Siluk Horror writer: Bram Stoaker Award (2009)

Siluk: Bram Stoker Award

Announcing the Horror Stories and books by
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Under consideration for the Bram Stoker Award

For best short fiction collection, 2009

See his horror books: the Tiamat trilogy, series, plus several short story horror books, “Death on Demand” (to include the renowned story, “The Rape Angelina of Glastonbury, AD 119” read by many of his 150,000-monthly readers) (and: “The Seventy Born Son”); “Dracula’s Ghost,” has eight trying stories, and “The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia, another Colleton of eldritch short fiction (to include the growing interest in “Night Ride to Huancayo” a horrific supernatural tale). Also, the psychological thriller, “The Mumbler,” and “Manticore, Day of the Beast” And his book on visions “The Last Trumpet…” and “Angelic Renegades…” he is the unknown crown horror writer of the decade. Also see “After Eve” [a book of historic adventure].

His books can be seen on Amazon.com; B&N.com; abe.com and all the other internet big and small book dealers.

For those interested in the readings of Mr. Siluk’s books, he invites you to email the following:


stokerjury@horror.org stokerjury@horror.org
admin@horror.org

See Reviews by Benjamin Szumskyj on Dennis L. Siluk (and visit his many websites http:// dennissiluk.tripod.com


BENJAMIN SZUMSKYJ is a qualified teacher (Bachelor of Arts in Education / Bachelor of Arts in Social Sciences, minor in English) at a private high school. He also has a diploma as a librarian technician/assistant and a graduate diploma in Christian Studies. Szumskyj also acted as convener on the horror panel of the 2005 Aurealis Awards. In addition to being a member of the Australian Horror Writers Association, he is also a member of the (American) Horror Writers Association. His blog can be found at SSWFT, which is updated irregularly.



"In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows" - a review of The Macabre Poems: and Other Selected Poems (Volume III) by Dennis L. Siluk for Calenture: a Journal of Studies in Speculative Verse (Volume 1 # 1: September 2005).


"Interview with Dennis L. Siluk," for Lost Sanctum #2 (Wild Cat Books, 2006).


“He Is What He Writes: The Weird Tales of Dennis L. Siluk" for Dissections: The Journal of Contemporary Horror #2

(http://www.simegen.com/writers/dissections/February%202008/dissections_page_06.html>, 2008).

Meadows of the Charioteer (in poetic prose)

Meadows of the Charioteer

In Poetic Prose

((A day near heaven, and a midnight stir, from laden-brows) (part one))

I knew them also—some. I had seen them, in my other life. I was now like a wheel, like the spoke in a wheel itself, in its hub, in this vast place that doesn’t even show on any earth map, that not ten-people out of all the earth know its name, if that many, if it has any name at all, for I heard spoken out loud, in all directions a name called ‘The Meadows of the Charioteer,’ and here no one touched, never a one, not a big nor a smell touch, never a one too light or too hard, it is a place that men and women, live in—as I felt I was about to—and here I am starting to think of a lot of little things—quiet enough to do so—although not so quiet are the things I’m thinking of, things I once loved, places I once lived, names of people, and people before them, deeds done and not done, that made the quiet and loudness in my life, names of men and women who did the deeds, thinks and names and people I want to forget. How they and I lived, how we lasted and endured, fought the battles of life, and the ones they and I lost, and the ones they and I fought again, because a voice said, “You haven’t lost yet.” The heights they and I climbed to; the deserts that soiled us, and the shapes we turned into.

I knew many of them, the men and women standing about, that couldn’t touch or be touched, old, some young, some twice my age, and I’m seventy. And they, like me, thought these things, as we waited for the Charioteer, in the meadows, we thought these things in our minds. Then, as I looked down upon earth, it looked so dangerous and still, I looked at the storms coming from the North and South and East and West—in the mist—we all could see the four horsemen of apocalypse—riding faster and faster.

But stone-still we stood, waited to hear the name of the Charioteer, to see which way he’d come from, and I thought, and I could sense the others thought: what did we die for, or become just before we died, louder than any hunger it echoed in my head, it seemed to cover the whole meadow, and then, only then, did we all see the Charioteer, afar. (How long they waited I don’t know, how long I was to wait, I wasn’t sure, some had been there long, I sensed that; and I’m sure, some didn’t want to leave.)

And he rode fast and hard, and I listened to the hoof-beets of the horses as he came closer and closer, and we all waited until after dark, and we stood outside in the meadows, and we could hear his horse breathing, and to some it made them deaf to the voice of the Charioteer, and to some they could hear him plain. And that night I started to say…but he said, “Hush!” as I was thinking. And so we stood there, it was getting cold, and I was listening to him talk—but in-between, thinking, and he said “Hush!” And he said some things I understood, others I didn’t, and still some, I couldn’t make heads or tails out. And then he said, “That would be all for awhile.”

Across the meadows he rode, and I cried, “I want to go home!” And he stopped, turned about, said, “What’s the matter with you? I called your name and you didn’t jump on.” I said, “I didn’t understand.” Next he said, “When are you going to start?” and I ran, this time I heard him loud and clear, and I wasn’t thinking or looking back at anything, nothing at all—just straight ahead.




(The Charioteer, Near the Gates)

And he, the Charioteer, rode hard and fast, and all the old snapshots in my head hurriedly faded, as his team of horses swaggered a little, and he had—I noticed, a gold-and-leather military harness, and I said, “What about those left behind,” and he looked at me, said, “They are dead.” When I had left they looked lost, baffled, but not dead. I noticed his hardness commanded respect, so I said very little, trying to get used to the ride. He looked at me, said “They are all thick-sinned, men and women with scrawled transparent unbootable hearts; they lived and now are dead.” And as we rode on, he gave me a series of brief glares, instantaneous and without intensity or a point of view in particular, perhaps trying to see if I understood I suppose the depth of what was happening, as I stood on his chariot, then after a while, he told me, “The object of general interest in their hearts is different than yours, I know what heaven can bear and become if I ride them up to the gates, I cannot let in darkness.”

And so I understood, and for some reason, the closer I got to the gates, the less tears that were going to be tears, because of the lost ones, faded, and I was elated, and I could smell a fragrance that was so pleasant and majestic, and unique, it made my senses and my pours heavy and sweet. It was poetic stimulating and rich at the same time, and I saw angels, and the Charioteer said, with a smile, “Yes, this is the place.”



Note: Part one written: 1-12-2009 ((Poetic Prose: No: 2549) (Part two, ‘The Charioteer, near the gates’ written 1-13-2009))