The Seers’ Table February 2025
Linda D. Addison, Member of the Diverse Works Inclusion Community
You can see any of The Seers’ Table posts since inception (March 2016) by going to the HWA main page and selecting the menu item “HWA Publications/Blogs/Seers’ Table.”
Geneve Flynn recommends:

Ayida Shonibar (she/they) is an Indian-Bengali immigrant who grew up in Europe and currently works in North America. They write dark and wistful speculative fiction about misfits, monsters, mischief-makers.
Spanning genres and age categories, Shonibar’s short stories, essays, and poetry have appeared in various publications. Their writing has been supported by a HWA Diversity Grant. Their previous work received national recognition in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and was selected for the “We Need Diverse Books” and “Desi KidLit” mentorship programs.
Recommended Reading: “An Inordinate Amount of Interest,” short horror story from Wilted Pages: An Anthology of Dark Academia.
Excerpt from “An Inordinate Amount of Interest”:
Green flows from your imagination onto the page, bleeding viridescent liquid through the intermediary of your brush. The handle bends to your grip like the natural extension it’s been for as long as you remember, the interface between skin and lacquered wood as familiar as your eyelids kissing to blink.
This last stroke completes the painting. It’s not finished finished—you could always add a layer of yellow to bathe the leaves in warmer sunlight or deepen their definition with purple shading. More details to bring this rendition of the peepal tree closer to how it’s rooted in your memories of your homeland.
But there’s the time limit to consider.
The interviewer waits for you to slide the paper to her side of the table. Her gaze traces over your artwork and lights up. “It’s beautiful.” She splays her fingers an inch above the still damp branches. “So lifelike it hardly takes any effort to do this.”
Light suffuses her hand. Beneath her palm, foliage springs from the paper and spills across the tabletop. She pulls it upwards, fingers still glowing as they curl around the sapling to draw it out of your now blank canvas.
Air catches in your throat. Pulse pounding, you lean closer to gingerly touch a heart-shaped peepal leaf.
It’s solid. Waxy. A real piece of where you came from, a shining emerald on this other side of the planet. When you dig your nail in, the bitter scent of raw vegetation tickles your nose.
“Incredible,” you whisper. “You could really teach me how to do this?”
“Our senses are all intertwined. If you pour the true essence of something effectively into your painting of it, the rest easily follows. So, you see, your existing skill set would make you the perfect student.”
Your mouth goes dry at her words, even as you try not to jump to conclusions. You shouldn’t let your interest run ahead of you. “Then, does this mean—”
She beams at you and extends her arm. “Congratulations, Kiran. I’m delighted to offer you a place in our Bachelor of Arts programme.”
Follow Ayida Shonibar at: Twitter: @ayidashonibar.com;
Instagram: @ayidashonibar; BlueSky: @ayidashonibar.bsky.social.
Linda D. Addison recommends:
Angela Sylvaine is a self-proclaimed cheerful goth who still believes in monsters. Her debut novel, Frost Bite, is out now, and her debut short story collection, The Dead Spot: Stories of Lost Girls, was released May 2024 from Dark Matter INK. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in over 50 magazines, anthologies, and podcasts, including Apex Magazine, Southwest Review, and “The No Sleep” Podcast.
She grew up in North Dakota and holds degrees in psychology, religion, and philosophy from the University of North Dakota. After marrying her high school sweetheart, they moved to Colorado, and now live on the front range of the Rockies with their three creepy cats.
Angela is a member of the HWA, Denver Horror Collective, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, and Pikes Peak Writers.
Recommended Reading: The Dead Spot: Stories of Lost Girls fiction collection (Dark Matter INK, 2024)
Excerpt from the story “Return of the Wilderness Girls”:
The cruiser’s headlights cut through the darkness of the winding mountain road. I stared straight ahead, refusing to look into the woods that pressed in on us from either side, and tucked my legs up under the blanket.
“Are you cold?” The sheriff eyed me in the rearview mirror and reached for the knob to turn up the heat.
“How long until we reach town?” Would the other girls be waiting for me? I hoped so. The need to see them pressed against my chest until I could hardly breathe.
“About five minutes.” He cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering why you were in those woods.”
“Huh.” I should care how I got there, but since hearing about the others, I’d thought of nothing else. “I guess.”
“We’re not really sure. You girls started returning about a year ago, one on every new moon.”
“Thirteen. There are thirteen of us.” I knew I was the last.
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Never have understood how you do that. Don’t know your own names, but you remember each other.”
“Not remember. I just know.” I rubbed my hands over my arms, the blanket not enough to warm me. How could I know about the girls, but recall nothing of myself? “What is my name?”
“Roberta.”
“Roberta.” I tried it out, wanting to feel something, but it was just a word. “You said I have a mother.”
“She’s going to be mighty glad to see you.” He sighed. “Most of us mourned you girls years ago, but Colleen, she never gave up hope you’d come back.”
“Years.” I wondered how many, started to ask, when the trees thinned and peeled away from the road. Streetlights dotted either side and illuminated crumbling shops with faded paint, broken windows, and dangling shingles.
People of all ages lined the sidewalks, most dressed in pajamas as if they’d been pulled from their beds and lined along the street like props. They glared at the sheriff ’s car, at me, as we rolled past.
“Don’t worry about them. They’re just scared. A thing like this, well, it’s hard to understand.”
Follow Sylvaine at https://angelasylvaine.com/; https://linktr.ee/angelasylvaine; Facebook: authorangelasylvaine/; Instagram: angela_sylvaine; X: @sylvaine_angela
Kari Wolfe recommends:
Lindy Ryan is an award-winning author, anthologist, and short-film director whose books and anthologies have received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal. She also writes sweet, seasonal romance under the pseudonym Lindy Miller. Several of her projects have been adapted for screen.
Ryan is the current author-in-residence at Rue Morgue and regularly contributes articles to outlets including BookTrib, Crime Reads, and more. Declared a “champion for women’s voices in horror” by Shelf Awareness, Ryan was named a Publishers Weekly Star Watch Honoree in 2020, and in 2022, was named one of horror’s most masterful anthology curators. She previously served on the Board of Directors for the Independent Book Publishers Assn. (IBPA).
She is an award-winning professor at Rutgers University, and has published several academic texts. Prior to her career in academia, Ryan was the co-founder of Radiant Advisors, a business intelligence research and advisory firm, where—as research director and then chief operations officer—she led the company’s research and data enablement practice for clients including 21st Century Fox Films, Warner Bros., and Disney.
Born and raised in Southeast Texas, Ryan currently resides on the East Coast.
Recommended Reading: Bless Your Heart (Minotaur Books, April 2024)
Excerpt:
The beam of Ed’s flashlight skittered through slim pines and midnight mist as he walked. A sharp crack sounded, the snapping of a tree branch, and something dense and low to the ground scurried across his line of vision. Ed stopped short, palm sliding to the revolver holstered on his hip, pulling loose the leather strap. Whatever had moved obscured itself in the layers of shadow near the small barn at the edge of his property. He squinted into the darkness, tried to make out a shape or catch the gleam of nocturnal eyes, but Ed’s vision was almost as bad as his memory. Animals he didn’t pay much mind. Cats or raccoons, maybe even a coyo—
Crack.
The branch hit the ground, somewhere off where it was too dark to see, and the flutter of wings taking flight beat against Ed’s eardrums. Shadows blurred in another rush of movement and the toe of his boot stumbled forward. For a split second, he thought he’d seen something shuffle in the dim—a pair of men’s feet?—and his heart stuttered in his chest. He had half a second to register the image, but then he blinked, and when he looked again, it was gone.
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and Ed’s heart flipped again.
Memory’s going and now your mind’s playing tricks on you, he chided himself. Better not tell anybody you thought you saw someone sneaking ’round in the dark. They’ll haul you off. “There goes old Edwin Boone, crazier than a sack of frogs in a thunderstorm.” Ed swung his light over the barn in a final inspection. Nothing. His hands fell away from the holster, and he tongued at the toothpick between his lips, letting air slip out between his teeth to ease the pressure building in his chest.
A stinging sensation prickled on his arm. Ed slapped at the tickle of tiny insect legs, then held the light over the spot, but the smear of red insect blood he expected wasn’t there. Instead, a faint buzzing in his ear, followed by another prick beneath the brim of his hat. Ed clamped a hand on the back of his neck, rolling his fingers to feel for the bug. This time he got the little nugget.
“Damn mosquitos,” he muttered. “Hasn’t even been any rain goin’ on three weeks, but they’re still out, eatin’—”
His words fell off as he studied the body in his palm. Black and gray, striped thorax, bright red eyes. Unease rose in Ed’s throat. Flesh flies didn’t typically bite living things but preferred to feast and lay their eggs on the dead. Didn’t make a lick of sense to find one crawling up his arm. He wiped the insect on his pantleg and made a mental note to check in the morning for expired critters. Maybe a coyote had dragged in a kill, and that’s what had the raccoons in a frenzy, taking their spoils up into the trees.
Wouldn’t be the first time, he considered. This was the country, after all, and didn’t any place know the cycle of life better than farmlands on the edge of nowhere.
Ed lifted his boot but didn’t get it down before a thud from behind startled him back to stillness. Then came the sound of tussling, followed by the high, pinched scream of a dying animal. He spun on his heels, facing back in the direction of the barn, his eyes darting to where he’d seen the shadow slip into the dim overhangs of the small structure.
Ain’t no damn raccoon. He aimed his light at the building, jerked the gun free, held the barrel at eye level. Even with the cataracts, Ed was a dead shot, but a shiver escaped down his spine nonetheless, tingling all the way to his toes.
“You’re trespassing on private property,” he called out into the dark. “Come on out from behind the barn. Let me get a look at you.”
When nobody emerged, Ed inched forward. The heels of his boots thundered on the grass beneath his feet. The night felt too quiet, too still. Every sound pulsed in the dark. Sticky sweat beaded along his upper lip, and Ed resisted the urge to pull the handkerchief from his back pocket and dab it dry.
“This is private property, and I am within my rights to shoot you on sight,” he called. “Don’t make me have to tell you again. Come on out from behind the barn.”
A form peeled itself from the shadows. Drew itself up from the ground. Crept into the strips of thin gray haze.
You can follow Lindy on her Web site: https://www.lindyryanwrites.com/.