except that the house is a damn mess...
except that the house is a damn mess...
Will it be as dark as the original?
And does mean there will be a remake of DEVIL DOG coming?
Or BAD RONALD?
Sleeping On The Job of the Day: According to the makers of “Ostrich,” the pillow/cushion/bed/garment hybrid sports a “soothing cave-like interior” that “shelters and isolates our head and hands” to create a work-friendly “micro environment in which to take a warm and comfortable power nap at ease.”...
STORIES IN THE KEY OF LOVECRAFT:
Al Bruno III
(for Valerie Jones)
The air was humid and thick with pollen. The path that led through the field was uneven and uphill. The grass that bordered it was thickly flowered with blooms the color of blood. Trees surrounded them, hemlock spruces and white cedars. Occasionally a cicada-like hum would rise up from all around and then fade away.
Joseph hurried after the old man trying to make him sell his land but the old man just wouldn't listen.
“Creer family moved here in 1806,” the old man said. He was white haired but broad-shouldered and thickly built, “The Protestants in New York hadn’t taken too kindly to them ‘cause they kept to themselves and didn’t worship in the fine respectable churches everyone else did. They bought these acres, it wasn’t farmin’ land you see. Gully’s too deep and the ground’s no good for tillin’.”
“Mr. Fenner my company is more than willing to meet almost any price...” Joseph paused to brush a burr from his slacks, he was sure that by the time this was over his suit would be ruined. Not that he ever wore one of his really good suits when visiting these hick towns, but he still didn’t like the idea of getting grass stains or worse on what he was wearing. Something whizzed past his head, it looked like the biggest, pinkest bumblebee he had ever seen. Joseph had always hated the out of doors. Camping and long walks on the beach were not for him. He preferred the odors and sounds of the city, he’d take subway rats over bunnies and woodchucks any day.
They spied a post nearby, just a bolt of wood standing out in the middle of the tall grass. An old milk bottle hung from it. The old man made his way to it and filled it from the watering can he was carrying. The fluid that trickled into the bottle was thick and syrupy. “Now the Creer family was all daughters...” he continued, “well that ain’t really true but they had no luck with the male children. Those that weren’t stillborn or simple ran away from home soon as they could.”
When the old man came back to the path there were a dozen or so ticks on his overalls. Joseph felt his skin crawl, he started brushing at his clothes self-consciously. Was there one crawling up his leg now? Was there more than one?
And why was it the old man just wouldn't listen?
The tree line was growing closer, “Now the Fenner family married into the Creers. The Fenners had made their fortunes in Mexico but they came back up north right before the Alamo fell. Soon enough all the Creer daughters married the Fenner sons. Most of ‘em settled here, they built additions onto the house and made families of their own. Some families moved in to town to make their fortunes,” the old man turned and gave Joseph a ragged grin, “but I’m the last now. Last for miles, wife and kids all gone.”
“So why stay here?” They reached another post with another bottle, the old man filled it. Joseph turned to look back and grimaced at how far they had come. There was a weathered stone wheel lying near the path, there had been writing on it once but it had been reduced to mottled shapes. “All your neighbors have sold to us already. We want to break ground by the fall.”
“True.” The old man got back on the path and started walking again, “But ain’t there enough stores in the world already? Besides, if I sell and you plow all this under where will the Trochildae go?”
“Trochildae, least that’s what we Fenners call them. Ain’t got no proper names really but they’re like hummingbirds.”
Joseph groaned inwardly, he had thought the old man was a just a crazy old coot but it was worse than that, he was a tree hugger. “Mr. Fenner there is no record of any endangered species...”
“Well of course not,” the old man replied, “but they're here, been livin' here since before the Creers and the Fenners, since before any man lived at all. Some say the Old Ones brought them down from the stars.”
They followed the path into the woods, Joseph breathed a sigh of relief at the cool shade. He watched the old man fill another bottle. He began “Mr. Fenner I think we have gotten off the subject...” then his words trailed off.
They had reached a clearing in the woods, a rough circle where no plant grew and slabs of stone protruded from the ground. There were figures tied to the stones, men, women and children all bound and gagged with strips of leather. Their flesh was pockmarked and torn. To Joseph's widening eyes they looked like mummies.
But some of those mummies still writhing in place.
A sharp sting of pain made him cry out. Joseph snatched at his cheek and found his fingers warm with blood. There was something flitting around his head, moving fast and filling his ears with a heavy droning buzz.
The thing- the Trochildae- moved too quickly to be seen clearly but Joseph could see it was only bird-like in the vaguest sense of the word. The body was frail-looking and devoid of feathers, dark veins ran through its flesh and its wings moved so quickly that it was impossible to judge how many of them there were. Joseph screamed and swatted at it, backing away and in to the old man's waiting arms. The old man was strong, impossibly strong.
The forest had come alive with the sound of the Trochildae as Joseph was expertly bound to a stone. Dozens of the creatures flew this way and that in anticipation.
Over and over again Joseph begged for mercy, but the old man just wouldn't listen.
And then....something funny happened. I suddenly realized that Tourist Trap was possibly a little too creepy for comfort. Creepy is good yes, but in some cases, like when you watch The Exorcist at age seven while hiding behind a couch at your older sister's sleepover, the creepy is too much to handle and before you know it you're staying up until 5 in the morning because you think that a moth flew into your eyeball and is going to possesses you. Not that I speak from experience or anything like that....
Oh and also.. they article contains a scene from the movie... what I think is one of the creepiest scenes in cinema...
and this time it's the bad guys!
...Whether you will enjoy director flick The Red Headed Corpse (aka The Sensuous Doll, dir. Renzo Russo, 1972) will depend on the results of your own personal cost-benefit analysis. Are you willing to spend a great deal of your movie-watching time staring straight into the haggard, leathery, alcohol-ravaged face of Farley Granger--his watery, bloodshot eyes filled with self-loathing, his lips foam-flecked with the hateful venom they spew whenever they're not wrapped around the neck of a liquor bottle--if every now and then, as your reward, you get to see Erika Blanc naked?
Don't answer right away. This one bears serious thought...
A Bay of Plenty truck driver "blew up like a football" after a freak accident where compressed air was forced into his body through his left buttock.
Steven McCormack was standing on the plate between the cab of his truck and semi-trailer at Waiotahi Contractors on Saturday when his foot slipped.
As he fell, he broke the hose off a brass nipple connected to the compressed air reservoir powering the truck’s brakes, and the nipple pierced the flesh of his left buttock.
As the air, compressed to 100 pounds per square inch, rushed into Mr McCormack’s body he said he felt like he was diving and had the bends...
From The London Evening Standard
Blink and you miss it. Those of you with your eyes closed will have let week 50 of Friday Flash pass you by on Friday.
Short, snappy and over by the weekend, it is the latest way to tell stories - and it's spreading all over the world via Twitter.
Friday Flash (fridayflash.org) is a web-based project set up by one writer to spread short stories - getting more people to write and to read them. Based on the concept of "flash fiction" - which Friday Flash defines as a story of 1,000 words or fewer - anybody who fancies a go can bash out a short piece of fiction on a Friday, post it to their blog and tweet it using the hashtag #FridayFlash.
"Don't be afraid to share your work," founder Jon M Strother encourages participants. "You need feedback, both to sustain the desire to write and to improve your craft."...
According to the arrest report:
A woman who was at the beach with a friend observed a rotting watermelon that had been carved and shaped into a head sitting on the sand. The watermelon seemed to have been abandoned so she placed it in the ocean in hopes that it would disintegrate and not attract any bugs.
Eichner retrieved the watermelon from the ocean and placed it back on the beach.
The woman placed the watermelon in the ocean once again.
Eichner approached the woman with his swim noodle full of water and dumped the water on her as she was sitting on her towel. He then punched her in the cheek...
But that does not mean the story was in any way forgettable, (In fact I thought FEAR HER was just dandy. I don't see why it gets so much flack.)
As I said earlier I wasn't going into this one with many exceptions but I ended up really enjoying it. It was tense in much the same way John Carpenter's THE THING was. There were a lot of surprises and found the 1th Doctor to be acting a scary little like PYRAMIDS OF MARS-er Tom Baker in some ways. And kudos to Rory getting some more character development, although he is trying to Do What The Doctor Would Do which is sadly a good way for supporting characters to get killed.
Just ask Adric...
I can't wait to see the next part but sadly BBC America is holding off on showing it for a week. Meaning I have to avoid some of my favorite blogs and Tumblr in general for about 3 weeks until I am caught up.
IN THIS TWILIGHT
By AL BRUNO III
A lance of pain tore through Thelma’s head, she felt as though something was clawing at the space behind her forehead, trying to tear free. Her fingernails raked the wall, trailing across the old blood and fresh paint, the network of dents and scratches. She understood then that Eagoryl was born, not made or grown, and each mother died in the birthing. She saw the Oracles that had come to this state before her, in this and a dozen other abandoned houses. She could see them now stretching before her, a trail that went back over a decade.
…beyond those realms lights pulse and colors swirl but these are no Earthly hues. They coiled in upon themselves to reveal a storm of roiling fecundity. In the periphery of that all-consuming tempest the Husk Worlds splinter and coalesce; barren lands and jeweled minarets, impossible pasts and shadowed futures, each moment of their stolen existences was at the mercy of the Maelstrom that birthed them…
The pain grew stronger; a high pitched whine filled her head as her vision turned crimson. She didn’t need a mirror to see their veins in the white of her eyes rupturing, staining the sclera a deep red. The pain thrashing in her head had become a physical thing, a presence. She wanted nothing more then to give up and let that presence have its way, let it tear free of her skull like it had with all the other girls that had come before her.
But she couldn’t allow that, not when she had a message to deliver. She pushed Chad away.
…the Maelstrom seethes, filling the horizon; the Spaces Between recoil at each spume of power that tears across the darkness like a monstrous tendril of silver fire. It gnaws on the emptiness, filling oblivion with motes of life only to snatch them back again.
Somewhere, somehow in the very heart of that blazing gyre droning voices call out, making promises and bargains. The voices call themselves the Monarchs but they are pleading, always pleading…
Thelma forced herself to stand, Chad laughed and spat at her, trying to push her back down.
“Blasphemer.” Her voice was alien to her, a dull insectile scratching that set the Squonks whimpering, “Still you balk at a will greater than your own. Heretic! Who are you to question? Who were you to make demands? Ingrate!”
“Stupid bitch. Too stupid to even know you’re dying.” Chad was livid, he picked up the sputtering lantern, ready to swing it at her, “Who the fuck are you to talk to me like that?”
“I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.” Her eyes were rheumy and dark with blood now, her face a bestial caricature of the girl she had been.
Howling with rage Chad threw the lantern. It hit the wall, missing Thelma by inches. The glass and metal shattered, spreading into a stain of fire.
…Resisting the pull of the voices is difficult; there is something so very familiar about their cries. To elude their call is to pass through the periphery of the Maelstrom, to invite obliteration.
Drawing away renders their pleas and the churning turmoil impotent. It dwindles and diminishes until everything, from the Spaces Between to the Maelstrom seem small enough to fit in the palm of an outstretched hand. The world settles in again, enveloping, encompassing.
There are the shadows at the heart of the world, the Great Below where the Hierophant waits in endless twilight. Everywhere gods slumber and dream in a necropolis that lingers just outside the boundaries of human perception. They make no promises and grant no boons but still the faithful and the chosen are called when the time is right.
The Hierophant proffers a gloved hand in invitation…
The flames moved up the wall and across the floor with impossible speed, lighting the room with a flickering strobe, like the staccato illumination of film mis-threaded through a projector. Thelma watched it fascinated and unafraid; she had glimpsed the gyre of reality, nothing could ever truly burn her after that.
One by one the walls, ceiling and floor were consumed and the fire slithered out into the hallway. She could hear commotion and screams and looked back to where Chad had been standing but he and his Squonks were gone. She wondered if the fire had trapped them in one of the other rooms or if they were downstairs prying desperately at their own barricades.
The flames and smoke rose to a crescendo and dwindled leaving her alone in a blackened room. The fire had eaten gaps in the boards that covered the windows. Through it she could see pulsing lights and firemen hard at work but it was all moving too quickly. The flickering of the lights was too fastg and the firemen were scuttling like ants.
The agony in her skull had receded to a dull ache. She watched the night bleed away and the sun rise steadily and perceptibly; its light seeming to banish the fire trucks, police cars and spectators. She stood in the window but no one saw her, no one pointed. She was a ghost.
A few breaths later the sun had reached its midday zenith and she retreated back into the house, her eyes tracing the maze of sooty bootprints and water damage. Untethered in time she walked back to the room the Oracles had shared and saw the floor littered with burnt sleeping bags, a melted radio and scattered playing cards. She bent down to turn one of them over and see its face but it crumpled and yellowed at her touch.
Shadows stretched and retreated across the room as the sun sank back down leaving her in darkness again. She found that Chad’s room was the only one that had been undamaged by the fire. Whatever possessions he might have left behind were long gone, most likely taken by policemen investigating the fire. She pondered the thought of Chad’s decade worth of notebooks being filed away and forgotten in some evidence locker and felt herself smile.
Chad had left his window unbarricaded and she stood before the glass watching the stars wheel and dance across the sky as the headlights of the cars moving up and down Kissimmee Avenue careened across the Earth like comets. The sky began to brighten again, pale clouds scurrying after the sun’s wake, writhing formlessly until they were lost from sight. The sun arced smoothly across the sky dragging a canopy of darkness behind it. The moon quickly fell after it, the stars moving in their own meandering circles until the light from a fresh sunrise banished them.
And that sunrise arced high across the sky and dwindled to a sunset in a matter of heartbeats. Thelma watched as gloom flowed across the landscape and receded again. Another sunrise briefly illuminated the view, showing her trees that juddered with the wind and cars that moved like smears of color across her field of vision.
Day and night continued to roll past, faster and faster until the sun was a clear bright arc cut into a murky sky from east to west; occasionally that glow was dulled by the passage of clouds but never for long. Nights fell and rose in the passage of an eye blink, the moon drew clumsy circles, widening, shrinking and widening again.
The passage of time cast the world in shades of gray. All around her Delores Cotton’s house was falling further and further into disrepair. Animals made homes in the abandoned rooms; raccoons darted at the corners of her vision like phantoms, sparrows nested in the broken windows their numbers ebbing and flowing with the passing of the seasons, and there were rats in the walls, gnawing always gnawing.
The Hierophant was waiting for her in the doorway of her room. A gloved hand beckoned her.
Thelma nodded with understanding. The ceiling began to crumble, handfuls of plaster and dust crashing to the floor. The rafters, their wood softened by fire and neglect quickly followed. Thelma walked beside the yellow-robed figure.
There were no questions anymore, it was enough to know that a world born in madness would be unmade by madness and that she would play a part in it.
The lower floor was even more of a ruin then the upstairs. The door lay in pieces, torn down from the inside. A thick layer of dust and grime, punctuated by animal footprints, covered everything. The passage of the Hierophant left it undisturbed.
The solid gray illumination began to flicker again, flashes of light and dark strobing, each interval longer than the last. In one of those periods of shadow the Hierophant disappeared. Thelma tried to follow but she was alone again.
A thick rumbling sound filled the air and she turned to see the house on Kissimmee Avenue slowly folding in upon itself like a dying plant. First the roof caved in, then the walls one by one until all that was left was a pile of wood and brick.
The passage of time slowed to its proper pace; the sun was high above her, almost motionless, the clouds that moved in to obscure its light did so lethargically. Something glinted in the wreckage. Thelma stumbled over broken bricks and jutting two by fours to retrieve it and found herself holding a battered, ivory mask. The strap that would have held it in place on the wearers’ head had disintegrated, one of the eye pieces had shattered but she could see a reflection in the other.
Who was this emaciated stranger with white hair and drawn features? Thelma studied the face with astonishment. Only the dusky gray eyes were the same.
In the small oval of glass she spied a car pulling up the overgrown driveway, shocks squealed in protest at the ragged blacktop. The blue Escort slowed to a stop and Annie got out; there were diamond rings on her fingers, her chin had been tucked and her breasts enhanced but her smile was just the same.
“How long has it been?” Thelma asked, her voice was a shaky remnant of what it had once been.
Annie lit a cigarette, “Seven years, give or take.”
Seven years? Thelma mused, Is that all? She was almost disappointed.
She asked, “Who sent you?”
“Friend of a friend.” Annie grinned, “Just as well too, I was going out of my mind being a housewife.”
“Chad?” Thelma asked.
“God no. He was gone after that night. We never saw him again. You did a number on him girl.”
“Did I?” Thelma approached the other woman and took the offered cigarette. Even though Thelma had never smoked before she found herself drawing in the smoke with practiced ease.
“Get in,” Annie said, “I think we’ve got a few weeks before my cash runs out.”
Both women got into the car and the blue Escort pulled out into traffic. Soon Kissimmee Avenue was fading into the background. Thelma rolled the window down and smiled at the sensation of the wind on her face.
Annie asked, “Where are we going?”
“West,” Thelma said.
“Just west? Do you have a destination in mind?”
Thelma clasped the mask, the vizard, to her chest. When she spoke her voice was barely a whisper, “There are such terrible wonders before us.”
Jonathan Aibel, who co-wrote Kung Fu Panda 2 with Glenn Berger, told EW at yesterday’s Hollywood premiere that they have ambitious plans: “We envision it as Lord of The Rings, but set in a world of candy.”
The Lord of the Rings. In a world of candy.
“We don’t see it as a movie based on a board game, although it has characters from that world and takes the idea of people finding themselves in a world that happens to be made entirely of candy where there are huge battles going on,” Berger says. “We are going for real comedy, real action, and real emotions at stake.”