Wyrd Harvest Press: 10% discount and Free Shipping on all our books*

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Claim 10% Discount + Free Shipping on all Folk Horror Revival / Wyrd Harvest Press books* by entering code BOOKSHIP18 at checkout at –

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/andypaciorek

*offer expires at one minute to midnight Monday 5th February 2018

(To change prices to your local currency, select your nation’s flag at the top of the sales webpage)

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Wyrd Harvest Press books explore the landscapes of Folk Horror and related realms in film, tv, books, art, music, events and other media and also psychogeography, hauntology, folklore, cultural rituals and costume, earth mysteries, archaic history, hauntings. southern gothic, ‘landscapism / visionary naturalism & geography’, backwoods horror, murder ballads, carnivalia, dark psychedelia, wyrd forteana and other strange edges.

100% of profits from FHR / Wyrd Harvest Press books sold in this online store will be charitably donated at intervals to different environmental, wildlife and community projects undertaken by the Wildlife Trusts.

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Winter Ghosts: What is This What is Coming? 6

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On the weekend of 15th and 16th December 2017, a strange mist will fall upon the coastal town of Whitby. From the sea fret will come haunting sounds and tales and more besides. Here over the coming days we shall in turn usher in the ghosts of winter …

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As part of the Winter Ghosts event at Whitby, there will be a session of book readings at the Rusty Shears Gin Cafe from 11am to 1pm on Saturday 16th December.
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Reading from Folk Horror Revival: Corpse Roads will be Andy Paciorek
Reading from North will be Phil Breach & Tim Turnbull
Reading from Ghost Stories from Whitby will be Chris Firth
Reading from The Wyrd Kalender and The Black Meadow books will be Chris Lambert.
Reading from This Game of Strangers will be Jane Burn & Bob Beagrie

Join us at Winter Ghosts – Tickets and full line up – Here

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Winter Ghosts: What is This? What is Coming? 5

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ghosts are gathering

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Winter Ghosts – tickets available now from Here

New from Wyrd Harvest Press

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This Game of Strangers by Bob Beagrie and Jane Burn (+ various photographers)


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Prepare to taste the worm in the golden apple of Camelot as the evocative poets Jane Burn and Bob Beagrie peer behind castle walls and uncover the soiled sheets of the romance / betrayal of Lancelot and Guinevere. Slipping seamlessly from the lyrical to the modern, Bob and Jane draw us in like voyeurs to the clandestine passion and sometimes mundane (though always rich in language) details of the love affair between the most beloved of the legendary king. Prepare to read the classic tale of romance and bewitchment as it has never been told before. Illustrated throughout with atmospheric photography by several great artists.

Available from – http://www.lulu.com/…/this-…/paperback/product-23170461.html

North by Tim Turnbull and Phil Breach (+ various photographers)


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The eloquent words of two poets brought forth from the land, the lodestone and lodestar. All roads lead here. Join Tim Turnbull and Phil Breach as through poetry, prose and the atmospheric imagery of great photographers,they explore and invoke the physical and emotional landscapes. Head North my friends and don’t look back.

Available from – http://www.lulu.com/…/phil-breach-and-tim-turnbull/north/pa…

 *NOTE: 15% discount on all Wyrd Harvest Press books. (The more you buy the more you save) just enter code LULU15 at checkout at

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/andypaciorek

100% of sales profits from Wyrd Harvest Press books are charitably donated to different Environmental, Conservation and Community projects undertaken by the Wildlife Trusts.

Tim Turnbull ~ Ghosts of the Corpse Roads

By a strange twist of fate, the words of a poet who tread the Corpse Roads, vanished upon the breeze. An echo of his testimonial remained carved upon milestones.

Here now though through the scrying of technology once undreamed of, we have captured the whispers from the aether and bring you now the poetry of Tim Turnbull

Scarecrow

They have brought him indoors again, Scarecrow,cC5Ah9nJAPuMjYrVODu1a2uhv8JxrloC1ynIrLPR8tPhDfQCnTmt3G1IZBxijVXC3-RAAlF3YYrggvgyVekh99T9F1Js9EEoscxNsfvMdeUQCRrJiOPIGYQZKnL8Htv5aWJFz8-f9CX64RQhqb-wHL6Km8U=s0-d-e1-ft
propped him in the armchair, poured him a nip
of Laphroaig (doubles for themselves) and toast
and laud him, fine splendid fellow that he is:

for did he not bring them glories unbekent
in their lifetimes, class and outright victory
at Scarecrow Festival; did not the beer tent
glow all night, song swell through the district

over misted fields and greening woodland.
Hail to thee, O Flay-crake! O Hodmedod!
O Bogle! they cry, glasses in raised hands,
in honour of their straw-stuffed half-a-god,

and Scarecrow tilts his head as if perplexed:
their panegyric’s tinctured with derision,
and rough-handling, not kindness or respect,
distinguishes their weekly depositions.

Tonight a boot was left among the furrows;
tomorrow they’ll drag him out and nail him
back up again, nursing filthy hangovers,
and leave him to the mercy of the wind.

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An Old Acquaintance

Death comes chapping the door at 2 a.m.,
jiggling an own-brand single malt as bait.
So long and anxiously anticipated,
he – half coy maiden, half best bosom friend –
slurs mitigations, invites himself in,
and from the sofa, roiling bletherskate,
holds forth; confides, inveigles and berates;
oscillates between rapture and maudlin.

Through hours of inebriate remembrance,
discourse descends to fractured anecdote,
to he said/they said/something happened once,
and thence to warm and grainy oblivion
until the morning takes you by the throat
and searing, sickening light reveals him gone.

Cymag

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Surprising how it has seeped into one’s
being, all that land; that boggy patch
behind the Dutch barn, not discernible
from the field edge – perhaps with geophyz
or satellite it might show up – which caught
the ploughshares and pulled the Fordson
back on its heels, so that, with differential
lock and independent brakes, we churned
and worked in tacky clay until the plough
came free; and across the field, the wood,
frightening and dark, which had been just that –
a wood – but now’s Picea abies, Norway spruce,
un-thinned, neglected, spindly, a poor crop,
overlain since with accretions of schooling,
fact, and even – whisper it – the odd opinion;
and beyond the wood the hedgerow where,
one autumn afternoon, we went with tin
and a tarnished dessert spoon lashed
to a bamboo cane, and I filled the bowl
with pink powder, thrust it down the last
unblocked rabbit hole, tipped the poison,
withdrew and sealed it in the earth.

Poetry © Tim Turnbull

Tim grew up in a farming family in North Yorkshire and resides currently in Highland Perthshire. His collection of eerie tales, ‘Silence and Other Stories‘ is published by Postbox Press. His poetry is available from Donut Press.

Wyrd Harvest Press are planning to publish more of Tim’s poetry in the near future. Keep watching these lonely paths …

http://www.timturnbull.co.uk/

Photos © Andy Paciorek