Sunday, May 3, 2015

EVERYONE'S A VICTIM - BY TYR KIERAN - IS THIS WEEK'S SCARY SUNDAY TALE!

Life is often just a matter of playing your part, Damnlings. 'EVERYONE'S A VICTIM' http://wp.me/p2iKoL-PB is this week's newest ‪#‎horror‬ ‪#‎fiction‬ by Tyr Kieran on Pen of the Damned.
Smelling salts woke her. Despite the thick fabric covering her head, the ammonia burned strong in her sinuses. It was a smell she knew well; she used it on a regular basis. Her first attempts to mo...
penofthedamned.com
 
                                                               *    *    *   *
 
 
Everyone's A Victim, by Tyr Kieran, is this week's Scary Sunday Tale! Sir Tyr writes a chilling story with an ending that I never saw coming. Go to the link above and read this story and many more written by Tyr for the fantastic price of free. Pen Of The Damned is lurking in the shadows waiting for you.
 
 
Blaze McRob
 

DOLL MOST EVIL










http://www.fridayfrights.ws/
https://www.facebook.com/groups/fridayfrights/

This is my Friday Frights for this week. It's late. I'm sorry, but a lot has happened this past week. Some pretty fantastic stuff for me.

The theme this month is Demonic Toys. This is the first part of a two part story. I hope you enjoy it. Remember: toys are not only for children . . .




Doll Most Evil


     Fire rises from the trash barrel sitting in the middle of the alley behind the bar, tendrils of flame running every which way, dependent upon the direction of the breeze and the number of people gathered around it. It is a cold night and the assembled homeless people are glad for its warmth. For most of them, this will be their abode for the evening.

     “Why don’t you throw your doll into the fire, Bob?” one of the older guys says. “That rag fucker would zip the heat up a notch. Besides, aren’t you a bit old to be playing with dolls? Damn it, man! You’re pushing the down side of sixty!”

     Bob stares at him, sparks flying from his eyes. No way is the doll going into the fire. It is all he has in the world other than the clothes he is wearing. A man has to have something, doesn’t he?

     “Fuck you, Fred!” Bob shouts. “Just try and take him from me!”

     Fred charges Bob and a fight ensues, but Bob easily handles his antagonist. The others gathered there join in, and before long the doll is ripped from under Bob’s coat and tossed into the fire. Fred laughs. “Serves you right you looney!” he shouts.

     Bob can see the doll in the flames and reaches in deep to get him out before the flames consume it. His rag-tag clothing catches on fire, but he wants to put the flames out on his constant traveling companion of many years before he tends to himself. Only when that is done does he worry about his own welfare. The sleeves of his shirt and weather-beaten jacket are destroyed, and his arms are covered with huge blisters ready to break open.

     The pain . . . the pain is excruciating!

     While the others stare at Bob, wondering what to do, Fred laughs and taunts him. “You dumb son-of-a-bitch! Like the doll appreciates what you did for it.”

     He turns to go back to the fire when the voice rings out.

     “Oh, but the doll does appreciate it. Very much so.”

     The voice appears to be coming from the doll, but that couldn’t be. The cold is getting to them. That’s it.

     “An eye for an eye, Fred, or in this case, two arms for two arms. Sounds pretty fair to me.”

     This time they are certain: it is the doll. Fred backs up to get away from the taunting doll but advances towards the fire. Wait! That won’t do! Not at all. That’s what the doll wants.

     “You can’t trick me, you little bastard! You can rot in Hell!”

     “My, my. Trying to send me back from where I came. How inconsiderate of you. Just for that, you will give up more than your arms. You will burn in the Fires of Damnation in front of all your friends.”

     Fred tries to run out of the alley but is powerless to do so. No matter how hard he tries to escape, his body is drawn to the barrel. The compulsion in his mind is overwhelming. It calls to him, demanding that he gets in. Yes, it wants him to embrace the heat. He has no choice.

     Within seconds, the old man grasps the sides of the barrel, hoists himself up, and jumps in. Flames tear at him as his cries fly through the evening air. The stench of burning flesh hangs thick around them, the taste of his dying embers finding a home on the tongues of those too shocked by what is happening to help. Or is it fear that holds them back? Yes, the bellies of the homeless are tinged yellow. A very dark hue.

     With the last of Fred’s cries and the cessation of his wildly beating heart, the huge blisters on Bob’s arms pull back into themselves and vanish. The crowd stares in panic, fearing for their own lives. What power does this doll have that it can force men to kill themselves and, at the same time, heal another and make him whole again?

     Bob wants only to get away from the alley and these people he can no longer trust. He has to think things out. This makes no sense to him: burned but not burned; overpowered by a throng which now fears him and the doll.

     The doll! For many years he had this doll, not wanting to part with it, and not really knowing why. Something had drawn him to it, though, and they traveled many a lonesome road together.

     He stares into the coal black eyes of the small rag doll, feeling its power, wondering why  . . . why it had waited until this moment to show itself for what it was.

     “Why now, my friend? Why after all these years do you decide to show me your power?”

     A smile, thin and wicked, creeps on to the face of the doll. “Was this not a good time, my friend? You were hurt and I healed you. There could not have been a better time.”

     Still startled the doll can talk to him, Bob says, “ Yes, you did save me, but your healing methods were a bit extreme.”

     “Tsk, tsk. Fred got what he deserved, and as far as those other cowards who would join en-mass to attack you when they thought you were defenseless, they are fortunate not to have gotten the just rewards their friend received.”

     “But . . .”

     “No more buts, Bob. In good time you will know all. You will be amazed at the things I will be telling you, but you are a smart man, put on this trail of homelessness through no fault of your own other than the fact you were much too kind to scum that would try to drain the life force out of you. I will have to toughen you up for what is to come.”

     Bob shivers against the cold, his arms healed, but not his ragged garments. “Where do we go from here?” he asks.

     Laughing, the doll says, “It is eviction time for some fat cat bastard living only a few blocks from here, passing the downtrodden every day but not caring they live in squalor while he lives in a tower of secured luxury overlooking the financial district.”

     Bob shoves his hands under his arm-pits in an effort to warm them up.

     “For God’s sake, I’m listening to a doll! I’m following a doll. I must be crazy!”

     “God has nothing to do with this, and you are not crazy: merely waking to the fact that things are to change; change for the better.”

     A man bristles by them, extremely rude, almost shoving Bob to the ground. “You fucking dirty scum-bag! Get out of my way!”

     “I would apologize if I were you.”

     He turns around and spits on Bob. “There’s your fucking apology!”

     The doll slips out of the waistband in Bob’s pants, magically appears in front of Mr. High Almighty, and pulls on his left leg, causing him to topple to the ground. “I don’t like to say things twice, Bozo. Apologize!”

     Terror beams back at the doll from the businessman’s eyes. He chokes on his words, mumbling incoherent sentences, spittle forming at the edges of his lips and running down his cheeks.

     “That was your second chance. Kiss your sorry ass goodbye!”

     Calmly, the doll removes a concealed derringer from a holder on the man’s side, levels it against his temple and pulls the trigger. He twitches once as his bowels and bladder empty.

     “He will no longer be rude, Bob. Grab his wallet and keys, and lets go to your new home. I’m getting cold, too.”

     Not exactly thrilled with having to touch the dead man’s carcass, Bob does so anyway and removes a fat wallet and his keys. “How do we know where he lives?”

     “While I can’t peer into people’s minds,  I pick up on things: mannerisms, expressions, etc., much like a lie detector. His address will be in his wallet, not that I need it, as I have seen him walk to and from the building many times as we were coming and going. You never took any notice, since he was of no concern to you. But to me . . . to me, it was a different story. I collect information; store it in my mind; and it’s there when I need it.”

     One block ahead and the doll mumbles the security code to Bob. He has heard the beeping of the code being activated many times before as he passed Mr. High Almighty.

     Bob unlocks the exterior door, and they walk inside a building like he has only dreamed about for years. Once, long ago . . . so long ago he can barely remember, he lived in a place like this, with polished floors, fancy elevators and crystal chandeliers. And then . . .

     “Don’t dredge up the past now, Bob. You will get your revenge, and it will be sweet: honey rolling on your tongue as your antagonist begs for mercy. But this time, my friend, you will not allow him any chance to rectify his transgressions. Thirty years you have been on the street, looking for places to hide from heat, rain, ice, bitter cold and snow. All because of him. No more!”

     He’s right. I have been fucked! Royally fucked!

     They get inside an elevator and the doll pushes the button to the fifth floor. They stop at room 510, punch in the code, unlock the door, and walk inside. Bob’s eyes want to fall out of their sockets, he is so overwhelmed. Thick carpeted rooms abound everywhere except in the huge kitchen, and the furnishings are in the style of Ethan Allen, built to last a lifetime and exquisite in design. Pictures surround them, some of which Bob recognizes as Monets or very good imitations. Before becoming homeless and having to grub for every dime just to eat, Bob would visit the museums and marvel at the beauty surrounding him.

     “They are real, my friend,” the doll says. “The former tenant, who will be difficult to recognize because of his rather distorted face-courtesy of a well placed bullet- and the fact he had his fingerprints altered  years ago after a botched  security scam, did enjoy the finer things in life. Where he resides now, there are none of those things.”

     “So, no one will question his whereabouts?”

     “No one. You can tell your neighbors you purchased this place from him and I’ll arrange for the title transfer.”

     “Great! I need a fucking soak in a tub. I hope his clothes fit me. I can use some new ones. If not, I’ll use the money in his wallet and buy some.”

     “Now you’re talking! He has a lot more money stashed around. You won’t want for anything.”

     Bob goes into the huge bathroom and fills the whirlpool tub with nice hot water. There is no hurry. He wants to bask in the warmth and embrace the ambiance of the best that money can buy: his money now.

     Meanwhile, the little doll goes to the fridge and grabs a beer. Yes, a doll with his powers can certainly enjoy a cold beer while sitting in a Lazy Boy surveying the city streets. It is time to think; time to plot.

     Maybe Bob has been on the streets for many years, but his companion has suffered gross indignities for many more years. Thousands of years. No more. That time has ended.



                                                      *    *   *    *



     Bob gets out of the tub after experiencing the greatest bath he can remember. All those years on the road, grabbing a sponge bath here, maybe a quick shower there, and now . . . now everything is changed.

     "I hope it’s changed. Damn I hope it has!" he thinks.

     He towels off and spots a terry-cloth robe. It actually fits! A little large, but the extra room will make things that much more comfy. He feels like a king. Wow!

     Walking into the living room, he is surprised to see the doll sitting in the recliner with a beer in his hand, but at this point, nothing really surprises him.

     “Get a beer and have a seat, Bob. We need to talk.”

     Bob is very eager to get a beer. How long has it been? He can’t remember. Too long. He takes a seat in a recliner facing the one the doll is in and stares at his little friend. Seemingly, it is a fabric doll, gray-almost black-in color, with a persona of evil. The mouth is more of a smirk than anything else, but a smirk resplendent with self-confidence. He never noticed this before. It’s as if the doll is evolving before his eyes, changing into something else: a diminutive display of power.

     “Yes, Bob, I am changing . . . changing  for the better. You and I are ready to take a little ride together and claim what belongs to us.”

     There are very obvious changes in appearance, what with fully formed hands with fingers, distinct facial features-human like, not like the passive anonymity of before-and the sudden appearance of what seem to be wings. Actual wings! But the thinking mentality of the doll is amazing. Such a powerful mind!

     “You are taking this very well, Bob. I delayed telling you about me, the real me, because I needed time to acquaint myself with your world. Your years of time are like hours, even minutes to me. Before I asserted my power, I needed to acquire knowledge and find a like-minded ally. You are that person.”

     “And who are you really?”

     “I’m what’s known as a Watcher, a fallen Angel, one who desired to embrace the charms of human women. God got pissed off and vanished us from Heaven. I rebelled against him, and He not only condemned me to Hell, He turned me from the majestic being I was to what you see before you now.”

     “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way you look. You’re my friend. You look just fine to me.”

     “That’s why you and I are a matched set. We think so much alike. You’ve been fucked, and I’ve been fucked. Payback time, Bob!”

     "There’s more here than meets the eye. The little guy harbors a terrible anger. What’s his plan? What kind of revenge does he wish to extract. Against who?" Bob thinks.

     “Ah, that’s what we’re going to discuss, my friend. My name is Kolchor. I was one of the most powerful Watchers. That was then. I dared to fight against the Almighty and I paid the price. Even Satan was afraid to stick up for me, the fucking pussy! The bastard feared me, even in my present state, and even though I was banished to this condition, he left me alone, afraid to anger me.”

     He takes another pull on his beer. “Then I had enough. My anger seethed. I needed to get out of Hell, so I escaped. Wasn’t very hard. Satan looked the other way and God was too busy. I filtered through the cracks and found you. Who would think of looking for me with a homeless guy? I’m not knocking you, Bob. I understand your predicament, but you certainly were not perceived as someone in any state of power. Truth be told: you have been my safe haven all these years, and tonight you showed me how much you really care about me. I made the right decision in hooking up with you.”

     Bob gets up and grabs them both another beer, then walks around and looks out the window for a few seconds before sitting down again. “Okay, my friend. We both have axes to grind. Which one first?”

     "You're first, Bob. We'll be a stronger team if you can work the shadows before we go after the big boys. You've been out of the loop for awhile, lowering yourself before worthless rabble in the hopes of merely existing. Time to stop being a pussy. You need to assert yourself; become the man you were before; become an even greater man."

     "Thanks loads!"

     "Gloves are off. It's action time, buddy. What do you say?"

     Bob's not happy with the lowering of the boom by the little guy, but everything he says is true. Too many years of cow-towing to everyone else, taking their shit, swallowing his pride. Kolchor is right: it's their turn now.

     "I'm with you all the way, Kolchor. Let's kick some ass!"

     "No more being a pussy for you, Bob. You and I will rule. Tomorrow we start. We have both waited long enough."

     They tip their bottles together and ease back into the Lazy-boys. Kolchor grins, thinking about the sweet revenge to be extracted from those who had fucked Bob and the ones who had done the same to him.



Blaze McRob

Sunday, April 26, 2015

SILLY BUNNY - BY NINA D'ARCANGELA - IS THIS WEEK'S SCARY SUNDAY TALE!

Be vewwy, vewwy quiet. The Damned are hunting wabbits... SILLY BUNNY http://wp.me/p2iKoL-No is this week's newest ‪#‎horror‬ ‪#‎fiction‬ by Nina D'Arcangela on Pen of the Damned.
 
Oh, what a lovely selection this year! Such cute little bunnies. Each with a cherubic face: round rosy cheeks, tiny pink lips, glistening wide eyes. I don’t know where to begin… I suppose I’ll just...
penofthedamned.com
 
                                                          *    *    *    *

 
Silly Bunny, by Nina D'Arcangela, is this week's Scary Sunday tale! I have included a morsel, pun intended, for your enjoyment. However, meanie that I am, I leave the story hanging. But all is not lost. Merely go to the link above and read Nina's story in its entirety. While you're there, read more of her stories at the Pen Of The Damned website. You won't be sorry.
 
 
Blaze McRob
 

SILLY BUNNY

Oh, what a lovely selection this year! Such cute little bunnies. Each with a cherubic face: round rosy cheeks, tiny pink lips, glistening wide eyes. I don’t know where to begin… I suppose I’ll just pluck one at random – what fun this will be.
They seem to grow uncomfortable when I try to coax the first one toward me. I don’t want to frighten them; don’t they know how I love my precious bunnies? I suppose the fidgeting and jostling should be expected as my impatience drives me to grab the first boy and drag him forward. Calming myself, I reach back in time and recall my grandmother’s instructions from when I myself was a youth.
“Everyone knows you start with the eyes. Nibbling them off the face is the first step. Then the ears. Yes, the ears. You begin on the right, taking small bites until you reach the crown – but don’t crack it! Breaching the skull at this point would be unforgivable!” She would say with mock exaggeration. Giggling, we would begin peeling back the foil wrapper together. “Next, it’s the legs. Nibble, nibble, nibble! Once you reach the torso, it’s time for a final sugary treat – the bow tie. When I was a girl, I ate all the parts off my bunnies first, and then I would line up their leftover bodies to be devoured later!” She would always tickle me when she reached this part of the story . .  .

Friday, April 24, 2015

BLUE AGAINST PURPLE - AN ARBOR DAY STORY - DON'T PISS OFF THE TREE!

 


I wrote this story a while back. It is inspired by the fantastic art work of Lauren Curtis. Salem Blue Tree is the name of her fantastic picture. I'm sure I see things within a picture that most folks don't.
 
Today is Arbor Day. Don't piss off the tree!




 Blue Against Purple



     Blue leaves, pushed to prominence against the black sky by a seeming glow of purple emanating from the giant tree's trunk and limbs, dance about, high above the forest floor. The peaceful vision is a paradox within this huge watershed area, however. Most of the other trees surrounding the monstrous wonder are either dead or dying, creating a surreal landscape of eerie desolation.

     The giant is pissed! It alone has any leaves, any life, any hope of survival, and that is only due to the tree's very nature. It is more than a big plant anchored in the ground by a vast root system covering acres of the forest floor around it. Much more.

     Within the higher limbs exists a network of intermingling branches: twisting,turning, and weaving their way through what appears to be some kind of habitat akin to the brier thickets that a rabbit might seek security in. But there are no rabbits up here. What, then?

     And where the other trees were poisoned by the polluted aquifer beneath it, the purple giant is able to utilize a unique filtering system which keeps the toxins out.

     That is little solace to the tree, though. He is the protector of the forest. Many years ago, long before the reservoirs were created, and even before the white man arrived to this part of New Jersey in the 1600's, the tree was here. Things were good for many years, but times changed, and the greed of the new immigrants just kept taking and taking, polluting wherever they went and never taking the time or effort to replenish or refurbish.

     But this latest episode of debauchery is beyond comprehension. The Chief Ranger here is on the take and allows a chemical factory from the outlying areas of Newark to dump their waste into an old abandoned mine a mile away from Echo Lake. The irony is that this lake is part of Newark's drinking water supply. The stupid bastards are polluting their own water.

     Yes, the tree should have acted sooner, before things reached the point they are at now, but he can't feel sorry for himself or the others. There is still time to prevent further defecation of the environment. Once more, he will reign supreme.

     He sends the bats out from the thicket-like interplay of branches high above. They are to be the surveillance for what will most surely come. The great tree wants advance notice this time of interlopers wishing to destroy his kingdom. Damn it! No more will this happen. He is in control once more.

     For hours, nothing happens. The bats are still gone and the tree senses nothing. And then . . . and then the bats return and whisper to the Great One of what they have seen: the trucks are on the way; the mine is their destination.

     It is so evident now. The tree picks up the vibrations from its roots. Yes . . . yes, it is time to move.

     Much faster than the trucks are able to traverse the old dirt roads, riddled with holes and fallen trees blocking some sections, the monster sends its roots out towards the mine. At an unbelievable rate, they grow in thickness and length, waiting patiently for the polluters at the dump site.

     The trucks pull in, the drivers cussing like crazy, complaining about the condition of the roads, bemoaning the fact that their bosses will complain about the time it took for them to complete their job and the fact that overtime will have to be paid.

     "There's more than overtime to be worried about," the tree thinks. "Oh yeah. That will be the least of the factory's problems."

     Once the trucks are all positioned in a line to dump their toxic loads, everything comes to a complete halt. Giant roots come out from the mine and the ground behind them. Like hands and arms of humans, they reach in and pluck the drivers out of their trucks and drag them towards the mine, teasing them with horrific views of the mine shaft below before tossing them into the waiting darkness. They moan and wail as the acidic pools of refuse which are their new homes do not afford them a Welcome Wagon Howdy. Writhing in agony as they are burned alive by the toxic chemicals, the end comes quickly.

     Within minutes, all that is left is a dozen chemical tankers with no drivers.

     But this can not end now. There is more to be done. The bottom feeders have been taken care of, but those who sent them, and the one who accepted his filthy share of booty, remain untouched.

     Slowly but surely, the roots find their way to the Ranger's house on the shores of Echo lake. He sits, looking so innocent, as he watches an old episode of "The Swamp Creature." This is not the wisest choice for viewing right now. Far from it. This might not be a swamp, but . . .

     The roots grow around the house, and when they have fully engulfed it, they pull in, squeezing everything into a nice, compact package. The Ranger screams as he is crushed along with everything else, blood pouring from his body, mingling with the wood of the structure and the bricks of the fireplace.

     Crickets send their sweet songs out into the night. Tonight, no damage has been done to the Lake. Everything is calm once more.

     The roots return to the soil below. Their job is done for now.



                                                                         *    *    *    *



     It takes a few days for the watershed people to send anyone out to see why there have been no messages of any kind from the Ranger.This is not like him. Usually, they are filled to their limits with calls, texts, and emails, most of them asking for more supplies, money, or any number of other pleadings. From the pile of debris that was once his house, they recover what they believe might be his body. It will take quite an autopsy to determine if this is in fact, the truth.

     The chemical tankers are also a question mark. Why are they there, and where are their drivers? One thing is certain: Sabo & Sons is written all over them. These folks have some big questions to answer.



                                                                      *    *    *    *



     Yes, it took longer for the Great Tree to do his job than what he thinks it should have, but everything is resolved now. Renewal will occur within the forest, and things will blossom once more. The Ranger is dead, and no more dumping has been done.

     But Sabo & Sons still haven't paid the ultimate price yet, have they?

     On the main trunk of the tree, in the thickest, strongest part of the great entity, a face appears. It looks human, but not completely. Leaves and branches appear to be part of its features. Weaving in and out of the panorama of the giant's majesty, the combination of human and plant appear to be one and the same.

     The tree is special. It has always been such and always will be.

     Sabo & Sons will be dealt with: harshly.

     The majestic tree smiles . . .



Blaze McRob

Thursday, April 23, 2015

DARWIN'S NIGHTMARE



http://www.fridayfrights.ws/
https://www.facebook.com/groups/fridayfrights/


This is my Friday Frights for this week. Was this ever easy! This month is our Horrific Visions month. We look at a piece of art and write a story about it. My Horrific Vision came about a little easier. See the wasp in the picture above? I received one of these beauties from Nina D'Arcangela as a Coffin Hop Web Tour prize and was blown away by it. So, of course, it becomes a short story, which will become a novel. Needless to say, I will drag Nina into this, kicking and screaming all the way. As you read this story, you will find quite a bit of it is non-fiction. Gotta love that.

So, my friends, I take you into the zany world that is Blaze, sprinkle in a lot of Nina D'Arcangela, stir well, and wham! Right to your gray matter.

Enjoy!


Blaze


                                                             *    *    *    *

As you can tell from above, this story is an old one I am re-posting. This easily fit the Horrific Visions prompt from the other year, but it also falls right into place with this month's theme of Bugs. And, yes: it will become a novel.



Darwin’s Nightmare



     It came in the mail today, wrapped inside one of those United States Postal Service five by eight, bubble wrap wonders, the kind my kids love to pop with their feet or hands. Okay, I won’t lie, I love to do it too. Like a kid, I had to place this majestic wonder under different lights and view it from every possible angle. The light green exterior of the tear shaped beauty changes to a subtle shade of yellow when it reaches the center.

     And what a center it is! A huge wasp, don’t ask me the species, dwells within the interior of this key chain. I’m astounded at the perfect features. This . . . this perfectly preserved specimen appears to be alive. I can swear I see its complex eyes staring at me.

     This is too pretty to use as a key chain. What I really want to do is put it on my desk shelf like some of the other art I have neatly displayed before me. Yet, for some reason, I can’t. It’s not the least bit rational, but something tells me I must use it for its intended purpose.

     None of this makes any sense to me at all. When I was still living in New Jersey, a bee sneaked up my pants leg as I was driving down a country road, and stung me in my balls. My nut-sack screamed for mercy, and I frantically pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road, jumped out, and removed my pants. An old farmer standing in his field watched as I was doing anything but a happy dance. He laughed his ass off, knowing full well what had happened to me. I killed the bee, adding insult to injury when I slammed away at the bastard, forgetting that the scrotum is a delicate place.  

     Double whammy.

     A little bit later, I was running a twenty four hour race on a High School track and grabbed a swallow from a can of Coke as I ran by. My mouth turned to a cauldron of fire and tears forced their way down my cheeks as a bee, hiding inside the top of the can, stung the shit out of my mouth.

     That wasn’t the end of my battles with these pollen spreading insects. I was working for a carpet cleaning service in Wyoming and was swarmed by bees as I was winding my hoses back up at the completion of a job. The doctor removed well over a hundred stingers from my body. I was not only one swollen son-of-a-bitch, but my protein levels from the stings went crazy. I was out of work for a while.

     Yet, here I am, staring at this super present from a friend of mine in New York, and feeling some sort of kinship with it. Sure, it’s not a bee, it’s a wasp, but aren’t they pretty close? If anything, the wasp should be much more of a menace.

     Okay, that doesn’t really matter since this particular wasp is quite dead.

     I remove my keys from the old key chain and put them on my new one. The center glows a more vivid yellow once the job is done. Nina had a reason, a special purpose for sending me this present. What, I don’t know, but a protective calm floats around me as I place the key chain and keys in my pocket. I have to run down to a tavern nearby and conduct some business with a friend of mine. Like me, he’s a writer, and we’re getting ready to do a collaborative piece.

     Just my luck. The bar is crowded, and I’m forced to park out back by the side of an alley way with almost a complete absence of light. Damn my eyes! I don’t see shit in the dark.

     I park, and the blindness hits me as soon as I’m out of the car and the door is closed. Guess I’ll have to hug the adjoining cars to find my way inside the gin mill. I haven’t even put my keys in my pocket when the stench of a man with combined halitosis and an aversion to the use of under-arm deodorant presents itself behind me. Something cold and hard is shoved into my back. I don’t need to see to know what it is.

     “Okay, Mac,” he says, “simply hand over your wallet, and I won’t have to shoot you. It’s that simple.”

     The fucking lack of light pisses me off! I can take care of myself, but by losing one of my senses, I’m at a disadvantage. Damn, how I want to tear the bastard’s throat apart with my bare hands!

     But he’s not going to get my wallet. Call me stubborn, or perhaps not very smart, but my money belongs to me. I’d rather die than hand it over to him.

     Spinning around as fast as I can, I grab the hand that holds the gun and raise it towards the sky so that if it does go off it won’t be aimed at me. Just in time. The sound of the weapon firing pierces the evening air, but the bullet goes away from me. Far away.

     In a fury, he knocks me to the ground, and I fear that his next shot won’t miss.

     My keys fall out of my hand and hit the pavement as well as my sorry torso. I reach for them. Hoping to maybe use them as a weapon against this fucker, some sort of a knife perhaps, but I can’t find them.

     Something large crawls over me and advances towards my antagonist. Screams of pain ram their way through the night, and a sensation of warm liquid forces its way all over me. The body of my attacker falls on me, shaking for all he’s worth, pleading with me to save him, telling me how sorry he is for what he’s done.

     But it’s too late. Within seconds, I shake not one, but two figures from off me. Damn! One figure is the top part of his body, and the other is, from what I can tell, the lower half of his body. The mother-fucker has been cut in half!

     While I certainly am not happy to see anyone come to his end in this fashion, there is no love lost between this guy and me. How this happened, I don’t know, but happen it did, and the last man standing wins. Once I pull myself up from off the ground, I reckon that’s me.

     The Cadillac Ranch Bar is rocking when I walk in the door. Ed is seated at the bar waiting on me, and the ladies are dancing on the bar.

     One look at me, and he says, “What the fuck happened to you, Blaze? You look like shit!”

     The bar-maid says pretty much the same thing with her eyes when she sees me. “I’ll have a Budweiser, please,” I say, as I slide a fiver at her. “Keep the change.”

     I open my hand and find my keys and keychain in it. A new color has been added to it. Crimson red adds a special luster to the beauty of the tear drop.

     “Ed,” I say, “I propose a toast to Nina D’Arcangela. She is one Hell of a lady!”



Blaze McRob     

MAGGIE - OFFICAIL MOVIE TRAILER


video.search.yahoo.com
                                                           *    *    *    *

I watched an interview this morning with Arnold Schwarzenegger and the director of the movie Maggie. Yes, I'm a huge Arnold fan, but this movie is special, I believe. Look at the trailer and tell me if you think so too. I'll be in Atlanta next month for the Horror Writers Association Convention, but when it's all over I'll be visiting the theater and watching this with my date. Large popcorn with extra butter!
Blaze McRob

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

MIDNIGHT RAVEN: THE MOON SERIES BOOK 2 - BY BECCA BOUCHER - ROCKS!






http://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Raven-Moon-Book-2-ebook/dp/B00UCU25F6/ref=sr_1_1_twi_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1429760300&sr=1-1&keywords=midnight+raven


Midnight Raven: The Moon Series Book 2, by Becca Boucher, is a great read! Take my word for it. For those of you who don't know it, Becca Boucher got my Award for Author Of 2014 for her super military/romance /paranormal story The Shadow Soldier. So, my friends, you know she is a great author.


Blaze McRob


Book Description

March 20, 2015
Kat Brennan was a loner. Trust no one, and don’t let anyone in, was the mantra she lived her life by. The few times she had, it ended badly. Now alone and bitter she’s facing the consequences of her actions. Until one night a chance encounter with a raven sets into motion a range of events, and desires, she thought she had buried long ago.

Cace Matthews was a successful doctor to the outside world. He seemingly had it all, good looks, a fast paced career, and a prestigious new job. But no one knew the real Cace. The shifter who searched for the truth, the end to the curse that had been placed on his family.

When the two cross paths it leads to discovery and passion.

Can Kat accept her true lineage and the magic that surrounds her? More importantly, can she let go of decades old resentments and let herself find true love? Can Cace bridge the gap between family commitments, and the desire to be himself, all while navigating his true feelings for Kat? And will they both live to see midnight?

Adult themes and content 18+ 

Editorial Reviews

About the Author

Rebecca Boucher was born and raised in Worcester Massachusetts. Her father instilled an early love of reading and encouraged her when she started to write. Rebecca earned a degree in Criminal Justice from Quinsigamond Community College, but her love has always been writing. After the birth of her first child, she moved to a quiet little town on the edge of Worcester County, in the heart of Central Massachusetts. Living there has inspired her to write most of her current projects. In fact, local readers might recognize some of her locations. Currently, Rebecca is a freelance writer and blogger. Her first novel, Hunting The Moon (The Moon Series) debuted December 2013 from Write More Publications. She has also authored three short stories and one novella, The Shadow Soldier. When she is not writing, Rebecca is the mother to two boys, ages 12 and 14. Two of Rebecca’s favorite causes are Autism Awareness and Veteran’s causes. All proceeds of her book, The Shadow Soldier, have been donated to the Wounded Warrior Project. 

5.0 out of 5 stars Book 2 of the Moon Series March 19, 2015
Format:Paperback
Midnight Raven is book 2 in the Moon Series. I was thrilled when I got the chance to read this before it was published, in exchange for an honest review. In the beginning, I tried really hard not to like Kat. Didn't end up that way, I grew very fond of all of these well thought out characters. The story was well developed and I loved every minute of it. I've gotta hand it off to her though, she went against the norm and ended up with an amazing book. I definitely recommend this book to everyone!

Was this review helpful to you?
5.0 out of 5 stars Totally Rocked ! March 24, 2015
By Pixie
Format:Kindle Edition
Midnight Raven By Becca Boucher
Synopsis :
Kat Brennan was a loner. Trust no one, and don’t let anyone in, was the mantra she lived her life by. The few times she had, it ended badly. Now alone and bitter she’s facing the consequences of her actions. Until one night a chance encounter with a raven sets into motion a range of events, and desires, she thought she had buried long ago.

Cace Matthews was a successful doctor to the outside world. He seemingly had it all, good looks, a fast paced career, and a prestigious new job. But no one knew the real Cace. The shifter who searched for the truth, the end to the curse that had been placed on his family.

When the two cross paths it leads to discovery and passion.

Can Kat accept her true lineage and the magic that surrounds her? More importantly, can she let go of decades old resentments and let herself find true love? Can Cace bridge the gap between family commitments, and the desire to be himself, all while navigating his true feelings for Kat? And will they both live to see midnight?
My Review:
Midnight Raven by Becca Boucher . WOW ! First let me say it is the second book in The Moon series , which I did NOT realize so that tells you this book can stand alone , HOWEVER I WILL be reading the first installment "Hunting The Moon" . That being said , I LOVED this story of Kat and Cace, Kat is a loner and honestly I didn't like her in the beginning she was cold and sometimes just mean. Cace was sweet and loving, and fun , both have issues! Kat lost everything and everyone due to some bad decisions in her life, and she doesn't know it but has a gift and Cace ? well he has a special 'gift" he is a shape shifter and a chance encounter with Kat one evening as he was shifted into his Raven form changes the Destiny for both . They are both in danger from an evil presence who wants what each of them possess. Ms Boucher tells their story in such a way that you come to love everyone in their little circle and you want to root for each of them. Kat's discovery of her "gift" is in my opinion one of the turning points of the book and their lives. The way she embraces it and learns her craft . There are plot twists that will leave you reeling, a budding love story and an ending that totally shocked me and I felt true grief as one of the beloved characters loses their life. (not telling who just one of the four main people) . I Give this book 5 Ravens VERY WELL Done Ms Boucher!!

YOUR HARLOT WEEPS - MY EARTH DAY POEM







THIS IS A BRUTAL, RAW POEM. IT'S MEANT TO BE!



YOUR HARLOT WEEPS

Today is Earth Day. Let's stop the rape of Earth Mother! Now!


Your Harlot Weeps (This Is A Poem For Adults)


Your Harlot Weeps


A virgin yet, she was sweet and pure,
only wanting her gifts to share;
asking 'naught in return.
Your harlot weeps.

You came along, this mighty man, intent on harm,
not caring for love, your greed your God,
taking was your game.
Your harlot weeps.

Your manhood shoved into her gash,
you twisted and you turned, 'til blood poured out,
a raging river, and still you did not care.
Your harlot weeps.

Deeper, deeper in you went, a wicked smile upon your face.
Your thrust was brutal, causing pain,
but were you not the Lord of all?
Your harlot weeps.

Devastation was your job, a task you handled well.
And soon it was that your sweet lady,
was dragged so close to hell.
Your harlot weeps.

You fucked her over, of that I'm sure,
her face no longer young and sweet,
having now a sad, gray pallor.
Your harlot weeps.

She can not return to days of old,
it is too late for that.
But yet there is still chance for her to atone.
Your harlot weeps.

The oceans rise and take out cities resting on its shores.
Volcanoes blow from deep within the core,
and crops go dead from salt and heat.
Your harlot weeps.

You rush and try to flee her wrath,
but that she'll have no part of.
You had your chance, yet you would not see.
You harlot weeps.

And now that sweet revenge is hers,
your hope is lost and gone.
She is the winner now.
Your harlot weeps.

For Mother Earth, fucked high and low,
is getting the last word, as bastards fall and die,
their reign here now is through.
Your harlot weeps.

But yet she cries, her spirit broken,
for all she ever wanted, was peace and joy upon her lands,
and now that will never happen.
Your harlot weeps.


Blaze McRob



Tuesday, April 21, 2015

DARKNESS CHASING LIGHT - BY ROBERT W. WALKER IS OUT!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00V2I1QUW/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_aCKnvb00VKVMD


Darkness Chasing Light by Robert W. Walker is now out! Go read the sample section of this great collection and you will be able to read the first story in its entirety. Such lovely, nasty, psychological horror. The book description says it's Twilight Zone in its styling. Add in some Hitchcock as well.

Don't miss this one!


Blaze McRob


Book Description

March 21, 2015 12 - 12 8 - 12
A 3rd collection of tales from the crypt of Robert W. Walker. Hauntings, banshees, incubi, nightmares, phobias, cyborg disease, hit men, serial killers, vampires, and more. The range of these 10 stories is wide and inclusive of many genres. Each story packs a one-two punch and will leave the reader questioning what it means to be human from A Snitch in Time to Human Error and Bed Bait & Beyond, these tales skewer what we think we know and supplant it with what we should have known from sentence one to end. From House of Voices to the choices each character makes in the dark, there is a search for the light, but light does not always come and seldom in the exact expectation of the characters or the readers for that matter. If you liked One Step Beyond or The Twilight Zone, if you like O'Henry endings, you will appreciate Walker's twisting ride on a book of stories that take flight into the darker regions of the human heart and soul.