Another worthy repeat guest for this creepy-ass Halloween season - RJ Downes! Duck, Duck, Goose, Carl
by RJ Downes Carl Bantam stood staring into the display window of Cooper’s Party Supplies. His suited, bespectacled, reflection stared back at him as he took in the motley collection of rubber Hallowe’en masks on display. From left to right, propped up on featureless mannequin heads were a gleeful zombie, a giant mutant baby, a green square headed creature from a video game whose name he couldn’t remember, a super realistic cat, complete with faux fur, a screaming demon and a shimmering black and white feathered Canada Goose mask. Carl stood fixated in front of the display. Each mask had its own personality, its own aura and he was enthralled by all of them, but mostly it was the Canada goose mask that got his attention. The detail was incredible, its beak carved out of rubber with real feathers attached all around in such a way that it looked majestic, regal even. A line of a song from his grade school musical came into his head. The Canada Goose, the Canada Goose, touch his feathers and you won’t come loose! As a boy, Carl had been cast in the play, not as the titular goose but rather as his mortal enemy, The Wizard of Woe. As the name suggested, his character was magical at creating misery all around him. As far as Carl was concerned, he was typecast as a boy and not much had changed in the intervening forty years. Around him, the fall evening was moving in fast. The sun was dropping behind the buildings on the downtown strip. The crisp air had the smell of coming snow. Soon enough the dry crackling leaves would be replaced by blankets of white. But it wasn’t winter yet. Hallowe’en was still two weeks away. He could see the inside store lights on behind the black backdropped window. No one in the shop but a teenaged clerk behind the counter surrounded by masks, costumes and accessories as far as the walls would carry them. The clerk sat on a stool looking down at the glow of cell phone screen. Carl wondered how shops like this stayed in business. He was the only one walking the main street this Thursday evening. Cars shuttled past on the road behind him but didn’t stop or even slow down to peer at anything the downtown had to offer. When he was younger, this downtown had been thriving, full of life. Now, it was becoming a ghost town, one empty storefront at a time. There were barely twenty stores still open in the whole of the main strip and most of those were closed on Sundays. Stores like this one had to be hanging on by a thread. Sadly, that thread would have to break at some point. Carl personally enjoyed the quiet streets. He’d taken up walking to and from work ever since the car had died and the costs to fix it were beyond what he could manage. He was alone out here, away from the pressures of work and life and everything that made up being member of society. The older he got, the less he enjoyed society in general. Carl Bantam, on this particular Thursday, was no longer interested in being human at all or at least, no longer being himself. An important presentation at work had gone terribly, and the fallout was severe, although perhaps not unexpected. What followed found his boss spending the better part of an hour telling him exactly when, why and how he failed, as though Carl himself had not been an unhappy participant of the event in question. Carl was told, then and there, that he’d been given too many chances to shape up and fly right, and that with this final write up he had reached the end. He was told not to show up for work tomorrow. His final pay cheque would be mailed to him. He left the office that day with nothing but his suit and his phone. He’d left behind the mug his wife had given him when he started the job. You don’t have to be crazy to work here but it helps. He hated that mug. The funny thing was, Carl hadn’t really liked his job all that much anyway. He wouldn’t miss it. He’d gone to school for political science hoping to change the world and ended up crunching numbers in a cubical making little to no difference at all. Nothing about the life he was living was the one he’d imagined for himself. And he was tired, so tired. Even his bones felt hollow. This defeat in his mind and soul were weighing heavily on Carl as he walked home that evening. Normally one for back streets and residential areas, he chose to walk through the downtown as more of a distraction. The empty defeated storefronts seemed to echo back his feelings, to commiserate with him and share his woe. It was on the second block, surrounded by dark, empty storefronts that he saw the glow of lights coming from a single window. From a distance, even in the darkness, Carl was sure of what he was seeing: it was a collection of heads. It was only as he got closer that he could make out the details and realized they were Hallowe’en masks. When he was a boy, Carl had only dreamed of wearing the hard-formed plastic masks and cheap polyester costumes of Superman or Batman. What he would have done to wear any of the other standard, popular possibilities that stores at the time sold on their racks. His entire life, Carl had wanted nothing more in the world than to wear a store-bought Hallowe’en costume like every other kid in town. His mother never bought him one. She always handmade his costumes. All of them. For the entirety of his childhood. This probably wouldn’t have been so bad if she had asked him what he wanted to be or involved him in the process in any way. Instead, she went with whatever creative notion she had at the time. This meant he went as a jug-headed alien one year, a paper plate scaled dragon the next, a World War One flying-ace with a felt helmet, snow goggles and a lady’s leather jacket the year after that. On it went. In trying to be both creative and thrifty, Carl’s mother had left her son coveting the sweet comfort of conformity. Even on a day when children were allowed to hide themselves behind costumes, he felt strangely on display, out of step and out of touch with everyone around him. And now, as an adult, Hallowe’en hadn’t changed much for Carl. He still found himself at the whims of a woman’s creative abandon. Each year at the Henson’s costume party down the block from his house, he found himself garbed in whatever ‘couple’s costume’ his wife created that year. While Becky had a much keener imagination than his mother ever did, he still found himself head to toe in ridiculous hand-made things while those around him were dressed in the regular store-bought costumes. The normal sorts of things that normal people wore. He could never tell her, but the costumes she made for them to wear always made him feel like that young boy, the odd one out, the outsider. Every year, he was triggered and every year he said nothing. Becky seemed on a mission to find the most insanely ridiculous costume ideas she could and create something the two of them would be remembered for whether he enjoyed it or not. The first year they’d been invited to the party, they’d gone as ‘Chess Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire’. Covered in chess pieces and t-shirts with “I love Chess!” written on them, she’d finished off their matching outfits with cardboard flames and cotton stuffing for smoke around their lower legs. Last year, they’d gone as ‘Bunny and Clyde’, Becky in a full-on hand-crafted bunny suit and him in a thrifted forties gangster outfit (even though he’d told her more than once that the famous gangsters had died in the thirties). This year, Becky had planned out another doozy.
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Here’s a little preview of the new versions of “Tamara Turtle’s Life So Far” & "Chloe the Unfeathered Parrot"…their new trailers! Join me for the Group Launch for “Chloe the Unfeathered Parrot”, “Tamara Turtle’s Life So Far”, and 14 other books by Canadian children’s authors and members of Authors’ Booking Service…
🐢 Saturday, October 28th, 12pm - 2pm at the Toronto Public Library’s Northern District Branch: 40 Orchard View Blvd. (near Yonge and Eglinton) 🦜 “Tamara” and “Chloe’s” new publisher is Pandamonium Publishing House! The illustrations for “Tamara” have been re-imagined by Wei Lu, illustrator for “Chloe”, activities have been added to both books, and some new details included. A BIG welcome back to genre author JF Garrard, whom I interviewed a couple years ago for my 13 Horrifically Silly Days of Halloween! We talked a bit about this story...now you have a chance to read it here: My Girl
by JF Garrard originally published in The Sirens Call eZine, No. 37, Women in the Horror issue (2018) The chip in one of my manicured nails made me frown. Looking at my hands distracted me from the awful stench of blood, waiting for the witch to finish her work. Nausea overwhelmed me when the little old lady slit the throat of a rooster with no warning, spraying some blood onto my expensive designer dress when she collected the red liquid into a white bowl to use as ink to draw on yellow pieces of paper. I felt too petrified to inquire about what was going on. It was amazing how a two-hundred square foot room could be crammed with so much stuff. Roosters held in multiple cages squawked angrily in my direction, a desk was filled with piles of incense, swords made from ancient coins, long strips of yellow paper, calligraphy brushes and other random crap. A shrine in the corner housed porcelain Chinese gods, honored with burning incense which filled the room with smoke. My eyes shut for a moment from exhaustion as I sat on a tiny stool. The last few days had not been easy. I went for my five-month ultrasound appointment by myself since my husband was out of town and the doctor told me that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. A corpse was in my body and I freaked out. I called my mother in China who told me not to tell my husband. They didn’t trust him because he was a gwai lo, a white foreign devil. My parents were forever worried he would divorce me and a miscarriage would definitely make him leave me. Instead, my mother spent a day calling relatives all over North America. She made me book a flight to Vancouver which was closer than flying back to China. Now here I was, sitting in a random witch’s house, waiting for her to finish her spell. “Take this and put it on your friend’s belly. Take this other one and put it on your belly. For a night and day,” the old women rasped in a dialect of Chinese which I understood, but had to think about for a few minutes due to her accent. “Can you say that again?” I took the two pieces of yellow paper gingerly by their corners with red Chinese calligraphy scribbled on it and some other symbols I didn’t recognize. The old woman looked at me as if I was an imbecile. “That paper on your friend’s belly, that paper on your belly.” I held up one of the pieces of paper, “This paper on my belly?” “No…” The old woman sighed. “You can’t read Chinese can you?” “Er, no,” a hot blush spread across my cheeks. “I was sent to Toronto when I was very young, so I can only speak Chinese but can’t write.” “OK, I will mark the corner of this piece of paper. This one with the mark you put on your belly and the other one put on your friend’s belly.” “How do I put it on?” “Use tape. Just tell her it’s for good luck,” she let out a soft cackle. “Tell her it must not come off for at least a day and a night, or else you will have to pay a price.” “Pay what price? I need to give you more money?” “No, no,” she shook her head as she used a dirty rag to wipe off the desk before she took a drink from the bowl filled with blood. Her lips dripped with red liquid as she gave me her final words. “Good luck and don’t screw up.” *** The baby shower was planned months before I got pregnant. I thought it would be fun, I would be a great hostess and impress people in my giant 10,000 square foot home while serving fancy snacks from fancy catering companies. Instead, the baby shower for Lana, my best friend, felt like the longest day in my life as I watched women giggle and fawn over her eight-month-old belly. When people approach me to comment on mine, I just smiled and put my hand protectively over my stomach. Today I have the pleasure of welcoming back author Jen Frankel with a brand new story for this spooktacular holiday season...The Kensington Howler... The Kensington Howler
by Jen Frankel It started with a knock. An insistent, repetitive, and above all annoyingly intrusive knock. V. X. Morgoni, Victoire Xandrine TO ABSOLUTELY NO ONE, threw open the door bellowing “What?” On the cracked concrete pad outside the entrance to her basement apartment were three figures, one short, the other two very short. Children. The tallest wore a low budget pirate get-up with a cape made out of a threadbare towel safety-pinned at the neck, the others a princess dress and crown in Barbie pink, and a witch’s hat with green face makeup. In answer, they said in somber unison, “Trick or treat.” What stopped her from slamming the door in their miserable little hopeful faces wasn’t the knowledge that most of the houses on Baldwin were dark tonight, despite it being Halloween. Kensington had seen a decade-long influx of upwardly mobile couples without children and older wealthier empty nesters. There weren’t a lot of choices for a bunch of kids looking for candy. That was no concern of Morgoni’s. Children were an irritant at the best of times. She didn’t spend any time thinking about their emotional or entertainment needs. What stopped her was an uncomfortable, although brief, moment of recognition. These kids reminded her of a time long ago when she might have been in their shoes, or rather in their unseasonable winter boots. Some mother or father had helped these little monsters get ready, purchase or cobble together costumes, make sure they had reflective tape on their treat bags. Someone cared about these little… “Are you a boy or a girl?” said the pirate. Morgoni looked the pirate in the face. “You’re asking me that?” She honestly had no idea, now she had a chance to consider it. “What’s your name?” asked the princess. “I’m Bellauroraella.” “It’s all her favourite princesses smushed together,” explained the pirate. “I was going to be Bellariella but it was too hard to say,” said the princess. “What about you?” Morgoni said to the little witch who was clearly a boy. “Wicked Witch of Kensington Market?” “No.” The green lips poured. “I’m Elphaba.” “But really, that’s Dibber, Fawn, and I’m Juan Carla,” said the pirate, pointing in turn at the witch, princess, and then at their own chest. So no help. “Morgoni,” said Morgoni and started to close the door. “Wait!” said Fawn, the princess, with that child-urgency that stopped most grownups in their tracks. Morgoni paused, door half closed, eyes narrowed. “I don’t have any candy,” she lied. None for them anyhow. “We don’t want candy. We want to show you something.” It was Juan Carla this time. Morgoni waited. Dibber pointed over his shoulder, almost knocking the hat off. “In the alley. It’s a supernatural femonemon.” Fawn retrieved a cellphone, also Barbie pink but only because she’s taped a lot of pink tissue paper around it, and held it up. On the screen was Morgoni’s YouTube channel, The Supranormal Kensington Vlog. She turned the screen back to herself, tapped for a moment, then showed Morgoni the “About” screen which featured her own image, clad in her usual black watch cap, and sunglasses. “We watch your shows,” said Juan Carla. Okay, thought Morgoni. Fans? Is that what this disturbance to her routine was about? “You have to come now.” It was Dibber, and in the next second he and Fawn had both grabbed onto Morgoni’s hands. They pulled, and she could have resisted, but for some reason she let them. With Juan Carla in the lead, the strange little quartet climbed the stairs back to street level. “We have to hurry,” said Juan Carla, urgently, taking the lead. As Morgoni had thought, the trick-or-treaters were few, spaced widely down the length of Baldwin. Some were the size of Juan Carla and travelled in groups of three or four; a few were more Fawn-and Dibber-sized and held the hands of parental figures. I look like a freaking mom, thought Morgoni darkly. “It’s here,” said Juan Carla, and led the way down one of Kensington’s iconic graffitied alleys to a small parking lot. Its high wooden surrounding fence was crawling with the year’s burden of dying morning glory and river grape vines. Morgoni saw nothing remarkable, just the usual deep shadows of the Toronto back alley world. Above, the stars were blotted to invisibility by the city’s light. She returned her gaze to the end of the alley, warned by Fawn’s abruptly tightened grip on her fingers. A solitary trick-or-treater had entered the alley, dressed as some kind of weird baby doll: curly long blonde wig, white dress with ruffles that bounced around the knee. She was clutching her own matching dolly to her chest, an orange plastic pumpkin-shaped bucket around one elbow. Perhaps inevitably, she was wearing snow boots just like the other kids. Morgoni shook off the hands holding hers as the Juan Carla, Fawn, and Dibber drew back toward the fence behind them. “What?” Morgoni said, taking her eyes off Baby Doll. In response, Dibber hissed like a startled little snake, and pointed. Baby Doll was gone. “Wait for it,” said Juan Carla, cutting off Morgoni who was about to tell the trio off for wasting her time and dragging her out into the streets. They waited. Morgoni was nearly done with the whole thing. She counted slowly in her head. When I hit thirty, I’m out of her, she thought. She made it to nineteen. A strange sound rose around them, like it was coming off the pavement along with the mist suddenly surrounding their feet. A faint trickle of sorrow, almost a cry, more of an animalistic yowl. It got louder until it was impossible to discount, the way the haze also seemed to billow from the ground itself in more insistent puffs, rising to the height of Fawn and Dibber’s heads. Fawn threw her arms around Morgoni’s leg and buried her face in her thigh, whimpering. Dibber was frozen, and Juan Carla jumped back into the vines on the fence. Then, as suddenly as it began, the sound was gone, and so was the mist. Just...gone. No dissipation, no transition between here and not, just vanished more suddenly than it had begun. Morgoni went cold from knit cap to boots. She shook herself free from Fawn and fixed all three of the kids with manic intensity. “You! Phone,” she barked at Fawn. “Film everything. You!” At Dibber. “Out to the street and ask if anyone else saw her. You, Juan Carla. I want a sweep of the whole perimeter. Look for spaces in the fence, doorways, anything, anywhere someone could have come or gone. Now!” Miraculously, the kids jumped into action, Fawn with her pink tissue phone and the other two darting off as per her instructions. Morgoni noted this, cursing herself that she was for once without her video camera. On this day of all days, with this happening right in front of her. She wasn’t scared, not precisely. The feeling inside her was uncomfortable, familiar but not familiar enough to be welcome. What had she just seen? Was it a real ghostly manifestation, or something explicable and mundane? She didn’t think the trio of children was capable of setting something like this up, and even if they had, what would be the point? Although, and this thought struck her as she played out the possibilities in her mind that this was all some sort of hoax played for her benefit, if they knew her work as well as they seemed to, could this be some sort of bizarre audition to work for her? To put one over on her, more likely. Was someone filming all of this, ready to post and discredit Morgoni and her other investigations? Was it something, and here she needed to pause and take a breath, was it something connected to her own past, so long ago and yet never far from her mind? Her heart stopped. Today, Day 4, I bring you Bloody Chatterbox, a story for this scary season by James Dick... Bloody Chatterbox By James Dick “Don’t go in there,” Jessie says to the TV as she bites into my wrist. My steaming, microwaved juices run thick down her chin. She catches a stray runnel with her finger and slurps it up. On the TV, Teen Heartthrob #9007 (I missed his name because Jessie was talking) approaches the door of a dark, decrepit manor in the backwoods of New England. The film score builds to a Christopher Young-esque crescendo with each step he takes. “What’s the opposite of plot armour?” Jessie asks. “Would it be plot… nakedness? Whatever it is, this guy’s got it.” She takes another bite. I hear my tibia crack between her powerful jaws. I bristle. By now, Teen Heartthrob—I’m gonna call him Throbert—gets to the door of the house. The music swells as he reaches out to knock. “Don’t do it…” Jessie warns. If I still had eyes, I’d roll them. Throbert knocks. The soundtrack goes silent, but the creak as the door swings open is deafening. Beyond is a black void. Jessie grins, her bloodstained teeth flashing in the glow of the TV. “And three… two… one…” Right on cue, a mass of cold, clammy hands surges out of the darkness, wrap around Throbert, and pull him inside. The camera tracks forward after him, and the film’s title rushes out at us. “Called it,” Jessie says. “I swear these movies aren’t even trying anymore.” I can’t take it at this point. I need to say something, but that requires lips, tongue, teeth, vocal cords, and lungs. Unfortunately, Jessie ate all of those at Thanksgiving, so barring the essentials, I need to get creative. I glide forward and slip through the HDMI port on the back of the TV. The picture instantly freezes. “Ugh, come on, don’t bug out now,” Jessie groans. She grabs the remote and gets blood all over the buttons. I manifest my living face on the screen. “Hey.” My voice comes through over the television’s speakers. “Nate?” Jessie puts the remote down. “What’s up, hun?” “I’m really glad you’re enjoying the movie, but the running commentary’s very distracting.” The words come out a bit sharper than I intend. “Didn’t you ever have a convo while watching late night movies?” I cross my virtual arms. “It’s different when I have to possess the TV every time I want to reply.” “… point taken.” I open my mouth to say something more, but Jessie cuts me off. “Okay, I’ll cut the chatter. Scoot your spooky butt out the TV.” I slip out of the television set, taking my place next to Jessie as she presses play. She watches in silence for a bit, occasionally cracking open one of my knuckles to suck out some marrow, but eventually she reaches for the remote and pauses the movie. “Okay, what’s wrong?” I do nothing. Jessie sighs. “Babe, I can feel the air getting colder. Something’s obviously bothering you, so come on. Give.” I debate with myself whether I have the energy to get into the thick of the issue tonight (yes, even ghosts get tired). Then I realize Jessie isn’t likely to let this go, so I might as well get it over with. Returning to the TV screen, I manifest my face once again. “I just think things are a little one-sided between us,” I say. Jessie pops one of my digits in her mouth and crunches it between her molars. “Meaning?” “Well… it’s your house, your sofa, your TV, and I respect that. But I feel like we don’t talk as much as we used to. I know I don’t have a body anymore, but that never stopped us in the past, right?” Jessie’s chewing slows. “No… no it didn’t.” She looks at me. “What would you like to do about it, hun?” I turn the question over in my mind. “One idea I had is that we could get me my own phone. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just an old iPhone or something. That way, I’d have my own space, my own contacts, my own internet access, and I wouldn’t have to inconvenience you by cohabitating in your electronics. And we can talk anytime we want.” Jessie unfurls her bloody smile again. “That’s not a bad idea, baby. And we can chat properly on movie night.” “Exactly.” She beams. “But we’re not cheaping out an old iPhone. I want you to have something modern, something that’ll last a while.” “That’s not necessary…” I start to say. “It’s totally necessary. I’m not having you live in junk.” She stands up, circles round the coffee table and kneels in front of the TV. “Thank you for opening up. I know things are a bit different now, but we should be able to communicate like we used to.” “I think so too.” Jessie puts a hand on the TV screen, right where my cheek is. “So, what do you say you possess my phone and we start the movie over?” I smile. “Yes ma’aaaaaam…” I say, the final syllable Doppler shifting as I slip free of the TV and move into Jessie’s Samsung. She props me up beside her on the sofa so that I can get a good view of the TV, then goes back to munching on my arm. “Are my triceps still tasty?” I ask. Till now, I’d been worried that freezing my remains would ruin the flavour. “Mmm, darling, they are to die for.” James Dick is an author, actor, screenwriter, and director from Toronto, Ontario. His written work has appeared in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, Improbable Press, Dark Dragon Publishing, and elsewhere. His short horror-comedy film, Clucked, was shortlisted and received an Audience Choice Award at the 2020 Toronto 48 Hour Film Project.
It's Day 3, and I've got another author for young people on offer for you: Sandra Wilson. Here we get a sneak peak at some of the artwork from her new book Spooky Stories and How to Write Them... Just in time for Halloween comes a new book from Author Sandra Wilson that guides you to writing your own spooky story! Spooky Stories and How to Write Them was inspired by a painting the author created one day (and that will be on the cover). From the painting, Sandra began to imagine the Pumpkin Man telling spooky stories to his forest friends. She imagined each animal friend reacting differently to the story, depending on what might scare them, or how much they enjoy spooky stories. The idea of what kind of spooky story each character would react to became the inspiration for a lesson book on writing spooky stories. A spooky story is a matter of perspective. Some things that may scare one person may not be scary to another. The book will take you on a story writing adventure where you can determine how spooky you want the story to be, what you think spooky is for certain characters and how you can put all your ideas together to create your own spooky story! "Stories told in the dark around a campfire don’t need to have a lot of scare to them since the setting already creates a situation that would put people on edge. In fact, you only need one scary element in a story to make it scary. Elements of a story include the character (s), setting and situation. Picking something scary for just one of those elements is a good base for a scary story." And so the journey to your own spooky story begins! I am Author Sandra Wilson, children's author and educator and founder of the Kindness Kangaroo Project. I have spent over 35 years working with children in some capacity; as a leader in Scouting and Guiding, as a tutor, as a drama teacher, as a homeschooler, in clubs and even in my education centre. For the last five years I have been working with children to create books. I have worked in classrooms, daycares and with other groups as part of the Kindness Kangaroo Project and together, these children and I have created nearly 40 picture books that embrace inclusion, acceptance, kindness and friendship. With all my books I am looking to empower and inspire children and get the conversation started on topics like emotions (Emotional Animal Alphabet series), the environment (Super Kids Save the World series), bullies (The Unpleasant Pirates series), grief (The Feeling Empty series) and more. I believe that words have power and we can use them to promote goodness in the world. We can offer them to children to inspire them, to empower them and to help express themselves. Stories are gifts that can be handed down, they are ways we can connect to what is happening in the world, to our feelings and those of others and to encourage us to do our best. I write stories with kids and for kids with the hope of showing them the magic of creativity to inspire and to empower. I believe that children are our future And we must nurture them and help them grow Guide them gently on their own path Then support them and watch them go I believe we need to teach them what matters Like compassion, understanding and more We need to make sure they are comfortable to talk And that we always have an open door I believe that time spent with children Is a benefit to both sides And you can see for yourself If you just look in their eyes I want children to know No matter what chaos has swirled I believe in the power they have inside To make a difference in this world. Find more from Sandra Wilson on Amazon
Welcome to Day 2! Today I bring you a dystopian teleplay, or short film or episode, by author and playwright Larry Pickett. Let's pretend this is an episode of The Twilight Zone or Outer Limits...sit back and enjoy via the TV in your mind... THE CRYER
By Larry George Pickett Scene 1 Fades in from black: View is of a bedroom from the main character's eyes. He sees a woman in a black evening gown standing at the foot of the bed looking at him as if she is trying to see if he is awake or not. He sees that his feet are bound to the bed posts and then looks and realizes that his hands are bound to the headboard. He is naked but is covered from his knees to his waist by a blanket. His name is John Pastor. Woman: (stepping to his right side of the bed and smiling a smile of relief.) “ Well it’s about time Richard. Are you all right now?” John Pastor: (totally confused with no idea what’s going on.) “What the fuck is this? Who are you and where the hell am I?” (he tests the ropes and starts to panic a little) Woman: (trying to keep composure but is showing signs of frustration) “Come on now Richard, you know the script. You have to play it out like I requested or you’ll be regressed. John: “I don’t know what you’re talking about and my name isn’t Richard it’s John. You’ve got me mixed up with somebody else, lady”. Woman: (loses the smile and is now getting pissed off.) “Shit, I’ve been waiting six months for this scene and it’s costing me 500 credits.” John: “What the hell are you talking about? My name is John Pastor and I, I (pauses as he struggles to remember) “OK I can’t remember much but I do know my name and that I’m married and not to you. So obviously somebody’s screwed up. So will you just untie me and let me get out of here?” Woman: (shaking her head in disgust.) “Just great, I’ve heard of the odd defective cryer and I guess it was just a matter of time before I got stuck with one. (She pulls back the sheet exposing him completely.) John: “What the hell are you doing? I told you I’m not this Richard guy. Please just let me go.” Woman: (looking at his middle area and again showing her disgust.) “Well it looks like you’re not going to be any good to me in that area, are you? Oh well I guess that only leaves the finale. (She reaches under the pillow and brings out a large dagger.) John: (eyes wide, pulling desperately at the ropes, pleading.) “No! Please don’t do this. You’re making a mistake. I’m not Richard!” Woman: “Ya, (laughs and plunges the dagger into his chest killing him instantly.) “I know.” Today is Hawke’s Bay Day in New Zealand…
🌿 …and Hawke’s Bay is where we first meet my characters, Peter, Tim, Onion, Rangi, and more, in my first middle-grade novel, “Peter Little Wing”. 🌿 Check out this beautiful place, where you’ll find the Art Deco city of Napier, home to the New Zealand National Aquarium! 🌿 https://www.hawkesbaynz.com/ 🌿 Read all about Peter’s adventures in the wild of Aotearoa/New Zealand in my book, “Peter Little Wing”, available directly through my website (as well as Pandamonium Publishing House, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and more) It's that spooktacular time of year again, so welcome back to my 13 Horrifically Silly Days of Halloween! This year I'm doing something a little bit different. This year, I'm bringing you stories - today's reading on video, a short teleplay, some excerpts, chapters, two-parters, and lots of short stories...all from horror, horror-comedy, genre, and B-movie type authors. For Day 1, let's welcome very young children's book author Rosie Amazing, who reads her picture book, Skofer the Ridiculously Cute Swimming Spider. Check out Rosie's most "Halloweenish" books for this spooky holiday season...
Guess what’s making a triumphant return THURSDAY…
My 13 Horrifically Silly Days of Halloween blog posts!!! 🧟♀️ This year, I’ve got a new horror-ifically Halloweenie story for you each and every day up to and including Halloween (and a little bit beyond…yes, the Bonus Day of the Dead blog is back!)… 🧛🏻 Here’s what I’ve got in store for you this year (please keep in mind that A LOT of this content is NOT child-friendly): 🦇 Day 1, Oct 19 - Rosie Amazing and her reading of her picture book, "Skofer the Ridiculously Cute Swimming Spider” 🎃 Day 2, Oct 20 - Larry George Pickett and his teleplay script, "The Cryer” 🎃 Day 3, Oct 21 - Sandra Wilson and a preview of her new book, "Spooky Stories and How to Write Them” 🎃 Day 4, Oct 22 - James Dick and his short horror story, "Bloody Chatterbox” 🎃 Day 5, Oct 23 - Jen Frankel and her spine-tingling story, "The Kensington Howler” 🎃 Day 6, Oct 24 - JF Garrard and her terrorifically tense story, "My Girl” 🎃 Day 7, Oct 25 - RJ Downes and his twistedly odd short story, "Duck, Duck, Goose, Carl” 🎃 Day 8, Oct 26 - Tonya Cartmell and her flashy bit of fiction, "The End” 🎃 Day 9, Oct 27 - Allison McWood brings us Chapter 1 from her dystopian comedy novel, "I Broke the World: A Rollicking Dystopian Comedy” 🎃 Day 10, Oct 28 - Chapter 2 from Allison McWood's dystopian comedy novel, "I Broke the World: A Rollicking Dystopian Comedy” 🎃 Day 11, Oct 29 - You will get Part 1 from Kit Daven's "Every Day is Halloween” 🎃 Day 12, Oct 30 - Time to finish what you started from Kit Daven’s “Every Day is Halloween” 🎃 Day 13, Oct 31 (HALLOWEEN!) - An update on picture book sequel to “Mixter Twizzle’s Breakfast” …currently titled “Trick-or-Treating with Twizzle” (but I have a feeling that title’s going to change again down the road). You’ll get an excerpt from the book—see what’s changed since I gave you a preview into this story last time! 🎃 Day of the Dead (bonus blog) - Steve Bernardi and his story, “The October Carnival" 🦇 JOIN ME THIS THURSDAY THE 19th FOR DAYS 1 - 13 +1! On THIS BLOG and Triple Take's blog! |
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