Stuart R. West's Blog, page 34

Attack of the Giant Mutant Bug Monsters!

Not a hoax! Not an imaginary story! The tale I'm about to recount is the God's honest truth.
My mother's been besieged by giant, mutant bug monsters. 

Okay, let me back up a bit... Maybe my mom's not the best eyewitness to such claims of truth, for you see she's 88 years old, has Macular Degeneration, and is legally blind. She can't see a thing (or as she puts it, "I can't see beans!"). So she's probably not the most credible person to put on the stand, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Anyway, my brother texts me, "Have you heard about Mom's giant bugs?"

I wrote back, "No, but tell me about it!"

He just responds with, "ask her to describe them." Well, for once I'm almost excited to call her.

"Mom," I say, "I understand you've been attacked by giant bugs?"

Silence. Finally she answers, "You've been talking to your brother, I guess."

"Yeah, he might've mentioned something about them. What's going on?"

"Well," she says, "this giant bug swooped into my apartment when I opened the door. Scared the tar outta me. He looked like a green bean with a three inch stem and a fan-tail and an awful tiny face. There's a big one and a little one and I can't catch them. They keep going for my hands and my face. But the big one lost his fan-tail since he got in. They're still in here somewhere, though."

Mr. Sensitivity that I am, I laughed long and hard. 
"I don't think it's so funny, Stuart," she said. "Wait 'till you get one of these bugs, then you and your brother won't think it's so funny."

"Mom, I'm sorry. But you admit you can't see 'beans.' But your description of the flying green bean monster bug is pretty detailed. I guess that's one bean you can really see." I couldn't help myself, continued sniggering.

"I don't think it's so funny. Wait 'till you get one, then we'll see if you think it's funny."

"Mom," I said, "I'd love to see a flying, giant mutant green bean bug monster."

It's true. I would love to. But everyone knows green beans with three inch stems and fan-tails don't exist.... Or do they?

What's that buzzing sound? Is that...is that a...flying green bean?

Speaking of weird beasties, you'll find a plethora of them--a zoo's worth--in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley.
 

Conundrum of conjurors

While in the shower the other morning, I hear my wife shout my name. I recognize that urgent tone and know (for whatever reason) I'm in trouble. Sure enough, she bursts into the bathroom, whips back the shower curtain in her best Norman Bates manner. 

Naked and vulnerable, I see that she doesn't have a knife in her hands, and timidly say, "Yes?"

"Why does Harry Potter wear glasses?" she replies. "Still?"

Relieved I wasn't in trouble, I told her it was a dang good question, and she went off to work. Now, I suspect I know how my wife's mind works better than most people, but I still have no idea where this question came from. And it was a whopper. I gave it much more thought while in the shower (it turned out to be a very, very long shower).

One would think that being a wizard, weak vision would be one of the first things to go, right? I mean, come on, everyone knows spell are less risky than laser surgery.

But my thoughts took a turn for the dark (as so often happens). I'm glad we don't live in a world of wizards and sorcerers. From my own little Kansas backyard of the world, I'm envisioning a worse place than it already is. 

It seems everyone owns a gun in Kansas these days, and they're not afraid to whip them out and wave 'em around if the feeling arises. But just imagine what would happen if a wizard got hacked off at some guy for nearly clipping him on the highway. I suspect even genteel Harry Potter is susceptible to a bit of road rage now and then. Instead of gunfire, though, it'd be POOF! The driver's a goldfish, thus causing further wreckage. 

What if a wizard--even a good wizard--decided to do away with death and disease? We're looking at overpopulation, eventual pestilence, food shortages, worse than a Logan's Run scenario. 

Undoubtedly, wizards would soon be running the world, rounding up we mere "muggles," separating us from our families with a giant wall to keep us out and...and...

Wait.
Too late. The wizards have taken over! Run for your lives!

Since I'm on a drama-queen roll, please do check out the hysterical histrionics of Zach, a vapid male entertainment dancer (NOT a stripper!) and his put-upon sleuth sister (with four kids in tow), Zora. May as well begin at the first book in the series: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock.

Oklahoma Manly Man's Weekend

Mother's Day has come and zipped by once again.

No one deserves a more awesome Mother's Day gift than my truly wonderful, warm and caring mother-in-law. Caregiver extraordinaire, she had her hands full with ailing friends and neighbors while not saving much time for herself.

Which is why my wife and I decided to travel to Oklahoma Friday night, then my wife would take her mother away for  a quick, relaxing getaway. That left me with my wife's father overnight. Bonus points: my wife's bro came down to spend time with us as well, cool guy that he is.

So, I'm thinking: kick-ass! Manly macho coolness! We're gonna sit around, drink beer, belch loud and proud, pass gas (maybe even light one up with a lighter for the more daring of us), and visit a strip bar! Hoo-HAH!

No repercussions! Heck-fire, the women wouldn't be back until Sunday. Hellz yeah! Rah!

Sigh...

It's funny how hopes get dashed quietly sometimes, weaker than a feather silently drifting down to the floor.

What did we three rugged, manly-macho-men neanderthals do on our free pass?

We went shopping for flowers and cosmetics for Mother's Day. I considered trying on some khakis to see if they made my butt look big. Honestly, we probably would've done each others' hair, but have you seen me lately?
By days end, my bro-in-law left and we two remaining masculine men packed it in by 10:00. Shopping can be SOOO tiring. Oh, sure, when our prostates called out to us in the middle of the night, we stumbled quietly past one another to conquer the bathroom, but we did it in the most macho of ways: in our boxers.

Frankly, I welcomed the women back with open arms, not to mention more than a little relief. Living like a caveman for 24 hours plum tuckered me out.

The men in Gannaway, Kansas, don't get more rugged, working the mines as they do all day long. Did I mention the mines are haunted? No? Did I tell you that Ghosts of Gannaway is based on a true story?
 

Winnah, winnah, Sizzler dinnah!

Between marriages, my heart belonged to one woman. Of course I'm talking about Lady Gambling, as fickle and unfaithful as they come, worse than a bus-load of film noir femme fatales.

When the gambling riverboats (a weird Midwest law: casinos were allowed in Missouri, but only if they were on the water. Go figure. I suppose the lawmakers thought the water would wash away our sins. Welcome to the Midwest!) came to town, those friends of mine who were bachelors at the time had nothing better to do than to squander our paychecks every weekend at the boats.

Oh, it didn't begin like that. When we first started going, I was on a streak. Every time I'd walk in there, plop down five bucks on the blackjack or roulette tables (I never played craps; I didn't understand it and besides--sniff--what an incredibly crass and vulgar name), and in a manner of minutes, I'd turn five into fifty to one hundred bucks. Easy!

Of course this didn't last. My luck fizzled out. Lady Gambling had found a new sucker to tantalize and tease and lead on, only to abandon me by the side of the road like a sneaker (and where DO those roadside shoes come from anyway?). My increasingly desperate motto became: "Surely, my luck can't be this bad all night, right? Right? For the love of Pete, right?"
Well...

One night I got extremely cocky. Hoping to recoup some of my losses at the Blackjack table, I put fifty bucks down on a King . I mean, come on, the dealer was showing a six, a notorious bust card! The dealer hit me. Another King! 

"Split 'em," yelled my buddy.

I did the only wise thing , split them, dropped another fifty bucks.

"Hit me," I declared, my senses absolutely a-tingle. Lady Luck had wandered back into my life.

Another King! What were the chances? After purchasing more chips from the dealer, I split them again. $150 down, couldn't possibly lose, a sure bet.

My friend agreed. He started "churning the butter" and singing, "We're going to Sizzler, we're going to Sizzler, we're going to..."

The dealer hit me with a Queen, a nine, and a Jack. Sweet! Looking pretty at 20, 19, and 20. Until of course the dealer turned over a four. Then an Ace.

21!

The world went out from beneath my feet. A cartoon trombone mocked me: wah, wah, wah, wahhhhhh. The dealer smirked, scraped up my chips, said, "Guess you're not going to Sizzler."

No. Sizzler was off the table. In fact, that month I got used to Ramen noodles again, just like in college.

As we left the Infinite Palace of Despair (which it shall now always be referred to), shoulders down, and wallets light, I vowed to break up with Lady Gambling. After next weekend, of course...

While we're on the subject of unlucky people, take a gander at my characters in Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, my short story collection of horror and humor. All of these folks have the unfortunate luck to reside in God-forsaken Kansas, or at least a haunted version of it (which isn't too far off the mark). Read it and gasp! (And thank your lucky stars you don't live here!)

Who wants Thumb-Loaf? YUM!

As per our agreed upon division of labor, I found myself in the kitchen the other night preparing a turkey-loaf for my lovely wife. My own kitchen-sink recipe, the ingredients called for a pound of turkey, an egg, various spices (whatever I can find; the loaf's never the same twice), catsup (and am I alone in thinking that "catsup" should be spelled the way it's pronounced? I mean, come on!), Worcestershire sauce, blue cheese crumbles, chopped vegetables, and a sliced thumb tip.
Wait...what? 

To quote that great television educator, Ernie, "one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong."

Yep, my thumb got in the way of chopping vegetables. Just call me "all thumbs." Except, of course, I'm a little less all thumbs now.

Shock's a funny thing. At first when I sliced my thumb, it hurt like crazy. Just for a second, though. I stared at the wounded digit, saw there was inexplicably no blood. Huh. Weird. Then blood started spraying everywhere, a delayed action.

My shock was delayed as well. At first I started giggling. See what I mean about shock being a funny thing? Then crazed panic set in. I wrapped tissue after tissue around my spurting thumb, couldn't quite stem the blood flow. As I debated back and forth about driving myself to the ER (my wife was working late)...

"Stuart, you better go."

"Nah, shut up, Stu, it's just a minor flesh scrape."

"I mean it, you might need stitches, Stuart!"

"Give it a rest, Stu! Do I tell you how to live your life?"

Near hysteria, I thought of the old Saturday Night Live skit with Dan Ackroyd dressed as Julia Child when he cut his finger and arterial blood spattered everywhere. Monty Python and the Holy Grail played out in my mind: "It's just a flesh wound" said the armless and legless knight.
Finally, I let reason guide me. I swathed many bandages around my thumb and finished making my turkey-loaf.

And, lo, it was good.

When my wife came home, she sighed, and said, "Please clean your blood up off the floor." Like it was an every-day occurrence or something.

Speaking of blood, a fair amount of it gets splashed around in my historical tale of horror and hauntings, Ghosts of Gannaway. Loosely based on the events in Picher, Oklahoma, this sucker was a monster to write, but I'm proud of the results. Read it already!

Gone Fishin' (at Arby's)

I should've known something was wrong from the minute we approached the Arby's located in Paola, Kansas (Where? Don't ask, don't tell.). The ominous marquee stood tall against the cloudy skies, an eerie arbiter of an ill wind blowing our way. The sign--more of a threat--read, "Fish is back." Short, ominous, and sharp like a knife.

I didn't want to go to Arby's for lunch, rallied against it. But my daughter insisted, especially since she was gung-ho to try their gyros.

"Fine," I said in my best possible hissy-fit manner with arms crossed and brow thoroughly furrowed. "But I'm not gonna like it. Humph."

I knew this to be the case. I never have, never will like Arby's. Inexplicably my wife loves it. I dunno. Can you really truly trust a place that serves something called "Horsey Sauce." Brrr. (Now I know where all of those broken-legged race horses end up.)
My daughter pulled up to the drive-thru menu. I leaned across to get a better gander. Okay, something called a King's Hawaiian Chicken Bacon (aka, Heart Attack in a Greasy Bag) sandwich looked passable, so I chose that. 

"Squawk, conk, glonk, degga-wat-hey," the speaker box blared after we'd placed the order. I shrugged, nodded to my daughter. Whatever the Arby's employee had said probably didn't matter. Surely, they couldn't mess up that order, right? I mean, right?

Uncertain, my daughter said, "Okay" and we pulled forward. Where we waited. And waited.

A deceptively cheery employee cranked open the window, her smile a flimsy cover for secret evil, leaned out and said, "We've got to grill some fish, so it'll be another minute, okay?"
My daughter, polite and nice, smiled and said, "Okay."

The Arby's troll withdrew back into her secret cavern, all the while plotting against me. (I mean it's not really considered paranoia if Arby's is truly out to get me, right?)

I considered what had just happened. Finally, I asked my daughter, "Why do we have to wait for them to grill fish?"

She stared at me. Blinked. Said, "Good point. Neither of us ordered fish. I just kinda went with it." Then she laughed, man, did she laugh. Along with all of the Arby's employees inside no doubt.

Finally, the sack of doom was thrust through the window. We drove back to my daughter's house, her laughing all the way. "What if they gave you a fish sandwich, Dad? Their fish is the worst. Do you want to check it and go back?"

"Oh, hell no!" I'd had enough Arby's humiliation for one day. Sure enough when I opened my "prize catch," a heaping portion of fried (not grilled, even) fish stared up at me. I felt like Charlie Brown at Halloween.

Heed my tale, oh hungry travelers, and avoid the siren call of Arby's threatening sign, "Fish is back." Because, clearly, they left off the most important part of the message: "...and we don't care if you order it or not, because it's what you're going to get."
You'll find a whopper amount of big fish stories in my horror short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley (although, true, none of them are quite as horrifying as our nightmarish excursion into the dreaded landscape of Arby's; thar be rough seas ahead matey, arrrrrr.)

I got hairs in low places...

Now that I've inserted that infernal country song earworm in your head...you're welcome!

Hair's a persnickety beeyotch.

Speaking from a male's perspective, the older you get the more apt it is to vacate premises where you'd like it to be and migrate toward unexpected places. Go figure.

I've been balding for a while. No problem, I own it. But, geeze, who wants hairy ears? It's like the follicles decided to abandon their proper head roost and move a little south, set up camp on my lobes. Crikey, the first time I noticed a long hair jutting from my lobe in the mirror, I shrieked. I looked like I'd stepped straight out of a Dr. Seuss book: the oddly baldly, fully woolly lobe-a-teer, with a long hair from ear to there.
What kinda cosmic joke is this? I don't understand what possible good a long hair sticking out of an earlobe can bring. It's not like it fights off bugs or pests, so eat it, Darwin. Conversely, maybe God's having quite a laugh on us. 

I'm not alone in nature's malicious malady. Some time ago, I had dinner with a friend and I couldn't take my focal point off of his ears. We're talking bushels of bristles. If someone had lit a match near him, the entire restaurant would've gone up in a wildfire. Next time I saw him, he'd performed some much needed spring cleaning. Clearly, his wife finally had "the chat" with him. (It happens; my brother's in-laws gave him a Christmas gift of a nose and ear trimmer. Talk about tough love.)

Likewise, my legs have become as hairless as a French bicyclist. I could be a leg model (except, of course, that people have told me I have the legs of gnarly Ents).

My daughter has buckets of hair. Even though she moved outta the house a couple months ago (and only stayed a couple of months), I'm still finding her hair everywhere. Taunting me. "Nah, nah, you had your day."

It's like that Dashboard Confessional song... "Your hair is everywhere..." Just not in good places, and clearly not what the band meant.

Maybe it's time we follicularly challenged made a stand. Start trending it, become the new too-cool-for-school. #BraidNoseHair. #HairyEarsHaveFeelingsToo. 

Speaking of hairy situations, things couldn't possibly get worse for the unfortunate (and secret-holding) weary winter travelers tucking in for the night at the creepy Dandy Day Inn. If you have hair, it'll stand on end when you read Dread and Breakfast! Hair-raising guaran-damn-tee! 

Rockin' out with Horror author Leo Darke

SRW: I’m stoked to have man of mystery and stellar horror author, Leo Darke, on my blog today, yakking up his new book, Lucifer Sam. It’s a great, potent read about all things demonic and rock ‘n roll. Like the best rock music, it’s daring, edgy, and dangerous. Alright, enough from me, here comes Leo.Thanks for answering my questions and agreeing to being grilled, Leo.
LD: No worries, Stuart, happy to have my head examined. It might get messy though…
SRW: Okay, Leo, let’s start a little with you. Your bio says you (in)famously were fired for being too scary as an actor. Are we talking Boris Karloff scary or can’t act Keanu Reeves scary? Details, please.
LD: We’re talking the horrible love child of Freddy Krueger and Richard III. I wore an old highwayman coat, noose round my neck, undertaker hat and Alice Cooper make-up. Once the supervisor did a check on me as I ‘entertained’ the crowd in the Guy Fawkes exhibit. He said afterwards he had genuine spine shivers. You see, you were supposed to make light of the horrors of the museum and camp it up in a silly Monty Python way. I was having none of that. My favorite saying was ‘wanna feel the caress of my noose?’  I pretended my neck was broken and I’d freak ‘em out before even entering the exhibit room where the audience were waiting by slowly, slowly creaking the door open and then shuffling inside. You could hear a pin drop. I remember one teenage girl huddled in a corner begging me not to come towards her. They told me to tone it down and when I didn’t, they sacked my ass.
SRW: Good times!
Leo, give everyone a brief synopsis of Lucifer Sam. And make it rawk! (Puts out the sign of the horns).
LD: Cat O’Nine Tails, a mega successful rock band, are flying over the Indian Ocean in their private jet on a world tour when they suddenly drop out of air space completely. Then the jet reappears six months later in exactly the same position. The band are back, but this time they’re different. This time their music really is Killer…
SRW: Clearly, you know a little bit about the rock industry. The writing in your novel is very assured and your descriptions of the music and the industry read like an insider’s P.O.V. Am I onto something or are you just brilliant with research?
LD: Been in a couple of bands but I was sacked from the first one ‘cause I couldn’t play bass (sound familiar, Sid fans?) and the second band I changed up to the front man. It was called Lucifer Sam… we imploded messily before anything really happened for us. Apart from that, I grew up following punk bands. That’s all the insider info I have. I remember Animal from The Anti-Nowhere League loving a book I wrote years ago called Rags for the Doctor Who series of original novels. He was in it described as a complete monster, and the big bugger didn’t mind at all. He sent me a signed T Shirt as a thank you. This time around I name drop the Cockney Rejects and Micky Geggus in particular. Micky helps Kirk to find the ‘hero’ in his old manor in the East End. ‘Manor’ means home streets to Cockneys, by the way, US readers, not a country mansion!! He was pleased as punch to be in it too. Though he hasn’t read it yet! SRW: Speaking from experience, I was kinda’, sorta’ in a band in my younger days (although of a much different ilk; I guess you’d categorize it as country-funk, improvisational, comedy performance art). But you captured the extreme love/hate relationships that develop between band members based purely on proximity, so close you start despising each others’ body odors. Any band experience in your background?
LD: My first band I wanted to call Lucifer Sam, but the singer wanted it to be a punk covers band, so he invited a prog rock guitarist to join. Makes sense, right? This moron wanted to play all the punk covers note perfectly. Kinda missing the point of punk in the first place. He didn’t like my nascent, clumsy fumblings with the bass so asked for me to be booted. I then formed the proper Lucifer Sam with me as singer, a friend on drums, and two drunks on guitar and bass. We had some great songs which are referenced in the novel, but the guitarist and bass player got very pissed one night before practice and ignited, threatening each other. The band was over.  The members of the fictional Lucifer Sam are nothing like the real ones. They’re a lot worse!
SRW: You name-drop a lotta fairly obscure bands (well, at least obscure here in God-forsaken Kansas), such as The Damned, Motorhead (with Lemmy, natch), and Hawkwind (Hawkwind, for crying out loud! I haven’t given them a second thought since my weed-stoked high school days!), amongst many others. Are these favorites? What is your favorite style of rock? “Non-suckesque” is mine.
LD: Always loved the Damned since I was a kid, though I saw them a year ago and they bored the pants off me. Real shame. They’d gotten old and were just going through well rehearsed paces. Lemmy… what can I say about Lemmy? I saw Motorhead many years back with the original trio when I was a child. Stone Dead Forever still goose bumps me. It’s just the perfect dirty, glorious rock song. I did a pilgrimage to The Rainbow in LA in February and sat in Lemmy’s chair at the bar. Crazy night. The Rainbow is a wild, amazing place where anything can happen…

SRW: Alright, let’s dig into the book. We all know the adage about “sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll.” In your book, you’ve changed that battle-cry a bit, I think, to “sex, violence, and rock ‘n roll.” You certainly don’t skimp on any of the topics, making for a sobering, shocking, and, at times, grotesque read. (Even the Detective-Sergeant in your book likes her sex on the violent side.) I know it’s a horror book, first and foremost, but do you view rock music as violent? I ask because in your prose, you’re always “shredding” guitars, “beating” drums, “slashing” vocals…the list goes on.
LD: I grew up with punk in the early 80s and it was incredibly violent. There were always fights. Nasty ones. I suppose that became ingrained into me, into my outlook on live music. Even today I’ll go into a gig expecting trouble. Luckily it doesn’t happen so much these days.  I equate punk and some rock music with the violence of slasher films in many ways. The stab of Jason’s machete is like a savage guitar riff in my fiction I guess. Killing Joke were particularly manic back in the day, their hypnotic layers of insane music letting loose all the dogs of hell in my mind. Violence leaped from their records, setting all sorts of wild thoughts free. So yes, all this influenced my take on how brutal music can be and how mesmerizing. I wanted to catch that giddy sense of threat and mayhem in my prose.
SRW: Okay, time to play spot the band! Who is the satanic, past their prime, primping and posing Cat o’ Nine Tails patterned after?
LD: Haha. Couldn’t possibly reveal that. Don’t want Grinning Skull to get sued! Or me for that matter. Despite my piss take, I’m kinda fond of their perseverance and some of their music. Of course, they might not be based on anyone…. Obviously not Motorhead. The music Industry is a lot poorer without Lemmy. Killed by Death indeed. SRW: I certainly have my suspicions, but I'll likewise keep them to myself. How about the titular punk band, Lucifer Sam?
LD: Definitely my own invention, a stew of different influences from Bauhaus and the Cramps to Lords of the New Church and early Damned, all stirred in one big Voodoo Pot.
SRW: Is “Rock!” magazine meant to be a riff on Rolling Stone or Spin? How about any of the staff?
LD: Never read them. Probably more based on crappy rags like NME. Sounds was a whole lot better.
SRW: So, is anything off-limits with your writing? I mean, that groupie scene was really, really gross. And disturbing (the nature of horror, I know, but...c'mon!).

LD: I thought a lot about deleting that scene, or at least toning it down. It goes horribly too far, but yet seemed perfectly right, too! I knew it would be the scene that made or broke the book. The one plus ultra if you like.  It summed up the nature of the transformed band in a way like no other I guess. The absence of light in them, the void in their souls, the ugly dark they’d let in.  My big worry would be that it would be seen as gross for its own sake, and misogynistic. A risk I had to take to tell the tale as honestly as I could. Some people will hate it. That chapter is my Make them Die Slowly. No animals were killed in the making of this book. Groupies though? Not so sure.
  SRW: The further I dove into your nightmarish rock ‘n roll world, another theme came into focus: a call for anarchy and upsetting the status quo. Naturally, the satanic Cat of Nine Tails take things too far (it’s horror, folks!), but you seem enamored with punk bands such as the Sex Pistols and the Dead Boys, whose bleak outlook borders on violence for violence’s sake, or at the very least, overturning authority. Even your two heroes, Kirk and Ray, want to drastically change things. Are there deep-rooted issues we need to discuss, Leo? Here, lay down on the sofa, Dr. West is on the clock…
LD: Hmmm, good question again, Stuart. Always hated real violence, and the morons who dish it out mindlessly in the streets, pubs and schools. The Sex Pistols made you feel violent, but I always preferred smashing things not people! I think Johnny Rotten would agree with that. He was always a smart cookie. No fighter. I always remember Captain Sensible of the Damned saying he’d much rather throw an egg than a punch. Happy to go along with that. Egging authority figures seems a good idea to me. Especially in Britain right now…
SRW: Yeesh, I feel your political pain. 
The finale of the book is extraordinarily suspenseful. I particularly loved the slow-burn dread of waiting for the huge-ass venue concert to begin. You reminded me of why I abhor big arena concerts, capturing that sense of claustrophobia and being ripped off while waiting to glimpse an ant-sized view of rock heroes. Like your protagonist, Kirk, I’d much rather watch a band play in a bar. Do you agree with this? C’mon, are you Kirk?
LD:  Absolutely, 100 %. Got no time for big bands in big venues. Never did, never will. There’s zero connection to the audience. I want to be close enough to spit on the buggers

Girl in a Box (TM)

New from Acme comes the incredible Girl in a Box (TM)! Perfect for the man-on-the-go, now you can take your Girl in a Box on a train, in a plane, with your friend, DeeWayne (laws may differ from state-to-state; Acme assumes no responsibility for legal action)! Call Girl in a Box today! And for a limited time, you can receive a free 16 ounce bottle of chloroform! That's Girl in a Box, 666-666-6666!

Okay, maybe I'd better back up a bit...

A while back my daughter wasn't allowed to drive (that's another horror story for another time, but fret not as I will get to it.). Thankfully, her house was just a mile from her work so she could walk.

Her mother didn't like that idea.

I asked my daughter why not.

"Because no matter what I do," she said, "every scenario from my mom ends with me getting put in a box."

I mulled this over a bit. "What?"

"It's true," she said. "Mom told me I can't walk to work because some guy could come along and put me in a box! Dad, why does someone want to put me in a box? Why would they want to do that?"

Honestly, I couldn't come up with a decent answer. But, man, did we ever have fun with it.

While working on my daughter's house, we left a big box in the living room with a sign that read, "Get in!" On Boxing Day, I called my daughter and in the best slashery voice I could muster, I said, "It's Boxing Day! Mwah, hah, hah, hahhhh!" During Christmas, I told my daughter to look out because I didn't want to find her in a box beneath the Christmas Tree. The sick jokes continued. Still do, for that matter. 

Of all the horrible scenarios I can think of, I don't believe I ever would've landed on The Box Ploy, but hey, whatever, different strokes for different folks. Could make a good book. Maybe.

Speaking of girls in boxes (talk about a clever segue, yeah?), read Dread and Breakfast to find out just how a girl in a box plays into the complex, labyrinthine web of dark secrets and murderous personalities! (Hey, I guess I did come up with that scenario some time ago, after all.)

Tripping the Art Macabre with Karen Ruffles

Something very special this week from my multi-talented artist and writer friend, Karen Ruffles, from across the pond. I'm absolutely stoked for her as she's embarking on an Arts Council sponsored tour, presenting what will surely be a mind-blowing experience. So, without further ado let's check in with Ruffles (and only I get to call her that because this Ruffles has ridges!), the gal of goth, the mistress of the macabre, the artist of darkness... (Just check out those gorgeous illustrations!).
This April sees the launch of Tales in Sombre Tones, a brand new horror anthology featuring short stories by American author Sean Walter and the work of British artist Karen Ruffles of Drawing in Dark. The book is an exciting prospect in itself as fully illustrated editions are a rare treat for adults but the pair have gone one better and created an Arts Council funded touring show that promises to deliver a wealth of sensory experiences.Dates have been confirmed for the first leg which kicks off in the North East of England and sees Sean flying in to deliver his readings in person. From the former Methodist church that is Whitby's Brunswick Centre to contemporary gallery Vane in the heart of Newcastle, they are bringing not only the original illustrations but stop motion animation sequences from the stories and a hosted evening party led by DJ Jay Sinful.
In addition to tempting art lovers and fans of the darker side of literature, the tour makes sure audiences not normally catered for by exhibitions get a kick out of the show. 3d versions of the illustrations are being created for the blind and partially sighted so they can discover the artwork that accompanies the stories being read aloud. The readings themselves are supported by screened interpretations by BSL professional Sara Mclanaghan.
Once the first leg of the tour is completed, the materials along with footage from the tour are being added to their website so it can be enjoyed worldwide. Prints of the originals are being added to the 3d works and recordings of the readings so the tour can continue nationally and when it's been round the UK, internationally. 
To keep up with developments and grab a copy of the book, visit http://www.talesinsombretones.com of follow them on Facebook at www.facebook.com/TalesinSombreTones
There you have it, folks! Do support this unique and worthy talent. I know I'm gonna get a copy of the book. (I'll return to stoopid rants and what not next week.)