Tonight's the Night!

Okay!  Tonight is the night for our third Cult Fiction show; The Dark Hunt.  I gotta say I'm really digging how everything for this show is just falling into place and it's shaping up to be a hell of a night!  All these people who are helping pull this off are amazing, seriously amazing.

You see, I've got this vision, where we get people from every form of the arts and just smash them all together into this awesome creativity collective.  Sure, Cult Fiction is horror themed.  I love horror.  Horror makes for fun exciting shows.  But that's not the heart of it.  The heart of these shows is bringing everyone together.  Us authors tend to be solo acts.  We don't typically get to play with the other arts.  I'm tired of that.  Cult Fiction is the remedy.  Authors, Actors, Musicians, Dancers, Artists, Filmmakers (yes, I totally want indy films in this thing eventually, short plays, performance art, etc...), and Techies.  Yes, computer geekery, sound guys, web guys, etc... is an art in my book.  I sure can't do it.

So far, it seems to be working.  Tonight we'll really get a taste of it and I'm really stoked.  I don't think I'm alone.  People really like the idea of being a part of some giant cross-art event and the more folks who like it, the more we can hit this thing from different angles in the future.  Oh, am I talking about the future and we haven't even had this show yet?  Of course I am.  You know me.

See you tonight people!  Happy Hunting!

Image Inspired Mini Story #13

“Steph.  Wake up.  I think I hear something.”

Stephanie didn’t open her eyes and let out a long sigh.  “Of course you hear things.”

Eric sat up, letting a rush of cool air into the sleeping bag.  Steph shuddered.  “Will you cut it out?  You’re giving me goosebumps.”

“No, really.  I heard something.”  Steph sunk deeper into the bag, seeking warmth.

“Yep, that happens.”

Eric lowered his voice.  “I think it’s outside the tent.”

Stephanie didn't attempt to conceal her annoyance.  “Well where else would all the nature be?  Unless it’s inside the tent, I wouldn't worry about it.”

“I saw this show on cable about teenagers who would sneak around the woods, looking for campers.  When they found a tent they’d sneak up and circle it and then just beat the shit out of it with bats and sticks.  I heard some noises like that, lots of things around us.”

Stephanie laughed.  “So you think we’re surrounded by maladjusted youth?”

“Don’t joke, Steph.  People die that way.”

She shifted to her side, turning away from him.  “No, no they don’t.”

“I saw it on…”

“Doesn’t happen.  Now let me sleep already.”

He didn’t speak.  He flopped back next to her, clearly dissatisfied.  Outside the wind blew through the trees, slowly rustled the tent as if it were breathing.  The crickets and cicadas buzzed in waves, rising and falling with a rhythm louder than a city.  Stephanie started to drift off when Eric sat up again.

“What if it’s a bear?”

Her temper flared.  “Godamn it, Eric. Enough!”

“I heard a bunch of them.  It could more than one.”

“There aren’t any bears!”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we’re in central Illinois!  There are no bears!  No mountain lions!  No wolves!  Nothing!”

“But…” Stephanie cut his protest off before he could voice it.

“No! No more! There is nothing to be afraid of! The biggest things in this forest are deer! Big-assed, grass-munching, stupid herd animal, fucking harmless deer!”

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Cult Fiction: The Dark Hunt Show Schedule

Here it is!  Our third Cult Fiction show!  This one brings you more creepy goodness than you can shake a tentacle at!  We've got horror stories!  We've got awesome actors reading!  There's a sexy mid-show burlesque!  There's a not quite as sexy but still equally awesome band playing after the stories!  There's freaking S'mores!  Facebook event details "here".  Spread the invite!

• 8:00 - Doors Open, DJ 3RIC starts in with the atmosphere.

• 8:30 - Act One Begins
•  The Rites of Passage:   A hunter stalks strange prey at the end the world.  
• Written by Mike Martinez
• Read by Christopher Skyles.
• Halfway to Shore: A search reveals a terrible punishment for the future.
• Written by Michael Penkas
• Read by C.S.E.Cooney
• Inhabitant: Some real estate is better left un-sold.
• Written by Jude W. Mire
• Read by Kalina "Kitten" McCreery

• Mini Intermission: S'mores and Booze!
  
• 9:15 - MiaMorte provides amazing transforming werewolf burlesque!
  
• Mini Intermission: Booze and S'mores!
  
• 9:30 - Act Two Begins
• Blue Eyes: A feral lust takes a dangerous turn.
•  Written by Brendan Detzner
• Read by Kiersten Thomsen

• Menders Bounty: The cost of health care just got deadly.
• Written by Eric Cherry
• Read by Amanda Eaton

• Intermission: Last chance at the S'mores, Lauren pours more drinks, and DJ 3RIC sets the tone.
  
• 10:30 - Art Galt's Widow take the stage by force and play until their fingers bleed!  Or, maybe they just go on stage and play until they finish.  Be there and find out!

There you have it!  All this for five measly bucks!  Not even nice crisp ones.  We're not picky.  We're good with measly ones.  See you there horror fans!

Long live the cult!

Carmilla Preview!

So Jill and I got to sneak into the prescreening(?) of Camilla last night thanks to Sara "Oh my god my vampire teeth are huge" Gorsky!

Okay, so anyone who knows me knows how much I like vampires; not much.  In fact, not really at all.  I'm tired of them. I'm tired that they've turned into people and aren't really monsters.  I'm tired of keeping track of different mythologies and types.  I'm not a fan.  When DO I like my vampires?  Well, that's simple.  When they're monstrous.  When they kill, feed, and only vaguely recall what it was like to be human.

Carmilla, and all the vampires in the play, are my kind of vampire!  They range from downright feral to wicked seductive, but it's clear, their main goal is to feed, to kill.  They might get conflicted a bit about whether or not they want someone to join them in this endeavor, but they are what they are, monsters.  I heartily approve.  Some of the story might seem to be made up of known elements, until you realize this story predates Dracula by a quarter century.  Carmilla is one of the primary roots of this giant wicked tree we call vampirism.  Plus, it's got lesbians, something fantastically risque for the time it was written.

Michaela looking awesome after snacking on Brittany

Everyone did a GREAT job with the acting.  I know more than half the cast but it didn't distract at all.  I am constantly amazed by these people's ability to breath life into fiction.  Both Michaela and Sara pulled off sexy/terrifying amazingly!  From Scott's hunchback to Brian's German General, everyone was awesome!

Now, I MUST give props to the production value.  This is the most gorgeous looking WildClaw production yet.  The set is dynamic and interesting, the mood is totally atmospheric, costumes are spot on, and Paul knocked the lighting out of the park.  Seriously, I think half of the tone was carried by the eerie shadows and colors in the lighting.  Really cool.

Oh, and blood.  They've got plenty off it, spattered around.

If you're reading this you're likely a friend of mine.  You should go see this.  It's playing for like a month. Here's a link to Wildclaws site and their preview trailer.

http://www.wildclawtheater.com/

The Ol' Drawing Board

No, I've not gone insane and started scribbling on the walls.  I put up paper, see?  Requires forethought.  I'm not entirely mad yet.  What is it?  Why (barring lunacy) would I do such a thing?

Lets take a step back before I tell you what it is.  Back to last year, the months before we opened up the frame shop.  We knew we were getting a bit of cash and we wanted to invest it into a business venture.  We kicked around several, but in the end, opening up a "flesh and blood" retail location seemed like the best route to go.  So far it's been every bit as difficult as they say opening a new business is; but it's working.  Slowly but surely, Forte' is building a customer base and we just might make it.  It was a good decision.

One of the ideas that had got left on the cutting room floor for a couple reasons; 1st - We needed a programmer for it and programmers/web-guys are notoriously flaky and difficult to work with and 2nd - They're expensive.  Now, while we could have afforded #2, the existence of #1 was a pretty big factor in going with an idea we could control all on our own.

So a couple weeks ago I touched base with an old friend.  Coincidentally the best programmer I've ever met and he's actually reliable.  As a result he's always been in demand, off on other projects, and wasn't in the running for consideration.  Well, guess what?  He's got a chunk of time on his hands, likes the idea, and we're working on it.  The whole thing is a great big green light and is poised to swallow a giant percent of my life.  This is good.  This will make some money and will help keep the frame shop floating until we're established in the neighborhood.

So what the hell is it?

It's a game.  Of course it's a game.  I'm a game designer!  You'll be able to play it.  For free.  Online.  Soon.  Beta within a month or two hopefully.

So that's the good news!  I should really go get back to it.  Lots and lots to do.  I'll keep you posted as things develop and there's more to share.

January Beastie - The Bathe

The Ecology of The Bathe

I was once told the story of an unfortunate fellow who found a strange pebble, shaped such that it gave the impression of a man curled up into a fetal position.  It was no larger than a coin.  According to him, when he held the stone for too long, his palm began to bleed.  Miraculously, the liquid was absorbed by the rock, like a sponge.  Alarmed, he brought the curiosity to a university professor he knew and showed him the process again.  Several times he repeated this, trying to find explanations from geologists and naturists.  He noticed that the stone was getting larger, until it was nearly the size of a tropical coconut.  Shortly thereafter the man was found dead in his home, entirely exsanguinated!  In addition to this horror, over the next few weeks several more people were found in the same state.

This evidence leads me to believe that what the man had found was no ordinary stone, but was, in fact, a Bathe.  No one knows the origins of the Bathe.  They are monsters of old, perhaps demons (if they are, then they are corporeal, there is no spiritual aspect to the Bathe), or possibly another species (most certainly parasitic if this is the case).

A Bathe is a creature with a life cycle governed by hydration, more specifically, blood hydration.  They must regularly wash their bodies in blood, absorb it into themselves, to obtain a near human form.  Yes!  These fiends can take upon them our visage if they’re lubricated enough by our own vital fluids!  With a lack of such sustenance they shrivel, harden, and eventually shrink into a small, dense stone, awaiting the unhappy chance that someone might stumble upon them and provide what they need.

Make no mistake though, while the Bathe may, through osmosis, obtain the outward appearance of humanity, inside, they are anything but.  These creatures require no organs like normal men and can grow foul appendages within the hollows of their bodies.  They will appear human so they can hunt with ease, but when threatened their bodies can erupt the most disturbing limbs to ensure their defense; tentacles, pincers, and claws!

There is little known about how to kill such a beast besides depriving it of blood.  It will eventually revert to its stony prison.  In this state, perhaps, they may be crushed and ground to dust (although I fear even that may survive with ample amounts of blood).

Do not assume in cases of blood draining that the vampire is the culprit!  We must never forget that blood draining is not the sole perview of such fiends.  There is more darkness in the shadows than we know.

Image Inspired Mini Story #12

My father, my dead father, was so reviled that even the ghosts would not tend to his corpse.

I’d hauled what was left of his body to the pier myself and chained it securely in thick necklace chain.  I sacrificed a grackle and used its blood to adorn him.  Seven stumpy candles were lit with the birds feathers.  I ate the feet.  The ghosts came.  They had to.  The dead cannot ignore a summons done propper.

But they would not touch his body.  I sat in the funeral barge and argued with them.  Tried to convince them to carry him over.  They would not.  I ignored the sailors on the dock.  Broad shouldered spitting men who agreed with the dead; my father deserved no peace for what he’d done.

The ghosts melted into the night.  Once the sailors saw that there would be no redemtion, they too, faded into the dark.  I was alone in the gently rocking boat with two mangled corpses; one family, one fowl.

I looked down at the man.  His features were clear, even beneath the cuts and bruises.  No amount of stones could crush a visage like his.  It was too strong, too determined.  It was too much like my face.

A cold wind tossed my hair as I cast the line.  I raised the umbrella sail and, carried by the chill, we headed into the choppy sea.

“You do not deserve this.” I said.

At my feet, my fathers broken face smiled.

 _________________________________________

Found this image by an artist on Deviant art, Pepachan.
Check out their stuff here.

Image Inspired Mini Story #11

“It looks like it might rain. Are you sure this is a good idea right now?”

“You’re not made of sugar.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I want to get soaked though.” As if to prove her point, a low growl of thunder rolled in the distance.

“That’s nowhere near here, we won’t get more than a drizzle. Besides, there’s plenty of cover if we need it. C’mon.”

Clara watched as Wayne Warrow strode through the amusement park gates without hesitation. He would go without her, she knew, so she hurried after him.

“It hardly looks open.”

“It hardly is.”

The fall air was heavy with moisture, cold, and windless. They cast no shadows. No, that wasn’t quite true. Everything was in shadow and theirs were swallowed before they hit the pavement. The carnival music was a dull underwater thing distorted by repetition, crummy speakers, and untrimmed bushes. Any people they passed were going in the opposite direction, hands sunk in their pockets for warmth. Wayne ignored them.

Clara wanted to ask if he was sure they needed to do this, but didn’t. Every time the words came close to escaping her lips she stopped. She knew what he would say. She knew he was right. It was hope that they’d made a mistake that kept welling up. It wasn’t something she should nurture. Not now.

They rounded a bend in the walkway, moving away from the carousel. All of the ice cream booths had been closed for the year and the food stands for the night. In the trees above them hung dozens of dark lanterns. None of them cast light. They looked like decorations, old decorations. Something the park had once run, but over time had given up on changing bulbs; a remnant of something dead and long gone. Clara knew better.

“This spot will work.” Wayne stopped walking and offered her his hand.

She didn’t hate Wayne. Not really. But she was tired of him. Of his correct hunches, his clipped tone, and his arrogance. She wasn’t impressed with the zigzag double W of his signature anymore. She was numb to his good looks. Mostly, she was upset because she knew he was tired of her too, and somewhere, it stung. She consoled herself that he likely felt the same sad ache and took his hand.

Wayne raised his voice and spoke with more formality than required. “By the authority of the Wardens I command you to show yourselves!”

Clara didn’t say anything, just added her will to his. The words were really a formality. Nothing in the prison had ears to hear. Their effort proved sufficient. One by one the lanterns began to glow with an amber luminescence as the inhabitants made themselves known. In less than a minute all of the old lanterns were painting the trees a sickly rust color. Clara felt it on her skin through her coat.

“I don’t see anything. Maybe I was wrong.” Doubt from Wayne was normally something to savor, but not this time. Not when so much was at stake.

“No,” she said, pointing to single dark box. “You weren’t. Something has escaped.”

__________________________________

It's been too long since I did one of these. Sorry for the wait. I love this image and I've tried to figure out where that Ferris wheel is; no luck.

Image Inspired Mini Story #10

Robert Loting held his coffee cupped in shaking hands. They were big hands, washed clean, but they looked bloody. They had no skin on the knuckles. The coffee was heavily sugared, dark, with no cream. Officer Brighton entered the room followed by another man.

“Hey Bob, sorry about the wait. How you doing?” Robert managed a smile for a moment before the absurdity of ever being happy again slapped it from his face.

“I’m here.”

“Good, good Bob. This is the sketch artist I was telling you about, Neal. You think you’re up to talking to him?”

Robert nodded. Neal reached out his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Robert released his coffee long enough to shake. “So how does this work?”

“Well, I give you and Neal some privacy. He asks you some questions, you watch what he draws, give him input, and you go from there. Don’t worry about rushing this. You just do your best; take your time. If you need anything, you remember where my desk is right? Just down the hall.”

Robert nodded. “He’s going to think I’m crazy.”

“Now, Bob…”

Neal interrupted. “Mr.Loting, I’m not here to judge. I’m just here to draw.”

Officer Brighton nodded. “You just describe what you saw, we’ll worry about the rest later. Deal?”

Robert mumbled around his coffee. “Deal.”

The door to the small room shut and left the two men alone. Neal opened up a case, set out several pens and a large notepad. He sat down.

“So tell me about her.”

Robert flinched. “I thought I was going to describe… to describe… him… it.”

Neal picked up a charcoal pencil. “Not yet. Lets loosen you up a little. How long were you together?”

Robert clung to his coffee. “Four years.”

“Married?”

“No. She was divorced. Said that being married ruined everything. She didn’t want to do it again.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“She was too reasonable sometimes. Practical, you know? Had her feet grounded in reality. She never would have believed…”

Neal started sketching. “She was attractive?”

“What… well, yeah, I thought so. She was a health nut, ridiculously thin. Not everybody was into how she looked, so brittle. I loved it. I liked thinking she was fragile.”

“Her hair?”

“Short. You know, modern girl.”

Neither man looked at one another. Neal sketched quickly and Robert watched a bubble skirt the lip of his coffee like a child clinging to the edge of a pool.

“How did you meet her?”

“A party.”

“Did you two go to a lot of parties?”

“Yeah, we did. She went to more. She’s more, what’s the other –verted? Not introverted, like inside, the other one.”

“Extroverted.”

“Yeah, extroverted. I always forget that one. It reminds me of a bug. Like exoskeleton.”

“So she was out a lot.”

“Yeah. I used to think she was a social butterfly, but after a while, I just couldn’t see her that way. She was just a fly, going from one shit party to another.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Fuck man, how do you think? I just wanted to be with her and she was never in the right spot.”

“That must have been difficult.”

Robert shook his head. Took a long drink of coffee. “No, not really. I loved her, you know. Her head was all fucked up. Like there was a tangle of crossed phone lines, nothing really making sense. You can love someone even if they’re messed up you know.”

“I know.”

“You can love people through just about anything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What can’t you love them through?”

Robert set down the empty coffee cup. He leaned over and rubbed his eyes with a thumb. “When they crush your spirit. When they do that, then you’ve got nothing left to love with. You can’t help anybody when they’ve broken your soul’s bones and it can’t fly anymore, let alone carry them. When that happens, it’s over. Then you’re both gone.”

Neal put down his pencil, pushed his chair back from the table.

“I’ve heard enough. I think we’re done here.”

“But I haven’t described it yet! The thing that killed her! We were just talking about Alice. What the hell were you drawing?”

Neal closed the notepad and stood. “Don’t worry about it Bob. I think I’ve got a good enough sketch.”

________________________

This sketch is from a guy named Alan Campbell and more of his art can be found at http://emohoc.deviantart.com/ He mostly does model photography and photoshop composites of girls. But hey, this is a nice little deviation that I enjoyed quite a bit!

2011!

Alright, so in a continuing effort to get this blog off the ground (and actually interesting) I've made a few changes.  I added a bar on the top so it'll be easier to see where I'm going to be doing readings and categorized a few of the sorts of things I plan on doing regularly.  Blogspot search feature sucks so I figured this is the best way to help out.  Hopefully this makes things easier to follow!

Image Inspired Mini Story #9

The dawn soaked through the thick canopy at the cost of losing its nature. It was not a warm illuminator here. It emerged through mossy branches as a heavy yellow thing, tainted with a deeper hue. The fog accosted it, eliminating any joy or comfort it may have contained. The trees tolerated it, but only barely.

It was an eerie thing, this morning that Chalice walked through. She’d awoken in the darkness with a pain in her belly. Rising, she left Paul sleeping in a tangle of silk and went to the bathroom. Cool fluorescents revealed two tiny holes in her nightgown and two more in the skin below her belly button. Emerging from the small wound ran two spider gossamers. She frowned and ran her fingers along them. They did not break and felt much more like string than a normal web strand. They trailed down her body, across the tile floor, and back into the bedroom.

She followed them.

By the time they reached the front door, she realized that someone was reeling them in on the other end. The excess did not loop out behind her and she occasionally felt a slight tug in her belly. Chalice didn’t bother with shoes. She walked across the cold dew of the yard and into the forest.

Paul had been so insistent on living on the edge of the woods, but they’d always scared Chalice. She never told him though. That would be silly. Besides, she loved him and Paul loved these woods. He was a gentle soul, prone to long walks in the twisting paths and sitting on the back porch with his coffee, just staring at the swaying boughs.

“Some things Chalice, are just too mysterious to understand, and that’s what makes them beautiful.” he’d said.

“They’re just trees. It’s just a forest. It’s pretty, but hardly difficult to figure out.”

He’d tilted his head and smiled. “I think there’s more there.”

She barely felt the soft mosses beneath her feet. She moved like a ghost through the branches, feeling like a mere shadow of her self. The muffled stillness was like a dream. This couldn’t be life because it was too serene, too strange. Ahead, strung between the trees, was a web; a glistening pattern of white lines and curves, swaying gently. It seemed more solid than she did. Her ethereal hands coiled into the weave, her chest pressed against its gentle recurrence, her eye rested on the spider.

It was small, so very small. Its legs were long and barely thicker than a strand. Its fangs were tiny reflections, its body; an emerald. She could have crushed it with a finger, but she had none. Her soul was trapped by this tiny little mystery. She felt sad for Paul. The thought of him waking up next to her lifeless body sent chills through her. Her bodiless screams were wind.

The spider’s eyes glimmered. “It takes something wondrously fragile to catch something so delicate, so well hidden.”

She pulled, she struggled, and as the spider began to feed, her spirit faded away.

Dawn continued.

Image Inspired Mini Story #8

“The air here tastes like chalk.”

“I know. It’s the ventilators. They keep it dry in here.”

“It’s very dry. My fingers feel smooth all the time.”

“Good for them.”

I want to take his hand. To touch something other than concrete, but I don’t. He wouldn’t take it right. It’s already awkward, both of us wearing only smiley-face belly scars and tattoos.

“Have you ever seen anyone else? Any women?”

“No. Only you.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Nothing to count with.”

“Your hair?”

“Like yours, it grew out long ago. Useless.”

“It’s not useless. It’s good for resting your head. Do you remember when you first came here? Your bald skull on the ground when you slept?”

“No.”

“Well, then you’ve been here longer than me. I still remember.”

We pass another spotlight. I’ve seen thousands, and never a burnt out bulb. Every bulb I see, I wonder who’s changing them. Every bulb I see, I get angry at myself for thinking the same damn thing. Our beards make our shadows look like goats on the far wall. Long man-goats. It makes me think of meat.

“Have you ever found food in here?”

“No.”

“Even rats or anything?”

“No.”

“Me neither. They weren’t lying.”

“They never lie.”

“Everyone lies sometimes.”

“Not them.”

I hadn’t believed them. When they cut open my stomach and shoved that black ball inside it. When they sewed me shut and told me I’d never need to eat again. That it was part of my punishment. Now I believe them.

“If they don’t lie, then you think there’s a way out?”

“Yes. And no.”

“What do you mean?”

“There could be a way out. But that doesn’t mean we can use it.”

“Oh.”

I’m sick of the chalk taint in the air. I raise my arm to my mouth and start licking, just for the taste. The only other flavor I can get in here; my own. He looks at me and scowls. We haven’t been together very long, and sometimes I think he would prefer to be alone again.

Other times, I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about eating me.

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Not sure where this image came from. I like the curvy cool endless feeling of the thing though.

Image Inspired Mini Story #7

Paul had always done well with transitions. When his parents divorced, they were both concerned about how it would affect his behavior. They had as many worries about him as their discord ridden and distracted hearts could muster.

“You know Daddy still loves you, even though he’s not here during the week, right son?”

“Right Dad. I understand.”

Paul took things in stride. Even a quarter century later, when his own wife left him for the convenience store clerk who got her coffee everyday, he adjusted. His daughter tried to.

“It’ll be okay honey.” He comforted her when he could and then went home to his apartment. He was as good a parent as could be, for her sake. The change didn’t bother him though. It was expected. It was just the nature of things.

He shaved his head the year his mother died. He bought new clothes. He was mercury. You can’t crush someone so liquid. He lived for spring and summer, those wild seasons where the days felt as random as his soul. His daughter got older, drop by drop. She moved to Arizona. She left on a rainy Friday in April. Told him she wanted the sun everyday. Wanted something concrete. Paul couldn’t even understand what she meant by that. He just told her he loved her and let her go.

Today, the wind kicks fall leaves around like a group of invisible children. Paul stands on the street, letting them run around his legs, looking out over a vacant lot with a trailer in the center. Dozens of pumpkins surround it. Scarecrows lean against it. He likes the jack-o-lanterns a lot. Wonders what face he’ll put on his this year. He should do something special, now that they’re all gone.

He looked into the orange sunset, feeling the warm on his face in the still moments between the crisp gusts. He wants…

He wants to change even more.

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This bit of art is from a guy named Liam W on Deviant Art. He hasn't got a ton posted, and seems to be on a University inspired hiatus, but still, what he's got is very cool! http://eluu.deviantart.com/