A Story by M.F. KORN
My friend Crandall was a professional magician, and he really was fun to be around even if he didn't drink. This day he and I were riding around the college town of Hammond arguing about what restaurant we would pick for lunch.
"You're the businessman, you know the best spots for Chrissakes!" he said.
"But I don't live here, you do!" I replied.
Hammond is a Southern town with lots of Georgian houses whose cupolas and gambreled roofs cut the sky in quaint ways. Kids still swing on wrought iron gates and picket fences under the shadowy alcoves of huge old oaks hung full of Spanish moss. I suddenly recalled listening to a choir when I used to walk to the college, crossing over the railroad tracks, absorbed in thoughts about my youth.
I sighed. It was the Saturday before Easter and we were bored.
We were going to drive around the college again to watch coeds walk by, our carnal stares unseen through Crandall's tinted windows. At the moment, I was distracted by the sight of some women across the highway going through the garbage that the Goodwill Store had just thrown out for the day. Suddenly something came into view.
"Hey! A carnival!” I said.
"Ah, yyeess...” he said in his best W.C.Fields voice.
On every other day the spot was an abandoned shopping center parking lot. Today it was a conundrum of machinery, rides for the kiddies, bolted together too fast.
"I drove by yesterday and this setup wasn’t here,” Crandall said, his Hawaiian shirt billowing about his flabby arms and he turned the wheel in. We parked and sat looking.
In the bright sun I saw snooker tables, nudger machines, and bronzed carnival barkers. Children were strapped into the swirling rides of steel and screaming. The haunted house trailer with the whirring sheet metal skirt blowers, tilted floors, and spooky interior lights was towards the back. It made me want to be scared by the apparitions flying at me on gearshifts and conveyor belts. Even from a distance the people running the show looked tough‑skinned and countrified.
"There isn’t much of a crowd here," Crandall said.
"Yeah," I said.
"Let's stop by the games and see the setup," he said. I knew he was going to ask the folks running the games and booths how the profits were going. He looked at me as he pulled the parking brake up and opened the car door. "It's not the rides that make them the most money. It's those games, believe me...” he said as he pulled up the sun visor, "...they really rake up on those...” I followed him.
There were folks sleeping in the old, peeling metal trailers near the front gate. A tied up pit‑bull begged for food from a pale, fat biker. He stared at us and muttered something. We walked on down the barker strip.
"We're making a big mistake walking this way with no money," said Crandall.
"I don't see what you mean," I said.
Two kids were throwing darts at balloons for cheap prizes; “Heavy Metal” wallets and framed beer logo mirrors hung in the booth. One kid was trying to snag a ring onto a Coke bottle. Other kids were pitching pennies into shallow dishes.
"Hey man! Buy somethin' for your woman!" a ruddy man yelled at us. I looked down to avoid his gaze. Just then, a kid managed to get a penny in a glass. The ruddy man gave him a cloth beanbag instead of the glass. "You gotta get behind the rope. You was leaning over," he drawled. What hucksters! Out to rook and cheat people, even kids!
There was something about this carnival. I heard a muffled conversation between two women at the barbecue stand; "Lotsa pickin’s here," I thought I heard one say. A huge man in a Harley t-shirt sat on a lawn chair by his trailer holding an open shotgun, cleaning it carefully. He glowered at me with more than a usual country way-of-knowing. Tinny strains of an old Kitty Wells song resonated from an ugly, beat-up trailer with fading cartoon-like figures painted on its contorted side. Nearby was a sign.
I smiled. "They have a side show?"
"It's closed," barked a skinny man with a deeply-crevassed and leathered face. I thought I heard the sound of crying from somewhere not too distant. “Damn!” I said under my breath. “I wanted to see a side show!”
“It’s always the best part!” Crandall said. With a shrug he went over to talk to the fellow running the BB gun shoot, a one-armed man, tattooed all over – even the pitiful stump glowing mauve and aquamarine with ink.
"Making money?" Crandall asked cheerily. The tattooed man didn't answer.
Standing right next to me was a fat lady with a crooked-smile wearing picked-over double-knit polyester pants talking to a skinny black woman, both holding onto their tugging children.
"When they sent up that space shuttle God got mad and flooded all of Denham Springs!" said the fat lady.
"Lawd, yeah!” the black lady replied, with just a flash from her gold teeth. "I heard it in the Ponchatoula Pentecostal Church." I smiled slightly. Nearby, in a noisy, makeshift video arcade tent, little black boys were brushing up against the white suburban brats; maybe they were just being territorial, or maybe they were trying to steal some wallets as the white kids saved the universe.
Crandall was still trying to make conversation with the stumped fellow, telling him that he was a professional magician. "We're both in the same business..." Crandall smiled.
I noticed the look in the barker’s eyes, like so many others I had seen that day. These carny folk all had the same pall of trashiness, the same sinister looks, even the children. A sudden realization came over me like a chill, though I was standing in the boiling Southern sun: These people were all one, big inbred family!
"Go away!" the one‑armed barker snarled and spit as he handed a kid a loaded BB gun. "Ain't none of your business and we ain’t got nothin’ in common."
Crandall and I exchanged looks and turned away, just as a couple of dirty kids were placing dollar bills down for some rats racing on a spinning board. This was even better than when the mall had chickens dancing on hot plates for a quarter, or when I played tic-tac-toe with a rabbit, I thought, then realized I hadn’t thought about any of that in years. It was seeing the rats that did it. All of the games were old fashioned like that, the kind carnivals used to have. But the realization made me feel strange, and not at all nostalgic.
Crandall and I made our way toward the exit. A soiled banner flapped in the breeze at the ticket booth; we hadn’t noticed it on our way in. “Old-Tyme Spectral Carnival Show” it said in hastily-painted red letters. A strange gloom settled over us. We drove in silence.
We finally had lunch. "Brady's Bar & Grill" did a lot to dispel our pensive mood. I gave sidelong glances at the waitresses, college girls clad in ubiquitous Irish green. Crandall’s mood lifted and he took out his playing cards; for once he didn’t ask me to be the patsy in his never-ending search for the perfect card trick, contenting himself with the wait staff instead. He looked at me and smiled, knowing I was “in on” things. Then he did a couple of tricks with his “Tally-ho” fan cards and I lightened up and agreed to be the mark. We drank our sweet, sepia-colored Southern iced tea under a ceiling bronzed by the afternoon sun; I craved alcohol but managed to fight it off.
For the first time since we had left the strange carnival I felt comfortable talking about it. "They were kind of on the mean side," I said.
Crandall just nodded, studying his tea. The soiled banner at the entrance had said “Old-Tyme Spectral Carnival Show.”
“I wonder what that meant?” I said. Crandall shrugged.
“And did you notice how trashy those people looked,” I went on.
"It wasn't that,” he said at last. “They were dangerous. You could tell."
"What is a rotten carnival show like that doing in a town like this on the day before Easter?" I wondered aloud.
Crandall fanned and shuffled his cards. “What’s it doing anywhere?” he said.
“Those people,” I said, “they had something besides just loose change in their head. It was something…” I didn’t finish my thought. Ominous. That’s what it was, that’s what I wanted to say. Something like an invisible cloak; I noticed it when I saw the rats running, running on that spinning wheel. Something. Something that spoke of death.
I finished my meal. Crandall sat, lost in thought, shuffling cards.
We decided to take in a movie to escape the sweltering heat. We went to the shopping mall and walked around while waiting for the 5:30 matinee. Everywhere we looked kids were darting here and there or pestering their parents by waving slips of yellow paper in their faces. Crandall grabbed one from where it lay on the floor. On the paper, in ugly black letters, were the words “Old-Tyme Spectral Carnival! Today Only!”
Crandall looked around at the kids. “They’re going to be disappointed,” he said, and pitched the flier away.
After the movie, in the car on the way home, Crandall tuned in to his favorite local talk-radio station. We were passing the park. I was looking at the squirrels fidgeting among the oak tree roots, and at the old gazebo where years ago a barber shop quartet would perform on Saturday nights.
“Listen to this!” Crandall blurted suddenly and turned up the sound on the radio.
“At this hour authorities in Hammond are searching for several children who are missing after attending a carnival earlier today. Police are combing the area for at least seven children who were separated from their parents while enjoying the carnival activities. The missing children range in age from 5 to 13 years. Police have not commented on the case but have indicated they are looking into the possibility that more children may have disappeared. For more on this story, and to see photos of the missing children, please visit our website at …”
Crandall turned the sound down and gaped at me. I shook my head.
It was twilight when we pulled up to the strip shopping center parking lot expecting to see the kaleidoscope of lights from the ferris wheel and the Tilt-A-Whirl or the neon glow of the carnival midway, to hear the cries of the barkers and the carnies from the labyrinth of game booths, or to smell the scent of hot dogs and cotton candy wafting on the humid night air.
Instead we were met by an empty parking lot and a row of darkened, ramshackle shop windows staring blankly back at us. There were no empty bottles, no paper, no trash, no evidence that anything at all had taken place on the barren stretch of asphalt and cement that now greeted us. Had we dreamed the whole thing?
Just then we were startled by the loud “whoop” and flashing blue lights from a police cruiser.
“We just came to see …” I blurted.
“Know anything about this?” the policeman called to us at the very same time.
We leaned into his open window and told him all we knew, all we had experienced. He shook his head, perhaps wishing we could provide more information, perhaps secretly wishing we were suspects. “They’ve already skipped town,” he said with finality. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “We got the State Police searching the interstate and the highways but nothing yet. Don’t know how they could move so quick. How do you hide a whole carnival?” He gave us a disgusted look and drove away.
Crandall and I stood gazing at the empty parking lot. How could an event of that size fold up so quickly and disappear? Because that was what it had done – disappeared, as fast as Crandall the magician could make a coin disappear from his hand or make flash powder conceal his movements with a blink. They had disappeared, like a ghost, a phantom. Like a specter.
A few months went by. Summer turned to fall and the college town began to bustle once again with the usual flood of students. The distractions of homecoming and football, of festivals and the coming holidays consumed the attention of most people and the events of the summer became more remote, including the disappearance of the strange carnival and the seven children. Local authorities never found the children or any sign of the carnival. The story had quickly faded from TV and radio, and by the time school started it had been relegated to the back pages of the local newspapers.
But I thought about all of it often, going over in my head the events of that day, the strange, sinister feel of the carnival. I remembered the two mothers I had seen, talking about God flooding Denham Springs, and I wondered if perhaps their children were among the unfortunate ones. Or was it one or two of the boys shuffling around the video arcade? Did the congregation of the Ponchatoula Pentacostal Church have anything to mourn when the carnival left town?
All Crandall had to say was that he heard that most of the fly-by-night carnivals that travel the backroads of America these days are run by Gypsies. He seemed to think that explained a lot.
Maybe the band of Gypsy carnies that had come to our little town last summer had a certain use for kids and that’s why they took them. Maybe they were going to raise them, teach them the ways of their peculiar circus, the rituals that were foreshadowed by the creaking of the rooking barker's bones, the glint of malignity in the eyes of the sideshow man, the discerned unnaturalness of all their kith and kin.
Maybe that’s why the sideshow was closed. Maybe it needed exhibits, fresh finds; kids, maybe, tied up with stinking knotted rope, dressed up as surgical experiments, preserved in jars of cloudy amber liquid in a mutant freak show that we would never get to see.
Maybe after a while some of the kids participated willingly. Maybe they were happy to be snatched away from mundane lives in which boys’ ears never turned donkey-like and noses never grew with the telling of lies. Maybe, instead of being boys, they wanted to be puppets, wooden and rusty-jointed, jumping on dry-rotted strings. Maybe they changed their mind about the chicken-dancing, geek-biting, carnival freak show when they were subjected to rituals as old as Bible times that left them maimed or mutilated, or worse…
I told Crandall I reckoned they were out West somewhere by now, maybe in the desert, far past Nuevo Laredo, or infamous Matamoros. They probably had dismantled or abandoned that twisted machinery of instant joy fast, fast, fast. Perhaps they only assembled and used it when they needed to swell the numbers of their brood?
Of course, Crandall just laughed. The dark blinking and winking carnival that had blinked in and suddenly winked out one step ahead of the law and of the inconsolable mothers was fading from his memory, too.
I often think of the rusting, revolving rides, my only frame of reference the dizzy, twisting cups from the carnivals of my youth; those were the ones that came every year and were welcomed. But that pre-Sabbath was, in essence, simply not – not welcome, certainly, not anymore, obviously, and not of any place known to Crandall, or me, or to anyone in these parts.
And it was never coming back.
A lifelong resident of Louisiana, M.F. Korn writes sort-of-surreal dark fantasy, quiet weird horror and strange science fiction. He is the author of twelve novels, two screenplays and two hundred and forty five short stories.
M.F. Korn Catalog visit here now!
A short story “The Strange Case of the Lovecraft Café” cowritten with DF Lewis and Jeff VanderMeer was mentioned in The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror: Twenty First Annual Edition.
His webpage is http://mfkorn.com.
His literary blog is http://www.mfkorn.blogspot.com.
His myspace page is http://www.myspace.com/mfkorn
His facebook page is http://www.facebook.com/mf.korn
His twelfth novel, CREATURE FEATURE is coming out in February 2010, cowritten with David Mathew of Britain.
About THE AUTHOR of twelve novels and 240 published stories:
Three of MF Korn's books, CONFESSIONS OF A GHOUL AND OTHER STORIES, and ALIENS, MINIBIKES AND OTHER STAPLES OF SUBURBIA, and also SKIMMING THE GUMBO NUCLEAR were mentioned in The Year's Best Fantasy & Horror: Fifteenth Annual Collection. CONFESSIONS OF A GHOUL AND OTHER STORIES was mentioned in The Mammoth Book Of Best New Horror edited by Stephen Jones. RACHMANINOFF'S GHOST was also mentioned in The Mammoth Book Of Best New Horror edited the following year.
|Korn's twelfth novel, CREATURE FEATURE cowritten with David Mathew of Britain is going through required rewrites by a publisher. The cover has not been chosen yet. Currently they are at work on another novel via correspondence. He just finished writing a screenplay with another writer who just got a movie deal on another project. He turned over the first draft to his coauthor who is to do a second draft.In other news, Korn's four books with Silverlake press are out of print in paperback but available in Kindle or as ebooks at Fictionwise and most ebook outlets.
NOVELS AND COLLECTIONS:
SWAMP WITCH PIQUANTE AND SCREAM QUEEN BISQUE --
(OUT OF PRINT IN PAPERBACK, AVAILABLE IN KINDLE, EBOOK)
By M.F. Korn
Format: Cover art by Jason Just
ORDER at Amazon.com for 11.16. Or $12.55 at Barnes and Noble.
Two short novels.
In "The White Trash Witches Coven", Keith Ogden accidentally meets a witch in a Super-Usav-Mart. When she invites him to join the coven, he accepts, thinking of fun sorceries and lots of whammies. The gaggle of chatty women he encounters severely disappoints, with their baby pictures, recipes, and addictions to trashy afternoon TV. Is this "coven" just a group of wannabes, or is something more sinister lurking underneath the chicken grease?
In "Pavane for a Scream Queen", Jeff Vincent, freelance writer for Filmland Magazine and as-of-yet-undiscovered novelist, has landed the interview of a lifetime with cult favorite Aurora Sterling, scream queen of the 1950's classic B-movies. But when Dame Aurora cancels and those who worked with her die or go into hiding, Jeff finds himself in the middle of a mystery. What is the secret behind this gorgeous, elegant woman? Is it just Hollywood hype, or something else much older and eternal?
(OUT OF PRINT IN PAPERBACK, AVAILABLE IN KINDLE, EBOOK)
Available at Amazon.com for 10.36. Available at Shocklines bookstore, it's available at Barnes and Noble for 11.65.
Format: Paperback, 160pp.
Publisher: Silverlake Publ
Pub. Date: January 2003
Korn's first horror novel, Rachmaninoff's Ghost, (51,000 words, 160 pp) written eighteen years ago.
History: Sold to Papercapers, resold to Silverlake Publishing: Silverlake under new mgt, resold again to Silverlake publishing.
A blandishment about Korn's first novel written eighteen years ago:
"...Michael Korn has fed upon Poe, Lovecraft and Richly Sinewed Music, but above all upon himself! I thought the first two-thirds of RACHMANINOFF'S GHOST splendid, but its last third of Jungian nightmare literally took my head off. If Korn's photo is not on the front of TIME magazine, as a result, injustice will sure be done..." -- D.F. Lewis
ALL THE MUTANT TRASH IN ALL THE GALAXIES four novels by M. F. Korn
ORDER at Amazon.com for 11.87. Or $14.49 at Barnes and Noble.
A collection of four novels by M F Korn, describing lovesick stalkers, synthetic tramps, abused robots, conmen, robber barons, oilfield and nuclear blue collar workers off-world, schizophrenic aliens, video outlaws, rednecks, thieves, indentured androids, barflies, pharmaceutical overlords, squatters, smut merchants. Each novel has a separate introduction from one of these writers: D.F. Lewis, Sherry Decker, Jeffrey Thomas, H Chimera (book size: approx 145,000 words).
Four novels by M. F. Korn
ORDER at Amazon.com for 11.87. Or $14.49 at Barnes and Noble.
The Man Who Loved in Light Years (a very early first SF novel): A drug-addled philosophy professor stalks a pheromoned person through known space.
Movietone Mars: Cinema is illegal—Movie stars purged—everyone has his own television show.
Tilting Planet (The Trouble with Xenodes): Terran shrinks sent to cure schizophrenic artistic alien race, but who caused the outbreak?
Galactic Smut Merchants: Alien pay-per-view –something new for grunts on mining planets—But could they conquer the Terran pay-per-view market?
SKIMMING THE GUMBO NUCLEAR
Out by Eraserhead Press. Available at Barnes and Noble and Amazon. Available at Shocklines bookstore. Regular Price $16.95. At Amazon for $11.87.
Format: Paperback, 292pp.
Publisher: Eraserhead Press
Pub. Date: November 2001
A grand epic wasteland of surreal pandemic plague. Pollution quotient in the southern delta nether regions of the state of Louisiana, the dustbin of the Mississippi river and the nation, whose motto is the "Sportsman's Paradise", a paradisio of colorful denizens all grappling for a slice of lassez bon temps roule, "let the good times roll", but now all are grappling for their very lives. Nature had to fight back sooner or later, and now what will happen to this tourist state gone amuck with middle-ages plague?
ISBN: 0-9713572-6-9 — 292 PAGES — Regular Price $16.95. At Amazon for $11.87. 14.95 at Shocklines.
Confessions of a Ghoul and Other Stories
(OUT OF PRINT IN PAPERBACK, AVAILABLE IN KINDLE, EBOOK)
Format: Paperback, 122pp.
Publisher: Silver Lake Publishing
Pub. Date: January 2001
Order from (at 10.75)Barnes and Noble, (11.95) or from Amazon. 9.56 or (11.95) at Shocklines bookstore.
Introduction by D. F. Lewis Cover art by Lawrence D. P. Miller Trade Paperback $11.95 CD $9.95 Disk $5.95 Download $3.95 Horror Collection 120 pages 50,000 words
Aliens, Minibikes and Other Staples of Suburbia
(OUT OF PRINT IN PAPERBACK, AVAILABLE IN KINDLE, EBOOK)
Format: Paperback, 114pp.
Publisher: Silver Lake Publishing
Pub. Date: January 2001
Out in paperback (at 14.95) at Amazon(11.95). Available at Barnes and Noble. 14.95
"While reading, you'll be picked up and dropped straight into your own history while visiting various, imaginary neighborhoods...It's nostalgia at its finest."
--Sherry Decker, from the Introduction
"M. F. Korn's richly detailed, highly idiosyncratic portraits of America call to mind a Bradbury on magic mushrooms...he's a Norman Rockwell speaking in tongues with a voodoo doll in one hand and a flaming paintbrush in the other." --Jeffrey Thomas, author of Punktown
Trade Paperback $11.95 CD $9.95 Disk $5.95 Download $3.95 Speculative Fiction Collection 114 pages 47,000 words
DIE EARTHMAN DIE: TALES OF HORROR AND SF -- 34 STORIES OF HORROR AND SCIENCE FICTION
by Cosmic Eyeball Press
Order at Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble.
Cover art by Rafael Maza
Horror and Science Fiction Collection
Cosmic Eyeball Press
Thirty Four Stories by Four Talents in the Horror / Science Fiction Field
* DF Lewis - Winner of the British Fantasy Award and 1500 stories, editor, Nemonymous
* M Philbin - author of 100 stories and several novels
* David Mathew - former reviewer, Interzone; author, several novels, 400 stories
* MF Korn - Louisiana author of twelve novels and 240 short stories
The Less Fashionable Side of the Galaxy
by M. F. Korn, D. F. Lewis, and H
Chimera $2.25, 24 pages
From Eraserhead Press. Order from Shocklines bookstore.
Three masters of bizarre speculation combine
talents to create five experimental tales of insane fiction. Featuring M. F. Korn, author of Skimming the Gumbo Nuclear, H Chimera, author of SZMONHFU, and the king of the weirdmongers, D. F. Lewis.
The White Trash Witches' Coven
Tanjen Ltd, Paperback, April, 99: CANCELED. Sold to Gargadillo, CANCELED. SOLD. Even Shakespeare had his "Pericles"...
Movietone Mars: Hartwick Electronic Press, 1994
Translated into Russian after was sold to Baziat Literary Agency in 1993, Russia CANCELED.
The Trouble with Xenodes (Tilting Planet), serialized, Weird Stories
The Man Who Loved in Light Years: D&S Associates, (Electronic) 1994
Galactic Smut Merchants, Tanjen, Ltd. paperback, 2000
Alone Against a Revolution
Golden Meteorite Press,
hardback, 1997, Library Binding - 89 pages (August 1, 1996) Golden Meteorite Press Limited; ISBN: 1895385539
Stygian Relics of the Lachrymose
Golden Meteorite Press, limited edition. 1998 Hardback collection of short stories: Library Binding - 178 pages (January 1, 1998) Golden Meteorite Press Limited; ISBN: 1895385636
The Spectral Carnival Show and Other Stories
Golden Meteorite Press, 1998, limited edition, Library Binding - 140 pages (January 1, 1998) Golden Meteorite Press Limited; ISBN: 189538561X
Pavane for a Scream Queen, SOLD.
SHORT STORY ACCEPTANCES:
- Two to Vision Magazine
- Dark Tome
- FEAR magazine
- Forty stories in P L
- Potent Aphrodisiac
- Sweet Dreams Baby
- Left-Footed Wombat
- a mag named "V-Pulp"
- A forgotten small mag out of New York City
- 2 to Premonitions
- Zero Hour
- Killer Frog Anthology
- Spider Eyes
- Fast Lizard
- Cacophony Hardback Anthology
- Project Mars
- Two to Razor
- Two to Blue Lady
- Seven to Silver Shadows
- Two to Taler's Tale
- The Ultimate Unknown
- Hundredth Anniversary Lovecrafter
- Louisiana State University magazine Delta
- Sixteen stories to Fading Shadows Pulps
- Weird Stories
- Startling Science Stories
- Forbidden Lines
- a few to House of Pain
- Cosmic Visions
- Midnight Gallery
- Classic Pulp Stories
- Artstar Journal
- Northern Fusion
- Dark Corridors (can't confirm)
- Australian paperback AntipodeanSF
- A few to Brazilian magazine Megalon
- Iconoclastia (wordhunger)
- Words (mag whose charity is London's St. Mary's Hospital)
- 3AM Publishing (wordhunger)
- Winedark Sea paperback (Vol 3) w/ DF Lewis and H Chimera
- The Dream People Chapbook
- Five stories to Gathering Darkness w/ DF Lewis and H Chimera
- Grail paperback anthology w/ DF Lewis and H Chimera
- The Ministry of Whimsy
- 21st Century Bitch Goddess
- Imaginary Worlds (wordhunger)
- Spooky's F.O.D. w/ DF Lewis
- Ministry of Whimsy (also a review of GHOUL Collection)
- Driver's Side Airbag w/ H himera
- Three stories with H Chimera to REDSINE paperback anthologies
- Alternate Species (w/ Dave Mathew and H Chimera)
- Apocalypse Fiction Magazine w/ H Chimera
- Thomas Deja's Underworlds Anthology w/ H Chimera and Dave Mathew
- Three to UNDERWORLDS w/ H Chimera
- another to The Dream People w/ H Chimera
- another to UNDERWORLDS w/ DF Lewis and H Chimera
- sale to German May-2002 anthology SPLATTERPUNK:A NEW GENERATION w/ H Chimera
- The Dream Zone w/ Dave Mathew
- another to Apocalypse Fiction magazine w/ H Chimera
- The Storyville Anthology
- Eleven story run of "Eli" series to Apocalypse Fiction w/ H Chimera
- Frightwriters, w/ DF Lewis and H Chimera
- story w/ Dave Mathew to "Flesh and Hunger" anthology
- Five stories at Tland horror site
- sale to Muse Apprentice Guild
- sale to Thomas Deja's Amicus paperback anthology
- wrote dozens of stories w/ DF Lewis, a collective called WORDHUNGER (collection now w/ Double Dragon Books)
- sale to anthology GHOSTBREAKERS: Sinister Sleuths (w/ Dave Mathew and H Chimera)
- sale to Thomas Deja's anthology about Warren Zevon
- sale to Cpulp Halloween paperback anthology
- article for Wicked Writers Carnival
- sale to "Trip the Light Horrific" anthology(w/ H Chimera)
- sale to "Travel a Time Historic" anthology
- sale to "Grave Tappings" anthology
- sale to "Mind Scraps" anthology
- sale to "Vintage Wine: Werewolves and Vampires" anthology
- sale to Scattered, Smothered, Covered anthology, collab w/ Jeff VanderMeer and DF Lewis
- sale to RED SCREAM (w/ David Mathew)
- sale to "NEW WRITINGS IN THE FANTASTIC" anthology(w/ H Chimera RIP)
- sale of "Weird Western" story collab w/ DF Lewis to DEVIL'S GULCH paperback anthology
- sale to DEAD ENDS Anthology by Screaming Dreams Publ
- reprint of collab w/ Jeff VanderMeer and DF Lewis in German collection by J VanderMeer
- reprint of collaboration "The Strange Case of the Lovecraft Cafe" (mentioned in Year's Best Horror: 21st Annual Edition) w/ Jeff VanderMeer and DF Lewis in A SURGEON'S TALE
- Twisted Twins
- German: Masters of Unreality anthology
- NVH Magazine
- Fear On Demand Podcast Edited by Sidney Williams
- Eleven volumes of Epistolary Discourse
- A screenplay, "The Revival Theatre"
- Best Stories of the Year by P L Mag, 1998
- Honorable Mention by the Soft Science Fiction Writers Association
for story "The Old Man and the Cyborg" , 1996
- Won a category of Killer Frog Contest, approx. 1992
- Best Stories of the Year by P L Mag, 1990
- During College, wrote Science Fiction novella, now lost mss
- Wrote numerous stories for High School Literary Magazine, now lost
- Wrote novelettes as a teen, now all mss lost
M F Korn's books are at Fictionwise, Double Dragon Books, and ebook outlets.
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