Presenting Twisted Realities: Of Myth and Monstrosity from Sirens Call Publications…

Enchanted by tales of old? Delve into the myths and legends that you remember, only expect a twist or two. Oh, and a little horror as well. Each of the twelve tales has something magical to offer – let them weave their seductive web around you…

Myth or reality…

Explore the twelve tales of horror and intrigue in Twisted Realities: Of Myth and Monstrosity and ask yourself, what would you consider a fair price to pay for life immortal… or the chance of life at all?

Would a young woman pass up a shiny bauble if she believed it to be nothing more than a harmless trinket? What transpires once a year in a peaceful and remote village that no one will ever speak of? What better way for a broken man to honor a crippled existence than with a memorial of blood and vengeance? How could a disfigured woman ever dream of chancing across an object that would restore her beauty – and at what cost?

Follow the twists and turns of each writer as they delve into the legends of days gone by, as well as the consequences that are wrought when myths and monstrosities collide with our world.

Contributing Authors include:

Thomas James Brown, Nina D’Arcangela, K. Trap Jones, Amber Keller, Lisamarie Lamb, Edward Lorn, Alexa Muir, Kate Monroe, Joseph A. Pinto, J. Marie Ravenshaw, Julianne Snow, and Jonathan Templar

Twisted Realities: Of Myth and Monstrosity is available in both digital and print editions for your reading pleasure.

Print: Amazon, CreateSpace
eBook: Amazon,,,,,, Smashwords (Nook, Kobo, Sony and Kindle eReaders)


 Three enchanting excerpts from the twelve tales contained with Twisted Realities: Of Myth of Monstrosity. For a preview of all 12 stories, please go to

It Lives In Us – Thomas James Brown

     But it was not the haven they had envisaged. Such a place could not have existed, did not exist. How could it, except between the pages of the Good Book – or any book, for that matter? No; the winters were long, the nights dark and, whilst there was some shelter from the plague beneath the boughs of the trees, there was no outrunning sin. This was Lynnwood’s real legacy.

     In those respects, little had changed. For three hundred and sixty four days of the year, Lynnwood was a pleasant enough place in which to live. Hemmed in by the ancient oaks, there was a very real sense of community, as tangible as the roots that wound their way beneath the moist forest mulch. The trees were not restricted to oaks, but beech too, and yew and holly; any naturalist’s dream. Together they kept the village their own, tucked away behind branch and thistle and trunk. There was but a single bus that went as far as Lyndhurst, which left and returned once each day, and one long, vermicular road. Those were the only ways in and out of the village. Traffic was unheard of. In the hottest months, the dead of summer, the locals would spill out from the pub into the middle of the high street, to drink and talk and celebrate the sun with local ales. Nobody worried about collisions or disruption. There was no need. It was simply the way of things.

Memorial – Joseph Pinto

     “What I do…what I did…never constituted a job. A job does nothing to stir the soul. Only passion achieves such a state of grace.” The man inhaled deeply—of the bourbon or the proposal, left to dangle in air—Anthony was not sure. But he did not appreciate the smooth impassiveness across the man’s alabaster face. Did not appreciate it in the least.


     “Yes. A job is measured by hours. But passion’s hours are timeless.”

     “It seems your passion has nearly left you a cripple, while my job has left me a wealthy, wealthy man,” Anthony sneered.

     “You are my brother, Anthony. And had you not been, I’d find your gaffe of words truly insulting.”

     “At last, bravado found at the bottom of your glass. Is that the residue of passion, Nicholas, or merely passion’s inspiration?”

     A thread’s breadth parted Nicholas’ lips as bourbon drizzled tongue. Eyes danced but to the song of another day, transfixed by noiseless, ghostly chords. “Some people wish to choose their vice. But for others, the vice chooses them.”

The Plight of Phaylen Ponsford – Julianne Snow

     Each thin layer of dirt removed had the potential to reveal a relic of a lost time; perhaps a treasure of incalculable value. Phaylen had wanted to be an archaeologist for as long as she could remember. The desire stemmed from the continual playback of a childhood favourite that still held her spellbound; good old Indy never let her down. With all of the bad things that had befallen Phaylen, Indy always remained a constant source of inspiration. Even after the fire.

     It happened when Phaylen was nine. An electrical short in one of the wires connecting her favourite pink lamp with the frilly nightshade to the wall. It could have picked any point in its life to short out, but instead it chose a moment when a young Phaylen was sleeping next to it. Within that instant her life changed – in the worst possible way.

     Gone were her frilly pink lamp, her bed that had once been covered in a pink and purple polka dotted bedspread, and all her toys.  In their stead was just pain; both physical and emotional.

     Phaylen had always been a heavy sleeper; a trait that her alcoholic mother had once considered a Godsend. In the wake of the devastation and the mounting medical bills, she began to consider it a curse.

     It wasn’t long before she considered Phaylen cursed as well.


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