Showing results by author "David Boyer" in All Categories

Unfortunately, even small towns - Vincennes included - eventually change, sometimes for the better, and other times, not so much. It's the natural order of things. Trees grow old and fall. Sidewalks split and crack and are replaced for public safety's sake. Old houses - and all the memories associated with them - are demolished and replaced with parking lots or duplexes. Even historical landmarks - Mother Nature, and Father Time having taken their toll - sadly, vanish - except for our own pictures and memories of them.

The following story is my take on the old Invasion of the Body Snatchers tale. Although changes have been made to the plot, hopefully it will do the original story justice.

Abby Williams and Libby German. Their voices have been silenced forever now, except for home videos or memories. Abby and Libby need a voice again, so now it is up to their families - and the rest if us who want justice for these girls - to create a new voice for them, to tell their story, and never stop our voices from speaking up until the man responsible is behind bars forever.

As an “amateur” filmmaker, I can't rightfully boast of being another Spielberg or Eastwood, but I know a really crappy movie when I see one. For example: the ever-present “final girl” chase scene at the end of most low-budget horror films. In reality? That is not the way it happens at all. I should know, from experience...

One thing rings true about all substance abusers - whether it be alcohol or drugs or both - at one point in time, they will tell you two things: I don't have a problem. I can quit anytime I want to. Which, of course, is far from the truth. Once that demon is on your back, weighing you down day after day and week after week and month after month and year after year, the option you once had to stop on your own is long gone now.

The janitor at the local hospital has been seeing dead people. Real dead people. They follow him around the halls, trying to speak to him, and showing him visions of unspeakable horrors. Why do they want to speak to him? Why the ghastly, nightmarish visions? Before the night is over, the truth behind it all may be a lot more terrifying than he could ever imagine....

A centuries-old vampire is captured and tormented over his past, and it makes him realize how lonely and lovelorn he really is. He longed in his heart for the love of his Jezel, his sweet Jezel, whose sweet, dark soul was taken from her as she slept beside him, a wooden stake driven through her heart.

So says a man named Davis, an aspiring writer who, after losing almost everything and everyone he has ever valued or loved, decides to write one last story before the Covid virus strain of 2023 claims his life as well - or the power and internet fails, whichever comes first.

I'd had too much to drink again. The demon alcohol, always there, tempting me to have another drink. He knows that if he just tempts me enough, pushes me enough, I'll give in. I always do. Because I am weak, and I am a coward. At times, I've wondered if the demon alcohol was really the Devil incarnate. How else could he always win the battle between good and evil, using only a bottle of cheap liquor? Evil does exist, my friends; never, ever have any doubt of that. I know from experience; I've shaken hands with the devil and lived to tell the tale....

The full moon rose up over the lake, its beams shining on the rippling waters and making them shine like hundreds of tiny little diamonds. Back in the shadows of the wood, beyond the tree line, a thousand tiny little eyes shined like liquid pools of blood in the moon's light show, resembling a thousand tiny Christmas tree ornaments.

A collection of interviews with true crime writers, who share their insight into penning a successful true crime book, including Stephen Singular, Barbara Bentley, John Gilmore, and Dary Matera.

Sometimes, guardian angels can show up in the most unexpected places....

Our woodland had become a utopia; an wonderous place of ideal perfection. To us, at least, it felt this way. We had no concern what others thought of our world. They were considered nothing more than interlopers, threats, and were not welcome there. All was calm and peaceful. That is, until I'd found a trail of fresh blood, and determined beyond a shadow of a doubt it was not human blood, but animal blood, with spent rifle shells littering the ground nearby. It at that moment I knew that once again, our peaceful solitude was about to be interrupted by mankind's lust for blood.

I am now the master of my domain. These woodlands are my Kingdom, and I rule them with a fair but iron hand. Just like my Brethren. The Brethren that were tired of playing dumb. Unlike myself, the undomesticated beasts of the wood, the task at hand would prove to be more difficult; they had to play wild and free, and play stupid. Easy prey for the man who walked the woodland paths with guns.

He smells like blood and opium and whiskey, and underneath that something sickly sweet, like rotten fruit. That's what starvation—and death—smells like. He is so thin and frail now, almost gaunt in his appearance, almost skeletal. His current accommodations, a musty, cramped room above a motel-saloon, have also been converted into somewhat of a shrine to him: his 1877 model Colt Lightning hangs on one bedpost, and his trusty Bowie knife from the other. His hand-tailored black hat with the hand-curled brim hangs over the bed, on the wall, like some would hang a picture of Jesus.

The crazy lady—Kyra—wanders and wanders and wanders, and without ever really going anywhere. The town looks so different now—what's left of it, that is—and is in such violent disarray, it's difficult to tell where one end of the town began and the other ended. Burnt-out cars and houses, empty, lonely streets strewn with trash—or worse. Makeshift graves in the front yards of former owners. Yes...something really bad happened out here, and now she has to navigate it all—somehow. She's just trying to get home....

From the mind of Black Midnight author David Boyer comes a new experiment in a whole new, terrifying vision into our own future, modern technology, and current world events, with some hardcore science fiction tossed in for good measure. After all of the primary social networks suddenly stop working, millions of American citizens fear a conspiracy is in the works. A black market COVID vaccine dealer finds himself on the wrong end of the needle. A man left all alone with nothing but sad memories and vivid hallucinations finally comes to terms with his own destiny—or is it fate?

There are a lot of people who will debate the existence of guardian angels. Author Derrick Cutter isn't one of them. Having been raised in a home that was being destroyed from within by alcohol, drugs, and violence, he ran away from home at age 16, longing for freedom from his own private prison. Alone and frightened at first, he would soon meet up with his new best friend, a large white dog named Sheva, who, over the next several years, would show Derrick beyond the shadow of a doubt that guardian angels really do exist, and at times, have paws instead of wings.

Was my old chair magical? Nope. Mystical? No. Does a chair have a soul? Of course not. Can a chair perform miracles? Not really. But...I do believe that God can use his power of divine intervention to use a chair to bring people together or make someone happy when they need it the most.

Georgie thought it had all been a dream—his superpowers, his good looks, and his freedom from his tyrannical mother and her mental abuse. But it hadn't been a dream; it had been a real-life nightmare which Georgie will now wake up from to realize he is stuck in the middle of an alien conspiracy, world colonization of the human race, and the end of the world as we know it. Part The X-Files and part Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Black Midnight will thrill fans of science fiction.