« July 2007 | Main | September 2007 »
I've just watched 'Reservoir Dogs' again. It's been a long, long time since I last saw it.
That film should be compulsory watching for every horror writer. The tension, the twist, the wonderful casual psychopathy of Mr. Blonde, the snide self-interest of Mr. Pink, the...
No, I won't say any more. Watch the film. No monsters. No demons. No wild special effects. An ending to die for. It's an old film so it's a cheap DVD at the moment.
Horror writers, watch and learn.
Looking for that new, fresh idea? Battling writer's block to come up with something that hasn't been done?
Read the newspapers.
This one should set you thinking.
We have these all over Dume Swamp, but they might be new to some of you. I think they are the reason Stumpy always wears that foil helmet. Perhaps I should let him sleep inside once in a while.
Perhaps not.
It was my own fault. I should have put the jar on a more secure shelf. Adding Uncle Isaac’s skull to that shelf was the last straw, but he was Mother’s brother so I thought they’d like to be together.
Well, they are now. Together in a pool of formaldehyde on the floor.
Never mind. I know how to mend a broken heart.
Cyanoacrylate.
Nocturnal Ooze, that ichor that used to flow in the catacombs beneath AlienSkin, is no more.
It has oozed out, it has ceased to be. It has flowed its last and gone into depths too deep to be plumbed.
Way back in October 2003, a story from my very own gore-flecked keyboard called 'The Beer Monster' was the first story in the first issue of Nocturnal Ooze. Oh, okay, it was only because the stories were listed in alphabetical order of author's names, but even so, it was a matter of great pride for me. I did consider using the pen name 'Aaron A. Aardvark' to stay top of the list, but decided against it. I think that was for the best.
So it is with a heavy heart, indeed a whole bag of heavy hearts, I have to report that the Ooze no longer flows. One can but hope that in the subterranean depths it now inhabits, it will happen across new and terrible things to relate to us when, we hope, it returns one day to spread darkness and despair among the quivering masses.
A moment's silence then, for the passing of the Ooze. All is not lost, since I have a jar of it here ready for the Day of Resurgent Sludge, should it happen in my lifetime.
For now, the Ooze is dragging down the daisies, sliming the Choir Invisible, running down the curtain and hiding under the big slab. Let us hope it doesn't rest in peace.
Perhaps it's only pining for the catacombs.
