Snow Of Blood

                                         
 This is my Terror Tuesday for the Graveyard group on Facebook.


WARNING: THIS IS FOR ADULTS ONLY! LANGUAGE AND SCENES ARE VERY VIVID!



                                                             Snow Of Blood



     How many days, how many nights have I been holed up in this fucking shit-hole? Too damned many!

     It doesn’t really matter. There’s no place I have to go; nothing I have to do. Living would be good, though. That’s all that matters now.

     My supplies are still in good shape. Water, food: yeah, I have enough for months. I thought ahead, not even knowing this was going to happen, but then again, no one knew. All at once  . . . all at once everything changed. Forever. There is no going back. And the future? That’s a fucking pie-in-the-sky dream. I don’t even think they have a future.

     The cold is brutal. Shit! I have beer stashed away in coolers with blankets around the bottles so they don’t explode on me. At least I have some. It helps a bit: takes the edge off; relaxes me.

     I could light up my kerosene heaters for some warmth, but there’s not enough air flow down here. I need to breathe for God’s sake. Following the light of a battery operated lantern, I tip-toe to the corner of my piece of domesticity, grab a thick blanket, and throw it around me after checking to make certain there are no varmints hidden within its folds. No way do I want them on me.

     The undead are walking around upstairs in their own special way, dragging useless limbs around, some of them even crawling because they have no legs. Yet, they continue to move. Nothing stops them. The blood lust keeps them going, an insatiable desire to feed and feed some more.

     The stench of rotting flesh comes through the floor-boards triggering an urge for me to retch and lose the contents within my stomach, but I hold it back: I have to. I can’t let them know I’m down here. They’ll tear through the floor and remove every piece of flesh from my body they can. There’s not much waste when they feed.

     I remember the night I tried to save my neighbors from their attacks. Susy: my God, they grabbed her, savagely tore off her clothing, and fed on her as if they were human piranhas: undead, grotesque humans. While one ripped through her stomach, grabbing her innards and feasting on them like long sausages, another one worked his way up her thighs, tearing off huge chunks of her legs in his yellow and black teeth. Then he reached her pussy and savagely devoured every morsel while her body was still jerking around, trying to resist. In seconds, her womanhood was destroyed.

     Fred, her husband, and I tried to beat them back, slamming into them with axes sitting next to the fireplace, but as soon as one was knocked off of her, another would take its place. There was no stopping them. The taste of her blood was in the air and they wanted to drink it all.

     As her breasts were being ripped apart and devoured, Fred was dragged down, dropping next to her, and they feasted on both of them. There was nothing I could do. The monsters were everywhere. Even with their heads removed, they still came in to feed, pathetically trying to eat through their blood-gushing necks.

     It was crazy! It made no sense!

     I kicked the heads I had chopped off out of my path, their teeth still chomping about trying to get a piece of me, and high-tailed it out of there.

     Once outside, I ran through the blood-soaked snow towards my house, but I stopped before I got there.

     Shit, if they follow me, they’ll know where I’m at, and sooner or later, they’ll come after me, making a meal out of my carcass. I have to make sure their attention is diverted away from me. But how? What the fuck am I going to do?

     For the moment, Fred and Susy were foremost on their minds: if they had any damn minds. But new zombies were arriving, and there would be nothing left of my neighbors.

     The barn! I will get the cows out of the barn! Yes! Create a fucking diversion. Let them feast on the cows.

     I rushed to the barn, started rounding up the stock, and stopped. The cows . . . the  cows: they were zombies, too! Their faces were distorted, pieces of hide coming down all over, exposing huge swaths of bleeding flesh; their eyes were half in and half out of  their sockets. Most of them had pulpy masses of bulbous tissue where their ears had been, and the monsters’ teeth lay exposed, since they no longer had a true mouth.

     They grinned at me: the grin of the walking dead.

     Fuck! Time to get out of this shit-hole! But  . . . but here come the human zombies through the barn door. I’m so fucked!

     I was trapped! Zombie cows on one side and zombie once-humans on the other.

     Before I could react, the human ones charged, but they charged the cows; not me. Whatever human instincts they still possessed told them that the cows were food. The cows, on the other hand, did not take kindly to becoming fodder for the attackers and charged back, no longer possessing the contentment of their species.

     Zombies were going for the soft spots on the cows, digging deep into their brains, gorging on the delicious gray matter before them. Others tore off their udders, feasting on them before digging inside to remove their stomachs and guts. The big animals were going down.

     But not all of them.

     Some cows used their size to advantage, stepping on the advancing human zombies, breaking bones in their feet and legs, and pinning them to one place while they chewed away at them. Both sides were losing troops, but the battle waged on, and through the mire created by bloodied body parts, cow hide pieces, and intestines strewn around and shoved into the barn floor, I saw my chance to escape.

     Zombies were still entering the barn through the front door, so my only chance to leave was the side entry. Carefully, I threaded my way  around the combatants, past the empty stalls, and out into the cold night.

     Shit! I wasn’t safe out there either. Birds, day birds, birds that should have been asleep,  attacked me now, cutting me up with their talons and beaks.

     Fuck! If this infestation of zombies is caused by disease, I could catch it through the cuts I’m receiving. Blood-borne pathogens. I don’t know what caused this. Damn it! To safety: I have to get home!

     I pulled my clothes around me as best I could to shield myself from the birds’ attacks. They were relentless, refusing to stop coming after me. No human zombies followed me, but these flying bastards stayed with me all the way to my house. I had all I could do to get my keys out of my pocket and unlock the padlock on the steel doors covering the entrance to my root cellar.

     Mother fuckers just won’t leave me alone. I can’t allow any of them to get downstairs. If they’re like everything else, nothing will stop them. How do I kill what’s already dead but refuses to accept the fact? Other than the intelligence they use to find food, they’re mindless. Shit, I hope they are, anyway! If these things can think, it’s pretty much over.

     Using a shovel sitting next to the house, I slammed into the birds and managed to keep them away from the entry as I scurried below, closing the doors behind me. I waited a few seconds before putting the lock on the cellar side of the doors. Why I put a place to attach a lock on both sides seemed strange at the time, but it saved my ass. Shit, I guess it was actually to keep Fred out of here while I was working on things.

     Thanks for being such a pain-in-the-ass jerk, Fred. You saved my hide.

     What a fucking night from hell that was! I haven’t ventured out since that night. Shit! I have to make sure it’s safe before I leave here. At first I thought the zombies were nocturnal, but they’re not. I hear them walking around at all times of the day and night. It’s unnerving. Surely by now you would think they would leave from upstairs. I’m the only person in this house. There is no food for them. Maybe one group comes in after the previous bunch leaves.

     I must keep my curiosity in check: as much as I want to know what’s going on in the world beyond my cellar, I’m safe here and need to accept that. Is anyone else in the area alive? Maybe. Maybe not. For now at least, it’s not worth venturing out to find the answer. 

     It’s dark and dingy down here. The walls are dirt and block, and there are no windows anywhere. Food is basically canned goods. A lot of the old survivalists swore on stocking bags of beans and rice and shit, but when you have no way to cook them, what good does that do? And besides, the fucking mice could burrow down into the bags. I’m not worried about the mice eating my food, but it would sure give them a place to hide and come after me later when I unsuspectedly slipped my hand in to get some food out. Like the rest of the vermin on the planet, they have turned. Maybe it’s not tasty to eat cold canned goods, but they’re safe to eat.

     My water is stored in those old green army cans. Nothing will gnaw through them. The entire perimeter of the cellar is packed with food and water, several rows deep. Once my supplies go down, I will have to figure out another plan, but that won’t happen any time soon.

     Thank God for my coolers and beer! It’s not like I drink a lot: I don’t dare; I would knock into things and alert the zombies to my presence. Getting too high would come at a price.

     There is only one way in or out: the metal doors that lead to the outside. There is no entry from the house proper. When I first moved in, I thought that was a bit inconvenient, but not anymore. The bastards can’t rip through a door from above and charge down here.

     Sleep . . . sleep does not come easy anymore. I no longer sleep for hours on  end, content that all is well and upon waking I will be ushered into the dawn of a new day filled with hope and promise. This existence must be what early man faced: always on the look-out for the carnivores ready to bring them down and eat them. Evolution is down the fucking toilet now.

     Speaking of the toilet, I use the latest in indoor plumbing facilities: an emptied water container. It has a lid that can be securely fastened, at least. Even with that I have to be quiet lest I alert the zombies to my presence.

     I’m tired; I need to rest. My bed is warm at least: it’s a coffin that I refurbished a little with extra padding and a lock inside and outside like the steel doors. Yes, I’m paranoid, but it’s kept me alive. I’ll err on the side of safety.

     Slipping inside, I pull the top down and lock it. This particular model was built for a large man, so it’s roomy and allows for extra blankets to combat the cold. I listen for awhile to make certain all is secure and rapidly fall off to sleep.

     The steel doors rattling around wake me! Something or things is pounding on them. What the fuck . . .

     I hear them slam backwards to the sides, ripped off the moorings. Shit! They’re going to come down here! I have to stay still. No noise. I can’t make a sound. Maybe they’ll go away. Maybe they won’t know I’m in this coffin. Am I ever glad I have a lock on it!

     They come downstairs, not making the dragging sounds they usually do. And they’re talking. They’re alive! I’m not alone!

     “Shine your light around, George,” one of them says. “That old coot Harry supposedly stocked this joint up good with food. Fred was telling me all about the times he saw him bringing stuff down here. I’m fucking hungry. I hope he was right.”

     “Lookee here, John! This place is loaded with canned goods. And water. Wow! And everybody thought Harry was crazy. Shit, crazy like a damned fox!”

     “But where the hell is he? This place was locked from the inside and I don’t see any other way down here. Wait! There’s a fucking coffin here. You don’t suppose . . .”

     “I’m not about to open it. If he’s dead, he’s dead. We got food. Let’s eat.”

     Fuck! Now what? Should I get out of here here and join them? I suppose I should. They destroyed the entryway to the cellar. It’s not going to be safe here anymore. I can’t repair that alone with the damn birds and all. It’s the safety in numbers thing now. Of course, I don’t think they have the brains the birds have.

     Before I can unlock the coffin to crawl out, I hear the zombies upstairs. Shit! They’re going to be down here soon. These guys are making a ton of noise. No way they won’t know people are down here. My new buddies have sounded the dinner gong.

     After what seems like an eternity, I get out of the coffin and shine my lantern on the guys.

     “What the fuck . . . !”

     “Never mind the small talk,” I say. “Those zombies upstairs will be down here any second. We have to get the fuck out of here! Now!”

     The words are no more out of my mouth than I smell their foul stench approaching. One of the guys shines his flashlight at the entryway. It is completely filled with the bastards. My safe haven is no longer safe.

     George, John, and the other two guys are glued to the dirt floor. They don’t know what to do.

     “Machetes!” I holler. “I have machetes in the corner. Grab some!”

     The five of us grab the weapons and attack them before the zombies can get out of the landing area. We slash away, tearing them to pieces, removing arms, legs, heads, and more. My machete finds the gut of one of them and his intestines come out in a steaming pile which never even hit’s the dirt. The monster grabs them and starts eating his own internal organs, smiling as he does so.

     Sliced off hands come after us, walking on the dirt floor, digging their nails into us. The feet kick their way around causing a couple of the guys to stumble and fall to the floor where the severed heads latch on and go on a feeding frenzy.

     These bastards are like segmented worms: each severed part can exist on its own. But worms were never like these guys, although zombie worms must be the same as what we‘re facing

     The zombies keep coming. There is no way out. We’re doomed. Our end will come in this fucking cellar amongst the blood and gore surrounding us. What happens, happens. I will not go down without a fight. Maybe, just maybe, an opening will come up for escape. The chances are slim, but . . .

     Soon, there are only two of us left to fight the demons. The others are either dead and being devoured or are in their death throes, dancing with the Devil. We continue swinging the machetes, even as the zombies start feeding on us.

     I am dragged down, my machete knocked from my hand. Their overpowering stench is all around me. Teeth are chewing away at my intestines; I only have one arm still attached to my body.

     With what remains of me, I resist, not wanting to take the easy way. Excruciating pain rips through my groin as they tear my balls and dick off, one of the bastards having the gall to come near my face with my testicles dangling down from his deformed mouth, shaking them at me as if he’s carrying a trophy in his teeth.

     I try to reach him with my other arm, only to find I have lost that one as well. My legs are not working anymore either. There is no way for me to resist.

     A tearing, crunching sound rips through the cellar. With what nerve endings I have remaining, I feel teeth tearing into my brain.

     Now, there is no more pain.

     There is nothing  . . .



Blaze McRob  

    

          

    



    

            

     

     

    

       

      

        

     

Smile

 

This is my Friday flash for the Vamplit blog this week. This great artwork was done by Giancarlo Brajdic. I probably envisioned a different story than most people would have. Such is the mind of Blaze.

Smile



     His eyes are closed, and a twisted smile of sorts graces his lips. In reality: more of a controlled grimace than anything else.

     The entire room is bathed in a scintillating display of red; not a light but a presence, an illusion of other-worldly microcosms pushing themselves onto him, attempting to surround him with an aura of peace and contentment where none exists.

     White . . . yes, white, the color of purification, would have been a better choice. But they fail, as they have failed with so much more that they have tried to do.

     The plug in his head: is it real? Perhaps it's a contrived conceptual device to convince him that he is powerless without their intercedence; they being the masters of his destiny. Yet, he fights it. A losing battle? Perhaps. But to bow before them in supplication to their wishes would be an acknowledgement of weakness. They would win then.

     Winning is what HE must do!

     Fiery sparks break out against the wall, and bring vivid memories back-not those of his own experience but those drilled into his head. Scenes from a by-gone era playing out before him like a badly spliced film, the lines, the connections between scenes not distinct. Blurry, confusing, and distorted, they are woven in this fashion to present an image, the main intent being to plant the seeds in his mind without a concrete base for him to reason it thoroughly.

     The smile broadens and becomes real because with each of their attempts to create mindless subterfuge, he is winning. He has won other battles against them, but this time . . . this time the war will be won.

     Pictures of the priests flash in and out of his mind. How many times was he herded off to the Catholic church on the reservation? Too many for him to count. He sees the attempted assimilation of his brothers and sisters into the status quo: the land of the white man. His knuckles are still red and swollen from the vicious attacks of the chalk-board pointers delivered by the supposed God-like women they call nuns.

     All of the customs of his people were driven from their minds. Or were they?

     He laughs. Braves! Braves do not cave in to the wishes of those who enslave them by depriving them of their culture and their memories.

     In an instant, he pulls the plug from his brain and tosses it on to the ground. He is done with these people! He is his own man: a man of strength and principles.

     The ground outside the building is bare and desolate, testament to those who enslaved them on the reservation, making sure they had the worst soil on which to try to sustain themselves. In time, once they kick the white man off this last vestige of what they had been subjugated to, they will get the land green and fertile again. White men destroyed the Earth Mother. The Red Man did not.

     Other braves come out from the former confinement of their indoctrination abodes. The white men arrive, bearing arms, ready to enslave them once more. But they don't get the chance.

     On a knoll overlooking the settlement stands a majestic White Buffalo. Young Chief Standing Tall lets out a holler, and before the guards can do anything, he and his comrades attack their despised jailors while they're caught up in the rapture of the moment. Not a one of them is left standing.

     Wounded Knee is a painful memory, not far removed. It will not be repeated. No one is to be trusted other than the other Sioux taking up the call to freedom. No promises will be believed. No resettlement will occur. They will make their stand here.

     The White Buffalo tells them so.



Blaze McRob 

Thank You Truckers!

Thank You Truckers!

I received this today from my friend Vi. This is a true meaning for this day!

If this doesn't light your fire ... your wood is wet!

I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy.

But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie.

He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facia features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.

The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ" the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.

I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.

After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old kid in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty.Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.

Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had
fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work.

He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochestergetting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.

A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine.

Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.

Marvin Ringers, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table

Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Marvin a withering look.

He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.

"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."

"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"

Frannie quickly told Marvin and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: " Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. >From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is." Marvin nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do.

After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I didn't get that table where Marvin and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pete and Tony were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup"

She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie."

"Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete
looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie"scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply:
"truckers."

That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.

His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.

Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.

"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To
celebrate your coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room.

I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.

Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.

Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. "Happy Thanksgiving."

Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.

But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table..

Best worker I ever hired.

Plant a seed and watch it grow.

At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or forward it fulfilling the need!

If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate person.

Well.. Don't just sit there! Send this story on! Keep it going, this is a good
one.

The Lone Zombie

This is my Terror Tuesday for the Graveyard group on Facebook. Enjoy!
             
The Lone Zombie



Rotting flesh odors on evening air drift,

mixing with sweat of nervous survivors.

En-mass they walk, strength in numbers,

intent on subsisting, needing to feed.

He waits apart from the others,

sharing their needs, not one of them.

Nature's herds are not for him,

leader still despite the change.

Addled brains that will not think,

finding  food the only thought.

Reason still within him dwells,

his soul intact though values changed.

The only food that's left to eat

is flesh of those still not altered.

For once the bodies take a turn,

a meal from them can not be had.

A body damned  unfit to eat,

so food is rendered from those who live.

The mob attacks a family fleeing,

all save one are caught and eaten.

The lucky lady not so lucky,

by him she runs so unaware.

He waits there intent to capture

his unfortunate dinner to be.

He reaches out and pulls her in,

not wasting time, his hunger filling.

And so alive the lady is eaten,

'til naught is left of any good.

His soul cries out against this deed,

yet all is changed in time and place.

A new life order has arrived,

no codes of justice left intact.

It's eat or die, as simple as that.

He can't change what has transpired,

in God-less world he now inhabits.

His needs now sated, he walks away,

and waits for yet another day.



Blaze McRob

Anna Miller

 Anna Miller at Onlinedegree.net sent me this "nerdy" list. I'm in trouble: I love some of these movies. Monty Python rules! There are others here among my faves as well. Annie Hall, anyone? 

Thank you, Anna!

 

 

10 Best Movies for Nerds and Those Who Love Them

There are some movies that seem to be made especially for the nerd community. Even though there are hundreds of types of nerds, divided by areas of interest and social tendencies, these films just seem to speak to geeks across the board. They feature relatable characters in situations most nerds find themselves in or wish they could stumble into. If you're a self-proclaimed nerd and haven't seen one of the movies on this list, you should check it out. If you're trying to woo a nerd, it wouldn't hurt to have a couple of these movies on your DVD rack when your date comes over. You'll definitely earn some brownie points.

1. Shaun of the Dead

   Many nerds either love zombies, British humor, or British humor making fun of zombies. This film will satisfy any of those categories. Shaun, a guy who's struggling with all the relationships in his life, finds himself in the middle of an uprising of the undead and tries to save himself and his loved ones. Of course, that sounds like the plot of most zombie flicks, but this one takes you through the story with a care-free, comical air that you won't find in just any movie. Hot Fuzz, which is from the same creators, will give you the same kind of laughs, but it's not quite on the same hilarious level as Shaun of the Dead.
   

2. WarGames

   This film is nostalgic for any '80s-era nerds or those who like to remember the good old days of computers. Matthew Broderick stars as a hacker who accidentally breaks into a military supercomputer during the Cold War. The computer's purpose is to run through the possible outcomes of a nuclear war, and when Broderick's character simulates one thinking he's playing a game, world war nearly breaks out. Not only does Broderick play an excellent nerd, but the idea that one witty computer genius could change the entire world is enough to make any geek proud.
   

3. Rushmore

   Wes Anderson's films have a special place in the hearts of those with big brains and a few neuroses. Rushmore plays on the interests of a wide range of overachievers as it focuses on the exploits of one strange student of Rushmore Academy. Max Fischer is the face of every kid that's smart but doesn't care about his grades. Instead of focusing on his academics, he joins club after club to find what he's really interested in, from the fencing team to stamp collecting club to yearbook staff, because he believes that finding the one thing you really love is what will make you happy. And he's actually already found his true love: his school. Now if that's not something a nerd can relate to, nothing is.
   

4. Pi

   If you've ever known an extreme math or science nerd, they probably liked Pi. Not just the number, but the movie. From the strange mind of Darren Aronofsky, Pi deals with an obsessed mathematician (are there any other kind?) who thinks the whole world can be explained in numbers. When he stumbles onto a number that seems to explain everything, from the stock market to religion, he gets into all kinds of trouble and cracks under the pressure. It may serve as a warning for other single-minded nerds out there, or might make them more eager to analyze the strings of digits they find and use them to explain the universe.
   

5. Monty Python and the Holy Grail

   Don't watch this movie with a nerd if you're not prepared for a full-blown quote-along. Every scene contains at least a few ridiculous, well-known lines that you'll remember long after the movie is over. It was made by the British comedy troupe, Monty Python, and loosely (very loosely) follows the legends of King Arthur and his knights. Some of the high points of the film are the Knights Who Say Ni, the killer rabbit, and the Black Knight who continues to fight even after all of his limbs have been cut off. British movies are so unlike those produced by Hollywood that many of them find an eager audience in the U.S. who prefer dry or absurdist humor over corny romantic comedies.
   

6. Weird Science

   Anthony Michael Hall was a role model for all geeks growing up in the '80s. He always had a way of showing us that nerds could be kind of cool and that there was more to life than getting shoved into lockers. In this John Hughes film, Hall plays a kid who creates the perfect woman with his friend using his computer. How many of you tried to figure out how to do the same thing after seeing this movie? Their Frankenstein woman can give them anything they want, and she not only gives them her undying devotion, but also sports cars, popularity, and girlfriends. The movie may be a bit campy, but it depicts the ultimate dream scenario for the 14-year-old boy in all of us.
   

7. Almost Famous

   When you watch Almost Famous, there are two things you want to do: sing loudly to "Tiny Dancer" and get as close to rock stars as any nerd can by writing for Rolling Stone. The film is based on the adventures of director Cameron Crowe as a teenage writer for the music magazine, and the main character finds himself on the road with a rock band and its groupies. Not only does the dorky 15-year-old manage to get some loving from the hot ladies who hang around the musicians, but he also ends up with a cover story for Rolling Stone. Any music or writing nerd loves to live vicariously through the rock 'n' roll exploits in this movie.
   

8. 2001: A Space Odyssey

   This film speaks to several different categories of nerd: sci-fi nerd, technology nerd, special effects nerd, etc. Stanley Kubrick's imagined future (which thankfully didn't turn into reality by 2001) shows humans exploring serious mysteries of the universe, battling a supercomputer, and becoming strange space beings. Most of us are fascinated by the idea of HAL 9000, the computer who realizes that the astronauts are planning to turn him off and tries to kill them all as a means of self-preservation. This kind of evil artificial intelligence is a popular theme in some of the best nerd movies.
   

9. Annie Hall

   If there was an election for the ruler of all nerds, Woody Allen would certainly be in the running. His films introduce us to all of his neuroses and pet peeves, and you really feel like you're in the head and the life of this guy. Most viewers can either relate to Allen or feel a little bit more normal in comparison, which is never a bad thing. Allen's comedic musings on love and relationships in Annie Hall are the nerd's alternative to romantic comedies and also might provide some useful insight for real-life dating scenarios.
   

10. Brazil

    Terry Gilliam is a legendary director among the super-nerdy crews. He directed The Fisher King and 12 Monkeys, but Brazil has a special cult following. It's part sci-fi and part satire in its portrayal of a dystopian society that relies on silly machines and involves too much bureaucratic nonsense. As a member of the comic troupe, Monty Python, Gilliam knows how to find the dark humor in a situation, even one where the wrong man has been killed because of a mechanical malfunction that caused a minor typo. Anyone who enjoys critically thinking about society and government, and likes jokes that involve the two will love this movie.
    

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Stolen Skull

 

My Friday flash this week is inspired by the art of Lauren Curtis. Quite an awesome piece of art! Enjoy this great picture. I hope you enjoy my story as well.

Stolen Skull



     The old Ossuary pulled at him, telling him to come in and partake of the mysteries hiding within its walls and beneath the floors. He had heard all the legends about the monks taking the bones and skulls from the old cemetery and arranging intricate patterns in the doorways and every other place where it was conceivable to install them, creating a patch work piece of art where the canvas was the church and the pallet which was usually reserved for the paint now holding bones and skulls.

     Demonic art in a place of God.

     Contradictions abounded. 40,000 people provided a huge panorama for the candle light playing on their shorned heads with hollow eyes staring at nothing, but yet seeing everything, bones bleached from time interacting with them in superb geometric patterns. Yes, they were a marvel, but bones extruding from mouths of skulls was not exactly what one expected from a holy place.

    Rumor had it that the hands of the monks had been guided by insanity. Or . . .or maybe the Dark One had come to Prague and assisted them with their mission.

    George was uneasy inside the Ossuary, but the air whispered to him, telling him to walk downstairs and visit the cross: the cross created by a path between piles of bones and yet more skulls.

    Then he saw it! My God!  A skull stared at him, fiery red eyes in the sockets, illuminating the entire basement.

     The longer he looked at it,becoming a captive to its overwhelming sway within his mind, the more he was aware that this skull was not part of something dead. It was vibrant; it was alive; and it was evil. The worst part: it totally controlled him. He had no recourse other than to wait for some message; anything to tell him what was to be demanded of him.

     No words needed to be spoken, other than those forcing their way into his mind, telling him to remove the skull from where it sat atop the bone pile.

     There was no problem getting the skull back home to New York City. People at the airport  would look at it in his luggage but not really see it, the power within blinding them to its presence.

     George lived alone in an old brownstone overlooking Central Park. Happily divorced is what he told people when they asked him about his commitment status. After his divorce, his commitment was to himself. Fuck everyone else!  Who needed them? One night stands were easy enough to get. No obligations: just both of them getting what they needed for the evening.

     He tossed his suitcase on to his bed, opened it up, and removed the skull. Holding it in his hands, he stared at the eyes and smiled back when its jaw turned to an expansive grin. "Oh, my friend, I have no idea what you have planned, but I sense it will be most intriguing.'

     Intriguing indeed!

     George placed his grinning friend in a place of honor on his night stand and lay down on his bed, completely wiped out from his long trip. He woke in the middle of the night, an awful stench in his nostrils and red light filling his room. He stared at his new roomy and saw a decided evil twist to that grin now, a sardonic look telling him that this was all a huge mistake: this skull, this thing, this evil was taking over. George had no power to fight it.

     He jumped out of his bed, tripped on something lying on the carpet, and came face to face with a bleeding head, eyes hanging from the sockets staring at her breasts, torn apart in a display of savagery.

     It was his ex wife! As bad as she was, George certainly didn't want this to happen to her.

     He backed away from her, afraid to touch her, not wanting to leave any evidence on her body. But . . .but she was in his room, and after the brutal divorce, all evidence would point to him. He was destined to spend the rest of his life in jail.

     "Oh, my friend," the skull said, " you have no worries. No one will find her. No one will ever gain entry to this room again."

     A cruel laugh filled the room. "Only the dead will enter through the doorway, my friend, and the dead don't talk."

     George tried running from the room, but he had no luck. The door was sealed and the red light intensified, the grin on the monsters face became larger, and impending doom surrounded him.

    "There is no need for you to go anywhere, George. Embrace what is and what will be. You are mine and we have work to do: much work."

                                                    * * * *

     Across from Central Park is a brownstone, not an ordinary brownstone, but one bedecked with skulls and bones. Yes, visitors come and stare, but they never venture inside. The look on the face of the crazed looking man affixing the horrid adornments is enough to scare them off. And if one listens at the right time, a demonic laugh can be heard coming from inside.

     The skulls stare silently into the night. Or do they?



Blaze McRob