The Daughters of Cthulhu - Lovecraftian stories female
E 'out the new anthology of Dagon Press. entitled The Daughters of Cthulhu and edited by Pietro Guarriello (with the collaboration of writer Teodorani Alda) collects 11 stories by women Lovecraftian , that is written solely by women - all Italian writers - introduced by the essay "Women and Myths Cthulhu. " The book is an absolute curiosity, unique in its kind because for the first time, not only in Italian but even the world, comes an anthology of Cthulhu Mythos turn "pink". Operation that also demonstrates how women are capable of churning out great stories "in Lovecraft." Though different in style and theme, the stories are all one way or another, inspired by HPL and included as part of its popular myth cycle that transcends realms here and further enriches forged from an all-female sensibility.
internal illustrations by Frank Frazetta, Virgin Finlay, Fabian, and other artists.
The anthology costs € 17.00 and is available exclusively at Lulu.com, at this address:
The marsh Altiferno Selene Dancers The fountain in the moonlight Noemi Mancini The lust of the beast Emanuela Zini The screams of the lake Cynthia Ceriani Resurgam Consolata Lanza Something in the mist Serena Montesarchio mute stones Simonetta Santamaria Mrs. Mary pomegranates Galella "Fiat justitia et Pereat Mundus Mara Verzelletti Kera Teresa Regna Night marine creature Anna Rita Bellantuono
Notes on the perpetrators
review here Louis Musolino appeared on the site "Weirdiana" :
My sheep before heading to morning mass at the mouth .. with rosaries for grass, chanting their prayers in the form of rhythmic melios. In this procession "sharp" seems balbettino, while moving shadow of an oak altar boy. In making will be tossing their breasts .. that will give their voids in the soil, the appearance of a serrated line .. also typical of the man's private suffering. Then they will be kneeling for hours, to graze their sins sprayed from the sun. My hands milking on the day that my own .. hands one day cutting the throat, so taught me from a child .. and so they know their going to die. The sheep does not emit sound when they die .. lets go in a long sigh. But in my flock there are also some lambs .. they know nothing of death .. I find comfort in the nursery watching the green field, with their white aprons, agile in sin and playing on the "crowns" of grass becket. Sheep girls never tired in that shadow, never meeting each with its groaning .. .. milky one thousand different voices .. yet a choir. thousand different heads to be severed heads .. .. when the spring in the Easter resurrection of men will die
