Billie Sue Mosiman

Billie Sue Mosiman

BIO: I am a thriller, suspense, and horror novelist, a short fiction writer, and a lover of words. In a diary when I was thirteen years old I wrote, “I want to grow up to be a writer.” It seems that was always my course. My books have been published since 1984 and two of them received an Edgar Award Nomination for best novel and a Bram Stoker Award Nomination for most superior novel. I’ve been represented by the William Morris Agency, belonged to many professional writing organizations, and wrote columns and reviews in magazines. I have been a regular contributor to a myriad of anthologies and magazines, with more than 150 short stories published. My work has been in such diverse publications as Horror Show Magazine and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. I have one collection of my short stories called DARK MATTER in hardcover and several e-book collections. For a while I taught writing for Writer’s Digest and for AOL online, and gave writing workshops locally in Texas.
Recently I’ve sold short stories to the anthologies SCARE PACKAGE edited by Franklin E. Wales, MIRAGES edited by Trent Zelanzy, and UNCOMMON ASSASSINS edited by Weldon Burge. These anthologies will be released later in 2012.
I was born in Alabama and live now in Texas on a small ranch. My work has been predominately suspense thrillers, but I also wrote a western historical, a trilogy of vampire novels, a travel memoir, and, of course, many short stories. My latest novel is BANISHED, a dark fantasy horror novel involving fallen angels. Most of my work has been made available at kindle.com for the e-book reader, including my Stoker-nominated novel, WIDOW, and my Edgar-nominated novel, NIGHT CRUISING.
I love to read (especially on my Kindle), paint, take photographs, and travel. I can name two inspiring persons in my life. One was my grandmother, Naomi, who by simply loving me unconditionally gave me faith in myself–and, every day and forever, my husband, who has lived this adventure with me. Because of my love of storytelling, I’ve been fortunate enough to make a lifelong investment in writing stories and novels.
News of my e-book publications can be found at: http://peculiarwriter.blogspot.com/


The teacher turned to her class and smiled.

That’s when the bomb went off.

A mushroom cloud burst over the horizon, filling the classroom with blinding light. Seconds
later the windows imploded, glass skewering the senior class students and their teacher. Her
smile had turned to a rictus of incomprehension. Blood dripped and streamed, people wailed,
cried out, and ran for the door, jamming their way into the hall.

Hundreds tried to empty out through the exits at once. Students were trampled. All order had
been swept away with the sudden, inexplicable explosion.

Once outside, the crowd looked at the mushroom cloud growing, growing, reaching for
heaven. Then they looked to the sky where the air darkened even as they watched and particles
as fine as brown snow rained down.

Some fell on their knees to pray.

Some ran for cars. Many opened cell phones only to find they didn’t work. No more than the
cars.

Gary “Pit” Huen, a senior on the varsity football team, expected this was the end, but he
didn’t know what to do with it. Pit was going to be picked up for the major leagues. Pit had a
girlfriend who might or might not be pregnant. She lived in another county and attended another
school. Was it far enough away from the bomb blast? He didn’t know. If she was pregnant,
would his baby be born deformed, if it was born at all?

He ignored the frenzy and chaos of the others who had fled the building. He turned to walk
down the road. His car wouldn’t work. Not after a nuclear blast.

He didn’t care who had done it. What did it matter who had brought this hell into his world?
It wasn’t as if he was going to be able to get them back for it. He didn’t care if it was happening
all over the United States. His life was ending, why not the country too?

He had never been a fatalist, but going from a normal world to a world of death in a split
second could do that to a person.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his neck into his shoulders, bowing his head
as he walked. The sky was molten on the horizon and it was deep gray lead color overhead. The
stuff rained down, the bad stuff, the killing stuff. Pit pulled up his tee shirt until it covered his
nose and mouth. It wouldn’t save him, but at least he’d be able to breathe better.
It was a mile to his house. He wondered if his parents were there yet.

Walking up his lawn, he slogged through ash that turned his sneakers gray.

His mother met him at the door. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were startled wide as
a headlight-trapped deer in a road. “Pit,” she said, taking him into her arms and holding him so
close her trembling transferred to his body. They were a couple of puppets pulled by a palsied
hand.

His father stepped up from behind and when his mother let him go, his father stood there,
tears in his eyes. “We were about to walk to the school to get you.”

Pit shrugged. Inside they drew the living room drapes to shut out the sight of their dying
world. They had no way to flee it, and anyway it was probably too late.

They sat in the near gloom not talking.

“How long do we have?” Pit asked finally. He needed to know. Every condemned man
needs to know how much time he has left.

“This amount of radiation? I’m not sure, but it won’t be long. Hours. A day or two,” his
father said.

They sat, waiting. The night came on. They left off the lights. They didn’t eat. By morning
the sun was shrouded and darkness was there to stay.

“What kind of shit is this?” Pit asked, so tired he couldn’t hold his eyes open. He had
vomited all through the night. All of them had.

His parents didn’t reprove him for his language.

What did it matter at the end of the world?

THE END