Saturday, December 24, 2016

A New Christmas Poem for 2016

The big man traveled through the snow.
His beard was drenched in red.
Two glazed eyes stared with lifelessness,
And cold skin, pale and dead.

A scarlet suit, now torn and frayed,
Fat belly ripped apart.
Intestines hung, yet he still walked
Without a beating heart.

They followed him – short, dressed in green.
Trudged slowly as they moaned.
An army that desired flesh
And stripped it to the bone.

A month ago a poor blonde lad
Lay very sick in bed.
He never mastered dentistry
In two days he was dead.

The morgue attendant was the first
To learn the truth, too late.
For when the elf came back to life
He saw meat and he ate.

He found old friends who thought him dead.
They suffered from his bite
They died and changed; no thoughts, deranged
A terrifying sight.

Fatalities grew rapidly
Before they were aware
The dead attacked; the elves fought back
But poorly they did fare.

The big man fought. It was too late.
North Pole was overrun.
He boarded up his office doors
And stocked himself with guns.

The elves broke through, chaos ensued
The undead won the fight
The killed the reindeer, one by one
Then traveled in the night.

The happy days of bringing toys
Were sadly at their end.
For Santa Claus did not expect
The rising of the dead.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Trump Card

Our President-elect is now Donald Trump, a result that surprised me when it happened. I woke up at 4:30 that morning to let the dogs out, and checked my phone. It showed Trump as the winner, and my eyes widened. We had two primary competitors this election, neither of which were preferable, but it was the choice that we as the American public were given. One was accused of criminal acts, and the other had evidence against him of being racist and misogynist. The latter won, and now we get to see how the future of America plays out (I personally found both to be deplorable in their own ways, so I voted for Gary Johnson in hopes of paving the way for third party candidates to acquire more credibility in the future). I didn’t like being told we had to choose between only these two. What surprises me, and many others I’m sure, is the incredible backlash that came as the result of the election. I knew there would be complaints, there would be protests, and there would be many who were very unhappy with the outcome. This is something that always comes into play. 
When Obama ran for the second time, Dinesh D'Souza made the movie Obama’s America to explain how poor of a state the nation would be in this year after the current president’s final term (he also made the movie Hillary’s America, but at this point, it’s kind of irrelevant). The state of Texas, among others, petitioned to secede from the Union after Barrack Obama’s second election, so this isn’t the first time many have protested against their new leader. But this is the first election that appears to have split the nation so much that hate crimes and violence have erupted within days of the winner’s announcement. Prior to this, there were events that occurred here and there, isolated incidents that garnered attention, but that remained as exactly that — isolated incidents. A pro-Trump rally in California earlier this year, resulting in individuals hurling rocks and starting fires, ended with eight individuals being arrested. Last year in Boston, two brothers beat a homeless Hispanic man with a pipe prior to urinating on him, claiming inspiration from Donald Trump’s anti-immigration policies. But now that the election is over, it seems to have divided this country so strongly that we are almost in a state of turmoil. Those supporting Trump have committed a variety of hate crimes, reinforcing what they consider are the soon-to-be-President’s racist beliefs. These include graffiti vandalism stating that black lives and votes don’t matter, robbing a Muslim student in a parking lot, and a doll depicting an African-American hanging from a noose at Canisius College in New York State. Then there are those who supported Hillary Clinton, and therefore have rallied to the extent that they have blocked off an interstate, affected uninvolved citizens and causing traffic mayhem. Thousands protested outside of the President-elect’s house, while others vandalized and started fires in objection of the new election results. Physical acts of violence in opposition to Trump have also occurred, proving that the extreme reactions come from both sides.
So my reaction to it all is this. In the words of Jack Nicholson from the Oscar-winning (not really) and cinematic classic (not hardly) film Mars Attacks:

Why can’t we all just… get along?

So, we had a piss-poor choice in candidates this term, so what. It happens. Deal with it. So people disagree with what could happen in the future. People always disagree. Now, does that give ANYBODY the right to take away the rights of others just to prove a point? Racial violence is one of the most deplorable acts possible. It is unwarranted and based on something that a person has no control over. You might as well go beat up on the mentally disabled. And for those on the opposite side, protest your asses off, but don’t infringe on other’s rights in the process — and don’t let the actions of a few bastard racists make you take your hate out on those who had nothing to do with anything. The election of Donald Trump does not give you a “trump card” to do whatever the hell you want.
We are the United States of America. At one point we were considered the world’s dominant superpower, and while we may not be there anymore, we still have that potential. We can be great, but we have to work together, as one nation, as one family. We were the definition of true freedom, of wonderful opportunity, of a place where anybody could be or do anything. Let’s get back to that place. Forget our differences, forget the stupid petty opinions of others. The best way to grow is for us all to grow together. United we can stand, and together we can become wonderful. We can accomplish all obstacles, but divided, we can, and we will, fall to the point of no recovery.

Monday, October 31, 2016

Monsters in Masks

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
It trickled down his face, from his forehead, across his cheek, and to his arm. Eyes closed, his consciousness crept in, and he heard it. The steady plop splashing on the ground. Pain from his temple, from his scalp. From the back of his head.
“You’re one of them,” a voice said. “I know what you are. I know what’s behind your face.”
The man forced his eyes open. The lashes fought and tore in resistance. The sticky red glue conceded, and the dim light found its way in, flooding his blurry vision. Incoherent shapes, mounds surrounding him, piles of shapeless mass on the floor, motionless. Who spoke? Where was the voice.
“I know what you are!” it called from the distance. A woman?
“Where am I?”
He tried to shout, but the strain in his throat was sharp like needles stabbing into his neck from the inside. It felt like gouging cuts ripping apart, wounds reopening, deep and painful.
“Where am I?” He forced past the hurting, almost screeching from the torment.
He blinked. His eyes stuck for a second. The fuzzy images sharpened. The mounds lay around him, pools of red beneath them. Bodies. He stared harder. Red circles on the faces. No… no faces. Muscle and blood. Faces gone. Cut off. Torn off. Ripped away.
“What the fuck?”
She marched towards him, brandishing a scalpal.
“Oh, shit. What the fuck?”
“I know what you are. Hiding behind that face. Pretending to be human.”
“They were human.”
“Trial and error. Its you, though. I know its you.”
“You crazy bitch.”
“That’s what they said.” She gestured with her head to the bodies encircling them. “But this time, I know I’m right.”
She thrust the blade forward, digging through the skin on his forehead, tracing along the top, then down the side of his face. He shrieked. Red fluid oozed down, drizzling in a torrent. He pulled against the ropes, which held tight and dug into his wrists behind his back.
“I see you behind there.”
She completed the circle, dug her fingers beneath the skin, and pulled. He screamed, muscle separated from skin. Red strands stretched and tore away.
“You’re a monster in a mask.”
She separated the flap completely, eye holes blankly staring out as the skin hung limply. She looked at the gore beneath, expecting bloody death. A gleaming white smile on a demonic face stared back.
“You found me,” it said. “But what are you going to do about it?”
The monster snapped the ropes away and lunged forward. She screamed, for only a second, then silence.

Saturday, October 29, 2016

The most wonderful time of the year

So it’s almost Halloween, the most awesome time of year, my favorite (better than Christmas), but then again, I’m a horror writer, so I guess that’s to be expected. I’ll be the invisible man, by the way.

Not a bad resemblence

Today, tonight, whatever, I’ll be writing about horror movies, and more specifically, the ones from overdone franchises that happened to have a slam-dunk or two, but then failed miserably and completely with the rest. In particular, I’m going to mention what I like to call the big three in terms of slasher films.

 SO….. Let’s start with the most overdone and oversequeled horror movie ever:

Jason Voorhees

Jason. The infamous hockey mask killer. The mass murderer who can’t die. Jason Motherfucking Voorhees (not quite sure if that’s his actual middle name). He’s drowned (part 1), been chopped with a machete (part 2), had a head split with an axe (part 3)… still alive somehow after all this. He died finally in part 4

Part 5 doesn’t count because it wasn’t Jason (sorry, thirty-year-old spoiler). He came back in part 6 Frankenstein-style even though he was decaying and being eaten by maggots, only to die again by drowning once more. Part 7, he… was drowned again by a psychic teenager’s zombie dad (probably the worst in the series). Next he became a supernatural killing machine…

who got melted by toxic sludge. He was blown up after an very unnecessary and almost out of place nude scene within minutes of the intro (part 9), only to be dragged to hell. He fought Freddy… and won (?), then went to space and got blown up again (part… X?)

So why the fuck do they keep making these movies? Then a remake (sucked) and now another 2017 remake? Here’s a time saver to anybody who wants to watch Jason in action but doesn’t want to waste time figuring out the good one.

Part 2. The first of the series with Jason, and should have been the only one. No hockey mask. No cheesy resurrections, just a creepy demented mentally disabled man killing people. It gives a good explanation for why Jason is the way he is, seems more realistic than any of the others, and it works great for a 1980’s horror movie. First time I saw it, I thought it actually was a little scary, and I was 18 when I watched it.

Michael Myers

Ok, so part one was a classic. Part 2, basically the continuation of 1, (don’t even get me started on part 3)

But the one that stood out, the one that gets no credit as being awesome, although it has the absolute best ending, is part 4 - The Return of Michael Myers.

Parts 5 and 6 destroyed what was good in part 4, part H2O did nothing but bring back Jamie Lee and ignore that last four movies. Part 8 was bullshit with Busta Rymes.

Yeah, can't take this movie seriously

Spoilers ahead. Part 4 begins with you learning that Michael Myers never died in part 2 (Yes, he got shot in both eyes in part 2. Yes, he caught on fire then in a huge explosion at the end, and there’s no way he survived that. I’m not talking about part 2. I’m talking about part 4. Shut up.) Laurie Strode from parts one, two and seven (and stupid fucking part 8), died in a car crash and left her daughter behind. Michael comes after her, goes on a killing spree, same shit different day. But the ending, the crazy fucking ending caught me off guard. The sweet little girl (all grown up and hot now), lost her shit, put on a mask, and killed her mom with a knife. It’s just like the beginning of the original, where a sweet little boy goes nuts and stabs his sister to death. The girl is silent and holding a bloody knife, roll credits.

Awesome fucking ending. Loved that part of the movie.

Freddy Krueger

"One, Two, Freddy's coming for you..."

Freddy. Everyone’s favorite bogeyman. Evil in life, worse in death. The dream killer. One of the greatest horror movies ever. The one that got Wes Craven on the map… and then they made the sequels. Dream Warriors, Dream Master, Dream Child… don’t even get me started on fucking Freddy’s Dead, where he video game’s you to death.

 They got it right in part one. Tina’s death scene, one of the scariest kill scenes ever.

If you can’t do it right, don’t fuck with a good thing. Wes Craven was out, but finally came back and made New Nightmare, proving that he’s the only one who should be making Freddy movies. Although he didn’t use too much creativity since he basically rehashed the famous death scene once again.

Is this the only true scare Freddy has up his sleeve, doing the whole floating, death on the ceiling thing? If so great. It worked. It was scary. It was awesome… once. If that’s all Freddy has, he made a great scary movie. But don’t keep shitting out turds so we keep hoping something good  comes out. Nightmare on Elm Street could have gone down as one of the single greatest horror films ever made. Instead it turned into another Friday the 13th… And don’t even get me started on stupid-ass Freddy vs. Jason, a movie based on a joke scene at the end of Jason Goes to Hell because New Line Cinema took over rights to Jason from Paramount, so now they owned two horror franchises.

What I’m now going to call “Freddys moral” is this: of you only got one good movie in you, then KEEP IT TO ONE DAMN MOVIE. I'm talking to you Saw. I'm talking to you Children of the Corn. I'm talking to you Paranormal Activity, The Omen, Psycho, I Know What You Did Last Summer, and so on.

Of course, there’s plenty of other films I could have gone on about. Plenty of horrible sequels like when Chucky joined the army or Matthew McConaughey joined the Leatherface family, but I’ve written enough for now. Be sure to check out the latest book with my story in it here, and look for Witches, Warlocks, Demon’s, and other Evil Doers coming soon with my story "Broomstick and a Pointed Hat". If you haven't liked my Facebook page, do it, please. And check out my website for more that I've written or go read last year's Fear the Pumpkins stories. For now, have a Happy Halloween.

Saturday, February 20, 2016

Procrastination - Finish what you start

Ok, I haven't blogged in a while. I haven't posted or updated my website in a while. I haven't written anything new in the realm of novel or short story in months. Yet, I'm working on my writing at least a little bit EVERY FUCKING NIGHT. So I begin to think to myself, what's up with that? If I'm messing with my writing every damn night and yet have produced nothing, what the hell have I been doing? Answer - editing. I have so much shit I've written, and after going to a new writers group (my previous group disbanded. Sad story. Cue the violins.) I joined a new group, and these bastards tear my stories to pieces every time I read for them. Okay, they're not bastards, but they are all damn good writers, damn good at critiquing, and are forcing me to up my fucking game.

Either way, went off topic. Total A-D-D moment. The point of this posting is about how much I’ve started and not finished. I’m editing novels I haven’t completed, obsessed with getting the first chapters perfect without completing the fucking ending. I just did a count. I’ve started five novels, without coming to completion — FIVE NOVELS. When I say started, I mean written half to three quarters of the damn book, not just the first freaking chapter. Two of them I know in my head how the entire plot, including the fucked up endings, are supposed to be. The other three, I still have to figure out, but I’ve gotten pretty far into them.

So I’ve decided that I’m going to stop obsessing on perfection before completing the final product. The first step to writing something should be the first draft. Editing comes next, not before, so I’m wasting time with old chapters. I’ve decided to finish a book completely, beginning to end, then start editing. Kind of a good idea to me. At least I can say I finished another novel, even though it won’t be ready for publication, but at least I’ll have a rough draft finished.
Moral of the story, if you start something, finish it before you start doing work to fix it. No point to messing with something you haven’t finished. For God’s sake, what if I were working forever on the first couple of chapters or something and realized the end would be stupid. All the effort would be useless, kind of like making a Highlander sequel.
There should have only been one
Or a Matrix Sequel.

Well, it’s 12:45 am, so good night to all. Hopefully this blog post is good. I've been drinking so who the fuck knows.

Friday, December 25, 2015

A Christmas Poem

The full moon shone down on the snow
The man in the white beard
Sat in his sleigh and called the name
Of his eight strong reindeer

A sudden lurch and they took off
Up high into the sky
The man in red yelled "Ho, ho, ho."
He loved, so much, to fly.

The creature's bite, the night before,
Healed up and left no scar.
The bearded man all dressed in red
Felt he escaped the harm.

Yet something stayed from the attack.
It flowed within his blood.
The bearded man knew nothing of
The horrors that would flood.

The moon rose high, he felt the change,
Not knowing what would come,
And yet it came, the claws and fangs —
This great man was undone.

With eyes turned red, with fur grown out,
The bearded man, a beast,
He roared and growled, he slashed and howled,
He longed for blood to feast.

He plunged with fury to the earth,
Feeling the cold wind blow.
He saw a house and plummeted
Into the roof below.

The monster tore into the house,
With children in their beds.
The parents rose with guns in hand,
They shot him in the head.

No silver bullets. He survived,
And tore them both to shreds.
And then the Christmas werewolf went
To eat the kids in bed.

No presents came that Christmas Eve,
And one could hear the howl.
For Santa Claus, the werewolf Claus,
Was lurking on the prowl.

Friday, October 30, 2015

October 31st

Tina slowly opened her eyes and found herself in a dark, stone lair. She lay in a circle of black candles in a round room with a circular fire pit radiating heat from the center. She thought she could see somebody standing in the shadows.
"Who's there?" she called out. There was no answer, so she stood to her feet and walked towards them. This was when she noticed more people. She scanned the wall surrounding her and realized she was in the center of a crowd encircling her, trapping her. She couldn't see any door to provide entrance or exit, and no windows of any kind. It was an impossible room, a hole inside a rock. "How did I get here? Somebody, answer me."
None of the people moved. She approached them, stepping over the circle of candles, and stopped in her tracks as she drew closer. The first person she saw was stiff, like a statue. She moved closer still, and saw the dried blood on his arms. He was dead. She reached out to touch him for her own personal confirmation, and found the flesh to be stiff, encased in some sort of thick material to preserve it and keep it from decaying. She looked to the left and right of the body, and saw a long line of deceased corpses, all of them different. This was when she noticed the pumpkins, sitting on a shelf well above each body. Every pumpkin sat above a different corpse, and each had a different carving in the pumpkin shell, but all had a candle inside, burning strong and shining brightly. 
The body in front of her had a burlap sack on its head like a scarecrow, with a pumpkin above it showing the face drawn on the sack.  The second showed lumps beneath the skin with some holes bored in the epidermis. The pumpkin associated with this one was the face of an insect. She walked around the circle, staring at the bodies, each with a pumpkin that seemed to indicate the manner of death. A number was placed above the head of each victim — the font was elegant and detailed, but the color was dark crimson, and she wondered if these were written in blood. When she reached number seven, she froze. She recognized the victim, although her memories were still cloudy. They had been hazy when she arrived at the hospital, when she was taken away to the psychiatric ward, and she had mere flashes in her memories of her life. The body was in pieces, but she believed she'd had sexual relations with him. When she arrived at number 12, she knew this was beyond mere coincidence. She knew this man — knew him very well and her amnesia faded at the sight of his face. It was her husband, a man named Dale, and he was clawed up by some wild animal. The pumpkin above him had the face of a howling wolf carved into the shell. She knew who she was now, and she knew if these bodies were related to her somehow, she might be in more trouble than she could have imagined. 
"They came back, finally, didn't they?" a voice said. "Your memories, I mean." She spun to face the center of the room and saw a man standing, wearing a black, long sleeved button-up shirt, a black tie, and black pants. . 
"Who are you?" she asked.
"It's been a fun month, wouldn't you say?" he asked.
"What… Why?"
"I would think you of all people would appreciate my work, after all, you helped with four of them."
"What do the men I killed have to do with you?" she asked.
"All death has to do with me," he said. "I am death, after all. I don't wear the cloak and carry the scythe these days, those are way out of fashion, but I still bring death, and every once in a while, I have some fun with my job."
"You killed all of these people?"
"Not directly," he said. "I carved the pumpkins according to different ideas I had, then I arranged for their deaths to follow my design. The job becomes more fun when you make games out of it. You know, some of these people saw the jack-o'-lantern engraving before they died. Had they known better, they could have seen them as a warning, as a sign. They didn't realize they should have feared the pumpkins, or at least should have feared what was on them.
She scrolled thought the numbers and found the last one – 30. Staring at the ceiling she saw one more – the number 31, this one without a body.
"I don't want to be number 31," she said.
"Then you better run," he said with a smile. The stone room disappeared, and she was outside in a forest. Death was gone, nowhere to be seen. She turned around in a circle, and realized she was alone. Suddenly she felt a tapping on her shoulder. Spinning around, she saw Death, this time wearing a robe and carrying a scythe. His hood was tossed back, and she saw it was the same man as before. She ran, and could hear his laughing growing quieter the further she went. Suddenly a cloud of smoke exploded in front of her, and he appeared in the mist as it dissipated. She turned and ran again. A tree cracked and fell in her direction, and she dove out of the way, dodging it just in time. On top of the log stood Death, a huge grin on his face. She sprinted through the woods, zig-zagging around trees and hoping, somehow, she could escape him. She felt something beneath her pushing her up, and before she knew it, she was flying into the air above the trees. She caught a glimpse of the moon as she fell and could see Death's face on it, laughing aloud. She grabbed a branch to one of the trees and managed to keep herself from falling to the ground. She tried pulling herself up onto the branch, but heard it crack. She looked and saw Death standing at the base of the branch. It bent downwards, breaking hallway through until it hung by a few wooden fibers. She lost her grip and plunged to the earth. She felt the wind knocked out of her, but she was still alive. Suddenly there was a weight on her chest. Death stood on top of her, his feet pressing on her rib cage, cracking the bones. 
"Fun's over," he said. She felt a cut across her shoulders, and watched the scythe drip with blood on the tip. The weapon must have been razor sharp, and the blood poured profusely from the wound. She felt another cut on her leg, and knew it was deep, penetrating skin and muscle, possibly reaching the bone. He slowly drew the point of the scythe down her cheek, making a slight scratch, but the weapon burned like fire. 
"Stop," she cried. "Please stop." Death raised the scythe over his head, and she squeezed her eyes shut as it whistled through the air and came down.
The pumpkin carver sat in his cushioned chair, his feet resting on a matching ottamon. He puffed on his cigar and read a short story by Edgar Allen Poe. The bodies for each day of the month surrounded him. Above him, beneath the number 31, a woman's body hung with cuts still dripping blood. Each droplet fell into a goblet resting on a small table beside the chair. The woman’s head was missing and replaced with a jack-o'-lantern. The face on the pumpkin had furrowed eyebrows, a long, thin nose, and a wide smile. It very much resembled the face of the man sitting in his chair beneath. He lifted up an object that had been sitting on the floor beside his chair. 
"Happy Halloween, Tina," he said to the head before tossing it into the fire.

Go to October 30th