Thursday, March 22, 2018

A Collection of Twisted Tales Blog Tour

A COLLECTION OF TWISTED TALES by Kraig Dafoe, Thriller Short Story Collection, 114 pp., $2.99
(Kindle edition) $8.99 (paperback)



Title: A COLLECTION OF TWISTED TALES

Author: Kraig Dafoe

Publisher: Createspace

Pages:114

Genre:Thriller Short Story Collection


Most of these stories have one thing in common, death. Although death
is the common thread, there is nothing common in the way that it comes
about.

This collection is chock full of interesting characters scattered
among various settings that inspire the imagination, such as a Lavish
English mansion or the dark interior of a rundown home.

This book is inspired by and written in the style of, Edgar Allan Poe.

Praise:

A Collection of Twisted Tales is an ambitious project that
testifies to the author’s appreciation of Edgar Allan Poe’s fiction in
particular. In this collection, Kraig Dafoe offers a creative
homage with many original ideas and unexpected twists.”

Professor Vanessa Steinroetter, PHD


Order Your Copy!



https://www.amazon.com/Mistress-Suffragette-Diana-Forbes-ebook/dp/B06XG3G2TF


https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/kraig+dafoe?_requestid=580207


My review:

This is a book of short stories and poems written in the style of Edgar Allen Poe. The stories and poems are all different with one thing in common. Death. The death in each story is different as well. There is a variety of causes of death. The stories are complete and not rushed. A couple I would love to read a whole book on, but for the most part you got everything you needed in the few pages dedicated to it. 

At the first of the book is a poem dedicated to Edgar Allen Poe. I really enjoyed Mr. Dafoe's outlook on him. It really set the book off with a bang so to speak. There are 9 short stories in the book and a chapter of poems. 

i enjoyed all the stories but really liked the story named his Royal Disgrace. The story is based on declassified Jack the Ripper files from Scotland Yard. i am not sure how much of the story is actually based on fact but I loved how the detective work was done. It made it seem filled with true facts. in the poetry section there is a poem called Alone. I don't know why I liked ti the most I just did. It is very dark and depressive but it just stood out to me. 

If you are a fan of Edgar Allen Poe's work you really should grab a copy of this book. 

 












The Unheeded Omen:



“when an arrant mind wanders,



and breaks open the protective shell,



rising up, a wicked demon saunters,



from the darkened depths of hell.”



--Louis Banks--



The general populace has long considered ravens to be associated with bad
omens, though never putting much stock in such trivial absurdity, I delightedly
accepted the opportunity to move my family into a lavish home located on Raven
road.



In the early morn, in the spring of the year 18--, bracing yet dreary,
leaves insignificantly rustled as a gelid breeze swept along, washing away
droplets of early precipitation. Clouds hanging oppressively low, still
darkened, loomed overhead, threatening another ghastly shower to descend upon
us while we rode protected from the elements, while the wheels of the carriage
jostled us about as they trundled over cobblestone. The voyage was relatively
short, reaching just beyond the edge of town, which I had and would continue,
to call home for many a year.



The caw of ravens echoed overhead as we veered down the road of our new
dwelling, with seemingly thousands of the blackened beasts residing in its
progression of Oaks.



My darling Penelope and our two young progenies, plus one in the womb, sat
delighted as the driver directed the carriage down the lane to the two-story
brick mansion as it seemed to us, having lived a life of little resource. This
was the beginning to a new epoch, this auspicious occasion afforded by a
promotion I procured; we received the home joyfully with the compliments of my
company, as part of my bonus.



As the carriage rolled into view of the domicile, the children curiously
gazed through the panes of glass, pressing their noses to achieve a better
glimpse, their fidgety disposition putting smiles on our faces. Penelope and I
showed approval for their enthusiasm.



The usually neatly manicured grounds were awash with the residue from the
storm of the previous eve. Well-groomed hedges of significant splendor and
foliage lined the drive, their once proud branches drooped towards the ground,
some almost bear of leaves, and as the carriage circled in front of the home,
ivy, overspreading the exterior, glistened in the dim light of day.



A valet, another benefit of my new station and being a servant of the house
for numerous years, met the carriage as we stopped.



As we departed, the valet bowed deeply and gestured toward the portico,
commenting that he had allocated our possessions to their proper place and now,
the vast luxury of the domicile awaited us.



We embraced the cold air and made haste for the door, the children
enthusiastically, first through its threshold. I followed my beloved, nodding
attentively to the valet and, approaching the door, I noticed my new neighbor,
an elderly man, pitifully disheveled, standing on the porch of his own
discriminately decrepit home across the adjoining field.



The grass of the field, more resembling brome, between us was unkempt and
thus made it impossible to tell where the abandoned yard ended and the
neighbor’s began. The neighboring house was decayed from years of neglect,
paint long ago wearing thin, cracked and peeling, and shutters hung
precariously from their mounts. A broken fence of rotted wood surrounded the
property, half its horizontal slats lying at angles to the ground and hidden by
overgrown sedge. The windows seemed blackened by death, empty eye sockets
peering at our new home and the roof seemed to house more ravens then did the
trees, as any of its worn shingles were barely visible. Overgrown and under
trimmed vegetation scattered the lot, yet the view of the house itself, unfortunately
for me, was unobstructed. Upon looking at the melancholy house, a sense of
indispensable gloom washed over me.



My new neighbor seemed to be as unkempt as was his yard and I noticed, with
ease, the elderly man’s demeanor appeared to be one of utter indifference. I
waved to him in what I considered to be a polite gesture and, perplexingly, he
just turned and entered his house without response, which I thought a bit odd
as I entered my new home.



I absorbed the splendor of my new abode, which was of stark contrast to my
neighbors, while trying to shake the awkward encounter from my mind. Artful
paintings hung from the brightly colored walls while decorative rugs dotted the
cherry hardwood floors. The furnishings bore elaborate carvings, with soft
velvety cushions, while brass and silver trinkets topped the stands and
mantles. Fires burned in the ornate fireplaces casting a warm glow about the
rooms, filling them with a cozy air, and simultaneously casting eerily dancing
shadows about. Spacious was the home, with formal living and dining rooms, a
parlor, four bedrooms upstairs and indoor plumbing, a fairly new innovation. We
quickly settled in and, with assistance from the valet, we fell into a routine,
living a somewhat leisurely life compared to the drudgery of life before my
promotion.







           





Kraig Dafoe was born in Potsdam, New York and grew up in Canton. He
played high school football and joined the Army Reserves at the age of
seventeen.



Kraig has earned his BA in English writing and graduated cum laude from Washburn University in 2017.



Kraig has published two novels and published poetry. He is currently working on another writing project.



His current novel is A Collection of Twisted Tales.



You can visit his website at http://www.kraigdafoe.com.



















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