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Hey guys, As you know my laptop broke a few months ago and I...

Sun, 19 May 2013 16:10:48 +0100

Hey guys,

As you know my laptop broke a few months ago and I have only just been able to sort out my new one and get files back from my old one. So updating has been a little slow. Issue 3 is on its way. I am finishing some of the illustrations and redoing ones that I lost so it should be ready soon enough.

We will be posting some updates soon, but we also want to hear about ideas you may have. Maybe you want us to do something differently or maybe you have an idea of what we can add to what we already do. All ideas are welcome so let us know through email, Twitter, Facebook, or our ask box. Our ears are open.

I have updated the branding, I wanted to go for a more modern feel. I mean I loved the last branding. It did it’s job but as a graphic designer I am always itching to try new things and for me this is new, my style has always been messy and grungeish so it was nice to try something clean and colourful. I hope you like it.

We will be having a competition coming up soon to help fill the time between issues and we are still accepting submissions for issue 4 so keep them coming guys, we are loving what we have already.

Speak soon!
-Lukee

Photo

Sun, 19 May 2013 13:24:57 +0100

James Herbert , OBE (8th April 1943 - 20th March 2013) R.I.P.By...

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 14:44:00 +0000

James Herbert , OBE (8th April 1943 - 20th March 2013) R.I.P.
By now many of you will have heard the sad news that James Herbert has passed away. It’s a huge blow, he was one of the best British horror writers of all time and will be sorely missed. I can still remember fondly the first time I read The Rats as a kid which terrified me and got me hooked. To celebrate the life of the late, great James Herbert we’re giving you the chance to win copies of our favourite book of his; The Rats, The Magic Cottage and Ash.
To win all you have to do is send us a short 500 word horror story, the best will win the books and runners up will be published on our site with a chance to be included in a special anthology.
Please email all entries to piyehub@gmail.com by 1st May 2013.
R.I.P Mr Herbert, horror won’t be the same without you.

Hey guys!

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 13:47:11 +0000

We’re in a bit of a pickle at the moment, Luke’s laptop has died so work on issue #3 has come to a standstill until he can get it fixed. It’s a pain because we can’t wait for you guys to see all the stuff we’ve got in it, the standard just gets higher and higher. Anyway, we’ll keep you in the loop but hopefully that’ll be sorted soon enough.

In the meantime, we will still continue to accept submissions for our next print issue from our British writers BUT we’re also accepting work for our online archive from everyone, so get sending your stuff in!

Our inbox is always open, so feel free to contact us if you fancy a chat.

Keep writing,

Ionie

Hey guys! One of our writers, the lovely Sarah Tarbit, has made...

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 20:17:52 +0000

Hey guys! One of our writers, the lovely Sarah Tarbit, has made a short viral video for the Typhoo UniversiTEA competition. It’s hilarious so please give it a watch and then vote for it here (scroll down until you see the poll). They really do deserve to win.

Fun fact: The spider magnet seen on the fridge was sent to Sarah by us when she won out Halloween competition last year. Spidey’s a star!

brownratscribbler replied to your post: Happy World Book Day writers! What books have you… I...

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 20:09:08 +0000

brownratscribbler replied to your post: Happy World Book Day writers! What books have you…

I am reading ‘Kraken’ by China Miéville….it makes me want to have tentacles.

Excellent book! I was hooked as soon as the blurb mentioned the British Museum and the giant squid. I’m dying to read Railsea too, that’s next on my list.

Happy World Book Day writers!What books have you got your noses stuck in at the moment? I’m...

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 13:16:52 +0000

Happy World Book Day writers!
What books have you got your noses stuck in at the moment?

I’m halfway through my second reading of the A Song of Ice and Fire series and it’s making me want a sword…

Just a little sneak peak of the type of illustrations you will...

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 23:18:38 +0000

Just a little sneak peak of the type of illustrations you will come across in the next issue. This is not the final, final illustration but you get the drift.

Enjoy.

-Luke

UNDER CONSTRUCTION!

Mon, 25 Feb 2013 11:44:29 +0000

Hey guys, we’re currently revamping the website so apologies for the mess. It’s going to be much prettier when Luke’s done with it so be sure to keep checking back!
Keep writing,

Ionie

Spread the word guys! We are aiming BIG this year!

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 22:04:00 +0000

Spread the word guys! We are aiming BIG this year!

Update: 23/02/13

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 11:00:59 +0000

Hello guys,

Sorry for the late update on things, we have been really busy since Christmas but issue 3 is on the way we will be getting that out ASAP along with that we will be posting some new updates for you.

If you have any questions just send us a message!
Again sorry for the late update, we are now fully back ON IT.

Cheers,
Luke

CONGRATULATIONS

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 15:47:36 +0000

To all of the following writers -

Beckie Jordan - Drink Poison Desires (Poetry)

Charlie Benson - Andy’s Angel Awakens (Prose)

Chris Parvin - Carnival (Prose)

Claire Walker - Haunted (Poetry)

Eva Marie Wilshere - Trust (Poetry)

Fikayo Francisca Balogun - The Boy That Cried Wolf (Poetry)/Red Christmas (Poetry)

Frankie Lewis - Nightmare (Prose)

Gavin J R - Dirty Fingernails (Poetry)

Ireti Odugbesan - Heavy Elements (Poetry)

Jack Oughton - Haiku x3 (Poetry)

James Rice - Nine (Prose)

Jamie Bunting - Untitled (Prose)

Katherina Maria Malinowski - Lake (Prose)

Michael Holloway - They Were All Ridiculous (Prose)

Nick Sadler - Hands (Prose)

Nicola Hawcroft-Heighway - Tory In A Yellow Tie (Poetry)

Rachel Betteridge - Severed Souls Part Three

Robyn Donaldson - B (Poetry)

Sarah Crewe - this pony will self-destruct (Poetry)

Sarah Tarbit - Butterflies and Hurricanes (Prose)/Belonging (Prose)

Simon Armstrong - The Zombie Whores (Prose)

Terry Naylor - Impact In: (Prose)

Zakk Appleyard - Rock Talk With God (Poetry)

You will be published in the third issue of PIYE Magazine. We will be in contact in the next few days to discuss editing and illustrations.

We received excellent submissions from all of you and to those who didn’t make it into this issue - don’t despair! There’s always next time.

Greetings followers!

Fri, 28 Dec 2012 15:13:00 +0000

We are not dead, though i’m sure you’d started to wonder… We trust you all had an excellent Xmas and are looking forward to the new year?

We’ll be publishing our next issue of PIYE Magazine in January, at long last, and will be announcing the writers that will be included in it shortly. Thank you to everyone who submitted, they have been a pleasure to read as usual.

Keep writing!

Love,

Ionie and Luke

HO HO HO… We have another competition for you guys! Do you...

Tue, 27 Nov 2012 22:43:00 +0000

HO HO HO… We have another competition for you guys! Do you have a twisted take on a Christmas classic? Or do you have your own Christmas tale you wish to share? Submit your poems before December the 14th to PIYEHUB@GMAIL.COM. Happy writing guys!

colourmeunfinished: partyinyoureyesocket: ARE YOU A WRITER?...

Sat, 24 Nov 2012 20:25:17 +0000

colourmeunfinished:

partyinyoureyesocket:

ARE YOU A WRITER? THEN WE LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING FROM YOU…

We decided to extend the deadline a little for you guys. So spread the word. We look forward to hearing from you.

Spread the word guys, I would be mucho grateful Thankyou.

SIX DAYS TO GET YOUR SUBMISSIONS IN GUYS!

Maraschino Cherries by: Ben Dunham I am late to work and even...

Tue, 20 Nov 2012 21:09:06 +0000

Maraschino Cherries

by: Ben Dunham

I am late to work and even the wind is against me. What should one blame for this transgression, and others? Is one entitled to resting blame’s burden on anything or only to oneself? Many may say the latter is a principle that amounts to harm and self-loathing; I see it as being. For deducing it to the hand of God seems half-assed and irresponsible, much like blaming the wind for my tardiness.

Walking into the familiar drab lobby of drudgery, Michelle predictably says hello. To fulfill social obligations I respond accordingly. It isn’t genuine, but what is, in an age where authenticity of purpose is amounted to a sum of paper. As if it couldn’t burn.

Now seated in the usual chair behind the desk, I wait and wait and wait. For a sense of purpose. A gal hazel eye with red hair that is clearly inauthentic walks up. She needs help opening her mail box even though she possess the combination. As this beseeches me, she turns the corner to the wall of metal boxes.Then all of a sudden a screech of “got it” echoes down the halls. No purpose here.

My purpose is elsewhere, it isn’t between these walls. It isn’t to be delivered like mail. I take my leave like a blind man on stilts, bound to fall. Not one person notices as the metal doors swing and seal. Beneath the scattered clouds that wisp across the autumn sky, I seek purpose. On pathways of cement I stride, oh how good it must feel to have concrete purpose.

At the cross walk, I wait. The red hand of light demands I do not cross the hardened tar river. The silence of the city is ominous the world around me is static. A splitting burst pierces my ear followed by feminine shrieks, this static world is ousted. Another shot is fired, then another, and another. These calamitous sounds are soon accompanied by flocks of sirens and law enforcement officers. Men in armor—modern day knights approach the metal doors outside the drab lobby of drudgery I had just fled.

Curiosity and guilt swarm around pushing me toward the side door of the lobby. Through the glass within sight I see Michelle running toward me. She never seemed so authentic, so genuinely petrified, she was alive.Then the assailant, the man who had brought me temporary purpose between those walls maniacally cackled and yelled, ‘You fucking cunt!’ I could see his blood thirsty eyes set upon Michelle, sawed-off in hand he relieved her of all desires. Her flesh and blood splattered upon the glass, like mashed maraschino cherries.

The assailant’s bloodlust subsided, as if he had just seen his dying mother’s face. He tip toed around the maimed bodies, with a peculiar sense of respect. Without hesitation he sat against the wall of metal boxes and placed the barrel beneath his chin. His placid blue eyes gazed toward me, he smirked. Then with a pull of his tender finger—a flower of flesh and blood sprouted from his neck.

Carnival by: Christopher Parvin Corpse Aristo stroll along...

Tue, 20 Nov 2012 21:04:00 +0000

Carnival

by: Christopher Parvin

Corpse Aristo stroll along pavements, bustles clogging with gore, as human heads roll down the gutters splashed red like autumnal leaves. A duke and duchess, heads inclined to each other in smiling conversation, hold parasols against the streetlamp’s sodium glare their children collecting their trophies in coal sacks.

Boots shining like beetle carapace and sharp mouths locked on bloody toffee apples young wide-eyed witches gaze around like babies at Mardi Gras. Their mothers are about charming locks and dragging boys from their beds, little faces frozen dead before they cross the door jam. They trust their offspring to skeletons who in the wider streets manipulate car alarms to punctuate their dances.

Laughter, violins and the blood beat of drums somewhere in the estates. None visit the home I sit on. I wish they’d not be so formal.

To the north fire blooms like a loved one returning home. Cheery orange waltzes from house to house, tongues of blackened brick and exploding glass beautiful enough even Aristos offer polite applause. The older spirits fail to acknowledge it as they always will.

The rooftops offer a wonderful view. I greedily suck in a lung full of wood smoke and cooking puppy fat. Such merriment, the bruised candy colours of entrails and skin draped in tree branches like festive bunting. Is it the same every year as some suggest? How can it be when humans spend so much time inventing new toys to play with?

Beyond the dome of light pollution monolith shapes blacker than night move with the glacier pace of beings long bored with flippant violence. Their ways are subtle lifting whole buildings with muscle corded arms and moving them like chess pieces a few feet to the left or right. Neat, correct, not a join in sight.

In contrast furry ball like Imps all mouth and leg destabilise a railway’s overpass. Each to their own.

Suddenly below me geysers crack tarmac and splatter upstairs windows with mud and water. A ballet they erupt into life along the street to the ’ohhhh’ and ‘ahhhh’ of passing Banshee. In a large square of grass pumpkin unearth themselves withered and exhausted but content with their work.

A full solid feeling lists drunkenly in my chest; it might be pride.

All too soon a clock tower strikes the hour. I count thirteen and clap my hands the echo travelling miles. There are some frowns but the tide of night is turning. The last pancakes are eaten, the last heads fought over, and my family sink back into darkness.

I wait, swinging my legs from the roof edge, always the last to leave. I notice some of the destruction sluggishly revert to normal, the universe balancing the books like a moody accountant…but only some.

What a pity is it that they’ll explained it all away when they wake. Child run-a-ways, shoddy council road works, teenage vandals; such imagination humanity has.

Dawn is sour to the east, curdled light finding my spot empty of life.

The Camera Never Lies by: Sharmay Mitchell Charlie had been...

Thu, 15 Nov 2012 21:05:54 +0000

The Camera Never Lies

by: Sharmay Mitchell

Charlie had been suffering from debilitating nocturnal migraines. Often, he expected to wake up with bloody cavities where his eyes had been, such was the ferocity of the stabbing pain behind them.

A jagged shard of moonlight pierced through the curtains, encroaching on his pillow; an unwelcome intrusion in his intense discomfort. Charlie whimpered as he turned his back, avoiding having to get out of bed and draw the curtains completely. Even with eyes shut tightly and facing the wall, he was still excruciatingly aware of the unwanted light.

A few seconds passed and the shard of light penetrating his bedroom disappeared. With a sigh of relief, Charlie slowly rolled back into his preferred sleeping position. His heavy eyes glanced over at the window and could no longer see the moon through the open gap in the curtain, just blackness. Maybe the clouds had obscured the light?

Needing the cold side of the pillow for some relief from the inferno raging in his head, Charlie manoeuvred onto his stomach and rolled the pillow over. As he did so, the shard of light appeared again, brightly illuminating the head board of the bed. That was a bit fast to be a moving cloud, he thought. Still lying on his stomach, he strained his neck to look at the window and caught the shard of light right between the eyes. Squinting, he could make out the fuzzy outline of the moon before it happened again. Something outside had obscured the light and it definitely wasn’t cloud cover.

Once he had been woken in the middle of the night by a deer that had wandered from the field adjacent to the house. The majestic creature would have been tall enough to obscure the moon’s glare. Charlie had regretted missing out on that photo opportunity, so he picked up the camera from the bed-side table. If it was right outside the window, he could use the flash and it would show up. Fighting through the pain, Charlie slunk out of bed and crept towards the window.

He waited for the shard of light to disappear again it did. He flung open the curtains, lifted his camera, squinted his eye through the view finder and clicked the shutter. In the momentary flash, he glimpsed what was outside. It wasn’t a deer.

Nightmare By Frankie Lewis After tearing the pulsing, living...

Wed, 14 Nov 2012 22:07:00 +0000

Nightmare

By Frankie Lewis

After tearing the pulsing, living whelk from the shell of my childhood bedroom, I began my long journey to university. I took the car, alone, and drove along the dark motorway out of the city. Distant images of murky country rivers and thatched cottages played in my mind, with the drone of Frieda’s unwitting voiceover via the loudspeaker.

Frieda, an art student and long-standing muse of mine, had been reading Jung and the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Her conversation was consistently fascinating- to the extent that expressing awe had become as easy to me as beating my heart.

This evening, I was barely listening. The regret of having left Frieda behind, with the buzz of our city-hive, was only another dark facet in my labyrinthine system of doubts.

As I and my remaining temporal possessions trundled along the ever-thinning carriageway- into the wilds of self-reliance- Frieda’s words about dream states and the nature of reality incessantly edged forward. She had hung up five minutes ago, but a few intangible phrases danced mockingly behind my eyes.

The roads gradually became thickly lined with trees, and my wheazy car’s headlights threw shaky shadows back into the forest.

Any moment the scene could easily have revealed itself to be a swirly dreamscape. I watched each wooden tower carefully, as though the smallest detail could reveal the self-inflicted farce. Such gutting disappointment would follow should I wake up suddenly, shivering in my five-foot bed. The kind of disappointment you’d feel if you’d known there was a shark in the swimming pool and it had turned out to be Gary Welch.

The haze appeared, I thought, before I felt the arresting force of a collision. The scene slowed, so that when I felt my chest lay itself against the wheel there wasn’t any kind of shock. I felt the pain, and I felt the breath pushing out of my shivering lungs, but mortal terror was yet to find its way in.

The pulsating green glow of the clock on the dashboard read ’23.54’. I’d been lying on the steering wheel for almost three hours.

I could have rested there peacefully, indefinitely. But shadows began to encroach- whether in my mind or really moving around the car, I couldn’t tell. Although I couldn’t see them yet, as I still had my eyes fixed on the clock, I knew they moved with a heavy elegance, and the terrifying dignity of ageless power. I saw myself over and over again, raising my head and seeing these black forms. I saw myself looking into the face of one of them and knew the feeling I would have- of being pinned to my seat and waiting for fate.

When I finally did raise my head, no figures were around the car. The sky was brighter than I had thought it was, and this light intensified until everything was engulfed in sterility.

Then I was plunged, screaming, into darkness. I don’t know how to wake up.

The Tidelings By Matt Cresswell “They sing the horizon,” my...

Tue, 13 Nov 2012 21:08:00 +0000

The Tidelings

By Matt Cresswell

“They sing the horizon,” my mother said, “but all they have to offer is darkness.”

I was barely four the first time she first told me this, stroking my forehead as I shivered off the remains of a fever in my corner of the attic. In the wavering uncertainty of illness and youth, my memories are jumbled out of order. She must have already told me the story of the Tidelings before delivering her shape to the music in my head: “They sing the horizon,” she had said, and with a child’s uncomplicated wisdom, I understood.

She kissed my forehead, and departed. I was left alone, staring up at the roof. The square skylight framed a patch of sky, freckled with stars.

On the very edge of my hearing there came the whispering from the spiral of my ear. I could hear their song, as if the echo of the sea in a shell had been given melody and voice. When I closed my eyes I could see them on the edges of the harbor, rising up out of the water for long enough to call out to me, before dipping their heads back under to chase in deep curves beneath the surface.

But now at night when I slipped into sleep, I could see them. No longer circling the sea, on the edge of the light. Now they came crawling out of the waves on the shore, dragging their stunted lengths up the lamplit streets. I would hear their hoarse gasping as they drew near my window, the damp scrape of scaled flesh on the slates outside.

Then:

Tap.

I would lie and stare resolutely in the other direction, but on some nights the light would catch over the window right. I would see their shadows cast across the boards, leaning over the skylight, clawed hands extended from the tangle of drowned hair, rapping a sharp knuckled against the glass. Then I would awaken with a start to the smell of salt and seaweed and their refrain reverberating around my head. Rising to look out the window, there was never anything but the circle of rocks, isolated in its remote twist of the bay and cast red by the warning eye of the lighthouse.

And each night, tapping would get more and more insistent. But I would never turn around, just kept focusing on the same patch of wall.

Until, on the day of my thirteenth birthday, I decided to seize the day—or the night.

There was the song, the crawling, the slithering, the tapping. “They can only offer darkness,” she had said, and on this particular night it was not a warning, but a promise. The Tidelings’ shadows lurched across the floor, knocking for me. I sat up in bed, pushed the covers back, breathed in courage.

And turned around