By Jeffrey Thomas
BONELAND by means of Jeffrey Thomas might be restricted to four hundred signed and numbered hardback copies. the canopy artwork and illustrations could be through Caniglia. writer: Bloodletting Press Publishers description: In 1893, the site visitors try their first touch with the human race. households move mad. mom and dad devote suicide. A president is assassinated. by means of 1918, within the bleak boneland of the twentieth Century, human assassins devote atrocities and worldwide wars are waged to sate the appetites of the site visitors. John Board is a criminal offense scene photographer, whose nightmarish photos of human destruction are used as titillating leisure. Board's destiny is tied in with those unseen, unfathomable forces -- and so is his previous. the United States is drowning in a sea of blood as flashbulbs click on and picture cameras roll. The visitors are the following to stick. BONELAND is a story of a not-so-alternate history...a tale of horror, technological know-how fiction, and the surreal through Jeffrey Thomas, acclaimed writer of LETTERS FROM HADES, PUNKTOWN and MONSTROCITY.
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For his seventeenth birthday, Johnny Board received a camera from his Aunt Marge, with whom he had been living for the past seven years in her cute little bungalow not far from Lumbar Beach. The camera was a No. 2 Bull’s-Eye, from Eastman Kodak. It was the first camera that could be loaded with film in daylight. Johnny would take this camera down to the beach to shoot the waves, and—often surreptitiously—those people drawn to the waves. On occasion he would succeed in getting some pretty teenage girl to pose on the sand with the ferris wheel of the boardwalk fairgrounds looming against the sky behind her.
But he knew he must venture down there again. He knew he couldn’t spend yet another day up here in the attic. He needed water again. He needed to…to… Johnny crept away from the window, and around the corner to the stairs. He hesitated at their head, as if he expected to see some terrible figure awaiting him in the gloom at the bottom. But there was no one. No one. Stealthily, he began to descend. The kitchen was silent and empty…empty except for the sound of a single fly, trapped buzzing against a windowpane.
He rolled off her. Lay on his back panting, sweat trickling down from his armpits, his heart galloping blindly like a horse on a treadmill inside him. “Not my fault if you can’t do it, mister,” grumbled Grace. ” “You’ll get it,” he said. And he’d get his own paycheck tomorrow. But he didn’t know if he were a pimp, procuring pleasure for his clients, or a prostitute, the means to that pleasure himself. Board stared at the woman’s radio, on a table by the bed. Its feelers did not waver as it played the Peerless Quartet’s “Somebody’s Waiting for Someone”, but a twittering static drifted in and out.