tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36981558627759104392024-03-19T04:09:29.637-06:00The 8th AgeD. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-18116190969613621742014-03-18T02:27:00.000-06:002014-03-18T02:37:37.194-06:00City SoulsAhhhh, it's good to be back in the game. This is for Chuck Wendig's <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/03/14/flash-fiction-challenge-somethingpunk-2/" target="_blank">"Something Punk"</a> flash fiction challenge, in which the topic is about: <br />
a) A world taken over by the technology or fuel source or by humans
(often in an authoritarian role) attempting to control the utilization
and implementation of that tech or resource.<br />
and<br />
b) Characters who represent an anarchic, rebel “punk” vibe in this world.<br />
<br />
I chose Soulpunk. Enjoy below! <br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">The rickety elevator descended in fits and starts, as if it’s spirit were trying to discourage the passengers inside from continuing on their course. It also made a whining, grinding sound that drove Bennett up the wall. His fellow passenger on this little excursion certainly wasn’t helping, either. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Quite the, ah, irony, no?” his associate, Dr. Harold Amon, said. His voice had the kind of nasal quality to it that was instantly annoying. “Power being so, ah, erratic this close to the Source.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">The way Amon said it Bennett could practically hear the capitalization. The reverence. He’d be glad to be out of this place and away from the generators. Ten levels below the City streets, past subbasement after subbasement. “The boiler room.” He’d heard others on the mayor’s staff jokingly call it. He knew they’d never been down here, had never actually seen it with their own eyes. If they had they would’ve gone with a much more gruesome name for it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Truth be told this was only Bennett’s second time down here. He’d despised his trip so much he’d sworn never to come back. But he was back now, on a special assignment from the mayor. And when the mayor said jump you didn’t ask when or how high. You immediately leaped as high as you fucking could and hoped you overshot the mark. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">The elevator’s grinding and shaking slowed down then a second later stopped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Here,” Amon said, and Bennett could’ve sworn the doctor had hissed out the word.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">The elevator doors screeched open and they stepped out onto the metal catwalk above the boiler room. He looked down and there it was. Like something Bosch would paint if he were high on meth and listening to dubstep. A modern day vista of one of Dante’s circles of Hell. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Row after row of people, human beings, hooked up to the machine. All efficiently and evenly spaced apart, with wires and hoses and cables sticking into them. Bennett didn’t know how many were down here. Some things were better off not knowing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Perhaps there was a time when the majority of electrical power came from coal or nuclear plants, hydro dams and perhaps for some other places it even came from ‘clean, renewable’ sources, such as wind or solar. But humanity’s needs had long since overshadowed what was possible to pull in from those technologies. Souls were the only thing that could truly supply the all consuming beast that was the City Grid, now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Isn’t it such a sight?” Dr. Amon asked. Before Bennett could reply he continued on. “So many, many sinners given the chance to put their filthy souls to productive ends. It is truly a miracle, is it not?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Bennett felt like he was going to be sick. Instead he asked, “You told the mayor you had something to present?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Ah. Ah, yes, yes. This way.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">The doctor led him down a metal staircase and onto the main floor. From a closer perspective he saw the main metal tube sticking into the people’s chests: bolts and wires dug deep into their flesh, securing the apparatuses to them. He knew what the tube was, had had it explained to him on his previous trip. The Soultaker, the device that siphoned the contributor’s essence, their soul for lack of a better term, and shunted it away through a near endless warren of wires to refine and transform it into electricity to feed into the City’s electrical grid. It somehow seemed fitting to recall that that the plant was located beneath an old, disused slaughterhouse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">He recognized, too, the catheter and IV tubes shoved into their bodies, but the dozen other cables and cords attached to them he couldn’t name and had no idea to their purpose. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Amon stopped at a girl on the seventh row, nodded his head, as if deciding that she’d make the most appropriate subject. If he had to guees the girl’s age he would’ve put it at early to mid twenties. </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic;">So young, </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">he thought. Her skin was pale and clammy looking, and had a sickly greenish tint to it. Her head was shaved, though he could see faint traces of stubble, signs of a mohawk long gone. Except for the tubes and wires she was completely naked. Bennett found the sight more off-putting than erotic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;"> “Though I could’ve, ah, provided a detailed report or perhaps even a Powerpoint presentation, I thought that physically viewing would prove more revealing. Now if you look at them can you clearly see how the contributors fade on us, Mr. Bennett? How they’re sickening? The charts and diagnostics speak for themselves.” He tapped the small monitor beside the girl, the one with the innumerable and incomprehensible blinking lights and shifting screens. ‘But the ah, physical symptoms are the most telling, yes? To put it bluntly, she and a dozen others like her soon won’t be able to contribute.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“And what do you want the mayor to do about it, Dr. Amon?”Bennett snapped, letting out more of his emotions than he should have. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">If the doctor was at all startled by the outburst he didn’t show it. “I need more souls, Mr. Bennett. More to replace the ones we’ll lose and to provide for the City’s growth. Especially if the mayor hopes to have the riverfront and airport expansions he’s been, ah, longing for.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“We’re already at the limit for those convicted of murder, manslaughter, assault and sex crimes. I don’t see how we can add more, unless you want the mayor to publicly endorse these sorts of crimes so we can prosecute more - - ”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“You misunderstand,” Amon said, cutting him off. “I comprehend that there’s only a certain amount of criminals that can be sent to me, ah, us. However, if he were to, ah, change the parameters for those who apply for the program? Expand it out towards those with drug and burglary convictions?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Amon took Bennett’s look of shock as a sign to continue. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Ahelp to establish the mayor’s commitment to his tough on crime platform. Such a bold move would also, ah, show the bleeding hearts on the city council that they can’t push him around?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Bennett closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic;">Goddammit, he’s fucking right. About all of it. If we play this right we can even guarantee the mayor’s re-election in the fall. </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">He hated himself for thinking it but there was no use burying his head in the sand to try and ignore the facts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“I can make the proposal to the mayor as soon as we get back,” Bennett said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Excellent, Mr Bennett! So, so good to hear.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Bennett took a look over to the girl. She was staring at his shoes, bits of drool and snot drooling out of her nose and mouth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Just one thing before we head back,” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">The doctor cocked his head to the side and waited patiently for him to continue.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Tell me what exactly this one did to get here,” Bennett requested, pointing to the girl. The doctor grabbed a tag hanging off one of the cables. He took out a small table from inside his coat, punched in the number on the tag, then scrunched his eyebrows together as he read off the screen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Armed robbery and, ah, manslaughter. It says she and her boyfriend held up a liquor store then accidentally shot the clerk working there when he was reaching down for a bag to put the money in. Apparently they thought he was reaching for a gun.” The doctor shook his head, reminding Bennett of a grade school teacher he’d had who did the same when marking bad tests. “That’s all there is in the contributors’ database. If you want more I can give you the police case number to follow up?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“No, that won’t be …” Bennett started, then stopped. She was looking up at him, her near pupil-less brown eyes staring right into his face. </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic;">She’s conscious! How? </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Weren’t all the contributors were supposed to be permanently comatose? He looked over to Amon, hoping he saw her reaction as well, but all that was there was the beaming pride of bureaucrat who’d gotten what he wanted. Bennett turned back to the girl but her head had returned to its normal position, her eyes again vacant and staring off at nothing at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Mr. Bennett?” Amon said. “Are you, ah, unwell?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">“Let’s …let’s just go, alright?” Bennet said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">The doctor shrugged, no doubt returning his mind to other, more pressing concerns. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">Back in the elevator, Bennett let out a long sigh of relief, even though the grinding and shaking seemed even worse than before. It didn’t bother him as much though. He had other things to worry over. He knew that tonight, and for perhaps many other nights to come, his sleep would be haunted by the girl’s face as she looked at him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic;">They really ought to come up with a better name than “the boiler room’, </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt;">he thought. Another, more accurate yet more unsettling name came to mind. </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic;">If you were going to be honest, you’d call it the Farm. </span></div>
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<b>If you liked this, why not leave a comment. You can also check out my first self-published novel, <u>The Thornwood Plot</u>, on Amzon <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Thornwood-Plot-Paragon-Wright-ebook/dp/B00IXXARS6" target="_blank">here.</a></b> <br />
<br />D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-12605836683804562982013-10-09T00:14:00.002-06:002013-10-09T00:14:15.223-06:00Schlocktober Reviews: The Legend of Hellhouse<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">And so Schlocktober is once again upon us. Yes, that tenth month of the year where I try to cram in as many horror movies as possible like the last bits of pumpkin pie during Canadian Thanksgiving. Like every other genre movies of the horror persuasion vary widely in quality; some good, most bad. Doesn’t matter, I’ll watch’em all from 70s B-movie ‘sploitation to the all too pointless modern day horror remakes to movies that are actually good fucking entertainment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">So I wanted to start the month off right and watch something decent. Or at least had the possibility to be decent. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">The Legend of Hellhouse,</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> based off of Richard Matheson’s much shorter titled </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Hell House. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Why the added legend bit? Fuck if I know. Unlike half the characters in this flick (literally) I’m not psychic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Before we dive in, just a few forwards. I’ve read the original 1971 novel a few years ago (after a ringing endorsement by Stephen “I-actually-directed-Maximum-Overdrive” King) and I really enjoyed it. It was unique and creepy and although it shared in many of the haunted house troupes it played around with them rather than running them straight. Did I find it scary? No, but then again the list of scary books that actually got to me can be counted using kindergarten math, and I didn’t let it get to me. There’s a kind of blunt and raw edge to the book, a premonition of the culture the 1970s would become famous for (ignoring disco and the invention of soft rock of course). It was violent, but not excessively so, and it never sacrificed atmosphere for cheap scares. Like every good horror story, it invoked the downward spiral, ramping up its intensity until the final, shattering pages. All in all, good stuff. I even pictured how to do it as a movie while I was reading it, until I found out later that such a movie already existed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">It also introduced a fragmented view of the hauntings, as with most of the novel each character tries to understand and contextualize the phenomena around them based on their own prior experiences and paradigms. From the Christain spiritual medium to the parapsychologist skeptic, the characters in the novel have to contend with horror around them but also try to justify and convince everyone else that they have the right answer, the proper truth, to what’s happening around them. Each character is perfectly fleshed out and real, and are given their own singular third person narrative in which we can get the story from their point of view. Awesome stuff really. I wish more horror media tried this rather than just go for the cheap, dumb scares. Le sigh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">That’s all well and good, you might be asking yourself, but I came here to read a horror movie review during masturbation breaks to free porn sites, not a fucking book review. To which I say, touche, let’s get to the movie. And also, really? Bustyasianbeauties.com? Have you no shame man? That’s practically asking for malware.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Anyways, the movie itself is stark, brisk, and in it’s own way, brief. The intro is over and done with in a pace that would make even fast food servers cringe. Dr. Lionel Barrett, a parapsychologist and skeptic meets up with millionaire Reinhard Deutsch, who promises a metric shitload of money if he can prove the existence or nonexistence of life after death. The arena will be Hellhouse, a manor once owned by professional debaucherist Emeric Belasco. Hellhouse say a string of blasphemous rites and general depravity until his own death long ago. Since then the manor has become known as the most haunted place on earth. Barrett’s got a week to prove life after death and he can choose a team of anyone he wants. Also, they are to build him “The Machine” and bring it to him by Wednesday. After that bit of tight exposition is over we’re hit with the opening credits in plain orange script. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">It’s so simple it almost reads like a police report. Just the facts ma’am please, just the facts. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Then we get introduced to the rest of the cast reporting in for duty: Dr. Barrett’s wife, Edith, who spends most of the movie with the kind of wide mouthed expression that’s meant to show innocence but instead conveys a former brain injury; Benjamin Fisher, the only survivor of a group of psychics who tried to investigate the house 20 years previously, and Florcence Tanner, a Christian spiritual medium who veers from brick throwingly annoying to pants shittingly stupid and naive. She’s easily my least favorite character and her (spoilers) death scene’s only flaws were that it didn’t come sooner and that it wasn’t grisly enough. Plus, it kinda reminded me of that scene in </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">The Exorcist </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">where Linda Blair stabs her cooch with a crucifix while shouting, “Let Jesus fuck you!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Yeaaaaahhhhh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">So all these characters are in hellhouse, but what to do? Well, that’s the fun part. And by fun I mean a quic tour of the house (with particular attention to the chapel. Pay attention, this and the dining room are the only important settings in the movie, unlike the book) a few trippy seance scenes with Miss Tanner and Mr. Fisher, and the sounds of the house tempting them. The house plays on their fears in subtle and not so subtle ways. I’ve never been mindfucked by a house, but like a crack high it doesn’t sound a particularly pleasant. Remember kids, just say no to spiritual mindfuckery!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Miss Tanner gets drawn in through her stupidity, somehow convincing herself that Belasco had an illegitimate son named Daniel, and that he along with his father are haunting the house in a concept she calls multiple hauntings. She gets involved with “Daniel” trying to help him to resolve his earthly pathos and fetters and move on. It…doesn’t work as well as she hoped. One early scene has a presence in her room open and shut the door. It… isn’t scary. Or atmospheric. Instead it just comes off like Casper’s older teenage brother Balthazar the Emo Git Ghost. Just the way it’s shot, with a set camera and few cuts, just doesn’t work. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">However, this is probably one of the few shots that don’t work. (The other is a possessed cat that attacks her, which kinda looks like a rejected Monty Python sketch. Maybe one involving the dangers of bad catnip trips or something? I dunno, British comedy can be tricky and weird.) The other shots though are done in the same practiced business style that seems to predominate in the movie. The manor itself is vast yet clausterphobic, like you’re in the body of whale, being slowly digested. The effects are, for the most part, seamless, with an emphasis on practical effects that seem less dated now then movies that came out only ten years ago (*cough* that shitty remake of </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">The Haunting</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> *cough*). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The actors themselves are fine and up to the task, although it’s a little jarring that they’re all British while the novel takes place in America with Americans. Even ——, who plays Miss Tanner, does a good job with what she has and I have no beef with her. I just hate how she was adapted from the book. In fact, every character except for Ben Fisher seems to get the shaft here, with the same brisk pace that carries the plot forward in tsunami like fashion also fails to dwell on the characters and make them as three dimensional as they were in the books. Ah well, c’est la vie I guess. I’ll stop bitching about how the movie compares to the book. At least for now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">What the movie does get right is the clash between Dr. Barrett and Miss Florence, between traditional spiritualism (albeit with a Christian bent) and modern science parapsychology. This was at a time when parapsychology still mostly existed within the scientific world and not completely outside of it as it mostly does today. ESP, mind control, clairvoyence and astral projection were still possibilities within science at that time. The film opens with a quote from an actual clarivoyent, who claims that although the events in the movie are fiction that all of the phenomena are based on real world facts. Man, you never see that stuff anymore. The only people who seriously believe in that stuff are your girlfriend when she’s checking out her horoscope and that cousin you have, y’know, the one who believed in the Mayan 2012 Apocalypse and who’s since moved onto to some half baked notion of Chakras. Yeah, that one. Doesn’t he still owe you twenty bucks or something? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Ahem, getting back to topic the whole modern versus mystic theme, as well as the other themes of individual perceptions battling it out, is for the most part carried faithfully over from the book. As for the two “side characters” (who’re also, spoilers, the only ones to survive) Fisher and Edith, they’re mostly about survival. They want to either take the money and run in Fisher’s case, or make sure everyone survives, with Edith. Unfortunately, again, they just aren’t handled as well as they could be, so while Fisher’s survivor guilt is kept mostly in tact Edith just becomes a very one note character, a nurturing super-ego while she’s conscious but a ravening, lusty super slut that throws herself at anything with a pulse when the house starts to influence her. It’s the ol’ Madonna-whore complex used in with less subtlety than a Batman villain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">And speaking of possession, that’s the one big appeal of this movie. Although it’s a little less new and exciting than it was then, the idea of a haunted house influencing and possessing people was a really cool idea. Stephen King basically admitted he’d used the idea for </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">The Shining</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">, and it shows. The house likes mind fucking the people who’re in it, and uses their own vices and, indeed, paradigms against them. You’re left wondering if the conflicts between the characters wouldn’t have been so great if not for the house’s malign supernatural influence. You can’t help at the end feeling like if they’d been able to compromise and work together they wouldn’t have ended up as they did. Like Congress but half as scary really. And if that were the case we wouldn’t have had a very good movie now would we? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">While I’ve provided plenty of spoilers and talked a lot of shit about this movie, but I still encourage people to see it, if for no other reason than it’s one of the old school horror movies that put atmosphere over body count. And for the fact that it didn’t feel the need to provide 72 1/2 beginnings and the obligatory fake out ending. God I hate that shit. </span></div>
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D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-55453250628621369342012-10-20T00:42:00.002-06:002012-10-20T00:42:31.643-06:00Schlocktober Reviews: Insidious<b><br /></b><br /><i><b>Insidious</b></i><br /><br />Insidious came out about a year ago, and I'd heard good things about it. It didn't sound like something I'd see in theatres (most horror movies are total renters for me) but the buzz around it had me want to check it out. Until, that is, I found out that it was by Leigh Wennell and James Wan, the same guys who did the Saw series. Then my interest fell into the realm somewhere between "meh" and "fuck this movie in its virgin ass with a 17'' dildo". <br /><br />As you can probably tell, I'm not a fan of the Saw movies Or the Hostel movies either. Not because I object to TorturePorn . (Let's face it, my favorite horror movies are the 70s Dario Argento films, probably the closest thing to a definitive example of the subgenre you could ever find.) It's just that I consider them really poorly done. All quick cuts, and twisting angles straight out of a music video. In fact, quick tangent to already occuring tangent, Nine Inch Nails did a series of banned-from-TV videos featuring mechanized traps tearing into people back in the 90s. So the novelty isn't really there for me, leaving just a bunch of increasingly over the top and ridiculous plot twists that strain credulity to far beyond the breaking point. But I digress. <br /><br />But over the last week I've heard some good things about Sinister, the new film by them, and a lot of the stuff involved favorable comparisons to Insidious. So, being the diligent and dilletante horror fan that I am, I put aside my compunctions and decide to finally watch the damn thing. And the damnedest part of the damned thing is, it's not bad. <br /><br />Actually, its really rather good. <br /><br />The film pics up with very familar horror trope as the Lambert family moves into a new house. On the onset they're fairly normal; the dad Josh (played by Patrick Wilson) is a teacher while the Renai (played by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3Fs5x8Sf-4">Rose "I'm Talkin' bout my Asshole" Byrne</a>), is a stay at home mom who's also on her piano compositions. The kids, middle child Foster, baby , and oldest Dalton don't come off as schmaltzy, or smartasses or fake. They, like the rest of the family, come off as normal, dare I say even likeable. You find yourself actually caring about these people, which makes it all the more traumatic when shit goes down later. <br /><br />We're introduced to the Lamberts in a hectic morning scene that everybody can relate to. The baby's crying, the kids are fighting, Josh's rushing off to work and Renai's trying to keep seem manner of order and unpack at the same time. Amidst all this is the slow build up signs that something is not right with the house. Objects go missing or mysteriously fall over. Strange soft whispers are heard vaguely from far away. The thing is though, that the characters are all obviously busy that their dismissal or ignorance of these things doesn't come off as stupid, but understandable, even rational. <br /><br />All this changes one night when Dalton, exploring the attic, screams and falls off a ladder, bumping his head. Renai consoles him and scolds him for being where she shouldn't belong, then puts him to bed. That night he falls into a coma. The doctor's can't explain what's happening or what caused this. It's a mystery that looms over the family as they now take care of their torpored son. It's a tribute to both the actors and the material that these scenes resonate on an emotional level, and you actually care about these people in their moments of grief and anguish and resilience. You sympathize as they go through this tragedy. (Remember the last time you did that with a horror movie made in the last ten years? No? Yeah I didn't think so.)<br /> <br />Throughout this first section of the family the horror is all low-key, events happening at the peripheral of the narrative that slowly build up the eerieness bit by bit. Soon creepy, incoherent whispers can be heard over the baby monitor. While Renai's speaking with Foster he off-handedly asks if they can keep the door closed; when she asks him why he says that he doesn't like when Dalton walks around at night. There's even a very effective jump scare (a la <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnTk4lFYaVw">Ghostwatch</a>) where a stranger's face as a creepy face is seen in the nursery room window. The house security alarm goes off in the dead of night, Josh investigates, finding the front door wide open. He checks the house. No one else is there. Renai is attacked by a pale dark clad man in her bedroom and when he disappears she rushes to Dalton's bed, finding a bloody imprint of a hand upon the sheets. <br /><br />Desperate, she resorts to something drastic, something that barely any other horror movie protagonist has ever tried before: she pleads with her husband to move to a different house. And equally as strange and bizarre, he listens. <br /><br />It's a bit of common sense that seems self-evident in any other genre but it really shows how smart the filmmakers are here. (Yes, hell has surely frozen over cause I'm praising the makers of Saw. Bite me.) These guys have obviously seen a lot of horror movies, the know the genres, and there's ample evidence here that they've seen the classics and know the pifalls and cliches. More importantly though, they actually try to subvert the common tropes and not in a "if we reference them as they're happening it makes them not as cliche" type of way as with the Scream franchise. (Surprisingly not a fan of those movies either but let's save that for another time shall we?) No, these are smart guys trying to do something comfortably similar but noticeably different in the long stagnant horror genre. They approach the events in a way that makes sense, and for the most part it shows. <br /><br />However the character's genre saviness here is misplaced Moving, as you've no doubt guessed, doesn't work. It'd be a short, anticlimatic film if that was all it took. No the move to a different house happens around the half-way mark, for we're not dealing with a simple case of a haunted house. The other half of the movie contains what can only be described as all manner of fucked up shit, of which I can provide but a sampling. Child ghosts. Poltergeists. Psychics. Seances. Astral projections. Demons. Secret long buried back stories. And to top it off a spiritual trip to a werid Otherworld called the Further that's part Silent Hill and part John Carpenter's The Fog. Oh yeah and it also contains the creepiest picture drawing scene this side of Dorian Gray. (Literary references in a horror movie review for the win! Yes kiddies there's more to Schlocktober reviews than profanity, YouTube clips and parentheses.)<br /><br />The second half of the movie is most definitely the payoff to the slowly building eerie from before. It goes into a controlled overdrive of psychotic monstrosity and dread with all the stopping power of a mack truck. There's more than enough well executed ideas here to last ten horror movies, and even when they're not 100% original they're still very well executed...for the most part. The sheer volume of events in the last half bit seems almost as if the filmmakers are throwing tons of shit against the wall and seeing what sticks. Some of it falters, either through complete ridiculousness or just not being given proper time to fully develop. For instance, there's a quick, very subtle scene that shows not only how a few of the ghosts perished but also hints that this was what created the strange dark gateway in the old house that began the whole mess. But this is only hinted, never revealed outright and it's a shame that more time wasn't spent on this idea. However there's more that works here than doesn't and the final climatic battle for young Dalton's soul is both suitably epic and fittingly terrifying. <br /><br />This is a great film for any fan of the horror genre, especially those who are sick of the endless remakes and crappy torture porn iterations. It's original, it's fun and at times it's genuinely scary to boot. I only wish Wennel and Wan would work this into a movie series instead of the Saw films. But if wishes were fishes, I'd ...be a fisherman or some shit? Wait that metaphor doesn't work at all. Ah fuck it. I need a drink. See ya next time. D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-88425001126158528622012-06-18T00:05:00.003-06:002012-06-18T00:05:52.845-06:00Liver of DarknessIt all begins with a call that comes in at six. It's Wall's on the other end, shitfaced. He tells me I've got my wish granted, we're going out drinking tonight. Under my breath I curse whatever malevolent genie that pulled this one off. Wall goes on, saying how he was supposed to hang out with his girlfriend tonight but got hammered with some good ol'boys from his classes instead. He'd called his girlfriend two hours late and told her the good news. She told him to go fuck himself and hung up. Smart girl, can't blame her really.<br />
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He tells me he's headed to Blacklight, and that I should be there too. I've seen and done this all before, I know exactly how this'll end and here's the hint: not well. I must have early onset dementia cause I actually agree to meet him there at eleven. That gives me a few hours to get ready and back out if I want to. I won't though.<br />
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An hour or two later I call Jay and ask him if he wants to join in on the “adventure”. He's hanging out with his girlfriend and tells me he's gonna sit this one out. Probably the smartest move that's gonna be made tonight. He wishes me luck though which is good cause luck is the only thing on my side right now. Looks like I'm flying solo for this one.<br />
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I leave around ten to hoof it downtown. By the time I get there it's ten-thirty, half an hour too early. This is a deadly sin among the night fiends, and the penance is desertion in downtown desolation. I head into Coopers, the first and last resort of drinking sanity. The usual suspects of the six to eleven run are here; middle-aged hipster wannabes drinking what passes for Cosmos, clingy cougars getting their drink on before the arrival of their prey, and of course those sad unfortunates who can actually stomach the in-house food and come back every week asking and paying for more. Out of all of them I recognize no one so I head up to the bar and order beer, hoping it'll dull the headache I can already tell is coming. I cozy up to a side table facing both the entrance and the TV. I pretend I'm on the wait for someone or that I give a shit about the Raptors game that's playing. <br />
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The former is technically true and after three beer the latter's coming as close to being true as it's ever going to get. Finally tired of being the single guy creeper in the bar (no one ever wants to be stuck being that asshole) I say fuck it and head out into the cold.<br />
I walk the night, spin rota fortuna and hope it lands on a decent bar. A few blocks away I end up at The Lounge, not a bad spot really if you're not crippeled by clausterphobia. In some of the more cramped parts of this place even liliputians and Gary Coleman would be hard pressed to maintain elbow room. I forget what I order or if I even order something at all, but the bartender reaches down and hands me a beer. Beer in hand, I make my way over to where the band is playing. I didn't catch their name, hardly ever do, but their music's good, even tempoed with undercurrents of jazz and funk. The small crowd gathered in front sways back and forth to the music like millenial flower children, all calm smiles and gentle rocking.<br />
I don't know anyone here but it's my kinda scene all the same. No overblown egos in this place, that's for sure. In fact it's a damn fine place to lose your ego, just flow free with the music and forget your worries.<br />
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I look over to the base player, see his eyes wired open and staring at the crowd like he doesn't reallly see us. He's on something, has to be, but that doesn't affect his playing bass. He wails on it like it's an actual part of him, just a third arm or leg, it's hard wired into his soul even. During the last winding end of a song his get even bigger, take on a reverent gleam. Whatever Crystal Dragon Jesus this guy is praying to it can only be worshipped through song. Beside him to the left the keyboardist effortlessly switches instruements, changes it up to a baritone sax. Her deft fingers wring from it a sweet sounding cacaphony making all of us, even me, groove and sway, willing victims to the muses' paramours.<br />
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All of a sudden the siren songs ends, and the lead singer pimps his new CD, saying it'll be out in April, not February since February's already past. The band start to pack up and the drone of conversation moves it's way from the back and filters all over the bar. I'm once more a sailor with wax in his ears, and I finish my beer and decide to leave. I ask the guy at the door if I need a stamp to get back in. He tells me not to worry, he'll remember my face. I'm not sure if that's a comfort as I descend the stairs and head out into the cold once again.<br />
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By now Coopers has picked up and there's a band playing too. The “band” turns out to be one guy playing techno on a keyboad. He plays the stuff Moby would still be playing if he were still playing. It's fast paced beats that hint at Soul. The crowd seems to like it, nodding their heads as if giving their consent.<br />
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I pour a few more beers into me (tha's what now, six, seven?) before I notice her. A short but classy skirt shows off her flannel leotard clad legs. Cute tiny nose on a pretty face that's framed by curly brown hair that has just a tint of orange. She's talking with her friends for a bit before they go over to the bar for drinks leaving her alone to dance to the music. She dances real classy too, grooving her hips from side to side in tune with the music. Some part of me thinks she's probably a pretty cool chick, says to go over and say hi. I know I should, I really should but my body won't respond. Can't respond it seems.<br />
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The next song, I figure. I'll go over and introduce myself after the next song. The next song comes and goes, making me a liar. Self-deception is warmly reassuring sometimes as I promise myself I just need another drink in hand before I try anything. Yeah, right.<br />
In between the guy playing techno tells us that Apple is coming out with an update to OS X. He says that in keeping with the cat motif they're naming it Pussy. He puts on a cat mask, meows into the mike and then gets back to business. He laces the next song with purrs and mews, I half expect him to turn to the side and cough up a hairball. The curly hair girl goes over to the bar for a drink and I decide to do something incredibly stupid. Instead of going right, over to the bar, I go across the street instead and pay five bucks to get into Blacklight.<br />
Inside is just what I expected. There's no style here, no flair, just some jacked up blacklight and the lowest common denominator put up for display everywhere you look. It's one big dance floor, a gradiated altar to the false pop idols that are the newest flavor for the next fifteen minutes of infamy. I scan the crowd for Wall, see nothing more than a chorus of flesh scantily covered in black tank tops and low riding jeans. I wander around, trying not to upset the committed bacchannal. I bump into Wall's friend Paul, who stares at me through one half-open eye like a deer in perpetual headlights. He seems to recognize me, but doesn't know from where until I ask where Wall is.<br />
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He waves vaguely over to the flesh pit near the bathrooms. “Over there,” he slurs.<br />
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“Are you sure?” I ask, carefully, not wanting to piss him off since he sometimes has a mean fucking temper. I've heard the stories. “I didn't see him when I passed by.”<br />
<br />
“No, naw,” he replies, waving again like he thinks I didn't get it the first time. “Wall's over there.”<br />
<br />
I shrug and head where he's pointing. I run into a guy I haven't seen for over two years and barely even remember. We talk about women for a bit when his face goes blank and motions to look behind me. A girl's on the table in the back, dancing for everyone to see. She gyrates slowly, suggesting everything as she lifts her arms above her. She reminds me of a serpent, of a vampire, of a stripper, of all three. She gathers a crowd (including a few bouncers) around the table to watch her, not surprisingly it's mostly men. It's a separate kingdom from the rest of the bar, with herself as the obvious Queen. She is Circe, and those gathered round are her swine.<br />
<br />
I turn around and throw myself back into the crowd. I look around the pit and try to take it all in. I'm not going to remember it all of this, there's too much beer misting it all up. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see someone swallowed and devoured whole into the crowd. To my left is a guy and a girl grinding on the dance floor, the guy has one hand down the front of her pants while the other reahces up to grope her tits. Freaked out I get the fuck out, emerging out of the pit somewhere near the bar and run into Chris and Ashley. I catch my breath while we exchange drunken pleasantries, then I tell them they're too good for this place. It's true, they're good people and shouldn't have to slum it at the Blacklight. I take my own advice and leave. I remember that the second band should be starting up at Cooper's and I still have my stamp. I get in the doors and head to the Men's Room. Who I meet in there takes me completely by surprise.<br />
I honestly didn't expect to meet him tonight, not since the Blacklight, perhaps even sometime before then. But here he is, the man himself, in the flesh. I almost call him Kurtz when I greet him.<br />
<br />
“Wassup dawg?” he greets me back. He goes for the high five but his alcohol intake won't let him connect it. He leans on the corner then laughs maniacally, like that's the funnies shit in the world. He asks me how my night is but doesn't let me finish (or even start) before he launching into his own alcoholic exploits. By the time he's gotten to ten o'clock in his sage I'm almost impressed that his liver hasn't shut down already. He doesn't finish, stops right in mid sentence when he sees Greg and runs over to him. He sneaks up behind him like you can only do in a noisy bar then latches onto his leg and starts mock humping it. Greg looks confused and pissed til he turns around and sees who it is.<br />
<br />
“You crazy motherfucker,”Greg smiles. “How you been?”<br />
Greg treats it like it's the most natural greeting in the world. That's the charm of Wall, I guess. It's a natural charisma that let's damn near everything he does slide. He'd be a great politician, one of the radical kind I'm sure.<br />
<br />
We all watch the new band play for a bit, they're not half bad but not exactly good either. We talk a bit catching up, and then Wall tells me he's going over to the Blacklight while Greg is nowhere in sight. I stay, my decision already made for me when the girl with the Curly hair comes downstairs and starts dancing again. I want to go over, all I need to do is take five steps to the left, but my muscles are atrophied and my bones are turned to Jell-O.<br />
<br />
Time speeds up, goes lightspeed: last call flies past, the band stops playing and the lights turn on with full intensity, all in the space of an eyeblink it feels like. There's no time anymore, no time left. We're all herded outside, and I catch Wall outside the Blacklight.<br />
<br />
“I knew you'd come back here,” he says. We start walking through the mixed crowd that's spilled outside onto the streets, pass by faces in the crowd that are only half-remembered. We're both too poor to spring for a cab ride, so we hoof it. Wall stumbles on the way home, once then twice then too many to count. Each time I help him back to his feet. We get to his place and he invites me inside for greasy after bar snacks. It takes him five minutes to get the key in the door, and his after party plans crumble when he does, straight onto the floor. I try to help him to his feet for the last time tonight but he waves me off mumbling something I don't quite catch. I'd like to believe it was “...the horror” but I severely doubt it. <br />
<br />
I call a cab and leave and in the back of the cab I lean back, try to reflect on tonight's events.<br />
<br />
I can't though; everytime I try my mind goes back to think of a short classy skirt and curly brown hair with just a tint of orange.D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-23593465857402450202012-06-08T04:57:00.000-06:002012-06-08T04:57:05.125-06:00Beyond the Dragon Doors<i>It started off as a medieval fantasy version of <u>Waiting for Godot</u> set in the realm of the 8th Age. I'm not really sure if the finished product bears that description anymore. As always you can find the other great entries to this week's Flash Fiction Challenge at Chuck Wendig's <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/06/01/flash-fiction-challenge-eight-random-words/">terribleminds. </a></i><br />
<i>Feel free to leave a comment and please to enjoy!</i><br />
<br />
<br />
In the year of the Prophet Giames, 1282<br />
<br />
In the fortress-city of Rhea, a bastion of Prizraki strength in the increasingly hostile and rebellious north of Secunda, lies the Palace of the Conclave. Deep within this palace, past many guards and barricades, is a room where the highest Prizraki Lords dwelling on the Second Continent meet twice a year to direct the course of their great Crusade against the false prophet and his legion of followers. These wise lords of a foreign empire sit at the ancient Stone Kings Table in a room locked and protected by the Dragon Gates, large metal and stone doors that bore the relief of a great dragon upon them. There, in their consummate and communal wisdom, advise Grand Prince Pietrov IV, the Voivode of Voivodes, of how best to wage his war for control of Secunda. That is how the heralds and the priests of the Prizraki Empire tell it. Of course there are rumors to the contrary. <br />
<br />
"He's taking his sweet damned time," Prince Rivka said aloud, to everyone and no one in particular. The other gathered lords did their best to ignore his complaining. They were well used to the Prince's temerment, though they mostly tolerated it because he was the third son of the emperor and cousin to the Grand Prince. "He's been keeping us waiting for hours now, with no word or messenger to tell us how long he will continue to be." <br />
<br />
"I'm starting to believe our great Voivode General forgets we are his peers,"Rivka continued, "and not some motley band of common foot soldiers under his command."<br />
<br />
"He'd be lucky if we were under his command," Grand Baron Zoktair snorted. Out of all of them, the Baron had spent the least amount of time in Secunda and had the greatest amount of contempt for the people, culture and traditions there. He hadn't even bothered to learn the local languages, not even the common dialects. "I wouldn't be surprised if half the Northern Legion were infected by the heresy already. Most of them aren't even Prizraki, but baseborn local shits.Can't know where their loyalty lies."<br />
<br />
"A rusty saw is of no use to the woodsmen," High Exarch Tzesarvic piped in. No one was certain if he was quoting scripture or not. <br />
<br />
"We will not hold Secunda if we continue like this," Baroness Elena said. She was Pietrov's second wife and half his age, but that did not mean she was meek. She was as fierce as her husband when it came to matters of the realm. "The breakdown of the rebels alliance was pure luck, one we might not get again. We need to consolidate our gains and try to win back the support of the people."<br />
<br />
"Agreed," Baron Gubanov said. Although born across the sea in Prima, Gubanov had grown up among the people of Secunda. He felt he knew them better than anyone at the Conclave, even the It's time we stop bullying the local people here and stop those decrees that are clearly not working."<br />
<br />
"What are you suggesting then?" Zoktair spat, pointing his finger at Gubanov like it was a flaming sword. "That we end the pogrom? Let the heretics continue to mock the Almighty with their debaucherous ways? Perhaps we should all put down our swords and embrace them and the rest of the rebels like long lost brothers and sons?"<br />
<br />
"Blasphemy," the High Exarch shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. "Pure and utter blasphemy. I will not hear it."<br />
<br />
"The plan has some merit," Elena said calmly. "Back in the homeland we let the pagans on the fringes of the Empire live their lives in peace so long as they bend the knee and give oaths of loyalty to the Emperor. Why couldn't the same be done here?"<br />
<br />
"Good lady, I apologize but I fear your sex must be getting the better of your intellect," Tzesarvic said, shaking his head. "To be shown the truth of creation and to firmly deny it as the heretics have done is the greatest sin possible. The fact that they've turned their backs on the Esher and follow the flashy words and empty promises of a false prophet is akin to spitting in the face of God Himself. No tolerance or mercy can be given here."<br />
<br />
"I'm not certain of God, but I know you're doing a wonderful job of spitting in our faces," Rivka said. He made a show of wiping his face with his sleeve. <br />
<br />
"You insolent little --- if you weren't the son of..."<br />
<br />
"But I am old priest and you had damn well remember it. My father is not a young man and when he dies..."<br />
<br />
"When he dies one of your many brothers will be emperor," Zoktair interrupted. "Not you."<br />
<br />
"You'd better pray that's true Baron for if I do become emperor my first act will be cutting off your fat pompous head and mounting it on a pike in my dining room."<br />
<br />
"Do you really think I'm afraid of you, boy?" Zoktair said, getting to his feet. "You, who can't even hunt down a pack of fucking rebels in the woods and you think you can take me on? I'll strangle the life out of you first you piss-ant little..."<br />
<br />
"Gentle lords enough," Gubanov said, his voice loud enough to echo in the chambers. "This bickering is pointless. Every time this council convenes we do nothing but argue over petty strifes. I shouldn't have to remind you that we may still lose this war, yet we continue to squabble like children. If it weren't for the Voivode..."<br />
<br />
"Who is still not here," Rivka said. <br />
<br />
"Thank you, o great oracle" Zoktair said. "Please, regale us with more of your wisdom. Does the sun really rise in the east and set in the west? Does bathwater really clean one's stink? Pah! If you were as good at catching rebels as you were bandying about and wasting our time this war would've been won long ago."<br />
<br />
Rivka's rebuttal was cut off by the booming sound of the dragon doors opening. The lords turned to look, expecting to see the large, glaring form of the Voivode framed against the doorway. Instead they were met with the near cowering form of an army messenger, tired and out of breath. <br />
<br />
"My lords..." he wheezed. <br />
<br />
"Yes, what is it boy?" Rivka growled. "Spit out your damned message already. No doubt news that my dear cousin shall not grace us with his presence for yet another day.<br />
<br />
"Stop bullying him Rivka," Elena scolded. "Give the boy a chance to catch his breath and speak."<br />
<br />
"It's the Voivode, my lords," the messenger said. "He...he's..."<br />
<br />
"Yes?" Gubanov said. He could feel his heart racing and the small dark chill up his spine that heralds dark news.<br />
<br />
"He's dead my lords. Felled in a rebel ambush on the road to Rhea."<br />
<br />
The messenger continued on, filling in the details of the Voivode's death to the demanding lords.. But Gubanov didn't listen. He couldn't. He could only look about the room, wondering what the future held in store now. Pietrov's son was still a babe. One of them would have to become Regent until he came of age and he knew the Conclave would not survive the decision. He wondered if Prizrak itself could. Before he knew it he was walking past the lords, past the messenger and past the dragon doors, into the long winding hallway of the palace. He was halfway down the first corridor when he heard the real shouting and yelling begin.D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-18323078261543448902012-05-16T12:23:00.000-06:002012-05-16T12:23:10.317-06:00Cape Noire<i>As per usual, another week another flashfiction. This one's based on pulp stories, and from what I've read over at<a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/05/11/flash-fiction-challenge-over-the-top-pulp-insanity/"> terribleminds</a></i> <i>so far it might be a little held-back. Welcome to 1940s detective stories mixed with superheros. Please to enjoy!</i><br /><br /> "Dame's in your office," my partner and sometimes secretary Matt tells me the second I walk into the door. "Quite the looker too, if your into her kind."<br /> He gives me a wink and stretches out his bum leg onto his desk. I know by his manner that I'll need to brace myself for this one. When I open the door though I still get the shock of my life. <br /> "Good morning, Mr. Kurtz" she says. Her voice is like honeyed poison. Sweet and deadly at the same time. "I've a problem on my hands and I believe you're the right man to solve it for me."<br /> She was black-haired, blue eyed and trouble all over with a capital T. In fact the T was blazoned in red across her black spandex suit. Madamme Tarantula, supervilliness extraordinaire. Instinctively I reach for my piece. I'm not a fan of capes, in fact you could say I hate their guts on general principle, but I like their enemies even worse. Especially the dame ones. <br /> She smiles, puts up her hands. "You won't need that, Mr. Kurtz, I assure you. I'm merely here to solicit your services in a matter that's of the utmost importance to me."<br /> "Maybe I ain't interested, lady," I tell her. "Maybe I don't wanna get in between a cape fight. Maybe I don't need that kinda trouble."<br /> "I can make it worth your while," she purrs. She reaches into her utility belt, brings out a wad of cash that's bigger than I've seen in longer than I care to admit. Matt whistles from outside. I shut the door and take a seat across from her. I wave my hand, to let her know I'm interested and listening. I don't need to though. She already knows she's got my attention. <br /> "I need you to find out who killed a man."<br /> 'Ever tried the police?" I ask sarcastically. She must not be a fan of my humor by the mean look she shoots me, her eyes shining out with fury underneath that domino mask of hers. I would say if looks could kill but for all I know she might be able to do that kinda thing. <br /> "Or that cpae you arch," I offer up quick. "Dark Sentinel. Supposed to be the world's greatest detective. I'm sure he..."<br /> "Whose murder do you think I'm trying to solve," she says. It ain't a question.<br /> I lean forward in my chair. Now she's reallly got my attention.<br /> "I didn't read... it wasn't in the newspapers..."<br /> "Of course they couldn't print it yet. The cops haven't even found the body."<br /> "So how do you know he's dead?"<br /> "I know."<br /> "Woman's intuition?" I ask.<br /> "Something like that." She shrugs, then smiles. "A little birdie told me."<br /> I'm sure my mouth's gaping open like some dumb rube while I clue in. "The sidekick? What's his name ...Sparrow?"<br /> She slips a piece of paper across my desk. "Here's where he's holed up. I wouldn't tell him who sent you, if I were you."<br /> She leaves the wad of cash on my desk as she gets up to leave. "For expenses," she explains.<br /> "Wait," I say, maybe a bit too loud. She cranes her neck to the side, gives me a backwards glance. <br /> "Why? I mean, why are you doing this? You and the Dark Sentinel, you two were enemies though right? Arches? Ain't it better for you now that he's dead? Why pay me to find out who killed him?"<br /> She turns around, tips her head and looks me straight in the eye. I've seen my share of crazy scary things from my time as a marine in the war and my brief time on the force. So when I say that the look on Madame Tarantula face is the scariest, most terrifying thing I've seen in my life you can be damn sure I mean it."<br /> "You get to know a person when you arch them, Mr. Kurtz. What they'll do, what they won't do. How far theyll go to stop you when they think you need stopping. How they think and how they feel. You do it long enough it gets to a place that's beyond love, beyond hate. It's someting more."<br /> She's moved closer to me, right in my face. I've backed up while she's talking, til my back's pressed up against the wall. It's an apt metaphor part of me thinks. <br /> "I'm a very selfish woman, as you can imagine.I get very upset when someone takes things away from me even trivial, little things. Can you imagine how I feel when somebody takes something that important away from me?"<br /> I swallow."Uh, pretty upset?"<br /> She pats my cheek and nods. She saunters out of the office, and it's only when I hear the door slam shut that I realize I've got the shakes and I'm sweating like a junkie too long without his hop. <br /> Instinctively I pour myself a drink and when that one's gone I pour myself two more. It's gonna be one of those weeks, I can tell. D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-32576478945544948422012-05-04T01:54:00.002-06:002012-05-04T01:54:18.503-06:00Operation World Destroying Delirium<i>After you read this one you should definitely check out the other entries for <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/04/27/flash-fiction-challenge-random-title-generation/">random title generation.</a></i> <i>Of course it's at the blog of Mr. Chuck Wendig. As always please to enjoy and don't be shy to leave some comments. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
In the deep desert the sky at night the sky is like an ocean of black and becomes a twin to the dark sand below. On a bleak cold night in May the desolation was broken by a group of tents. A man walks out of tent and stretches. He looks all the world like somebody shaved a chimp and stuck it in marine fatigues. <br /> <br /> He scratches his armpit and asks, "Hw the hell do I get out of this chicken shit outfit?"<br /> <br /> Another soldier, looking slightly less simian, pokes his head out of another tent. "When you learn to shut the fuck up Pendleton."<br /> <br /> "I'm serious Sarge what'n the hell are we doing out here?"<br /> <br /> Voices from the other tents chime in. "Yeah Sarge, c'mon. We got a right to know."<br /> <br /> Sarge rubs his bald jar head as he thinks long and hard about the appropriate responses from shouting shut the fuck again to firing off a few M16 rounds in their general direction. He realizes that nothing less than the gospel truth would only encourage em and make 'em all even more annoying. He sighes at this small epiphany. This is what his life has become.<br /> <br /> "The boys upstairs are wantin' to do a field test of some new chemical. Some sorta black ops, top secret shit. We're here to guard the west flank, make sure nobody disturbs em during the test."<br /> <br /> The rest of the squad piles out of their tents. They look at each other for a second before Pvt. Ramirez his arm in the air. <br /> <br /> "What kinda chemicals we talkin' bout here Sarge?" he asks. <br /> <br /> Sarge sighs. He knows his boys well enough to know what's coming.<br /> <br /> "It's a weaponized hallucinogen," he says. It only takes a second for the hoots, hollers and clapping to start.<br /> <br /> "Man in civie life you gotta pay fifteen bucks a hit for that," Pendleton laughs. "Army life sometimes man."<br /> <br /> "This ain't no flower power hippie trip, Pendleton. This is the deep shit. It's completely colorless and odorless. Full on auditory-visual-tactile hallucinations, vomiting, seizures, muscles spasms, and temporary tourettes. If you're actually stupid enough to pay for this shit, then you're a bigger potato bug than I thought."<br /> <br /> Everyone looks at him. He's usually better at berating them. Sarge doesn't really notice though. He's too busy staring at his hands, how they've balloned out to twice their size. <br /> <br /> "Sarge?" he hears Pendleton asks. He looks up sees his squad as long wavy things that remind him of drunken poplars. He laughs. He can't stop himself. <br /> <br /> Suddenly it sounds like he's in a fucking zoo. The boys around him who only looked like chimps before are all shapechanging into simians, their bodies twisting about as they scream and shout. Seven ape faces look to stare at him, their alpha male, their leader. He must reassert his authority, become the dominant monkey. He picks up a wrench, and smacks the closest chimp. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it's Pendleton he's just struck. All around him are the sounds of chaos. <br /> <br /> "Oh my fuck it's the demons! The demons are attacking us!"<br /> <br /> "The enemy! It's al-Queda, they're raining down hell!"<br /> <br /> "Oh space Jesus, save me from the Saurians! Save us from the Greys!"<br /> <br /> Sarge doesn't understand what's happening, he can't really. But he knows that no one else is challenging his authority. His position as Alpha is secure. A feeling of contentedness washes through him before he notices he's shaking all over. He only has a few seconds before his body betrays him and he tumbles to the ground, shaking and screaming. He only barely notices the rest of them follow suite. <br /> <br /> Some time later the whoop-whoop-whoop of helicopter blades swirls in from above. Four men drop out of the chopper. Wearing black body armor and gas masks they look all the world like malicious spectres. They pivot about, guns drawn and quickly assess that the area's secure. A squad of spasming marines near comatose on the ground is absolutely no threat. <br /> <br /> "Echo team to base, all tangos are down. Repeat, all tangos are down. Beta test is a success."<i><br /></i>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-85451556107730744592012-02-02T11:00:00.001-07:002012-02-02T11:55:49.144-07:00Cloak and Dagger in the Royal City<i>After a longer hiatus than I would've liked, I'm back to semi-regular updates on the site. The story below is my entry for this <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/01/27/flash-fiction-challenge-the-present-tense/">week's</a> Chuck Wendig flashfiction challenge, which challenged writers to pen stories completely in the present tense. This entry is set in the world of the Eighth Age, a low fantasy setting where spies and assassin's play just as large a role as mages and kings in the power struggles of the land. You can also check out <a href="http://8thage.blogspot.com/2011/08/last-of-silver-brotherhood.html">The Last of the Silver Brotherhood</a>, another story set in the Eighth Age. </i><br />
<i>As always please to enjoy and make sure to read the other entries for this week's challenge. </i><br />
<br />
It's nighttime in the city of Sceptre. Thick black clouds conceal the moon and stars. The crackle cry of thunder rings out in the night and barely a second later the rain flooded down like a vast sea is spilling out of the heavens above. The sounds of the storm, echoing through the cramped city streets, can't quite mask the fall of footsteps upon cobblestone. To those who pay keen attention, two sets of footsteps are to be heard. Someone is being followed.<br />
<br />
Omen Altier, knight of the Royal Order of Ashenia, hears the footsteps behind him and goes over his options. He could turn around, force a confrontation. But just killing the pursuer would leave him to dispose of the body. He knows of several places in the city he could hide it but none where it would stay hidden for long. <br />
<br />
He slows down, just to be absolutely certain, and hears the pursuer's pace decrease to match his own.<br />
<br />
Who could it be? the young knight wonders. The Order has many enemies in the royal city. For some their hatred runs hot and deep, so much so that the man following him now could be not only a spy but an assassin. <br />
<br />
Omen turns left into the winding labyrinthe of the city narrows. He passes from strong mortar houses to flimsy wood and brick insulae packed four or five stories tall, into a slum so tightly packed that the streets are barely wide enough for one person to walk through. He heads south, to Daler's Forum, as the pursuer follows. <br />
<br />
He's good, whoever he is, Omen thinks. Perhaps it's someone else from the Order, sent to spy on him, to track his movements, maybe even to...<br />
He pushes those thoughts from his mind. He can't afford idle speculation. Not now at least.<br />
It takes him a few minutes to realize it's stopped raining just as quickly as it had started.<br />
<br />
He emerges from the narrows and into the market forum. It's deserted with empty stalls that hint at their daytime wares and goods. He spares a glance over his shoulder, sees that the pursuer is just making his way into the market. The pursuer's face is hiddent by a grey traveler's cloak and hood. Omen assumes he's a local by the way he kept up in the narrows. The clouds part for just a moment and let the moonlight illuminate where they stand. The pursuer slows and stops as he sees that Omen's noticed him now. He draws a dagger from his belt. <br />
<br />
So an assassin then. Omen knows what he has to do. He turns and runs. The assassin follows. Both know the game now, thought only one of them is playing by the rules. Omen turns a corner and almost runs into a group of drunkards stumbling out from a pub. His body, almost possessed of its own will through years of training, pivots to the right and manages to completely side step them without losing speed. From the bustle and cursing he hears a second later the assassin isn't so lucky. It's not much, but it does buy Omen the few extra moments he needs. He passes two more streets then ducks into an alleyway. He runs his hands along the walls, quickly but without hurry, until his fingers find the ridges. Though it's hard to tell to those who don't know, a crude ladder's been carved into the stone wall here. The assassin might be local, but the Order has its own presence in the royal city and they've made certain to mold this place for their needs. <br />
<br />
Omen climbs the ladder in the wall and reaches the rooftops just as the assassin bursts into the alley. He looks around, confused, a moment ago so certain that he'd cornered his target. Omen watches as the assassin doubles back and circles the area trying to re-capture the chase. Finally he turns back, no doubt returning to report his failure to whomever sent him out this night. Omen follows him now, shadowing from above. The young knight's going to find out who hired this assassin and why. <br />
<br />
The hunter's become the hunted, the pursuer the pursued and dawn is still far off in the city of Sceptre.D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-90396715140648450822011-10-13T14:29:00.000-06:002011-10-13T14:29:45.142-06:00Schlocktober Reviews: American Horror Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">Hey, who says Schlocktober reviews have to be about horror movies anyways?</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 20.25pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 20.25pt; mso-add-space: auto;">A barely audible “I do” emerges from the back of the room* </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">Yeah, well sit down and shut up fuckwad, cause it’s my site and my time, so I can waste it on anything I want to, mkay? And this week we have<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> American Horror Story,</i> a show that on paper really shouldn’t work but somehow does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s by the creators of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nip/Tuck </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a show I only watched one episode of, went “meh” and never watched it again, and one of the producers of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glee,</i> which to paraphrase my cousin I’m not interested in because I’m neither a homosexual male nor a fourteen year old girl. So<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>when I first heard about the show and heard who was involved I was somewhat dreading it actually. Horror shows that aren’t anthologies tend to suck very hard, very quickly. (I don’t count shows like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buffy </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Angel, </i>since they’re more drama-action with supernatural stuff thrown in.) Also, pure horror shows seem to be few and far between with horror being mostly relegated to novels and movies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, I was a little hesitant to say the least about getting into the show, and I was only interested because the poster had a gimp suit in it and I thought if nothing else it would be good for a laugh. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">I was wrong. I don’t say that very often so enjoy it while it’s there. The show is an absolute freakfest of the macabre, with some well shot scare scenes and a cast that are all excellent for what they do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first five minutes alone is worth seeing just as an example of how a horror medium should start that’s both quick and gets the point across. (Take note Friday the 13<sup>th</sup> remake.) Back in 1978 twin boys go into a haunted house, and are unperturbed by a local girl’s warning. ( “We got bats!”) and then proceed to wreck some shit up inside the creepy house. Until they get to the basement and we get the best draw in for a horror show. Nobody is safe, not even kids. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">We then get the opening credits, or as I like to call it, disjunction function. Cue genuinely creepy 19<sup>th</sup> century photos blistering and burning up, warping the faces of the children in the pictures. Cue various unidentifiable body parts in jars. Cue distorted, atonal music. Cue half-seen quick cuts to scenes we’re really better off not seeing. It’s like if a paranoid schizophrenic tried to make a YouTube video of all of the things he dreams about at night. Needless to say it makes that creepy video from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ring </i>look like something you’d show to your kids. (Okay maybe not so much to North American kids. Japan, maybe.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">Cut to present day, where the Harmon family is moving from Boston to L.A. in the hopes that it’ll help bring them all together after a miscarriage and an affair. The dad Ben is played by Dylan McDermott, and you’re starting to get Déjà vu that’s okay since he was also in a similar premise in the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Messengers</i>. That movie’s such a cliché, forgettable modern horror movie that I can honestly say I don’t remember watching it. However, McDermott in this show is playing an actual character rather than clichéd horror parent #546. Imagine a combination of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Californication</i>’s Hank Moody and Nathan Fillion in his usual persona. He’s also a psychiatrist working from home. The mom is Vivienne played by Connie Brittons who I can’t really judge from other things since she was in a bunch of shows I hear were good but I never got around to watching (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">24, Friday Night Lights</i>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s stressed out, tired looking and generally looks like someone’s who’s had a lot of shit thrown at her over the past year and is just trying to make it one painful day at a time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She also takes up doing some redesigning of the house, including peeling away the previous tenants’ wallpaper to find Goya-esque paintings underneath. Oh yes and the previous tenants? A guy couple who apparently decided that murder-suicide would be better than living in the L.A. valley. Can’t say I blame them, really. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">The daughter is Violet, played by newcomer Tarissa Famiga and who is actually still a teenager. It might not seem like much, but that’s freaking huge in TV shows. Violet’s a freak who doesn’t fit in, smokes on school grounds, gets into fights with vapid teenage alpha bitches, and cuts herself. Despite it all, I kind of like her. Like the rest of the family she’s damaged, but you still feel somewhat sympathetic for her. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">Throughout the first episode we get a montage of creepy characters who know more about the house than the rest of the family, but choose to keep certain details to themselves. We also get Frances Conroy playing the house caretaker Moira, but only kind of. I say kind of since she only appears as an old lady to everyone except Ben, who sees her as a sultry young sex kitten played by a different actress. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">As for the plot of the show? Well, I can’t really say since it’s mostly plotless introductions. Story hooks in a way. The usual horror stuff starts to happen where weird hallucinatory images abound. Probably one of the more disturbing scenes in my opinion is Ben sleepwalking downstairs, lighting a fire and placing his hand near it. When Vivienne finds him she tries to wake him up, but he just looks off into the distance and asks “Am I in a dream?” The show goes to commercial and the next scene is of Vivienne during the daytime. Was it real or a dream or a hallucination? The audience doesn’t get to find out, and somehow that’s just somewhat freaky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also get a gimp suit jump scare in an attic, which is a sentence I never thought I’d ever actually have to write in my life. The show has some atmosphere, and it’s all done with content and lighting, without that stupid grey camera filter that most horror movies have nowadays.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">Another awesome thing to watch out for is a former owner of the house who’s horribly burned and played by Denis O’Hare. You might remember him as the millennia old Russell Edginton from the Third Season of True Blood and who was probably the best part of that season. He’s subdued in this role, despite the burn prosthetics, and despite him telling a horrible story about what he did to his family but we get the sense that like everyone else he knows more than he’s letting on.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">Okay, there’s a lot of stuff that’s easy to predict, such as the true nature of one of Ben’s patients or the fact that one of the characters is actually dead. But it’s the actors that sell it. Nobody’s winking at the camera and whatever camp that is thrown in is always attached to some squick. The main problem of the show is more so a danger for future episodes. The scares and freaky scenes come out almost every five minutes, and with a show like this that means there’s a lot of them. While that’s a draw in for the pilot, it also means that if the show continues on then things might start getting either overly predictable and dull, or so over to the top that the show itself becomes a pure narm fest as the show’s producers try to continually outdo themselves. It’s a very tricky, very fine line that has to be walked here and unfortunately both the producers other efforts have shown they’re as able to walk it as a DIW caught by the cops.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.25pt;">It’s somewhat of a staple for horror shows that the good ones always end quickly. The few that didn’t completely suck<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>can count on one hand, including <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twin Peakes</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southern Gothic</i> both of which only lasted less than two seasons. And there’s a good reason for that since familiarity is often the real killer in horror shows. As long as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Horror Story </i>is only one or two seasons long it’ll be well regareded and might even achieve classic or cult status. Time’ll tell with this one. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Rating: </b>A-. It’s a very stylish take on a traditional horror premise and legitimately creepy. There’s the real danger of going too far with this show, but it’s a very awesome opening. Also I’m taking some points off for a naked shot of Dylan McDermott’s ass and a later masturbation scene with him as the star wanker. Once again, I never thought I’d have to write that ever in my life.</div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-39441077045043182942011-10-11T17:16:00.002-06:002012-02-28T22:20:47.611-07:00Unusual Therapies<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>This week's <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/10/07/flash-fiction-challenge-brand-new-monster/">challenge?</a> To think up and write about an unusual monster, something that hasn't been seen before. I'm not sure but I think I got a brand new one. Please do enjoy. </i> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dr. Karl Venn studied his patient lying on the couch a long time before he began the session. The prison guards hadn’t felt entirely comfortable about leaving him there without any restraints, but Dr. Venn assured them that the prisoner wouldn’t be any trouble. He was certain of it and somehow that made it all the worse. Just by looking at him no one would ever guess that the man sitting on his couch was Charles Lee Benton, dubbed in the press as “The Ohio Butcher” and convicted killer of at least ten people (and suspected in the murder of many more). He was calm, listless, stared vacantly up at the ceiling. This was not the same man who had first come into his care, a man who would at the drop of a hat flip from over the top aggressive rage to a cold calculating reptilian monologue that would make Hannibal Lecter uncomfortable. And after nearly three weeks of intense observation, Dr. Venn was certain he wasn’t faking it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I took a look at some of your art,” Dr. Venn said. “I have to say it’s remarkably different from your previous drawings.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I ain’t interested in drawing the demon clowns no more, doc,” said Benton. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“And you’ve focused your attention on angels and unicorns now?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Benton shrugged and fidgeted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Venn knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with this track. He bit the tip of his pen as he made his decision to breach into Benton’s more deviant behavior. After all, Benton hadn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just</i> killed his victims when he’d abducted them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“If we can get into something a little more personal Charles, can you tell me about your sex drive? Any noticeable changes or feelings you’ve had recently?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Benton paused for a moment before he began. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“There ain’t nothin’ to tell. I haven’t had an itching for a while now.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That was what he called his sexual feelings. A lifetime of suppressed urges fueled by an overbearing religious fanatic of a mother had helped to mold him into what he was today. It was such a textbook case that Dr. Venn was certain if there ever was a stereotypical description of a serial killer then Benton was it. But not at the moment it seemed. Dr. Venn only hesitated for a brief moment before he tried something risky. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Charles, can we talk about what you did? Do you have any feelings for what you did to those people?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Benton looked good and hard at the doctor before he did something no one could’ve ever expected; he began to cry. Big gulping sobs and confessions of guilt and hopes of redemption poured forth from Charles Lee Benton, a man who had practically bragged about his crimes during his trial. The man who saw himself as the prime hunter, the alpha male of the whole human race was crying like a little girl in front of him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fascinating.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Later at his lab Dr. Venn looked over the prison .</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Assaults, murders, rapes, all of them had decreased by over 50% over the past month. He knew warden or the prison guards weren’t responsible for this, some of the reports by the staff were as baffled as he was about the trend and could offer no explanations for it. But it also seemed as if they weren’t really looking for one as well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He tried to concentrate on the test samples, but it had been a long night and his mind began to wander back to his own problems, to his soon to be ex-wife. Damn bitch has me by the short hairs, he thought. She’s actually seeing her lawyer now. I’ll be lucky if I only lose the kids and half my money. At least he'd be able to keep this amateur lab though. He knew she'd never in a million years want it. Thank goodness for small miracles.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He looked over at the bottles of chemicals beside him. All it would take was just one small drop from one of them and it’d look like she had a heart attack. It wouldn’t be too hard to do. His wife always enjoyed a night’s drink before bed and her family did have a history of heart disease.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I should</i>, he thought. <i>I should really…</i> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The sound of a door opening and closing shook him awake. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Who’s there?” he yelled. “Whoever’s out there …this isn’t funny…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The faint buzzing from the halogen lights on the ceiling was his only reply. He sighed, thankful that there was nothing there but when he turned around…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was sitting on his desk staring at him like some Lovecraftian horror. Its body was scarred and what looked like cancerous clumps grew from its folds in its body.Past its flesh that was its body were its eyes, some of the brightest blue he’d ever seen, and for some reason he couldn’t name he thought of them as the eyes of a child. It advanced towards him on hands and knees, crawling slowly to him like some mockery of a seductive lover. He stood transfixed, his muscles not responding to his mind’s commands to flee or even wince as it reached out to him with a hand that ended in gangrenous tentacles in place of fingers. When it touched him he felt the greasy slide of its fingers caressing his arm, and it seemed to grow fatter, its pustules expanding as if it were absorbing something into itself. He felt light headed and almost retched before…before…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He stood alone in the room, his heart racing a mile a minute, but for the life of him he couldn’t say what had caused it. As he calmed himself down he felt better, somehow. As if the some weight had been lifted from his shoulders. When he thought back to his life, and his patients and his soon to be ex-wife the anger and indeed hatred he’d born her was no longer there. He started to gather up his belongings. Life was too short to waste on unanswered pointless mysteries, he figured. After he was done, he shut off the light and locked the lab door, leaving a silence in there that was only broken by a soft, faint wheezing, like the snoring of some being who’d feed and feed well that night. </span></div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-21183101478257698002011-10-11T13:14:00.000-06:002011-10-11T13:14:50.552-06:00Hey Assholes, Here's a Thought: Don't Fucking Burn BooksY'know I don't really know anybody who doesn't consider book burning to be some sort of crime. I mean, I've joked about it a few times with friends, saying things like "Wow, I've never thought of burning a book before, but man after reading Twilight I'm starting to reconsider." But I never really meant it. Even just the thought of destruction of literatue on a massive scale makes me physically ill.<br />
<br />
So you can imagine my utter horror when I woke up and per my usual routine click over to Cracked.com, intending to find another 'top 10 list of shit that isn't really important but is somewhat interesting.' Instead I find this little <a href="http://www.cracked.com/article_19453_6-reasons-were-in-another-book-burning-period-in-history.html">turd nugget</a> of an article. Go ahead, read through it. I'll wait.<br />
<br />
The article's by a guy in Australia who actually works in a library and I'm willing to take him at his word. What I'm not willing to take is the bullshit he tries to spew out that this isn't as bad as you'd think. He tries to spin it around, to make it seem like this practice of destroying books is, if not a good <br />
thing, then at least inevitable. Time marches on, and the new digital age that is upon us is replacing the old media. Why should libraries be immune to the new fad?<br />
<br />
Well, I'll tell you why and *spoiler alert * it's a pretty fucking simple answer that's also somewhat obvious: You Shouldn't Destroy Books Because You Are Fucking Libraries. It's your job, your duty as libraries and librarians to preserve knowledge. Let me say that again, just in case you're too fucking brain dead to get it the first time: Your job. is to. PRESERVE KNOWLEDGE. <br />
<br />
To be fair, the article's author does talk about how books are being preserved on microfilm and digitization, and how libraries are already at full capacity and don't have anymore room for books. And that most hardcore library users are students and university teachers who only come for the various academic and scientific journals that the library keeps. These are all valid points, and I can actually understand and sympathize with the plight of an understaffed, low budget building. Hell, I spent one of my university terms as a volunteer at the local archives, so I have somewhat of an idea of the tremendous effort it takes organize and categorize a literal labyrinthe of reading materials.<br />
However...<br />
<br />
However, that doesn't excuse the fact that libraries in question don't seem to be doing anything to ensure that the books they can no longer store are preserved in some fashion or another. When the logical question of why the books aren't just given away, there's some bullshit reasoning that it would take more effort to give books away then sell them for pulp. That somehow, by removing the whole library identification part of the book takes way too much time and effort. If they just gave them away, the article says, it creates a huge hassle since people inevitably return the books to the library. Oh, but not to worry, a lot of the books are being transferred to a digital medium.<br />
<br />
You might be asking, well if the books are preserved on microfilm or digitized why's this guy getting so upset? Well, I can tell you with 100 % certainty that a lot of stuff being destroyed will be gone completely, without a copy, digital or otherwise, to be preserved. Remember when I was talking about my time at the archives? I saw first-hand what a fucking ardous and lengthy process it was to copy materials onto micro-film. There was always of back-log of materials that needed to be processed through and there was never enough time to go through the whole lot of it. Add in the fact that libraries are under pressure to make room for the "important stuff" like the aforementioned journals, and that they're understaffed, and you're going to see a lot of material that is being completely and utterly destroyed, with absolutely no traces of it left in any sort of medium, digital, microfilm or otherwise. It's not some sci-fi cliched barbarian horde of mutants or neo-totalitarian government that's destroying books, but in this case simple economics and bureaucratic apathy.<br />
<br />
So what's my solution to all of this? Well, it took me all of a minute to think of it, but I think the root problem of it is this: libraries are underfunded, cash strapped and don't want the hassle of giving books away. That's why they sell the books for pulp. Therefore I've got two solutions for ya libraries. The first is to organize some pledge drives. I know in the article it said that nobody wants to fund libraries anymore, like it's aux passe or some shit, but just present if you present it in a way that makes it clear that lack of funding is literally killing books, then I'm sure people can throw in a little money. Everybody's strapped for cash in this economy, but nobody wants to see books destroyed because of it. <br />
<br />
The second solution is to buy a stamp. Yep, you heard me. I know you're fucking familiar with stamps and stamping. The stamp will read thusly in big red letters: Available for private ownership. (Or something to that effect. I don't know the legalese but just put something on there that And you can use that to simply stamp any of the books you're going to dispose of or sell for pulp. If your staff doesn't have the time then set it up so that volunteers can do it. I'm certain that somebody'll do it for free, rather than going through the brain bleach inducing thought of books being destroyed.<br />
<br />
Okay, alright to be fair I'm sure that there's probably a few ways you punch holes in the solutions above, but at least it's a start. Maybe somebody else has a better plan, and if so please let me know about it. Hell, let the whole world know about it. Because this whole practice has to stop. To paraphrase Craig Ferguson: It's the triumph of brute force and cynicism over intellect and romanticism. If there's any librarian or anybody all who's associated with a library who's involved in this practice that's reading this I have to say six words. You just didn't try, did you? You didn't even try to come up with a solution other than burning or destroying books. You just went along with a shrug and maybe tried to come up with some bullshit justifications to your actions like in the Cracked article. You're supposed to preserve knowledge, remember and if you can't do it using your own facility at least fucking make sure somebody else can do it at their own means. Instead, you just didn't care. D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-26257629936419287362011-10-07T20:44:00.001-06:002011-10-08T03:14:44.851-06:00Schlocktober Review: Friday the 13th Remake<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Oh Michael Bay. Purveyor of modern schlock and mediocre at best summer blockbuster fare. I would compare his directing style to Ed Wood or Uwe Boll, but Bay has the audacity to actually make money on his piece of crap films. His production company Platinum Dunes has their greasy handprints all over this movie as well as other recent horror remakes such as the new Amityville Horror, Nightmare on Elm Street, and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (and TCM: The Beginning cause everybody was so looking forward to seeing Leatherface’s origin story). To be fair Friday the 13<sup>TH</sup> isn’t directed by Bay as that particular “honor” goes to Marcus Nispel who directed some other crap remakes, but his dark presence is felt throughout. Nispel isn’t a strong enough director to add anything particularly new or flashy to the movie, and the writers, all four of them if that’s to be believed, only had a few interesting things to add. So through default I get to blame Bay for this, as everyone else is too incompetent to truly be held accountable. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">So why am I acting like Mr. McGrumpy pants when all Bay is doing is remaking some dumb slasher series? (At least he isn’t going after quality horror movies series like…ummm…uhhh…Hellraiser? Yeah, sure, let’s go with that). Well let’s find out in a snark by snark synopsis.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">So the movie starts off with a black and white scene intercut with the credits where some unnamed bimbo is being stalked by a middle aged lady wielding an axe. It’s revealed that she’s Jason Voorhees’ mom, and she’s taking revenge against the councillors who let her son die at camp. The bimbo finds a nearby machete and out of desperation cuts off Voorhees’ mom’s head. It’s a nice little throwback to Friday the 13<sup>th </sup>Part One, and it shows that at least someone on the production team actually saw the first movie. Of course since it’s a Bay production the next shot is of a young Jason picking up his mom’s locket and running off and I have to face palm because logic’s been thrown out the window. If Jason is showing up as a child, then does that mean he’s still alive? It doesn’t really look like he drowned, but the movie ‘s too dark to tell. If he’s alive then why the fuck does Pamela Voorhees (yep that’s her name from the originals although I don't think it ever gets mentioned in this one) go on a killing rampage? If he is dead then why then how the hell did he grow into that giant undead killing machine that we all know and love? I know it showed a kid Jason at the end of the first movie, but that was implied to be a dream by the final girl. Goddammit, remakes are supposed to clear up confusing aspects of the original, not pointless highlight them without bothering to provide an explanation. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">After that we’re introduced to a bunch of characters so lacking in personality I’m not going to bother listing their given names. Instead I’ll call them all meatbags and add a number in the order of their deaths. They’re about to head off on a weekend camping trip near Camp Crystal Lake. Before one of the characters is the sister of Jared Padelecki, so I’ll call her Pad sister. Padelecki warns her to stay safe in a brief scene clearly meant to provide context for his arrival later in the movie. As you can guess the meatbags talk about weed, beer and pussy and provide shitty dialogue that doesn’t endear them at all. Meatbag 1 provides some exposition, explaining Jason’s backstory. Which might’ve been necessary if we hadn’t just seen it five minutes before, thus proving the movie has no faith in the audience and just assumes we’re all retarded. Also, how the fuck does Meatbag 1 know that Jason’s still around? The bimbo didn’t see him before she ran off, and we haven’t seen anything else to show that. I guess he must be psychic, like the final girl from Friday the 13<sup>th</sup> Part 7, but if that were true then he might’ve had some warning about what was going to happen to them. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Anyways, Meatbag 1 is goes off into the woods to find some legendary marijuana patch (cause we all know that Jason Voorhees loves himself some reefer) and some of the other characters proceed to fuck. And yes, we do get to see some titties, though by the look of it they’re more plastic then the movie’s DVD case. Meatbags 3 and Pad’s sister take a leisurely stroll in the creepy woods and find a shack, where they see Jason’s bed from when he was a child and the locket from six minutes ago that shows that Pad’s sister looks like Jason’s mom. What could it mean I wonder? They also discover Jason’s shrine, a nice call back to the second film and it’s genuinely kind of creepy. Although most shrines usually are. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">As you can tell the sex and stupidity of these characters attracts the Voorhees and he proceeds to off them. I hae to give the movie credit in that the death scenes are usually well done, and don’t just involve his classic machete or axe. Though Meatbag 1 meets his maker in the classic sharp knife to the head, Meatbag 2 is dragged out of her tent, trapped in her sleeping bag and roasted alive over the camp fire and Meatbag 4 gets his leg caught in a bear trap which, I’ll admit did make me wince a little. The kills so far are somewhat clever for a Friday the 13<sup>th</sup> film. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Over at the shack Jason apparently teleports back and attacks from below, punching his machete through the floor and managing to get Meatbag 3’s foot sliced before he drags him through the floor. Pad’s sister promptly gets the fuck out of there and meeting up with Meatbag 4 tries to get him out of the bear trap, but then Jason shows up and promptly axes that plan. As well as Meatbag 4’s face. (Okay, fine that joke sucked but at least somebody’s trying to provide some comedy bits since the movie sure as fuck isn’t trying to.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">A quick glance over at the time tells that we’re only twenty minutes into an hour and forty five minute film, and then we get the title. Yep, that was two prologues for a slasher flick. Why do I get the feeling that this movie is simultaneously trying too hard and not hard enough at the same time? Le sigh. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">We then get introduced to our new round of the meatbags who’re set to do the same partying as the first group except this time they’re doing it at a cabin. It’s been a few weeks since the first meatbag killing and Padalecki is looking for his sister when he comes across this new batch. One of the meatbags actually manages to differentiate himself by being a complete douche and trying to get Padalecki to move out of the way as he’s trying to convince a convenience store clerk to put up some flyers of his missing sister. Seriously douchebags like this only exist in fictional constructs such a horror remakes or a list of Michael Bay’s fans. Zing!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Padalecki drives off on his motorcycle only to be stopped by cop who tells him that they’ve already looked for his sister. He posits that she just ran off with her boyfriend. And they’re friends as well apparently. And nobody’s heard from them in weeks. He then implies that they’re probably all dead anyways. How…what…wha…? I know cops are supposed to be useless in slasher flicks but do they have to be retarded? Unconvinced, Padalecki continues his search and the movie intercuts between that and the meatbags’ party. Douchebag proves to live up that name I just gave him by being anal retentive about his cabin and being a dick to his girlfriend for no reason. Even the stupid antics of the two comic relief characters (coincidentally the black guy and the Asian guy, cause nothing says comedy bits better than non-Caucasian people am I right?) isn’t enough to make these scenes memorable. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Padalecki drives around and meets with people that look like slightly less inbred members of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies and he’s told by the first one that his sister’s probably dead. Hmmm, two characters saying she’s dead within ten minutes of one another? Who wants to bet that she’s still alive and being held captive by Jason due to her resemblance to his mom? Anybody?... No?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Anyways we also meet up with some hick and his woodchopper and the only difference between the two is that one is unfairly labeled for their deviant uses in horror movies and the other’s a wood chipper. Only one of them will show up in the climax to provide Jason’s death. Author’s note: As I’m writing this part I haven’t actually seen the end yet, I just know shitty horror movie set-ups when I see them. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">After Padalecki leaves the hick hears a noise upstairs and when he goes to check on it he reveals a mannequin under a sheet. He proceeds to caress the mannequin and tell her he’s glad he lost his virginity to it (fuck I wish I didn’t have to write that last sentence). Jason shows up to put him and the audience out of their misery and he finds his trade mark mask next to the manniquin. In the writers words they explained that one of the reasons they decided to do the remake was to re-visit iconic scenes from the first few movies. So if I understand it your big mask reveal was to reveal that it used to be owned by some hick mannequin fucker who Jason killed? Bravo, screenwriters, bravo. I’m glad to see you’re using your remake to add some real relevance to the series. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Meatbags 5 and 6 are out naked waterskiing on a lake when they get Jason’d. Meatbag 5 gets an arrow to the head and with no one at the wheel of the boat it smacks Meatbag 6 upside the head. Bleeding she sees Jason and tries to swim away from him and instead of say swimming to the other side of the lake decides that hiding underneath a dock nearby is close enough. Showing that the screenwriters are running out of creative ways to kill people Jason stabs through the dock and into her head. I should also mention that Meatbag 6 is played by Willa Ford, who you might remember from ten years ago as a pop-singer and spank bank material in Maxim magazine. She had her one big hit in a song called “Wanna be Bad” that apparently described her acting ability. Le zing! We also get to see her tits in this movie, which would’ve been cool in high school but now doesn’t even make my actresses-whose-tits-I’d-like-to-see bucket list. And let me tell you it’s a pretty big fucking list.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Padalecki ends up at the party cabin, and since her boyfriend’s being such a douche douchebag’s girlfriend decides to help him search for his sister. They end up at Camp Crystal Lake and see Jason from afar. He can also operate electrical equipment and knows how to run a generator. They also see Jason’s carrying around body parts and as they rightly get the fuck out of there the camera swoops down to reveal that Jason has a secret base below ground, where he’s keeping Padalecki’s sister. Called it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> If you’ll permit a small digression I have to say that what I’ve described could make a fine enough Friday the 13<sup>th</sup> movie on its own. Guy goes searching for his sister who’s being held by Jason cause she looks like his mother while some nearby meatbags party and get knocked off. Adding twenty plus minutes to establish that to provide backstory is fucking retarded because EVERYBODY ALREADY KNOWS THIS. Those who don’t can fucking Google it. We don’t need to see Jason’s mom killing people. We don’t need to see how Jason got his mask. We don’t need a second prologue to show he kills people too. Especially since they don’t do anything new or exciting with the remade material. The one new part that actually works is the survivalist aspect to Jason’s character, and since he’s shown a few elements of that in past movies they could’ve added it to the film and nobody would’ve minded. The remake material is padding to add twenty minutes to a movie that could’ve easily done without it. The only purpose here is to stroke Michael Bay’s ego because he’s now the king of horror remakes while the whole experience feels like the filmmakers are taking a giant dump in the audience’s eyes. I haven’t seen a bigger attempt at pissing off the fans since the Star Wars prequels.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Ahem, anyways, Padelecki and douche’s girlfriend head back to the party to warn them about the crazed killer in the woods. We see the usual stuff from a slasher flick: Asian guy goes to the shack for some contrived reason and gets killed, douche and Meatbag 7 go fuck where we get to see another set of tits, they don’t believe Jason’s there til he shows up and murders the fuck out of the rest of them until douch, Padelecki and douche’s now ex-girlfriend get the fuck out of there. Oh the dumb cop dies because while the characters do something smart and actually call the cops, the cops decide to continue their CLPD tradition of insane stupidity and only send one officer. To go after a crazed killer. That the locals semi-know about. Wow, if there’s anything that you can take away from these movies is that sometimes Natural Selection can still apply to our modern society. If only it would apply to screenwriters and shit producers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">After douche gets killed in a scene that doesn’t fucking go on long enough considering this is the character the audience wants tortured the most, we see Pad and ex-girlfriend running through the woods. Which is fine until we see that they’re heading to Camp Crystal Lake. Why? Because they only had so much logic to go around and it was all used up when they called the cops. They find Padelecki’s sister and free her, but then douche’s ex gets the stabbed. Awww, single tear. Pad and sis try to run away, but then get cornered on an overturned bus and he gets his face rammed into a window. Jason decides not kill him because he’s a main character or something and tries to go after Pad sister but she beats him off. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">What? No, not like that you perverts. God that’s disgusting.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Anyways to no one’s surprise they end up back at perv-hicks barn with the wood chipper and we get a darkly lit end fight. What’s that? You can’t make out anything cause it’s so dark? Well, that’s actually fortunate since what we do see is pretty poorly choreographed. The wood chipper valiantly saves the day as they wrap a chain around Jason’s neck and we see the epic battle of wood chipper versus undead slasher. Cue the next morning where they decide to throw Jason’s body off the pier and into the lake. Why the wood chipper didn’t provide a messy cremation for him is anybody’s guess. And of course we have to the next shot with Jason springing out of the water to grab one of the characters, and yes even people who haven’t seen the originals can see this coming from a mile away. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">At the end of the day, you have to ask yourself why do Hollywood allow these shit remakes to happen when they aren’t necessary and the franchises could easily be started up without them? Well, money dear boy, money. Horror remakes are in nowadays (at least the makers of the new The Thing have the decency to set it up as a prequel to the 1980s movie although they still retain the same title) and since everybody has a follow the fucking leader mentality that means that we get inundated with unnecessary crap. The worst part is that this isn’t even a bad horror movie, just mediocre. For a Jason movie though, that’s almost the worst thing. It’s easily the worst in the series, and I’m including Jason X in that accounting, because of its mediocrity. The Friday the 13<sup>th</sup> series always had a sort of camp mentality that made them fun to watch if you didn’t find them scary. You could easily cheer as the most annoying characters died and the movie knew they were annoying so they reserved the most gruesome deaths for them. This new one still leaves in the annoying characters but leaves out the camp part, and most important of all, the fun. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">Verdict: </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/RiMOKmp0uZc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-15841694926033792382011-10-04T15:13:00.000-06:002011-10-04T15:13:27.586-06:00Schlocktober Reviews: The Mother of Tears<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hey, hey, it’s October and that means it’s fright month. A lot of studios will put out horror movies around this time of year (or wait until January to if the movie’s particularly schlocky) and I decided that I might as well watch some horror movies I’ve wanted to see for a while now and review them. Being unemployed and bored have absolutely nothing to do with this decision. Of course not. So without further ado, I give you Dario Argento’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mother of Tears</b>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">First up I gotta say I’m a huge fan of Dario Argento. His work in the Gallo and horror genres in the 70s and 80s, with such movies as Suspiria, Inferno and Deep Red,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is absolutely incredible and I urge anybody reading this to check them out. His style is almost surreal, and while there’s tons of gore and violence in his movies, it’s approached and shot in a way that almost makes it into art. That said, Dario does have his flaws as a director and a storyteller and a director and his main flaw is the probably the converse of what makes him so great as a visual director; the stories and plots in his movies aren’t great. Well, in all fairness, they’re absolute, often unintelligible crap with plot holes the size of Jupiter and logic leaps that would make even David Lynch ask, “What the fuck?” But that’s okay because the visuals make up for it. And seriously, if you’re watching a horror movie for the plot, you’re obviously in the wrong genre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surprisingly though, it’s Argento’s attempt at a plot in this movie that ultimately sinks it, especially when there’s no significant trippy visuals to back it up. It’s a complete betrayal of style and substance I’d like to say it’s like going to the supermarket to pick up some apples and only coming back with oranges, but a more apt metaphor would be going to the store, getting punched in the dick while a dog shits on your shoe. The only way to properly explain my frustration for this movie is to go over it piece by piece so you too can experience the suck. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The movie begins with a soundtrack that sounds like a bad rip-off of the Omen while a montage of images and pictures of the devil and various occult symbols that looks like it’s been scanned and pasted straight from the Satanic Bible. As the credits roll, the whole thing is presented so straight that it’d make Anton fucking LeVay blush, and that man’s been dead for nearly fifteen years now. Post opening credits we see a repair crew working on a cemetery. They must’ve been union workers though, since they accidentally open up a sealed crypt. A bishop is called in, who announces that the crypt was sealed in 1518, and sends off some urns and relics found in the crypt to be examined by a magic expert in Rome. I know Vatican II loosened things up in the Catholic Church, but I seriously still think the whole “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live” thing might still mean the clergy’s not exactly friendly with Harry Potter wannabes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At Rome, we’re introduced to the main character played by Asia Argento. Her name’s Sarah Mandy, though nobody actually says her name until the last twenty minutes of the movie so I’ll just call her Asia. Also Asia’s acting talent isn’t strong enough to lead me to believe she has any emotional range let alone can actually portray another character. You might recognize Asia from a few other movies such as playing the slutty love interest to Vin Diesel in XXX. Although if you don’t care to recall any details from that shitty movie I don’t blame you. She’s also Dario’s real life daughter and while that explains why she got the role, it also makes some scenes later on in the movie infinitely more creepy. And not in a good way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asia is working as an assistant at a museum where the magic expert also works. While he’s out the urn and relics arrive and because this is a horror movie that means all sense of archeological professional is flown right the fuck out the window. She and her friend decide to examine and dick around with these artifacts because the plot says so. While they’re doing that some S&M rejects from a Hellraiser flick appear from out of nowhere followed by a cackling monkey. Yes, I do realize that the previous sentence sounds like I’m on drugs but I swear to Christ this actually happens in the movie. While Asia goes off due to plot convenience the cenobite wannabes descend on Asia’s friend and proceed to tear her apart. The gore effects here are cheap and they would’ve looked bad thirty years ago. Did they get the F/X guys from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Weasals Rip My Flesh</b> to do this shit?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anyways, Asia’s chased by the monkey and narrowly escapes it while a mysterious woman telepathically tells her to run away and get out of there. Thanks OBGYN Kenobi, I wouldn’t have figured that out. Though to be fair my response would’ve been to just punt the fucking monkey; seriously it’s barely two feet tall. But whatever. When the cops arrive to interview her about the murder they surprise! surprise! don’t believe her when she tells them what happens. We’re then introduced to Michael, the museum curator/lover interest/ obviously about to die before the climax guy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They go back to his place and Asia says she has a hard time believing the stolen artifacts and what happened have anything to do with magic. I however have a hard time believing that the movie just cock-slapped me in the face like that. Seriously? After witnessing three freaks in bondage gear kill and mutilate your best friend in front of you for no reason as a monkey chases you around and all the while a woman with Jedi mind powers speaks inside your head <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you STILL have the gall to be skeptical?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d rather believe in a world where magic exists then think there’s a group of people out there so detached from reality that they wear gimp masks and have a monkey fetish for no good fucking reason. Then again somebody actually wrote this piece of garbage (six people in total if you can believe it) so maybe my belief in a rational existence is ill-founded. Afterwards she and Michael fuck. Nothing more to say about that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh and we’re not even twenty minutes into this piece of crap, cause apparently there’s just too much important plot points we need to witness so the movie has to rush through everything. Yippee. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then there’s a montage of crazy shit going on in Rome while the same clichéd chanting that played in the credits plays here. There’s crowds of people going crazy and attacking each other, a man stabs himself in front of the Vatican but the cream of the crap is a woman throwing her baby off a bridge and into the river. While this may sound horrible the baby prop they use is so fake looking that you’d think they used a Cabbage Patch Doll for it. Michael goes off to see the occult expert Signor Brusca who reveals in series of black and white images the story of the Mater Lachrymarum, which is a pretty decent story of lust, black magic and betrayal. I’m left wondering why the fuck they didn’t make this the focus of the movie instead of this anemic modern day crap. Brusca also reveals that among the artifacts the gimps stole was a tunic that’s said to increase the Mother of Tears’ powers tenfold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t worry about that plot point though cause if you do remember it it just makes the climax of the movie that much more painful. As he’s leaving Michael is glared at by some skanky Italian goth chicks. Speaking of skanky Italian chicks Asia herself has been doing some digging into this whole mess by looking through old books on the occult because apparently now she believes in it despite no indication that she’s changed her mind. God I love consistency. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>another montage of pointless violence and it’s revealed that Michael’s son has been kidnapped. Michael and Asia then proceed to both overact and underact respectively, though not respectfully cause if this movie obviously won’t bother to respect itself I’m sure as fuck not going to. It’s at this point that I’m starting to get the Mother of Tears angle on this, because this movie is so fucking bad I’m about to cry. Also I’m shortening Mother of Tears to MoT, both because the full name is too long to type and Mater Lachrymarum is too dignified a title for a character that does basically nothing when she’s on screen. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anyways, a gaggle of witches fly into Rome via Italian airlines because fuck broomsticks. They then show how evil they are by being rude to their fellow passengers and tipping over their luggage. Remember how this movie is supposed to be scary? I’m not sure the filmmakers did. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asia does some more research and she keeps running into the fact that witches traditionally run in threes. While she was looking into it she should’ve looked at how the third movie in a trilogy always sucks the most balls. I seriously owe Sophia Coppola an apology for criticizing her acting in Godfather Part 3 cause after witnessing Asia’s poor attempt at the craft I have to say Sophie’s starting to look like Oscar contender material by comparison.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asia gets a call from Michael who’s been captured by the coven and she’s chased around by a group of Japanese goth kids/witches before she can reach him. Again these witches aren’t scary and I’ve frankly seen creepier Japanese goths chicks in real life. Asia gets trapped in a bookstore where she’s again urged on by her mysterious ghostly mentor to use the Forc- I mean, concentrate and use her magical abilities to turn herself invisible. Because logic is seriously fucking lacking in this movie it actually works, and she escapes to a train station though she’s somehow still pursued by one crazy goth chick. Like the rest of the witches this one shows fuck all powers other than to make a frowny face like she has terminal constipation, but that’s apparently enough to scare Asia and the train authorities. Personally all of these threats so far could easily be solved by the good ol’ tactic of boot to the face, but hey I didn’t write this schlock. Asia gets trapped in a bathroom stall, and the Japanese goth chick can detect her now. Asia then bashes loligoth’s face in with the stall door, which is a fate far too glorious for a character that wasn’t scary and didn’t add anything to this piece of crap movie other than to waste five minutes of our time. Oh yeah and Michael and his son are dead now because fuck you audience! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She finds out she needs to go to a convent to talk to the exorcist, Father Johanes, that Michael was trying to see and she learns that her mother was a white witch who apparently faced down and weakened MoT’s sister witch Mater Suspiriorum. It’s a this point where I’m really starting to get pissed. First of all, Mater Suspiriorum was the witch in Suspiria and we never saw any of this backstory nor any indication that it’d taken place in that movie. Second of all, it’s a well known fact that you don’t reference a good movie in you own shitty movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It just makes people compare the two and wish they were watching the better movie. “Fortunately” though the script writers follow another rule to a T and pull directly from Cliched Contrivance 101 the fact that Asia’s parents were killed by MoT. Oh yes, and two guesses as to who the secret voice inside her head is. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She finds out that all of the witches are coming to Rome to attend the ascension of MoT and usher in the fall of Rome. I’d rant about the stupidity of that plot point but I’m already going to be covering it in another post. Father Johanes, played by Udo Kier in a classic doing-this-for-the-money role, decides to go to his study because the plot says so and is promptly stabbed by a nun who’s gone all crazy and knife wieldy. She drags the still living Johannes in front of Asia and her new lesbian psychic friend Marta and does to Johannes face with her knife what I’d like to do to every single DVD copy of this movie. Oh yes and I just gave you about the same introduction to Marta as the movie gives. Don’t you feel special now?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asia and Marta escape back to Rome and they end up at Marta’s place. Marta tells her that the psychic voice she’s been hearing in her head is actually, wait for it, her dead mother. Dun-dun-dun! They do a séance or some shit and dead mom tells Asia to use her powers and I’m starting to think they could’ve cut some costs to the production by replacing dead mom’s actress with a broken record. Asia’s really no better as when she actually sees the spirit of her dead mother she starts calling out “Mommy! Mommy!”like a fucking two year old who’s spilt her milk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our protagonist ladies and gentlemen!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Marta then shows that she’s absolutely tits useless besides being an exposition provider for the retarded members of the audience, and she promptly fucks off to fuck her lesbian assistant. Apparently seeing a priest get knifed in the face and knowing that your whole city is being overrun by goths is a huge turn on for psychic Italian lesbians. Who knew? I’d suspect this lesbian love scene was just a crass move by the producers to push the rating up to an R rating (cause the fake looking gore sure as fuck isn’t doing any favors) but that would be just cynical. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asia goes back to her apartment only for the power to go out. She goes up the stairs and we get a jump scare of a statue sticking out of the walls. I wouldn’t even comment on this except for the fact that just a few seconds later we see a regular shot of a genuinely creepy ghost melting out of the walls a la Silent Hill 4: The Room. Hey movie, do you know what would’ve been a good jump scare? Doing it with something that’s actually scary! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So she heads back to Marta’s place cause it’s safer or maybe she just wants to get in on some of that three way lesbian action but she’s chased out of the place by the monkey again. I forgot to mention that this monkey is supposed to be MoT’s familiar, but since the movie doesn’t even bother to mention that fact and I only learned that from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wikipedia, I guess the filmmakers must be just as forgetful as I am. Asia runs out of Marta’s place but instead of doing something useful like screaming or doing something else to let them know MoT or her gimp posse are there, she decides to call them from a nearby pay phone which does absolutely fuck all. In one of the very few gruesomely freaky scenes in the movie the cultists poke out the assistant’s eyes, break Marta’s spine and proceed to shove a long metal spike pole up her hoo-haw all while MoT proceeds to lick away Marta’s tears.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a genuinely gory moment that harkens back to Argento’s earlier good work but it’s over too soon. In one of his older flicks, this scene would’ve been drawn out more to really hammer in the gore and the characters suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s what we’re watching a Dario Argento film to see; stylized gore that’s so over the top that it somehow becomes a visual tour de force. Say what you will about Argento’s previous forays being misogynistic, but at least they had a way about them that almost turned the slasher flick into an art form. In his best work, the sets were always weird and strange, the camera angles were hypnotizing and the gore effects as well as the deaths themselves were so good and so well shot that they could actually make you cringe in legitimate terror and disgust upon seeing them. Looking back, this scene just makes me realize how much of cheesy gore by numbers borefest this movie really is. Le Sigh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asia then meets up with Michael. But wait! Those of you that’ve actually been paying attention so far will note that Michael’s already dead. True, true. But that doesn’t mean we can’t play the surprise- he’s-a-zombie-now- game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This has been done and done better in both Suspiria and Inferno. Speaking of infernos, Asia sets Mikey on fire with the power of magic and bad CGI. Her dead mom appears to drag his spirit to hell and the cycle of half-assed computer graphics is complete. Yeah, that’ll teach you to try and rescue your kidnapped son from evil cultists!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We get a shower scene with Asia where we get to see her naked. At this point I’m not really complaining because her tits are really the best props in this movie but I’m also torn. Remember the part where her dad’s the director? Yeah. Ewww.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After pointless shower time, the movie reaches a whole new level of stupid when a news report shows that the police are after her because they suspect she’s behind the riots and violence in Rome. We now have confirmation that this movie is solely going on to just fuck with us at this point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s obviously stopped trying a while ago and its only purpose now is to see how far it can fucking torture us with bullshit before the audience collectively gives it the finger. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Because the film needs more padding Asia goes to enlist the aid of some alchemists to tutor her in her powers but they have the audacity to point out the obvious plot hole that there’s no way she can be taught enough in time to confront MoT before her ascension. I really would’ve appreciated this bit of insight a lot fucking more if the screenwriters had used it to actually <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">fix </b>the plot hole instead of just highlighting it. Bravo movie, your laziness is truly fucking astounding. So instead Asia just reads some books which increase her magic powers. If that’s all it takes then I’m personally wondering why the fuck I don’t have magic powers then. During my misspent teenage years I was all into that occult shit, and I still own more books on magic then a fourteen year old wiccan with daddy issues. Answer me this movie; by your own logic how come the only time I can apparently turn invisible is when there’s a bunch of hot chicks in the room and I’m not drunk? Ugh, fuck this movie.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Anyways, she’s directed to MoT’s mansion and she of course wanders around in near dark while a knock off Assassin’s Creed music plays in the background. And of course the lead detective trailing her is there and they join forces. Why not? She sees a locked door with symbols on it from one of her books. She presses the symbols from top to bottom and a secret passage is revealed. I’d complain that this was a complete waste of a lead up but I’m just happy this movie’s almost over. The detective gets captured because, say it with me now, THE PLOT SAYS SO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She then faces off against the cult and the annoying Omen–style chanting returns. Apparently the witches have learned all of Asia’s tricks cause there’s no sign of a toilet stall door this time. She passes by some freaky orgy where some disgusting shit is going on, like a woman shoving a goat hoof into a man’s back and another woman eating a guy’s intestines through his asshole. Surprisingly the latter is an apt metaphor for what it feels like to watch this fucking movie.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We finally get to see MoT in all her glory i.e. naked on a platform, and she honestly looks like an Italian transsexual Amy Winehouse and is just about as threatening. (Too soon?) The witches capture <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Asia but for some reason don’t tie her up or bind her. MoT puts on the tunic that’s supposed to boost her powers and I have to say I’ve never been more happy in my life to see a woman put some clothes on. Remember that whole sub-plot with Asia learning to use her magic powers? Yeah, fuck that part righ in the ear. She instead grabs a plot convenience pole and uses it to rip the tunic off MoT. The mansion starts collapsing around her, which makes no sense cause she’s not even dead yet, and an obelisk crashes down and kills MoT. Boo. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asia and the cop escape and then have a good laugh, no doubt at the audience’s expense for bothering to sit through this piece of shit til the end. The ending credits roll while a crappy screamo metal band plays over the same devil images as the opening credits. Hey remember when Argento used to employ good bands like the prog rock Goblins? Well, ha-ha if you do cause <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>even the movie credits gets to mock you now. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Analysis? Ugh, this movie fucking sucked. Besides not holding up to the original, Mother of Tears is just a bad horror movie in general.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The characters are boring, the dialogue is boring, the witches are boring and nothing is even remotely scary. The plot is the worst offender, as some jack monkey decided that adding some lame ass Omen rip-off to an Argento movie was a good idea. The other films didn’t need plot; they had visuals to support their movie. Sadly, this piece of shit has more plot with less visuals, and it ends up suffering horribly on both accounts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The color scheme, something that was actually quite good and noticeable in the previous two movies is just a dull bland grey and brown that wouldn’t look out of place in a Gears of War game. The only actual color in the film is at the end, where MoT’s lair has this dull red glowlight thing going on. Apparently this was intentional, as the production team wanted to show the movie slowly going from brown to red to simulate Asia’s descent into the occult, but in actually it comes off not unlike a bad case of constipation. In the spirit of that half-assed process I’ve tried to simulate this by increasingly using the word fuck, which shows my fucking frustration with this fucking no good fucking piece of fuck-shit. Fuck this movie. </span></div><br />
Verdict: Since this movie takes place in the 70s (from a throw away line near the end), I'm gonna let a clip from that decade sum up my feelings for this movie.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/M5QGkOGZubQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-66263543639663325012011-09-30T21:04:00.002-06:002011-09-30T21:04:53.547-06:00Pan Am Pilot review<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Pan Am is a new series airing on ABC that centers around the lives of four Pan Am stewardesses. It also takes place in the 1960s, so there’s an inclination to compare it to another retro sixties show, Mad Men. While there’s no doubt that the success of AMC’s critical darling was a key factor in getting this show picked up, Pan Am is very different from Mad Men in all terms, including quality. For good or ill, better or worse.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Like I mentioned previously, Pan Am is a centerpiece show with four stewardess and to a lesser extent two male pilots flying on a brand new Pan Am jet plane. Oh yes, the sleek aesthetic of jet age is in full display here, with the pilot opening in a spotless New York airport that almost looks like the set-piece from a retro Sci-fi flick. Everything is clean and shiny from the bright blue of the stewardess’ outfits to the glittering gleam coming from the jet aircraft. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Each character has their own separate story hook that carries through the pilot and their backstory is told through flashbacks. There’s Maggie, played by Christina Ricci, the forerunner of the show. She’s a bohemian free-spirit who gets called in to work a flight after being grounded due to the disappearance of another stewardess. The character is a looking glass, a way for modern audiences with supposedly more advanced views on gender roles to identify with and thus get an introduction to the setting. Why she’s so progressive and spunky that she even changes into her uniform while in the back of her cab to the airport, and even tells the cabbie to keep his perv eyes on the road. Cute. I would call her the fanservice of the show, but the whole thing is forty-five minutes of fanservice so I’ll just move on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Kate (Kelli Garner) is another one of the stewardesses and she, gasp, seems to be have herself two story hooks. The first is a spy plot straight out of John Le Carre. I shit you not. She’s been tasked by a mysterious government agent to steal a German passenger’s passport and replace it with a fake. I’d say that this feels tacked on and forced except for events later in the episode that I’ll get to in a moment. There’s not much more to say about this character other than that. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The second of Kate’s hooks is her sister Laura (Margot Robbie), the new girl onboard who is also on the cover of Life Magazine which did a piece on the new flight attendants. She’s somewhat reserved, and naïve and gets smacked on the ass by her female supervisor after she gets her weight checked. I’m guessing this is a nod to the blatant sexism and what we’d consider sexual harassment nowadays that was prevalent back then, but it just kind of feels both forced and weak. The fact that it’s a woman superior doing it loses its impact since it comes off more as a quirk than anything approaching social commentary. This’ll be a constant throughout the episode so better get used to it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Laura is also trying to start a new life at Pan Am, and actively avoiding her old life, which to be fair didn’t seem all that exciting. She was set up and pressured to wed a man she didn’t love by her overbearing mother. In a flashback that seems lifted straight from Lifetime network movie, she realizes that she needs to live her own life and she and Kate make a getaway in a red convertible while the wedding guests look on in confusion and their mother shrieks at them like what the producers thought a 1960s overbearing shrew sounded like. That’s about it, let’s move on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The last character is Colette, played by French-Canadian actress Karine Vanesse, who plays a French stewardess who’s sleeping with a man who just happens to be on the same flight as she is. He also happens to be traveling with his family who Colette didn’t know about and which means she was unknowingly having an affair with a married man. While this sub-plot is a clichéd, Karine Vanesse is probably the best actress on this show and imbues her scenes with a subdued and subtle passion that actually gives her character some screen presence. Out of all the cast, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Oh yes, and there’s the pilots too, but their such drab and forgettable characters that I’m not even going to get into them cause I think I’d fall asleep while trying to even remember their names. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of them was supposed to be engaged to the missing stewardess but things happen and yadda, yadda, yadda.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The plot of the show is pretty much exactly what I explained above; a series of minor sub-plots that never really come together. In that sense the show seems like Desperate Housewives in that regard. Not that I’ve really watched Desperate Housewives, but that bored afternoon on their TV Tropes page filled me in as much as I care to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will say that the final five minutes of the show actually manage to show some creativity and smart writing, as what I took to be previous plot-holes were explained quite well. It’s not </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Essentially the theme and I suppose the premise of the show is that these stewardesses are a new breed of women (it’s actually commented on by the aforementioned two pilots while drinking in a Parisian pub) that can be both good looking, sexy and independent. There’s a shot at the end of the episode where the characters are walking in a row to their plane, one hand clutching their bag while the other is held up daintily before them, and Laura looks back to see a little girl watching them and winks at her. I suppose this is meant to imply that the little girl and thus her whole generation are inspired by the Pan Am stewardesses to become the smart, sexy, independent women of the future, but I’m not buying it. Mostly because the characters, for all their implied independence, are still meant to be good looking servants to a largely male passenger base. Not exactly what I’d call empowerment. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Where Mad Men was subtle about showing the changes that were going on in the 60s, and showing the dichotomy between the past and today, Pan Am seems to be almost going through the motions. The only person who smokes is the ‘evil’ German, the only people who display sexist behavior is their female boss, and the only truly feminist character is a bland pastiche of a beatnik who seems to rail against the system while at the same time serving coffee and tea to the men. Like the stewardesses themselves, the show is shiny, pretty and at times engaging, but don’t try to strain yourself looking for any deeper meaning. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Rating: C+ </span></div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-18417694902722841142011-09-18T18:48:00.000-06:002011-09-18T18:48:23.718-06:00Real is Relative<i>How to do a story in 100 words using three out of five words. Of course the usual suspect is responsible. Check out some of the <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/09/16/flash-fiction-challenge-the-numbers-game/">other entries</a>, too.</i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The man known as Bishop handed her the briefcase. She knew that wasn’t his name. Then again people called her Ivy, and that wasn’t her name either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“So it really works?” she asked. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“Of course. A simple cocktail interacting with human enzymes…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“Alright, I get it,” she interrupted. She licked her lips as she inspected the contents. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pure grade ‘lollipops’. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“When do I get paid ?” he asked. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">A shot rang out from behind them, and Bishop’s body hit the floor a moment later.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">She smiled. It wasn’t just their real names they were hiding from each other.</span></div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-84208500938736401562011-09-15T23:33:00.001-06:002011-09-15T23:39:10.349-06:00Seeker of the Lost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjND2npCddmOobIHQmmnqo2cPGwp8_IGvr7CLz3mxTVIYfmQNV8qY5_INSjIzbzsjLSTfHuGCQnT6u84vuapBO23WAivlGGXp_PFAObuyl0nXrPjUXIvFx6ptAkyi3bKpRaBrkSy-7zTmI_/s1600/5128850888_d1c7e85cd0_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjND2npCddmOobIHQmmnqo2cPGwp8_IGvr7CLz3mxTVIYfmQNV8qY5_INSjIzbzsjLSTfHuGCQnT6u84vuapBO23WAivlGGXp_PFAObuyl0nXrPjUXIvFx6ptAkyi3bKpRaBrkSy-7zTmI_/s320/5128850888_d1c7e85cd0_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Another week another flash fiction. The <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/09/09/flash-fiction-challenge-the-torch/">usual suspect</a> is the instigator for this one with the image above as the impetus. Please to enjoy!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Donald Carter stared out, past his own image reflected in the plexi-glass window of the star cruiser and out into the yawning abyss beyond. He shivered thinking of the cold desolation that was deep space. Where others saw stars, he saw only the darkness in between. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> <br />
“Father?” a voice behind him asked. He turned around to see Commander Sherovich, the cruisers first mate looking at him with a concerned look on her face. “Are you all right? You’ve been standing there looking out for a while now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“It’s nothing. Really.” Donald said. “And please don’t call me Father. I left the clergy a long time ago. Right after the war actually.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> There was an awkward pause as Sherovich bit her lip and shuffled her feet. Donald sighed, knew exactly what she was so desperately trying to summon the courage to ask him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“You want to know why I’m doing this don’t you?” he asked even though he knew the answer was yes. “Why I’ve spent so much of my own money hiring this vessel on what everybody’s calling a fool’s quest?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
She nodded, glad that he’d said it and not she.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“It’s quite complicated really, but I guess it boils down to one thing.” He took the holopad from his belt, used it to project the image of a star system so ingrained in every human’s memory even though no one had set a foot on any one of the planets there. “Hope.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“I-I’m not sure I understand. Why would you hope to find any trace of them? The Xin? They’re-they were…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“The enemy? Sometimes I wonder about what makes an enemy, what sets man against man. Or in this case, what sets man against alien. I can’t help it really. It’s in my nature even now that I’m no longer a priest.” Now it was his time to bite his lip. “Especially now that I’m no longer a priest.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“But they were our foes. If we hadn’t wiped their home planet and any colonies we came across they would have done the same to us. There was no other way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Really? I was there on the front lines during the Ganymede invasion. I’m probably one of only a thousand who saw the enemy face to face and lived to tell the tale. Do you want to know what I saw when I looked into their eyes?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
He took her silence as a consent to continue.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“I saw the same as what I saw in our own soldiers eyes. I saw pain, and sadness, and hatred. I saw the overwhelming desire to flee and escape the carnage around them. And most of all, Commander, I saw hope. Hope that they might make it through the battle, make it through the war, and return home to a life untouched by war.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
She stared at him, and he could see that he still hadn’t answered her question. Not fully.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Where did your ancestors come from Commander Sherovich? I mean, back when they lived on Earth which country or region did they hail from?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Both my grandparents were from The United Russian Federation.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“And most of my family were from North America, specifically the old United States area. Just a few hundred years ago, at the dawn of the nuclear age, my country and yours were locked in a Cold War, with both sides possessing the means to annihilate the other and the world itself even. If we had behaved back then the way we did with the Xin, odds are neither one of us would be having this conversation today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“I’m not sure I buy your analogy, especially when you remember that it was they who attacked first. We only fought back to protect ourselves. They gave us no other choice.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Donald thumbed his holopad again, this time brought up a strange view of a hologram artwork he was certain the Commander had never seen before. A humanoid figure, surrounded by a ring of people, held a torch high above her head, illuminating the darkness around them. Commander Sherovich gasped when she realized that it was a Xin who wielded the flame.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“This Commander, is the reason I left the Church. I was on the archaeology team that was sent down to the Xin’s homeworld after we decimated it to find out more about them. What we found was nothing like what we’d faced on the battlefield. They weren’t a warrior people, they were a civilization of scientist who practiced a philosophy of learning. This figure here is a motif shown over and over again, meant to symbolize their eternal search for truth in a darkened universe. We also found their data files about us, what they’d gathered from long observations from afar and interceptions of our news feeds. You know what it contained?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
She shook her head.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“It was us at our worst, a compilation of violence, war and genocide. They only attacked us because they thought we were savages, that we would wipe them out if we weren’t stopped ourselves. They didn’t believe they had any other choice. After we got back our research was confiscated by the army, and the Church told me I’d be better off shutting my mouth and never mentioning it ever again. That’s when I told them where they could shove it and I left. Probably the only smart thing I’ve done in my whole life.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Sherovich studied him for a moment, then walked up and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“You are a very strange man, Fa -, er, Mr. Carter. Very strange indeed,” she said as she made her way to the bulkhead door and opened it. She stopped and looked back at him. “I’m not sure if I agree with what you are doing, but somehow I hope you find what you are looking for all the same.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The door swooshed close behind her and he was left alone in the room. He turned back to the stars view and thought about her answer. It would have to do he supposed. He was a still a priest in all but name. He was used to living in a world where half-wins were victory enough. For a moment then, the void beyond seemed a little less dark. </div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-68022559297138055122011-09-04T01:22:00.001-06:002011-09-04T01:23:01.435-06:00Finger Fucked<i>This was an interesting one. Chuck Wendig's terrible minds <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/09/02/flash-fiction-challenge-100-words-on-the-subject-of-revenge/">challenge</a> was to craft a story about revenge. Sounds simple, n'est-ce pas? Of course there was a kicker and this time we only had 100 words to tell the whole story. Since I have a tendency to kinda go over the word count on these challenges (dun-dun-dun!) the real trick wasn't telling the story, so much as telling the story in as few words as possible. Coming in at exactly 100 words is Finger Fucked. </i><br />
<i>Please to enjoy.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
Candy felt the sweat and semen pool between her legs. She grabbed the pack of smokes on her bedside stand and lit two up, offered the second one to the equally sweaty man lying in bed beside her. He took it with his left hand and Candy couldn't help staring at the large wedding ring he had on. She reached down and grabbed another large thing of his. She took a drag from her cig and blew out smoke that twisted about in the afternoon sun. <br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i>This'll teach that bitch Jenny from accounting to mess with me,</i> she thought, smiling.</div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i></i></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i></i></div><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></i><br />
<i></i>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-49967392020288072392011-08-09T23:34:00.002-06:002011-08-09T23:40:29.010-06:00The Last of the Silver Brotherhood<i>Another flash fiction challenge from Der Wendig over at his awesome blog <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/08/05/flash-fiction-challenge-that-poor-poor-protagonist/">terribleminds</a>. The challenge was to completely fuck with a character, drag him through the mud and do everything you can to break him.</i><br />
<i>I think I might've succeeded on that one. </i><br />
<i>This story is a little different from the other flash fiction, though. It's the first one posted on this site that actaully relates to <b>8th Age</b></i>, <i>the fantasy setting I'd created that got me wanting to write fiction in the first place. For the record it's not related to <b>Paragon</b> or </i><b>The Tantalus Company</b><i>, but it definitely takes place in the same world and shares many of the same themes which is why I created to <b>8th Age Apocrypha </b>section for it and others like it.</i><br />
<i>As always please leave any and all comments and please to enjoy!</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> Felexas gasped when the blunt end of his tormentor’s spear smashed into his skull. Pain flooded through his body but he refused to scream out. He would not give his bastard jailers that satisfaction. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“I’m not telling you whoresons anything,” he spat out. One of his teeth came out as well. “You’ll get nothing from me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> They slammed their spears into him again as a response. This time though he didn’t have the strength to respond. He could only lay and rest his cheek against the cold wet floor of the cell he was being held captive in. He felt his own sweat and blood roll drip off and pool in a puddle beside him. They spat on him one last time before they left, leaving him to the dark. His body was worn from his lack of food and sleep and the daily barrage of beatings. His muscles ached with a pain he’d never known was even possible before now. Still though, his body’s pains were as nothing compared to the pain inside of him, the suffering he felt within. He did not know if his liege lord was safe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">He was a proud member of the Silver Brotherhood, those patriots sworn to protect and serve Asam ap Mirh, the great liberator of Secunda and protector of the faithful. Through his brilliance Mirh had rallied the Auric kingdoms and forged them into a weapon to strike at the apostate Prizrakis and their false idols before driving them into the sea, back to their desolate lands. At the time it seemed as if paradise had come to the lands of Secunda, as all hailed and revered Mirh as if he were the prophet come again. Now though, barely five summers after the great victory against Prizrak, the paradise once promised was but a dream unfulfilled, and the faithful squabbled and feuded amongst themselves. There were many who prayed for peace, and many more who called to Asam ap Mirh to seize power and restore order to the realm as a new High King. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Though he knew not his liege lord’s mind on the matter, Felexas hoped that he would follow the latter course and unite the Auric nations into a single Realm devoted to the True God’s teachings. He had been a member of the Silver Brotherhood and had guarded Mirh’s life dearly for nearly three years now, and he loved his master as a son loves a father. The way the man commanded respect in a room the moment he entered it without even saying a word, the manner with which he commanded those beneath him, as if he were making a request rather than an order. The way he could look at you and make you feel as if you were the only person in the room who mattered. Asam was a god in Felexas’ eyes and heart, though he knew it was apostasy to even hold such feelings for a mortal man.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"> Felexas had no one else in the world; all of his family, his parents, his uncle, his sister, had been killed by the Prizraki, crucified for refusing to renounce their beliefs during the war. Just like them, he would not renounce or give in to his captors, whoever they were. He would stay forever faithful to his lord, even if it cost him his life. He would expect the same of any and all of the Silver Brotherhood. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">A bright flash of light hit Felexas’ eyes, caused him to wince and squint as he made out three figures open the door and enter his cell. Two of them were the guards while the other was a tall, lean man, richly groomed. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“It’s no use, m’lord,” one of the guards told the well dressed man. “We’ve been trouncing him for hours and he hasn’t broken. I don’t think we’ll be able to force him to fess.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“A pity that,” the man replied. He accidentally stepped in shit, made a disgusted face and wiped it off on Felexas’ face. “A confession from him would have quelled any suspicion and lent credence to our story. As it stands we’ll just have to pin the murder on this silver brother. All the rest of them are already dead.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">A cold sinking feeling emerged in Felexas’ gut, and it seemed like his cell around him was spinning. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“What are you saying? Why have you done?” Felaxas’ said, and grabbed onto the well dressed man’s leg. The man kicked his hands away, and Felaxas was too weak to resist the beating. He did however keep yelling at the man, demanding answers he wasn’t given.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Finally the well, dressed man ordered them to stop. He looked down at Felaxas with an expression on his face that was equal parts loathing and disgust. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“We can’t have him howling out during the execution. The people might become suspicious if they hear him.” He scratched his gin with his finely gloved hand while he pondered what to do. “Cut out his tongue and then get him to the executioner.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">He tried to fight back but failed as one of the guards grasped him and held his mouth open wide while the other drew a knife. He felt the the blade tear into the muscles of his tongue and the wash of his own blood fill his mouth and flood down his throat, nearly choking him. He tried to scream out but all that came was a rush of bile. They wagged his own severed tongue in front of his face, letting him stare in horror at it before they threw it to the ground and stomped on it like just another piece of shit. Afterwards, he barely felt them grasp him by the arms and carry him out of the cell. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">He heard the crowd’s roar before he ever saw them as the guards dragged into the light of day and into the grand city forum of Deamoth. At first they looked like nothing but a multi-colored, bobbing sea, but as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight after so many days of darkness he saw that they were nothing more than an angry, hate filled mob eager to see blood spilt this day. The guards threw him onto the raised wooden platform before the crowd. The city magister and another man stood there as well and Felexas recognized the other man as Veronus Tremplie, the High Master of the Alchemist Guild and one of Asan ap Mirh’s closest allies. His confusion mounted as the shouting of the crowd turned to a crescendo so loud he could scarcely think. Surely Tremplie would stay his execution and put an end to this farce. Why would he risk offending his greatest ally by killing one of his bodyguards. His heart sank when he saw Tremplie smile and greet the well dressed man as he walked onto the platform and stood beside them. The magister smiled as well and stood forward with his hands raised, urging the crowd to silence.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">As quiet fell over the city forum Felexas steeled himself, found some last part of himself that was not tainted with fear and humiliation. He would die with honor at least, and although he believed the well dressed man when he said his brothers were dead he knew that his master would avenge their death as well as his own. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“We are gathered here today to pass judgement on this man Felexas,”the magister called out, his voice clear and loud enough to reach even the back of the mob. “Once a sworn silver brother and protector of the great Asam ap Mirh, he has forsaken his vows and committed a terrible sin that not even the One True God could forgive him now. Look upon him good people of Deamoth and know that here lays the apostate who has betrayed and murdered your great hero.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">The mob erupted, screaming out and throwing rotten fruit and rocks at him. He withstood the blows as his mind went numb and his world shattered. They’d murdered Asam. They’d killed him and his silver brothers and there was nothing Felexas could have done to stop them. And now they would cover their sin by blaming him for it. He wanted to scream, call out to the crowd and tell them the truth of it, but all that came from his mouth was blood. He could do nothing now, nothing but watch as the executioner forced him down and shoved a wooden block beneath his head. A sudden thought struck him then, that he would forever be known as the traitor who betrayed his master and killed the greatest man since the prophet walked the earth, all whilst the real killers profited from his death. His will broken, he looked out over the crowd and realized that the magister was still speaking. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“This was what bought the traitor’s honor and compelled him to the task,” the magister said, and threw down a bag of coins. “Base Prizraki silver seduced this faithless man, and whilst Asam slept he crept into his room and shoved a dagger into his heart. I ask you gathered faithful, should such a betrayal go unpunished?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">The crowd booed and hissed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“Then watch good people! Watch and bear witness that justice is done!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">The was no last thought in Felexas had before the axeman’s blade struck his neck. There was only darkness and then, nothing.</div><br />
<i> </i><i><br />
</i>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-16924474421243046712011-08-05T02:25:00.000-06:002011-08-05T02:25:14.592-06:00The Market Price<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal"> <i>Friday's come around once again, and there's a new flashfiction challenge over at Chuck Wendig's <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/07/29/flash-fiction-challenge-the-flea-market/">terribleminds blog</a>.This week's challenge is about flea market's and the kinds of stuff you can get from there. I tried to mix it up, and tell a story from the vendor's perspective. Somehow, though, the story kind of took off from there and went, well, let's just say 'left of center'. As always, comments are always appreciated and please to enjoy. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> The most important part of this business, kid, is finding the right mark. A lot of sellers at the market’ll play the numbers game, try to get as many people as possible. And yeah, I suppose that’s not a bad way to go. If you’re starting out or just don’t fucking know anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How do I do it? Hey that’s a good question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like that. Shows you’re a lot smarter than you look. So my way’s a little more…selective. Where other vendors go for quantity, I go for quality. Only the special ones for me. Oh sure, I guess you could say that they’re all pretty special; you don’t get an invitation to this flea market unless you fit the special mark and you can’t get find us here if you don’t have an invitation. Them’s the rules and there’s no way in hell you can break’em. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What? How the hell should I know who sends out the invitations? I’m just a vendor . I ain’t got nothing to do with that part. It’s management that handles that. You wanna know you take that up with them and you can find them right at the back in the dark shadow next to the boiler room. Yeah, that’s what I thought. So sit down and watch me do my thing. You’ll learn more that way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was saying the best way to get ahead at the market is to look for the best marks and you can find them by checking out their -- Yeah that’s right. I guess you could call it that. I like the term flavour myself but aura works just as good. You can read a mark like a book if you pay attention to their aura. For example…yeah, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">that </b>one. You see her, the chubby one in the black t-shirt? Just take a look, a good look at the aura around her, the twists and whirls it gives off. What does it tell you? What was it that drew her to us, that made management send an invitation?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Yes that’s right; loss. She lost something very valuable to him…looks to be her… wedding ring. She’s not here to find it though. Which is good cause we don’t know where it is. She’s here for something else. Don’t call her over though. We’ll leave her for one of the other vendors. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now then, look what we got here. Tall guy in the glasses to your left. Take a good look. He’s prime. What’s his aura screaming out, hmmmm? Yeah, that right: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘I should have been there when she died.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that kid is a mark worth pursuing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Excuse me sir, might I interest you some of the wares we have on display? Please have a good look; I’m sure that you’ll find something that catches your eye. How about this little ceramic unicorn statue or maybe this lampshade. Yeah, yes, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a very diverse selection at this table. Take your time ...oh I see you’ve already found something. I have to say you have very good taste. Yes, it’s a very cute plush cat toy. It reminds you of your daughter? You don’t say? Well, if you want it I’m certainly willing to sell it to you… oh sir, no no no. Please put your wallet away. We don’t deal with money at the market here. It said so on the invitation you received. Oh course, I’m sure that slipped your mind. Now if you want it, please, just…yes, that’s it. Whatever you have in your pocket is fine. Some lint and old carnival tokens? You don’t say. I think we can make a deal. Kid, make yourself useful and bag the nice cat toy for the gentleman. Now if you could sir, just hand me the payment…Ah-ha. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hmmmm? No sir, I didn’t notice it get cold in here. Most likely a gust of wind I’d guess. This old warehouse isn’t exactly the most draft proof place in the city. Oh course, you have a lovely day as well sir. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now kid, take a look at this. This here’s the real deal. No, not the crap he gave me from his pockets, look beyond that. See that flickering light around it, the small glimmer that matches the guy’s aura? Yeah, that’s the stuff. A small piece of a soul in genuine, despairing pain. There’s nothing else in the world like it. You don’t see a whole lot of these at the market, and not too many other vendors know what to look for. But yours truly here can spot’em a mile away, and their worth their weight in…well, souls. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">You see kid, that’s what we do here at the market. Every transaction gives the vendors a little tiny piece of the buyer’s soul and the more pain that soul’s suffered through the better the exchange. Hey, don’t look at me like that. I ain’t no necromancer, stealing souls like some kind of petty thief. Each buyer knows exactly what they’re getting into, what they’re giving up even if it’s only a partial understandin’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know why they do it to, why they give up a little piece of themselves with each buy. It’s cause everyone here’s lost something or had something terrible done to them. And they’ve had to live with that hurt, that soul ache for so long that they just don’t want to deal with it anymore. They just want it to stop, period, and they don’t care how whether that’s through healing the wounds or just plain having it ripped out like we do here. I’m not sure what side we’re on in this, whether we work for angels or devils and I don’t give a shit either way. There’s nothing better in this world then collecting soul pieces from the marks and the …rush that you get when you get your hands on a new one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Now you may think the whole thing's disgusting, but then again, you’re still here. I’ll give you one chance to walk away, forget all this and … oh, okay then. Good. Now that we got that out of the way, I want you to keep an eye out for any good ones. I have a feeling we’re gonna see a lot of business today. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lo</i>t of business. </div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-84377449674249627232011-07-29T02:40:00.002-06:002011-07-29T02:40:42.498-06:00The Unicorn<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal"> The day started out hot, with the kind of dry yet wet heat that you can only find in these Tuscan hills, this kind of heat that left your mouth dry but your body soaked with sweat. Fortunately though, some clouds came later in the day, which gave us some relief from the sun but not from the humidity. My father bore it with his usual stoicism, but my uncle Pietro was a different matter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“Mother of God, Alfonso, it’s hotter than a whore’s sticchiu out here,” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he said, his normally loud voice echoing around us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“Keep it down, you imbecile,” my father hissed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Your baying will give us away.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">My uncle laughed at that. “You don’t really believe that merda that the mayor is saying, do you? Only a child or a fool actually thinks that a unicorn is more than a fairytale. ”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“I know that if we do not find a unicorn today and he hears you screaming in the hills he will blame us for scaring it away.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Just then we heard a sudden rustle in the bushes behind us. My father swung around and aimed his old Carcano rifle in the direction of the noise. The gun had been my father’s service rifle during the Great War almost twenty years ago, yet it was still in excellent condition. I followed his lead, and aimed my shotgun at the bushes. I‘d fired it several times at old bottles on our farm, and I thought I was a pretty good shot with it, though I’d never used it against a living being.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">The rustling stopped and out stepped Angelo, his flat cap in his hand as he used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. He said he got the hat from Al Capone himself when he visited America last summer, although since he was the mayor’s son and wanted to become a politician like him not many in our village believed his story.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“Salve friends,” he greeted us as we lowered our guns. “I didn’t mean to startle you, though I have to same I’m happy that you confused me for the unicorn. I too have a very big horn, though I don’t keep it on my head.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Angelo laughed at his own joke, and Pietro joined in. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">My father grimaced. “How can we help you Angelo?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">The mayor’s son paused a bit to (action) before he spoke. “I came to tell you that the beast has been spotted to the south of here, in Filippo’s fields. You will have to hurry there if you wish to ”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“That is very, very far from where we were going to and it will be dark when we get to Filippo’s farm,” my father said through clenched teeth. “And you or your father did not think to tell us before we left?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Angelo shrugged, picked a few berries and threw them in his mouth. “I only tell you what I was told to say. Nothing more.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“Angelo, what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> your father want with the unicorn?”Pietro asked. “The money he offered for its corpse is rather…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“Oh, my father has no real interest in the creature,” Angelo replied, cutting my uncle off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He only wanted to ship the beast off to Rome to have it studied. He believes there will be a big reward for the carcass.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">We turned around and headed south, covering distance we’d already traversed. It was already mid-afternoon when Angelo caught up to us, and we tried to march as fast as we could to get there before dusk. There was no guarantee though that unicorn would be there when we arrived, but like usual in those days we put our heads down and did as we were told . During the trip Angelo and Pietro talked politics, a topic I was not fond of and my father despised. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">“Have you heard that our army has already reached the Ethiopian capital?” Angelo said. “It was such a short war that I thought Believe me friends, in ten years time I will not be surprised to find that our Il Duce will <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have taken Italy to heights not seen since the Roman Empire. He has already stood up and told those bastardos at the League of Nations where to put there objections.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">I glanced over at my father to see him shaking his head and I held my tongue. I wanted to tell Angelo that that what he was saying would have been impossible, nothing more than a madman’s dream, but I knew that if I contradicted him Angelo might lie and tell his father my father and I were <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dilettantes or even worse communists. My father often said when he was sure no one else was listening that the fancies of the powerful were the burdens of the meek, and listening to Angelo I now knew what he meant.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">Fillipo’s farm was an unkempt apple orchard with the trees sprouted wildly and not in rows like in other farms. Fillipo often said the apples came out better this way, with a crisper taste. Whether this was true or not I did not know, but it did mean that the farm was more like a forest than anything else and was difficult to see. We split off into two groups, with Pietro and Angelo searching to the east and my father and myself in the west. Like my father had predicted it was nearly dusk, and that made it hard to see. After some time combing through the trees my father sighed, and I knew that he was ready to give up and return home. It was then that I saw a flicker of white ahead of me. I ran towards it as fast as I could as my father called out to me and tried to keep pace. I arrived at a clearing and saw the unicorn, and for a moment I could not believe my eyes. Even today I have trouble describing exactly what it looked like, and I can only say it is like trying to remember the face of the very first girl you fell in love with; the image of it blurs in your mind and you cannot quite remember details, but you know that it is perfect and unchanging. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">The beast looked at me with eyes as dark as night and I stood motionless. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not look away no matter how hard I tried. It lowered its head, its horn pointed at me, and tensed its muscles. I knew that it was about to charge at me and gore me like a bull, but I could do nothing to stop it. It started to run at me, and I knew that I would die then. I closed my eyes and waited for the horn to rip into my chest. I heard a loud crack right next to my head, and there was a ringing in my left ear. I opened my eyes to see the unicorn on the ground before me, a bloody wound in its chest. I looked over to see my father lower his rifle and ask me if I was alright, though I could barely hear him. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">By the time Angelo and Pietro got to us, drawn by the gunshot, the dark light in the beast’s eyes had gone out. It looked like just another dead animal, and there was nothing left of the glamour it had used on me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two joked and laughed over the beast, and Angelo paid my father half of what we had been promised. He did not say a thing about it though, and just put his arm around my shoulder as we made the long walk back to our village. I put the shotgun in my closet and never fired it again, and I feel good to say that I have still never shot a living creature in the rest of my days, despite the dark times I faced ahead in the ten years that followed the hunt of the unicorn. </div>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-18153248499960111062011-06-28T00:37:00.000-06:002011-06-28T00:37:37.038-06:00Sergeant Killman and The Jungle Orgy of Blood<i>Another week, another flash fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig's <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/06/24/flash-fiction-challenge-sub-genre-mash-up/">terribleminds</a>. This week's challenge was to mash up two different sub-genres and see what happens. I chose Man Adventures and Steampunk, and what emerged was an uber pulp version</i> <u><i>Heart of Darkness</i></u><i>, which just so happens to be one of my favorite novels so I'm pretty okay with the result. As always, feel free to leave any comments you have and I hope you enjoy. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
The sweltering thick muck of jungle air bore down on Sgt Killman and seemed to be getting only worse and worse even after he’d stripped down to just an undershirt and army khaki pants. He wadded thigh deep through the leech infested river with his arms above his head clutching his custom made repeating rifle in an effort to keep it mostly dry. His muscled torso shone with sweat, blood and those water droplets from the Congo river that clung to his body with a ferocity only matched by his own passionate commitment to his current mission. <br />
"I say, I do hope Von Kurtz's fortress is close by," his companion Watkins called out from behind. The old man carried a portable gatling gun on his back and was still able to keep pace with the Sergeant. <br />
<br />
Killman hoped for this as well, especially for Watkins sake. The old veteran had ably served the British Empire for far longer than any other man he could name, and was still Killman’s equal on the battlefield when his experience and tenacity were taken into account. But time had caught up with Watkins, as it did for all men, and just last fall he’d had to replace his heart with a copper valve pumper. The doctors and scientist of the Technopolist Union insisted that the valve was capable of withstanding the most extreme climates without malfunction though Killman, a veteran of the campaigns in Afghanistan and Burma, remained skeptical. He had seen the mechanickal ‘wonders’ that the Empire had brought to bear, the tank-walkers and the servo-soldiers and all the rest, sputter and stall at the worst of times despite assurances by those self-same technocrats. Still though, in spite of Killman’s reservations, Watkins had insisted on accompanying him on this jungle trek and the Sergeant knew his old friend too well to try arguing with him. <br />
<br />
“No worries. Is not far,"their native guide assured them. They hadn't gotten his real name before they left, and probably couldn't pronounce it even if they had, so like the other Europeans stationed in the New Belgian Congo they had just taken to addressing him as Tall-Lean for his corresponding appearance. They’d heard he was the best tracker and hunter around, and in the few days of travel he’d been essential in navigating them through this toughest and most dangerous region on earth. In Watkins and Killman’s eyes he had more than lived up to his reputation and they valued his presence greatly despite his limited proficiency with the English language or any other civilized tongue known to them. <br />
<br />
Killman’s heart beat quickly in his chest as he realized that, after weeks of travel and preparation he would soon be reaching the destination. He remembered back to when he’d first heard the news, to the day when a submersible had abruptly surfaced on the shores of his deserted island retreat and a prim and proper captain of the British Navy had emerged. Before Killman could recover from his shock and properly berate and beat the man for disrupting his hard earned retirement the captain handed him an envelope with the Royal Seal upon it. Inside was a letter that bore the startling news of the return of his arch-nemesis Baron Viktor Von Kurtz, master of hypnosis and mad genius extraordinaire. The world had long thought Von Kurtz was dead, but apparently not even hell’s infernal fires were enough to contain the monster’s twisted evil and insanity it seemed. <br />
<br />
Even more shocking was the news that Von Kurtz had made a brazen attack on the German Confederacy’s capital of Berlin with an army of jet pack wearing servo-soldiers. During the assault the Baron had kidnapped the Kaiser’s daughter Princess Sophia and had spirited her away on his gyro-zepplin. The German princess was the betrothed of the future King Edward VII and their wedding was meant to seal the alliance between the Empire and the Confederacy to stand against the threat of the expansionist Russian Commissariat. With her abduction though, such an alliance was now in jeopardy, and the Russians were no doubt marshalling their armies in the East to launch a pre-emptive strike while the western powers were still divided. <br />
Sergeant Killman knew even before he finished the letter what his mission was to be. The Technopolist Union had used their network of telescopes and orbiting satellite mirrors to track the Baron to a jungle fortress in the New Belgian Congo. The fortress was garrisoned with an army of servo-soldiers making any direct assault upon it difficult to say the least and would also endanger the princess’s well-being. Killman knew that the only way to get her back was for a team of commandos to infiltrate to the Baron’s fortress, retrieve the princess and exterminate Von Kurtz with extreme prejudice, which was exactly what he was ordered to do. He also knew that he was the best man for the job. The letter ended with signatures from the God-Empress Victoria, the Kaiser Wilhelm II and even the Emperor Norton I of America.<br />
<br />
Killman’s reverie was broken when he noticed that the jungle had gone suspiciously quiet, as an eerie silence descended around them. Watkins had noticed as well, and he readied his gatling gun at the hip while the three of them made their way out of the water and onto the riverbank. The silence was broken when a metallic rod burst up from the river and lightning began streaking around it. The lightning shot out in an arc and slammed into Tall-Lean, vaulting him backwards. A quick look at the native’s burnt chest showed that he was dead. Watkins and Killman swirled around and fired at the rod, tearing it apart with a hail of bullets. <br />
<br />
A metallic screech filled the air and two ducked for cover as a giant metal claw crashed in the exact same spot they’d been standing. They looked up to see the all too familiar face of Baron Von Kurtz smiling down upon them from atop a tank-walker. The Baron had on a pair of etheric oil goggles that covered his eyes but Killman could tell they still shone with absolute and utter madness. <br />
<br />
“Vell, vell, vell, it seems that mein old friend Sergeant Killman has made a pilgrimage to see me,”Von Kurtz sneered. “I suppose I should be flattered that the nations of the vorld have sent their best man to face me.”<br />
<br />
“Hand over the princess Kurtz and we promise to make your death a quick one,”Killman shouted.<br />
<br />
Von Kurtz cackled as his voice reached an even higher pitch. <br />
<br />
“Generous as alvays, Gute Sergeant, but I suggest we ask the princess herself vhat she vishes in the matter.”<br />
<br />
A woman clothed in dark, revealing black leather emerged from the top hatch of the tank and joined the Baron atop it. Watkins stammered and even Killman was taken aback when they both realized that it was none other than Princess Sophia who stood by the Baron’s side. She threw her head back, her long golden hair shimmering in the sun and laughed. It had the same crazed maleficence as Von Kurtz’s own. The sound was joined by the thrumming drone of jetpacks filled the air as a legion of servo-soldiers descended upon them.<br />
<br />
“I extend to you a similar offer to the one you gave me, the Baron shouted. “Surrender now and your deaths shall be quick and painless.” His grin somehow got even wider than before. “Vell, mostly painless.”<br />
<br />
Killman spat as he reloaded his rifle with a new clip. <br />
<br />
“Give up? Shucks Baron, why would I do that when this just got a whole helluva lot more interesting?” D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-77282705789019288292011-06-19T13:17:00.000-06:002011-06-19T13:17:34.113-06:00Do killbots dream of electric reporters?<i>This flash fiction challenge was actually pretty easy to write up. The theme this <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/06/17/flash-fiction-challenge-must-love-robots/">week</a> was robots, and given that my top sci-fi influences are the novels of Philip K. Dick and Ghost In The Shell in all its adaptations I had plenty of reference material to work from. Thanks again to Chuck Wendig for coming up with these crazy ideas and please feel free to leave lots and lots of comments. Oh yes, and I hope you enjoy!</i><br />
<br />
The androids’ metal casings were smooth and shiny, so much so that Liana Turing could actually see her reflection in them. She felt tempted to reach out and feel the cold surface, but she hesitated. She recalled the battlefield demonstration, how the androids with their sleek, vaguely humanoid bodies, had used their missiles and machine guns to blow apart their artificial targets with ridiculous ease. She thought about how, soon enough, they would be deployed against living people, human targets not made of synthetics but of bone and flesh. She stared at the large blue sensor array that took up most of the android’s ‘face” and shuddered.<br />
<br />
“I’m glad you all made it to the facility today,”the project director’s voice rang out. His voice was deep and low, and had almost a primal quality to it. It seemed like the voice of someone always just on the edge of civility and who would and could switch to violence at a moment’s notice. <br />
<br />
He walked towards her and the other reporters around her with smooth, deliberate strides. At first, during the introduction before the demonstration, he’d reminded her of a big cat, like a lion or tiger or another one of those animals that’d gone extinct during the last century. Now though, she saw him for what he really was; calculated, mechanical, prizing efficiency above all else. A machine, just like the automatons that surrounded them, albeit fully human. His finely tailored smart suit only added to this impression.<br />
<br />
She briefly wondered why it was the director who was chosen to unveil the androids to the press. The only explanation she could come up with was one she felt very uncomfortable with. <br />
He was meant to help scare the holy shit out of them. Well, whatever shit was left in them after the demonstration they’d witnessed. <br />
<br />
“Please remember that taking photographs or pictures of any kind is restricted while you’re in the facility. If you require any further elaborations on this please consult the press disclosure agreement you all signed before entering.”<br />
<br />
Not that they had a choice in the matter, Liana reflected. It was standard practice nowadays that anyone in the press had to sign these disclosure agreements every time they covered a government or hegemonic sponsored event or interview. They were always specially tailored for each instance, but they always boiled down to limiting what could be published. And those were just the mild ones. Other disclosures basically stated the government or corporate hegemons could review and edit your work at their own fiat. <br />
<br />
The director waved his hand, indicated the robots. “Clarketech Industries is very proud to be working closely with the military on this project. These robots are built with the most cutting edge technology available today. Propulsion packs make sure that the androids can be mobilized to any terrain available on earth and beyond. They sport the latest in anti-EMP hardware and hack resistant firmware. Additionally their new target recognition software means they can notice and remember faces and bodies for reference in future encounters. They are the ultimate design to supplement the existing military forces and are perfectly suited for the most difficult operations where nuclear or air strike solutions aren’t viable.” <br />
<br />
Liana raised her hand. “Director, can you elaborate on these intended ‘operations’?”she asked. <br />
<br />
The director’s mouth continued to smile but his eyes were a different story; they narrowed and scowled at her with distasteful recognition.<br />
<br />
“Of course, Ms. Turing. My purpose today is to provide you all with as much information as confidentiality will allow. The activities that the androids will be assigned to include hostage rescue operations, limited urban policing engagements in foreign nations, and selective engagements against individual enemies of the public order.”<br />
<br />
“By ‘engagements’ do you mean assassination, Director?”she asked him.<br />
<br />
This time the smile left his face. <br />
<br />
“As you well know Ms. Turing, such a thing is illegal by both international and federal law...”<br />
Liana cut him off.<br />
<br />
“Well, let’s just say hypothetically if these machines were used by individuals who weren’t as well versed in the law as you seem to be, they seem like they would be the perfect tools for assassinating opponents to the new order.”<br />
<br />
The director’s eyes narrowed even further. She suspected that her editor would be getting a call after the press tour noting her ‘erratic behavior’ during the event. <br />
<br />
“I’m not here to debate hypotheticals with you. And to suggest that they individuals who would be authorizing their use, our elected government liaisons to the military, would use them in the fashion you’re implying is borderline treason,”he told her, then turned his attention to the other reporters. “But enough about that. Perhaps you would be so kind as to allow other members of the press to ask their no doubt relevant questions now?”<br />
<br />
They asked their own prepared director in a routine order, all of them softball questions about the androids and Clarketech Industries that were . Liana wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the hegemon had sent the questions to all their editors ahead of time. The director’s replies were always polite and curt that technically answered their questions but gave away nothing of significance. He then invited them all to another section of the facility to view the hegemon’s newest civilian android models. These demonstrations would no doubt have another, friendlier tour guide, and would no doubt be showcasing the androids’ newest smart phone integration utilities or some other distracting tripe. She cringed at the thought that most of the other reporters would focus on the civilian androids and only briefly mention the military types for their own articles. <br />
<br />
Liana lingered a bit behind the others. She turned back to see the android’s single eye shift and focus on her, as if it was watching her as she left. She couldn’t help get the feeling that it was marking her face and body, noting her face and body, remembering her, perhaps even as a reference for some future encounter.D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-36154707345184423172011-06-16T23:37:00.000-06:002011-06-16T23:37:52.516-06:00The Paddington Ambush <i>I'm really not sure where he comes up with this stuff, but Chuck Wendig's new <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/06/10/flash-fiction-challenge-dirty-ass-sex-moves/">flash fiction challeng </a>is, well, gross and perverted. That's the only way to put it really. The story's a real charmer and it's based of a variant of the Ambush Paddington where you, well, just read the rest. You'll find out. </i><br />
<i> </i> <i>Hope you enjoy!</i><br />
<br />
You have to understand, I did it cause of a dare. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. At least, I think I wouldn’t have. I was pretty drunk that night. But my buddies dare me to do it, so what could I do? Like I said, it’s not my fault. <br />
<br />
Her name was Cindy or Sandy. Maybe Cathy? I dunno, something like that. Let’s just call her Stacey. She was fine though. Little blonde thing with a nice ass and...well I can’t remember the rest. But you get the picture right? Wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers. Anyways, we were dancing at the club, doing the bump and grind, and we go up to the bar for shots where we meet up with my buddy Andy. Somehow we got on the topic of what we for decorations in our bedrooms, and Stacey let it slip that she had a huge collection of stuffed animals. Andy’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, and he pulls me over to the side with barely even an “excuse us for moment.”<br />
<br />
“Dude,”he said. “You totally got a chance to do the Ambush Paddington.”<br />
<br />
With the noise in the club I didn’t think I heard him right so I asked him to repeat.<br />
<br />
He laughs and explains what it was. <br />
<br />
“I dunno man,” I reply. “she seems like a nice girl.”<br />
<br />
“Dude,” he pleads. “Do it for the story.”<br />
<br />
I couldn’t argue with that; the story trumps everything in among bros. It’s like an H-bomb of the bro code battles; you can’t beat it. <br />
So I convince Stacey to take me back to her place, to ‘convince’ me that she actually does have all these stuffed animals. It’s a pretty shitty line, but it works out cause before I know it I’m in the pinkest, girliest, room I’ve ever been in. And she wasn’t kidding about the stuffed animals either. There were pink bears, red bears, brown bears, unicorns, pegasuses (pegasi?) all over the room. She blushed when she saw that my jaw was almost on the floor and led me over to her bed. <br />
I won’t go into the details other than to re-assure you that my mojo kung fu was still in good shape, and we were dancing the horizontal mambo before you can say what what. I start getting to the point of no return and I look around to try to find just the right prop for the ‘Ambush.’ My eyes settle on this one bear that’s wearing a fedora and made up to be like he’s some kind of pulp detective. It’s perfect. Just as I’m about to bust a nut, I grab the bear, pull out and jizz all over it. White man-cream covers the bear’s jacket, face, and even his fedora.<br />
<br />
Stacey freaked out when she saw what I’d done, to say the least.<br />
<br />
“Oh my fucking God, you came on Mr. Bearsworth. You fucking piece of shit asshole. GET THE FUCK OUT!”<br />
<br />
I barely had time to put on my clothes before she threw me out of her place. It was only when I got outside that I remembered that I’d spent all my money at the club and didn’t have enough for a cab home. I kinda knew the area so I started hoofing it back to my place. <br />
<br />
While I was walking I kept getting this odd feeling at the back of my neck, like someone was watching me. I turned around a couple of times to try and see what it was, but I didn’t see anything. So I kept walking, kept hoofing it. At least I did, until up ahead of me I saw something that froze my blood. Propped on a bus stop bench was the bear. The exact same type of stuffed bear I’d just cum on, with the trenchcoat, fedora, and all that, was sitting on the bench and was facing me. I sped up my pace, tried to tell myself that I was hallucinating or just plain drunk. I passed the bear, and after a few more steps, I looked back. The bear had changed facing to continue staring at me. I shut my eyes, breathed long and deep and tried to tell myself that there was no way a fucking stuffed animal was following me. When I opened my eyes the bear was gone. <br />
<br />
Then the noises started. It started with a rustling to the left, right next to a clump of bushes. The <br />
I creeped over to the bushes, step by step, taking it slow, and stopped when I saw the top of a fedora sticking out. I panicked and broke into a run. I don’t know how long I ran for or how far, but I only stopped when I got to my apartment. My lungs practically collapsed trying to suck in as much air as I could. I fumbled with my keys for a few minutes as I tried to steady myself. I managed to get the door unlocked and opened. I rushed into the apartment building. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something small and furry scramble across the street. I slammed the door shut, made sure it was locked, then hurried as fast as I could up two floors and into my apartment proper. I stayed with my back to the door for a long time, and eventually I convinced myself that none of what I’d seen was real and that I just needed to go the fuck to sleep. <br />
<br />
I collapsed onto my bed and tried to forget this night. I was just about to nod off, when I heard a shuffling coming from across the hall. It was slow at first, but it seemed to speed up, get faster and faster. The noise finally stopped just outside my door. <br />
<br />
Then, I saw and heard the door creak open and the shuffling start up again, this time in my room. <br />
<br />
It was like being in a bad dream, a nightmare. My body was completely paralyzed with fear and the only thing I could move was my eyes. I saw the bear’s brown arm reach up and grab onto the side of the bed. It was followed by the other arm, and the bear pulled itself onto the bed. I couldn’t move, couldn’t react at all. My heart raced, seemed to beat a thousand times a second as I watched the bear amble towards me on legs that weren’t meant for walking or moving. I wanted to scream out at the top of my lungs, but nothing came.<br />
<br />
With a violent motion I didn’t even know a teddy bear could do it started tearing at the stitching around its crotch. The cotton stuffing started to burst out as the stitches gave way. The bear ripped some of the stuffing out of itself and hurled it in my face, getting it on my cheek, in my eyes, and up my nose.<br />
<br />
“THERE!”the bear screamed out. “HOW THE FUCK DO YOU LIKE IT?”D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-70845882216190504072011-06-06T23:40:00.000-06:002012-10-18T18:19:16.325-06:00The Dolls<i>Another flash fiction challenge from <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/06/03/flash-fiction-challenge-doll-heads/">terrible minds</a>. I don't have much to say about this one other than to wish you all sweet dreams.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
The dolls talk to me. In the cold, black silence of the night I hear their voices, high pitched and wailing, like lost little children. They whisper to me strange things, blasphemies long thought passed away. They tell me of the secret sins that rule the world and how, if I were to take their council and delve into their desecration, I would gain power over mortal men. <br />
<br />
For a time I listened to them. <br />
<br />
They once told me a story, a dark and awful myth from long before the age of man. This tale of woe is of how the world broke, smashed into a thousand pieces. I can’t remember all of it, because the fog in my head gets worse and worse each day, and causes me to forget. I could ask the dolls to tell me again, but ...no... I won’t do that. I won’t do that you hear me! I WON’T!<br />
<br />
No, please don’t go. My ...condition, you see. Sometimes it acts up. I’ll try to control myself. I can do that. I’m <i>can</i> be strong, from time to time. I’m stronger than the dolls think I am, although I pretend that I’m not.<br />
<br />
Like I said, I can’t tell you the whole story. I don’t remember it all. But I <i>can</i> remember the ending though, and I <i>can</i> tell it to you. All I ask is that you listen. <br />
<br />
After the world broke apart there were many cracks that formed. Most were small little, things, so small that their existence wasn’t even of note. Other fractures though, were just big enough. Yes, just big enough to let something through. And the things on the other side, beyond the cracks, on the dark reflection of the world? They <i>wanted</i> to come through. And they did. Awful, horrible things that were never meant to be here. Things of pure evil. Things like the dolls. <br />
<br />
When they came through they didn’t move or travel in any spatial sense the human mind could understand. The dark reflection creatures exist beyond time and space. That’s why they can see things when they aren’t there to witness them, and why they see the past and the future. They’re part of the world now, but also beyond it as well. It’s ... difficult to describe. It’s even harder to explain. Don’t ask the dolls though; they don’t like it when you ask them questions about themselves. They get upset. <br />
<br />
Where was I...ah, yes of course. The beginning. When the dolls came into our world they had to attach themselves to an anchor that already existed in our world. And for all our sins, they chose us. As they bleed into our reality they made certain that wherever we were, whenever we were, they would be with us. They took the forms of dolls because they’ve always been the dolls, and the forms of dolls have always been them. They’ve always been with us, and we’ve always been with them. Think about who dolls are usually seen with? It’s children. The dolls exist next to the smallest, youngest and most fragile of our species, and that’s exactly the way they want it. <br />
<br />
Ever look into a doll’s eyes? Notice that even when they face you they never seem to look at you? That’s because they don’t see you. Not really. Not as you think you see yourself. They can’t, not with being what they are. What they see I can only guess.What they see is something I don’t really want to know.<br />
<br />
They told me all of this as part of a story, their story, but I can only remember the last part of it. The fog comes and fades away the rest. They told it to me because I can hear them, and that’s their reward for learning their tongue. Their price for learning it? Well, that’s a ...surprise. You can find that out all by yourself.<br />
<br />
Oh, yes, I can show you how to listen to them. I can teach you the trick of it. Do you really want to learn?D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3698155862775910439.post-18685730780408260422011-05-30T00:34:00.003-06:002014-03-19T23:53:48.456-06:00Harker's Guest<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Confession time; I love Dracula and vampires in general (excepting of course for their most recent, sparkly iteration). It all started when I was five years old and</i><i> </i><i>I read a graphic novel adaptation of Bram Stoker's classic novel really late at night. </i><i>My young mind had the beejesus scared out of it, but like some sort of masochist to my own fears, I've had a fascination with the undead ever since. I think I now have about twenty books on vampires scattered abount my bookshelves (and that's not counting the various sourcebooks for Vampire:The Masquerade and Vampire: The Requiem). </i></div>
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<i>So, when Chuck Wendig put up his flash fiction challenge of the week based on the concept of an <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/05/27/flash-fiction-challenge-the-unexpected-guest/">uninvited guest</a>, something long dormant </i><i>in the back of mind clicked into place, and thus was born this monstrosity. The title is a reference to the short story "Dracula's Guest" which was originally supposed to be included as a chapter in <u>Dracula</u> but was later edited out, and packaged and sold as a sort of 19th century teaser for the book. For the story I tried to come at the classic story from a different angle while at the same time staying true to the original, including keeping to its Victorian era propensity for purple prose. </i></div>
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<i>Please to enjoy! </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Harker’s Guest"</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
A sudden chill rose to the executor’s skin as he heard the cacophonous howl of the night storm raging outside his study. The sheer violence of it was completely unknown to him living as he had these past ten years in the remote New England countryside. A sensation of intense disquiet gripped him for he swore that he could hear the distinct sound of a wolf howling somewhere nearby in the tempest winds and getting ever closer. After a moment he dismissed it as some dread conjuration of his mind, long overworked from facilitating the acquisition of several local properties for a mysterious foreign client. <br />
<br />
The client was a curious and mysterious gentleman, from his description a noble from the most archaic realms of Europe. The client was preparing to move to the area and corresponded his demands to the executor via telegram. He’d had much difficulty in accommodating the man’s strange demands of celerity in the matter, but was dutifully motivated by the large amounts of money the client promised upon its completion. It was also undertaken as a point of personal pride. His family had a long tradition of managing the estates of others, and even though he was far away from the family residence in England he still strove to practice that august legacy on the other side of the Atlantic.<br />
<br />
His nerves calmed by work, he was about to retire for the night when there came a sudden pounding at the door. The thumping, so fierce that it nearly rivaled the storm in its violence. Startled, the executor quickly made his way to the front door and, gathering up his courage, slowly opened it. There, standing in the rain and wind, was a tall man, clean shaven, with an unusual pallor that made his skin appear as white or light grey. His long black hair seemed to flow out from his hat like water and its length was nearly to his waist. Curiously enough the man’s clothes and person seemed dry, as if he were entirely unaffected by the tempest around him. <br />
<br />
“Mr. Harker?”the man asked, his tone uncertain. His foreign accent had a strange lilt to it, and the executor could rightly say that he had never heard its ken before. “Mister <i>David</i> Harker?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I am he,”the executor replied.<br />
<br />
“Permit my curt introduction. I am your client, the Count Radu. Please excuse the lateness of my visit, but I have just recently arrived and wish to speak to you on the nature of my new estates.” <br />
<br />
The executor tried hard to concentrate but he was finding it difficult. The count’s dark brown, almost black, eyes seemed to bore into him and he found that if he looked to long into them they produced an odd, hypnotic effect. <br />
<br />
“At this hour, Count? Surely it can wait until tomorrow,”Harker said, his mind slowed by gross fatigue and the count’s intense gaze.<br />
<br />
“Please, it is of grave importance that it be seen to this night, Mr. Harker,”the Count insisted. “May I come in?”<br />
<br />
Almost despite himself the executor welcomed the count into his home and led him to his study where he did his best to make him more comfortable. The count followed, his movements conducted with a grace that belied his tall stature. Each step he took had the unthinking ease of an athlete or a dancer but at the same time contained an unsettling, predatory quality. The executor couldn’t help but be reminded of the deadly prowess of a great cat echoed in the count’s every gesture and stride. He dismissed the unease that his guest provoked and poured himself a glass of wine. He offered one to the count as well, though he refused it.<br />
<br />
“Though I have not dined tonight I am afraid I am not fond of wine,” he replied.<br />
<br />
The executor set about tending to the fire, ostensibly to make his unexpected guest feel more comfortable but in actuality to distract himself from the count's odd mannerisms. There was a long pause that was at last broken by the executor.<br />
<br />
“You will no doubt be pleased to hear that the acquisitions are proceeding quite quickly and should be completed by the end of the month,”he said.<br />
<br />
The count nodded. “Good,” was all he said on the matter, then added. “The northern most estate, the manor, I have heard that it was the spot of an execution ... a hanging. Is this true?”<br />
<br />
“It is true,”the executor said but quickly added as an explanation. “But that was some time ago, back when the area was known as Salem. A girl was hanged there, accused of witchcraft, though I must add that there’s been no other morbid activity there since. And I’ve heard no tales of the condemned’s spirit coming back to haunt it.”<br />
<br />
If the count understood the executor’s jest he showed no sign of finding it funny. <br />
<br />
“And, in this area do you still hang witches?”the count asked. <br />
<br />
The executor swallowed, shocked that his client would think that his new home could be so barbaric. <br />
<br />
“No, no of course not. I’m afraid that no one in America truly believes in witches in this day and age and if they did suspicion and superstition alone is not cause enough to execute them.”<br />
<br />
The count sighed. “Another sad indication of the weakness of the modern era. I am finding that the more changes that are made in the world, and the more progress in the cause of civilization, the less value is given to tradition and those old ways that have guided us for so long.”<br />
<br />
The executor decided that silence was the best recourse to the count’s ramblings.<br />
<br />
“Soon enough our old ways will be no more, swept aside by advances and the tenacity of men of science. What will happen when the day comes that the new values overtake the old, and men can no longer decide for themselves which violations must be responded to in kind. When will be the time that men no longer believe that blood spilled must be paid in kind? Tell me Mr. David Harker, do you have any family?”<br />
<br />
The executor was stunned for a moment at the count’s sudden shift of topic and it took him a few moments to collect himself before he finally respond. <br />
<br />
“Yes, I have a brother, though we’ve not spoken for nearly a decade. I’ve heard that he’s recently married, and that he and his wife are expecting their first child.” <br />
<br />
The count stared at him in a way that the executor imagined a wolf stares down its prey.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"> “I too had a brother once, though he was taken from me quite recently. Like yourself, I was not close to him, had not seen him for a very long time. It would be best said that I hated him,”the count said, his voice almost given over to an unexplained anger before just as inexplicably growing calm. “But still, the old ways of honor must be observed.” <br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"> He shivered, though it somehow seemed like a forced motion. “I feel a chill. Do you think that you could turn around and add more wood to the fire?”<br />
<br />
David nodded and set about the task, although some dark recess of his mind defied to turn his back to him. He did not hear the silent strides of Count Radu and too late felt the count’s strong hands grip themselves on his shoulders, keeping him in place no matter how hard he struggled.<br />
<br />
“We are both slave to the old ways, you and I,”the count whispered in his ear, and David smelt the awful stench of blood upon the man's breath. He felt a sudden sharp pain in his neck and then a dreadful dizziness overtook him as a darkness blacker than the night rose up to swallow him whole. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Like this story? Why not check out <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Thornwood-Plot-Paragon-Wright-ebook/dp/B00IXXARS6"><b>The Thornwood Plot</b></a></i>. </span>D. E. Wrighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14945945057779154684noreply@blogger.com2