Monday, October 31, 2011

#MenageMonday - Week Seven

Mike woke in the cold night air. He grimaced with pain, as he sat up. He looked around the shadowy landscape, rubbing his head, determining where the hell he was. The gravel dug into his legs. 

His brain finally registered that he sat in the middle of the railroad tracks. Mike decided that it would probably be a good idea to move in case a train came. He stumbled to his feet, not having control over his equilibrium. He staggered to the side of the tracks. The gossamer light from the Moon gave him enough light to see and backed up the thought that he had no idea where he was. He turned, seeing the fragment of the meteor jutting from the Earth’s horizon. 

The memories came rushing through the fog in Mike’s head. The impact of the meteor affected everyone differently. Some imploded from its force, while others became rabid beasts attacking whoever was unlucky enough to be in their path. It still did not explain how he came to be out in the middle of the tracks and god knows how far from anywhere.

He walked along the tracks toward the meteor. Mike felt as if he were limping but when he looked down at his legs, he saw that his gate was normal. Ahead, in the brush to the side of the track, he saw firelight; at last he found someone. The air became thick with the smell of death. His heart quickened and he licked his lips nervously.

Instinctively, Mike sniffed the air as he watched the wounded people tend the wounds of the others injured worse than they. They wrapped ripped clothing tightly around limbs above craters in legs and arms as tourniquets to stop the flow of blood that pooled and seeped into the dry ground.  Others, presumably dead, they closed their eyes and placed a scrap over their faces. He sniffed the air again and anticipation rose in his belly. 

He heard a yipping, like the commands of a wild dog to the pack. He scanned the shadows of the bushes for movement. He saw nothing. The people heard it too and they looked around with panic but did not stop their work. Mike moved quietly out of the bushes. The others did not notice him. He stepped closer. One of the dead lay less than fifty feet from him. He padded forward, sniffing the air and at the ground. They didn’t see him coming.

A woman shrieked as the borophagus locked his jaws around the arm of a dead man. The animal growled at the man that came toward him with a large stick. The man shouted obscenities at Mike, but still he did not loosen his hold on the dead arm. He growled again and shook the corpse, his bulging forehead glaring at the other. In half a dozen shakes and tugs, Mike broke the arm free from the body. He turned quickly and ran with speed back into the bushes. 

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Naming of the Beasts - Review

The Naming of the Beasts by Mike Carey
My rating: 4 of 5 Stars

This book was a little far fetched with some stuff. I won't say what as it would be a spoiler. It was good, don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed all of the Felix Castor books.

View all my reviews

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Barber Shop Horror

Waiting to get my haircut, I was not paying attention to the exchanges; probably too busy on Twitter. The next thing I knew the man getting a haircut in front of me and I assume a shave, shrieked like a calf at slaughter. I looked up and could barely believe my eyes. The blood shot up into the air from his neck. The barber yelled at the man in a foreign language; maybe Russian. The client tried to clamp his hand over the slit in the side of his neck but still the blood pumped out at a deadening pace. I sat there, not really believing what I was seeing. One of the female stylists, fainted with a thud. The shears gripped firmly in her hands, stabbed into her thigh. I was amazed in the amount of blood that poured from her. I glanced back to the man with the sliced throat, he had turned extremely white and his breathes gurgled like a drain that isn't quite sure if it wants to back-up or not. His blood seeped between his fingers as he groped for a towel from the counter. He slipped to the floor and his head hit the built in sink with a thud. The barber continued to rant at the man, this time with bits of English thrown in. "Look at the mess you've made..." Was one thing I remember him saying, the rest is muddled in my mind. I did not think to call 911, it just did not seem real. Then my stylist comes to me and says "You're next." I looked at her hands dripping with blood and it smeared around her mouth. I stammered and froze in my seat. "Next for what?" came to mind but nothing came out of my mouth.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

3 For Thursday Week 5

Don't Mess With That Chick

They locked him the catacombs under the city almost a century ago. The workers were kind enough to release and give him sustenance. He ripped their throats out and feasted on their hearts and livers; the rest he left congealing in the coolness of his underworld. 

He emerged from underground. He knew the ones that locked him away would be long gone; he would know the descendents when he smelled them. She smelled like her grandmother. He watched her for hours, dreaming of the macabre dance they would have. She felt nefarious eyes burning into her soul. She stepped into her house; a strong earthy smell filled the air. A strong arm crooked around her throat, darkness enshrouded her vision.

She woke in a cold, dim room. He stood behind her. Fear pulsed through her veins as she gingerly stood and turned, facing her stalker. She knew him immediately from the stories her grandparents told. She shrieked denial into the darkness and leapt forward, kicking him in the face. He staggered backward and chuckled. She had spark. Again, she kicked. He grabbed her leg. Her head crashed into the floor, stars exploded in her vision. He released her leg and crouched over her.

Without a second thought, she kicked her legs into his crotch. He gasped. She rolled as he fell. She stood, looking hurriedly around. A few pipes lay on the floor in the corner. She ran over and grabbed one. As she turned, she felt him behind her. She swung the pipe, making contact. She recoiled and launched the pipe into his head again, knocking him to the floor. She beat the pipe into his skull repeatedly, until the congealed mess of his brain oozed out. She sniffed and dropped the pipe. The clang echoed in the chamber.

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Creepy Friends Update

Please don't be upset if I've missed you in my Creepy Friends list, I'm just slow. Leave a comment with your website, blog, etc, and I will add you.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Strange Question

What does moil mean? Oh wait, it's not in The Second Plain #horror.

#HumpDayChallenge Week 20 Halloween Edition!

Yes, I admit it. I am malevolent and that is why put me here. I enjoy the moonlight at mid-night, just before the fog drifts in to cover my stone. If you haven’t figured it out, I am dead. Well It is the scientific explanation for my current situation, but spiritually I am very alive. I can raise my corpse out of the ground, dripping with maggots. No? OK. My body has been down there for a few months; it should be starting to smell delicious by now. I can come back anytime, if I were so inclined.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

TuesdayTales Challenge 12

She went to the fridge and scanned its contents--nothing to appease the preternatural hunger. She went to the market. She did not understand the constant craving. The doctor said she was not iron deficient and definitely not pregnant. The man ahead of her was indecisive. She could not wait any longer. She needed sustenance. She interlaced her fingers in his hair, pulling him backward. She sank her teeth into his neck. She sucked his blood into her mouth. Screams and cries arose around her. She looked up, blood dripped from her mouth.

“What?” She asked with a perplexed look.

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Monday, October 24, 2011

#MenageMonday Challenge – Week Six

George and Mike were undisputed bullies but they always had plausible deniability. No one could ever definitely say it was them--deep down, even the authorities knew the truth. Their normal points of the torment were Marshall and Eric who were tired of it and devised of a plan to “get even”. What they didn’t know was that George and Mike had plans of their own.

The darkness of the cave swallowed the boys. They needed to see what all the hype was about before they went forward with their plans. In the darkness ahead of them, they heard something scraping on rock. Shivers ran across their skin. They flicked on their flashlights and looked at each other with devilish smiles.

They eased down the incline of the passageway. Something dripped on one of the boys’ head as they stepped into the cavern. He rubbed his head, and then examined his hand under the golden glow of his light. He turned his light at the wall above the entrance. A chunk of flesh clung to the rock. His friend made a strange noise; he turned to look where the other’s flashlight pointed. Two mangled bodies lay on the ground.


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Wednesday, October 19, 2011

#HumpDayChallenge Week 19

Having a diet solely of spilled blood can be difficult, especially when you cannot spill it yourself. I walked through the steam tunnel alone, holding back my rage. It had been almost forty-one days since my last meal. I was trapped down here. A poorly delivered joke if you ask me. I tried to trick the rats to fight, but without anything for them to eat, I could only lure them into squeaking foreplay. Then a shimmer of hope, the smell of blood, drops of it escaped the iron pipe in the ceiling from the slaughterhouse above ground.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Tuesday Tales Round 11

The pagan moon rises,
shadows illuminate.
The lady of the wood comes forth
with her sacrifice,
the body small and frail.

She chants her rite.
He feels her ensorcell.
He cannot deny her pleasure.

Her chant echoes
across the silver water.
The blade readies for its play,
moon glow reflects from its edges.
The water bounces in time with her words.

The knife glints in the light
and slices through tender flesh.
The greyed leaves in the water
turned crimson.

He burst forth from the waters,
skin aglow in the moonlight.
Their embrace burns the droplets
from his slickened skin.

Monday, October 17, 2011

#MenageMonday Challenge – Week Five

this is what I wrote before I wrote the above.


“How the hell?” Julie said stopping the car and looking at her mother sitting in the passenger seat. “A left back there on Fourth Street shouldn’t have taken me to the water streets.”

Her mother gave her a disapproving look. They had to pick-up the package before midnight. Water cars splashed their wake at them. Julie turned on the dome light and looked at the map.

“Crap, I should’ve taken a right on Fourth. The map must’ve been upside down when I looked at it before. I guess there’s nothing left to do but turn around.”

“The water isn’t that deep; can’t you just go up to that Shell Station so I can use the phone?” Julie’s mother growled. “I need to be at the pick-up spot in eight minutes.”

“No mother I can’t, I didn’t bring the water car.” Julie snapped. 

#MenageMonday Challenge – Week Five

Xenogenesis – Home*Auto*Business*Life*Health

She slithered through the flood-waters shooting out her brood. The creature was normally satisfied to release her babies in the green waters of the lake but it was a treat to be able to share her young with the world. Each one was different from the next. The land creatures would be impressed with them.

A woman sat in her car facing the flooded intersection. She needed to get gas and get to work; she could not be late. There was nothing left to do. She eased her foot onto the accelerator and began her trek through the water. 

In the middle of the intersection, the front wheels of the car rose out of the water and thudded down. What the hell was that? She thought and pushed down on the accelerator. Her car would not move forward. It bobbed back and forth in the water like a teeter-totter. She looked down at an angle through the side window. The passenger window shattered. The woman turned her startled face to the noise. The creature’s maw opened revealing thousands on pointed teeth and lunged toward the woman.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Mary in Trouble?

She turned the knob. The clown licked his lips. Mary’s eyebrow pencil rolled across the vanity and fell to the floor. She turned her head, watching it roll toward her. She released the doorknob and squatted down picking the pencil up from the floor. Mary placed the pencil in the cup with make-up brushes and combs. The door swung open.
The Nine of Buckets watched the door move toward him and stepped back. His heart accelerated with anticipation. She would be stepping from the trailer now…any second…now. The clown squinted. Why hadn’t she come out of her trailer? He waited another second. Confused, he eased himself to the door and peered in. Gone. Where was she? He looked around spastically.

Odd Song from Camp

For some reason this odd song from camp popped into my head this morning.

A girl sat on her hammock and strummed her guitar
strummed her guitar
strummed her guitar
A man sat beside her and smoked a cigar
smoked a cigar
smoked a cigar
He told how he loved her but oh how he lied
oh how he lied
oh how he lied
She died of a heartbreak because of his lie
because of his lie
because of his lie
He went to the funeral but just for the ride
just for the ride
just for the ride
A tombstone fell on him and squish squash he died
squish squash he died
squish squash he died
She went up to heaven and flip flop she flied
flip flop she flied
flip flop she flied
He went down below her and sizzled and fried
sizzled and fried
sizzled and fried
The moral of the story is don't tell a lie
or you will sizzle and fry.

What the hell kind of camp did I go to?

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

#HumpDayChallenge Week 18!

Why was it so important to stay in the Presidential Suite? Marvin wondered. He did not care one way or the other about it. Jessica wanted it though more than anything; obviously or he would not be going through this shameless display. Really? A tattoo? He hated them; at least he would not have to see his, unless he looked at his back in the mirror. It could be worse. It could have been a butterfly. He would tolerate this tramp-stamp, with its sapphire-studded accent, knowing that he would be fucking Jessica’s brains out soon in the suite.

Monday, October 10, 2011

#Tuesdaytales The Hook - Week 10

Blood dropped from the heavens. Lady Swan looked up at the sky with a scowl. Her dark lace shawl tried to whip free from her grasp. The sun exploded into a spectrum of red and orange along the horizon. She scanned the ledges. She saw nothing in the trees that barricaded the world away from the manse. Gusty wind sprayed the blood on the windows and the cold grey stones of the tower, drawing demonic faces and sigils.

Father Cahill blessed the manse two days ago. Did he bless or summons? The scullery maid quit after a nefarious shadow molested her in the larder. Lady Swan found her passed out, blood soaked through her skirt, pooling on the floor. She swore it was nothing more than a shadow that raped her.
Two years ago, fire rampaged the church, leaving an empty shell of blackened timbers and stone. The congregation sold the manse to Lady Swan. Soon after moving in, she felt as if someone watched her. She attributed it to the workers. The cook found knives missing. She found them later in inexplicable places with blood smeared across the blades. When she confronted other members of the staff, they would deny knowledge of the knives’ affairs.
Night brought Lady Swan distressing dreams that woke her drenched with sweat. Memories of the dreams teased her for fleeting moments before vanishing from her reach. She spoke to Father Cahill, who immediately performed a cleansing. He chanted and sprinkled Holy Water. He took Lady Swan’s confession. It seemed to work.
A shriek of agony erupted from the building site. Lady Swan and Father Cahill approached the reforming church. They saw that the baptismal font pinned a man to the floor. Blood seeped from under the stone, drenching the floorboards in shimmering crimson. Father Cahill ran to the dying man.
Before finishing Last Rites, the ground trembled. A low echo vibrated in the foundation. A warm, acrid air swirled from the floors, then all was silent. Lady Swan observed, the terror in the workers’ faces. Father Cahill completed his testimony as the life drained from the worker. With much respect for the fallen man, the others rolled the bowl from his crushed body, revealing the mutilated flesh and pulverized bones.
All was quiet for several weeks. Then like a moth dancing around a flame leaves a mark in the light, a shadow passed over the sun’s beams. It did not last more than a moment and was not visually noticed by everyone. However, everyone noticed how it felt. A cold wind blowing on one’s neck is how some described it, while others described it as the absence of joy.
The night terrors returned to Lady Swan vividly. The iron smell of freshly spilled blood filled and never left the air. The scullery maid raped by an unknown entity. Father Cahill apologized to Lady Swan for not being able to rid her of the demon that stalked them, camouflaged in the grey, stone walls of the manse.
The workers fled when the first drop hit the ground. They prayed and kissed their rosaries. They asked forgiveness for their sins. The rain made Lady Swan’s hair sticky. A flash of lightning illuminated the heavy clouds, reducing the maroon cast they held, as the sun set, to puce.
She looked up to the tower; the lightning outlined a figure in the stained glass. She closed that room when she moved in. No one should be up there. The blood falling on her ivory skin, trailed and veined in the pores and fine lines.
Lady Swan returned into the dark comfort of the manse, determined to discover who entered the locked room. She climbed the wrought iron, spiral staircase detailed with fleur-de-lis in the railing. Her footfalls echoed as she made her ascent. She stopped three steps from the top. The door to the room stood open but not enough for her to see the tenant. She advanced to the landing. A tremor shook her hand as she reached for the door.
“I am yours,” a deep voice seduced.
The door swung inward without a sound. She could not see who she faced clearly. Lady Swan stepped forward. Her labia tingled. Her nipples became erect. Her senses knew him immediately. She dreamed him, his power, his finesse. He did not move; he stayed in his position, watching her approach.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. She unbuttoned the top of her bodice, freeing her full bosom from its prison. She pulled down the top of her dress and reached behind her, pulling a cord that held her skirts together. The dress landed on the floor around her, her nakedness glowing in the remaining light.
“I am yours,” Lady Swan repeated.
He stepped forward. His hands pierced her abdomen then he pulled them free of her. Her warmth gushed forward covering him. His enraged member glistened with her liquids. He caught her around the waist as she swooned and penetrated her. He finished his mission and slid limply from her. Lady Swan slumped to the floor. He turned from her.
“Did you not say that you are mine?” She asked.
A smirk glistened on his face and he turned back to face her. She no longer lay slumped among her fouled clothing on the floor. She hovered inches from the ground before him. Her flesh healed. She glowed like the rising sun. He shrank from her. She advanced toward him as he retreated backward.
She stopped, taking him in with her gaze. This man sent to protect from the demons of hell so easily taken by them. He dropped the daggers he held in his hands. Father Cahill looked around quickly. He saw no way out, except the window against his back. He felt for the latch. It popped open and the window swung out into the evening air. Father Cahill lurched backward. His eyes bulged in terror as he watched the window shrink above him.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Hump Day Challenge Week 17

I didn't win the challenge but I made it to the finals.
Tracey's Tavern: Hump Day Challenge Week 17

Here's my entry.
Finding the best horseradish root took longer than Tom expected. He hated the labor of mucking around in the dirt for the best one, but his wife would not accept anything but the best. He was surprised that she said yes when he proposed; never feeling he measured up to her expectations. Each one he pulled from the ground seemed to be more corrupt with defects than the last. Still he dug in the turf that grew up around the plants. He knew he would find the “one” soon and then it would be all Aces for him.