Dracula Goes To Church

Worlds Colliding

Take two main characters from two different books (either fiction or nonfiction) and introduce them to, or have them meet, each other. What would happen next?

abandoned libraryThe  cat came from nowhere.  It  followed him up from the spider webbed choked crypt ( how long had he been asleep this time?) and out to to the cemetery which was in ruins now.

Headstones were broken, some were covered with weeds the Funeral Home on the hill  was a skeleton now- the windows were boarded up and the front door was missing.

” Well there went the neighborhood ” the man said in a heavily accented voice. ” I thought this was going to be a good one. Real estate, you just never know what it’s going to do.”

The cat looked up at and its eyes flared yellow at him.

The man hated cats and here he was, talking to one.

A stupid rat catcher.

” I am the Count. Count Dracula. Death stands in awe of what I did when I was human, and it is stunned at what I’ve done since I died.”

The cat yawned.

” Yes. well I am standing here talking to a cat. Pity. It’s true . Even the mightiest fall, ” he motioned around them and looked down pointedly at the cat. ” Eventually.”

The cat lifted it’s paw up and began to clean it.

“So tell me, what have you done,  Cat?”

The cat, it’s voice  heavy with dirt from the crypt answered in an all to human voice,  ” I came back from the dead and drove my  most of family to their grave. And I got away with it.”

Dracula heard a cough. One that doesn’t come from the chest but rather is intended to get one’s attention.

The Count straightened up turned around and a man with glasses and a wooden stake in his hand slammed the expertly sharpened  stick into the Count’s chest.

” Well Church. It looks like you eat tonight Buddy.”

Count Dracula, slayer of worlds, seducer of woman and hater of cats plopped unceremoniously to the ground.

Church circled around the writer’s legs and Stephen leaned down and pat his misshapen  skull. ” After that great story you told me about your family, I can’t thank you enough. It was one long scream fest.  Let me me know if there’s anything else you need. I owe you Pal”

Church meowed, though it actually sounded like a laugh.

And then he began to eat.

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No. Mom. You Told That One?

Retrospectively Funny

Tell us about a situation that was not funny at all while it was happening, but that you now laugh about whenever you remember it.

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When my sons were little- they were were around eight and nine years old- they were into the toys and fads of the times.

Nintendo.

At least that’s all I remember them being into.

But when they branched out they managed to do it with my stuff or our family cat.

One Summer my youngest son wrapped our cat up in a baby blanket and was carrying him around the apartment complex and telling people this was his baby brother ” Joe “.

When Julio got tired of playing with ” Joe ” he leaned down and let him run off into the bushes. A few minutes later I get a call from a neighbor who is hysterical because she said she just saw my son throw  a baby under the bushes.

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But by far the most entertaining moment that wasn’t funny at the time was

THE TIME MY SONS READ A BOOK THEY SHOULDN’T HAVE

I love horror novels, and when my sons were little the biggest reason I didn’t want them pulling those books off my shelf was that some were 1st Edition hardcovers.

But of course they eventually did and what I learned later was that my middle son was reading one of them out loud to my youngest son when they went to bed at night.

They were apparently reading the Exorcist.

They were nine and eight at the time.

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One night me and Luis left our   boys with a sitter and went to the movies.

When we came home and she said they went to bed on time and went to sleep right away, hadn’t made a peep all evening  and right away the alarm bells went off and I went straight down the hall to their room.

I opened open the door and the door catches on something. I reach around and look down and it’s my copy of the Exorcist .

And there  fast asleep in their sleeping bags in the middle of the floor circled by their stuffed animals are my sons.

They’re wearing their bicycle helmets and and they’ve got their Nerf swords locked in their hands and sleeping with them is our cat who looks up at me and hisses.

My brain at this point sort of overloads and I look at my book and the spine is broken and two of the pages are not quite ripped out of the book  but they’re bent.

I guess you can’t throw an open book against a wall and not have it suffer some damage, right?

Damn,  bought that book with my own money when I was only a few years older then they are now, it was one of my prized possessions ( no pun intended)

I left them like that and in the morning I go into their room and I’m going to launch into my ruined book and how it would not be ruined had they KEPT THEIR HANDS OFF OF MY STUFF.

Instead when I open my mouth what comes out is:

” Wake Up! The power of Christ Compels You!”

Once they stopped screaming and we peeled our very angry cat off of the curtains we had a chat about

NOT TOUCHING MY BOOKS.

I’ll be honest.

It was funny then, it’s funny now.

It should be noted though that I did not receive a Mother’s Day card that year.

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Reflections

Daily Prompt

The Young and the Rested

When was the last time you felt truly rejuvenated and energized? What made you feel that way?

I have had some jump out of bed, scream bloody murder, scare the cats up the curtain nightmares.

I love those dreams

The colors in those dreams are vibrant the images are well defined and the faces and the places are new to me so the sense of being lost and disoriented are so intense I can feel it for days.

After I have those dreams I have tons of new writing material and I can feel the endorphin rush for hours after I wake up.

I’m a junkie for those dreams, its so bad that when I have normal dreams where nothing happens I actually feel cheated out of a nights sleep and I’ll grumble to myself for hours.

The last dream I had involved my house being filled with mirrors.

I went from Mirror to mirror but I couldn’t see my reflection.

I came across one of those door sized mirrors in a heavy silver frame and there I was looking back at myself.

Finally.

I put my hands against the glass, rested my forehead  against it’s icy cold (?) coolness

 and tried to catch my breath.

I looked up when I  the heard screaming, horrible gut wrenching screaming.

” She has my face!” my reflection was screaming at me from the other side of the glass as she pounded on the glass and started to crack it ” That woman  HAS MY FACE!”

I woke up from that one feeling like I could have run from one end of the State to the other and when I was done headed for Canada.

“Women beware – don’tcha leave yer hair open after dusk!” – A Horror Story

The writer was told this story by her Aunt and I happen to love the way she wrote it. Enjoy!

Scribbles@Arpita

This story is loosely based on a story that I have grown up hearing (in spite of the fear of ghosts, I begged my aunt to tell me horror stories, and then refused to go to the loo alone). My aunt told me this was a real incident that happened in the family, but I can’t be sure she wasn’t just making it up. There is a popular belief (or superstition depending on the viewpoint) in my part of the world that women and girls should not leave their hair open after dusk; you may want to remember that while you read this story.


“Women beware – don’tcha leave yer hair open after dusk!”

A Short Story

When Shelley was fifteen, she had hair that reached her waist. Girls with long hair were traditionally forbidden to keep their hair open, especially after dusk, but Shelley wouldn’t listen to any of…

View original post 1,629 more words

She Went There

Doubters Alert

What commonly accepted truth (or “truth”) do you think is wrong, or at least seriously doubt?  Why?

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When I started to write again I joined a few Writing Groups.

One was a mixed bag- various genres and there was almost an equal number of male and female writers.

I liked that group. It was supportive and competitive- not so much with each other but when we read our work you know we were working to take the room over, which is good. We were competing more with ourselves then each other.

Then I spent some time in a women’s group.

Cheese and wine and poetry and writing about deep feelings  were involved.

For this group I got dressed up.

I didn’t focus on my horror writing which was ok, but when I went for straight up drama or journaling  and read what I wrote I felt like I was going for a job interview.

In my other group I went straight from work and I work in a warehouse.

Dust and Pringles were involved.

I read whatever I had been working on that week.

What I found interesting was that in the Women’s group I got  criticism  where the listeners felt obligated to tell me before the offered their advice  where they went to college.

And then:

” I’d have done it this way….”  I heard that a lot in the women’s group.

I’m firm on this:

” I’d have done it this way “is not a criticism.

It’s showing off.

It felt like they were taking my story and making it your own. It was like watching someone flirt with my husband.

Ugh.

So I started to wonder about this concept about ” women helping women” thing.

The best advice I got was from my mixed group, I’ve worked in what were non-traditional fields ( Funeral Industry, Warehouses) and at the time there weren’t a lot of women doing that work.

So I wasn’t helped or hired by other women.

I was hired and mentored by men.

On one hand I understand that when you feel secure you don’t mind holding that door open or giving the advice because you’re feeling good about your position.

So I’m wondering, is this idea about women helping women and ideal we’d like to accomplish?

Is that important?

Or should we be helping and encouraging each other no matter what sex we are?

When I meet other writers who excite me I don’t care if they’re men or women, young or my age. I want to read them, engage them and encourage them.

Shouldn’t it be that way?

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A Few Things I’ve Learned From Death & Horror

I’ve learned some valuable things about the world from being a Mortician and writing Horror Stories.

Here are a few of them:

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Dead men do tell tales, they tell them all of the time.

You just have to be willing to listen.

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Horror Stories are like Love Stories minus the pretense.

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I hate The Lord of the Ring Movies…I’d rather watch a Twilight  ( the tween Vampire movies ) Marathon then sit the Lord Of The Ring Movies. I’d rather shove a fork in my eye. There’s no reason for that to be on this list. I just felt like putting that here.

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When you’re embalming bodies you get super thirsty. So drink a lot of water before you embalm. I’m not kidding.

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When I write a story about Death, or The Devil or Cannibals I get my best ideas after watching shows like Cake Wars or Chopped because the contestants on those shows would take their Moms down for that Ten Thousand Dollar prize.

Bastards.

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Never, ever write about the Dead if you have a funeral background. It’s unseemly.

The living are fair game.

Fair.

Game.

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I’m sorry, but I’ve learned this to be  true:  If you’re writing a horror story and you’re not laughing  I’d say you’re not connecting with your writing. How can I say that? Come on. You’re getting away with murder or something anti-social or wicked

 Even if it’s just in your head.

It’s enough to make one positively giddy.

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I listen to Tom Waits  before I write. Sometimes ABBA. Does that surprise you?  That’s probably why I can do the same when I write.

Word.

I Write Because…

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I WRITE BECAUSE…

I wish I could come on here and write some deeply moving tale about why I write, but the bottom line is I learned to tell stories and write them because I liked the attention.

In my Mom and Dad’s family everybody had a talent- they could sing or play an instrument or paint or draw and a couple of them- both of my Grandfathers in fact- could tell stories.

They could tell scary stories, they could tell jokes, they could tell you about their trip to the store and those stories were better than anything in the stories I read or on TV or at the movies.

No matter how good the food, how fine the wine, how wonderful the music when it came time to tell stories the storytellers owned the room.

In my mind there was nothing better you could do or be then that.

Both of my Grandfathers helped me learn how to tell a story- all the way from how to stand or sit and when to make eye contact with my listeners  and to always, always weave something from the moment ( something someone was wearing, the color of the room, anything ) into your story.

They also both agreed on one thing- ghosts always made the story more interesting so at least work one of those into your story no matter what.

That’s a challenge- the first of many as I writer I would learn to take on- and most of the time I won.

It was funny, my Grandfathers never really knew each other- they lived in different states, came from different countries ( Canada and the Philippines ) had different temperaments and I couldn’t tell you if they even liked each other but when it came to the story telling and me wanting to do the same they were on the same page.

They were both so proud when I was reading by the time I was eight years old, writing by  nine, and what was I up to they would both say, ” she’s a writer”

They said it before I did or anyone else for that matter. So when it comes to that question, why do I write-  am I really a writer?

I write  because my Grandfathers said I could, that’s why.  And if they were here they could tell you all about it and you’d soak in every single word. You’d be eating out of their hand.

That’s what I want to do every time I write…for them.

Apo Grave

Bert Godfrey

Nan’s Picture

Mouth Drop

In exactly 100 words creatively describe one moment when your mouth dropped open, chin hit the ground, and tears rolled down your face (figuratively or not). If you prefer to develop this into a longer post, that’s fine too!

When me and my husband and our kids moved back to Mountlake Terrace, I  only had two ‘valuable’ things to move.

One was my cat Wolfgang- and the other was a picture that used to belong to my Great Grandmother Nan.

Nan was a force of nature in our family- she was tall, red headed I’d seen her make grown men cry- and not in a good way.

I thought she was grand and one of my goals in life was to look like her when I grew up. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen but she and my Grandpa Bert ( her son ) would swear up and down that I looked like her.

The print was very old and the frame was delicate and I loved it. I hung it above the sideboard I’d inherited from her.

I packed it ( the picture, not Wolfie, I bought Wolfie a dog crate  that was designed to withstand blah, blah blah it was EXPENSIVE) and a special little crate for the picture.

When we got to Terrace we unpack the picture and it’s smashed to smithereens.

I was beyond angry.

I trashed it myself.

A few months later it was the end of Summer and we were pulling things out of our storage room for our Labor Day picnic- croquet set, babarque  stuff, pirate flag.

I was NOT looking forward to having my Dad and Grandmother noticing the picture was gone and having to explain how something that had been in our family for so long was gone and having to tell them it was pulverized and in a land fill now.

All  of the sudden two of my sons are not just calling me from the storage room,  they sound panicked.

Spider I figured.

I go into the storage room and the boys are pointing in a corner and I figure spider but instead  of a spider.

There it is.

Nan’s picture.

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Nan was a force of nature, like I said.

I picked the picture up without blinking an eye, hung it above the sideboard where it is to this day  and my husband and sons have spent years ignoring it.

I don’t ignore it.

Ever.