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by Douglas J. Ogurek Illustration by Jennings Falzon A man stood at the brink of a cliff 500 feet above the sea.  His hair swept back and his gown fluttered.  The foot-wide disk that extended from his third finger rippled and released a rumble that carried for ten miles. The sound and the fluttering stopped. 

There is something wonderfully flowing about Arthur Conan Doyle’s writing. Though at first glance the much-loved Victorian writer’s style displays much of the typical archness of his august age – he doesn’t exactly shy away from long sentences or labourious descriptive passages – after finally reading through his only famous non-Sherlock Holmes novel, I feel

by Maxine Calleja Urry Here’s a mystery to puzzle over: two Sherlocks, a couple of Watsons, a pair of Mycrofts, and a double helping of deliciously vicious Moriartys. Between Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss’ Sherlock television series and Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes film franchise, there’s a whole lot of deducing going on. Which of the

by Alistair Rennie To begin with a few staunch facts: Bram Stoker visited Slains Castle in 1894 when on holiday in Cruden Bay where he was a regular visitor. With the Bullers of Buchan to its north and the perfect sands of the bay to the south, the castle sits on a rocky promontory on

A woman, a book and a secret. Schlock’s celebration of Bram Stoker begins with this series of photos from Vienna.

A number of artists and photographers have gathered under the Milkshake initiative to explore what the ‘queer body’ means, complicated by the (largely Catholic) context of contemporary Maltese society. This ongoing project is worth a look, and the crew have generously donated a sample of the works to Schlock. Enjoy them below. *** Photo by

Hugo Calibri had not planned to die so soon. He pulled up the shade on his living room window a crack, just enough to glimpse the front yard. He had a sleepless night. Still in his pajamas, he raised the shade to get a better look at the driveway, while rubbing the stubble on his

At a speed that could almost warp reality, Celer’s hooves flung mud from the road into the dark night beyond Parthicus’s vision. He could feel his gladius hilt catch against his chestplate’s ribs.  It hurt, but they would be there soon. Parthicus ignored the pain and kept on. He looked over his shoulder for Mark’s

Marsha stood in the doorway, hands on her hips like Mom, exuding that older sister attitude Mark always adored. “Chuck saw you.” He pulled a dry T-shirt from his dresser and tugged it over wet, disheveled hair. “Better beat it,” he said, yanking out a pair of shorts. “Unless you like getting mooned.” She cursed