Monday, November 24, 2014


The first TV interview with Stephen King. For more information:
From the youtube archives, here's the first TV interview with Stephen King.
Blaze McRob

Saturday, November 22, 2014


See these people? We are the Pen Of The Damned! Do we write what everyone else does? Of course not! We are an eclectic group of Damned Dark souls who tell it like it is. If you want fluff and horse-shit how to better yourself nonsense, this is not the place. We dig into our souls and drag out the sordid horror of what really exists around us. Prepare to be given a lesson into terror like you have never experienced. Do you want to be scared within an inch of your life before you go to bed? Read our stories. They are all for the price of free. Every week!

We are the Pen Of The Damned! Nobody does it better!

Blaze McRob

Friday, November 21, 2014


This is another Friday Frights for this week. The theme is Harvest this month. Earth Mother is pissed! Watch out . . .

 Earth Mother's Harvest

     The half-crazed looney stares at me, his clothes hanging on him they're so loose, and his eyes . . .his eyes are sunk so deep within his skull they can barely be seen.

     "Do you have any spare change on you?" he asks.

     Eyeing him a little closer, I notice the yellowish pallor to his skin. Liver disease. Big time. "You'd just use it to buy some booze, man."

     "And your point is?"

     "Maybe food would be a better option."

     He spits off to the side, a look of disdain creeping across his face. "At least I'm being honest with you. I'm not claiming I want to use it for food. Sure it's booze I want. I'm on the streets now because I don't have much time left. No sense in dying in a damn hospital with all sorts of shit attached to me that ain't going to stem the tide anyway. I'm free out here. When the Reaper comes for my sorry ass, I'll be ready."

     Knowing what he says is true, I reach into my pocket and hand him a twenty. "Get some of the better shit tonight, man."

     He eyes Mr. Jackson first and then me. "You sure, man?"

     "I'm sure. I know the signs. My dad died of liver disease. You know what?"


     "He did the same as you. One day I went to visit him at the hospital and they told me he was gone. He'd lost his house due to the huge medical bills and had no place to go. He was too proud to ask for help. I found him, though, and took him home with me. He lasted almost a year, but one day I arrived home and found him in his bed: a big smile on his face, in spite of the fact he was cold as ice. My guess? He wouldn't have lasted any longer at the hospital. Probably less time."

     His sunken eyes appear to come closer to the surface. "I'm sorry, man. Here, " he says as he presses the twenty back into my palm. I don't need this. I'll get by."

     Shaking my head, I hand the money back to him. "It's no drain on me, friend. I'm alone, There's no one to sap my fucking wallet. Take it."

     He smiles and takes only a second before stuffing it into his pocket. "Thank you. I appreciate it. The alcohol is like medicine to me. Yeah, one day it won't do me any more good, and I'll be toast, but it helps to ease the pain and makes life seem worth living."

     "I understand."

     "Yes, I believe you do,"

     The deep eyes move closer to the surface, and he actually appears to become younger before my eyes. My confusion registers in his mind, and he says, "We need to talk, my friend."

     But . . ."

     "No buts. Talk."

     "And what do we need to talk about?"

     "The truth."

     Probably just some drunken shit, but he isn't drunk, and his speech, while not the best, is at least decipherable. "Let's grab a table at the corner bar and sit outside and enjoy the evening air. The drinks are on me."

     "But you already gave me money."

     "Save it for tomorrow."

     We grab a table and I call the waitress over. "Cold Bud for me and whatever my friend wants."

     "Same for me."

     She gives him a strange look, one that says, "What are these two opposites doing together?" and ambles back inside.

     While we wait for our beers, I notice my new friend doesn't have that crazed, looney look anymore. And his eyes . . .his eyes appear normal.

     "You're confused, aren't you?" he asks.

      The waitress returns with the beers and I slip her cash plus a decent tip, and she walks off smiling, shaking her butt just the right amount.

     "Yes, I am confused," I say. "You're sick, but you're not what you appear to be."

     He laughs. "I'm not, and neither are you."

     "How's that?"

     "Your Dad knew. That's part of the reason he died happy. He knew what the future held for him."

     "That being?"

     "He was free of his diseased body. His mind was unleashed to the next level of existence."


     "Not Heaven, my friend. We don't need a God. You don't need a God."

     "What do we need?"

     "Only ourselves. Nothing more."

     For some strange reason, though I'm not sure how, I'm beginning to understand. His words, as well as his thoughts, filter into my mind, telling me our meeting was meant to be.

     "You're certain?" I say.

     He nods. "Your Dad, your Mom, and me are the same as you. We don't belong on this planet. Many years ago we came here and were stranded and forced to stay. We gave the planet's inhabitants the knowledge to do great things and advance well behind where they were, but they took everything a step farther and fucked things up. They're destroying their own home, the stupid bastards. All because of greed. There are only a few years left before they can kiss their asses good bye. Unless they blow themselves up first."

     "And your concern? You are about to die. What difference does it make to you?"

     His disgusted look returns. "It is because of them I am dying. We might be smarter than them, and perhaps a lot of them have some of our good genetic coding from breeding with them over the years, but we are still susceptible to their diseases. The worse the environment gets, the harsher it becomes for us."

     This is all a tough story to swallow, but it is becoming less so by the moment.

     "So what do we do?"

     "Nothing, other than to prepare ourselves for the next level of our existence. We will be one step closer to perfection."

     "And the others?"

     "They are doomed. Because of their guilt, their minds will enslave them to a world of personal Hell. Since they believe they are evil and deserve to rot in eternal damnation, that is what they will suffer. It goes along with their distorted concept of free will."

     The waitress returns, and we get another round. I can't help but hope that she is smart enough to think in some other fashion and not allow herself to follow the paths of the stupid sheep following a disturbing path.

     "Will you still be alive when all this happens?" I ask.

     "Shit, I hope not!" he says. "I want to be long gone from here, at peace with my new me and my new surroundings. I'm afraid you will suffer my friend, not from the physical pain but because you are too compassionate for a humanity that suffers from a total lack of sensitivity to others."

     We drink until the bar closes, and I'm sure I give the waitress enough tips to pay her rent for the month. No matter: all that is will not be here for long.

     My drinking buddy and I become roomies, but in a matter of months he dies, the same contented look on his face that my Dad had.

     The planet becomes hotter, more icebergs and polar caps melt, and the seas rise. Millions of people are killed in floods that destroy New York City and so many places. Earthquakes increase and volcanoes pop up everywhere, tossing ash into the air and killing most vegetation on the planet. There are not many of us left.

     For a long time, bands of marauders roam the land, stealing supplies from people who had the sense to prepare for this doomsday scenario, oftentimes ruthlessly killing the people who now keep them alive. 

      I sit alone in my cabin high atop the Rockies, knowing that any time now, it could all end. One more huge caldera exploding; one more tremendous earthquake: and it's all over.

     My supplies are low and my strength is waning. How long . . .how long do I have?

     I lie down on my my bed to conserve my strength. The air around me becomes very dark, even though it is the middle of the day. Ash seeps in through the cracks of the cabin as the ground shakes and rattles.

     No matter. I wait; and I smile . . .

Blaze McRob


Armand Rosamilia and gang are putting on one hell of a Zombie blog tour for you. I posted several times about it already, but I've been super busy and have not had a chance to post all the links. The complete schedule is here. Get on over and find some new favorite authors and discover some great stuff about some you already love.

Blaze McRob

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Dark Games

This is my Friday Frights for this week. Our theme this month is Harvest. Sometimes when we do good, we do wrong. To ourselves . . .

Dark Games

     It’s hot, and the cold beer moving slowly down my throat feels heavenly. Nothing left for me to do tonight. I can kick back and relax. Being single has its advantages.

     The porch swing glides back and forth effortlessly, and I await the approach of the setting sun, an almost magical time of the day on my street. This is when the house at the end of the block appears to come alive with a vibrant display of light as the sun recedes behind it.

     Yes, but there is more.

     Shadows dart about all over the house and around the unkempt lawn as darkness approaches, appearing for all the world to be living creatures, a part of what exists there and nowhere else on the street.

     “Geesh, Brad,” I think. “You’re imagination is working overtime again.”

     But is it? My house is pleasant, but it pales in beauty and mystery to what lies at the end of the block, showing its wares to one and all, and then  . . . and then fading into the darkness, the visual remaining seemingly remaindering it to the common place existence the rest of the block experiences.

     “Yeah, right,” I think. “Nothing about that house or its grounds are within the realms of normality. Something is different; something is not right.

     It is almost a game with me by now: I sit; I drink a couple beers; and I listen for what I know will come. Every night is the same. Do I need a life? Is my fixation on this house a healthy thing?

     “Jesus, Brad,” I think. “You do need a life.”

     Okay, that might be true, but there are mysteries needing to be solved; questions to be answered; and wrongs to be righted. What wrongs? Shit! I don’t know for sure, but I hear the children, and I hear the screams and the crying. Something is happening there. Why would I hear what I hear if it’s not occurring? I’m not a delusional sort.

     I am concerned about the house. Okay, not the house: the inhabitants; the children. Surely other people here have heard what I hear. I’m five houses away from the end of the block. Why don’t they report anything?

     Me? It’s a gray area. I work for the Department Of Youth And Family Services, DYFS. I’m supposed to be bound by rules and regulations. Abuse must be reported before I investigate. And yet, if I turn my back to what is happening, is the morality missing? Of course it is. Rules and regulations rearing their ugly heads again. Only, children can be harmed. Can I live with that?

     No. I can’t.

     So tonight, I listen once more, waiting for the inevitable moment when the cries, the sobbing, and the pleading sounds work their way to my house, knowing that I must do what I always do: creep down and investigate. This time, I must go beyond my former limits. If the sounds don’t go away; if the sensations running up and down my back persist; and if my mind tells me things are not right, then I must intervene. Tonight . . . tonight could be the night I demand entry into the house.

     For a couple hours, all is quiet and calm. Maybe, just maybe, my fears and apprehensions are unwarranted tonight. I certainly hope so; I would love to be proved wrong. To go into a beer induced place of calm and peace would be so relaxing. How long has it been? Too long.

     Just as I am ready to call it a night and lapse into slumberland, I feel something moving in the evening breeze, working its way towards me, whispering in my ear, relaying the voices of the children. Yet, the utterances are not loud enough to be heard. But they are there, and they are calling to me. How can this be? Maybe it’s merely the effects of an extra beer or two. Yes, that’s what it is.

     Yet, I can’t tear myself away from what tells me I am needed. My porch swing has ceased swinging, the determination within me telling me that there is no room for static involvement. Action! Something needs to be done, and it must be done now.

     Unsteady as I might be from having consumed the beer, I work my way towards the end of the block, soberness returning with each step. My mind is sharpening, forcing the alcohol buzz to the side. I have no idea what to expect when I reach the house, but questions will be answered tonight. No more can I allow my feelings to remain as they are. I need closure. The sufferings of the children need closure.

     I am alone in my quest for the truth. Every house I pass appears to be in a state of total oblivion to what is happening so close to them. No lights, no television, no nothing. They are in bed, asleep, and unaware.

     That’s okay with me. I know my neighbors for who they are. Like so many people nowadays, there is a fear of getting involved and perhaps having to absorb the repercussions of moral entanglements if a confrontation occurs.

     I reach the end of the block and start walking up the sidewalk to the front door, hearing the voices clearer now, knowing something is going on in there even though the lights are off. Hesitating when the shadows appear to take on new life, I am torn between retreat or finishing what I came to do.

     My resolve is firm. I can’t go back now. In fact, I don’t have a choice. The shadows are pushing me towards the house somehow, their wispy forms seemingly capable of controlling my movements.

     “No, this can’t be happening,” I think. “The beer, the heat, my pounding heart, and my worry for the children inside are all working on my mind. Yes . . . yes, that’s it”

     Reaching the door, I find it to be partially open, almost like an invitation to simply walk inside. But I can’t do that. I have to knock. If not, whatever misdeeds I come across will be thrown out of court.

     My knocking brings the sounds of feet running towards the door.  Little feet, many of them. The children are answering my knocks.

     They fling the door open and a light comes on. I stare down at them. My God! What is going on here?

     An adult, a woman- I suppose she’s the mother of the children – comes to see what the commotion is all about. “Oh, I was wondering what my children were making a commotion over. Come on in.”

     Her smile is a paradox of emotions. She appears to act like a gracious mother opening her door to a stranger, but . . . but there is more here. Much more.

     “You’re that DYFS guy who lives down the street, aren’t you?” she asks.

     Wondering how she knows who I am, I say, “Yes, I am. But how did you know?”

     She laughs. “You know how it is when you live on a dead-end street like this one. Everyone knows everyone else. Yeah, and everyone’s business as well.”

     “But I don’t know you,” I say. “Sure, I’ve heard a few things here and there, but, until tonight, I had never seen you.”

     Looking down at the children, I want to say more, but I don’t. In all actuality, I honestly don’t know what to say.

     She gives me a suspicious look. “Did anyone complain about me? Has anyone pressed any kind of charges against me?”

     I step from foot to foot, thinking this was not a good idea on my part after all. “Well, to be honest, no. I came on my own.”

     She smiles at me. “So, no one knows you’re here? You just thought something was wrong and came to check on it yourself?”

     Oh, shit! This woman has me now. This is extremely humiliating. All I want to do is crawl into a hole and hide.

     “I’m sorry ma'am, but . . . but every night I hear noises from your house, and . . . “

     “What kind of noises?”

     “Children crying. At least that’s what it sounded like to me. I thought there were children being abused in this house.”

     “And you waited this long to do anything about it? If you were so concerned why didn’t you act sooner?”   

     “You’re right. I should have. But I don’t see anything wrong here, so I guess I’ll leave.”

     “As simple as that? You’ll just leave, huh? And I suppose you’ll see fit to tell the world about my children, won’t you? No, Mr. DYFS Man, that’s not going to happen. I’m their mother. It is my job to care for them, to protect them.”

     Sensing that something very bad is about to happen, I back up towards the door, but a whirring sound comes up behind me. Staring into the teeth of a chainsaw, I panic, and the child wielding it removes my right leg from beneath my knee. I drop to the floor in pain, bleeding out, going into shock, understanding everything now.

     One by one, they come to me, all of them holding their toys. Their toys of death. My eyes cloud over from the pain and I really can’t count their numbers, but it doesn’t matter. Whether by knife, chainsaw, hammer, or whatever else they wield in their hands, I am brutalized. My time is short.

     All this time, the sounds . . . the sounds I thought were those of abused children, were in all actuality the last gasps of life from people like me. People who wandered  into the house when they should have stayed away.

     “I’m sorry,” the lady says. “We have no choice. No one must know we exist.”

     The children stare down at me, their huge black eyes and large heads looming before me, set so well in their small, pale bodies.

     “Play some more, children,” their mother says. “Your visitor is still alive. I know he is enjoying your games.”

     No one will notice I’m gone for a while. I live alone. It’s just me and my job. Sad, I suppose, but irrelevant now.

     Playmate that I am, I succumb to their games . . .

Blaze McRob


TJ Redig

Writer • Outreach Worker • Podcastorian • Blogger • Jibber-Jabberer

2014-11-19: #31 Craig McGray

Interview with Craig McGray, author of a shit ton of good novels. I know about the glitch halfway through and left it for authenticity. We'll do it live

Check out what Craig McGray has to say about writing. And I do mean say! This is a verbal back and forth that I'm certain you'll enjoy. Craig is a fellow member of the Pen Of The Damned and discusses his experiences working with our eclectic group of Damned Dark authors. But he has much more to say about the publishing business and tells us about his favorite books, authors, and more.

I like this approach to having an interview. It's really easy to access. No codes needed or anything. Just hop on, hit the Scrivener button, and you're listening.

And, Craig talks a lot better than I do! Tel him Blaze sent you!

Blaze McRob 


I've been good this year. I think anyway. I want a Chucky Doll in my little black stocking of Dark goodies. For anyone else desiring this special playmate, I have included a couple of videos for your viewing pleasure.

Still time to get your letters out to Santa!

Blaze McRob

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


I have shown two pictures here. One of the young actor portraying the great Physicist, Stephen Hawking, in the new movie Theory Of Everything, and one of Stephen Hawking himself. I am very excited this movie is out and it is a must see for me. Okay, so I would naturally love a film about one of the greats in the field of Physics since that is where my schooling lies. But even more important is the role model that Stephen is for any human who believes they cannot achieve what they wish to do because of difficulties they encounter. With the power of your mind, you can do much!

Blaze McRob

Stephen Hawking Reflects on 'Theory of Everything,'

'Interstellar'World-famous astrophysicist Stephen Hawking took to Facebook yesterday (Nov. 18) to share his views about a new film based on his life.


The blog tour for Carson Buckingham's great novel Gothic Revival is up and running. Get in on all the fun and win some goodies. Most important, happy reading!

Blaze McRob

Book Description

August 17, 2014
Alex and Leo Renfield are a husband and wife contractor team who’ve recently moved to the village of Woodhaven, Connecticut to escape the chaos of life in New York. Pretty close to broke, they meet Theodora Hamilton, a somewhat unsavory and odd individual, who offers them an astronomical amount of money to repaint the first floor of her family home.

But along with the huge paycheck comes a set of unsettling rules that must be followed explicitly if they are to accept the offer; one of which is they must reside on the property having no direct contact with the outside world until the job is complete.

Is Theodora Hamilton just an eccentric woman with a peculiar way of doing things, or is there a more sinister agenda that Alex and Leo are unaware of? What exactly does she have in store for this down-on-their-luck couple who have no choice but to accept the offer and the strange requirements that come along with it?
5.0 out of 5 stars Gothic Revival Is Carson Buckingham's Masterpiece! November 9, 2014
Format:Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase
Gothic Revival, by Carson Buckingham, is the author's best work to date. One would think a 536 page novel would have some slow, drawn out sections, but not for Carson. She is a master at Gothic story-telling and knows how to keep the story moving.

I am particularly impressed by the fact there is no elaborate over-description involved. To me, that is boring. Give me some action; some psychological horror. Carson gives the reader all the description she/he needs without describing every useless tid-bit a reader doesn't want to know.

How does she do this? Through her skillful use of dialogue. Too many authors are totally without dialogue skills. Carson could write a non-fiction book on the subject. But then again, anyone who reads Gothic Revival will see what I'm talking about. Her dialogue is written the way people actually talk. Fancy the concept! She has hit upon a secret so simple that it eludes far too many authors.

Now I come to a part of Carson's writing that I really enjoy. Her sense of humor. What, you ask, humor in Gothic horror? You betcha. Once more, Master Carson Buckingham comes riding along on her trusty steed and delivers the right amount of humor at the perfect time. Superb!

Take dialogue unmatched by any author past or present, add in humor, suspense, romance, and a foreboding creepy feeling polishing it all off, and you have Carson Buckingham.

You will notice my review does not tell you the details of the story. Yikes! Why do that? Read the description and the free sample for that. I'm here to tell you about the author's skills. Of that, Carson has many. Besides, I wanted to blurt out some goodies, but that would have been a spoiler. Not my style.

Gothic Revival is a masterpiece!

Gothic Revival Blog Tour

Gothic Revival Blog Tour

In support of her novel Gothic Revival, Carson Buckingham will be touring the internet from November 16th to November 22nd!