up under massive security; we had more than two thousand copies at the launch, all covered with dust cloths. On each side of the table stood easels, covered from just below my trademark cover top; a black and white image of my heavily-shadowed, deep-set eyes below a banner that read Written by Slade Stevens.

I sat behind the table. Waiting for the press. People gathered, filling the ample ballroom space; the cameras were set up.

I stood and walked around the table. An expectant hush descended on the crowd.

“Good evening, readers. Today I have a special guest who needs no introduction. I have recently become privileged to call this man my friend. William?”

I stepped back and waved to my left, and William Ravenscroft stepped out on that side of the table. There was a hushed silence, then thunderous applause broke out.

Ravenscroft started in a typical fashion. “I don’t think that anyone here is so fucking stupid that they don’t know that this man is one of the finest fucking writers of horror stories in the world. I am — ”

There was a popping sound, and William looked up, surprised. Then, two more pops and two more red spots appeared on William’s white tunic. He looked down and started to pirouette to the floor, and a man in jeans stepped out of the crowd, pistol in hand, and screamed, “That’s fixed you, you foul-mouthed heathen.”

At that exact moment, a security guard drew his service pistol and placed four well-aimed rounds into the gunman’s chest.

I dropped to the floor next to Ravenscroft, holding his head carefully. “Stay with me, William.” But it was no use; his blue eyes glazed over, and he stopped breathing. People pulled me away.

The cover on one of the easels had come off in the fracas. The book cover was displayed for all to see.

101 Recipes to Die For.

by Slade Stevens and William Ravenscroft


Slowly, the crowd noticed the cover, and a slow clap started, ending in thunderous applause.

My agent was right. This would be Fucking HUGE!

Chris Alleyne is a native-born Barbadian who has been involved in creative activities all his life. He is a photographer, a painter, and a woodworker and has also written unpublished poetry and published two coffee-table books of Barbados landscapes. He has been divorced for over 15 years and is the father of two young men and grandfather of two. A collection of some of his short stories—Into the Mist—is available on Amazon. He is currently working on a collection of novels, still looking for that elusive book deal!

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