Simon Paul Woodward

Horror author

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Review: Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica

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A very-near future dystopia. Animals are infected with a disease that makes them poisonous to humans and their place in our diet, and on our supermarket shelves, has been replaced by human meat. Humans denied speech at birth, raised in ignorance of what they are and then efficiently slaughtered.

Tender is the Flesh is midnight dark and deeply affecting. It’s stylistically simple and written with the urgency of a thriller. Its ending will leave you stunned and possibly despairing of humanity.

The story follows our protagonist, Marcos, a senior employee in a slaughterhouse processing human meat, through a world that has learned how to justify and even to celebrate cannibalism. As we experience his growing disgust at colleagues, family and the world, we are also exposed to a powerful paradox at his core – despite everything that surrounds him, he still desires to become a parent, whatever the cost to his soul.

You can read the review on Goodreads

Review: The Reddening by Adam Nevill

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What a book. I can honestly say I haven’t enjoyed a horror novel so much for a very, very long time. Beautifully rendered, flawed and relatable characters. A creeping sense of dread. Visceral violence dispensed by the cultish Red Folk. An ancient force straining at the barrier between the worlds. All grounded by a wealth of scientific data that makes you second guess your assumptions about what the Red Folk may (or may not) be summoning. A towering horror novel. Mr Neville, I salute you.

Launched Today – WEARING SKIN: 12 Devilishly Dark Horror Short Stories

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Available on Amazon globally as a paperback or e-book: just click here!

None of us are what we seem to be on the outside. We are all pretending. We are all wearing skin.

The Angel of Loughborough Junctions: An amoral filmmaker experiences the horror of the world through an angel’s eyes.
Children of Ink: A living tattoo breaks one of the Five Laws of Ink and suffers the terror of life away from flesh.
Wearing Skin: Bigotry conquers true love in a blood-splattered tale of body swapping, sex and immortality.
American Sexual Lobster: A seafood chef loses his mind and body on a night of shellfish slaughter.
Manny & the Monkeys: An egotistical writer’s life is ripped apart by escalating, and increasingly bizarre, coincidences.

These 12 unsettling short stories include the British Fantasy Society award-winning Manny & The Monkeys. 

If you’re a fan of Stephen King, Joe Hill or JT Lawrence you’ll love these dark stories with a twist. Get ready to stay up all night with award-winning horror author Simon Paul Woodward.

EARLY REVIEWS


“The ideas, the language, the grasp of how people really talk, and think, and how close the dark is to all of us… this is an exceptional collection.”
 
Michael Marshall Smith
New York Times
Bestselling author
 
 
“The core story “Wearing Skin” is about a tale of body swapping touching the mythic questions of immortality and sex. The author presents the scenes in their raw form, shocking the reader and keeping them in fear. The book is an excellent read if you are fan of Joe Hill.”

Joel Stafford
Joelsbooks.com
 
 
“A filmmaker experiences an ungodly world through stolen angel eyes, immortal beings wearing the skin of humans, a doctor able to see into your past when you cry, a world where tattoos can tear away from flesh and come alive, a man ready to take out his enemies is trapped alone in a distant world, and my favourite, the seer, a man with abilities that allow him to travel from his body to the depths of the unknown.”
 
Samantha
Goodreads review

Return of the Hero: a horror story in 333 words.

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He places two hands around the pint of Guinness. Savours the chill that seeps into his flesh. Raises the glass to his lips and swallows; ice cold, sliding down his throat, the slightly burnt taste, the taste of home.

Ducks quack and preen on the village pond. The early evening sun is hazy amongst candyfloss clouds. She sneaks up on him. Kisses on his neck, laughter, her arms gripping him. He’s twisting, trying to slide free of the beer garden table, to grab her, to crush her to him so they can be one again. Then she’s in his arms, face masked by a spill of unruly blonde curls, his cool soft lips meet his, tears are shared. 

“You’re home,” she says. 

The sunlight blinds him. He can’t see her face, just that smile; the smile that means: everything is okay, you’re a good man, I love you.

He’s walking up the sloped garden towards the pub to buy her a drink. He doesn’t know this pub. Doesn’t know why he’s meeting her here, not the airport, not at home. He stumbles and is suddenly inside the pub. Loud voices. There’s a television on above the bar. A young soldier wearing sand coloured battle fatigues and a webbed helmet grips a machine gun and yells out of the screen.

He can’t hear the words. Why didn’t she meet him at the airport? She always meets him at the airport when he returns from a tour. He edges closer to the screen. A man bumps into him, elbows him in the chest. 

He falls back, winded, pain flaring. He’s on his back and the young soldier is yelling into his face. The pub’s gone. He’s lying on dirt in a rough tan covered building. Bullets rip through a wooden shutter and puncture the back wall.

He tries to speak but he can only conjure bubbles of blood. He closes his eyes, smiles, and places two hands around the pint of Guinness. 

Speaking, Whispering Really: a short story in 333 words

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horror image of woman in a wedding dress looking into a mirror and crying

So, as I was saying before you punched me, it don’t matter what you believe, it just matters what’s what. What’s true.

Don’t shake your head at me, that ain’t going to encourage cooperation is it.

Okay, calmed down, Inspector? Ready to listen?  Then begin again, I shall.

Why did I do it? Because she told me to do it.

Who? Her. I don’t know who she is. It wasn’t a job interview. I didn’t apply. 

I saw her in the mirror the first time. A mirror just like the one behind you. Messy bugger she was, facing away from me. Couldn’t see nothing of her face on account of her long hair.  She was speaking, whispering really.

Who to? 

To whom? 

Whatever.

Someone out of view. I pressed my face to the mirror and tried to look into the room – that’s what it was – a room on the other side of the mirror.  Big mistake.  She grabbed me before I knew what happening. My face half in and out the mirror like it was water.  I was drowning, drinking mercury. 

She told me what I had to do. Said it was mandatory. A form of calling. 

I pledged obedience as she held me and then ran.  I thought I could escape her. Went home and locked myself in. But she was there in every mirror. In that room.  She had me wherever I ran.

I bought the knife. Rode the escalator down into the tube. Got off at London Bridge and stared up at The Shard. I thought it was appropriate. It looks like a shank threatening the sky don’t you think. Anyway, this bloke in a suit looked at me funny. He was the one. Knew it just like that. So I stabbed him and he died. Your men arrested me and here I am. 

In front of you. And the mirror. I can see her peering into the room, speaking, whispering. He looks just  like me. 

We Have Come for your Children: a horror story in 333 words.

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My friend Nick Evans @poncohtours, writer, journalist, travel organiser, bon vivant and all round great human, once challenged a few friends to write a short story in 333 words. He would suggest a title and off we’d go. We set up a website and wrote a few of these, until other projects got in the way… anyway, here’s the first one I wrote (of course, it’s a horror story).

WE HAVE COME FOR YOUR CHILDREN

The doorbell rings. 

Jenny ignores it. Stares at the iPad screen, willing the word flow to become a story stream. She should be in a lecture hall at Uni, but she already knows academia can’t help her. So here she is, in her room lined with books, surviving on Cheerios, living in her Scooby Doo onesie oh so close to finishing her first novel Jemima & Jacque Lose Tomorrow. 

It’s brilliant.

‘Effing brilliant!

She just knows it. 

The doorbell rings again. She loses the thread of her sentence. 

Goddamit!

She stomps into the hall, yanks open the door to reveal three, shrunken old ladies. 

– Oh, hello, says Jenny. 

The old ladies giggle, swapping mischievous glances. 

God botherers, she thinks.  

– Oh no, says the first old lady, looking most offended

– Never that, says the second, that’s far to new-fangled. 

– We’re here for your children, says the third.

Suddenly, Jenny is stumbling backwards, her head cotton wool dripping ether, her legs overcooked spaghetti. 

White light. Her head hurts. She’s on the floor. Looking up at three wrinkly faces. 

– I don’t have any children, she mutters, eyes closing. 

– Oh but you do, chorus the old ladies. 

Jenny wakes with her iPad cradled in her hands. 

Nightmare. 

Dreaming again. 

Working too hard, girl.

Maybe she needs to up her sleep from three hours to five a night. 

No.

When the novel was finished. She’ll sleep then. 

Her iPad’s asleep. She swipes its screen and keys in her password.

No … no … NO!

Her novel! Where is her novel! She must have deleted it when she slumped asleep. 

Keep calm! You’re a diligent writer. Jemima and Jacque is backed up on the Cloud. You may have lost a morning’s work, that’s all.

She navigates to her cloud account. Opens her folder. There’s only one document in it. 

She opens it. 

A single line of text. 

We have Jemima and Jacque. They’re safe now. You can’t hurt them anymore.