When Shade pistol-whipped her husband, Amberlee let out a cry and fell to the ground. That pissed him off so he pistol-whipped him again shooting her a look that said, "Don't back down now."...

When Shade pistol-whipped her husband, Amberlee let out a cry and fell to the ground. That pissed him off so he pistol-whipped him again shooting her a look that said, "Don't back down now."...

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...Much has been written by angry fans of the Alfredson film against this one based on early trailers and script reviews from dubious sources. To those who have been following those conversations, no - it is not a shot for shot remake. Yes, many sequences are quite similar but many others are not. The structure of the film is quite different, the internal focus shifted slightly. As for script reviews claiming massive revisions to the source material, disregard those entirely. They simply are not true. The back stories of the children have not been changed in the slightest, with the obvious exception being that they now live in America. Some issues are simply not touched on - which I will not go in to for spoiler reasons - but there is nothing about either character that contradicts existing canon. This is a true, respectful treatment of the original material...

It should be noted that I trust TWITCHfilm's opinions on most things
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More and more these days--as Time's Winged Chariot drags me inexorably closer to the shadowy bourne of that Undiscovered Country, and the vistas of Future Possibility shrink and close around me like the heavy gray walls of an Inquisitor's tomb--I find myself wishing that I'd come into contact with certain things earlier in my life. For instance, I was fully fifteen years old before I first read Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, a book that would have stood me in much better stead before I'd followed the philosophical dead ends of its protagonist Raskolnikov. (I ended up getting my watch back, though, so no lasting harm.) Similarly, I discovered the cinema of Paul Naschy as a slightly past middle-aged adult (if we calculate the middle as half the "threescore years and ten" of verse)--a fortunate discovery, but one, had I made it earlier, would have afforded me that many more years of grinning, face-beaming joy...

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So I’m sitting in a coffee shop, nursing my unpronounceable milk and coffee drink. I’m at a table in the corner by the window, where the view is the busy street. Inside the shop, there are people reading newspapers or books, and others staring at laptops. Still others are having quiet conversations. Though the place is busy, the lunch crowd hasn’t descended yet. I’m people-watching, that’s all, thankful it’s my day off.
Suddenly I feel this ripple in the air in front of my little table. There’s a– well, I guess you could say it’s a woman, but there’s something… odd about her, in front of me. She stands there a moment, hands on hips, looking at me scornfully, and then she sits across from me, without even a by-your-leave...
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Life was a strange beast here, for it ebbed and flowed with the tides of the moon. In the morning, all creatures would die, and in the afternoon, find themselves revived as they once were. Even those that had been consumed as prey woke up once more in their homes.
The moon was a cruel mistress, for it did not remove the memories of their deaths. Every day, another death would be added to a long litany of memory, and so creatures became warped and twisted things, their memories consumed by pain. Some sought suicide as a way out, thinking that if they killed themselves, they would be well and truly dead. Alas, that was not to be, and so they grew despondent, dying but never dead...
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From: George Lewis |
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Keirit spent his sixteenth birthday doing what most boys did when they turned eight. His mother pleaded with him not to leave the Caves, but he was adamant...
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A Taste Of Freedom
(an excerpt for In The Shadow Of His Nemesis)
by
Al Bruno III
Time and space had long ago lost all meaning for Gawain Wight; once hours and resources had been his to use as he saw fit. He had traveled the world and seen the impossible; he had sacrificed the innocent and the brave to bring down the enemies of his government. Now all he had was a sweltering ten foot by six foot cell and a diet of random noise and terror.
He didn’t even know how long he had been here, he didn’t even know what time of day it was anymore. He suspected he was on an island somewhere off the coast of Costa Rica, privately owned and unnamed. Once, over a decade ago, Gawain had sent an operative here only to lose him forever.
It started again, the crash of music and machinery, the cries of babies- all recorded and blared at random intervals from the speakers suspended from the high ceiling. Months ago he had almost broken his leg in a crazed effort to reach and destroy the damned things- or had it been just a few weeks ago?
They fed him once a day, a tasteless serving of gruel and a plastic cup of foul-smelling tap water. He made himself wait until he was really hungry before he ate any, it was the closest thing he had to a routine. Sometimes he would wonder to himself what might smell worse to a neutral observer, the water or the man drinking the water.
The orange jumpsuit he wore was stained, stiff and ragged. His hair was long and filthy. Gawain couldn’t remember the last time his captors had cleaned him up but sometimes he lulled himself to sleep with fantasies of a cold blast of water from a fire hose and a change of clothes.
But that was on the rare occasion they let him sleep long enough to snatch a dream or two.
It was funny in a way, when they had first brought him here he had been full of escape plans and defiance. But now? Now all he wanted was a few hours sleep and silence.
Footsteps approached. He started, was it meal time already?
No. He was almost sure it wasn’t.
Footsteps usually just passed on by but he still couldn’t help but get excited- would he be dragged out to the yard to be doused with the hose? Was it time for a check up with the dull eyed excuse for they had for a doctor? Maybe they were at long last going to kill him. There would be a kind of relief in that.
The door of his cell swung open and a pair of men in dark uniforms dragged Gawain out into the bright artificial light of a sterile-looking passage. They didn’t even give him the chance to get to his feet and walk; they just dragged him along like a petulant child.
One hallway, then another- they all looked the same to Gawain and he wouldn’t have been surprised if they just brought him right back to his little cell all over again. Worse things had happened during his time here.
Far worse.
There had been torture... No questions had been asked during these times, no taunts just a methodical application of misery that his captors soon seemed to lose interest in...
It was a shame in a way, sometimes Gawain almost missed the torture, it was better than having to face living one lonely day after another.
An elevator ride and another hallway later his handlers led him to a chair in the middle of an otherwise empty room. He sat down gingerly and waited.
“Mr. Wight?” A pleasant sounding voice filled the room, ”Can you hear us?”
Gawain nodded.
”We need you to reply audibly Mr. Wight. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” Gawain was horrified at the sound of his own voice, he was sixty years old but he sounded ancient and worn down. “I can hear you.”
“Good, good. I think it is time that we spoke.”
“Why now? What do you need from me?”
“The world has changed so much since we took charge of you.”
“Could I have some water please?” he asked.
“We all regret the circumstances of your internment,” the voice paused as the door opened.
Gawain flinched but it was just one of the gray-uniformed men carrying a paper cup. He dutifully handed the cup over and left again.
The smell coming from the cup set Gawain’s body trembling, this wasn’t water. It was orange juice! He drank it so fast that he almost choked, his tongue came alive, his breathing increased, his prick stiffened without a single impure thought.
“Our files noted that you enjoyed orange juice.”
He crossed his arms and stared at nothing, “Why am I still alive?”
“We are not cruel.”
He laughed bitterly, “You really think that?”
“We defend ourselves when we must, but we preserve far more lives than we sacrifice,” the voice explained.
“You’ve got everything you want,” Gawain said. “Why am I still here? Why am I still alive? Unless of course you guys are somehow getting your jollies by making me suffer.”
The voice became more subdued, “There are those like you that do not understand and resist.”
...Gawain buried his face in his hands... they wanted to make use of the talents he had once used against them.
And if he said no?
Would they send him to oblivion or just back to his cell?
Which would be worse? The dreary cell or having to face the reproachful faces of his four sons as his life faded away?
“Do you need us to clarify our terms?”
Gawain straightened up in the chair and asked, “Can I have another orange juice?”
____________________________________________________________________
To read more of the story click here!
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