My collection, I Will Surround You, from Undertow Publications is available now at Amazon at reduced price. For just £13.99 (down from £19.99) for the hardback and £6.99 (down from £11.99), you can get hold of fourteen stories wrapped up in soft or hard loveliness. The perfect Easter gift!
My new collection, I Will Surround You, is on offer with VH Leslie’s critically-acclaimed Skein and Bone as part of a British Invasion sale. Get both books here for just $30 (a saving of 40%).
Coming soon from Undertow Publications…
I Will Surround You
Stories by Conrad Williams
Trash Polka *
The Devil’s Interval
The Hag Stone
Blizzard Crypt †
* Original to this collection
† Originally entitled ‘Wait’
My third collection of short stories, I Will Surround You, is to be released by Undertow Publications in October this year. The collection will include short stories published in recent years and will feature such award-shortlisted fiction as Rain, The Fox and Raptors. There will be two original stories especially written for the book: Cwtch and Trash Polka. Until then, feast your eyes on this gorgeous cover by artist Mikio Murakami.
News hot off the presses: Dead Letters, published by Titan Books, has been shortlisted for the 2017 British Fantasy Awards (Best Anthology). I couldn’t have had a happier time editing this book. All of the contributors were a pleasure to work with and their stories were outstanding. I’m thrilled their collective efforts have led to this recognition.
The winners will be announced on the weekend of September 29th. Good luck to all the nominees!
Mark Morris, doyen of all things creepy, has edited a new anthology of horror fiction for Titan Books. New Fears will be published in September and contains my story Succulents. The book also contains stories by Alison Littlewood, Stephen Gallagher, Angela Slatter, Brady Golden, Nina Allan, Brian Keene, Chaz Brenchley, AK Benedict, Brian Lillie, Ramsey Campbell, Carole Johnstone, Sarah Lotz, Adam Nevill, Muriel Gray, Josh Malerman, Kathryn Ptacek, Christopher Golden and Stephen Laws.
The waiter was a young man with high cheekbones, a half-mask of light stubble and a tattoo in burgundy and ochre that peeked out from the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. He kept yawning and rubbing his eyes. Her mother allowed Fearne a diluted glass of the white Burgundy she was washing her bivalves down with. Each time she heard a boot gritting on the pavement she lifted her head in case it was Dad, but he didn’t appear. Her mother flirted with the waiter, her chin slicked with butter. Fearne wanted to be in her room listening to music through her headphones, reading her book, anything else.
‘Do you live around here?’ her mother asked the waiter. Fearne turned her face away.
‘Yeah, just up the road in Mapleton. But I’m aching to get out. I’m busting a nut. I don’t trust the power station. I don’t trust the sea. This place is a ghost town and nobody here realises that yet.’
‘What’s wrong with the sea?’ Fearne asked. Her mother arched her eyebrow, evidently amused that she’d engaged with another human being, and a boy at that.
‘It’s like a tsunami, only in super slow motion. Tide goes out. Comes back with interest. I don’t want to be around come that reckoning.’
‘Oh don’t be so apocalyptic,’ Mum said. ‘Guy your age. You shouldn’t be worrying about stuff.’
‘Yeah well,’ he said, ‘I’ve been here all my life. I’m not just a tourist.’ He seemed about to say more but he pressed his lips together and collected plates instead. ‘How was the meal?’
‘Lovely,’ Fearne said. ‘What’s wrong with the power station?’
‘Nothing,’ said the waiter. ‘Guy my age? I shouldn’t be worrying about stuff.’
‘People around here,’ her mum continued (Fearne recognised the drawl that alcohol lent her voice), ‘and I’ve heard them, still talk about the sea as if it should be placated. As if we should be sacrificing our first-born sons or daughters. Flinging them piecemeal into the waves, like rubby-dubby. Like chum. What do you think of that?’
‘You don’t have to worry,’ he said, smiling at Fearne. She felt her cheeks burn. ‘Your daughter is no child.’
‘She’s my little girl,’ her mum said, tartly. ‘She always will be. My baby.’
For a moment Fearne thought her mother might cry, but she cut it off with another gulp from her wine glass. Thirteen years old. On the cusp. Like this place. Her hips were becoming wider, like the bay. Her breasts were swelling, like the ocean. She felt something like the tide pulling at her insides. Childhood was something she had wanted to escape for so long, but now that time was here, she feared it. She wanted infancy back. The comfort and simplicity. The lack of confusion and doubt.
My story, The Offing, which originally appeared in Terror Tales of the Ocean (ed. Paul Finch, Gray Friar Press) is to be reprinted in Best New Horror 27 which will appear later this year from PS Publishing.