Friday, July 29, 2011

Rich Soil





This is my Friday flash for the Vamplit blog. Enjoy your next outing in the forests!



                                                                 Rich Soil



     Night crawlers work their way through the soil towards the protective cover of old decayed leaves which not only hold moisture in the ground below but conceal much from the eyes of onlookers. Sometimes, things are not what they seem.

     Evening approaches. Glorious dampness will present itself to the denizens of the earth who are waiting patiently for the perfect moment. Once the sun drops down over the horizon and the dew casts its net across the forest floor, they will wiggle free and waltz along the landscape, enjoying their communion with the night.

     The crawlers are big here. The forest borders a large lake supplied by many underground springs. Cool, clean water and dark, rich soil combine to provide optimal habitat. This is a hidden place: lost in time and free from the ravages of man. Nature in harmony.

     Tonight, that harmony is threatened . . .

     They approach from the east. Five of them, packing rifles. Shots ring out through the silent night, and a deer drops to the ground, no match for the four bullets encased in its body. Only a fawn, still with spots, there is no reason for its wanton slaughter. Food? It is far too small to supply much venison.

     Laughter fills the forest, and with it the taste of sheer brutality carried on the gentle breezes. The stench of corrupted human values bounces off the trees, permeating all it touches, and the rest of the wildlife retreats from harm’s way, seeking safety.

    Safety: where is it? The men carry huge lights to spot the animals with, blinding them before the kill. How can the poor creatures escape from that?

     One of them picks up the fawn, and they search for more game. They play their lights between the trees, waiting for a shot at anything they see. Some shots are fired, but the animals are more wary now and are trying to steer clear of the hunters.

     An inner voice tells the critters where to go, how to find safety. They have heard it before and they willingly obey. The Master of the forest will not tolerate anymore from the rabble. They are no longer welcome here.

     The hunters’ lights stray from their intended paths and come back to blind them. Trees reach their branches down and whisper into the ears of the invaders, using multiple voices, creating a cacophony of sound which has them turning around in fright. Roots spring up from the ground, causing the blinded men to trip and fall, smaller roots reaching out, wrapping themselves about the transgressors.

     Laughter, gigantic peals of it, bellows out into the night. “Welcome to my world!” a voice shouts out. “You dare to wreak your havoc upon my friends. No more!”

     The roots vanish back into the ground and the hunters leap up, trying to locate the source of the voice, to kill whatever it is before it kills them. They see nothing and run for their lives, unsure of where they are at. Total disorientation, the kind that comes from extreme fear has overcome them. Hoping to go back the way they came, the men scramble forward.

     Left behind in the commotion, the fawn causes the Master’s heart to suffer, and he reaches down to pick it up. Letting out a huge scream, he covers its mouth with his and breathes part of his life force into the baby deer. Within seconds, the little guy starts breathing on his own and once he’s strong enough to walk, the Master sends him off in the direction of his mother who is hovering close by.

     Even the Leader is not immune to the draining of the energy he has just expended. He rests for a short time to rejuvenate, and fueled by his desire to rid the forest of the vermin attacking it, he doggedly pursues them.

     The trees move closer together, forming a thick impasse the hunters can not penetrate. They feel the breath of their protagonist on their necks but still don’t see him. Looming over them, larger than life, he advances, bidding the forest to work with him.

     Oh, the sweet joy of the chase, the classic cat and mouse game, waiting until he has had his fill of taunting and tearing at the minds of his enemy, creates an awesome high for the Master. Forward a bit, only to retreat to warp the brains of this scum is so satisfying.

     The trees create a labyrinth of trails and the chased have to decide which one to take. Their first choice is not the correct one and tree limbs reach down like arms with hands attached and throw each hunter onto a separate path. There is no strength in numbers at work any longer. Each man is alone.

     Farther into the forest they go, not east as they had planned, but west, away from their safety net. There seem to be no more maze of trails, but although the hunters can hear their companions, they can not see them, and know they must simply run. Their weapons were stripped of them by the limb/arms of the trees, and they are defenseless. Yet what difference does it make if you can’t see your target, if all you are capable of is hearing him bear down on you, breathing moist air on your neck, and emitting some unseen slimy substance to slow you down even more, creating a cocoon of sorts, binding your limbs together.

     The trails converged to one, and the men are together once more. Roots form again, taking control of their bodies, fastening them to the ground.

     Before their eyes, the Master materializes into a solid form, hovering over them, dropping immense amounts of slime on them.

     He laughs then says, “My children are hungry, and so am I.”

     Thousands of night crawlers attack the men, squeezing into every body orifice they can find and start to feed. Their father, the Master, waits patiently, then joins them.



Blaze McRob       

    

   

    

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Carole Gill's Virtual Book Tour





Today, Carole Gill stops here for her "The House On Blackstone Moor" virtual book tour. Yay! I am glad to be able to host today. I always say unabashedly that Carole is my favorite Vampire author, and I mean it. On top of that, she adds the Gothic flair which is no easy thing for modern writers to do, but she does a grand job of it. Here is the synopsis for her fantastic novel.

The House on Blackstone Moor by Carole Gill

Synopsis: This is a tale of vampirism, madness, obsession and devil worship as Rose Baines, only survivor of her family’s carnage, tells her story. Fragile, damaged by the tragedy, fate sends her to a desolate house on the haunted moors where demons dwell. The house and the moors have hideous secrets, yet there is love too; deep, abiding, eternal, but it comes with a price, her soul.

The House on Blackstone Moor
Author:  Carole Gill
Genre: Fiction – Gothic/Paranormal/Romance/Horror
Published by: Vamplit Publishing (December 17th, 2010)
Age Recommendation: 18 + for adult themes & violence
Format(s): Perfect Paperback & eBook
ISBN: 1-907366053-6
Number of pages: 251

As is my wont, I selected some less than ordinary questions for Carole to answer. She did an amazing job of answering them. I know Carole well and sort of had an edge with these, but some I had to ask because . . . well, because I had to know.

1. You were born and raised in New York City and left the Big Apple to move to England where you now reside with your wonderful husband John. Parts of this story I already know, but could you tell your readers why you chose England to move to? Only tell the parts you are comfortable with, Carole.
  
    Well I didn’t actually choose England; I married my first husband there. It was a terrible mistake (not England, just the husband)! and when I divorced I went back home, but the thing was I found I missed the place; I had become too used to it.
  
    I had already rented an apartment which I began to furnish but I still went back to England. I was homesick for it!
  
    Several years passed with me living and working until I met John.
  
2. When you arrived in England it wasn’t all peaches and cream, was it? What sort of jobs did you have to work at in order to survive?
  
    Well as much as I wound up liking it, I found I had to get used to it!
    When I first came I found customs a bit strange, like a shop closing for lunch. I mean closing!
  
    I once went to pick up something I had dry cleaned and the door was locked, I saw the cleaner and she looked at me and shook her head. She finally got up and told me she closed for lunch!
  
    But also there were other differences that were extreme which I loved!
    Like having dinner in a small, very old fashioned English hotel where the waitresses looked like they stepped out of a Poirot story!
    You’d order your coffee and dessert and it would be served in ‘the lounge.’
  
    I found that charming really!
  
    As for employment I had a variety of jobs one of which was checking lingerie for Marks and Spencer’s. Loved that because of the discounts I got on merchandise! Also worked in a hospital (which I wrote about on my blog) found that very interesting, doing catering.
  

3. John must be an anchor in your life. He’s behind you every step of the way. How did you meet this wonderful man?
  
    He is. He is really the love of my life. I met him through friends and actually I am very good friends with John’s ex-wife! She’s a great person!
John and I are so well-matched. He puts up with so much that is work related with me, all having to do with stress from my writing.
    He’s calm, laid back and so pleasant I say he’s like a living sedative for me!

4. As well as John and your step-children, you have a couple of little doggies that are not exactly the terror of the moors. The one little guy was quite active in a certain manner before steps were taken. Would you care to elaborate on that?
  
    Indy (Indiana Jones) was running off on every walk last year! He was like a rebellious teenager. He once took off and ran onto a farm and the farmer had to help me get him. It was exhausting!
  
    We were told having him ‘done’ would calm him down and it did. But best of all it didn’t change his personality, it just made him a lot easier to live with. But he did father a litter of puppies from next door the week before the procedure, the little devil!

5. Speaking of the moors: I know you walk your doggies there. What do you feel as you walk across them? Do you walk on them at night at all?
  
    Not at night! There are no lights from anywhere, and the terrain is tricky, besides, it would be scary at night as in An American Werewolf in London-scary, that was a Yorkshire moor they were on you know!
  
    I go during the day. I love the wind-swept barrenness of it. The fact that you can see for miles. It’s quiet and peaceful and I can easily feel transported to another time. The only sounds are the wind and birds and that’s lovely.
It’s hard to believe I ever lived in Manhattan!
  
6. England has a rich and varied history. Some good and some bad. What are some of the finer parts of the majesty that is England?
  
    Well I became extremely interested in how the British coped during World War 2. They were bombed, they were heavily rationed (into the 1950’s) and they coped fantastically. Their indomitable spirit is something to admire. I mean there’s a photo of a milkman delivering as normal during the blitz! You see him carrying his case of milk amongst total rubble! There’s his milk round, so what--? People have to have their milk don’t they?
I love that! Their courage, their pluck is absolutely fantastic and much to be admired.
  
    If I had to generalize I’d say I also like living in a gentler country, where even in this day and age the police can cope without being armed. Now, that’s something to admire.


7. Conversely, what do you think are some of the low moments in the nation’s history?

Well I always say I wouldn’t have lived here in the 18th Century or before!
Having over 250 crimes punishable by death would have put me off.
Children were executed for robbery, like stealing bread. The ordinary person’s life was very hard and I think utterly hopeless.
Although--!!! There is to be said, the Magna Carta which King John signed in 1215 which gave basic rights to men, removing them from serfdom! They were way ahead of Europe on this, and our own Bill of Rights owes much to this great document.
Also a farmer was able to take King Henry V111 to court when his hounds on a hunt killed some livestock. That’s interesting and one can see why there was no guillotine set up here!
Let me also say this however, I have been to the Washington ancestral home and it is very moving to realize how privileged the founding fathers were yet they gave it all up to found a republic with ideals they believed in, so progressive!


8. I am trying to picture a young Italian-American lass with New York in her blood and in her speech, trying to become a part of a new country with an entirely different people. That must have been sooo hard for you. How did you handle that?
It was hard but the people were so welcoming and warm. “Hey I have a sister in Michigan...”
“Yes, well I’m from New York and...!”
So funny!
As for accents, the roughest for me has been Yorkshire; I still don’t catch every word John says!
I find London and the South easiest to understand, cockney is very easy. I love the sound of it too and can write (not speak) in real cockney!
Here’s a sample:
Miss Havisham woke up with her knickers in a twist. Estella cowered because she knew what a lousy bitch the old bag could be if something didn’t go her way.
Naturally she had reasons, poor old thing. I mean the bloke didn’t show up for the wedding! Inn’t? So she got right cross she did. Turned into a pissed off old cow…

See? I had fun with that btw!
I love the Welsh accent and the soft Scottish and Irish ways of speaking. The only accent I cannot begin to understand is Glaswegian Scottish! OMG! I have some favorite TV. shows that I watch with subtitles!

9. Now my train of thought carries me pell-mell back to Gothic times: times that you write so well about. My head is spinning! Your talents astound me! What does Carole Gill have to do to wrap her head around a whole different slice of the past?

I just transport myself. I don’t know what it is. I have a huge feel for times past, particularly the 19th Century. Having grown up on the Brontes’ fiction and then discovering what they wrote was based on how things really were, well, it just affected me!

The depiction for instance of Helen Burns in Jane Eyre  is based on reality. Helen dies because of the intolerable neglect she suffers in a school. Now this is patterned after the eldest Bronte sister, Maria who died at age 12.

Her sister Elizabeth also died. That horrendous school they both attended inspired the horrific Lowood by the way.

I love history and what I read very often not only stays with me, it haunts me. It just pulls my heart and remains with me forever.

I will write of other places and times but I do so love the 19th Century!

10. You are my favorite Vampire author, but you also write so many other great stories. I love your sc-fi. What does the future hold for Carole Gill’s stories?

Thank you! I think it will mainly be horror. I want to expand my horror too. I enjoy writing gothic and always will but I do want to try other sorts of horror.

I was so honored to have two zombie stories taken by Armand’s Rymfire books! I consider that a great achievement!

I’m also going to look at other legends and myths and see where that sort of research might lead.

Having said that Vamplit and I have already discussed my third book which is very exciting! I will begin that as soon as the sequel to The House on Blackstone Moor (Unholy Testament) released!

11. I’ve asked you personal things no one else has asked because I wanted to get inside Carole Gill the person. Is there anything of this nature you would care to add?

I’ve had a very difficult life—well half of it. It’s been tough, I would consider myself a survivor although we don’t survive without ‘war wounds’ I would say though that looking at the whole picture of my life, I think those sorts of experiences have helped to make me see life in a far more realistic way. In other words, I had a perfect childhood, I was too happy and then one tragedy after another hit.

Experiencing what life can throw at me as has made me feel better able to write a more varied sort of writing.

12. I will close this up by saying we have Carole Gill and Clive Barker, two authors with remarkable talents. I have spoken to Clive Barker before and admire the man greatly. We all know how I feel about Carole Gill. On some day, would it not be a wonderful thing for me to sit in a cozy pub, cold ones in hand, discussing the craft with these two great writers. What do you say to that, my friend? Yvonne and John would come, of course.

I say heck, yes! Wow, to mention me in the same breath! I don’t know—but I do thank you!

There are some great country pubs with cozy fires where we could all sit and hang out. That would be a dream! We will definitely have to do that!

Blaze thank you so much, I am honored to appear on your terrific blog, truly.

I believe these questions and answers reflect well on Carole Gill the person and show insight into why she writes the way she does. As far as how she writes her magical words, that is within her soul. A good place for stories to come from. She believes as I do: forget an outline. Let your story people dictate what happens. Supreme pantser. How wonderful.

My review of this great novel? It is a superb tale of horror, written within the Gothic age, detailing, quite shockingly, child abuse, rape, Vampires, demons, Satan and his co-horts, and love. Yes, love not of the normal variety: one that is wrong but so right. A love pitting good with evil, but not an evil totally the fault of the evil person. A paradox of love and emotions, of good and bad, of black and white and the blurred gray areas surrounding them.  Are you totally confused by my review? Don't be. Buy this great novel and see for yourself the majesty of its words, and the depths of its story. 

Read a little excerpt of this tale.

An excerpt from The House on Blackstone Moor:
They said my father was mad, corrupted by evil and tainted with sin, which is why he did what he did. I came home to find them all dead; their throats had been savagely cut.
My sisters only five and eight were gone as well as my brother who was twelve. My mother lay butchered in her marriage bed. The bed her children were born in.
I discovered him first—in the sitting-room afloat in a sea of crimson—the bloody razor still clutched in his hand.
How pitiful I must have looked, bent down trying to wake him. Calling to him over and over, “Papa please… Please wake-up.”
He could not of course. No more would he open his eyes in this world, had I not been struck mad I would have realized.
Yet madness is sometimes a mercy and when shadows come to take the horror away it is a good thing.
Do not pull away in terror, please. I have much to confess. Just be patient, for I promise I will tell you everything. The only thing I ask in return is for you not to judge me
until you hear my entire story.

That's enough of a tease. Buy this talented authors great novel and prepare yourself for a roller-coaster ride of horror. Carole gill style.

Where you can find and follow Carole Gill:

Official Author Blog
Bloody Good Vampires Blog
Nurture Your BOOKS™ NING
Twitter
Facebook Page
Facebook Profile
eBook Undead

Buy the BOOK at:

DriveThru Horror
Smashwords
Barnes & Noble NOOKBook

Blaze



·   



Demon Rum Part Two



My Terror Tuesday from the Graveyard group this week on Facebook. A continuation of last weeks story, but a story in itself. Enjoy.



                                            Demon Rum           Part Two



     The tantalizing aroma of a woman drifts through the evening air. Oh, those sweet love juices talk to him, reminding him of his earlier desires. Demon Rum can wait a little. There are more important things to be taken care of.

     All is not quite right, however. This woman is searching for something in the cemetery, stopping every now and then to taste the air and smell what is above, as well as what lies below.

     She stops, standing on her toes, and breathes deeply. Algol’s senses become a flurry of excitement! Finally, after all these years, she is here: the answer to his hopes and dreams. A woman of his species! He will not be alone any longer; he will have someone to share his life with.

     His new partner trembles in the joy that she is alone no more. How long she has waited for a coupling. Almost on a number of occasions she had found a mate, only to have him leave, mainly because Ghouls were despised and hated by these weak humans who truly knew so little about them. Same as Algol, they could only guess the effects many of these creatures working together  would have on them. Like Gypsies, they were forced to travel to avoid harm or possible harm at the least. When that happened, they were usually split up, never to be reunited.

     Her body hairs tingle with the excitement; her nipples, so long soft, become hard and  deliciously firm; a river of love juices pour from her inner-most reaches, wanting to surround his man-hood and create pleasure for both of them. Her hunger can wait. She needs a man.

     Algol stands, waiting for his new mate to find him, her power over his senses growing by the second. He shakes in anticipation of the moment when the two of them become entwined in their display of longing for each other. He doesn’t know if this so-called feeling of love the humans say they have apply to his kind or not. To him, Ghouls have a much more refined approach to life and the joys which titillate their senses.

     She walks ever so slowly, savoring every delectable moment to draw him in to her before they make physical contact. His scent, while offensive to humans is a magnet to her, drawing her to his waiting arms. The sound of his rapidly beating heart, shoving the blood to his engorged manhood, and the sight of his pulsating body hairs, beat against her skin, increasing the flow of love juices. Foreplay will not factor into the equation.

     Unable to contain himself any longer, he rushes to meet her, pulling her down to the grass. Her virginal status makes entry a little more difficult, but the sheer amount of passion overcomes the barrier, and they drive towards each other and entry is achieved. They  scream out in delight and push each other to heightened levels of ecstasy, both ghouls pushed to the precipice of orgasm.

     The culmination of the climax brings her to feelings she has only dreamed about and she wishes for it not to end as his hot semen fills her.

     Her wish comes true.

     Algol is capable of multiple orgasms, one right after the other, and sends his lover into squeals of delight, her ardor and passions matching his. After a couple hours, she contentably settles back, enjoying his presence, finally sated after all these many years.

     Sensing her need to eat, Algol brings what’s left of Ed’s body to her. “Eat some scraps from the poor departed Ed, Lillith. When you’re done, we will find a larger meal for you to feast on.”

    She smiles, happy in the knowledge her new partner will be a sharing one. It is no surprise to her that he knows her name. She knows his as well. Shared powers.

     Lillith devours what is left of Ed, surprised at his fresh taste and enchanted with the heady rum flavoring added to it.

     “How did you find such a fresh corpse, Algol? His meat was delicious, unlike any I have ever eaten.”

     “ Ah, Lillith, have you not been repulsed and angered over the injustices from God to make us mere scavengers when we are so much more powerful than the creatures we eat?”

      She looks at him, wondering what he suggests, and it creeps into her mind. “You mean . . .”

     “Yes, Lillith, we’re no longer bound by the old ways. There is a war being waged elsewhere between God and Satan. Our doings no longer concern them.”

     Lillth drools, thinking of the possibilities, the joys, the new experiences: shared ones now that she has a partner. “We can devour the flesh of the living?”

     “Yes, my dear, and it is such sweet revenge. Tasty delights that plead for mercy as you slowly partake of their flesh. We are no longer held beneath the esteem of the humans. We are their superiors: in every way.”

     She bristles at the very thought of consuming the flesh of the victims as they push against her, trying to gain their freedom. Yes, she is the female of the species, but in  matters other than gender, they are equal. All Ghouls are powerful beings. “I shall enjoy this new way to feast. Can we start looking for a meal now, Algol?”

     “Yes, Lillith. I have already feasted but you need to eat. Let’s find you some dinner.”

     They move to the northwest section of the cemetery and wait for some fool to come by. Their presence is concealed by the trees bordering the sidewalk. Other than their inimitable odor to tip someone off, they are invisible to the naked human eye on this dark night. A perfect evening to wait for prey.

     The ground moves quickly under Brad’s feet as he runs down the lonesome road adjacent to the graveyard. He loves to run at this time of day. No one else around to destroy his feeling of euphoria when he transcends his previous limits and explodes into unchartered territory. No cars to get in his way, no traffic lights, no nothing. Just him and the road.

     Another good thing about running now is he doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him if he has to take a leak, and does he ever need to piss.

     He hops up on the sidewalk next to the cemetery and allows his blood pressure to get back to normal. On a number of occasions, he has almost passed out from one moment of exertion shunted off to another part of his body. He has learned his lesson.

     Once his breathing is easier, he shoves his pecker through the iron fence partitions and tends to business. Before he is able to put it back in his shorts, his dick is grabbed and he is pulled  toward the fence, his head slapping against the metal from the force.

     Something vaults over the fence and runs behind him, the stench of it and what is in front of him almost causing him to lose unconsciousness. The taste of wrought iron and  putrid mold combine to overpower his gag reflex and he dry-heaves. Laughter sounds out before sharp teeth tear into his shaft, removing it from his body. In total shock and bleeding profusely, he is unable to utter a sound.

     The beast behind Brad lifts him up and tosses him over the fence to his partner who feasts upwards on him from the gaping emptiness in his groin. The shock of being eaten alive is made worse by the sight of his attackers. While he struggles against their attack, he tries to reason things out-not easy to do now that he has to mount up some sort of defense.

     While his running might have made Brad a super-strong individual, it did not prepare him for the brute strength he would need to escape. But would anthing have?

     As Lillith muches away on the prone form of Brad, Algol tears off one of the runner’s arms and starts chomping away. Lillith jumps to where the blood is pouring out and drinks heavily, the thick red liquid feeling heavenly as it goes down her throat. Her fingers tear off chunks of his face which she shoves into her mouth in between gulps of the warm life giving nectar.

     Brad’s heart goes out of control, pumping viciously before it explodes. Even the heart of a well-conditioned athlete can only take so much. As he draws his last breath, Lillith bites down into his skull and starts eating his brain.

     Algol sits on a tombstone and watches his lady with profound respect. She has learned quickly. The two of them will make a fine team.

     She finishes up with Brad and stares at Algol, blood dripping all over her, pieces of the man’s innards forming a necklace across her breasts. “That was incredible! I have never had such a meal. This is the best night of my life!”

     Algol laughs. “It’s not over yet, Lillith. Let me introduce you to what these humans call rum. We still have a few hours before the sun rises.”

     Lillith enjoys the smooth taste of the rum mixing with the blood. The Demon Rum relaxes them both. A great night!

     Passions rise again . . .



Blaze McRob

   

   
    

   

    



   




   

    

     


     

   

       

Monday, July 25, 2011

Joann Hamann-Buchanan



  • Joann Hamann-Buchanan hosts a most interesting online radio show which includes music and guests, many who are writers within the horror genre. A lot of the Masters Of Horror members have given interviews on her show. Just recently she added video to the audio. Now, I'm not going to say that everything runs like clockwork all the time: sometimes the sound doesn't come on immediately and such, but I think it adds to the allure of the show. Add in the children scurrying around behind and on top of her and you get maniacal, maddening mayhem! Tres cool. I enjoy the home-spun interviews and laid back style she presents. Don't get me wrong, though, she has very interesting guests with a lot to say. A great thing is you don't have to be there at noon Eastern time, either. Joann runs little blips on Masters Of Horror on Facebook with the link so you can watch it whenever you wish.   
  •  
  • Click on some of the little screens to see what I'm talking about. 
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  • I'll see you there!
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  • Blaze  

Friday, July 22, 2011

Always With You



This is my Friday flash for Vamplit blog. I hope you enjoy it.



                                                      Always With You



     Ivy climbs up the sides of the house, making it blend into the woods behind . Only a few sections are free of the greenery, exposing the old gray block which has withstood the test of time. Many birds call this place home, as do bats, which frequent the dark, damp section adjoining the area under the eaves in the back. Sunlight is a stranger there.

     Most people give the house a wide berth. “Something’s not right with that place,” they say. “There’s an omen of foreboding there.”

     The word “haunted” is bandied about.

     Let people think what they will. I feel safe in this house; safer than I have felt anywhere else. We finally have a place to call our own after the years of moving from house to house. Gypsy renters, skipping out one step ahead of being kicked out for non-payment of rent.

    The bad thing is Grandpa had to die for this to happen. This was his house and he bequeathed it to Dad. The other children hated the old man because he sounded rough and tough, but he was a man’s man, an old sea salt who knew no other way to express himself. Inside, he had a heart of gold. I knew he did.

     He would tell me stories of the sea for hours on end, and I would be thrilled to hear of far away places and horrific storms in the midst of the ocean. The tales he spun were far better than those I read in books. Whether they were true or not mattered not to me. They excited me and opened my mind to the world.

     Mom feels the same things the neighbors talk about, but she’s not about to let the cash cow go. She’s drunk most of the time anyway, so what does it matter?

     Dad’s not one to shove the bottle away either. In fact, he’s in the city tonight, sleeping it off after a day of spending his money betting on the ponies and an evening with the hooch.

     I’m outside, enjoying the cool evening air after the hot summer day, when “Uncle” Bucky shows up. Some uncle. He’s a friend of Dad’s who mysteriously shows up when the old man is away. This is a good place for me to spend some time. I won’t have to listen to the sounds coming from my mother’s bedroom: moans, groans, the creaking of the bed. My siblings might not be on to what’s happening, but I’m not that stupid.

     After waiting long enough for them to be finished, I sneak back into the house and slip into bed. There are no sounds coming from my mother’s room. Thank God for that. “Uncle” Bucky must not have had a stud’s stamina tonight.

     Sleep comes fast but doesn’t last. Hands are working up my legs towards body parts I don’t wish to be touched. Insistent hands, fingers twitching with excitement, accompanied by heavy breathing and the stench of cheap whiskey.

     “C’mon, Bobby, spread your legs open. Let’s play a little. You would like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll make you feel good. It’ll be our little secret. No one else needs to know.”

     A feeling of disgust runs through me, filling my mind with hatred. I wish I had a knife so I could plunge it between those beady little eyes peering at me with total depravity. Just moments before he was slipping it to my mother, and now he wants to “play” with me.

     What a sick, fucking bastard!

     “Leave me alone, Bucky!” I say. “Go away!”

     Spittle forms at the edges of his mouth and drips down his cheeks, threatening to fall  on me. “You’ll like the games I have planned for you, Bobby. Games no one else has ever played with you.”

     His hands work faster now, approaching his goal with more intensity; his eyes light up; his breathing becomes heavier, showering my face with its heavy touch.

     “Leave the boy alone!”

     Bucky shoots straight up, wondering who caught him at his “game.” His face contorts with terror and he becomes ashen-white. He backs up to the wall, huge drops of sweat pouring down his face.

     “You’re . . . you’re dead! I saw them put you in the ground, Albert! It can’t be you!”

     “Why not? Do you want to touch me? Do you want to find out what happens when you try to reach out to a ghost? C’mon, Bucky, you worthless piece of shit. Give it a shot. Grow a pair!” 

     Terrified, Bucky hunkers into the wall even more, looking for a means of escape.

     “I don’t care what you do to that cheating daughter-in-law of mine, Bucky, but you will leave my grandson alone. Do you understand?”

     Words form on Bucky’s lips, but the only sounds coming from him are spasms of pain  working their way up and out. Dead man’s rattle on the way. His heart beats out of control, threatening to explode through his chest. Were it not for the fact he is leaning against the wall, he would not be standing, his legs are so weak.

     “Get to your car now, Bucky, while you still can. Drive yourself to a hospital. You are not well. Here, take my hand and I’ll help you to your car.”

     As best he can, Bucky slinks around, away from his nemesis, and drags himself into his car. It takes some time, but he manages to start the car up. I walk outside and watch as he erratically backs up out of the driveway.

     No more than half a block away, his Chrysler slams into the huge oak in front of the Donahue house. I don’t need to check to see if he’s alive; I know he’s dead.

     I walk back into the house and return to bed.

     “Thanks, Grandpa,” I say. “Could you tell me a story please?”



Blaze McRob

   

 

   

    

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Demon Rum






Here is this week's Terror Tuesday tale in the Graveyard group on Facebook. Bottoms up!



                                                            Demon Rum



     A dark night. Clouds and no moon. No wonder he almost falls over the tombstones. Has nothing to do with the fact he’s flying high, caught in the loving embrace of the alcohol numbing his senses.

     “Lights,” he mutters. “They need lights in here at night!”

     The absurdity hits him. Who needs to see in here? The dead? No one else should be here. But he is. This is the perfect place to drink his ill-gotten hooch.

     He was one drunken bastard before he even went down the alleyway behind the liquor store, but he was aware enough to notice old Harold, the evening counterman, was standing at the far end of the building, having a smoke and trying to cop a feel from Lucille, the town’s resident hooker.

     That left the store unattended. All those bottles screaming out to him, insisting he give them a good home. Ed listened to the bottles, ran inside, grabbed a bag from the counter and filled it up with the nectar of the Gods. It didn’t matter what he grabbed:  he liked it all. As long as alcohol was inside, he would be happy. He left through the front door. By the time Harold would hear the bell and get back inside, Ed would be long gone.

     “Now I need a good place to sit, lean back, and enjoy a few drinks,” Ed says.

     As if by divine intervention, he finds a huge oak tree, and feeling around with his feet, discovers it is surrounded by nice soft grass. Perfect!

     “Let’s see what kind of goodies I got. I’ll have to toast Lucille for keeping Harold occupied. I don’t know what he was thinking: the old goat ain’t been able to get it up for twenty years now. Shit! That’s why his wife left him. Shirley needed a man to satisfy her needs. Too bad Shirley left town. I enjoyed some fine ass from that lady.”

     He reaches into the bag and grabs the biggest bottle. In his condition, it isn’t easy to open it, but when a man is thirsty and needs to get even more of a buzz, he finds a way. He takes a long pull on the bottle, and the fiery but sweet liquid moves down his throat.

     “Oh, rum! The good shit! The 151 proof stuff.”

     The bottle is a third of the way gone, and he has all he can do to sit up straight against the tree, when the air around him becomes putrid, so bad as to affect the taste of the rum. But Ed is a pro and goes back to the bottle.

     “Whatever that stench is will leave soon. I hope it’s not a fucking skunk, though. I’m in no shape to get away from one.”

     His vision, which is bad enough to be begin with because of the dark, gets progressively worse, everything becoming hazy. The world spins around him, and Ed knows he will be spending the night with the dead. He’s in no shape now to walk home.

     The Ghoul is amused by this pathetic human. To get this drunk is uncalled for. Does he not care about his health? Yes, the monster has tasted the flesh of the dead with remnants of alcohol in their systems. But this . . . but this will be the first opportunity he has had to feast on a living body with as much booze as this one has. The thought of the bliss works into the creature’s mind, and he salivates at the promise of his wonderful feast. How high will he get as he devours this weak-willed man?

     Not worrying about being quiet-it doesn’t matter: this sap is too soused to go anywhere-the Ghoul walks up to Ed and sits down next to him, his disgusting stench causing Ed to jerk forward.

     “Easy,” the demon says, “don’t move too fast or all that fine rum will come out as puke. That would be a waste, my friend.”

     “Who . . . who the fuck are you? Man, you have a huge odor problem!”

     The Ghoul laughs. “That’s not a nice thing to say, Ed. Not nice at all. Just call me Algol. That will be just fine.”

     It’s hard for Ed to think right now, the rum pulling at him from every direction. Were it not for this Algol character and his stench, he is sure he would be passed out by now.

     “What do you want?” he asks him, and as his hand finds Algol’s hairy body, he adds, “Why are you naked? You shouldn’t be out walking around with no clothes on. Damn, you’re hairy!”

     Peals of laughter rip across the cemetery as Algor gets closer to Ed. “I never wear clothes, Ed. I live below the ground. I don’t need clothes.”

     How does this thing know his name? What’s going on?

     “Everyone knows you, Ed. You’re a drunk. Plain and simple. Many nights I have heard you stumbling home in one of your stupors. A number of evenings you passed out and spent the night here, not even waking up when the driving rain would attack your body. But those times I wasn’t allowed to interfere with your life. Now, it’s a whole different story.”

     This beast is somehow capable of reading his mind, Ed feels his thoughts being pulled on. No! That’s impossible!

     “You are luckier than the others, Ed. Your rum will help you to not feel as much pain. Rest assured, however, that there will be pain, and the nightmares you think you’re having will fade into oblivion as you feel your life force being sucked out of you.”

     No more talking; no more thinking. Algol rips into Ed’s neck with his vile yellowish/black teeth and starts his feast. The searing pain, not inhibited by the alcohol’s presence, manifests itself throughout his body as the taste of the Ghoul’s stench drops onto his tongue.

     The blood, mixed with the sweet rum, tastes good to Algor, and causes him to fall under the spell of the alcohol, not in the manner it affected Ed but in a calm, relaxing feeling. “Ah, no wonder these monkeys like this stuff,” he thinks.

     Bite after delicious bite and taste after taste of the sweet blood brings Ed closer to death. The alcohol still in his system has made him last longer than the others were able to before Algol took one bite too many and they went to their next appointment: with the afterlife.

     Under the pleasant numbing effect of the rum and blood, the Ghoul does not hasten his dinner. This is beyond his wildest dreams! The only thing better would be if Ed was a woman and he could add that other element of ecstasy to this experience. That would come some other time.

     Moments before Algol sucks the last of Ed’s blood out of his body, the body and mind of the town drunk reconcile with fate and are gone. One last stare; one last gasp.

     The Ghoul leans back against the oak, content with himself, even forgetting the hatred inside his soul for the God who did this to him. Times are different now. Revenge. Somehow, maybe, it will come.

     He grabs the bottle of rum and drinks from it. There is no need for hurry. He can rid the cemetery of Ed’s existence soon enough. Can’t let the demon rum go to waste.

     An hour, maybe two, goes by, and Algol’s hair sensors pick up on something approaching.

     What the . . .



To be continued next week.



Blaze McRob




   

    

     


     

   

       

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Thomas Scopel's Blog Tour For "Twitch"


Twitch Synopsis:McB is a compassionate carnival owner who understands and cares for his “special” people. When he stumbles upon an attraction known as Twitch—an innocent, stubbed limbed, white eye deformity that has been used, abused and unwanted his whole life—at a competitor, he feels an instant attraction and a compelling urge to acquire. He purchases him and includes him in his “oddities” attraction where, unknown to McB, Twitch absorbs abuse from various gawkers. However, Twitch may seem helpless, but this couldn’t be farther from the truth. For Twitch harbors a dark secret and his retribution is certainly far worse.

This dark and tightly written tale offers horror and suspense that will leave you aghast, frightened, angry, and sad. It is a tale of deserving retribution and a warning for those who view and treat the unknown with ridicule and pain.  


http://stayingscared.blogspot.com/


I am proud to part of Thomas Scopel's Blog Tour for his story "Twitch." I have all kinds of links here for you to check out reviews, his sites, and such. 






Dates currently being added and will be announced soon

July 13th - Michael Wilson's Read Horror

July 14th - Open

July 15th - TWITCH is released from Suspense Publishing

Fate Radio's The Eclectic Artist Cave - 12 noon

July 16th - TBA

July 17th - TBA

July 18th - Blaze McRob's Tales of Horror - Interview

July 19th - Hunter Shea's Blog

My Road to Horror...the beginning...Chiller Theater

July 20th - Carole Gill Official Author Blog
Creepy Carnivals are a Cool - My Inspiration for Twitch

July 21st - We Love Horror

July 22nd - TBA

July 23rd - Suspense Radio w/ host John Raab and guests
Catherine Coulter and Alan Jacobson

July 24th - TBA

July 25th - The Blog of Scarlet Black
Writing the Tale is the Easy Part

July 26th - TBA

July 27th - The Horror Blog & Dark Home of Tyr Kieran

July 28th - TBA

July 29th - TBA

July 30th - Jezri's Nightmares


Visit My SmashWords Page

My interview with The Hot Author Report is posted. Read it here







Read current reviews

Gabino Iglesias at Horrorphilia. Read it here.

Ben Franz at Monster Librarian. Read it here

CK Webb at WebbWeaver. Read it here

Scott Shoyer at Anything Horror. Read it here

Sheri White at HorrorNews.net Read it here



My interview with Thomas is here. I had a blast with this. You would think I was the clown.


1.    Where on earth did you come up with the fantastic idea for “Twitch?” This is so original in every way!

This was a tale that I’ve had in my head since going through one of those carnival freakshows back in my high school days. I wasn’t a writer then and the concept was simply just a pure thought. However, the idea deeply stuck over the years and when I did finally start writing, Twitch was inevitably one of my very first fictional pieces. I continually rewrote this dark tale over the next couple of years before finally becoming content enough to publish. But, I limited Twitch’s tale to just the beginning and the end and in hindsight, I wish I hadn’t because Twitch does have a middle story and recently I have begun to explore and write this very thing.

2.   I know that you are a butcher now due to job cuts in your chosen field (pardon the pun). With my devious mind, I think it would be a natural for you to add your clown persona with that of a butcher and create a super monster. Has the thought ever entered your mind?
  
No, but thanks for the idea. Heh heh.
  

3. Where do your thoughts and story ideas emanate from?

Some have been stored over the years in the grey matter like Twitch. Others seem to just come to me especially since I have a tendency to look toward the macabre. For example, at Disneyland or World, you will see Mickey Mouse literally running around. Well, most people look upon him as a lovable harmless rodent that makes you laugh. Not me…I see a serial killer dressed up like a lovable harmless rodent that is only doing so in order to put you at ease and get near you so he can slice your throat. Believe me, I can find a horror tale in places there really shouldn’t be horror. And, those are the scariest tales of all.

4. I know you’re with a new, small publishing house right now.  Do you like working with a small house? Would you perhaps switch houses if one of the big six came a-knocking? Talk about Blaze putting you on the hot-seat!

Suspense Publishing has been nothing less than stellar. I have an editor that is wonderful and accessible and has been sort of like my writing mentor. As I’m sure you know, in the writing world, it is a ruthless business and although we writers want to make a living at writing, writing is not completely all about the money. Personally, I need the trust factor too and the smaller houses tend to appreciate their writers more and offer this, not simply looking at them as dollar signs. So, with regards to being with a smaller publishing house, I like this aspect.

As far as switching if one of the big six came to me, I can’t say and would prefer to wait and see if that ever happens before considering. But I will also say that the prospect of a six or seven digit check does have a certain amount of draw too. (laughing out loud).

5. What is your favorite book of all time?

This is a tough one, especially after recently reading Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games. Stephen King’s The Long Walk was my previous top pick, but now I think that maybe The Hunger Games sits alongside it.

6. When you are looking for a new book to read, what grabs you first?

I’m an anthology buff and I tend to seek out those first and foremost. I’m especially fond of Ellen Datlow and Stephen Jones edited versions. Those two are notorious for selecting the year’s best horror. Otherwise, I select according to reviews, word of mouth and what catches my eye. And, I read all genres, not simply horror.

7. Do you prefer ebooks or print?

Right now I prefer prints because I can physically hold them. However, I’ve asked Santa for a kindle and I suspect this will change if I find one in my stocking come December 26th.  

8. What are your writing goals?

I would like to someday just write for a living. But, on the other hand and being old school, I enjoy digging a ditch occasionally too. So, I’m just hoping to find that happy medium and accomplish both. Of course, I’m also no different than every other writer I know and would someday like to read my name on the New York Times Bestseller List too and so I guess that is the ultimate goal.

9. What are your other than writing goals in life?

To read more. When I was younger, I was a voracious reader and as I grew older I sort of lost that. Oh, I still read, but with work, writing and the generally all around rat race of life, time has grown short for those little pleasures. Someday I’ll find a solution.

10. Do you use glue when attaching your clown nose?

Heh heh…yeah….Elmer’s. No, just kidding. I use typical Hollywood FX type of stuff…it’s one of my hobbies. Oh, and I wish that Halloween was twice a year.

11. What’s next for my favorite clown?

I have a number of things on my plate right now. First, it is the Twitch blog tour and then I’m locking myself away to write “Future Past.” A believable sci-fi tale that ties together Roswell, the Bermuda Triangle and the government in offering a company that can show a person what could have happened had they taken different routes in life. But, they can’t change it and there are repercussions. I also would like to put together “The Daily Death: How I Killed My Co-Workers in 30 Days” and include all those little morbid tales I wrote in April. It will be a horror fans’ perfect bathroom buddy book. And, I’ve recently started work on Twitch’s middle tale. And, I have a few tales lined up for submitting to various anthologies. But, Rome wasn’t built in a day…of course, as always though…I’ll try.

Twitch is available for download at Amazon, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble dot com for only 99 cents. For a chance to win a free copy of TWITCH (digital) along with a signed photo? Simply email winacopyoftwitch@yahoo.com and indicate you read this on http://www.blazemcrob.com.
If you are the winner, I will request your mailing address for sending the signed photo. And, rest assured, I will not use your address for anything else…I promise.



Okay, so I asked my favorite clown some silly questions as well as serious ones, but he is a clown: with a meat-cleaver, so watch out!

I read "Twitch." I love it! The story exceeded my expectations. Thomas is a master story-teller. I write deep, dark, gritty horror tales filled with horror of the mind, terrors pulled from deep within the soul. Nothing should phase me, right? Wrong! I was very moved by this story. Correct me if I'm wrong, fellow horror fans, but we who write and read horror stories are compassionate, understanding people because we feel the horror within us. And so it was with me here. You will be touched as well. Read this wonderful story. For .99cents you are getting one fantastic deal and an awe-inspiring read.

Thomas wants to write more about "Twitch." He should. The story needs to be told.

Read Thomas's other great works listed on his site and blog.

Great man; great author.

Blaze


 

Interview With Armand Rosamilia

http://armandrosamilia.wordpress.com/



 Armand Rosamilia was gracious enough to interview me on his website. There are a few nuggets about me you might not have known. Say thank you to Armand for being kind enough to care about his fellow writers. Visit his site and see what else he has to offer. There is much there.


Thank you, Armand.


Blaze

Friday, July 15, 2011

Forest Madness





This is my slimy entry for Vamplit blog Friday flash. Get the towels ready.



Forest Madness



     Silence prevails in the deep woods.

     Nothing moves. The wildlife knows what’s happening and is taking precautions. As much as possible anyway.

     The fur on a grizzly bear bristles from the electricity in the air. It is afraid of nothing: except this. Many times it has seen other hapless animals disappear within a vortex of power at the same time the air around it is spinning wildly outward . Then the silence is broken, the screams of the victim terrorizing the fortunate forest denizens that this time at least have escaped its clutches.

     A full moon shines down tonight, illuminating tiny water droplets clinging to the presence as it moves down the hillside towards the valley below. The wildlife is safe this evening. Other things are on the mind of the beast within the forest.

     Fresh fish cooking over an open fire send out tendrils of pure aromatic delight to the creature, the taste hanging in the air, pulling him towards the source. The voices of the campers are happy as they joke and swap stories about the day on the lake. For as long as he has been stuck in this area, the being still doesn’t understand the peculiar sounds these things make as they communicate with one another. His kind use telepathic messages which stimulate the mind and bodies of others. Words are not needed. These beings are so archaic.

     The heat from the fire as he approaches vaporizes the water droplets and he can not be detected at all. Four of them are here, all men, and from the heady body aroma, it’s obvious no attention to cleanliness has been taken by any of them. If he’s lucky, he can find better fare for dinner, something easier on his palate.

     But those fish . . .

     When the men reach into their cooler and drag out some bottles filled with a foamy liquid, the creature wanders over to the fish, and hovering over the pans, sucks them inside itself, enjoying the taste and the warm feeling as they go deep into its digestive system.

     “What the fuck!” the biggest guy shouts. “Did you see that? The fish . . . the fish just vanished! They lifted out of the pans, and they fucking vanished!”

     “You’re crazy, John. No more beer for you.”

     “Look in the pans, George. The damn things are empty.”

     George walks to the fire, and sure enough, the fish are gone. The others come over but get too close to the beast and are shocked by sparks of electrical energy flitting around like angry lightning bolts wishing to wreak havoc upon the campers. John catches the worst of the creature’s barrage and falls to the ground, imitating  a wind-sock along a Wyoming highway, whipping every which way.

     The food inside the beast’s stomach, or what passes for a stomach anyway, becomes visible again as green juices come from nowhere and dissolve the fish while the startled men watch in horror.

     “Holy shit!” says Rich. “What is that thing?”

     George reaches for his .38 revolver tucked away in its holster. “I don’t know, but I’m going to blast the fucker!”

     Not a wise move because the creature has seen these weapons before and doesn’t like them. He lets loose with a huge regurgitation of the green digestive juices which land on George’s body and immediately start acting like a super strong acid, burning his flesh and causing him to drop his weapon. He must: there is not enough of his hand left to hold it. The acrid scent of his dissolving body fills the evening air, exciting the visitor, the taste of George as he is consumed compensating for his earlier disdain of the aromatic fishermen.

     The others try to escape, but the green slime catches them all. One by one, they are pulled into the monster until the demon and the juices become one and the same, the creature having the power to dwell entirely within the liquid ooze, shedding the rest of its invisible persona.

     With deliberate focus, the green slime blends all the bodies into itself, making them a part of what he is. John still screams into the night, his head bobbing on top of the slime the only evidence of his humanity.

     Silence returns. All traces of the men have been obliterated. The slime leaves nothing in its wake. Blood, bones, flesh: all a part of the creature, no traces left on the ground. Even the clothing has been sucked in. The men’s souls remain within for a bit before leaving the green mass and going to their new homes. Yes, the dark and the light present themselves to the deceased fisherman. It is an even split.

     The men’s essences leaving him cause a strange sensation in the demon, but he relishes the feeling. How strange these men are, reacting to their own feelings of guilt or innocence before being led to a state of mind: their own created versions of heaven or hell. His kind have no need of such concepts. They are immortal, their evolution zenith having been reached. All life is a part of them and they are a part of all life.

     Voices call to him. The little village in the valley. Yes, they come from there. He tastes burning flesh and knows it is time. As soon as the village residents are assimilated, it will all be over.

     Tortured screams pierce the air, making his body shiver with delight. A feast before departure!

     A huge mass of green slime covers the entire village, partially digested bodies hollering into the evening air, but it’s all for naught. There is no one left to hear them. He joins the mass and becomes a part of the whole, separate but not. One yet many.

     He is with his kind now. Alone no longer.

     Forest madness. The beginning of the end.



Blaze Mcrob

     
   

   

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Catch Of The Day

                                                     


This is my Terror Tuesday tale for the Graveyard group on Facebook. Happy fishing!


                                                                Catch Of The Day



     “Just one more and I’ll have my limit,” old Herb chuckles.

     The large pond sitting in the northwest corner of the cemetery is off-limits to fishing. To everyone except Fred that is. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. The spring-fed pond is there, loaded with tasty Largemouth Bass waiting to jump on the surface plug he works through the shallows. Night: the best time to catch them because they hit with abandon, and no one can see him as well.

     “If God didn’t want people catching these tasty critters, why did he have someone stock them here?” Fred muttered. “The dead can’t fish, but I certainly can.”

     The Ghoul watches with amusement. To him, this man is playing with his food: a cat and mouse kind of game.

     He smiles. “I suppose that’s what I do now that I eat the flesh of the living,” he thinks. “They suffer; I back off a little; this gives them hope, but as soon as they try to escape their fate, I start slowly feeding on them again, enjoying their pain. I’m a real bastard. Oh, that I am.”

     Remorse. He should have some; he has a soul, twisted perhaps but he has one. Yet all the years of being relegated to the status of a scavenger, a bone picker, has made him bitter. God created him as well as these humans but gave them an elevated position.

     Many years ago, in what is now Germany, he was doing what was commanded of him to do when a few grave-robbers happened upon him in the act. He scared the shit out of them, but they returned with a mob carrying torches, axes, and pitch-forks. Yes, he was immortal, but it would still cause him a lot of pain if they were able to whack off a few body parts, Damn! He didn’t even know if he could regenerate new ones. What good was immortal if he was in pieces?: the worst kind of living Hell!

     So he vanished off into the night and found a new home, one safe from rabble-rousing villagers bent on his destruction. Now, a few homes later, he finds himself  in this decrepit but homey cemetery. As long as he’s careful, no one should be any the wiser as to his existence.

     This so-called high-tech era doesn’t believe in the actuality of his kind. Monsters: yeah, merely myths. Nobody in their right mind would accept that gibberish. No pitchforks in this day and age. Nowadays, the one who cried “wolf” would be escorted to the closest looney bin.

     A huge splash shatters the quiet and Fred rears back, setting the hooks into a real lunker.

     “Hot damn!” he shouts out. “This is a monster!”

     The battle between man and fish goes on for quite a while, the Ghoul enjoying the show happening before his eyes almost as much as Fred is in seventh heaven pitting his skills against the great fish. Twice Fred stumbles in the brush bordering this section of the pond, but in the end, he slides his thumb and forefinger into the mouth of the huge Bass and lifts him from the water, getting away from the edge of the water as fast as he can so his prize will not escape him.

     “Wow! This is my biggest Bass ever! He must go at least eight pounds. What a night!”

     Fred’s exuberance is cut a little short by a horrendous odor drifting down from the cemetery’s edge, causing him to gag, the taste refusing to leave his tongue. He retches on the grass, not at all in control of his faculties. Never before has anything this vile attacked his senses before. From sheer euphoria one moment to abject disgust and intestinal pain the next.

     “Not a pleasant sight, you rolling around on the grass barfing your guts out.”

     Fred looks about him, trying to put person and voice together, but his vision’s blurred and he is having difficulty focusing on much of anything. Something big is here. That and the fact it has an un-Godly stench is foremost in his mind. The big Bass plops around and  smashes into his head and he barely takes notice.

     “I don’t take too kindly to you reacting to my presence like that,” the Ghoul says. “In fact, you are pissing me off!”

     The beast walks down-wind and allows fresh air to move in so Fred can breathe easier. His vision slowly returns and he sees the monster for what it truly is. The long hair over his naked frame makes him appear to be some sort of a huge erect wolf at first, but little by little the creature takes on the form of a man-like entity.

     What in the name of all that’s holy is this thing?

     “These fish. Are you going to eat them?” the monster asks. “You were going through a lot of work to get them out of the water, but you seemed to be having fun.”

     Fred is in too much shock to utter a word. He stares at the demon, wondering what it’s up to, afraid to move. Whatever it is, it can talk.

     “I can tell you’re not going to answer me, so I will tell you what I think. You enjoy capturing these fish, even though the poor things must be in pain. To you, it is sport, a game. You inflict pain and eat your prize catch.”

     Fred can merely nod his head and watches in disbelief and horror as this monstrosity reaches down and picks up the fish. Holding it by its eyes, he slowly tears the meat off it, leaving only the tail and head. Then, with a huge guffaw, it snaps the head from the backbone and devours that as well.

     “Is this the way you do it, or do you apply heat to it like your kind does and cook it? Yes, that’s what you do. A real man would eat these things the way I do. But you’re not a real man, are you? You grovel at my feet, too scared to say a word, your clothes soiled by the release of your excrement. Poor baby. Did the big bad Ghoul scare you?”

     Reaching down to check, Fred discovers the demon is right. He is covered in shit and piss. Of what matter is that now, though? He has to get the Hell out of here, away from this beast; he must warn the townspeople. Yet, will they believe him? Will they come back and destroy this thing?

     “Oh, you are not thinking good thoughts, are you, Fred? Yes, I know your name. What you view as unkempt body hair are actually sensors . . . sensors that touch your mind, relaying your thoughts to me. And your impractical decision to flee is not going to work. See, if you escape, more of your kind will come to try to kill me. I wouldn’t appreciate that.”

     “I won’t tell anyone anything!” Fred is finally able to say. “I promise.”

     Laughing, the Ghoul says, “Sorry, Fred, I do not trust you. And besides, just as the fish were to be your meal, you are to be mine. Ah, you think it incomprehensible that I would devour you, but you took no pity on the fish. Why should I take pity on you?”

     Fred pleads with his eyes, but the monster picks him up and carries him to the edge of the pond. Staring at him as he does it, the Ghoul takes the plug on the end of the line, jams it into Fred’s mouth, and rears back to set the hooks.

     A wail of pain escapes his lips as blood pours out of his mouth and down his cheeks. The delighted fiend laps it up before tossing Fred into the pond.

     The beast picks up the pole and hollers at Fred, “I’m giving you the same chance you gave those fish. Fight for your life, damn it!”

     He reaches to his mouth to get the hooks out but only manages to get his hands caught on them as well, the Ghoul jerking back on the rod just as Fred has hold of the plug. Secured the way he is now, it is impossible for him to put up much resistance and the heavy line he has on his reel is sufficient to hold him.

     The demon reels him up to shore and kicks him back again. “C’mon! That fish put up a better fight than you are. This is your last chance.”

     Once more, Fred is easily brought in to shore. The monster tears the plug out of Fred’s mouth, leaving chunks of flesh on the hooks, and throws him onto the grass, quickly lapping up the poor fisherman’s blood and feasting on the rest of his face.

     In unbelievable pain, Fred is powerless to resist and has no will to do so, almost asking for the end to come, but his demise will not be quick. The Ghoul removes his clothing as he feeds, eating those areas which will not cause him to die first, enjoying the struggle, albeit a feeble one from this weakling.

     The point is reached where not enough blood is left in Fred’s body to keep him alive, and the demon tears his heart out from his chest and swallows it whole. Feasting on his warm dinner with calm deliberation, the Ghoul soon leaves nothing but bone.

     Once the skeletal remains are buried in the fresh dirt of a recently dug grave, he returns to the pond and eats the other fish.

     “These really are good. Not as tasty as humans, but they make a fine dessert.”

     He looks at the fishing rod and picks it up.

     “If Fred could catch these fish, simpleton that he was, I can do it.”

     On his third cast a Bass hits it, and the Ghoul brings him into shore. No catch and release for the big guy. He eats it while the plug is still in its mouth. This is almost too easy. Though these fellas are good eating, Fred was the catch of the day.



Blaze McRob

 

        

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Touch The Sky

If you're having a bad day, perhaps it's not so bad after all.

When you think you can't do it, think of this gal.










Inspiring!