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Blog, Conventions, Newsletter, Story Readings, Updates, Writing and Publishing

New Video Newsletter is Up on YouTube!

A new episode of my video newsletter is up in which I chat about Lehigh Valley Comic Con, Easton Book Festival, Witches Day Out, and Creatures, Crimes, and Creativity Con.
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I also read excerpts from my stories, “In the Span of a Heartbeat” published in Black Cat Weekly (Issue 176, January 2025) and “Isaac Geary’s Instant Utopia” published in Bright Mirror (Oddity Prodigy Productions, May 2025).
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One correction: I mention that the Lehigh Valley Comic Con has one-day shows every “August and July.” That should be every August and December. I blame lack of sleep.
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Illustration for Phil's short story "In the Span of a Heartbeat"
Blog, New Releases, Story Acceptance

In the Span of a Heartbeat

In April of this year,  I sold a Halloween story to Black Cat Weekly magazine to be included in one of their upcoming October issues. I’ll share more details on that when it’s published.

This was the second story I sold to them, the first being  a science fiction piece titled “In the Span of a Heartbeat,” which appeared in Issue #176 in January 2025. I realized recently that I’d never shared the opening scenes of that story here on my blog as I did with my three other stories that were published in the first half of the year. So, here it is. I hope you enjoy this subsurface trek into danger, discovery, and personal reckoning.

During a survey mission on a distant planet, a group of scientists discovers an underground cavern rich in valuable artifacts, but soon find themselves hunted by a pack of subsurface creatures.

In the Span of a Heartbeat

by Phil Giunta

A string of expletives assailed Norimi as she entered the lab. The gruff voice bellowed from the conference table in the back corner, above which hovered a massive rotating hologram of Uzo, the largest of three planetoids at the edge of Enyari space. Its desolate, pockmarked surface resembled an artist’s palette of taupe, white, and burnt umber with occasional patches of slate blue. Uzo was also home for the next four weeks and the final stop on a yearlong expedition to survey the last undeveloped real estate in the solar system for colonization.

At the workbench across the lab, speleologists Wyn Kuona and Seth Reizig conversed in hushed tones as if afraid to draw the ire of the science team’s cantankerous leader.

Norimi sidestepped the hologram to find her father hunched in his seat, jabbing a finger at the touch screen in the table’s beveled edge. “Everything all right, Dad?”

“Can someone please tell me how the hell to pull up the damn contour map from Sonda?”

Oren, the team’s technical engineer, bounded in from the adjacent room. “No problem, Doctor Jurahn. Let me show you.”

The seismologist rolled his chair aside as the younger man hunched over the screen. He tapped once, swiped twice, and Uzo faded out. One more tap produced a rectangular cross-section of a lava tube connecting two massive calderas.

“Thank you.” Jurahn stood. “Perhaps my daughter married someone useful after all.”

Ignoring Norimi’s fuming gaze, the team leader cleared his throat. “Before we begin, just one announcement.” He clasped his hands behind him as Kuona and Reizig fell silent. “I received word from Captain Milliken earlier this morning. She’s been diverted to the edge of Zhoreen space. Hostilities are escalating in the region and the navy wants more firepower along the border. As a result, she will not be able to pick us up as scheduled. The closest ship to us is the Praetorius, but it’s five weeks out.”

The team responded with groans and slumped shoulders.

“Yes, I know. We’re all anxious to go home, but after a year in space, what’s an extra week? Now, let’s review our objectives for today.” Jurahn traced his finger along the edge of the holographic contour map. “According to the body wave emitters planted by our Sonda rover last year—”

“Just before it crapped out.” Kuona folded her arms across her chest and smirked at Oren. Norimi’s husband had designed the rover, which went offline five months after landing on Uzo, making him the target of occasional ridicule ever since.

“We don’t know what happened to it, Doctor Kuona,” Norimi said. “And it isn’t relevant right now. We have its last known coordinates. If we find it while we’re here, we’ll figure it out.”

Kuona’s smirk faded as her gaze shifted to the hologram.

“As I was saying,” Jurahn continued. “The seismic data Sonda sent back shows that this lava tube is sixty-three meters in diameter and runs for ninety-four kilometers, making it a strong candidate for a subsurface habitat. It’s seven hundred and eight meters down and runs directly beneath the two calderas we saw from orbit, Prythian and Erimaal, about ten kilometers apart. Near the base of each are caves, some of which connect with the lava tube.

“There are also several conduits that branch off from the tube. Some appear to end in caverns, others lead to dolines, or sinkholes, that are open to the surface. We’ll explore as many as we can. Based on the coin toss aboard ship yesterday, Kuona and Reizig will head northwest to Prythian, while Norimi and I go southeast to Erimaal. We’ll collect soil and rock samples, assess structural stability, and get a closer lay of the land while Oren monitors everything from here. Any questions?”

No one stirred.

“Excellent.” Jurahn tapped the screen and the hologram vanished. “Let’s go spelunking.”

***

Although four hundred times dimmer here than on their homeworld, the sun’s light was sufficient for navigating Uzo’s craggy terrain. In the driver’s seat of Crawler One, Norimi craned her neck to peer up at the towering rim of Erimaal, beyond which lay the largest caldera in the Naxdin Belt of planetoids. What had been a breathtaking view from orbit became humbling—and intimidating—at close range.

In the passenger seat, her father recorded their journey on the crawler’s exterior cameras, controlled by the dashboard’s touch screen. “We’ve been driving for twenty minutes and you haven’t uttered a word. When my daughter gives me the silent treatment, I know she has something on her mind.” He leaned toward her. “She gets that from her mother.”

“And if mom were still with us, she’d smack you upside the head for the way you treat Oren.” Norimi tore her gaze away from Erimaal and glared at her father. “I’ve held my tongue until now because we’re both still grieving, but I expected better from you.”

“As the leader of this team, I don’t have time to coddle anyone, Rimi. That includes your lesser half.”

“I’m not asking you to coddle him. I’m asking you to show him some respect for a change, as a colleague. You constantly belittle him because he’s not a scientist, yet Oren developed almost all of the tech we’re using on this mission.”

“Well, let’s hope it holds up better than his Sonda rover.”

“Why do I waste my breath?” As they drove into Erimaal’s shadow, Norimi slapped the dashboard touch screen. The headlights flashed on and glinted off the frame of a small vehicle parked beside the cave entrance. “Who the hell could that be?”

Her father tapped his dashboard screen. “Team One to Basecamp. We just arrived at the foot of Erimaal, and it looks like we have company.”

To continue reading “In the Span of a Heartbeat,” and many other fantastic stories, check out Black Cat Weekly #176.

Black Cat Weekly #176

Blog, Book Reviews

Book Review: The Swamps of Jersey by Michael Stephen Daigle

The Swamps of Jersey by Michael Stephen DaigleIronton, New Jersey police detective Frank Nagler has his hands full as the lead investigator when a decapitated woman is discovered in a swamp known as the Old Iron Bog. To make matters, one of the most brutal storms in recent history has flooded the town, causing millions of dollars of property damage. Nagler’s search for the unidentified woman’s killer dredges up bad memories, suspicious finances at City Hall, and scandalous activity by local politicians. The Swamps of Jersey is a fine example of contemporary detective noir by author and award-winning journalist Michael Stephen Daigle.

Awards, Blog, Conventions, Events, New Releases, Writing Retreats

New Video Newsletter is Up on YouTube!

Had a few minutes to breathe today, so I recorded a new video newsletter. It’s a bit long at 18 minutes, but it covers a lot of ground including The Easton Book Festival, Shore Leave 45 SF convention, Lehigh Valley Comic Con in August, my recent Pennsylvania Press Club awards, and my latest short stories in the new Bright Mirror and Retreat anthologies. Click here to listen.

Bright Mirror Cover Retreat Anthology Cover showing an open gate in the middle of a forest with golden light shining down from above

 

Blog, New Releases

Give Them Peace

In March, my 30th short story, “Give Them Peace,” was published in Writing a Wrong, the latest mixed-genre anthology by the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.

A mob boss with a nefarious retirement plan. A husband preparing the ideal breakfast for his wife. A young girl intent on visiting the neighbor’s turkeys—on her own. A mystery author who steals an idea for a novel and now, years later, faces the consequences. An essayist musing on a letter she would write to a friend she inadvertently upset. Writing a Wrong is filled all of these and more.

“Give Them Peace” is a ghost story featuring psychic-medium paranormal investigator Miranda Lorensen from my novels Testing the Prisoner, By Your Side, and Like Mother, Like Daughters.  I hope you enjoy this excerpt. If so, consider grabbing a copy of the anthology in paperback or ebook. Proceeds benefit the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group and our work in the community.

Give Them Peace

by Phil Giunta

Crippling sorrow flooded Miranda Lorensen’s thoughts the moment she stepped through the door of Heldon Studios. Overlapping voices in her head pleaded for help, begged to be set free. Miranda ignored them for the moment as she and fellow paranormal investigator Marc Malkasian greeted the studio’s general manager, Stillman Ross.

“Thanks for rearranging your schedule for us on such short notice.” Stillman extended a hand. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

“Short notice means shorthanded,” Marc said. “You’re stuck with the two of us. Any more activity since you called?”

“Later that night, in fact.” Stillman nodded toward a row of offices down the hall. “We caught it on a security camera along with the other incidents I mentioned on the phone. I have the footage queued up.”

By now, the edges of Miranda’s vision had blurred and she winced against another torrent of desperation and grief. Closing her eyes, she tuned out the conversation between Marc and Stillman. I’m here. Tell me what you need.

A plaintive voice rose above the chatter. “Finally, someone who can hear us.”

“We’ve waited so long,” another added.

Both were women, but Miranda sensed that they weren’t the only spirits attached to the building, or perhaps the land. How can I help you?

“You’re a sensitive,” the first voice said. “As we were. That’s why he killed us.”

Who killed you?

There was no response.

Are you still with me? What’s your name? Again, Miranda’s questions were met with silence.

“Randy?”

A hand clutched her arm. Miranda’s eyes shot open and met Marc’s bewildered gaze.

“You okay? You wandered off without a word.”

Miranda took in her surroundings. She didn’t recall leaving the lobby, yet she now found herself in a wide corridor between two sound stages. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“Did you have a vision?”

“Not exactly.” As they started back toward the main entrance, Miranda shot a glance over her shoulder. “But the day is still young.”

***

All three tripods crashed to the floor, hurled across the room by an invisible force. In the security office, the astonishing scene played out on two wall-mounted monitors.

“That happened about four hours after we closed on the day I called you,” Stillman explained. “I thought it was one of my technicians playing a prank, but no one was in the building at the time. Of all the footage we captured, this scared the shit out of me more than anything.”

“I can see why,” Marc said. “These spirits definitely seem pissed off about something. Where did this happen?”

“Stage C. Last one on the right before you get to the storage room.”

“Hold on.” Marc pointed to the screen. “When the tripods hit the floor, they kinda resemble arrows, evenly spaced and perfectly lined up beside each other.”

Miranda cocked her head. “Arrows pointing toward the storage room, perhaps?”

“I’ll be damned.” Stillman slumped in his chair. “Since we converted this place from a warehouse, we don’t use that part of the building much. I’ve never been comfortable back there. Always feels like someone’s watching me from the mezzanine.”

“Maybe they are,” Marc said. “When you called, you mentioned a woman who appeared on film, but no one saw her in person. Can you show us?”

“Absolutely.” Stillman opened two video files and dragged each to its own monitor. He pointed to the left screen. “This was the first appearance, during an interview show. Watch for the middle-aged woman with the salt and pepper hair and bruises around her neck. There. See her standing off to the right behind the host?”

“Jeez.” Marc leaned forward. “Her gray eyes and blank expression aren’t creepy at all.”

“Check it out,” Stillman continued. “They cut away and back to the host… and she’s gone.” He stopped the video. “Now, let me draw your attention to the monitor on the right. There’s a company in the area that makes cleaning products. They use our studio to shoot their commercials. This one had three actors, four if you count the dog. Watch this beagle turn its head from the kid and stare at nothing until they cut away, come back, and bam—there she is again. Where she came from, no one knows.”

The beagle whined and stared up at the woman who gazed at the actors with a forlorn expression. Stillman paused the video just as she peered into the camera.

“She came from this place.” Miranda glanced from one monitor to the other. “Her soul is trapped here, and she isn’t alone.”

Stillman raised an eyebrow. “How many are there?”

“Something tells me we’re about to find out.”

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Writing a Wrong Anthology Cover

Blog, New Releases

A Certain Magic

To celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Mindful Writers Retreat, we chose “retreat” as our theme for this year’s charity anthology and our members did not disappoint. From the Lehigh Mountains of Pennsylvania, to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware, across the Atlantic to Ireland and Italy, and south of the equator to Belize and Africa, our heroes are in search of the illusive inspiration to create a life of their dreams. The quest leads them through forests and jungles, by carriage and train and plane, into libraries and flower shops, and even a convent and a monastery.

I hope you enjoy the opening scenes from my story, “A Certain Magic” and consider picking up a copy of Retreat. All proceeds benefit House of Ruth Maryland.

A Certain Magic

by Phil Giunta

Why was this place so familiar? Keri Lange had never been to Ligonier, Pennsylvania before yesterday afternoon and yet, she’d been haunted by a relentless feeling of déjà vu from the moment she arrived.

Keri paused along the trail as the first rays of the rising sun highlighted the resplendent autumn colors of the surrounding trees. Her gaze swept across the expansive field of green and brown grass bordered by a narrow, meandering creek on its north side and Macartney Lane to the south. Beyond the far edge of the field, opposite the trail on which she stood, sparse traffic flowed along Route 711.

Macartney Lane was the only road in or out of the Ligonier Camp and Conference Center, her home for the next four days. Nestled in the Laurel Highlands region of the Allegheny Mountains, the five-hundred-acre property was a summer camp for kids, but a group of writers from the nearby Pittsburgh area rented the place for a weeklong retreat every October. It was the perfect location to break away from life and get into the creative flow all while nestled in the bosom of Mother Nature. Although Keri lived several hours away, she’d connected with a few of the local writers at a recent conference and was invited to join them.

One of the first things she’d learned during orientation was that many of the writers took sunrise walks to clear their minds before immersing themselves in their work. For Keri, it was a welcome change of pace from the stress of urban life.

To her right, a path of dirt and stone wound its way up to the distant crest of a hill. Keri was tempted to make the climb but she’d been walking for over an hour and her stomach was grumbling. She made a mental note to tackle the hill tomorrow and continued along the trail until she arrived at Macartney Lane. There, a large wooden sign served as an information marker about the Wilpen train crash that had occurred a few hundred yards away on July 5, 1912. The trail on which she’d been walking had once been a branch of the Ligonier Valley Railroad and the site of a horrific collision between a passenger train headed north to Wilpen and a freight train carrying coal on its way south to Ligonier on the same track. Twenty-seven people were killed and twenty-six injured.

Overcome with inexplicable dread, Keri backed away from the sign and darted up the road to the lodge as if some calamity might befall her if she lingered too long on the trail.

***

The rest of the morning passed without further apprehension. Seated against a window in the first-floor lounge, Keri had become so absorbed in her writing that it was almost lunch time when she glanced up from her laptop. Contemplating the next scene in her story, she stared out at the grassy hill behind the lodge and the tree line beyond—until the blast of a train whistle jolted her. She glanced around the room at the other writers, but none of them appeared disturbed by the sound, even when it happened again.

Maybe they’re used to it, since most of them have been here before. But I thought the railroad was long gone. A brief Google search confirmed that it had been decommissioned in 1952. So where did that whistle come from? It was so close!

Keri was tempted to dash outside and track it down until retreat organizers Carla Poole and Barry Sharpe gathered with two other writers and started toward the back door.

Carla leaned toward her as she sauntered past. “Comin’ to lunch?”

Keri closed the lid on her laptop and joined them as they made their way out of the lodge and up the hill to the cafeteria building. “Did any of you hear a train whistle a few minutes ago?”

“Train whistle?” Carla shook her head. “Nope. I don’t think any trains run through this area.”

“The lodge offices are just down the hall from us,” Barry said. “Maybe one of their computers makes a train whistle sound when an email comes in or an alert pops up.”

Keri shrugged. “I guess that makes sense.”

“How’s your writing going?” Carla asked.

“I’m one scene away from finishing this reincarnation story I started last week. It’s about a woman who travels back to her previous life in order to rescue someone and change history. I was struggling with the ending, but this morning’s walk helped clear my mind.”

“That’s what this retreat’s all about,” Barry said. “There’s a certain magic about this place. The guided meditations we do after lunch should help you stay in the creative flow and knock out that last scene.”

“That’s the plan. Once the story’s done, I can give it a quick edit and send it to my critique partners.”

“You still have three days left,” Carla said. “Got anything else?”

“I could work on a novella I put aside a few months ago,” Keri replied. “Unless I get an idea for something new. I see there was a train crash here back in 1912. Maybe I’ll research that. Might get a story idea out of it.”

“That happened two years before this camp was founded.” Barry opened the door and motioned for the women to precede him into the cafeteria. “We’ve had enough strange occurrences here over the years to wonder if this place is haunted by some of the people who died in that crash.”

Keri recalled her unsettling experience on the trail. “That… would explain a lot.”

To continue reading this story and many other wonderful tales, pick up a copy of Retreat from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, or your favorite independent bookstore. Thank you for supporting small press publishing and a worthy cause!

Retreat Anthology Cover showing an open gate in the middle of a forest with golden light shining down from above