| Paul Grant |
| Paul Grant lives in Aloha, OR with his wife and three children. His father encouraged him to read from an early age, and by first grade he had written his first short story. He continued writing until his late teens when life put his creativity on hold until late 2001. In addition to �Yalo� and �Deloris the Florist�, he has written numerous other short stories, and is working on his first horror novel Dead End, which he hopes to publish by late 2004. In addition to this, he is the editor and publisher of a quarterly horror magazine called The Corpse Magazine. More information about The Corpse Magazine can be found at: http://www.corpsemag.com/. |
| exerpt from Deloris the Florist by Paul Grant He stumbled up the stairs as fast as he could, the horror not far behind, and slammed the basement door. The whisper of foliage on steps came louder from down below. He grabbed a chair from around the kitchen table and jammed it underneath the door knob. Bang! The whole door shook as something heavy tried to open it from the other side, but it held. He took a step backward. �Shit!� he repeated. From the other side of the door came a sound of heavy branches scratching at the door. BANG! A couple of boards fell loose. Get out of here stupid! He turned tail and ran for the front door. A final bang came from behind him and was followed by a sound like wind rustling through a cornfield. He didn�t look back, but ran out the front door and down the walkway. Something grabbed his ankle and he hit the concrete hard. Grassy fingers reached from all around and entwined him like Gulliver, holding him tight to the ground. A large milkweed plant on his right curled around his throat and began strangling him. Desperately he slashed with the knife and managed to cut his way free. Using his knife like a machete, he made it to the sidewalk. He looked back at the house and saw her standing in the front doorway, watching him. Her red hair burned in the late afternoon sun and whipped in the wind. Long tendrils undulated all around her as if testing the air. In her eyes he saw the coldest stare he had ever seen. With a shriek, she turned around and stormed back into the house, slamming the door so hard behind her the glass shattered. The grass and weeds in the lawn reached out for him, but he kept his distance. Where the hell was his suitcase? A tree branch held it tauntingly close but moved it higher when he came near. Shit! He turned and ran as hard and as fast as he could to the police station. He had to warn them, he had to tell them what was going to happen before it was too late. |
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