Meyow!

I know it's mean--and she'd probably rip shit on my writing too--but Kellen Rice's Twilight reviews are deadly funny. Check out her take on the Midnight Sun travesty here.
This was my reply to Kellen's threat that she will never write another article:
Kellen, I'm sorry to hear that you won't be writing any more. Would you like me to send you a care package? I'm pretty broke, but I think I could gather up some crackers and juice boxes and stuff.
Actually, I really hate myself for how much your reviews of Twilight crack me up. I haven't read it yet, but the one paragraph that I read from your "how to write a bestseller" article left me feeling a tad queasy, like I'd eaten some overly sweet candy. And I keep thinking that if I were an undead 100 year old, I would not want to be hanging out with high school students. They would seem...oh, I don't know...a tad immature? Like I was a perv for wanting to boff someone young enough to be my great-great-grandchild? Or as a friend of mine said, you'd more likely be at the bar saying "for the love of God, here's my ID. I'm 100 years old! Just give me a damn beer already!" rather than hanging around the high school trying to get a date to the prom.
In all fairness, at the age of 14 or 15 I probably would have loved this series. But being far closer to 45 the appeal of such things has lessened considerably.
And read here for her article on how to write a best-selling book. I am going to do all these things when I write the next book. I'm changing everything that was done so far. But mostly I am going to do this:
(Free gift--contains a real, actual, genuine paragraph from Twilight!!!)

1. Abuse the thesaurus (correct word usage optional; purple prose is a must). If you want to ‘spice up’ your writing so that it sounds just like Meyer’s, a handy thesaurus is key. Then you too can write glorious and dazzling (and dazzlingly glorious) passages like the following:

He lay perfectly still in the grass, his shirt open over his sculpted, incandescent chest, his scintillating arms bare. His glistening, pale lavender lids were shut, though of course he didn’t sleep. A perfect statue, carved in some unknown stone, smooth like marble, glittering like crystal.

If you do not have at least three modifiers* for every noun, you’re doing it wrong. Some authors like George Orwell (1984, Animal Farm) have rules like “Never use a long word where a short one will do” and “If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out”, but since Stephenie Meyer is apparently the golden standard for writing young adult literature these days, it’s probably best to ignore Orwell and follow her example instead.

* Bonus points if you use the same modifier multiple times in close proximity of one another. Good examples of words to use this way include “chagrin”, “murmured”, and “chuckled”.

The second most important thing I will remember is this:

5. There should be no plot. Even though you may think that rising action, climax, falling action, and character development are important in a novel, they’re not. Instead, focus on the perfection of the male hero. If your editor forces you to write a plot, make sure it’s just another opportunity for the hero to save the heroine.

Yes, I will do it just like this. My vampire will change from a bloodsucking megalomaniac sociopath from beyond the grave to being HAWT! And then I will have ectoplasmic vomit all over my head when my co-author pukes on me.

As I said, in all fairness, I haven't read the books. But if that is an example of what I would be writing, it's probably just as well. Because reading it made my teeth feel loose.

Lily in the Third Person

This is a writing game where you write about your day in third person. The original concept can be found here.

"Oh crud," said Lily. "I have been off work for three and a half hours. I need to sleep but my damn fibromyalgia has flared up and I'm so sore. Oh, if only I knew a few massage therapy students that needed a victim to practice on."
Lily had promised her mother that she would come over at two o clock and stay with her father so her mother could get out of the house for a while. Being a diligent daughter, Lily knew this is something she really needed to do. She hoped that her body would decide to go to sleep soon, or decide to be good and awake, but either way, that her muscles would stop hurting. Fibromyalgia sucked big donkey dong, there was no two ways about it.
Still, Lily was in a fairly good if somewhat anxious mood. She was looking forward to her son coming home from college tomorrow for the Thanksgiving break. Lily hoped that she would never end up having a stroke like her father had, and become a burden to her son. Of course Lily's Dad hadn't planned to have a stroke. That was the kind of thing that happened to other people's families and you felt sorry for them. It wasn't supposed to happen to your family. Four years after the fact, Lily still found herself feeling that way.
Lily remembered the last time she had seen her father up and walking around without help. It had been his 68th birthday and he had come to visit her and her son. They had made apple-smoked chicken bratwurst on the grill and Dad had been very happy. Lily wondered if Dad remembered that day. His short-term memory was no longer very sound. At least he still knew who everyone was. That was something to be glad of.
"Life is a cash and carry world--you pay as you go," said Stephen King's character Mike Anderson in Lily's mind. "Sometimes it's a little--mostly it's a lot. Sometimes it's all you have."
Truer words were never spoken, Lily thought as she sipped at her Light Vegetable soup. She hoped that one day she would be able to permanently improve her eating habits enough to lose 100 pounds. She wasn't addicted to anything--except food. And that only got bad when the low periods of self loathing came.
"Ain't nobody's perfect," Lily thought. "And if anyone is, show me the nearest cliff so I can lead the sucker off it to their doom!"

The way things change

This comment is a response to this story, which you simply must read.
Yes!!! Doomsday cold-war style sci-fi. One of my favorite forms of writing. I spend many of a night of my young life lying awake worrying about being nuked or dying horribly due to biological warfare, or simply being erased by a neutron bomb.
Now that I'm an old curmudgeon with fibromyalgia to pain my muscles, I often lie down on the dilapidated couch that serves as my bed and say "go ahead--nuke me now!"

Edgar Allan Poe

One of the members of Vampire Freaks asked which was our favorite Edgar Allan Poe story. Here is what I said.

Too many to choose just one. But I'm particularly fond of the beautiful, melancholy poems, particularly "Alone" (which I greatly relate to) and stories such as "Ligeia," "Berenice," "Morella," and "The Fall of the House of Usher." Also, I learned to read at a rather early age (four) and at the age of six I got ahold of my father's Edgar Allan Poe book, and the first story I read from it was "The Premature Burial." Whether people believe this or not, this awakened some nasty past-life memories for me that I didn't know how to deal with at that age. But in spite of the nightmares it invoked, I fell in love with the horror genre at that moment.

I think that one thing that surprises people is the fact that that Poe also wrote some comic pieces. One series of stories followed Madame Psyche Zenobia and her little dog Diana. Stories such as The Sphynx are a parody of the very genre that Poe became identified with. So while he is well remembered for his macabre works, I feel that he was a more versatile writer than the average person knows.

The Great HPL

This is a post that I left on a forum at Vampire Freaks where the person was asking which of H.P. Lovecraft's stories was our favorite. The author of the post said:

Anathema6205 wrote in TalesFromTheCrypt
November 12, 2008, 09:46am
[cult status]
Posts: 19

Master of the Macabre

Alright, everyone has at least heard of this master of horror. He's on a whole new level of macabre.

H.P. Lovecraft.

Metal bands write songs based on his stories.
There's movies of them.
He's Stephen Kings' idol.(and any other aspiring horror writers, for that matter)
There's so many people that have taken his ideas and molded them into something else.
Built upon them; like the Cthulhu mythos, to name one.
He has a cult following bigger than Tim Burton.

Which stories do you like the most?
Which ones chilled you to the bone?
What adaptations have you seen or heard of?

Edited by: Anathema6205 at November 12, 2008, 09:48am

lilystrange said:
He's one of my heroes as well. I use several of his creations in my book.

One of the more chilling stories was actually a collaboration with C.M. Eddy called "The Loved Dead." But of stories written strictly by Lovecraft, while they're all excellent, "The Dreams In the Witch House" stands out.

Most of the film adaptions of his works have sucked in my opinion, but one, a 1965 adaption of the Dunwich Horror (I believe) was called "The Shuttered Room." I think I liked it because it was atmospheric rather than gory, which seemed more true to Lovecraft's vision, as he did not write gore.

I imagine that you may have read Stephen King's short story "Crouch End," which was inspired by Lovecraft's work.

Lovecraft was inspired by Ambrose Bierce. Almost everyone knows Bierce's story, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," but he wrote so many others. I think if one really wants to know Lovecraft, one must read Bierce as well.

Art is Delusion

This is a response I made to Mastery-Mystery's striking short-short piece, "Ninja Boy and the Clouds."

Tragically funny! That really is what an imaginative person is given to feel like in this society.

For instance, my family is dreadfully proud of me going to nursing school (feh!) because it will "make me into somebody." The fact that I've published a book is a "cute little diversion." My mother at least would prefer that I didn't publish another one because it distracts from "more important things," but she puts up with my madness as long as I continue "real" pursuits, such as the damn nursing school.

And now my nit-picking comes into place. About my comment, not his work.
"Amusing" would have been a better choice of words than funny. I often find myself amused (or bemused) by things that I realize are not actually very funny. There's sort of a helpless feeling that goes along with it. My thought generally is that fate/the powers that be/the Universe has a cruel sense of humor. Or that a deity such as Loki is playing a prank on hapless humanity. And I ponder the thought by Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes that the Higher Power "is mean or it's arbitrary, and either way, it gives me the creeps."

The Hard Drive from Hell

I can assure you that I'll still be crabby but possibly not very creative for about a month. I'm going to have to send my crashed hard drive to a clean room, which could cost up to $700 to retrieve my essential data. I thought I could recreate what I was working on just before the drive died (I always send my updated documents to an online server) but there were 6 that I was working on at the time. I guess I could do it...I don't know. Also, I'd forgotten to save my pictures. Boy, what a pain in the ass! Not the end of the world, but certainly the pain in the ass of the year.

Word Game

My friends at Lifes Spacings have a new and interesting word every Wednesday. Go see them if you'd like to play!

My offerings are various and silly, but the best was a little bit something like this:
The vampire vitiated its victim by draining her vital force.

Sensible Suggestions from a Senseless Mind

Writers, I have but one word for you. And that word is Word.
Do NOT do what a certain idiot I know who shall remain nameless did and initially write your work in Publisher so you could see what it would look like as a book. It is a horrible pain in the ass to convert the old Publisher files. You have to buy Publisher as well as MS Office. Unless you also create flyers and newsletters, Publisher is extraneous. But certain idiots have had to download it so as to be able to read their old files which contain information that they may now want to use.
Besides, no publisher accepts files created in Publisher. Word is universally accepted. So when writing remember, the word that is gospel is Word.

Teachers

The question was asked: What would you like to say today to the teacher that gave you a hard time in school?

Well, here is what I'd like to say:

Up yours! I'm 43 years old and I don't have to be here any more! You're obviously part of my nightmare!
One teacher that I can think of that gave me a hard time was my gym teacher when I was nine years old. I hadn't understood something he said so he made me run back and forth across the gym as a punishment and encouraged the other kids to laugh at me when my face turned beet red.
The other teacher that gave me a hard time was my sixth grade teacher who I really don't think liked kids at all. It's amazing that I still enjoy writing, but I think it's because I could see he was a jerk, in spite of the fact that I was always crying in his class. He was always giving me F's on my writing because I "followed too closely" the outlines I created. In other words, he knew that I wrote the story first and then the outline. But if you didn't follow the outline you created initially you would also get downgraded. It was a no-win situation. However, I remembered from when I was in fifth grade submitting a writing sample for those yearly tests and the results came back telling me that I was writing at an eighth grade level. I was proud of that and it stayed with me. Luckily, because sixth grade was horrible. Not only did I have this teacher trying to make me feel stupid, but I was given one of those IQ tests that is based on pattern recognition. Having a degree of dyslexia (which was not something they'd heard of back in the day) when it comes to numbers and patterns, I did horribly at it and until I was in my twenties and took a Mensa test (and did well on the whole, believe it or not) I believed that I was borderline retarded and was fooling everyone whenever I got a decent grade.
On the whole, I'd like to give almost every educational professional from my sixth grade year a whoopin' that they wouldn't forget.

Outskirts Press Plug

As the first draft of the second book nears completion (well, sort of) I have again signed on with Outskirts Press for the publication of the second book, which will probably be released in 2010.
Many different packages are available and they publish almost everything, except for porn and hate literature. If you have something in the works, you might want to check them out for yourself.
There are companies out there who allow you to publish your book "free," but you will still have to pay for printing, storage and promotion. In the long run, I find that I'd pay about as much anyway and having a reliable publisher is worthwhile to me.

Religion Meme

Which is the right religion for you? (new version) created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Paganism Your beliefs are most closely aligned with those of paganism, Wicca, or a similar earth-based religion. You may also follow a Native American religion. Paganism 90% Buddhism 75% Islam 75% Confucianism 70% Hinduism 70% Agnosticism 70% Christianity 60% Haruhism 50% Atheism 50% Satanism 45% Judaism 20%

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Badam Doodh

In a chapter of the forthcoming book, some of the characters are drinking an Indian beverage called Badam Doodh. Here is how it is made. I found the recipe here.
I'm honestly not sure what Kesar is. The recipe makes me think of a drink that I like which is simply milk with about a 1/4 teaspoon of almond extract added. Very soothing!

Badam Doodh

Ingredients

2 cups milk
10 Almonds
Few strands of kesar
2 tsp sugar (more as per you taste)

Method

1. Blanch the almonds, peel and cut into thin slices, lengthwise
2. Soak kesar in 1tbsp warm milk for 10-15 minutes
3. Bring milk to boil
4. Add soaked kesar, sugar and almonds
5. Let it simmer on slow flame for a min
6. Stir well
7. Pour into cup, from a height
8. This way a lot of froth will form on the milk.
9. Serve piping hot

Making time: 10 minutes
Makes: 2 servings
Shelflife: Best immediate

The Classics Updated

glitter-graphics.com

Children's Classic Updated

by William Shakespeare

for Ye Olde Crappy Tymes Literary Section

Forsooth! Mine good olde chum Dr. Seuss was so much impressed with Ye Spooky Guy's collaborative effort with Ye Cheese Mistress, otherwise beknownst as Lily Strange, that he asked Spooky to help him to update his classic tale of Ham and Eggs of Green for today's more worldly child. Here be the result with which Dr. Seuss was most impressed.

"Spooky is indeed a great ghost writer," he said. "For he tells it like it is!"

I have ne'er in all my time living or dead seen a literary work for children quite so profane. Yet Seuss speaketh truth--the Spook telleth it plain! I myself hope to see more works by this salty-spoken Swede in future time. Perhaps I shall have him help me update mine own works for audiences of this modern day.

Forsooth, the Spook sayeth with me he would be glad to collaborate, and he hath already taken the liberty of translating a well known work of mine for modern audiences. Here be mine version for thee to first read in case thou wert not previously aware of it.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


And now the version created by mine respected ghost writer. With language most salty, this profane Scandinavian swain indeed pulleth no punches. The reading of his version maketh me swoon indeed. And thus, without much further ado about nothing, here be ye translation for thee to read as well.

A Fucking Hot Comparison of Hell and Summer

by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare you to a summer's day

Which is fucking hot and makes the sweat drip in my hair

And in the spring the fucking wind is always blowing

And it blows my hair into my mouth

Some fuckheads say the summer is too short

But I say it's too fucking long and makes me sweat a lot

And also I have to listen to the ungentle and totally fucking untalented strains of Death Cheese at all these fucking outdoor festivals

And that sucks goat ass more than anything

Oh well, you look sweaty and miserable just like me

And so together let us bitch and complain, my beloved fellow Curmudgeon

And I will kindly give you a pair of ear plugs to drown out the awful riffs of Death Cheese

If you will but pass me a towel that I may wipe the god damn sweat off of my brow before it drips into my eyes again

And together we shall be sweltering here in hell for all of eternity

Because hell is like an eternal hot fucking miserable summer day

Forsooth, I cannot wait to see what he hath wrought upon the lines of Romeo and Juliet!

William Shakespeare

More Grate Speling and Gramur From the Gerri Atrik Retarmint Comunitee

Today's spelling gaffe baffled The Cheesemeister:

Thou not till Saturday 26
Please put up now on Saturday
I posted only two places

"What could this mean?" pondered The Cheesy One. "Doth it mean, thou shalt not post this until Saturday? And if so, why dost thou givest it to me lo on this a Tuesday?"
But then she realized that what Chip or Dale meant to say was:

Though not till Saturday 26
Please put up now.
On Saturday, I posted only in two places

I guess one really does have to use their brains around this place after all--to figure out what Alvin N. Chipmunkk and his cronies REALLY mean!

78%

You Are 78% Creative

You are beyond creative. You are a true artist - even if it's not in the conventional sense of the word. You love creating for its own sake, and you find yourself quite inspired at times.

How Creative Are You?

When Children Play with Gods

Edwina Nystrom glared at Kalidasa Crewe from her hiding place in the trees. She knew that the dirty little blighter had invoked the terrible ancient goddess Kali, for whom he was always bragging he was named, and smote her poor innocent pony Rothschilde out of spite for Edwina's taking first place in the Ultimate Riding Challenge. Kalidasa was a spoilt rotten brat and a sore loser. But he did know how to invoke the ancient and terrible goddess of his grandmother's people.
"Well, I'm not afraid of him," Edwina said. "And I'm not such a coward as to have the ancient gods of my father's family smite a poor innocent horse. When I invoke Loki, it won't be to have Zebulon fall and break a leg. But the house of Crewe may well encounter Ragnarok this day!"

This story (and the picture) originally appeared here.

Traci's New Lips

Traci was really happy with the new lips she got at Dr. Quincy's Plastic Surgery Emporium in the Netherworld. She was so happy she couldn't stop smiling. Then she realized something awful: she really COULDN'T stop smiling!

Originally posted on Indie's blog, which is where the picture is stolen from.

X Zone Radio

This is a letter I wrote to the X-Zone radio. They feature various paranormal topics.

Greetings,

I hope this doesn't appear too arrogant, as I am really not an arrogant individual, but the guest I would like to suggest is myself. My name is Lily Strange and I am a clairsentient medium who wrote a book with the help of a spirit. The book is horror fiction but it also contains elements of truth. My co-author is a very interesting and unique man who committed suicide in 1991 when he could no longer endure his troubled life. We made contact with one another in 2005. I was working on editing a book at the time and he started giving me suggestions. Quite by accident, we became co-authors. If this sounds at all interesting, feel free to visit our website at http://www.lilystrange.com to find out more.

I also do Tarot and other divination readings and would be interested in being a guest reader if you would have the need. While I don't consider myself a professional reader, I've been told by those I've done readings for that I have a good accuracy rate. I go into great detail and treat every client's question as if it had personal meaning for me. To look at some of my readings for an idea of what I do, I have a blog at http://lilyscrystalball.blogspot.com
Unfortunately at this point most of the readings on the blog are those I have done for myself as I do not have a vast client base, but it will give an idea of the style I use. I also have a page at http://www.mysticvision.org
If I sound like someone you would like to interview, I would love to hear from you. You can contact me either at this email address or at (666) 555-4444.
If I don't sound like someone you would like to interview, I would love to hear a quote of your advertising rates so I could potentially advertise with you.
Blessings,
Lily

Gloom and Doom

Yeah, I'm really depressed and unhappy right now. I write because it's the one thing that I still believe is worthwhile. Often it is not pleasurable but can be cathartic I suppose. Some pretty ugly shit dumps into it from the back of my psyche.

Possessed By The Writing Demon

This was actually a reply to a statement made by a friend that once I earned the godforsaken nursing degree that I don't really want I can write for the love of writing rather than to make money. While this would work for someone who is sane, it doesn't work for the certifiably insane. And that would be--my evil twin, of course!

That being said, here is my explanation of what my amazing hack-titude at writing means to me.

I don't write as a means to earn a living. I do it because I'm possessed. Not by him (my spectral co-author)--I've just always had this need to do it. I don't really expect to ever make any money doing it. But like Bierce, Lovecraft and Poe before me, I do it because it has taken hold of my soul.
I've always had a love-hate relationship with writing. It's like one of those pathological romances that is both destructive and as essential as breathing. I sometimes hate that I HAVE to do it or I start becoming insanely depressed. But I love creating the alternative realities.
I can't put off writing while earning this godforsaken nursing degree, which I would jump ship from in a heartbeat if anything else I'm working on starts making money for me! The fact of the matter is that I do NOT have any desire to be a nurse. It doesn't speak to my soul. It's just a damn job. Which means I'll be a half-assed nurse, just like I'm a half-assed medical technician. But I've been stuck in the medical field for so long that I'm too old to do anything else unless one of these online projects takes off.
In the meantime, I will strive to make my place on the list of great weird fiction writers. I can't actually ever hold a candle to those who went before, but I hope that someday someone will read what I've written and say "hell yeah! I want to write like Bierce, Lovecraft, Poe and STRANGE!" Then I'll have succeeded.

Care for a slice of Prome Rib?

I'm always griping about the grammatical errors of the activities department here at the Gerri Atrik retirement community, but as I was about to update the date on this menu, which was typed out and proofread by none other than someone who looks very much like me but couldn't be me because I would never be this stupid, I noticed that the chow du jour was:

Roast Turkey With Gravy

Prome Rib Au Jus

Surely I was possessed by a very stupid demon when I allowed this particular typo to get by! Either that or there really is something called Prome Rib which is reserved for the elite of society and is so uppah-uppah crust that we peons don't even know of its existence!

Lying To Myself

What a horrible feeling, having actually written a book but coming to the distressing realization that so many people write far better than me. I realized after the book was published that what I write is actually pulp trash, and while I enjoy pulp trash, it's kind of a come down to realize that I'm not truly a good writer.
It's too bad I have no other skills or interests. I once wanted to be a psychotherapist but I didn't think that crazy people could do that, and I'm too old now.
It sucks knowing that in truth I have nothing of interest to say and my writing will never make the difference that I wished it would.
It sucks realizing that I am worthless.

The puzzle that is me

You Are a Crossword Puzzle

You are well read, and you have a good head for remembering facts. You are a wordsmith. You have a way with words, and you're very literate. You are a mysterious person who enjoys dropping little clues every now and then.

What Kind of Puzzle Are You?

It's all true!

My Mind Is Blue

Your Mind is Blue

Of all the mind types, yours is the most mellow. You tend to be in a meditative state most of the time. You don't try to think away your troubles. Your thoughts are realistic, fresh, and honest. You truly see things as how they are. You tend to spend a lot of time thinking about your friends, your surroundings, and your life.

What Color Is Your Mind?

I don't think I'm in a meditative state so much as I'm trying to escape from reality! I've always been a daydreamer. And a nightmarer.

The RIGHT Kind of writer

This person is a good writer.

They write the sort of stuff that the New Yorker likes to publish. Their English composition teachers would be proud to say "She was MY student."
I am not a good writer. I am a hack who writes pulp trash. I've never been good at writing poignant, meaningful stuff. But I like reading pulp trash. I like writing pulp trash. And dammit, I want to be sure that it's good pulp trash before I thrust it upon the world!
I once read that you shouldn't write for yourself, you should write for your audience.
I say why the fuck bother if you ain't writing for yourself? You'll only start hating it. Yourself is the first person you should write for--always.
Oh yeah--and despite what all the English composition teachers may tell you?
Sometimes pulp trash leaves a great impression.
Hail Lovecraft!

Gerri Arik Retirement Community Staff Butchers English Language

Wanted: Gerri Atrik Retirement Community Activities Department
For: Butchery of English Language Above And Beyond the Call of Duty

This sign was given to the long-suffering Cheesemeister to be posted on the announcement boards. Not wishing to sound like a smart-ass, The Cheesemeister merely sighed, rolled her eyes, and wished that she had brought a fifth of Jungle Juice to work with her.

THE SIGN OF CRIMINALLY BAD ENGLISH USAGE

NOW EXCEPTING

DONATIONS FOR THE

CLOTHES CLOSET

SET OUTSIDE THE DOOR, GARDEN LEVEL

I wonder, the Cheesemeister pondered, if the donations are being excepted, what are they being excepted from?

The Cheesemeister wondered if she could be excepted from having to deal with other departments, administrators or patients while working.

Yanick's Nightmare

The story and picture originally appeared on Indie's blog, here.

"The more things change the more they stay the same," thought Yanick. He had gone to college in Norway in hopes of finally living out his quixotic dreams away from the judgmental scrutiny of his tyrannical parents. But in leaving Kansas, Yanick's life had just become a worse nightmare. Instead of going to college as he thought, his parents had instead given him a one way ticket to live with his fearsome Uncle Ulf and Aunt Ester way out on the Fjords in a terrible hut that the chill winds blew through. One night when the moon was full and so bright that he could see all the way across the frozen land, Yanick decided to make good his escape. Even living in an alley in Oslo would be preferable to spending one more night in that hated shack, he thought.
Then something fearsome had transpired. As Yanick made his way across the barren, frozen land, a horrific thing, half man, half wolf, leapt from behind a rocky outcropping and tackled the slight youth. Yanick managed to escape from the awful thing by jabbing his fingers into one of its eyes, but not before it tore into his left arm. He now wondered if he had simply been delirious with the cold and had stumbled. He had seen a doctor about the wound and the doctor had been kind enough to direct him to a place where he could sleep and get a meal for not too great a price. Now Yanick stood at the bus stop in the rain, hoping that his cousin Walter would be able to put him up. He shivered as he tried to shake the memory of the wolf creature attacking him. What made the whole thing all the worse was the fact that he could recall hearing his Uncle Ulf's voice calling after him as he ran from its slashing claws and gnashing teeth:
"You'll be back, Boy. It can't be helped. You're one of us now."

I don't know what anyone else thinks, but I really don't care. This is actually one of my favorite short-short story creations. --C

Cover Letter

If sending a copy of your book out for review, here is a basic cover letter you can use.

Bookie Reviewer
666 Hellzapoppin Drive
Gehenna, Netherworld 66666

Re: Eternal Death I: Lost Beneath The Surface
ISBN #978-1-4327-0591-6

Thank you for your recent interest in the press release regarding my book. Enclosed please find the review copy you requested.
Also enclosed is a data sheet containing information about the book and its availability.

I would welcome a book review or author interview. Anything I can do to accommodate your needs in that regard, please do not hesitate to ask.

For your convenience, I may be reached via email at lily@lilystrange.com or telephone at 666-666-6666.

Thank you in advance for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
Lily Strange
Netherworld Hotel
666 Nightmare Heights Lane
Pandemonium, Netherworld 66996

Only 2 Days Left

In my sidebar there is a little banner for the War Child project. This group helps underprivileged children. A group is creating a book made up of submissions from various bloggers. The proceeds from this book will go to help the War Child project.

Here are some communications between Loony Lily and the project coordinators for your intellectual voyeurism.

Greetings from the fifth level of hell, at 5:45 A.M.
I'm almost positive you haven't had anyone make this claim yet.
I'm Lily, and I talk to ghosts.
In fact I co-wrote a whole book with a ghost.
What makes this ghost very special is the fact that he committed suicide and wants to stop other people from making the same mistake. So he told me to find a charity to give his half of the profits to, one that wants to help people with mental illness.
We chose the World Health Organization's Mental Health and Substance Abuse Division.
I feel like I've failed him because he really wanted to get his story out where people could read and understand what was going on inside him. But so far, not much is shaking.
I tend to feel sad a lot too. And very tired. When I was a kid I had a lot of hopes. At this stage of my life I don't have much hope at all. I know that being depressed is something a lot of people can relate to. Being bipolar is something a few can relate to. It makes me angry because I feel like I have to consider myself lucky if I get a crumb of any kind tossed my way. Like I shouldn't expect more because I'm "nuts."
It's 5:45 in the morning and my shift at work is almost over. Perhaps not the best time to write because it doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. Then again, it reveals what's really going on inside--what I try to hide behind a mask of some semblance of stability.
**************************************************************************************************************************************************************
If you happen to be crazy or desperate enough to want to print what I have regurgitated here (you're probably wondering how I ever authored a book!) I have a few different blogs, but probably the least depressing one (it's actually fun) is http://creativecrabbing.blogspot.com

Hya
Thanks for your mail - pick whatever you'd like to submit from your blog and send it in!
Best
SJP + Team

This came at the right time to cheer me out of the funk I was getting into! :-)
This one describes me and my experiences pretty well, and is short enough that it should fit your guidelines nicely.
Lily

Creating
I'm in the process of creating a chapter and I'm so tired I can't even think. It was dangerous for me to drive to work tonight, that's how exhausted I am. All I know is that I want the chapter to include Thor, Tyr, Hades and Freya. There's an argument about the Conquering Hero being imprisoned for an impulsive decision. Oh yeah...and my IBS is killing me. Being an author is very glamorous, folks. If you are one of the Beautiful People you should probably consider another profession. If, however, like me, you are mentally unstable, have numerous physical problems, have a great face for radio and a head full of ideas that have caused others to tell you that you really should consider checking into Happy Acres for a little stay and maybe a lobotomy, being a writer just might be for you!

Creepy Chess

The scenario is two girls playing chess. One has a bit of an evil smirk on her face.
See what you can add to this!
Also, feel free to go through and add to any of the previous entries. I use Comment Moderation, so I'll know if a new entry has been added. But it will help if you write which entry you added to with the older ones because the Moderator doesn't tell me that!
Here's the story. Please add to it. Don't be shy. I'm really getting tired of playing by myself. :-(
This story originally appeared here.

"Just wait till Izzie finds the squashed bug under the rook," smirked Eugenia. "She's going to freak and run away screaming. And then I'll win by forfeit. She's such a wuss!"

Lez Girls

Originally posted on Indie's blog.

BTW, thanks for trying to recruit participants in the now-Undead Valentine's story contest, Indie. But Brittney really is much too intimidating. People are scared of her wrathfulness. And maybe I am too, just a little. Or it might be the spookiness of the tall spectral blond dude standing behind me--that's my co-author and he's just a tad bit ghostly, after all.

And now, without further adoo-doo, here is the story in all its glory!

"Ooh La La!" cried Pierre. "Les girls!"
He pulled his car over to the side of the road and beckoned for the two lovely lasses to come ride with him. He slicked back his hair and twirled his mustache, stroked his neat Van Dyke beard, and set his cap at a rakish angle.
"Where are you going, mon cheres a deux?" the randy Frenchman inquired, visions of menage a trois dancing in his head.
"To the Lesbian Power Convention, good sir," said the dark haired girl. "I'm Zoe and this is my wife Felicia. Thanks for offering us a ride. It's nice to meet people who are supportive of gay rights."
"Well, I was more right than I could have imagined," Pierre muttered to himself. "They are indeed Lez Girls."

Olveg and the Jackasses: A Tale of Competitive Ogres

Picture stolen from Indie's blog, where the story originally appeared.

"Oh hell," cried Olveg the Ogre. "Those blasted jackasses are back. They're always asking for hay and going away with such gloomy expressions on their faces when I tell them 'no, I have no hay. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week, never. I am an ogre and do not eat hay!' But oy, they make me feel ever so guilty with those disappointed expressions. I suppose I ought to get me a bale of hay. Just for the jackasses. Maybe they could come in and keep me company for a while. I seem to recall seeing a film about an ogre who has a jackass for a friend. Now if I had three jackasses? Well, who would be the better ogre then, eh?"

Fun With books

Here is a little game you can play which I got from Jackiesue. You are supposed to grab the closest book and turn to page 123. Well, I wanted to use sentences from my book so I cheated. It kinda freaks me out that I turned right to page 123! At any rate, you go to the fifth sentence and then copy the three sentence that follow. So here's my very own Page 123 thang. I kinda cheated because I wanted to use the whole paragraph, so I'm starting with the fifth sentence and copying the whole paragraph.

"Whose choice was it, Father?" a dark haired woman, the mother of the precocious twins, asked. "For I should like to speak to whoever made this choice, because I am not happy about this. I don't mind it here, it is a good place, and you are a good God. But I am furious that my husband and my parents will have to suffer for losing the children and me this way. Why, Sir? Can you tell me why?"

If you'd like, you can play the game too, and you can think of your own sentences to add to my paragraph!

Story Contest Declared a Bust

Story Contest Canceled
by Kizz Myass
for The Crappy Times

The Great Valentine's Story Contest (see post below) has been canceled due to fear of the wrath of Brittney and/or lack of interest. You're still welcome to submit a story if you wish but there is no longer any competitive factor. Yam Man would be proud!
Kizz Myass

The Icky Sticky Valentine's Day Story Contest

Brittney wants your Valentine's stories. Don't disappoint her!

The Great Valentine's Story Contest
by Brittney
All right, you little goobers. The turnout for the Horrors of Fruitcake Story Contest was horrifically pathetic, and that does not make me proud! Our panel of judges declared the tales of Knight and PANSI to be the winners. The Cheesemeister loses because she brought that horrific fruitcake into the Netherworld Hotel.
PANSI doesn't read if she can help it, and both Knight and Mrs. Weirdso already have a copy of The Cheeesemeister/Lily Strange's and The Spooky Guy's book. So we'll have to come up with alternate prize for them.
Now, I need for you rotten little goblins to think up your ickiest, squishiest, most mushy Valentine's story that you can come up with. The one that is the most pukey sweet will win one prize. Conversely, the best anti-Valentine tale of terror will win a prize. The contest will end on February 15th, which just happens to be the unholy date of Cheesemeister/Lily's 43RD BIRTHDAY! Yes, she really is an old bat. First prize is, once again, an autographed copy of Lily's/Spooky's book. Or if you already own one of those gems, we will come up with an alternative prize for you.
Hey, we realize it ain't no 6,666,666,666 Quatloos. But what do you expect from a broke-ass wannabe writer and a dead guy who doesn't have anyone better to haunt than a broke-ass wannabe writer?
Maybe you think you actually have to have talent to participate in these contests. Hah--think again! Lily and Spooky wrote a whole book. What does that tell you? And if PANSI can write a story ANYONE can! So let's see 'em. Don't be a loser and make me open a can of Whoop Ass on you!
Wickedly,
Brittney

The Three Entries

There were three entrants in the story contest: PANSI, Knight and myself. Pathetic turnout folks, absolutely pathetic! I hope that you won't disappoint me so severely for the Valentine's story contest. Stay tuned!

So here's what happens next: I'll post the three stories right here and you vote on the one you like best. I was going to give an autographed copy of my book to the winner, but Knight already has a copy of the book, PANSI doesn't read, and what the hell do I need with an autographed copy of my own book? So I'll have to think of a different prize instead.

Ready? Read on and exercise your right to vote!

Story #1

by Knight

My Entry.

The night was as a deep purple haze. Drifting, the clouds of gray and stony colors passed over the rampant moon unhinged; white light cooler than a morgue rack poured down, sifting though. On the corner, Brendon looked away as two street whores dressed in yellow and teal 80’s knit belted out a Christmas tune, twitching and rubbing together their dirty shoulders. On the pavement, Brendan’s shoes clicked as he walked wordlessly. He stepped on, empty of anything definite stewing in his chest or mind.

The smell of leather surrounded him, his coat permitted this, but it didn’t remove the bitter taste of asphalt, piss and rank steam from the sewers. In the distance, he saw Christmas lights dangling in the covered window of an old bar. Straight ahead boy, that’s where its at, he thought to himself.

On the way there, he saw a glimmering red stone on the ground, all surrounded in an ethereal mist. It caught his eye and shifted his footing. Stumbling, he bent down to examine it further. The gems were encrusted on a hard, brownish surface. A blackish slime was all around it and it felt spongy and cool in his hand, though its weight did surprise him. Looking at his hand by the shine of the streetlight, he saw that bright crimson drip. Shit!!! He exclaimed as he dropped it back to the ground. Murder? Blood?

Smelling it, he noticed a sweetness beneath that unsurprisingly powerful smell of iron. Was that nutmeg?

End of Entry.

The First Sunrise

Once upon a time, there was a big chicken. The chicken lived on a farm. The farm was very very dark. This chicken did not like the dark. Even though he was very very large, he still would cry at night in his chicken bed in the haystack. The chickens mother was very mad at him. She did not understand why he was so scared of the dark. She would smack him hard on the beak when he would come to her at night with tears in his eyes.

“mommy chicken, why is it so dark here where we live?” he would ask his mother during the day.
“It is the way that it is son. Live with it and stop being so stupid.” his mother would say. So the chicken would try his best to stay calm and not cry at night alone in his bed.

One day, a strange light appeared over the barn. All the other chickens began to panic. They began running around in circles. One of them even pecked a hole in the ground and stuck his head in the dirt. The young chickens mother looked at him. Her eyes were ablaze with fire. She was raging mad. He was the one that brought this light to the farm, wasn’t he? Bad! Bad chicken! Why would he change everything for the rest of them? How inconsiderate?!

But it wasn’t the young chicken that brought this light. It was only a huge white-hot ball of light, rising higher and higher above the horizon. The young chicken jumped with joy after breaking away from his mothers hideous stare. Yay! Yaaayyy!!!! He bathed in the warmth and lifted his wings so the light touched every inch of his birdie body. Just while he began to laugh with joy, he was struck on the side of the head by a heavy wing. It was his mother, more angry than ever.

“How dare you mock me!”
“mommy!” he cried out, surprised and scared.
“all the family is dying, out here in your stupid light! Make it gone! Get back in your bed and cry you fool!”

The chicken ran back to his bed, his eyes full of tears, and his beak wet. He cried so hard that he thought his lungs would burst. Outside, he heard his family screaming and hiding and trying everything to get the light to go away. His uncle was pleading to the air to make the light go away. His aunt was beating the ground on her knees, fearful that the world would end. His cousin had gone crazy, saying strange sounds that sounded wild. All of these things, he heard while crying in his bed.

After a few hours had gone by, the family outside finally began to calm down. The chickens mother was also in a better mood when she noticed that the bright white light was going down. Still, nobody trusted him. They locked the door where he slept and watched the ball of light throughout the day.

By the time they were all ready for bed, the large light had gone away. They quickly went back to their quiet ways and back to the way things were before the light came. This night, the young chicken was not so scared. He laughed at how scared the others were, of the light that he loved. He did not mock them. He did not laugh at them when they were scared, the way his mother laughed at him. He pleaded to anyone in his sleep, to bring that light back, everyday. And ,… he got that wish.

The end.

Story #2
by PANSI
Pansi the Peace Maker!!!!
This isent reely a story cuz its like, true? But when I toled it to Brittney she sayed it was horrable enough!!!!
So, like, I use to be a cheerleader in Gondor during the War of the Ring's? And, oh, I forgot to say I am a reel good cook, but usualy I use my brane wave's cuz its easyer than remembering when to tern off the micro wave!!!!
But anyhoo, I was there, and there was a hole Barby army led by a Hermiony doll who was reely meen, and so were the other's I don't think they were true Christinane's!! Like, this one time I was shot in the head with an arrow and no body toled me!!!!! Like, the hole DAY I was going around with this arrow stuck in my head!!!!
But I did the best I coud becuz I'm Christinane and me and my Barby freind's did cheer's like Gimme a N-I-T-E--whats it spell?--NITE!!! GoooooOO NITE'S!!!!!! But they still dint seem to apresheate me much wile they were buzy slautering and whatEVER.
SO THEN I started to wonder were these peeple reely so nice and why were they fiting about Julery anyhoo??? And I met some Orc prisner's becuz some time's Hermyony made me go where they were holding them becuz she sayed I was anoying (as IF!!)!!
So I desided to make the Orc's some FRUIT CAKE!!!!! I am reely good at making FRUIT CAKE!!!! Most peeple tell me right off just looking at my FRUIT CAKE's is so grate they dont even want to EAT them!!!!
It was hard to cook on the battle feild of coarse. I was reel suprised to see Hermiony's Barby cook kept her flower in a bag marked Cement!!!!
And it was reel hard to deliver the FRUIT CAKE's becuz Hermyowny sayed it was fraternitizing with the ennemy or some thing!!!!! So we lobbed them over with the catapult's and then I snuck over becuz I just had to see the affect they had on my Orc freind's.
Woud you beleave me they had all reddy started in on there speshal treat becuz they were laying all over the grass to full to move!!!!! The poor thing's!!! Some of them had big bruzes on there head's from the battle but the FRUIT CAKE soothed them becuz take it from some one who was marryed to Dicky for a long time--they were feeling no pain!!!!! Probly all the Bud Lite I put in!!! And other's were obvuously enjoying thereselves so much they were acshualy RITHING on the ground unable to find word's to express there pleasure!!!!
And it was a truely Christinane gesture becuz beleave it or not even Hermyony was affected by the site and helped me make more and more and MORE fruit cake's and even sayed my fruit cake's were importent in helping win the war!!!
Which was no suprize to me cuz like my Freind JESUS say's (no--NOT THE JANITER!!!!) Blessed are the Peacemaker's!!!! If He woud of thot of it Im sure He woud of sayed: Blessed are the FRUIT CAKE MAKER's!!!!!!
The End!!!!!

Story #3
by Yours Truly
'Twas the night before Xmahannuramakwanzyule and the Netherworld Hotel was at last quiet. The members of Death Cheese had fallen into a drunken stupor after playing till 3:33 AM. The Cheesemeister sneaked down to the pantry for a snack, hoping to find some cheese, fruit, chocolate, and maybe a little leftover wine--the classy kind from the box, not the rancorous rot gut that the members of Death Cheese favored.
The stair creaked, which did not particularly bother the Cheesemeister. Everything in the Netherworld Hotel was on the verge of falling apart. But when the clock suddenly struck the hour, it made her jump. That wouldn't have been so bad, but a chill went up her spine as she realized the clock had struck 6. Worse, when she looked at the clock, a simple old-fashioned grandfather clock with hands rather than digits, she noticed that the hour, minute and second hand were all pointing to the number 6. The clock face suddenly showed a malevolent, sharp-toothed grin, and the Cheesemeister jumped back. All around her were clocks indicating the number 666. Even the clock around Flavor Flav's neck when he sat upright from his drunken resting place on the lobby couch read 666, and the normally funny Flav had an evil grin on his gleaming grill.
"Yo, G, I guess you know what TIME IT IS!" he smirked wickedly.
It was then that The Cheesemeister screamed, for she heard a stomping on the roof. And then lunatic laughter echoed from the fireplace. Someone was up the chimney hole and Satan was his name.
"Ho ho ho, Cheesemeister!" laughed Unsaintly Nick. "You've been bad this year, like always, and you know it. But this year you will receive nothing so pleasant as coal. No, this year the price of being bad is truly unspeakable."
And with that, the wicked old elf tossed some sort of baleful object down the chimney. It steamed with the fires of hell and reeked of brimstone. And then the Cheesemeister's shrill keening filled the lobby of the dilapidated, cursed inn of the damned. For the thing opened its eyes and mouth. It lived! Or perhaps, more likely it lived not, and yet it moved. A malevolent intelligence shone in its glowing red eyes and in the clots of ancient candied fruit that adorned its hardened flesh. For this was the oldest fruitcake in the Universe, and Satan had chosen the Cheesemeister to receive it.
"Take care of your new pet, Cheesy One," Satan called down the chimney. "Or my new latrine cleaner for eternity shall be named. I bet you can guess what her name is too!"
As Flavor Flav took a swig of rancorous rot gut, The Cheesemeister sunk to the floor of the Netherworld Hotel lobby. She was stuck with the Universe's oldest fruitcake. She couldn't destroy it, she couldn't re-gift it and she definitely couldn't return it.
"Oh,woe betide me this Yuletide" she sighed. "Whatever shall I do? What are the chances that I'll get through the year without Soggy trying to eat that thing or Axe Man trying to chop it to bits? I'm doomed, doomed doomed!"
Finis???

Post 101: Ice Fishing

This is the first story for 2008. My first story contest was a complete bust. I'm still leaving it open until the 5th but tentatively declaring PANSI the winner. Sad days are these when PANSI is declared a literary genius. PANSI thinks that I'm just jellos because her story was better than mine. Maybe she's right!

To any rate here is the newest short-short story. It goes with the picture that you will find here, although you can take it on its own merit if you wish.

Kendra sat in the cafe waiting for Oly to arrive. He always kept her waiting during ice fishing season. She waited and waited and waited, alternating between hoping he hadn't fallen through the ice and wishing that he had.

#100

Horror has a name, and that name is Fruitcake!

This is my 100th post, and to celebrate, I am holding my first annual Story Contest. It's very easy. All you have to do is write a story about the horrors of Fruitcake. Behold the horror in its various forms. All the hideous candied fruit, and you may have been the 666th person to receive this very fruitcake. If so, woe betide you.

The contest will run through January 5th, at which point we will vote on the stories. First prize will be an autographed copy of my and the ghost's book. If you already have one, I'll select something of equal value to award you. The alternate prize is most likely in better taste. If my story wins, I'll donate the price of one of my books to the World Health Organization's mental health division. Do not feel like you have to vote for my story. I am a novelist, and I acknowledge that my short stories are generally pretty foolish.

May the most malevolent fruitcake win!

Lily

'Twas the night before Xmahannuramakwanzyule and the Netherworld Hotel was at last quiet. The members of Death Cheese had fallen into a drunken stupor after playing till 3:33 AM. The Cheesemeister sneaked down to the pantry for a snack, hoping to find some cheese, fruit, chocolate, and maybe a little leftover wine--the classy kind from the box, not the rancorous rot gut that the members of Death Cheese favored.

The stair creaked, which did not particularly bother the Cheesemeister. Everything in the Netherworld Hotel was on the verge of falling apart. But when the clock suddenly struck the hour, it made her jump. That wouldn't have been so bad, but a chill went up her spine as she realized the clock had struck 6. Worse, when she looked at the clock, a simple old-fashioned grandfather clock with hands rather than digits, she noticed that the hour, minute and second hand were all pointing to the number 6. The clock face suddenly showed a malevolent, sharp-toothed grin, and the Cheesemeister jumped back. All around her were clocks indicating the number 666. Even the clock around Flavor Flav's neck when he sat upright from his drunken resting place on the lobby couch read 666, and the normally funny Flav had an evil grin on his gleaming grill.

"Yo, G, I guess you know what TIME IT IS!" he smirked wickedly.

It was then that The Cheesemeister screamed, for she heard a stomping on the roof. And then lunatic laughter echoed from the fireplace. Someone was up the chimney hole and Satan was his name.

"Ho ho ho, Cheesemeister!" laughed Unsaintly Nick. "You've been bad this year, like always, and you know it. But this year you will receive nothing so pleasant as coal. No, this year the price of being bad is truly unspeakable."

And with that, the wicked old elf tossed some sort of baleful object down the chimney. It steamed with the fires of hell and reeked of brimstone. And then the Cheesemeister's shrill keening filled the lobby of the dilapidated, cursed inn of the damned. For the thing opened its eyes and mouth. It lived! Or perhaps, more likely it lived not, and yet it moved. A malevolent intelligence shone in its glowing red eyes and in the clots of ancient candied fruit that adorned its hardened flesh. For this was the oldest fruitcake in the Universe, and Satan had chosen the Cheesemeister to receive it.

"Take care of your new pet, Cheesy One," Satan called down the chimney. "Or my new latrine cleaner for eternity shall be named. I bet you can guess what her name is too!"

As Flavor Flav took a swig of rancorous rot gut, The Cheesemeister sunk to the floor of the Netherworld Hotel lobby. She was stuck with the Universe's oldest fruitcake. She couldn't destroy it, she couldn't re-gift it and she definitely couldn't return it.

"Oh,woe betide me this Yuletide" she sighed. "Whatever shall I do? What are the chances that I'll get through the year without Soggy trying to eat that thing or Axe Man trying to chop it to bits? I'm doomed, doomed doomed!"

For extra atmosphere, here is the band that just may be Death Cheese's biggest influence.

My Biggest Nemesis

My score on The 5 Question "Worst Villian For You" Test:

Michael Myers

(You scored 13 Logic, 4 Supernatural, 4 Paranoia, 8 Skills)

http://panther.is1.okcimg.com/users/554/938/5559389992085590136/mt590360846.jpg

A common characterization is that Michael Myers is evil. The character as "almost a supernatural force - a force of nature. An evil force that's loose," a force that is "unkillable." He is more than human; he may be supernatural, and no one knows how he got that way.

Link: The 5 Question "Worst Villian For You" Test
(OkCupid Free Online Dating)

Thankfully Rare

Your Personality is Very Rare (INFP)

Your personality type is dreamy, romantic, elegant, and expressive. Only about 5% of all people have your personality, including 6% of all women and 4% of all men You are Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Perceiving.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

Mysterious Lily Strange Spotted at Stonehenge

The mysterious author Lily Strange was spotted at Stonehenge with her pet penguin Penguino today. It is reported that the peculiar pair were beamed there by a UFO piloted by the Alien Guy. Strange, reportedly, was hoping to "hook up with Mr. Spock," but Spock was advised by a certain mysterious hooded spectre holding a can of Whoop Ass that this would not be logical.

For the first time ever I am declared a genius!

Get a Cash Advance

The Fruitcake Club

I've been depressed, but this humorous post about fruitcake cheered me up a bit. Here is the response I gave.

My father is trying to indoctrinate my son into the fruitcake club. No, not THAT fruitcake club, nor even the "nutty as a fruitcake" club, although my personal belief is that if you like fruitcake you are indeed certifiable. My son likes to cook and my father is hoping that my son and my mother will cook up a dandy Xmas fruitcake. I suppose it wouldn't be such an awful thing to humor dear old Dad--he's had a rather miserable three years since the stroke and if it's fruitcake he wants, perhaps it's fruitcake he should have. But my son will probably make faces at the smell of that ghastly candied fruit. That stuff is fit only for ghoulies, ghosties, and things that go bump in the night--and I know several ghosts who wouldn't touch it either!

What are your thoughts on fruitcake? Is it a maligned delicacy or merely malignant? Was it put on Earth by the Devil Himself to torture good Christian souls on their favorite holiday? Or is it some sort of alien creation like the pyramids and Stonehenge are rumored to be by the UFO-philes? Whatever the case, I am frightened of it. It looks like a block of mold. The only good fruitcake I ever had left out the horrific candied fruit and replaced it with maraschino cherries and Brazil nuts. That was not Satan fruitcake, as is the majority of fruitcake. That was angelic fruitcake.

That's your lesson for today, Kiddies. Be good for goodness sake. Or not only will Santa Claus call you out, but if you're run over by a reindeer walking home from someone's house on Christmas Eve, you will be eating fruitcake in hell for all eternity.

If the clergy really wanted to get people into church, they'd forget all this talk about premarital sex and promiscuity. They'd be preaching about eternal damnation complete with daily fruitcake rations. Now that's enough to scare anybody into devotion!

I think it might be fun to come up with some hellish holiday tales. Maybe I'll have a contest of some kind. Since I'm broke I don't know what the prize will be other than the love and admiration of your fellow contestants. But perhaps something will strike me and jar my brain out of its comatose state e'er the holiday season is o'er. After all, there has to be something fun about this stressful pair of months following my and Alice Cooper's favorite holiday!

Silent Sibling Rivalry

The picture that goes with this latest effort can be found here. If you're not tired or proud, or if you're tired and not proud, or if you're just plain bored, feel free to add to it.

Kimi desperately wished that her sister Nita would tell her wretched little goblin of a son to get his ill-behaved butt off the table before Aunt Kimi went Samurai on his ass. At the same time, Nita was thinking what dreadfully stuffy little prigs Kimi's children were and it was all she could do to keep from smacking them upside the heads with a bo-stick to get some sort of a reaction out of them.

Just happens to be my favorite season

You Are Fall!

Thoughtful Expressive Creative Poetic Smart

What Season Woman Are You?

I feel a bit brain dead tonight so I'm doing these things

The return of Indie

Indie is back. So here is the first short-short story I've been able to write in awhile. Remember, you can add to it if you want!
Missi went to one of THOSE schools where art and writing were sneered at and only science and math were respected. The only place she could find to draw was in the girls' bathroom at lunch. This worked pretty well until the one day when Priscilla the Math Club Queen walked in on her.
"Ooooh, I'm gonna TELLL!!!!" Priscilla cried.
Being caught involved in artistic expression was far worse than being caught smoking in the bathroom. Even being caught smoking crack would have been better than this. Missi was doomed.

When I'm feeling low (which I have been for the past day) I start feeling sorry for myself, wishing that when I put out a piece like this people would actually participate like they do at Doug's or Indie's blogs. I'm not begrudging them their popularity, they fully deserve it. Sometimes I revel in being a big scary freak with red eyes and blood dripping from my fangs and claws. Other times I kind of wish that people would mistake me for cute and cuddly...at least until I was able to get them into my web of deceit and eat their intestines for lunch.

This Shite is Driving Me Crazy!

It's probably really nitpicky and anal of me, but this sign at work is driving me crazy. The name of the program is "Every Time I Feel The Spirit." I think the intent was to write "Ev'ry Time I Feel the Spirit" to make it seem more folksy, but instead they wrote "Eve'y Time I Feel The Spirit." Well, now ev'ry time I see that sign I cringe!

Would you pronounce that "Evie" or "Evay?"

This drives me slightly less nut's than people who put apostrophe's where apostrophe's don't belong, making word's that shouldn't be possessive possessive.

One of the more glaring examples of this was on a sign in front of a restaurant indicating that the breakfast special was "Ham and Egg's." I kept wondering "Ham and the Egg's what??"

In spite of being perfect in eve'y other way, I do have a bit of trouble knowing when to use its and when to use it's. I usually use the motto "when in doubt leave it out" with apostrophes and let my editor figure it out. I can tolerate a dropped apostrophe. But an added apostrophe where there shouldn't be an apostrophe is just plain aggravating!

Our press release!

Our publicist wrote this press release and is sending it to numerous publications. It's much better than the crap one that I wrote and had no idea to distribute it to!
If you're a writer in need of a publicist you need to write Lee at mrg@usatek.net
His fees are reasonable enough that even my broke ass could afford them!
Here's the press release masterpiece. You'd want to check it out if you read about it, wouldn't you? Genius!

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NEW HORROR NOVEL WRITTEN BY PSYCHIC WITH HELP OF GHOST

(BOULDER, Colorado) – A new horror novel
titled “Lost Beneath The Surface” is a story of demons,
angels, gods, goddesses and a vampire – and it was
co-written with the help of a ghost, according to author,
Lily Strange.

“I never set out to write a book with a ghost, it just
happened,” said Strange, who began writing the book 15
years ago as her marriage began falling apart. “It began
as a 2-dimensional Gothic romance, but it ended very
differently.”

In 2005, Strange says she met a spirit who began working
with her on the manuscript. The story then took on an
entirely different tone.

“In my family, there are a lot of people with psychic
abilities,” said Strange. “One of my maternal
great-grandfathers always knew when people were going to
die and saw ghosts.”

Strange made contact with a dead musician who ended his
life in suicide. The ghost was receptive to Strange, as he
was quite lonely, she said. Soon, Strange began to work
with the ghost.

“He would read over my shoulder while I was working,” said
Strange. “He asked if I might like to hear some ideas he
had and before I knew it he was contributing enough that I
could only see fit to call him my co-author.”

The author, who says she has seen ghosts since the age of
16, said she wrote the book under a pen name, because she
is “sensitive about enduring the criticism that revealing
this supernatural partnership will subject me to.”

The complex horror novel blends true details of the
hard-rock-underground of the late 80s and early 90s with a
fantasy story. The result is an intricate and interwoven
tale of Terry Bruckham, a popular author who can’t catch a
break. Terry falls in love with London blues-rock singer,
Elvin Barris. Soon, in Terry’s dreams a terrifying threat
is revealed – dark forces that put the universe at stake.

An excerpt from the prologue:

“This is a story of love and loss, of triumph and
destruction, and of the knowledge that nothing in this
world will last forever … This is, if you will, a love
story.”

To purchase the e-book for $5.00, visit:
http://www.lilystrange.com. It is also available for
$16.95 at Barnes and Noble and Amazon.

Half of the profits from book sales will be donated to the
World Health Organization's mental health division.

CONTACT: Author Lily Strange is available for interviews
with the media by calling (insert telephone#) or via e-mail at lilystears@gmail.com.

Magic

Here is a small paragraph from Lost Beneath the Surface to start this week's story. See what you can do with it!

Sigrun presented the youth with several different backgrounds and he transformed to blend into each one. When he was through he seemed drained but pleased by the praise he received. He went to one of the sleep chambers to rest. Sigrun and Thrud led Greta to Yama’s chambers.

Rabbit Rabbit for October

MySpace Graphics

The Grim Reaper knows a vorpal rabbit when he sees one.

Geena's Journey

Geena wondered about the wisdom of leaving the light at the end of the tunnel behind. She wondered indeed about the wisdom of venturing through the tunnel. Who knew where it ended, how long it would be before she encountered light again? Yet she had lived so long alone in the light, fearing the darkness. Her loneliness drove her to venture out and seek what was beyond the beautiful but empty world she'd known for as long as she could remember before she died of despair.

This story was originally posted at the Indeterminacy website. We are glad that Indie's wife is recovering from her auto accident and hope she continues to advance back to health.