Susan Shultz's Blog, page 5

Jersey

For Uncle Larry

Jersey?

What’s so great about Jersey?[image error]It’s not the psychedelic lights of the ferris wheel.

It’s not the Cherrystone clams.

It’s not the Tiki Bar.

It’s not the Kohr’s frozen custard in chocolate and peanut butter.

It’s not the jug handles.

It’s not Barnegat Light.

It’s not the Wawa.

It’s not the Garden State Parkway.

It’s not the sandcastles.

It’s not the bundles of beach badges.

It’s not the bicycle rentals.

It’s not the highway jammed with broken heroes.

It is cramming as many sunburned legs as you can into an empty life guard chair at sunset.

It’s scary stories your cousins tell you in the dark.

It’s cutting your feet on broken shells.

It’s stopping at Dairy Queen on your way.

It’s learning to sail a Catfish.

It’s failing to learn to water ski.

It’s the earliest memories of your first boat ride and the water stinging your eyes.

It’s the scent of salt-seasoned shingles and the weathered woods.

It’s the walk to the shore to learn to skip rocks.

It’s trying not to mourn the rocks we lose.

It’s waiting for each other in the horizon.

It’s the sound of the surf.

It’s the wake we leave behind.

Remembering  the tide that cannot sweep away a childhood of memories.

And a loss made easier by what we all can save.

It’s the taste of salt water —

from the beach that still remains.

Faith

[image error]Your cold, downward glance

Is my much needed warmth

I see your embrace

Though it’s Frozen and stark

In my desperate years

Those flesh and of bone

Prayed words to the heavens

But left me alone

I’ve left you a flower

To slowly decay

Together we mourn

What our lips cannot say

I won’t try to hold you

But saints say you care

At least, trapped in marble

I have faith you’ll be there

31 days of horror: The Haunted House

Ok, first off, since I missed Oct. 5, we will remember the late Donald Pleasence of the Halloween franchise, as it would have been his 100th birthday. No great monster is without his equally legendary foe. Just as Dracula had Van Helsing, and Frankenstein’s monster had, appropriately so, Frankenstein, so Michael Myers had the inimitable Dr. Loomis. Ever questioned, ever correct in his theories -ever remembered for a line that is famous in any horror fan’s list of memorable moments. See below. Rest in peace, Dr. Loomis. Haddonfield and all of us are less safe out here without you.

Now…onto today…

Have you ever seen a haunted house? You know the kind I mean. That old dark house that is usually at the end of a dimly lit street. The owners haven’t been seen for years…no one really knows why. The windows are broken and boarded. The shutters hang loosely on their hinges. The trees have grown wild and their branches grow wild against the weathered house — making strange noises in the night. There’s a high, vine covered fence around the property. Is it there to keep somebody out? Or is it there to keep some THING inside? It’s a house that people avoid walking past at night. Strange sounds come form within the walls, and its said that eerie lights have been seen both in the attic windows, and in the graveyard at the side of the house. 

You get the picture. The above intro is from a record I played into oblivion as a child, the Story and Song from Disney’s The Haunted Mansion released in 1969. It is spoken by the narrator who tells enthralled children and current 49 year olds of a young couple on a date who head into a decrepit mansion to escape the rain — only to find out they would have been better  off getting a little soggy. It is a very entertaining listen complete with a young Ron Howard as the misguided gentleman getting his date out of the weather.

But the “ghost host,” as he is called, raises a good point. What is a haunted house? Certainly movies and literature have all taken their own shots at interpreting what makes a house “haunted.” There are some theories that a deep rooted crime of rage leaves its mark at the house it took place in (“The Grudge”) , or it could be that people loved their house and Winona Ryder so much they wanted to stay, dance to Harry Belafonte and hang out there,

It could be that it is impossible to be Vincent Price and not have any house you enter immediately become haunted, or it could be that the circumstances of your and your loved ones’ death were too traumatic for you to even realize that you’re dead.

If you believe you are more than a walking-around heap of skin and bones, and in fact, have a deeper connection to the universe than compost, you likely think you have a soul. In that case, while you might not believe in moaning, chain-rattling, sheet covered beings, however cute they might be. 

Hey, even a car can be haunted. 

The definition of ghosts and being haunted varies as much as we are individual beings. We can have a haunted house or we can be haunted by our own ghosts — I know I am certainly guilty of it.

Yet, I will step off my Existential box and get back to what we are here to talk about — haunted houses and Halloween.

One of the most famous explanations for a haunted house is that a spirit remains unavenged for some injustice — especially if that injustice is related to their demise —  and will hang around hoping to find someone on the living side of the fence to help and/or to be driven crazy.

Thus, this brings me to one of my favorite horror movies, which happens also to be a haunted house movie, ever.

The Changeling.

Without an ounce of gore or bloody violent scenes (there is some violence but it isn’t bloody) The Changeling will chill you to the bone while simultaneously breaking your heart. There is a scene that I won’t explain other than to say it is one of the scariest scenes I have ever watched.

This seems innocent, doesn’t it? It isn’t.

Greed, heartbreak, loss, anger, and unadulterated terror. The Changeling is everything a haunted house movie should be. If there’s a dark night in October and you have some Jiffy Pop (a requirement), this is your movie.

My second terrifying haunted house movie — the only horror movie I had to shut off to catch my breath from being terrified, is The Conjuring.

Whether or not you truly buy into The Conjuring as a true story, the movie itself is so well done. The build up of suspense explodes into shocking and terrifying moments. The Warrens, upon whom this movie is based, if we believe their stories, have seen their share of haunted houses — including the Amityville Horror. Some say these stories have been exaggerated, but if we dissect everything we love into its components, we ultimately lose how good Shepherd’s Pie really tastes. Am I right?

While I have been mostly talking movies when it comes to haunted houses, I will veer into two books that have had a profound impact on my life.

The first being The Shining, by Stephen King. Putting aside my feelings on Kubrick’s movie interpretation FOR ONCE (everyone who knows me has said just now, while rolling their eyes), The Shining leads us into even better than a house — it is a hotel. The haunting of the The Overlook draws upon the theory that if a house can retain the emotions, both good and bad, of its residents — just imagine the plethora of emotions of a building with so many rooms, and so many transient residents. How much of life has the The Overlook seen? And how much of it has remained?

And all it took was one small boy with the lighter fluid of a psychic ability to ignite it.

Similarly, the Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson, is a house that also is weighted down by the darkness of the humanity that has passed through it. In this case, it is one of the very few books that I can say I can’t decide which is better — that or the movie.

If you aren’t familiar with Shirley Jackson, please stop by my house so I can punish you accordingly. (Just kidding). You really should be, though. Her books are magical, dark tapestries that we get lost in. The Haunting of Hill House brings together a handful of people to stay in a reportedly haunted house to document a real haunting. Most of them survive. Bwahaha.

No, I can’t even joke. It is a fascinating exploration of human interaction, emotion and the paranormal.

With both The Haunting of Hill House and The Shining, in the the end, we aren’t sure what exactly happened.  What we know is that broken and battered people, having been rejected and tossed around like pinballs by life, have found imperfect physical structures that they identify with. Both Jack Torrance and Eleanor Vance have never felt like the Shit, if I may use the phrase. They’ve always felt second best, and at the Overlook, and Hill House, respectively, they took their unhealthy codependence they exhibited through life to another level.

Maybe it was them. Maybe it was the house? Maybe we need a dysfunctional key to turn on the music box of these haunted houses. Regardless, they make us think about life, our relationships, our sanity, and our mortality. Haunted houses in the fictional realm can be an escape, a campfire tale, and chill down our spine. They are masterful tools for the horror genre — and another example of how those who just dismiss “horror” are missing out on the deep side of it, deeper than the graveyard next to Disney’s haunted mansion. Which you should really listen to if you can.

I will leave you to your thoughts after my long-winded essay on haunted houses with the opening of the The Haunting of Hill House, which I believe is the single greatest opening to any novel, ever, horror or otherwise.  I’m not alone, by the way.

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against the hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.”

 

 

 

31 days of horror: The scariest movie moment of all time

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Carol, that is not Avon calling.

I do not have a lot of time today to do a long post, but today i want to share what I without question believe is the scariest moment ever in a movie.

The weird part is that it isn’t a movie that I actually enjoy generally, nor do I think it is a great horror movie. In fact, you could argue it isn’t horror movie at all.

The babysitter theme is a great one for horror movies. Take the moral lessons of the babysitters in Halloween. The two who are looking for their boyfriends find someone else instead. The only one who survives is Laurie. As they point out rightfully in Scream, morality = vitality in many horror movies.

However, poor Carol Kane really did nothing to deserve this.

I think many of us, men and women, but often women home alone, especially with young children in our care, have understood that fear of vulnerability of the unknown. I know I personally have received anonymous threatening calls (before cell phones) with people saying they are right outside (but that’s a whole other post.) This theme is also used successfully in the opening of the movie Scream.

Here we also get a cameo of another horror movie supporting player, Jiffy Pop. 

Yet, still, When a Stranger Calls remains above all. It makes us flinch, like Carol, when we hear the phone ring. It is not longer an innocent alert of someone wishing to speak with you. It is a summons. It is a threat. It is a stinging, returning, terror.

You young people of today can’t understand what it means for a call to be traced or a landline. You can come and go as you please with your phones which almost always identify the person calling. The days of a landline meant you had to be near a house to make a phone call and in the years this movie was made, you had no idea who was calling you.

The build up was brilliant. The complete core-shaking scare of the climactic moment has never been duplicated in my opinion.

I’ve watched thousands of scary movies. And it is my firm belief that this is the scariest scene ever put on film. For a movie that didn’t exactly make a giant impact otherwise, this scene has endured.

Watch it here. 

 

31 days of horror: Chics rule

One of the things I both love and hate about horror movies is how women are treated and viewed. Often they are the dopes who trip themselves into a chainsaw after flashing all they’ve got for the camera. But just as often, they are kick-ass, brave, hilarious and occasionally sucked into a television.

Here are my top ten horror movie chics. Note I am not including science fiction otherwise Go Sigourney Weaver!

10. Karen Black. Oh, Karen. Burnt Offerings is a seriously messed up movie. Karen and

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Not sure that cameo belongs to you, Karen.

her husband and her young son and her aunt-in-law (Bette Davis, for crying out loud) visit a lovely country home only for Karen to be taken over by the personality of the ghostly matriarch. Karen also has these crazy eyes that are way too convincing. Points for Karen, rest in peace, in her performance in Night of 1000 Corpses. She was super fabulous as the most likely inbred mom of a wacko family preying on these charming young yuppies looking for an adventure (and they found it).

 

9. Heather O’Rourke. [image error]

Poor little Heather O’Rourke. Girlfriend gets huge props for her short life impacting the horror culture for all time. “They’re here.” I mean, who doesn’t love horror movies and feel the impact of that line and her incredibly powerful performance as Carol Ann. She went on for two more after that. And was able to convincingly portray the most picture perfect, adorable child lost to the netherworld, the tough kid able to fight off demons and the loving daughter upon return. Rest in peace, Heather, You were taken too soon.

8. Heather Langenkamp

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As much as I swear allegiance to the Halloween franchise, I gotta give it up to this girl who has been loyal to Freddy Krueger for how many years? There’s an undeniable chemistry between Nancy and Freddy and that’s partially because she has never dropped the rope in that tug of war. Nightmare on Elm Street will always be one of the most iconic horror franchises and a good deal of reason for that is Heather always coming back for more. One of my particular favorites was the New Nightmare in which Heather and principals of the franchise try to figure out how she, the actress, is being revisited by Freddy Kreuger in real life. Fascinating and perhaps true to life. But there’s no Freddy without Nancy. Just like the Sex Pistols.

7. Jodie Foster

No, I’m not going to start this by talking about Silence of the Lambs. Stop thinking I’m so predictable.

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Pretty sure this isn’t Martin Sheen’s favorite role.

Many, many years ago I both read a very creepy ass book and then watched a made for TV movie called The Little Girl that Lives Down the Lane. Much like many actors and actresses, this is one of those projects that makes me wonder how Jodie Foster ended up the success that she is today. However, I am quite grateful that she was and is because then I would not have…The Silence of the Lambs. Clarice Starling is everything I would ever want to be. Brave, tough, ethical, and a wise ass. Not to mention a hero. Jodie Foster may not be synonymous with horror, but the fact that she was part of one of the only horror movies that won best actor, actress and picture at the Oscars means I am taking her for mine. Deal with it.

 

6. Neve Campbell

[image error]Neve Campbell brought back the allure and power of Jamie Lee Curtis in her tenure as Sidney Prescott in the Scream franchise. Every movie wasn’t the greatest thing ever, but the first Scream movie thanks to Wes Craven was everything I personally ever wanted in a horror movie that I was deeply missing. She was brave, loyal, angry, tough and strong. We related to her vulnerability and cheered on her survival instinct. Sidney was just kick ass.

5. Adrienne Barbeau.

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Adrienne Barbeau shows her tremendous versatility in her two, in my mind, iconic horror performances. Though she isn’t doing memorable play by play like the legendary Rob Adams, her performance behind the mic in The Fog as Stevie Wayne places her as the narrator for both the city of Antonio Bay and for us, the viewers. Her sexy, sultry allure from her isolated lighthouse throne calms listeners until its time to warn them to RUN! RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN! from the fog. In the end, her voice is what brings the surviving community to their moral conclusion. Her role in Creepshow as the unrelenting hag of a wife is just as iconic. We all can’t wait for Hal Holbrook to feed her to the mysterious beast. Stevie Wayne, here, signing out.

4. Ingrid Pitt

Everything sexy, dark and luxurious about horror is embodied in Ingrid Pitt. She was the perfect voluptuous vampire in Hammer Films. She brought famous yet less commercial female vampires to light, like Carmilla, and Elizabet Bathory.  She charmed the fangs off them in The House that Dripped Blood as well. She was never vicious. Her fangs were always love or lust motivated. She made horror glamorous and glitzy.

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You’re probably in trouble.

My only regret is I missed my chance to have her make my outgoing voicemail message as she offered on her website (for a fee of course) before she passed on to the moors unknown. Watching Ingrid Pitt made you want to be a vampire. Or her to turn you into one. Almost.

3. Linda Blair

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I’m not sure what color Linda Blair’s eyes actually are because they are always glowing.

What parent in their right mind thought it was good idea to allow their child to play a possessed kid in the Exorcist? Whoever it was, let me know, so I can send them a thank you note. Linda Blair was simply out of this world in the Exorcist. Your jaw almost fell off from dropping. She has embraced her horror coronation much to the delight of her fans. She continued that lineage with Hell House (pray for death!!) – you can’t say it without the second part. She played a teen in an house from hell (naturally) who had to make it through a night of initiation alive. Luckily, Linda had seen much worse. Linda has had a very interesting life. She also dated Rick Springfield which resulted in his single, “I wish that I had Satan’s Girl!”

2. Janet Leigh

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I mean, if this photo accompanies your obituary, do I need to explain why she is #2 in this list? If so, she managed every single emotion in the human arsenal in a very short part of an incredibly groundbreaking and iconic horror movie. She managed to make a somewhat unsympathetic character evoke tremendous empathy in us. She felt sorry for a “psycho” and showed us all where that gets you. Good intentions and the like.

All hail. It’s Janet Leigh, for goodness sake.

Jamie Lee Curtis

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In a fairly easy and appropriate segue, Ms. Leigh’s daughter is my number one horror female icon. Jamie Lee Curtis broke the mold. She created the epitome of what every awesome horror actress should strive to be. She was introduced as Laurie Strode, owned the movie and has since owned the genre. She showed that the good girl not only survives, she kicks ass.

Aside from that, Curtis, not content to rest on her Lauries (get it, laurels?), she continued to own the Carpenter/horror department by playing the cool hitchhiker who stumbled into the wrong town in The Fog (one of the two horror credits she shared with her mom – along with Halloween H2O), and the popular prom queen in Prom Night.

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The Fog. In case it wasn’t obvious.

However, Laurie will always be my fav. Laurie is a wonderful friend, a devoted daughter, a dedicated babysitter, and a brave and tenacious survivor. Laurie is one of those people that transcends movie genres. She is just someone I want to be.

I mean, someone I want to be who isn’t being pursued throughout her life by a serial killer who may or may not be her brother depending on the franchise episode.

But still, Team Strode 4Life.

 

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

Bette Davis (Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, Burnt Offerings)

PJ Soles (Halloween, Carrie)

Karen Allen (Carrie, Poltergeist III)

Margot Kidder (Black Christmas, Amityville Horror, Lois Lane also)

 

 

 

 

31 days of horror: Children shouldn’t play with dead things

Would you settle for 30? Otherwise I promise to post something on Nov. 1 to make up for my lapse yesterday.

Inspired by Rob Adams’ project 365, in which he has committed to write every day for an entire year, (I am in awe at the dedication), I’ve decided to try to write something horror related for the entire month. (Try being the key word).

While I am not planning to do this in order of importance, I thought it would make sense to start where it all began. Technically, that could be Halloween, but even more so than that, and that’s a whole other post, one of my earliest memories of horror was a cheesy 70’s movie by anyone’s standards, including me.

I give you, (as they would rightfully say in Mystery Science Theater 3000 for this movie), Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things.

Way back before the cell phone and iPad/iPod, you had few choices to watch television in bed and hide it from your parents. At some point, my parents got a small yet still managing to be cumbersome television. It wasn’t this one exactly: But it was along these lines. It had a handle and I could plug it in and watch it under covers.

At the time, again, there was no actual cable television other than fuzzy UHF. However, Channel 9/11? One of those, would have a Fright Night on Friday night. And one glorious Friday evening, Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things was the lead attraction. [image error]

The plot was fairly simple yet also complicated. There’s a small theater troupe led by a Charles Manson/Famous Theater Director in his own mind, Alan, who visits a small island by boat for the evening. It isn’t clear whether they intend to workshop Barefoot in the Park on the island, or what, because it immediately becomes sinister.

Note:

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I mean, I’ve been to bad parties before – but not this bad.

After arriving, he leads them to a small hut they have to break into that looks like it has not been decorated by Chip and Joanna.  I mean there’s Shabby Chic and there’s just shabby, broken windows and falling apart.

Alan has decided he needs to do some sort of fraternity hazing to make sure everyone is committed to this off-off-off-off Broadway theater company. He leads them to the crumbling cemetery right out of a hack, backwoods, Rob Zombie movie opening scene.

MEANWHILE, back at the opening credits, we see two sinister looking fellows doing the darkness’s work at the same cemetery with our creepy 70s music dripping psycho-delic sound effects. But back to that.

Alan leads his disciples, eager to keep their 2 cent an hour acting job, to the cemetery for a sort of summoning. The idea is to wear a Joseph and the Amazing Demon Dream coat and call forth the dead for his bidding. I’ll say it now that Alan has a bit of a God/Manson complex and can’t seem to manage the same devotion of his idols.

Val, the Cher look-a-like with a zinger every minute mocks Alan’s attempts when they fall flat. We also have Anya, who is the loopy flower child with the utmost respect for all things part of life — that includes death.

The trailer! You have to watch it.

When the gang initially decides to dig up a unwilling corpse for their ceremony, the joke is on them in one of the only moments Alan is able to have the upper hand — he’s planted two of his most flamboyant actors to play frightening corpses that scare the paisley-patterned crap out of these 70’s guys.

They are let off the hook but not until everyone runs screaming. Not to be dismayed by his theatrics and failures, Alan decides it is totally normal to find the corpse who was evicted for the prank and bring him back to the shack for entertainment purposes. I mean, of course, who wouldn’t? Right?

Despite the rest of the crew showing apprehension, some of them manage to find the “humor” in this. Jeff, in particular, finds it hilarious to hold a faux wedding between Alan and the unfortunate Orville who is finding himself a (soon to be resentful) unwilling prop in the nonsense. The nonsense includes a pretend wedding between Alan and Orville. Because, why not? (a lot of reasons)

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Alan saying something obnoxious.

Alan, now enthralled with his power trip, starts abusing the new lovely actress, Terry, and her boyfriend, the Marlon Brando wannabe, Roy. Alan, who more than likely had a few restraining orders filed against him by the time he visited the island, forces Terry to kiss his and Orville’s ass to prove her devotion to the theater group (I mean, what is this, Shakespeare?) When Roy tries to defend her, Alan tells him he’s only around as long as he feels Roy, a slab of meat, as he calls him, remains pretty enough to dress his stage.

We are starting to look forward to the dead things arriving to see Alan at the very least.

Anya, the  only one with some kind of conscience, suddenly hears the dog whistle that tells her it probably isn’t a good idea to toss around and mock a dead body.  She scolds Alan that they are in for it if they keep it up. Karma etc.

Alan decides the best way to respond to Anya’s well deserved shaming is to say there’s no reason to respect the dead and he will, instead, feed Orville to his dog and use his bones for wind chimes. That isn’t weird at all, right?

Anya tries to apologize to Orville who, from Anya’s reaction, looking into his eyes, isn’t having it. It is too late for apologies so don’t waste your money on 1-800-flowers. He’s mad as hell and he isn’t going to take it anymore.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

While we are having the worst version of a Jerry Springer intervention ever at the shack, the two theater fellows who drew the short straw to clean up the cemetery prank have discovered Alan’s summoning, unlike his people skills, was way more effective than he thought.

One gets immediately turned into an unhappy meal as the most over done zombies begin to rise from their untended graves. The other is able to shamble back with his attackers shambling better behind him. He arrives at the shack with a ripped open neck and interrupts the “party.” Everyone starts to realize this might not just be a terrible weekend away. It might be a really, really terrible weekend away with zombies on top.

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He’s overdressed.

Fast forward that one by one the zombies are able to pull our Scooby Doo impersonators away. Val and Jeff at least come up with an idea to do the reverse summoning with the spell book. Unfortunately that only buys them some false hope as it must have told the zombies a bus of tourists just arrived at the other side of the island and they looked tasty. They walk off but return the minute Alan, Jeff, Anya and Val attempt to get to the boat.

Val and Jeff are goners, but Alan and Anya make a break break to the cabin. True to form, as the zombies are chasing them upstairs, where Alan and Orville were last nuzzling (don’t ask) Alan decides to toss Anya literally to the wolves. He pushes her back to the zombies who actually receive her gently and even the zombies look at Alan like, “Man, that was COLD. You’re a jerk!” If you are being morally judged by zombies, you probably need to revisit your priorities, bro.

Alan runs upstairs to the only escape and left and guess who is there! ORVILLE! And guess what else? The summoning worked on Orville too! And he’s probably got a couple of bones to pick with Alan after that abuse.

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Orville has something to discuss with Alan. Maybe their prenup. 

Get it? Bones? Bye Alan!

This movie is insane but it is such a groovy early 70s craptacular fest — if you figure out how, it is worth a bad Friday night movie fest and make sure you have some jiffy pop.

Just remember, always listen to Anya. She knows what she’s talking about.

 

 

 

Heavy

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I feel so heavy

Can hardly stay above earth

I weighed one twenty

My most comforting since birth

When someone admires

That I may have lost weight

I don’t need to tell them

Frustration’s what I last ate

Sometimes what’s heavy

Isn’t our thighs

Instead, in my soul,

It’s why my stomach’s denied.

Passed away

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This story was previously published by Spinetinglers U.K. in their 2008 anthology. 

Ingrid had grown to hate those two words in the twenty years she had been writing obituaries for the Berkeley Bugle. When would these relatives get a grip? she thought. The dead didn’t “pass away.” They didn’t “drift peacefully to sleep.” They died. Croaked. Expired. Ceased to breathe. Choked on their own vomit. Or, drowned mercilessly in a boating accident. They died painful deaths due to cancer, and left loved ones to pay the bills. Gasped for their last breath in the dying throes of emphysema.

But none of them “passed away.” Each day, Ingrid Fowler received at least one or two obituaries to process. By process, it meant she had to parse down to the facts, the bare facts. It was a newspaper, after all. The fluffy stuff could be reserved for the funeral speeches. And, with every year that had gone by, the chopping got harsher. And, so did the feedback. But Ingrid didn’t care. Tough luck, she said.

At first, Ingrid had been enthusiastic about writing obituaries. Just out of college, she was an eager twenty-one-year-old who couldn’t wait to begin her promising career in the newspaper business. Visions of Pulitzers danced in her head. She carefully wrote and edited each obituary, as if it were her own memorial. References like, “She brought laughter to all who knew her,” and, “His grandchildren brought him much joy,” were placed in thoughtful ways within the piece.

But in twenty years, Ingrid had learned that Pulitzers were not the norm, and that the newspaper company for which she worked rarely promoted women, and, in fact, few stayed after the first few years. Most of her peers had left The Berkeley Bugle to get married, raise families, and write some freelance articles when they had time.

Ingrid had never married, a fact she couldn’t explain specifically, despite questioning glances from her few married friends, and disappointed looks from her mother. The men she had dated were unsuitable. Irritatingly simple and ceaselessly happy, in a moronic sort of way. She couldn’t take someone who was happy all the time.

Ingrid wasn’t, by nature, an uplifting person. That could be why she had been deigned official obituary writer for the Bugle. Writing obituaries for twenty years might have been depressing for another sort of person. See, they just get keep coming. No matter what. People just keep dying. And, just when you think you’ve got this week’s obituaries all sorted away, a forty-year-old father of three comes through, after he drops dead of a heart attack jogging on a hot day. For another sort of person, it might get to be too much.

But Ingrid was perfect. She found writing obituaries comforting in a sort of way. As long as she was writing them, she had one-up on the dead. Those cold fish were suckers, losers. Unable to control their fate further, which was now held in Ingrid’s hands, poised at the computer key board. She smiled at that thought.

Currently, she was working on the obituary of one Paul V. Warren, III. Age seventy-one, at the time of his death, which, of course, was “blissful” and “peaceful” and surrounded by loved ones. “Yeah, right, he was probably a drunk who died of liver failure,” Ingrid said to herself. She was alone in the small Bugle office and frequently talked to her obituaries out loud. She preferred to process her obituaries in the evening, as it was quieter, without all the young reporters chattering excitedly about the latest unimportant story.

This way, she also could avoid her editor, Dan, who probably preferred it this way as well. In her earlier years at the Bugle, Dan Southers had been a managing editor and had shown a great interest in Ingrid’s career. He suggested they meet regularly after work, and that he could become her mentor. Despite his marriage and two young boys, Ingrid thought nothing of accepting the offer. It was a professional relationship, she thought. For the first few months, that was how their relationship remained. Dan would give Ingrid specific assignments or journalistic exercises outside of her normal job duties, and at their weekly meetings at Duffy’s Pub around the corner, he would go over the corrections and provide her with the next week’s assignment. Ingrid had been grateful for her mentor’s assistance, and tried to convince herself that she wasn’t just a little more than professionally excited on Duffy’s day. See, Dan, especially 15 years ago, was hot. Not in the Robert Redford kind of way, but in that powerful, intense, experienced, blue-eyed, sandy-brown-haired way. He was not very tall, but tall enough. He ran every morning, and his body was in perfect shape. He had a way of talking to Ingrid that made her feel as if he cared about more than her Associated Press style and her lead.

But Ingrid, who at the time was no slouch, either, had pushed these thoughts away and concentrated on her exercises. She had channelled her physical and emotional attraction for Dan into doing the best work she could to curry his professional favour.

But, as the weeks went by, Ingrid had found herself dressing a certain way on the night that she and Dan were to meet. Sixty pounds lighter at the time, with her hair past her shoulders, unlike her severe cut she sported now, Ingrid would pick out a stylish miniskirt, or a buttoned blouse, with just one button too many open. She’d catch Dan’s eye on her cleavage, or he’d brush his hand across her knee, reaching for his wallet or keys at the end of their mentor session.

One night, they stayed at the pub after they finished their exercises. Dan had been particularly pleased with Ingrid’s work on the week’s assignment and had said she almost didn’t need his mentoring anymore. That thought had shot fear into Ingrid, who had basically shaped her life around these sessions for the last several months. They had continued to drink beer after beer.

After a while, funny stories about the office led to talking about personal life. Ingrid had asked Dan about how he met his wife, and how long they had been married. “We were college sweethearts,” he said, beginning to slur a little, “been married almost seventeen years, but she… you know… things, they change.” “Change how?” Ingrid asked. “Well, you know, more interested in shopping and the kids than me…. my work, foolin’ around,” Dan said, and laughed at himself. Seeing her move, Ingrid leaned in, snakelike, and put her hand on Dan’s knee. “That’s a real waste,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later, he was fucking her on the copyeditor’s desk in the darkness of the Bugle’s office. Ingrid was ecstatic, as she fumbled to find the front of her miniskirt by spinning it around her waist and digging her bra out from the recycling bin.

Dan, however, was not ecstatic. In a sombre discussion the following day, he explained that what had happened was a mistake, and he apologized. Ingrid had just sat silently and listened, until Dan told her that the mentoring sessions could not continue. “But why not?” she had asked, fighting tears. “Our relationship is just no longer appropriate to continue outside the office,” a business-like Dan that she didn’t know, said. “If you need anything in the office, or have a professional question, see me any time but only during office hours,” he said.

Ingrid left his office, and part of her passed away. Through the years, their relationship remained cordial. Dan became the paper’s editor, and always treated Ingrid with cold respect. She thought it had been easier for him to avoid her, as her looks went to shit. She gained weight, went gray, and didn’t care what she wore.

When she asked Dan via e-mail if it was all right that she worked nights, the response came as quickly as a poisoned dart. “Absolutely.”

Snapping herself out of the twisted visit down memory lane, Ingrid took to Paul V. Warren’s obituary, to make herself feel better. “Well, Paulie, I may be an old spinster, but at least I’m not dead,” she said to the computer screen, and giggled. Reading through the information supplied by the family, Ingrid grew increasing irritated. “Who do they think this guy is? Elvis?” she said.

The notes included every job the man had held since he was old enough to walk, including a paper route, every degree and school he had attended including middle school, every club he had belonged to and every volunteer position he had ever held. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Who the hell cares about all this shit? Maybe Paul V. Warren deserves an entire paper to himself, to properly lament his passing,” Ingrid said. The standard obituary took up about eight inches in the paper. Paul V. Warren’s was twenty-five inches.

After listing that Paul V. Warren was survived by his wife, ex-wife, three kids, four step-kids, nieces, nephews, hedgehogs, and canaries, the memorial donations were listed, as to be made to the Friends of Zohoro. “That’s rich. Are they Zoro worshippers?” Ingrid snorted. She also laughed to herself, at the cryptic phrase at the bottom of the obituary. Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen. “Didn’t I see that on a bumper sticker somewhere?” she asked Paul V. Warren, as she cut the saying from the end of the obituary. She set to slicing and dicing the rest.

After a few quick moves of the keyboard, Paul V. Warren’s obituary was neatly in the eight-inch category, with barely a drop of blood lost. Granted, he lost all of his volunteer positions, half of his surviving relatives, and his master’s degree in archaeology, but who cares. Ingrid certainly didn’t. And, Paul V. Warren didn’t. He was a dead loser. In the world of the living, Ingrid had the last word. “Later, Paul V. Warren,” Ingrid said, as she shut down her computer for the night. She let herself into her studio apartment, which was stuffy and windowless for the most part, and dropped her purse on the side table. “I hate this apartment,” Ingrid said to no one.

She listened to her one answering machine message, which was the weekly sombre call from her mother, asking why Ingrid never comes to see her. The next message was almost unintelligible, barely a whisper. Ingrid played it back. Still, she couldn’t hear it. It sounded like a man but with a severe case of laryngitis. She flipped through the caller ID, but the number was unavailable. Oh well, she thought. Must be a wrong number.

Still, Ingrid felt uneasy. Her mind kept drifting to Paul V. Warren and the Friends of Zohoro. Why was she thinking about that loser? “Come on, Ingrid, that’s your billionth obituary–since when do they get to you?” she asked.

She poured herself a glass of red wine and sat in front of the television. Maybe it would take her mind off obituaries and whispering voicemails. Normally, Ingrid didn’t watch television. She did not enjoy comedies, so sitcoms were out, and the rest was just shallow celebrities that people used to fill up their own empty lives. “I notice no one ever includes how much television they watched in their obituaries,” she said, “Now, that would be an accurate statement for a change.”

Ingrid flipped through the remote control, until she came upon the black-and-white version of Night of the Living Dead. Ingrid wasn’t frightened by horror movies. She just thought they were stupid. But now, she found herself transfixed by the people trapped inside the old farmhouse, and the shambling, starving corpses after their flesh. Ingrid found herself wondering if Paul V. Warren looked like any of those corpses right now.

And, she got a chill throughout her. “Jesus, Ingrid, get a grip!” she said, pouring more wine. As she continued to watch the movie, Ingrid started to feel like her job very much mirrored the plight of the living, trapped in the farmhouse. Like them, she dealt with each dead person as they came at her, and like them, the dead just kept coming. No matter how many Ingrid processed, sliced, diced, and published, the dead would keep on coming until she herself was dead. What was that phrase at the bottom of Paul V. Warren’s obituary? She couldn’t remember now.

Ingrid decided to look up Friends of Zohoro on the Internet. There was no official Web site, but there were news articles. “Friends of Zohoro banned from Orange County.” The controversial Friends of Zohoro, a group that traces its origins to Voodoo, black magic, and other ancient mystical religions, has been banned from meeting in the area, after several animals have been found ritualistically sacrificed. Estella Warren, spokesperson and leader of the local chapter, has not denied the sacrifices, but says that it is ignorance and fear that oppress her group. “You refuse to learn from us, we can guide you and protect you, we bring you justice,” Warren said.

Warren.

Ingrid wondered if this Warren was related to the infamous Paul V. The next piece she found was a police report, describing the gory sacrificial remains. “A rabbit and a coyote were dismembered alive. Those responsible used their bare hands to perform the dismemberment. After the limbs were removed, the animals were disembowelled, one organ at a time, and the organs were neatly placed by their sides.” The police report also concluded that the sacrifice may have been performed in the rites of fertility, as it appeared an orgy followed. Ingrid shut the computer off and went back to the television. She had learned all she wanted of the Friends of Zohoro. Stupid freaks. No wonder Paul V. Warren, the loser, was associated with them.

She dreamed that night that she was buried alive and felt animals chewing on her ankles. At least, Ingrid thought that they were animals. She felt the dirt start to shift above her. Someone was going to rescue her! She pounded at the coffin lid and screamed, scratching her nails to blood.

Finally, the lid shook and opened, and Ingrid looked up into the night above her hole. There was a group standing around the open grave, a thin woman with long white-blond braids and colorful gown. Others faded into the dark. “Rise,” the thin woman said. And, Ingrid listened. She was helped out of the hole and stood by it. This must be the Friends of Zohoro. Of course, I’m dreaming about them, Ingrid said. How could I not have? Freaks. “Circle,” the woman said. The forms around Ingrid formed a hand-held circle. They began to mumble. It grew louder. “Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.” Over, and over. And over.

This is the phrase that was at the bottom of Paul V. Warren’s obituary, Ingrid thought. Makes sense that I dreamed that, too. But, she was beginning to get really creeped out. The night air felt too real on her pajama-clad body. In the distance, behind the circle around her, Ingrid saw a form.

Barely distinguishable in the dark, but there all the same. Then, another. Then, three more. Ingrid started to panic, when it looked like there were increasing numbers approaching, and getting closer. The chanting stopped. “You know them,” the thin woman said, pointing in the distance. “N-n-no, I don’t,” Ingrid stammered. “You know them. It is time,” the thin woman said. The faceless members took Ingrid’s arms and legs and held her down flat to the ground, easily overcoming her struggling.

As the approaching shapes got closer, in the moonlight, Ingrid could see that they resembled the corpses in the horror movie she had watched earlier, and laughed. “This is a dream,” she shrieked over the resumed chanting of the crowd. The first corpse approached and in a dirt-choked, disintegrated vocal chord way, said: James T. Scarpelli.

Ingrid’s mind raced. What the hell?

It was only as the creature leaned over and took a bite out of her calf that she remembered faintly that was an obituary she had cut in a half. She screamed in pain and fear. Her calf was bleeding from the open wound. Ingrid struggled. Dream or no dream, she’d had enough.

A teenage girl’s corpse approached her next, not too badly decayed, but milky-white eyes and razor-blade wounds glaring against her pale skin. Alice Stedman. Ingrid screamed again, as Alice bit off her right ear. “Who fucking cares that you were valedictorian in eighth grade!” Ingrid said, remembering and screaming.

As they kept coming, Ingrid calculated in her head and realized that there had to be thousands of obituaries out there that she had dismembered. Thousands of…. And she screamed and screamed. The last corpse she saw before passing out was an older gentleman, who hardly looked like a corpse at all. By now, Ingrid was almost eaten to death and was moaning in agony and hysteria.

The white-haired man almost looked kindly upon her face, as he leaned in to deliver his name. Paul V. Warren, III. Then he smiled, and bit off her face. The next morning, the landlady noticed that Ingrid’s apartment door was open and knocked cautiously. Ingrid didn’t like interruptions. “Ms. Fowler, are you all right?” she asked.

The old woman made her way into the apartment and heard nothing. It wasn’t until she entered the bedroom that she realized Ingrid was definitely not all right. Her five minute long scream ended in a blind faint. The police had never seen anything like it, and the only clue was a mysterious message on the voicemail. After many replays, the message was finally understandable. It sounded like a warning.

Not dead, not living, not gone, but risen.

All that was left of Ingrid fit about eight inches, nicely.

Waiting for hummingbirds

[image error]I sit

So still

Wait and watch

Barely breathe

There you are

A mini motor

Propelling a pixie

A glimpse of heaven

A tiny teetering

On the edge

Of the sky

Where am I?

I can’t move

While you strain

Beating back

The earth

Unafraid

Of altitude

Your

Minuscule moments

Fleetingly fluttering

Sipping sugar –

Remembering

Some never see

What We feel is

Worth waiting for –

As you vanish

I feel my heart whole

Grateful your wafer wings

Can lift my soaked soul

Take out

[image error]You smell rich.

I drag my jeans

And scuffed sneakers
To the bar
Of a restaurant I can’t afford –
Waiting for take out.

You, my fellow patron –
are my life’s 
Air freshener.
Your perfume worth more 
– Per ounce –
than My blood.
Through A fog of careless laughter.
Your weightless concerns float: 
-what condiment 
Is more seasonal,
Apple butter, or chutney?
– does Waterfront catering 
Work 
Without air conditioning?
– what is the true definition
Of black tie?
I breathe in your expensive cloud
I nestle in my essential oils
As you overbrag your Dartmouth grad
I wait for you to slip me a twenty,
Like a great aunt I once had.
If I cried in your fine Chardonnay –
Would you taste the bills i haven’t paid?
And as I take my bag to go
I don’t have much, but this I know
The world may love your Pulitzer pink – .
But I get the buy-back, and the bartender’s wink.