The Littlest Necromancer’s Ultimatum

29 08 2014

So to the casual observer probably thinks our daughter is kind of creepy.

If you’ve been following along with the rest of this week’s posts you probably know what I’m talking about. Hell you might even agree. I think I’m a little excited about it to be honest with you. The world needs more interesting characters in it and by the power of Greyskull, I think we’ve got one.

The girl child expressed her thoughts to me the other day on what had recently happened, with the funeral I mean. Do you want to know more?

I was sitting on the couch with book in hand enjoying another quiet afternoon with the kids. I was making great headway in my current read when the world’s smallest, blondest necromancer approached me.

“Daddy, are you reading?” she asked, peering over a sheet of paper longer than her torso. (She loves to draw and sometimes I think they may even be normal people drawings of dogs and butterflies and stuff. Not diagrams of the levels of hell.)

“Why, what’s up?” I ask.

“Did Grammy really die?”

I put my book down and pat the cushion beside me. She accepts the invitation and plops down, frown and all.

“Yes she did. Do you want to talk about it kiddo?”

No sooner had I finished my question than she lit right back up, a toothy smile replacing her momentarily distressed face.

“No, that’s okay, I’ll just go see her later.” She says as she hops up and heads out of the room. I stop her and try to refocus the conversation.

“You can’t actually see her later, she isn’t around anymore.”

“What?”

“Do you remember what we did when the dog died?” I asked her, trying to frame this in a way she would understand.

“We put them in the ground.”

“That’s right. And we did the same thing with Grammy; we put her in the ground kiddo. She can’t run around or talk or play or anything anymore.”

I thought that might do to trick. It didn’t of course; she just cocked her head and looked at me sideways for a minute. (A lot like her mother does come to think of it.) She smiled.

“That’s silly Daddy. It’s okay if she’s in the ground I can just play with her later just like the puppies.”

“But…What?”

“You can still play if you’re in the ground. It’s okay Daddy, I’ll just go play with her and the puppies later.” She repeated.

Then she turned and headed for her room. I didn’t stop her that time since I was having a difficult time trying to make sure I understood what she was telling me, the implications of which, lead to the same conclusion.

I think I’m raising a Necromancer.

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D’awwww. Even death can look adorable.





The Littlest Necromancer Draws Your Doom

27 08 2014

The saga continues as the tiniest wielder of magic both dark and terrible continues to make her powers known to the world.

Mondays are usually days of great bonding and adventure in our household. The kids and I watch movies, run around outside, and all manner of other fun stuff. I’ve been putting quite a few hours into a sketchbook recently so the girl child at least has decided that perhaps she should do the same. She already loves to draw so it is no surprise really.

I was sitting on the floor at the end of my bed listening to music on the record player, phone nearby waiting for my wife to call and tell me how work was going. I had my bag of pencils, erasers and tiny metal sharpener on the floor beside me and was scrawling away at a page in my sketchbook.

Enter the necromancer.

“Hi Daddy.”

“Hi weirdo.”

“What are you drawing?”

“A face.”

“Is it a real one?”

I had to stop for a moment here. Not because I didn’t know how to answer but because I was afraid of how this conversation was going to expand.

“Well no. It isn’t of a real person; it’s more of a cartoon you could say.”

“Oh.” Ponderous head scratching follows for a few silent moments.

“Are you going to draw the skin?” she asks.

“Well I’m drawing it with skin on, yes. It would be a skull instead of a face if I didn’t draw the skin.”

“Oh.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Why do you ask about the skin?”

“Last time I drew a person he didn’t have any skin. He had a helmet and a horse and a big shield but no skin.”

“Why was there no skin?” I asked.

“I’m going to go finish this picture; you’re really going to like it.”

Dodging the question. Slippery little speaker of the dead. I tried my best not to think anything of it and went about my own sketchy business (tee hee). The peace lasted about six minutes before she returned again with a large piece of paper in tow that looked like it may have been used to clean up blood splatter at a murder scene.

“Daddy, look at this, look at what I drew!”

I look. I can’t make out what I’m looking at, but I look.

“That’s very elaborate kiddo, what all did you draw here?”

“It’s you and your doom.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

“It’s you daddy. See? There’s your beard.”

“Okay, sure I could see that. What’s all the red stuff though? Is that a spear in my chest?” I really start squinting at this thing because…damn.

“No that’s you and you have all the stuff you were drinking that’s red like blood and that thing (indicating what looks to be a spear) is your wheel and this (pointing to what looks to be a horrifically jagged metal cube) is your doom. You’re going to go fast too because that’s what it does.”

I stare and stare at this picture hoping that something that makes an ounce of sense is going to pop out at me but it’s just not coming.

“Doom?” I ask.

Sadly the conversation didn’t go any further. She ran off back to her room screaming “Doom doom, dooooooom.” So you know, that’s over with I guess. Up until the time I’m typing this nothing has happened to me yet. There has been no indication that any sort of doom is coming my way. I’ve stayed away from elevators and spears, batons, javelins, and any other pointy thing I can think of. Hell I even tucked the letter opener at work into a drawer in case she was drawing that and just screwed up the perspective in the picture so it seemed huge.

Thanks for the comforting thoughts little friend of dead things.

I’ve got my eye on you.





The Littlest Necromancer Strikes Again

25 08 2014

 

So I may have mentioned the Vixen and I having a couple days of funeral activities with the girl child in tow. Oddly enough I thought I’d discuss it some more. Now, much like the last post that explored the recent death in our family, this one really isn’t that sad either. How is that you might wonder?

Well, because we had a child with us of course.

The day after the casket-licking incident was the day of the actual internment in the ground. There was a catholic mass held before hand. This would be the scene of the second incident; calling out the clergy.

I cannot say that I have been to a lot of specifically catholic events. There were a good many years that I was an active participant in the Christian scene, regularly going to church and other religious functions throughout the week. As you may have guessed from the unconcerned usage of profanity and the referencing of Sesame Street themed lubricants, I don’t really do that these days.

That of course is an entirely different discussion for an entirely different day.

At any rate, I am unfamiliar with Catholicism’s rituals and practices but there are a few things that this particular flavor of Christianity seems to have in common with its cousins. The one that is most important for this story is the practice of communion. I have seen it done a couple different ways in a couple of different churches. The idea is the same though. You eat the wafer, you drink the juice, and you listen to the ditty about the blood and the body being broken and eaten and stuff.

This happened toward the end and the clergyman stood in front of his altar and dispensed the wafers to the long line of attendees. This is where the Necromancer in all of her diabolic glory stepped in.

After studying what was happening for a few minutes she felt comfortable enough to announce this holy man a fraud with the declaration of “That’s not a body!” And you better believe that as a fractioned of the dead arts, that girl knows a real live, uh, well…dead maybe? She knows a corpse when she sees one.

The Vixen even had the audacity to try and silence her damning cries.

I prayed for the first time in a long time that night that my wife would be saved from the adorable yet lethal vengeance of the littlest necromancer.

 





I’m Searching For…

24 05 2014

 

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I’ve been browsing the blog’s site stats recently and I have one thing to say.

Who are you people?

One of my favorite parts of the stats recorded by WordPress is the search engine terms used to arrive at the blog. Now some of these are pretty straight forward. For instance, I can see how my name would get you here. I start wondering why my name is being searched for on the internet from time to time but really, I suppose there are plenty of logical explanations for that which don’t include kidnapping, armed robbery, or any of a variety of stalking activities.

There are search terms that immediately conjure a specific post in my mind, those are okay. But then there are others that just don’t make sense and others still that are so bizarre (or profane) I’m left speechless.

I present a snap shot of some of the minds that google’d, yahoo’d, lycos’d or whatever other search engines are out there that people may have used to arrive here at the press.

“Things That Drive Me Nuts”

Sure. I can see this. This is one of the categories into which some of the blog is sorted. This makes sense.

“Optimus Prime Birthday Cake”

That was a hard nut at first. But I do remember writing a post that referenced the big daddy autobot and I am fairly certain, without actually doing much fact checking, that there is a great chance it featured cake as well.

“Cooking With Spam Blogs”

First of all, what? Do people actually cook with that stuff? Alright, I know the answer is yes, I even have a cookbook with a recipe that demands spam. HOWEVER I have never cooked that particular recipe as I am uncertain as to where I stand on Spam. Currently its way the heck away from it. Anyways I do like to try to entertain visitors to the blog with selections of the electronic sort so, mystery solved on that one.

“Big Fat Hairy Girls”

Not featured in my usual content but what the heck, I did do a post on that one. Sort of. That was actually the first time I’d ever used the reblog feature because I think the crazy bat at stuffalsothings is in fact amazeballs.

“Lonely Pics Of Boys Tumblr”

Soooooo. Here is where it starts to get weird. I am absolutely certain that I don’t have any of this on the blog. I thought about googling (can that be a word) the phrase to see how many search results I’d have to go through to get to my blog but, for some reason I couldn’t do it. Go figure.

“Where In The World Can I Find An Icosahedron?”

Carmen had to retire sometime .Yes; it’s the sequel to everyone’s favorite video game series that forced you to learn stuff to find a woman in a giant red hat!

“Writing On My Bone”

Oh, hey. Don’t do that. Seriously stop. If at any point in time you can do anything ON your bone something has gone horrifically wrong and you should get to a doctor pronto.

“ 1 Pad 2 Kyllan”

Yeah, not making that video.

“The Way Presenting The Brownies”

Isn’t even a complete sentence. Or thought. Or television advertisement for that matter. I can’t help you present the brownies dude if I don’t even know what you’re trying to say. Are we talking cooking brownies? Does this have something to do with a musical performance perhaps? Is The Way the opening act for The Brownies at the music hall this Tuesday?

“Serial Killers Who Bondage”

What in the hell do I write about?

“If Kinect Is Given Nematodes In The Skin How Long Does It Take For That To Work And Does That Kill Them”

You. You’re with brownie guy aren’t you? There is just so much to try to think about here. Because of the overwhelming amount of strange coming off of this search term I had to use it myself. Google told me some stuff about fleas before launching into a bunch of other results that seem to suggest a large number of universities in America put some serious research time into worms and other creepy crawlies.

Still. Who are you and how did you get here?





Scrawling A Bit of Fiction – MARCH

17 03 2014

 

 

You know what’s going on. Ermilia. Writing. Fiction. PICTURES.

Image

“What are we doing here anyway?” Girl wasn’t even looking at him. Her chin was to her chest and she picked at strands of hair dangling in front of her face. It gave her a lost almost dazed looked, like any moment she might drift asleep.

Lewis cleared his throat.

“This is one of my favorite places in the city.”

“The food sucks.”

“Does it? Honestly I mostly just come for coffee.” People had a habit of telling him what they thought of the little diner whenever he mentioned it, so much that he had stopped discussing his lunch plans with anyone at work anymore. The smell of burnt coffee and cigarettes hung in the air, a thin cloud obscured the interior ever so slightly.

 “Doesn’t matter. It’s not the food that stands out here it’s the people.”

Girl took hold of the bright green cup on the table beside her; the visual assault of the coffee receptacle’s hue made it hard to focus on anything but the cup and before long Lewis found himself lost in it, like a little ceramic lava lamp.

“Still doesn’t tell me why we’re here.”

Lewis blinked and focused on the table, wide eyed, shaking the green after image from his vision. He rubbed his eyes and resumed sipping at his own coffee. He was second guessing himself. The incident at the library was bad enough. He probably shouldn’t have gone so far. And he definitely shouldn’t have started talking to her about the old days. What was so different here?

“You said you wanted to know why.”

“Yeah, I did. I have to say that right now though I feel like I’m on a really lame date, which is weird given my present company.”

“Lame?” Lewis recoiled at the insinuation. “I’ll have you know I’ve wooed countless thousands in my time.”

“Through boredom maybe.” Girl threw her hand over her mouth and giggled. She really didn’t seem to care.

“Alright.”

“I’m sorry.” She said, standing to adjust her dress before sitting again. “Why are we here?”

Lewis scanned the crowd across the diner. There wasn’t much variety to the people who showed up here from week to week. There would be college students, far too broke to afford anything better than the corner diner, Penelope’s, right around the corner from campus. The youthful crowd would flock here before or after classes to smoke and drink bizarre varieties of coffee and eat pie, the flavors of which no one had ever heard of, in the name of fitting in.

It only took a moment to find her. Penelope, a young woman somewhere in her thirties bounced around behind the counter, serving those lucky enough to claim a barstool. She was thin and pale, but vibrant. She could put a smile on your face just being around her. She possessed an infectious cheer that radiated throughout the restaurant.

“That woman died eighty years ago.” Lewis nodded at Penelope between sips of coffee.

“The owner?” Girl craned her neck toward the counter, “I don’t know, she looks pretty alive to me.”

“Yeah. That’s what she wants you to think. The two of you are a lot alike. You both have things that you want to hide and no matter how hard you try to do so, it doesn’t help. As good as you think you might be at hiding the truth, something will always stand out. It’s like you’re hardwired to be bad liars, subconsciously sabotaging yourself in hopes of someone picking up on it.”

Girl set her mug down. She chewed her lip, eyes fixed on the little green monstrosity that held her coffee. She pulled her legs up into the chair and started picking nervously at her hair again.

“Remember how I told you, people like you made me retire?”

Girl nodded her head.

“Penelope Orourke was one of the first.”

Girl relaxed her legs and leaned across the table. “What happened to her?”

Memories were something Lewis was good at, he’d hoarded centuries of them after all. His brain was like an automatic filing cabinet. Things went in, filed in neat order that made for quick retrieval when needed; a catalog of pain that stretched back through eons.

“She was a lovely woman, in spirit I mean. One of the most genuine people you could have ever met. When tragedy first struck Penelope it was by way of her youngest child, a three year old named Peter. He died in a house fire. You could say the O’Rourke family learned a valuable lesson in chimney safety that day.”

“Oh my God.” Girl gasped. Lewis sucked air in through his teeth making an audible hiss. “Oh right, sorry.”

Lewis nodded and said, “The second time was three weeks later when Penelope’s oldest, a six year old named Alexander, accidently shot himself.”

Girl threw her hands up. “Where the hell were the parents?”

Lewis sipped at his coffee. “Well, Penelope was out picking up a rather pricey birthday dinner for her husband, Michael. He on the other hand, after graciously offering to watch young Alexander, was locked away in the master bedroom with his mistress. He had left his pistol on a table in the study where he had been cleaning just prior to the harlot’s arrival.”

Girl slumped in the chair and found Penelope flying around the counter, balancing an assortment of loudly-colored mugs. She scurried around and out into the tables and booths that occupied the rest of the diner not occupied by the bar counter, stopping only long enough to deliver a few mugs before quickly moving on. She was efficient. And after what Lewis had said, a little unsettling.

“Poor woman.”

“Indeed.”

The two sat for a while without speaking. Lewis began to lose himself in the drone of youthful excitement that hung in the air like the ever-present nicotine cloud that helped define the diner he so loved.

“Wait a minute.” Girl was leaning back, coffee mug sitting in her lap. “That is a sad story, but it doesn’t explain anything.”

Lewis blinked.

“Oh right, it doesn’t does it. Well, she came home earlier than expected, right after Alexander had ended his own adventure in this crazy world and she found not only a dead son but a very naked and very confused woman in the bedroom.” He cleared his throat before adding, “With her equally naked and equally confused husband I should add. So she hung herself a day later.”

Lewis stood and produced his wallet from his jacket pocket. He leafed through it for a few bills, he was a big fan of paying for things with Benjamin Franklin pictures. It was comforting knowing that everyday human beings knew just how much of a scoundrel that man had been, he could tell since they usually gasped when they saw his face. Lying bastard.

“There’s still got to be more. Yeah life sucked but that still doesn’t make me understand what you’re getting at.”

Lewis sat again and threw a couple Benjamin papers on the table.

“She showed up on my doorstep. Why? Can you tell me what this girl’s crime was? Can you explain why she should be tortured any further?”

“No.”

“So what was I supposed to do? I finally started to think about people, looking past the surface sin, and trying to figure out what justified my new work. I had found myself, once again being used as an instrument – one of punishment, and at long last I saw that I hated it.”

“So what did you do?” asked Girl.

“I let her go. She was the first. I helped her navigate her way back here, gave her a fresh start. Well, semi-fresh, she’s still dead after all. Doesn’t have any men in her life, mostly because she would only be able to hide her lack of pulse and body temperature for so long outside the confines of a hot kitchen, but she’s happy. And now I get free lunch.”

Girl got up and slid her jacket on. Lewis joined her and threw more money at the table. As they walked out of the diner, Lewis paused, looking back just long enough to see if Penelope had noticed he was there. She had of course. She always noticed.

“We aren’t that different either.” He thought. After all, what had Lewis wanted all those years ago, to be something more, to do great things? Just like Penelope, owning her own place, serving others. No, not so different at all. Still, there was something else, something nagging at him – maybe it was doubt. He could almost taste the salt again, the sudden icy embrace of the ocean.

Thoughts of despair leapt into the foreground. Here, the undead sinner embraced people flocking to her name, she will fail – she will rise up only to be met with the inevitable fall.

“Am I supposed to be your doorman now? That wasn’t part of the original deal.” Girl was leaning against the diner door, hair blowing in the wind, wearing the friendliest scowl he’d seen in a long time. Lewis glanced back to Penelope who still stood, silent, watching him, a warm smile on her face.

“I can’t believe I didn’t include that in the fine print.” He said stepping into mid November’s chill. “It’s been a while since I made anyone deal.”





Terrifyingly Frightening Horror

15 03 2014

What makes you afraid?

The dark? Closets? THE DARKNESS IN CLOSETS?!

I remember one of my classes sophomore year of college touched on fear on our desire to explore it. It was literary theory, criticism, or philosophy. It was one of my history courses; The Rise of the Nazis.

Yeah you heard me.

Nazis.

Weird right?

Well aside from the fact that Nazis are kind of terrifying if you really think about it, there was a lot going on in Europe that contributed to the horror mindset. During the years prior to Nazis being any sort of a thing, Germany was in rough shape. Living there post WWI was a nightmare in and of itself.

Hyperinflation destroyed the mark, which made it good for fire kindling and not a whole hell of a lot else. The government was about as unstable as it gets and unemployment was spiraling out of control. The government released cookbooks on how to use sawdust to make your bread go farther for gods sakes.  

And yet, with its growing list of ailments, Germany flourished in a creative sense. Horror was on the rise. We saw scary movies the likes of Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari.

My take away from that class was the idea that as a nation’s poverty and economic turmoil grew so did the propensity to explore the Macabre. People turn to it in some depression-fueled reaction. Is that why we like horror stories?

It’s illogical. It’s primal. Somewhere in the dark and wacky recesses of your brain, where the primal urges and cautions lurk, you want to see this stuff. Your animal brain wants you to feel like that animal again. It wants you to be that primitive creature you once were that needed it so much.

Or maybe it doesn’t. I’m just rambling at this point.

This post is inspired once again by my tandem-writing project. I won’t give you details as we are still figuring it out ourselves, but we have arrived at a place that has me…stumped? I don’t think that’s the right thing to say. I know where I want to go with it.

Here’s the thing.

Where the story has left off, I have been presented with the opportunity to introduce something frightening. I have the lobby of a ruined skyscraper, a naked girl, and a shotgun-toting mountain of a man to assault here.

I need something that lurks in the dark burned out places in the world waiting to snatch you into the black ala Darkness Falls. Remember that movie? It sported a tooth fairy-esque-witch-monster-thing. Yeah.

 

So that’s what I’m thinking about; creature creation. How shall I go about building something original and suitably terrifying?





Sometimes I Wish I Sounded a Touch Different

4 11 2013

Two of my favorite hobbies are wargaming and modeling. That isn’t neccesarily pertinant to this post though. I was watching this fellow – amazing airbrush artist, when I thought: “I’d rather like to have that accent. That’s pretty fantastic.”

This is mostly so you can hear the accent I’m talking about. Also, the talent here is huge.

Enjoy.