Skip to main content

Posts

Showing posts from 2018

The Shadow Booth opens for Submissions on 1st March!

It's been creeping closer for a while, but now it's almost here...

We will be opening for FICTION SUBMISSIONS for the entirety of March 2018. Note: we are open all the time for non-fiction for the website, but the fiction submissions period will open on 1st March and end at midnight on 31st March 2018.

Here are some basic guidelines:
We are a bi-annual journal of weird and eerie fiction. Do not send us your Western romance (in space). Do not send us your drug addiction memoir. Do not send us your shopping list (unless you're buying some really weird things). Weird. Eerie. Fiction. Please.If you want an idea of what we mean by weird and eerie, then read The Shadow Booth: Vol. 1. This is the best way to find out what we like! The ebook is only £5, and like all independent publications, we need your support to keep going. (Paperbacks, ebooks and subscriptions are available here. Okay, rant over...) If you want further pointers, why not read editor Dan Coxon's article on t…

Memoir: The Drive Home

THE DRIVE HOME
by Tim Cooke

Memoir: The Shadow Babies

THE SHADOW BABIES
by Anna Vaught
In this cold house on a graceful, desolate street there were three rocking chairs,

Where three tiny forms sat formally, just so and waiting.

The chairs had black frames, rush seats; they were immaculate, still and unweighted down. No one, she said, was to rush at or hassle these chairs and they sat silent with their lovely occupants: three still infants. At least that was what I thought when I first looked in the formal front room. It was a shock, as I walked in with a clutch of young hot-blooded and real children of my own, lowering our voices as I'd trained them to do, in these parts, on Sundays, especially.

Here was me. Getting used to motherhood. Travelling alone. No mother of my own and a childhood that was rearing its head and causing commotion as I came to terms with wrongs I could not right but only release to the elements as I loved my own darlings. A graceful, desolate street: I needed straightforward, not a chilling oxymoron…