tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79405753645180243432024-02-07T20:21:21.837-08:00SKINNY-DIPPING THE RIVER STYX(random musings from a Southern hippie writer dude with a taste for the dark side of life):http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-8348787302747890442016-04-26T15:41:00.000-07:002016-04-26T16:03:49.066-07:00FREE STORY: "Exit Interview"I love flash fiction. And I've always been intrigued by stories that are told in a very minimalistic way, i.e. via dialogue only. Thought I'd try my hand at it . . . enjoy!<br />
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<span style="color: lime; font-size: large;"><b>EXIT INTERVIEW</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Thanks for dropping by. I promise not to take up too much of your time. We'll jump right
into this --”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “No pun intended?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Funny. I'm glad to
see you’ve kept your sense of humor throughout this whole ordeal. I know it hasn’t been easy. Which leads us to our first question: Why the sudden departure?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;">
“You have to ask? It’s in my file.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Sure. But I would
like to hear your point of view.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “I fought it as long as I could. Our competitor pulled off the game-winning play at the last second. Sucks, but it happens. Next question?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Do you feel that you were given the proper tools to do your
job?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “For the most part.
There's always room for improvement, I suppose.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;">
“Care to elaborate?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “What worked a thousand years ago doesn’t have the same
effect these days. Kids talk like that
to their parents at the dinner table. I could rattle off a million things our team could have done
differently. I just don’t have the
energy right now. I’m friggin' <i>tired,</i> man.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Understood.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “<i>I am legion,</i> so they say, but I gotta wonder why I’m
the only one who feels rode hard and put up wet.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;">
“If it’s any
consolation, upper management has always appreciated your ‘team first’
mentality.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Thanks. I guess.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Just a couple more questions and we're done here. Tell me the one thing you liked most
about this job.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “The blasphemy.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Ah, yes.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “Unfortunately, they’ve seen it all before, like I said. I’ve got the little bitch crawling across
the ceiling . . . I’m telling them things about themselves they’ve never shared
with <i>anyone</i> . . . projectile vomit, right in the face . . . they might
as well be watching the nightly news.
Nothing phases those assholes anymore<span style="line-height: 200%;">.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"> “A<strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">re there any additional comments you
would like for me to document before we wrap this up?”<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: lime;"> “Your mother sucks cocks in
Hell.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="color: lime;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “That one never gets old. You are a funny guy. Now, if you’ll check in with Acquisitions at
the end of the hall they will give you your next assignment . . . </span></strong>”<strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: lime;"> “<i>Entry</i> level, of
course.”</span></span></strong></div>
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<strong style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: lime;"> “Ha! I see what you did there.”</span></span></strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBGg3m0RYBB1a9mViwYUt2pWv8DUOmf7hL6z1uKEX1TQ8TTA026uO5TsmHZcDtPVQ7TVBulMWnzfEi0BYP6wadsfRzKf4a3arYqKGf92IziavZ-8vaUsBmj0Y5exqLoxIHuPMWyHimUk/s1600/31-scaryface.nocrop.w529.h316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBGg3m0RYBB1a9mViwYUt2pWv8DUOmf7hL6z1uKEX1TQ8TTA026uO5TsmHZcDtPVQ7TVBulMWnzfEi0BYP6wadsfRzKf4a3arYqKGf92IziavZ-8vaUsBmj0Y5exqLoxIHuPMWyHimUk/s400/31-scaryface.nocrop.w529.h316.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<strong style="line-height: 200%;"><strong style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Like this brief sample of my short fiction? </span></strong></strong></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Please consider picking up a copy of my collection, <i>People Are Strange</i>, if you haven't already:</span></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.cemeterydance.com/page/CDP/PROD/e_newman02">www.cemeterydance.com</a></div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></strong>:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-86023529958379840592015-11-06T14:52:00.003-08:002015-11-06T14:56:42.837-08:00FREE FICTION: "Baggage"Some free flash fiction for a Friday night. This one was originally published at <a href="http://www.horrordrive-in.com/">The Horror Drive-In</a>. It's called "Baggage". Enjoy!<br />
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“If you care about her, honey, that’s all that matters,” she assured him from her end of the line. “If this girl makes you happy . . . ”<br />
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“She does, Mom. I think she’s something special.”<br />
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“Your father and I look forward to meeting her, hopefully sooner than later. You know it’s hard for him to travel these days, with his health and all.”<br />
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“Mom?”<br />
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“Yes, dear?”<br />
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“This feels right. Don’t get me wrong. We get along great. It’s just that . . . ”<br />
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“What, sweetheart?”<br />
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“I can’t help thinking she has a lot of baggage.”<br />
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“Honey,” his mother said, “if you truly care about each other, you will find a way to work around it. Follow your heart.”<br />
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“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”<br />
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“I’d better run now. Your father’s been craving Red Lobster all week, and he’s standing at the door tapping his watch.”<br />
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"He needs to watch his diet."<br />
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"I know. But he gets so <i>cranky</i> when he doesn't get his way . . . . "<br />
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He chuckled. “I love you, Mom.”<br />
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“We love you too. Can’t wait to meet this special young lady!”<br />
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He hung up.<br />
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And then he made his way back to where his lover lay dozing on the couch after a long, hard day of moving in.<br />
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He tried not to break his neck as he negotiated a path through his cluttered kitchen, down the hallway, into the labyrinth that his living room had become. He stepped carefully over her suitcases, backpacks, briefcases, travel satchels, and plump duffel bags . . . around trash bags, totes, carry-alls, grocery sacks, pocketbooks, and even a few brightly-colored diaper bags. They sat all over his house, taking up at least two-thirds of the floor space in every room.<br />
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More than a few of them leaked viscous fluids that soaked into the carpet.<br />
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They all reeked of rotting flesh.<br />
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A fly buzzed in his ear. He swatted it away, bent to close up one hefty Samsonite suitcase when he glimpsed a glazed grey eye staring out at him from within. <br />
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By God, he would make this work. He had a feeling it was meant to be this time.<br />
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She was the one. He was sure of it.<br />
<br /><i>Even with all of her baggage.</i><br /><br />
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lucida grande" , "verdana" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></b>:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-52909555800362719112015-10-08T03:27:00.003-07:002015-10-08T03:27:55.375-07:00GUEST POST: Glenn Rolfe<br />
And now a rare guest post from my pal <a href="http://glennrolfe.com/">Glenn Rolfe</a> . . . let's hear what he has to say (and then go get his new book <em>Blood and Rain</em>)!<br />
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><strong>“New England Horror Writers Anonymous”<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Why don’t you go ahead and tell us who you are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">My name is Glenn. I’m a horror writer from Maine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Hi, Glenn!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Hi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Can you talk to us about the reason you’re here today? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Okay, yeah. A horror writer from Maine…I mean, the shadow cast by the
master looms like an Independence Day flying saucer over my head, ya know, but
I’ve learned to live with it and to take it day-by-day. We are storytellers,
too, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Right!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I guess I didn’t make it any easier on myself by tackling werewolves for my
novel. I mean, I’ve read Cycle of the Werewolf, I’ve seen Silver Bullet….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Great book! Great film!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I know, I know. Obviously, they inspired my story, but more than that, they
inspired me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Very well, Glenn. What makes your book different from…you know, <i>his</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I guess it’s got me in it instead of him?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Writers….all of us…we put our experiences, our fears, our insecurities,
our flaws, and our loves and hates into our work, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess each character in my story has a
strand or two of my DNA. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Can you give us some of those…fears or flaws?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Yeah. One of the big fears I have is not being able to protect the ones I
love. That’s a scary prospect. What if I couldn’t save my little girl? What if
she was too far away? What if I got there a split second too late? What if the
thing that has come back to take her from me is only here because I couldn’t
get the job done right the first time? What if my failure led to her demise?
There’s guilt, there’s fault, there’s fear….And the flaw? I mean sometimes in
trying to shelter those we love or want to protect from something dark and
ugly, we make the biggest mistake…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Do you need a minute?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">No. I, I’m okay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">What about the beast? The werewolf. Can you tell us about creating your
monster?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">It’s mean. It’s nasty. And it loves it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">What does it love?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Being the monster. Having the power, the lust, the hunger for death and
destruction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Where does that dark side come from?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">From within…and from the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Are we talking the story here, or are we talking real life, Glenn?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Both.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The above piece is about my new werewolf novel, Blood and Rain. It was most
definitely inspired by Stephen King’s <i>Cycle of the Werewolf</i>, but also
from my own life and surroundings. So many horror novels out there, so little
about werewolves. Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read <i>Cycle</i>
and knew that I wanted to craft my own beastly story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">There is a lot of me in <i>Blood and Rain</i>. From the music I love (or
loathe), to my fears and insecurities, and from dumb teenage decisions to even
worse adult choices. It admittedly has a bit of an 80’s movie feel to it, and I
love that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if any of the above someds interesting or
familiar (in a good way) to you, you’ll all take a minute and check it out.
It’s a fast and furious read. And I’m really proud of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Thanks to James for allowing me this platform.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuj_9alsU-17EVL-x8XsOtcqeP9Bwaxh4PIB2f0G-QpZH-WZJkq8cfOJzbXH3QhEhrRbkQCqwPkxMuvWz8Akit2ZcBIURTXxbbJ9wuCpSTrhjE0lhfDbZjLB8CdKDljPXyHHgxPqmMMk0/s1600/asdfasdf.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuj_9alsU-17EVL-x8XsOtcqeP9Bwaxh4PIB2f0G-QpZH-WZJkq8cfOJzbXH3QhEhrRbkQCqwPkxMuvWz8Akit2ZcBIURTXxbbJ9wuCpSTrhjE0lhfDbZjLB8CdKDljPXyHHgxPqmMMk0/s400/asdfasdf.png" width="266" /></a></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Blood and Rain</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></i></b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Samhain Publishing, 2015<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The light of a full moon reveals many secrets.</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Gilson Creek, Maine. A safe, rural community. Summer is here. School is out
and the warm waters of Emerson Lake await. But one man’s terrible secret will
unleash a nightmare straight off the silver screen.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Under the full moon, a night of terror and death re-awakens horrors long
sleeping. Sheriff Joe Fischer, a man fighting for the safety of his daughter,
his sanity and his community, must confront the sins of his past. Can Sheriff
Fischer set Gilson Creek free from the beast hiding in its shadows, or will a
small town die under a curse it can’t even comprehend?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">One night can—and will—change everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Early praise for <i>Blood and Rain</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“With slashing claws and blood-soaked fur, Glenn Rolfe’s novel will have
you howling in terror and delight. A welcome addition to the werewolf mythos
and proof that we’re in the presence of a rising star in the genre. Highly
recommended!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">–<a href="http://www.ronmalfi.com/">Ronald Malfi</a>, author of <em>December Park<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“A major new talent rises from the Maine woods…Rolfe is the real deal, and <i>Blood
and Rain</i> is a classic monster novel, full of blood and teeth and the kind
of razor sharp writing that makes the pages sing. Small town horror is back,
with a vengeance!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">–<a href="http://www.natekenyon.com/">Nate Kenyon</a>, award-winning author of <em>Sparrow Rock</em>, <em>Diablo: Storm of Light</em>
and <em>Day One<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Many authors nowadays get lauded for writing ‘throwback’ horror fiction,
but none of them quite goes the distance like Rolfe does in <i>Blood and Rain</i>.
Werewolves, silver samurai swords, and small New England towns: it all makes
you wish this was twenty years ago so you can take the paperback off a
supermarket spinner-rack and huff the yellowed pages.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">– <a href="https://adamcesare.wordpress.com/">Adam Cesare</a>, author of <em>Mercy House</em> and <em>Exponential</em></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><em><o:p></o:p></em></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><em><o:p></o:p></em></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">BUY YOUR COPY TODAY:</span></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Rain-Glenn-Rolfe-ebook/dp/B010D3KPHG"><span style="font-size: large;">Amazon</span></a></o:p></span></div>
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</span><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/blood-and-rain-glenn-rolfe/1122198363?ean=9781619229853"><span style="font-size: large;">Barnes & Noble</span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-19951121309977456942015-09-25T18:11:00.000-07:002015-09-25T18:19:05.381-07:00GUEST POST: Mark Allan Gunnells And now a rare guest post by my pal Mark Allan Gunnells . . . be sure to pick up a copy of his new book! You won't be disappointed.<br />
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I turn 41 years old this year,
the day before Halloween in fact, which puts me squarely in the world of
adulthood. And yet in some respects, I
still feel like a kid.</div>
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One of the things that makes me
feel most like a kid is Halloween. I’ve
never outgrown the holiday’s dark charms.</div>
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The entire season of autumn, in
fact, has the power to bring out the kid in me. There’s a magic in the air I can’t really explain…but I’ll try.</div>
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The crispness in the air, the
shortening days, the blazing color of the leaves—it all combines to cast a
spell over me. If I had to pick one
thing I love best about the fall, it would have to be the leaves. Even now, I will stop to just marvel in
wonder at a shower of autumn leaves raining down around me. The scratch-scratch sound as they scuttled
along pavement is probably my favorite sound in the world.</div>
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And of course, autumn contains my
favorite holiday—Halloween. </div>
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As a lifelong fan of the horror
genre (and I mean fan in the literal “fanatic” sense), I love the fact that we
have a holiday focused on the dark and ghoulish. Granted, Halloween has been scrubbed clean of some of that
darkness in modern times. It was
definitely more horror-focused when I was a kid, though if you go back even
further it truly embraced the macabre.
(If you’re not sure what I mean, check out the Halloween sequence in the
film <i>Meet Me in Saint Louis</i>.) Still, I love that at this time of year
almost any store I go into is going to have displays of skeletons and ravens
and black cats and witches and mummies and vampires. It’s like for a brief instant, the world at large acknowledges
and gives its stamp of approval to what I love year round.</div>
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When I was a kid, I never wanted
to be a prince or a cowboy or a fireman for Halloween. I always wanted to be monsters. Dracula, Frankenstein, the devil, one year I
remember going as the Hulk, which I think semi-qualifies. From a young age, I was embracing the darker
side of Halloween, and even though I no longer dress up in costume, I still
celebrate.</div>
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Every Halloween season my fiancé
and I try to find fun and inventive things to do for the holiday. We’ve visited our share of haunted houses
and trails, both good and bad. One year
we attended a murder mystery dinner, all done up in tuxedos and
everything. Last Halloween we visited a
supposedly haunted cemetery well after dark and wandered around. This year we’ll be attending a live
theatrical version of <i>Night of the Living
Dead</i> (my host for this guest blog, James Newman, is the AD of said play). </div>
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I also celebrate in the
entertainment I seek out during the month of October. I always make a point of reading Halloween-themed books every
October, and there are certain seasonal movies I watch every year at this time. And my writing always takes on a seasonal
bent as well. Every October, without
fail, I write Halloween-themed short stories.
It’s a tradition I’ve established that I very much enjoy. Over the years, I’ve built up quite an
arsenal of these tales.</div>
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Which is why this year it was
possible for Great Old Ones Publishing to release a 19 story collection of my
Halloween-themed stories. I’m always
excited when I have a new book out, but because of my unending love affair with
Halloween, this one particularly thrills me.
I think I’ve provided an eclectic mix of fiction. There’s horror both supernatural and
psychological; I have a handful of non-horror stories; there’s even one
children’s story. There are some tales
that are on the longish side, and several flash pieces of 1000 words or
less. The oldest story in the
collection dates back to 1998, the most recent are from just last year.</div>
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As different as the stories are,
they have one thing in common—they aim to entertain. Halloween for all its sinister trappings is a holiday that is all
about fun, and that’s what I hope I delivered with the collection. I hope people sit back and get caught up in
the stories and just have a good time.
I want my love of this time of year to translate to the reader so that
they fall in love with Halloween as well.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Halloween House of Horrors</i> can be purchased here:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Halloween-House-Horrors-Allan-Gunnells/dp/0692530924/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1443174811&sr=8-7&keywords=Mark+Gunnells">http://www.amazon.com/Halloween-House-Horrors-Allan-Gunnells/dp/0692530924/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1443174811&sr=8-7&keywords=Mark+Gunnells</a></span><br />
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-11317220106662382192015-09-20T11:38:00.002-07:002015-09-20T11:38:45.326-07:00Free Flash Piece: "Walkers"A free story. Granted, it's only 100 words, but hey -- what's better than something FREE? <br />
Enjoy:<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> You know those “mall <span class="il">walkers</span>” who spend their golden years doing stiff-legged laps past the Old Navy and the Cinnabon like they’re on some sort of mission?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> “They creep me out,” a friend once joked. “Something in their eyes, if you cut them off.”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>My pal and his imagination,</i> I thought at the time.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> But then I looked <i>closer . . . . </i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> </i>I recognized in the faces of that silver-haired assemblage the men, women, and children gone missing in my city.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> Lollygaggers. Window-shoppers. Those who got in the way.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> They’re doomed to walk now, too. </span></b></div>
<b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> Forever.</span></b><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-18457577221071959692015-08-20T03:54:00.001-07:002015-08-20T04:27:27.451-07:00What I'm Doing This Fall . . . . <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Long story short, I've been asked to play Assistant Director for a stage adaptation of <em>Night of the Living Dead</em>. I'm really excited about this! I've worked with the <a href="http://www.blueridge.edu/">BRCC Drama Club</a> before, they're an incredibly talented group of people, and I'm confident that this is gonna be one hell of a Halloween show. Last night, the Director hosted a screening of George Romero's original film, invited anyone interested in participating to come out and talk about our plans for the play. She asked me to give a brief introduction, maybe speak about the historical significance and subtext. </div>
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So I did. </div>
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I thought my readers might enjoy hearing what I had to say, since you couldn't be there.</div>
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So here you go. </div>
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Enjoy.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> First
off, I should probably take a moment to tell you about myself, because I don’t
blame any of you for thinking, “Who the hell is this guy and why should we care
what he has to say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bring on the
zombies!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">I’ve
loved this stuff since before I could READ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My parents saw <em>Night of the Living Dead</em> at the drive-in on one of their
very first dates, I’m told, and maybe that had something to do with my
infatuation with the horror genre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>According to an old urban legend, the Elephant Man’s mother was startled
by a pissed-off elephant in a parade a few months before he was born . . . so
there’s a weird sort of logic to my theory, I suppose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All joking aside, I’m not only a big fat fanboy, I’ve published a number of scary stories and novels as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote a book called <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hair-Raising-Horror-Movie-Trivia-Questions/dp/0615938086/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1440067415&sr=8-1&keywords=666+hair-raising">666 Hair-Raising Horror Movie Trivia Questions</a></em>, so I guess I know a little about horror films.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I co-wrote a novel a few years ago called
<em>Night of the LOVING Dead</em>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
demented.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exactly what you think it
is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only story I’ve ever written that
I won’t let my mama read, put it that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">Anyway,
pull me aside later if you wanna know more, and I’ll gladly try to sell you a
book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enough about me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">These
days, zombies are EVERYWHERE, a part of pop culture as much as Doctor Who,
Candy Crush, and Donald Trump’s hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s hard to imagine a world without them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before 1968, however, the only zombies on
film were those of the traditional Haitian variety; essentially nothing more
than slack-jawed sleepwalkers, they mostly just staggered around and did their
master’s bidding because of some old voodoo curse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Keep in mind, t</span>his was nearly a HALF-CENTURY before <em>The Walking Dead </em>was the #1 show in America . . . before teenagers spent all their
free time machine-gunning undead Nazis in the latest violent video game . . .
back when you could walk into bookstores without seeing titles like <em>Zen and the Art of Zombie-Killing</em> on the shelves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From out of nowhere, here came this little low-budget black-and-white
indie film, ushering in a new breed of movie monster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That once-iconic image of the bug-eyed fiend
stealing off with the damsel in distress had become about as threatening as a
groom carrying his new bride across the threshold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>Night of the Living Dead</em> showed audiences a
world in which WE were the thing to be feared, a terrifying scenario in which
our loved ones rise from the grave to feast on the flesh of the living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hard to believe this was five years before
the sacrilege of <em>The Exorcist</em>, before the exploitation films of the ‘70s
supplied barf-bags to movie-goers along with their popcorn and Twizzlers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Audiences couldn’t believe what they were
seeing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, there are always
those who will try to take away someone else’s right to enjoy something just
because they find it distasteful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During
its initial theatrical run, none other than <em>Reader's Digest</em> urged everyone to
avoid <em>Night of the Living Dead</em>, suggesting that the film would inspire RAMPANT CANNIBALISM!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">But,
seminal horror film aside, was <em>Night of the Living Dead</em> more than just another
gruesome drive-in feature?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Director
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001681/?ref_=fn_al_nm_3">George Romero</a> has called his movie a metaphor for America’s collapsing
social order (while at the same time insisting that he didn’t<b> </b>purposefully
cast a black man in the lead role; Duane Jones simply gave the best
audition).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>Night of the Living Dead</em> was
filmed during a decade when thousands of young people were sent fresh out of
high school to die in Viet Nam . . . when a good man was murdered for daring to
preach his dream of equality . . . and when the age of peace, love, and flower-power
perished at the hands of a hippie cult whose leader claimed to be both Christ
and Satan in human form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is nearly
impossible to watch this movie now and not think about was going on in our
world at the time:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the middle-class
fought to survive while those in charge pretended to have it all under control
. . . only to throw the remains of everything we held sacred onto the fires of
discontent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">Then
again, maybe <em>Night of the Living Dead</em> was just a movie about corpses walkin’
around chompin’ on guts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Romero’s
co-screenwriter, John Russo, once said, “The film was an attempt to make
money.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally, I have a hard time
NOT believing him, as Mr. Russo once charged me $20 to sign my copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Scare-Tactics-John-Russo/dp/0440503558/ref=sr_1_15?ie=UTF8&qid=1440067688&sr=8-15&keywords=John+russo">his book</a>
– something that’s unheard of among writers, as most of us are overjoyed
knowing someone cared enough to buy a copy in the first place!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Russo went on to say, “A lot of the critics
have likened the (zombies) to Nixon’s silent majority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re full of shit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">Maybe
it was intentional, maybe it wasn’t, but you can’t help but see the subtext,
and without searching too deeply for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It worked in 1968, and perhaps this film with its doomed black hero is
just as timely now, in an era when every other week there’s another Trayvon
Martin in the news, another Michael Brown, another Eric Garner, another Sandra
Bland . . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">When
all is said and done, read into the movie whatever you want, as you should with
any great work of art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or read into it
nothing at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">In
my opinion, <em>Night of the Living Dead</em> is one of the most disturbing films in the
history of horror cinema.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it
perfect?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it dated?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sure is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, whether you’re
watching it tonight for the first time or the three-hundred-and-first --
imagine yourself in a time when audiences had seen NOTHING like this
before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try to forget all the zombie
movies you’ve seen – the good, the bad, the remakes and the rip-offs and the
countless parodies -- and ponder for the next 96 minutes:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if something like this REALLY HAPPENED? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">I am
so proud to be a part of this project.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the risk of getting on her nerves, I’d like to thank Jennifer Treadway, once again,
for inviting me on as her Assistant Director.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">We’re gonna create something
special here, I have no doubt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;">Ladies
and gentlemen . . . <em>Night of the Living Dead</em>.</span></div>
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<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-91474243700759844462015-03-27T16:51:00.002-07:002015-03-27T16:51:59.271-07:00NICK BULLMAN ANSWERS READERS' QUESTIONSThanks to everyone who submitted a question (or several) for this fun lil' project!<div>
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Without further ado, here's my son interviewing the main character of my novel UGLY AS SIN . . . ,</div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-53901322796074177772015-03-15T13:06:00.000-07:002015-03-15T13:08:41.551-07:00SUPPOSE YOU COULD ASK "THE WIDOWMAKER" ANYTHING . . . Fans of my novel <i>UGLY AS SIN</i>, I'm talkin' to you. If you could ask Nick "The Widowmaker" Bullman anything, what would you ask him?<br />
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Leave a comment. Let's have some fun with this. Who knows, the big guy might just answer . . . .<br />
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Meanwhile, if you haven't read<i> UGLY AS SIN</i>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ugly-As-Sin-James-Newman/dp/0988272350/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1426449673&sr=8-2&keywords=Ugly+AS+sin">what in the world are you waiting for?</a> Do you really wanna piss this guy off?!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYx3PDqpZQaT1tQqHhNbZ_QVq137-HpEY6vlYuXozhz4odTNHWzlzCWAc087o4ezbxVXkj3ww4Aj7Xb4HNC-KmA3UCbmTDMCjqh46KUmeJdi8_3pO-a9CHLPYh4xCyOcboL2aZEmsbZg/s1600/11051979_10153608233334688_2128135185890972525_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYx3PDqpZQaT1tQqHhNbZ_QVq137-HpEY6vlYuXozhz4odTNHWzlzCWAc087o4ezbxVXkj3ww4Aj7Xb4HNC-KmA3UCbmTDMCjqh46KUmeJdi8_3pO-a9CHLPYh4xCyOcboL2aZEmsbZg/s1600/11051979_10153608233334688_2128135185890972525_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">c.2015 ADAM JAMES<br />(acrylic, watercolor, India Ink, and colored pencil)</span></b></td></tr>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-4678193616799623072015-03-13T15:47:00.000-07:002015-03-13T15:47:00.723-07:00150 Words About . . . "HONEYMOON"<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Honeymoon</i> holds few surprises if
you know what it's about going in. But that's OK, because it does
what it does <i>extremely</i> well. When our newly-married
protagonists arrive at a remote cabin for their titular getaway,
everything's sickeningly-sweet pet names and makin' love . . . until
one night when the groom finds his bride in the woods wearing nothing
but a dazed look on her face. Her nightgown turns up soon after, and
it's covered in what looks like the slimy evidence of an illicit
romp. In the days following her midnight stroll, the young lady
starts acting more and more bizarre, and before long it seems she
might no longer be the person her husband married. Something got
inside of her out there in the woods. Now it wants out. Hubby's
screwed. <i>Honeymoon </i>disturbed
me to such an extent I'm calling it my favorite horror film of
2014.</div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-16682782404029304992015-03-13T14:25:00.000-07:002015-03-13T14:25:02.268-07:00LEMME READ TO YOU? ("The Hunted") Enjoy this short-short, read by yours truly.<br />
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* this is an older tale that a few of you may recognize but under a different title; I've changed it today 'cause I was never too crazy about that title :)<br />
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<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-56981648158600680212015-03-08T17:10:00.000-07:002015-03-08T17:48:24.481-07:00LEMME READ TO YOU? (UGLY AS SIN: AN AUDIO-EXCERPT)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://images.cdn.bigcartel.com/bigcartel/product_images/128912640/max_h-1000+max_w-1000/Ugly_As_Sin_-_James_Newman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://images.cdn.bigcartel.com/bigcartel/product_images/128912640/max_h-1000+max_w-1000/Ugly_As_Sin_-_James_Newman.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></div>
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<br />
Was in the mood to do some reading today, in preparation for the upcoming <a href="http://www.whc2015.org/">World Horror Convention</a>. I plan on participating as much as they'll allow me to on panels/signings/readings/etc. It's been a few years, though, so I might be a bit rusty when it's time to do my thang . . . .<br />
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Thanks for letting me practice on YOU! :)<br />
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Here's the Prologue to my novel <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ugly-As-Sin-James-Newman/dp/0988272350/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1425853072&sr=8-2&keywords=Ugly+As+Sin"><b>UGLY AS SIN</b></a>. </i>I decided to post a file that's 100% "live", warts and all, exactly like it'll sound at one of my readings (the only thing missing: a roomful of your smiling faces, and my traditional one Jack-n'-Coke beforehand = liquid courage). That means you'll hear at least one tongue-tied moment. And maybe the occasional chime of a Facebook notification coming through on my laptop. <br />
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But it's free.<br />
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Hope you dig this. If nothing else, I had fun with it.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ugly-As-Sin-James-Newman/dp/0988272350/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1425861936&sr=8-2&keywords=uGLY+AS+SIN">ORDER YOUR COPY OF THE PAPERBACK</a></span></b></div>
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<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-44147256946077141172014-12-28T16:30:00.002-08:002014-12-28T16:30:54.564-08:00150 Words About . . . "HOUSEBOUND"<div class="Normal">
Hailing from New Zealand, <i>Housebound</i> is a film I recommend to horror fans who don’t mind a few giggles with their goosebumps. In fact, that’s my only beef with what is otherwise a very effective
fright flick -- I wish the folks who made <i>Housebound</i> had gone darker with the material (even if the humor does<i> </i>work more often than not). What’s it about? When perpetual delinquent Kylie is busted in the
act of robbing an ATM, the courts sentence her to house arrest in her own personal hell: her mother’s home. If things weren’t bad enough, once Kylie settles in she starts seeing/hearing stuff that suggests the house
where she grew up is now haunted. <i>Housebound</i> gets a little too “<i>Scooby-Doo</i>” at times, once our anti-heroine starts digging into the mystery of what the heck’s going on, but this one still ranks among my
favorite genre films of 2014.</div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-26229832560200015672014-12-24T11:17:00.001-08:002014-12-24T11:17:33.093-08:00Happy Holidays!Thanks for checking in. Here's a free tale of holiday horror I wrote just for my readers . . . hope you enjoy it, friends!<br />
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<span style="color: green; font-family: 'Toledo Heavy'; font-size: 30pt;">T</span><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;">hey argued every year around this time.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> She began her Christmas shopping before Halloween, and it never failed: his blood
pressure spiked, his ulcers started acting up, and typically by Thanksgiving he had broken out in hives more than once.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> It wasn’t that he hated the holidays. A part of him remembered that childlike
excitement for the season as he savored the smells of peppermint and homemade fudge in the kitchen, or hummed along with the carols on a radio in a co-worker’s cubicle. He even got into the spirit enough to hang a strand
of those icicle lights outside.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> The problem was her </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">spending. </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">His wife was out of control. </span></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: green; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">* * * * *</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> She came from a large family. Where he had only his elderly mother to buy for,
her extended family included both parents</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">…a stepfather…four sisters…a brother…two aunts…an uncle…six cousins…twelve nieces…nine nephews…three
brothers-in-law…and a sister-in-law she avoided like Ebola the other 364 days of the year.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> She bought for them. Extravagantly. For</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> all </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">of them. He had never met anyone who prescribed to that old adage</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">‘tis greater to give than to receive</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> more than his wife of thirty-one years. According to his better half, </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">it</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’s the thought that counts</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> was a cop-out for cheapskates and heathens who didn</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’t celebrate the reason for the season. Every year he feared the holidays would send them into bankruptcy. Never one to be unprepared for Black Friday, she
talked him into taking out another loan against his 401(K). Throughout November and into December, a new credit card bill arrived in the mail twice a week.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> One of these days, he half-joked, her generosity would be the death of him.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: green; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">* * * * *</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> He went missing two weeks before Christmas.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> The last time she saw him, they were leaving the place where desperate men sold
their seed for quick, easy cash. He had argued against it, but she still had shopping to do. They met on his lunch break, and after that awkward business was done she took him next door to his favorite steakhouse. He felt
like a dog, a treat tossed his way for doing some stupid trick.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Another grand in her pocket. Another name crossed off her list. She was pleased,
but never </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">finished.</span></i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> The next day, when darkness fell and he still wasn</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’t home from the office, she started getting worried. He’d been working an insane amount of overtime (this was his last check before Christmas, after all),
but he hadn’t returned her calls or replied to her text messages. It wasn’t like him, even when he was annoyed with her.</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">She paced back and forth, as much as she was able to. Boxes and bags of all colors, shapes, and sizes were stacked floor-to-ceil</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">ing in every room of the house. </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Maybe he</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’s right,</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> she thought. </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">I don</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’t know when to stop.</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Her hubby had always been infatuated with Greek mythology</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">; the previous weekend he pointed to a painting of the Minotaur in a book he was reading, joked about how she was turning their home into a “labyrinth”. Eventually
they would get lost in a maze of </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">yuletide cheer and would never find their way out. That night, his quip had</span></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">conjured surreal eggnog dreams. She dreamed of a beast that walked like a man, but with
massive reindeer antlers protruding from</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> its skull.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> She missed everything about him, even his bizarre sense of humor. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">“Where </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">are</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> you?</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">” she wept until her eyes were red and swollen and she could weep no more.
“What happened to you, my love?”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: green; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">* * * * *</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Christmas Eve.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Around nine p.m., she wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve (by now she couldn</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’t find the furniture, much less a box of Kleenex) and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. In the morning there were gifts to give. Smiles to bring
to children’s faces. Her family grieved with her, but this was their holiday too. She could put this off no longer. She began to take inventory of everything she needed to load into her Suburban for the festivities at her
brother’s house bright-and-early. Where to begin? If she started</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> here </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">the whole thing might collapse, but then she couldn</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’t get to </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">that </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">without moving </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">this . . . . </span></i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Grunting, she shoved aside an enormous red-and-green-wrapped box (a doll-house for her favorite niece, she remembered without lo</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">oking at the tag). </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> Behind it, she found him.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Her husband had died sitting up, propped against an oblong package wrapped in
snowflake foil. His face was frozen in a sile</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">nt scream. One hand gripped a pair of scissors, the other -- inexplicably -- an empty cardboard tube,
as if he had attempted to ward off something monstrous during his final moments.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> She shrieked his name as she turned to run, her heart slamming in her chest.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> But she couldn</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">’t find her way out. Every path led to a dead end.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Too many presents. Too damn</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> many </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">. . . .</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> She staggered down a narrow path, passing every color of the rainbow. Nearly
tripped over a cluster of pink and lavender ba</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">gs full of perfumes and body wash for her sisters. Came to another dead end. Backtracked. Knocked over
the new bicycle her youngest nephew Joey had asked Santa to bring him this year. Its cocoon of Batman gift-wrap split open, exposing a single black pedal that scraped a layer of flesh from her shin. She whimpered, crashed
into another mountain of boxes. A curly yellow bow fell off of one, fluttered across her cheek like an injured bird jostled from its nest.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> Her beloved had been right. Her kindness had created a labyrinth from one end
of their home to the other.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> Left turn. Right turn. Straight ahead. Back the way she came, or so she thought.
</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> Elsewhere in the maze, something snuffled -- a sound like hot air blown through
nostrils. </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;"> Heavy hooves clicked on hardwood floor.</span></span></b></div>
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<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-19306806809373203972014-08-09T15:54:00.000-07:002014-08-09T15:54:00.479-07:00SIGNED E-BOOKS, NOW AVAILABLE . . . . . . personally inscribed to you, no less!<br />
<br />
Yep, you read that right. Cool stuff! Go here for more info, and request a few from yours truly if you feel so inclined:<br />
<br />
http://www.authorgraph.com/authors/newmanjam<br />
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-5943799783876920082014-06-08T16:26:00.002-07:002014-06-08T16:26:18.802-07:00150 Words About . . . "BLUE RUIN"<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">Blue Ruin </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is a revenge flick from the director of 2007’s <i>Murder
Party</i>, but calling it that doesn’t do it justice. Such movies typically follow a standard formula, and although
that formula usually works for me – I’m a huge fan of revenge flicks, even
<a href="http://sideshowpressonline.com/?page_id=4&category=5&product_id=39">wrote a book with that title</a> -- <i>Blue Ruin </i>adds so much more to the
genre. In fact, the main character gets
his revenge very early in the film . . . it’s the repercussions that are the
focus here. <i>Blue Ruin </i>asks what
might really happen in such a scenario – what if you wanted revenge, but you
barely knew how to fire a gun? What if
your vengeance only brought more violence upon your family? Leading man Macon Blair is nothing short of
phenomenal, and in a perfect world he would win an Oscar for his performance. See this one today. You’ll thank me tomorrow.</span></div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-18422809040829545102014-03-16T07:42:00.001-07:002014-03-16T07:45:03.325-07:00ANIMOSITY: Audiobook, E-Book, and Trade Paperback Editions Now Available!Permuted Press just released the audiobook, e-book, and trade paperback editions of my novel <i>Animosity</i> . . <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Animosity-James-Newman-ebook/dp/B00J122K2Y/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1394980394&sr=8-2&keywords=animosity+newman">order your copy today!</a><br />
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<b>WHAT IF YOUR LOVE OF HORROR MOVIES/BOOKS/ETC. PUT YOUR LIFE IN DANGER?</b></div>
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<small style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: xx-small;"><b style="background-color: black;">ANIMOSITY is the story of Andrew Holland, a bestselling horror writer whose life begins to mirror the fictional nightmares of his novels after he finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Andy’s wife recently left him for another man. To keep from getting too depressed about that, Andy has thrown himself into his writing more vigorously than ever, when he’s not spending as much time with his daughter, Samantha, as joint custody allows. His neighbors seem proud to know him (although none of them would admit to reading “that kind of stuff”). The author is the closest thing to a celebrity most of Poinsettia Lane’s residents will ever meet. Everything changes, however, the day Andy discovers the body of a murdered child just several hundred yards from his front door.<br /><br />Almost instantly, his neighbors start to turn on him. Though the authorities clear him of any wrongdoing, as weeks pass with no arrest the local media insinuates connections between the gruesome subject matter of Andy's novels and his tragic discovery. His neighbors’ derision is subtle at first – a nasty look, a friendly wave that is not reciprocated. Ben Souther, with whom Andy once enjoyed cold beers and baseball banter on warm summer nights, offers the writer advice which now hints of something more unsettling than the sly wisdom normally found in his quotes-for-every-occasion: “Let us not make imaginary evils when we have so many real ones to encounter”.<br /><br />His neighbors soon take their disdain to a frightening new level. His phone rings, and when he answers muffled voices curse him, spitting vile accusations. They vandalize his home, trash his vehicle.<br /><br />And just when he thinks things can’t possibly get any worse, another child’s body is found.<br /><br />Andy is no longer sure if he will survive this ordeal with his sanity intact…assuming he does survive.<br /><br />ANIMOSITY is a disturbing look into how otherwise good people can allow themselves to be misled by gossip, rumors, and a mob mentality. It is a retelling of the “The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street” for the modern age, a morality-play-meets-horror-story in which the monsters wear all-too-familiar faces. Rather than bloodthirsty vampires or brain-eating zombies beating at the door, they are our own friends, our families, our peers…and what in any horror writer’s twisted imagination could be more terrifying?</b></span></small></div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-44537423162892407202014-03-15T10:08:00.001-07:002014-03-15T10:08:15.841-07:00COMING SOON . . . . <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-56107314725720294992014-03-08T13:01:00.000-08:002014-03-08T13:01:27.974-08:00150 Words About . . . BAD MILO!<div class="MsoNormal">
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<i> </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Never thought I’d
give the time of day to a movie about a demon coming outta someone’s butt!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Bad Milo!</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> is a 2013 horror-comedy about
a fellow (Ken Marino of </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Role Models</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> and </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">We’re the Millers </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">in a
rare </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">likeable </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">role) whose stress level is so high his IBS becomes
something else entirely.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">What his
doctor initially diagnoses as an intestinal polyp turns out to be something
much more dangerous . . . for those around him.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It starts with the murder of a co-worker – perhaps the most
annoying character in a horror(ish) film since Franklin in the original</span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">
Texas Chainsaw</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> – and the body count rises from there.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Turn off your brain for eighty-five minutes,
you’ll have fun with this one.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The joke
wears thin around midway, as there’s only so much you can do with this idea, but
</span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Bad Milo! </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is worth a rental.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Just
keep the Pepto-Bismol handy.</span></div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-33947402464530253922014-01-20T16:09:00.003-08:002014-01-20T16:09:54.163-08:00150 Words About . . . "HERE COMES THE DEVIL".<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Don’t you love
it when all the hype turns out to be well-deserved?</div>
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This is one
creeeeeeeeepy film, folks. When a young
mother and father allow their son and daughter to wander off into the desert
hills so they can be alone for a while (shades of <i>The Hills Have Eyes, </i>but
only slightly, as we’re dealing with demonic forces here instead of radioactive
mutants), something touches the children.
Think you know what that means?
You’re half-right. The kids
return a little later, to Mom and Dad’s elation, but they’ve changed. And the children they bring home with them
might not be their children anymore.</div>
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With a style
that reminded me of the great horror films of the 1970s, <i>Here Comes the
Devil </i>gave me goosebumps several times.
I’d almost bet my soul that it’ll have the same effect on you.</div>
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Creepiest line: “<i>The Devil was
standing on my chest.</i>”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-68428916087341900862014-01-18T14:46:00.002-08:002014-01-18T14:46:27.825-08:00FREE STORY! . . . it's not from me, but it's a good one. A favorite of mine, in fact!<br />
<br />
If you like it, please consider ordering a copy of <a href="http://markgunnells.livejournal.com/">Mark</a>'s collection, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Midnight-Shift-Allan-Gunnells-ebook/dp/B00DPLTMYQ/ref=la_B005C18L7Q_1_18?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1389995409&sr=1-18">Tales From the Midnight Shift, Vol. 1</a>. </i>I promise you won't be disappointed. I read this one in a single sitting, and that's not something that happens with me too often these days, the crazier life gets. This guy's the real deal. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't currently be collaborating with him on a really kick-ass novella (details to come soon, and I promise you guys are gonna love it!)<br /><br /> Get your copy of <i>Tales From the Midnight Shift </i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Midnight-Shift-Allan-Gunnells-ebook/dp/B00DPLTMYQ/ref=la_B005C18L7Q_1_18?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1389995409&sr=1-18">right here.</a><br />
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Enjoy! Like I said, I dig the hell outta this one. It reminds me of some of the best of Bentley Little's work . . . but don't take my word for it . . . <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">JAM</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </span><span style="font-family: 'Arial Black';">by Mark Allan Gunnells<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">8:10<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Elliot was running late for
work. Which wasn’t unusual, was
actually quite the norm. He knew on
some level that he was probably acting out his dissatisfaction with his job through
chronic tardiness, but he wasn’t one for self-analyzing.</div>
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He checked his watch as he sped
down the interstate at eighty miles per hour, twenty over the posted speed
limit. He was already ten minutes late,
and he was about twenty minutes away from his exit, add another fifteen to get
to the office from there. That put him
at his desk at around 8:45. Even for
someone who was perpetually late, that was pushing it. But as long as he made it to the office in
time for the weekly department meeting at 9:00, he should be fine.</div>
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On cue, as if the gods had
heard Elliot’s thoughts and decided to teach him a lesson, he rounded a curve
in the road and saw nothing but cars up ahead.
Stationary cars. As in not
moving, still, going nowhere. Across
all four lanes cars just idled, stretching away to the horizon. It was like a fucking parking lot.</div>
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“Son of a BITCH!” Elliot
shouted, banging his hands on the steering wheel. A traffic jam, just what he needed. Whenever he was in a hurry he could always count on a train blocking
his path, or an endless succession of red lights, road construction, heavy rain
having washed out a chunk of the street, or a goddam traffic jam. He just couldn’t catch a break.</div>
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Elliot braked to a complete
stop behind a gray SUV. He was in the
second lane from the right, and he was soon boxed in as other cars rounded the
curve and got in line. The jerk on his
left, some teenaged dick with a backwards cap, actually honked his horn, as if
it were just a matter of people not realizing they should be going forward. Jackass.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Traffic had not moved, not an
inch, not a smidge, not a bit. Elliot
assumed there must be one hell of a car accident somewhere up ahead. He could only see about a mile and a half
away, then the interstate crested a small rise and dipped down out of his field
of vision. Whatever it was had blocked
all four south-bound lanes and had traffic at a standstill. </div>
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But was it only the south-bound
lanes? Elliot noticed that the traffic
in the north-bound lanes of the interstate had petered out until it stopped
altogether. The north-bound lanes were
as empty as the south-bound lanes were packed with immobile vehicles. Could the hypothetical accident have been so
bad that it effectively sealed off the south-bound <i>and</i> north-bound lanes of a major highway? </div>
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Elliot turned on his car radio
and tuned it into the local station, WJAM 106.6. If there was some disaster up ahead, WJAM was sure to be covering
it. The hours of 7:00 to 11:00 were
devoted to Dillard and Kimbo—or Dullard and Bimbo, as Elliot thought of
them—the station’s morning disc jockeys.
Elliot rarely listen to them because their inane and monumentally boring
chatter was enough to tempt him into plowing straight into a guardrail.</div>
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“—and that’s why I always use
tinfoil instead of plastic wrap,” Dullard was saying as Elliot found the
station.</div>
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“Well folks, you heard it here
first,” Bimbo said with a laugh. “How
to avoid that unfortunate freezer burn.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you why I prefer whipped cream over chocolate
sauce.”</div>
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“Hey, hey, keep it G-rated there,
Kimbo,” Dullard said with mock seriousness.
“There may be kiddies listening.”</div>
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“Oh come on, Dillard, you think
<i>anyone</i> is listening?”</div>
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“Yeah, my mom for sure.”</div>
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“Please, everyone knows your
mom prefers the Chuck and Kelly show on WBKY.”</div>
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“Mom, no, you swore—“</div>
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Elliot punched the button to
silence those humorless pricks.
Whatever was happening apparently wasn’t dire enough to warrant a break
in the standard routine of easing people into their work day by making the
commute so excruciating that they were practically begging to get into the
office by the time they finally got there.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">TEN MINUTES LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Elliot dug through his satchel
looking for his cell phone. He
obviously wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
He had the car in park and was considering turning off the engine
altogether. The gas gauge was hovering
just above the E, and he needed to conserve every drop. </div>
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He finally found his cell
phone, but pushing the small button on the side did not turn the damn thing
on. Apparently the battery had no
charge. Leaning over, he popped open
the glove compartment and rummaged around for the battery charger that plugged
directly into the car’s otherwise unused lighter.</div>
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“Gotcha,” Elliot said, snagging
the charger and plugging in the phone.
The small screen lit up and played a little tune, letting him know it
was operational and happy to be so. He
keyed in his boss’s number and put the phone to his ear. Nothing.
He looked down at the small screen and saw that the phone was not
getting a signal.</div>
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“Goddam piece of SHIT!” Elliot
yelled then tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat. It pulled loose of the charger and lay
there, dead, as useless to him as a block of cheese in a crisis.</div>
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He would definitely not be
there for the 9:00 meeting, and he had no way to get in touch with his
boss. And it wasn’t even his fault this
time, for Christ’s sake. Act of God,
force of nature, my dog ate my homework, whatever, but for once it wasn’t his
fault and he had no way to let his boss know that.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">HALF AN HOUR LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Most of the people around
Elliot had turned off their cars, several of them stepping out to stretch, walk
around, grab a smoke. Conversations
were struck up, laughs were shared, complaints were swapped, speculations
arose. The prevailing theory seemed to
be that two tractor-trailers had collided, one laid out across the south-bound
lanes, the other across the north-bound lanes.
There was nothing to support this particular hypothesis—Dullard and
Bimbo, heard through the rolled-down windows of several cars, had still made no
reference to the colossal traffic jam on the interstate—but it seemed as
plausible as any other.</div>
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</div>
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Elliot sat on the hood of his
Celica, playing a handheld Tetris game he’d found in the glove compartment when
searching for the phone charger. Maybe
his boss had heard about the traffic jam and concluded that Elliot was stuck
somewhere on the interstate, or maybe she thought he was an irredeemable
slacker and was planning to fire him as soon as he got in. Either way, he didn’t give much of a fuck at
this point. It would almost be a
blessing to get fired, to be able to wake up in the morning without a sense of
dread weighing down on him like a coffin lid.</div>
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Elliot stretched his neck until
it popped, then leaned his head back and gazed up at the sky. Easter-egg blue, with a few cotton-candy
clouds floating by like barges in the sea.
Damn, nothing like a traffic jam to get a person’s poetic juices flowing.</div>
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He looked around at everyone
milling about the interstate, visiting other cars, walking dogs, a ragtag game
of football had even broken out in the median between the north and south-bound
lanes. It was like an old-fashioned
block party, Elliot thought. Not that
he’d ever been to a block party, but he’d seen them on television. The whole situation had a surreal quality to
it, like something experienced in a dream.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The teenaged dick from the Ford
pickup to Elliot’s left was flirting with the teenaged daughter of the driver
of the SUV directly in front of Elliot.
Papa was keeping a disapproving eye on the whole affair. To his right was an elderly woman who seemed
made up entirely of wrinkles, chewing on beef jerky while leaning against the
door of her gas-guzzling boat of a Chevrolet.
Behind Elliot was a minivan filled with screaming children and a
frazzled woman who looked like she might be contemplating suicide as an escape
from the hell that raged inside her van.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
A light breeze sprang up,
cooling the sweat on Elliot’s forehead, and he closed his eyes and smiled. There were lots of grumblings around him,
people ready to get on their way to wherever they were going, but Elliot found
that in an odd way he was enjoying himself.
Sure beat the hell out of going to work. Where were you all day, Elliot?
Why, I was attending a block party out on the interstate.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Where else?</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">TWO HOURS LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
People were starting to get
hostile. The whole situation was
wearing on people’s nerves, and there was bound to be some spillover. Small disagreements sprouted, blossoming into
full-fledged arguments. Somewhere
several cars ahead there was a fistfight.
Some helpful truckers broke it up before anyone got hurt.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Elliot cranked his car for a
moment, plugged his phone back into the lighter, and tried again to make a
call. Still no signal. He’d heard several people complain of the
same problem.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
A man who looked to be in his
mid-thirties, dressed in a suit and silk tie, knocked on Elliot’s window. “Hey, some of us are gonna go get something
to eat? You want anything?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
“Something to eat?” Elliot
said. “From where?”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
“Well, there were a couple of
fast-food places off the exit about two miles back. A few of us are gonna hike back that way and get some grub.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
“What if traffic starts back up
while you’re gone?” Elliot asked, not really believing it would. It had been so long, the very idea of
traffic starting back up just seemed unthinkable. Had there ever been a time when these cars moved?</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
“My wife is staying with the
car,” Silk Tie said, pointing toward a very pregnant woman standing by a white
Subaru. “If traffic starts up again,
she’ll just pull the car over on the shoulder and wait ‘til I get back. Same with the other fellas going with me.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
“Sounds like a plan,” Elliot
said, fishing a five out of his wallet and handing it to Silk Tie. “I’ll take a cheeseburger and any kind of
soda. I appreciate it.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
“Not a problem,” Silk Tie said,
then he and three others headed off down the interstate, weaving through the
cars like survivors of some cataclysmic holocaust.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">FIVE HOURS LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Silk Tie and his three buddies
never came back. Silk Tie’s pregnant
wife couldn’t seem to stop crying, interspersed from time to time with some
hysterical screaming just for the sake of variety. People were scared; there was a lot of praying, more fights, and
more than a little fucking. The driver
of the SUV had been one of the three to go for food with Silk Tie, and his
daughter’s method of grieving her father’s disappearance was to climb into the
back of the SUV with the teenaged dick for about twenty minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Elliot had discovered a
half-empty bag of M&Ms under the front seat of his car, buried
treasure. He huddled in the backseat
and ate them slowly, savoring each one, trying to be as discreet as possible. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to share, it
was just that he wasn’t going to share.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Through the windshield, Elliot
saw SUV’s daughter and the teenaged dick emerge from the SUV, tears on her face
and a grin on his. He swaggered back to
his truck, leaving her alone.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">THE NEXT DAY…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Elliot sat on the pavement, in
the meager shade thrown by the teenaged dick’s pickup, gnawing on a piece of
beef jerky that Ms. Wrinkles had been kind enough to share with him. It was a lot like trying to eat
shit-flavored leather, but it was better than nothing. Elliot had finished off the M&Ms last
night.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Nearby a group of people were
having a theological discussion of sorts.
A fat woman in a floral dress was saying she believed there had indeed
been a horrible accident on the interstate.
Her theory was that they had all been killed in the accident and were
now in some kind of purgatory. Elliot
almost chimed in that he didn’t believe in hell, or heaven for that matter, but
then thought better of it. Tensions
were high, if he were to espouse the wrong opinion, these people were liable to
attack and tear him to pieces. He’d
read <i>Lord of the Flies</i>. Well, he’d seen the movie.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">ONE HOUR LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Dullard and Bimbo were
discussing the latest Keanu Reeves film as if it had the power to change lives
and enrich the world.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Maybe there was a hell, after
all.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">SEVEN HOURS LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Elliot noticed that he kept
seeing Minivan Mom, but he no longer saw any of her children. And he didn’t hear them in the van. The fat lady in the floral dress asked about
them, but Minivan Mom just smiled strangely and said, “They’re sleeping.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">THE NEXT DAY…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Silk Tie’s wife went into labor
early in the morning. People started
spreading the word up and down the line, trying to find a doctor. It reminded Elliot of that children’s game
where everyone sits in a row, and the first person whispers something to the
next person, that person whispers it to the next, that one to the next, until
you get to the last person in the row, the fun of the game being how different
the end statement is from what the first person originally whispered.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Is there a doctor in the house?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Is there a doorway for the house?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Where’s the doorway for the mouse?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Is he a boring mouse?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>He’s a bore and a louse.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>We’re never getting out.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">TWO HOURS LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
No doctor was found, but two
nurses got the message and came to lend their services. Silk Tie’s wife screamed loud enough to wake
the dead, but not loud enough to summon back those in search of cheeseburgers. It was her first child, and the nurses
informed her that her labor could take hours.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
A burly trucker organized a
scouting party. They decided to head
out on foot south down the interstate, to try to find the beginning of the
traffic jam and see what was causing it.
The plan was to walk for two hours, and if they hadn’t found the cause
by then, they would turn and head back.
The idea that they still believed something tangible and logical was <i>causing</i> the traffic jam struck Elliot as
funny. He did not volunteer for the
party.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">SIX HOURS LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The scouting party did not
return. No one really expected them to.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">THE NEXT DAY…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
It was a day of death and
violence.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Silk Tie’s wife gave birth, the
child stillborn. She began to
hemorrhage, and the nurses were unable to stop the bleeding. She and her infant were buried together in
the median.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The fat woman in the floral
dress went to check on Minivan Mom and discovered what everyone already
suspected. She had slit all their
little throats with a pair of scissors.
Minivan Mom would just smile and say, “Shhh, they’re sleeping.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
SUV’s daughter, who had been
ignored by the teenaged dick since their tryst in her vanished Papa’s vehicle,
took a switchblade she found in the back of the SUV and removed the offending
part of him. He was now just the
teenaged.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">8:10…?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Elliot began to wonder if
perhaps they were all stuck in a single moment in time. Maybe it was still 8:10, and he could still
make it to the 9:00 department meeting if he could just somehow get himself <i>unstuck</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Elliot recognized this as an
insane notion, but this was an insane situation. Two wrongs may not make a right, but can two <i>insanes</i> make a <i>sane</i>?</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 10.0pt;">SOMETIME LATER…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The batteries in Elliot’s
Tetris game had died. His car would no
longer crank, so he couldn’t even plug up his phone and play the games on it. He had borrowed a book from Ms. Wrinkles,
but it was a romance novel with a plot as predictable as life never is.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Elliot was bored. It was time to go, time to get unstuck.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Going back didn’t help, going
forward didn’t help. What about off to
the side? A lovely green field ran
along the side of the highway to the left.
What if he just walked straight across it? Would he eventually run into civilization? Would he find people again, life, the
world? Or would he end up with Silk Tie
and the scouting party, in whatever dark place they had found along the
interstate?</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Fuck it, he’d have to risk
it. He’d run out of things to do
here. Besides, people had dug up Silk
Tie’s wife and child and were roasting them, along with Minivan Mom’s brood,
for dinner. Elliot had a feeling they
might taste worse than the beef jerky.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
He walked over to the shoulder
of the highway and hesitated just on the edge of the pavement. He wasn’t going to tell anyone what he was
doing, wasn’t going to invite anyone to join him. If this plan failed, he would doom no one but himself.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
And if it succeeded, he’d send
help.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Or maybe he’d just get a
cheeseburger.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHYthUvKLrv9hom98EkweQtZFk2OKlGOcc_B7cgmUNDvpz8n00JANweFio1bPeUzBwhMV3700-gaJBDTq3Tre0Nlj-mU8eB1iqrwCFc7Eybz2rgzAE1JT4bFNcMboLhUYLNYczxl5GJs/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHYthUvKLrv9hom98EkweQtZFk2OKlGOcc_B7cgmUNDvpz8n00JANweFio1bPeUzBwhMV3700-gaJBDTq3Tre0Nlj-mU8eB1iqrwCFc7Eybz2rgzAE1JT4bFNcMboLhUYLNYczxl5GJs/s1600/download.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Midnight-Shift-Allan-Gunnells-ebook/dp/B00DPLTMYQ/ref=la_B005C18L7Q_1_18?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1389995409&sr=1-18"><i>TALES FROM THE MIDNIGHT SHIFT, VOL. 1 </i></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-52356246540530645622014-01-04T17:41:00.001-08:002014-01-04T18:16:39.315-08:00Gonna Be a Great Year . . . . Lots of cool things on the way in 2014, friends . . . .<br />
<br />
JANUARY: <i>666 Hair-Raising Horror Movie Trivia Questions </i>(trade paperback/e-book, <a href="http://www.postmortem-press.com/">Post Mortem Press</a>)<br />
MARCH: <i>Animosity </i>(trade paperback/audiobook/e-book, from <a href="http://www.postmortem-press.com/">Post Mortem Press</a>)<br />
TBD: <i>Death Songs From the Naked Man</i>, w/Donn Gash (e-book, from <a href="http://www.cemeterydance.com/">Cemetery Dance Publications</a>)<br />
TBD: <i>People Are Strange </i>(e-book, <a href="http://www.cemeterydance.com/">Cemetery Dance Publications</a>)<br />
TBD: <i>The Wicked </i>(German-language trade paperback/e-book, <a href="http://mkrug-verlag.com/">Mkrug Verlag</a>)<br />
TBD: <i>Dog Days o' Summer</i>, w/<a href="http://markgunnells.livejournal.com/">Mark Allan Gunnells</a> (W.I.P.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sweet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-87308793530164271242014-01-04T16:45:00.001-08:002014-01-04T16:45:46.295-08:00PRE-ORDER: 666 Hair-Raising Horror Movie Trivia Questions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xU3_fuO3WVYtwyxKOdGfBKWMCFytck_u_I0R26kQru88sbninOF59DPYaz65Xj1ubyblnPhVzrBJp0-6w-XZMF57xdHvUko-5qMwkbOFEIpfDvkvTjNkxjVPImooKmM_nkqgY_JyiI4/s1600/film_negative_montage_ii_by_struckdumb-d35fqgs+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xU3_fuO3WVYtwyxKOdGfBKWMCFytck_u_I0R26kQru88sbninOF59DPYaz65Xj1ubyblnPhVzrBJp0-6w-XZMF57xdHvUko-5qMwkbOFEIpfDvkvTjNkxjVPImooKmM_nkqgY_JyiI4/s320/film_negative_montage_ii_by_struckdumb-d35fqgs+(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-8928764867113578662013-12-29T21:00:00.000-08:002013-12-29T21:03:50.807-08:00My First NONfiction Book, Now Available For Pre-Order!So you call yourself a horror fan?<br />
<div>
PROVE it.</div>
<div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.postmortem-press.com/666.php"><span style="color: white;"><i><b>666 Hair-Raising Horror Movie Trivia Questions</b></i> is now available for pre-order!</span></a></div>
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:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-57965214572927579392013-12-27T17:59:00.003-08:002013-12-28T06:13:10.139-08:00They Don't (Paint) 'em Like They Used To . . . . <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
With the upcoming release of my first nonfiction book, <i>666 HAIR-RAISING HORROR MOVIE TRIVIA QUESTIONS </i>(<a href="http://www.postmortem-press.com/">Post Mortem Press</a>), I've been thinking a lot about how I got here. I've been pondering my lifelong fascination with "things that go bump in the night", and I've done a lot of reminiscing on the seminal books/movies/etc that made me what I am today.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
With that in mind, I wanted to do something just for fun: a list of the movies that scared me the most when I was a kid. <i>Note that I'm not talking about the movies themselves.</i> In some cases, I didn't see them until years later (and there's at least one title on this list that I've <i>never </i>seen). It was the <i>cover art</i> on those old VHS tapes that kept me awake at night. Oh, the countless hours I spent hanging out in the Horror section of the video stores (remember those?) while my dad browsed for something to watch! Of course, it wasn't uncommon to find that the films inside those bulky clamshell cases didn't live up to the nightmare fuel promised on the outside. Like the song* says, <i>the chase is better than the catch.</i></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In any event, this jaded old horror fan has been chasing that feeling ever since . . . that mix of terror/infatuation as I stared at the images on those video boxes, the "real world" fading to a dull murmur around me 'til Dad finally came looking for me with his rentals in hand . . . .</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'd be willing to bet, if you're reading this, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Hit me up, friends -- I'd love to hear about the movie art that made an impression on you, back in the day. They don't make 'em like they used to, do they?</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>HALLOWEEN II (1981)</b></span><br />
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I'm not sure this one scared me, I just thought it was oh-so-freakin' <i>cool. </i>I might even go so far as to say that this one ranks among the five greatest images ever created for a horror film's promo materials, in my opinion. Iconic. Eerie. Perfect.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOYv8QsMSO5pQtmTgMXzvxK2A5FE24RkZf3fl4YwesZF0r8GGBx8Q56yAS-Ni974Ttz0O7tWOeHlif_BrzqkO2eP-SjL0ARaIdtL_ekY9KbpEfnILIbYdCyih8tiAcopGBlm7GMEa6ps/s1600/MORTUARY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOYv8QsMSO5pQtmTgMXzvxK2A5FE24RkZf3fl4YwesZF0r8GGBx8Q56yAS-Ni974Ttz0O7tWOeHlif_BrzqkO2eP-SjL0ARaIdtL_ekY9KbpEfnILIbYdCyih8tiAcopGBlm7GMEa6ps/s400/MORTUARY.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">MORTUARY (1983)</span></b><br />
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I remember very little about this one, other than the fact that the killer on the back terrified the pint-sized yours truly, probably even more than the hand coming out of the grave on the front. And guess who played said black-robed-slasher-with-embalming-trocar-in-hand? None other than a young Bill Paxton. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURJZU7Zmm4nhAsjzAwRHSlyLCJ9zG7-_2Z58qOMZayQtAaRH1gbhmfmXKm4XRtlq-qECmVah0C9ZrJ0jrhA8mD11VP7h7hpMVOulsvLAR7xUCButCcL_ibOgIfJ8UsJEklm4TDPOcskg/s1600/THE+EVIL+DEAD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURJZU7Zmm4nhAsjzAwRHSlyLCJ9zG7-_2Z58qOMZayQtAaRH1gbhmfmXKm4XRtlq-qECmVah0C9ZrJ0jrhA8mD11VP7h7hpMVOulsvLAR7xUCButCcL_ibOgIfJ8UsJEklm4TDPOcskg/s400/THE+EVIL+DEAD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">THE EVIL DEAD (1981)</span></b><br />
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Notice a theme here? Yeah, hands coming out of graves gave Little J.N. goosebumps. And this one most definitely <i>did </i>live up to what its cover promised. <i>The Evil Dead</i> has been one of my favorite films ever since that first time I saw it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP4JDIH6uKsS2Vhm8Bq8v2cJ63gnjXPDLZIWJ5sdWNMF9ajin4_ZvMMB58lAUIZh4Mn9gjUQ_qyCSXyyxKy2l1P9kF_bfYs857Q5UP602HP__P3_RIhiXnteMaQBTSFdF5te4zCzA6Eg/s1600/THE+PREY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP4JDIH6uKsS2Vhm8Bq8v2cJ63gnjXPDLZIWJ5sdWNMF9ajin4_ZvMMB58lAUIZh4Mn9gjUQ_qyCSXyyxKy2l1P9kF_bfYs857Q5UP602HP__P3_RIhiXnteMaQBTSFdF5te4zCzA6Eg/s400/THE+PREY.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>THE PREY (1984)</b></span><br />
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It was just an axe. No big deal. Half of those old VHS covers used to have axes on them, or hulking silhouettes carrying axe-like killing tools. But it was the <i>tagline </i>on this one that gave me goosebumps when I was a kid: <i>"It's not human, and it's got an axe!"</i><br />
Come on. That's pretty scary whether you're eight or <i>eighty.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggH-jX0BqoMJMEHCtvX0zDEPpPFEkdISWT30rQNOEXTrS3pArjZDl9QPSBnxxw_If3L_tx97p11inGifBR0hUWWBvn7V29CVCuILEisS08e0pfJLpSeIJrLCTvYeS3MQMjLLR0eFPIS94/s1600/RE-ANIMATOR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggH-jX0BqoMJMEHCtvX0zDEPpPFEkdISWT30rQNOEXTrS3pArjZDl9QPSBnxxw_If3L_tx97p11inGifBR0hUWWBvn7V29CVCuILEisS08e0pfJLpSeIJrLCTvYeS3MQMjLLR0eFPIS94/s400/RE-ANIMATOR.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">RE-ANIMATOR (1985)</span></b><br />
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<i>Re-Animator</i>'s cover art wasn't really <i>scary, </i>per se, just fascinating. I had to know more! That tagline was so odd . . . should I be rooting for a weirdo with a head in a dish on his desk, or that mysterious shape stepping out of the shadows behind him? Cool stuff.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLIIhT2mWCS05aVIv89w-bPlIjb4Pg9lG4ZWR_gRkanVDwY10jLXzUPkzmBaeqUfj9JpGoZS4ZnNDsm-AYCAWlOYJkpu2uec1_uVaqBCFKlssYd039oF5YSdAdcjGdu9cohaSRBYQvCE/s1600/CHILDREN+OF+THE+CORN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLIIhT2mWCS05aVIv89w-bPlIjb4Pg9lG4ZWR_gRkanVDwY10jLXzUPkzmBaeqUfj9JpGoZS4ZnNDsm-AYCAWlOYJkpu2uec1_uVaqBCFKlssYd039oF5YSdAdcjGdu9cohaSRBYQvCE/s400/CHILDREN+OF+THE+CORN.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>CHILDREN OF THE CORN (1984)</b></span><br />
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A weird sort of . . . "paradox" (is that the word I'm looking for?) exists in the fact that <i>Children of the Corn s</i>cared me when I was a kid. Just think about it for a second: if you were a minor living in the world of <i>Corn</i>, you would be safe. Only the adults are doomed, after all. Still . . . that arm holding the scythe aloft, preparing to bring the blade down into God-knows-what . . . and the glowing eyes of those tiny figures within the rows . . . yeah, this one never failed to terrify me.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>MOTHER'S DAY (1980)</b></span><br />
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I don't know why this one bothered me as much as it did. I think it was the head in the box. And the way old Mother was half there, half not. The whole thing was more than a little goofy, I was old enough to know once I finally got around to seeing <i>Mother's Day, </i>but in a more innocent time this artwork made me feel like I was looking at something I wasn't supposed to see. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinLatCCmnAup7l7wL1KyuHvMkvOGSvfmk7cxeC4YNS1-81gYGBcJvWC8forhuVT3R1-avWoBJKt_GVBxth7RaqeDIFx84nhRTWoj2I0XP26T2DJnUfmtrMT6B8kYt01X7b0jZNNghP3PU/s1600/MY+BLOODY+VALENTINE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinLatCCmnAup7l7wL1KyuHvMkvOGSvfmk7cxeC4YNS1-81gYGBcJvWC8forhuVT3R1-avWoBJKt_GVBxth7RaqeDIFx84nhRTWoj2I0XP26T2DJnUfmtrMT6B8kYt01X7b0jZNNghP3PU/s400/MY+BLOODY+VALENTINE.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">MY BLOODY VALENTINE (1981)</span></b><br />
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Look at his eyes. His <i>eyes, </i>man. The dude is obviously off his rocker. Plus, there's the woman with the bloody boob. How'd that happen? I didn't want to know . . . yet, at the same time, I did. I <i>really </i>wanted to know.<br />
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My dad rented this one at some point, and even at the age of just nine or ten I knew it was ridiculous. Something about a giant snake biting people and making their faces get all lumpy like that dude on the front. That's all I remember. Oh, yeah, and the boobs. The boobs you could almost but not quite see (all of). I used to stare at this one a lot. But I'm pretty sure that, as I got older, I stared at this cover for entirely <i>different </i>reasons . . . . </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">SILENT NIGHT, DEADLY NIGHT (1984)</span></b><br />
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Show me a kid who wouldn't be traumatized by Santa crawling down a chimney with an axe, and I'll show you a kid who needs therapy.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>THE HOWLING (1981)</b></span><br />
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Those claws scared the crap out of me. Imagine what they could to do naked flesh. But even worse was Eddie's face on the back. I vividly recall seeing a review of<i> The Howling</i> on <i>Siskel & Ebert </i>back in the day; when they showed a clip of the transformation scene I had nightmares later that evening.<br />
Too bad, in the years since, I've always found this one to be incredibly overrated (please send all hate mail to <b>newmanjam-AT-gmail-DOT-com</b>).<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978)</span></b><br />
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Not even one of this movie's better covers. In fact, this edition is pretty bad. But the dude slowly rising to . . . well, I'm not sure I knew at that age what he was gonna get up to, but I did know it couldn't be good . . . yeah, it worked on me. Bigtime. You might say it scared me to death. <br />
Go ahead and groan. 'Cause, yeah, the pun was atrocious.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKhetETyx3627DK-5PNARerPw-LjJXBoLioflZDwJuOZwo9EJMfrgp6LGGxx9sMAlhHs7Mwt0dR3FGCHVYuyuMQ4ySV9feTsE7E7bTp9OX8lWH8gU2QhApV59AAUd33PqW8eSqe9suxk/s1600/THE+ISLAND.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKhetETyx3627DK-5PNARerPw-LjJXBoLioflZDwJuOZwo9EJMfrgp6LGGxx9sMAlhHs7Mwt0dR3FGCHVYuyuMQ4ySV9feTsE7E7bTp9OX8lWH8gU2QhApV59AAUd33PqW8eSqe9suxk/s400/THE+ISLAND.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">THE ISLAND (1980)</span></b><br />
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I have never seen this movie. But when I was a kid, I found that tattooed-hand-with-a-knife terrifying beyond words. Whomever it belonged to, he had a long way to swim . . . but I had no doubt he would get there. And when he did, I knew it wasn't gonna be pretty, whatever he planned to do to those poor people on that boat.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">CREEPSHOW (1982)</span></b><br />
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One of the best. I couldn't wait to buy a ticket from that ghastly thing in the booth. And when I did, this one lived up to my expectations in every way.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">ZOMBIE (1979)</span></b></div>
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Believe it or not, it's only been within the last decade that I saw this film for the first time. But, mannnn . . . back in the day, there was no scarier cover art. I would pick up this box and stare at it every single time my father and I went into the video store, but I was always too afraid to ask if we could rent it. I was sure that this had to be the scariest film ever made.</div>
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I mean, look at 'im! The guy has worms in his eyes! Yyyuuuck!</div>
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* Motorhead/"The Chase Is Better Than the Catch"</div>
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<br />:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7940575364518024343.post-45841780636115627072013-12-26T18:37:00.003-08:002013-12-26T18:37:33.466-08:00150 Words About . . . "THE WORLD'S END".<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Another
fun film from the <i>Shaun of the Dead</i> and <i>Hot Fuzz </i>fellas. While this one’s not quite as LOL funny as
their previous movies, I loved it almost as much (and I should note that <i>The
World’s End </i>feels like one of those movies that will grow on me by
leaps and bounds with every subsequent viewing). Oddly enough, I was surprised by how <i>poignant</i> I found this one to be, when all was said
and done. That’s right, I just called a
movie about body-snatching alien robots that bleed blue ink <i>poignant</i>. You’ll pop this one into the
player for the laughs, but afterward you’ll find yourself pondering its themes
of friendship, personal identity, and conformity. It’s a sci-fi horror comedy, but you might just grow a little
misty-eyed. More quality stuff from the
very talented Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg. Can’t wait to see what comes next!</span></div>
:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10504825689909245851noreply@blogger.com0