Of Ghoulies and Costumes

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 35)

But the other hand now stroked Kenny’s hair gently, almost lovingly.  
(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

Okay, that's creepy.  The erotic just-barely-subtext is deliberate.  Real horror exists just slightly over the edge of what we can admit to out loud.  Once it's been brought out into the open (as Ann Rice's admittedly briliant Interview With the Vampire did), it's not a long trip to Twilight, and a hop-skip-and-a-jump from there to Count Chocula breakfast cereal.  But, as I said before, our relationship with our monsters has always been a tangled one.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And don't forget . . .

Only two more days of story!  After which the typescript goes up on auction.  Bid early and often, because the recipient of any money it brings -- Clarion West Writers Workshop -- is that worthiest of causes, one which ensure we'll have good stories when those writers currently at work falter and fall back into the relentless wastes of history.

And . . .

Saturday I went to a Halloween party where everybody had to come dressed as something beginning with the letter H.   That's me in my costume up above.  You got it immediately, right?  The toga . . . the baseball bat . . . who else could I be but Homer?

Let us pause now to remember the immortal poet's single best work, the Caseyad:

Sing, goddess, of the wrath of Casey

Hero of Mudville

That brought countless ills upon his fans . . .

Many a pitch he did ignore

For liking not its style

His Myrmidons cried, "Kill the ump!"

He stopped them with a smile . . .

O'er wine-dark sea and green oasis

Rosy-fingered dawn doth shout

Swift-footed Casey runs no bases

Alas, he hath struck out

Someday I'm going to have to write out the whole thing.

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