Alyson Faye

Alyson lives in West Yorkshire, UK with her husband, teen son and rescue animals. Her fiction and poetry has been published in a range of anthologies, (Diabolica Britannica/Daughters of Darkness) on the Horror Tree, several Siren’s Call editions, in Page and Spine, by Demain Press (The Lost Girl/Night of the Rider), in Trickster’s Treats 4, on Sylvia e zine and The World of Myth.

Last year she had stories out with Kandisha Press, Space and Time’s July magazine and Brigid’s Gate Press’, Were-Tales anthology.

Her work has been read on BBC Radio, local radio, on several podcasts (Ladies of Horror and The Night’s End) and placed in several competitions.

She works as an editor for a UK indie press and tutors.

She swims, sings and is often to be found roaming the moor with her Lab cross, Roxy.

Alyson Tweets @AlysonFaye2

She co-runs the indie horror press, Black Angel, with Stephanie Ellis Black Angel Press

Alyson has an Amazon Page

  • Interlude

    The carer arrive promptly, on the hour.  On crossing the threshold she shoulders my duties for the afternoon.  She drops her bulging handbag at Mum’s slippered feet. “Hello, luv,” she says to the tiny figure corralled by the zimmer frame. “Bye, mum,” I call out. My car keys in hand, relishing the hug of the…

  • A Toxic Tapestry

    Flouncing along the esplanade at Filey, Florrie knew she was the epicentre of several pairs of eyes;  she relished the attention. There was ‘dear Albie’ her hopeful suitor waiting at the Lover’s Bench, hat and gloves in hand, moustache standing to attention. There was Eddie, sweating in the gardens of her neighbour’s villa, digging deep…

  • Pins and Needles

    Head bent, Emily stitched in the wavering candlelight, bone-weary, eyes dazzled by the glitter from thousands of sequins, creating mini starbursts in her peripheral vision. They shimmered from the piles of handmade lacy shawls, stacks of velvet evening purses, and silk dresses pinned to the trio of mannequins (dubbed ‘Mister’, ‘Mistress’ and ‘Missy’) which stood…

  • Walls of Jericho

    1901, the year Queen Victoria died, would also prove to be the death year for the less famous but well-to-do Jericho Adams, Esq. of 8 Ash Grove, (named for its complete lack of Ash trees) in Birmingham. The day began auspiciously, with the usual pair of kippers with toast served by Rose, the in-between maid….

  • Under the Pier

    Jake knew it must have been one helluva of a binge; he remembered starting out with a group of his work mates, all cheery and joshing, before the verbal sparring turned nasty, then the evening became blurrier. He’d ended up on his own, after ‘last orders’ in a chair-throwing brawl, before being turfed out onto…

  • Marginalia

    Mouse-like, she lived on the fringes of polite society. She was one of the the overlooked, ignored, unremembered and to others, unremarkable.  The last to arrive, the first to leave. “A bus to catch,” she’d murmur, gathering her beige handbag and creamy leather gloves, buttoning her tweed coat. No one offered her a lift or…

  • Relative Connections

    “Ready for inspection?” I’d salute and stand to attention in my camouflage Tee and black trackies. It was just you and me, no Ma to fuss and dress me like a lady. My pyjamas always spread out in dead man’s pose; empty arms crossed at the chest. Breakfast was always 7:30a.m. “Routine. That’s what will…

  • Porky Pig!

    “Porky pig! Porkers! Oink oink!” Jimmy’s taunts followed Harry down the road. He hunched his shoulders and held his breath to appear thinner, therefore a less prominent target. It didn’t work. Mustn’t cry. Mustn’t cry. The tiny voice inside his head chanted. “Try to run, Fatty!” Jimmy, a natural string bean, streaked past his victim,…

  • Timeslip

    The crow lands beside me, head cocked, watching me scrape and undress the layers on the stones. Three years out of uni. and working for free this summer for the Prof. It’s a dream come true. I’m soaking wet, freezing cold, blue-lipped, but my spirit soars daily. “Each stone has its own story, Roman soldiers…