A Blade and a Revamp

Hi folks! Welcome to my freshly revamped website. Over the past several days I’ve spent untold hours here at AnnieNeugebauer.com making changes. So if you’re reading in your email subscription, make sure you click through and browse around here to see the new digs!

I have always felt like my website is my digital home. I know many people hop from home base to home base around the web, but I’ve always made this my house. It is the only platform I use that’s truly mine. So some minor remodeling (a new static home page that makes it easier to get to the good stuff), redecorating (a color palette refresh), and major decluttering (tons of streamlining) feels pretty nice. I hope you like it.

Happy March! Did you know that it’s Women in Horror Month? *record scratch* You thought that was February, huh? Well, it was, but long story short the official organization has handed it over to the community and we’ve decided that March gives more space to Black History Month, so now today begins the official unofficial celebration of cool chicks making art in scary fields. 

Hi.

All I want for WiHM (and my birthday and Christmas and Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day and Pride month and National Cookie Day) is for you to make the time to read my work–and if you dig it, share it with someone else who might like it too.

So today I’m doing something I rarely do: I’m sharing a poem here that’s original and hasn’t yet been published anywhere else. *oooo, ahhhh* Please enjoy.

A Blade

Where are all the girls named Junior?
Tell me why
only boys.
Tell me why
I would not give my name
directly to my daughter?

Tell me about pride, power,
and humility,
about women sharp as knives
afraid to cut
the ties that bind.

Tell me about
the edge of a blade
and how it dulls
or hones

and tell me why.



© Annie Neugebauer, 2022
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2 for 21: Feet and Teeth

It’s that time of year when I feel alternatingly like a greasy self-promo slime bucket and a proud justified author sharing her work. Yes, it’s awards eligibility season, and the only way to be considered  for Most of the Things™ is to share Your Things™ and hope people bother to read them. SO! 2021 has been simple and sweet for me with two original short stories, both horror/dark fantasy.

“If Those Ragged Feet Won’t Run”

Stranded between the safety of two villages, a mother must protect her newborn from the nightbirds—terrifying creatures who hunt using sound.

“I don’t think I’ve ever read a story that takes these very real postpartum details and weaves them into the tale. The result is a tense, taut, and breathtaking chase story that had me on the edge of my seat. And the added twist of the tale, when we realize we’re dealing with not one but two mothers… adds to the story’s harrowing brilliance.” –Maria Haskins

“If Those Ragged Feet Won’t Run” appeared in Apex Magazine Issue 122. You can read it in its entirety for free on Apex-magazine.com, or you can listen to it for free on their podcast, Episode #76, read beautifully by Philippa Ballantine.

“You Ought Not Smile As You Walk These Woods”

A dark fairy tale about a young man who doesn’t heed his grandmother’s warnings about the teeth fairies who live in the woods.

“You Ought Not Smile As You Walk These Woods by Annie Neugebauer caused me to wonder whether a story can be simultaneously cute and horrifying. This one certainly feels like it strikes that balance with its dark sense of humor and a classic (in the violent and bloody sense) fairy tale feel. Like all good fairy tales, this one comes with a moral: Always listen to your elders, respect nature, and never think you’re cleverer than a fairy – especially one with a fondness for teeth.” –A.C. Wise 

“You Ought Not Smile As You Walk These Woods” is in Shadow Atlas: Dark Landscapes of the Americas by Hex Publishers. You can order it now on Amazon. You can get the ebook for just $4.99, but if you’re a physical book lover in any measure you should really consider splurging for the hardback. I’ve gotten a sneak peek and this book is absolutely stunning!


That’s it! All I want for Christmas this year is for you to read my stories, and if you love them, share them with friends. Happy holidays!

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A Month, A Story, A Poem or Two

Happy April! (I know it’s the first, but there’s no foolin’ here. Existential pranks are enough, thanks.)

First off, I’m thrilled to share that I have a brand new short story out at Apex Magazine! “If Those Ragged Feet Won’t Run” is now free to read at Apex.com. Since I hate describing my own stories, I’m going to quote Editor Jason Sizemore: “Issue 122 sees the return of An­nie Neugebauer to our pages with a cinematic story, titled ‘If Those Ragged Feet Won’t Run’, about mother­hood, resilience, and survival. It will leave you breathless, and I can’t wait to introduce readers to this one!” I hope he’s right, and I hope you’ll go give it a read! Also be sure to look for the podcast production of my story next week. It is phenomenal!

This year I’ll be celebrating National Poetry Month with my two most recently published poems. Soon I’m planning to record a video of myself reading “A Newborn Thing,” first published in the winter 2020-21 issue of Liminality Magazine. (If you don’t want to wait you can read it free at that link now!) I’ll most likely post it to Instagram, so be sure to follow me @AnnieNeugebauer to make sure you’re getting my fresh content.

I’m also reprinting my poem “Red, Red, Red” here today. It was first published in the HWA Poetry Showcase Volume 6, which is a great collection of horror poetry well worth picking up. I’m quite fond of this piece, and I hope you enjoy it. Printed below!

 Red, Red, Red
  
 Remember when lightning tore the sky open
 and blood poured down
 beneath the agonized screams
 of thunder?
  
 Remember when
 the cicadas drowned,
 their ceaseless shrieks still echoing
 in the din of the bleeding—
 hot summer doused in gore?
  
 Remember when the spider people creeped
 from broken trees and gaping fences
 and forgotten cellars
 to drink the rain—
 to hunt those hiding?
  
 Remember when
 we had to shut our door
 to loved ones
 lost out there, running, drenched,
 bleeding rain?
  
 Remember how we screamed?
  
 Remember what it tasted like, the sweat on our upper lips,
 the rain dripping through our eyebrows,
 the blood seeping through the pipes?
  
 Remember where we were and what we were doing
 when the storm finally stopped?
  
 Remember how
 we thought we might be safe then—
 squelch of the earth
 slowly soaking up its spoils,
 fizzy bubbling as the sky cleared?
  
 Remember why we opened the door?
  
 Remember? 


© Annie Neugebauer, 2020
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Hindsight is 2020 (in Review)

Life. <–This was my placeholder intro paragraph when I was pulling together the content for this post, but I think it pretty well sums it up, doesn’t it? Life. 2020. Whew.

It’s time for my end-of-year wrap up. I’ve been stalling a while now because I have two publications that might be out before the end of the year, or might get bumped into 2021. (For anyone reading for awards considerations, that effects eligibility.) But I can only delay so long. If one or both of those come out between now and the 31st, I’ll update here ASAP. [Note 12/21: “A Newborn Thing” has been added below!] If not, they’ll stay under the ‘forthcoming’ section. So that makes this year’s Annie Neugebauer reading short and sweet. 

Below you’ll find one original short story and two three original poems, plus one reprinted short. At the bottom are links to my blog posts, plus what’s coming out next year.


The Problem with Being a Monstershort fiction

Glug is a monster longing for human connection. When stealing a human doesn’t make him feel better, he befriends a woman who’s drawn by his monstrosity.

Stealing the baby had been a mistake. Glug knew that now. At the time he’d thought no one would notice. It was just a little one, after all.

“The Problem with Being a Monster” was published in the all-women anthology Not All Monsters by Strangehouse Books. It’s a quirky story that took its own path once it got going (as any good story is wont to do), but I started out aiming for that sweet spot between funny and scary that “Subsoil” by Nicholson Baker lands so beautifully. I think mine ended up more between funny and sad with a dash of macabre, but I’m not mad about that. You can order a copy at Amazon. 


Red, Red, Redpoem

“Red, Red, Red” is an eerie poem about, well, strange and scary things that happen when the rain turns red. It was published in the Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase Volume 7.

Remember when lightning tore the sky open
and blood poured down
beneath the agonized screams
of thunder?

You can get a copy of the Showcase on Amazon in print or ebook, chock full of beautiful and distrubing poems by wonderful poets.


A Newborn Thingpoem

“A Newborn Thing” is a poem about poems, which is one of my favorite indulgences. I happen to really love this one, and I love where it landed, too.

I suspect a poem is a newborn
mewling thing,
standing on legs still wet with wobble.
I suspect there are three
ways to grow it.

You can read my poem for free on Liminality’s website, in their winter 20-21 issue.


Things That Are Always Herepoem

A free verse piece I published on my site. 

My breath,
as close as always can be.
More right than wrong;
I am breathing.
I am here.

You can read it in its entirety here on my blog.


Redlessreprinted short fiction

The color red goes missing from the world.

It’s the stop sign that finally does it.

I love this crazy little flash piece. You can buy Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volume 5 on Amazon in print, ebook, or audiobook. Listening is a blast; the narrator gives my story a Poe sort of flavor that I love.


Nonfiction (Blog Posts)


Forthcoming in 2021

  • “White Paint,” Cemetery Dance Magazine #78
  • “If Those Ragged Feet Won’t Run,” Apex Magazine Issue 122
  • “Vestige,” reprint to be announced

To everyone who has found time to read any of my work during this crazy year, thank you. Thank you, especially, to those who have shared it, reviewed it, or sent me messages. As always, your positive feedback means the world.

I hope the end of 2020 is kind to you.

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Things That Are Always Here

Things That Are Always Here

My breath,
as close as always can be.
More right than wrong;
I am breathing.
I am here.

Sounds,
for as long as my hearing holds out.
There are noises:
a passing train, trees creaking in the wind,
my breath,
cats purring, the dishwasher’s hum.

My grief,
a part of me
that I can focus on
like my feet against the ground,
my hands on my lap,
or the sudden awareness of skin.

Gratitude,
with hardly any hunting—
just remembering,
mindful again and again and again
of how wonderful
these things are.

© Annie Neugebauer, 2020Share this:

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