But I don't want to talk about my story.
I want to talk about Gemma Files and Stephen J. Barringer's story, each thing i show you is a piece of my death.
Holy fucking shit, you guys. This is one of the hands-down best short stories I've read in ages. And how fabulous is that title?
It's experimental in structure, chilling in subject matter, genuinely frightening. It's about a sort of viral film that invades other movies, very much set in the here and now of Angelina Jolie and the Toronto Film Festival. It rules with a celluloid fist. (Now I'm a little biased, being a movie freak currently working on, among other things, a novel about old movies, but that's neither here nor there.)
I can't remember the last time a short story got me so excited. It makes me want to start a new Best-Of anthology just to put this story in there, that's how good it is, how scary, how tantalizing and awful and awesome. It's like a scene out of House of Leaves mixed with gossip magazines and The Ring.
You should order this anthology and forget about my story. Read this one.