Friday, January 27, 2012


Excerpt of “The Witchfinder” from DARKTOWNE…

It was dawn, just past when the blackness of night begins to creep away. The Witchfinder was sleeping inside the door of an abandoned building, dreaming of killing bitches and burning and hanging witches. Those purveyors of horrid evil and unspeakable sundry acts screamed and howled as he strung them up, took torches to them, or pressed them beneath boulders. Ridding the world of such sundry vermin was his mission.

Of course, there were those occasional evil young witch-babes pleasing to the beady eyes of the infamous Bitch-Killer. Those young sweet witch-babes of evil intent were not put to the rack, thumb screws, iron maidens, wheels, or hanging cages before the rope, torch, or stone claimed them. No no. When it came to the evil young witch-babes, the Witchfinder had his own highly devious and effective ways to illicit information and confessions. Most prominent was the Witchfinder’s pole. His personal pole. They huffed and puffed and squealed. Mostly with delight.

Such had been the case with one special evil young spell casting storm raising witch-babe. Now long dead, neck stretched, an oak tree ornament, in her time she had been one fine huffing and puffing and squealing witch-babe. Many a day and night had the Witchfinder dreamed of her. As he was on this fine graying morning of death and terror…

Ah ohhhhhh, ahhhh, the dream witch-babe squealed and huffed and puffed.

Naked, sweaty, beady eyes wide and glassy, the Witchfinder was rockin the evil little witch-babe’s world. Who’s yur daddy, witch-babe!? he shouted. Who’s yur daddy!?

You, Chadwick, she called out. Chadwick Corey. Chadwick Corey… Chadwick…Chadwick…Chadwick…

The name echoed through the predawn air, and through the Witchfinder’s dream of poling that special spell casting storm raising evil young witch-babe. He shook his head, and then shook his other head, whisking away the last vestiges of sleep. Still, his name echoed through the predawn air.

Chadwick…Chadwick…Chadwick Corey…Chadwick…

His beady eyes, still glassy from a night of solitary exertion, shot open wide. With a gasp of stale air, the Witchfinder sat bolt upright and peered about the gloom. Still the voice came.

“…Corey…Chadwick Corey,” it was saying. “Chadwick Corey.”

Then he cackled softly. It was the old woman. The one that had led him to Tamsin Blight, the former Grande High Toad-Witch of Smokey Hollow.

“Chadwick Corey,” it came, “we’re waiting for you.”

She was outside the abandoned building. Out in the street. The Witchfinder ignored his clothing, his long frock coat, his wide brimmed black hat, and stepped through the doorway, naked and staring. Across the street stood the bent old woman. She wasn’t alone. Flanking the old crone were four abominations of the dead.

“Pray tell, what manner of abomination is this?” the naked Witchfinder crowed from across the street.

“Only the dead,” the old woman cackled softly.

“Mind your words, old woman,” the Witchfinder warned. “I am the instrument of God…”

“I am the instrument of Death,” the old woman interrupted. Her pink eyes flashed.

** ** **

From H Harksen Productions and available through

Check it out!

Friday, January 13, 2012


I think I was about 6 years old when I first saw this film. Creeped me out, seeing people sucked down into those sand whirlpools and come back zombified!

Now it's campy fun.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012


Many thanks for Static Movement for accepting my “Poe” story, “The Final Chapter,” for their POE-IT anthology. My contribution for this anthology has a certain built in twist. I wonder how many people will recognize it when they read it.

Saturday, January 7, 2012


UPDATE: Now available at Amazon for Kindle. Only 99 cents. Check it out!

Well, peoples, rightnowas Ipost this, I have a few items up and running in the Preditors & Editors reader’s poll (see below). One of the items as mentioned below if my collection of irreverent fantasy tales, THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANNALS OF SLAGHEEPIAN HISTORY. One of the stories from this collection, “Blue Moons over Widdlydink,” is also in the running.

As a further note, although already in print, the collection will be released in the next few days in eBook form. So, to celebrate that and the P & E Reader’s Poll, here is an excerpt from “Blue Moons over Widdlydink” -

* * *

There was a sudden Slagheep tremor. A dark noxious paint peeling cloud swept across the barren parched nasty wasted wasteland outside the cave. Echoing distantly through the night came a noise that sounded remarkably like someone in a perpetual state of the dry heaves.

But the stoners didn’t feel the tremor, didn’t notice the noxious cloud, didn’t hear the dry heaving fits of a nearby Bobo. They would have cared less had they. Their attention was drawn elsewhere, captivated by the secret that PeePee had stowed away in the cave for so so so so long that the brain fried stoner couldn’t remember when he had put it there except that he had copped it from a museum just like he had the three toed ho that rested in pickled Huht greased slumber back in the Hep-Pad beneath the Forbidden Palace.

Like the three toed ho, here was a glass case, though this one stood upright, was frosted over in frost, and cold and clammy to the touch. PeePee approached the case, rubbed a circle clear, and stepped back. There was a face in there. It was a sleeping face, on ice for a long long long long time. But a face that was instantly recognizable to the stoners, even to the newest stoner of the group.

“Far out,” Quoddie said softly, reverently, in suitable awe and admiration of the nearly mythic and god-like figure reposing before her very eyes in the cold clammy confines of the glass sarcophagus.

“Groovy,” Crabby Hoffman said, equally soft, and equally awed and reverent.

Pimple Haze said nothing. At the sight of the figure in the glass coffin, she totally spaced out, got a huge raging rush of screaming hormones (ie., got the instant hots for the legendary dude), and passed out…SPLAT!...flat on the floor at their feet.

“Tha…tha…that…tha…that…,” Crabby stammered while jabbing a finger in the air at the figure in the glass casket. Crabby’s eyes were wide and he had a rather obvious dumbfounded stupid look etched across his face.

“Eyep, groovy!” PeePee blurted before erupting into uncontrollable stupid giggling.

“Far out,” Crabby said, barely audible, as he stared at the sleeping figure. “Timidly Blurry.”

“Yeah, dude, the heppest hepcat stoner of all time,” PeePee was able to get out before descending into another bout of uncontrollable stupid giggling.

Pimple was starting to awaken, struggling to sit up.

“But what…I mean, how…eh…,” Crabby was still stammering.

The stupid giggling started to subside. “We’re gonna wake him up,” PeePee said, catching his breath.

Pimple heard that, and….SPLAT! Flat out on her back like an ancient three toed ho in ancient Riffhaven.

“Wake him up?” It was Quoddie. She could talk without stammering.

“That’s right, baybee!” PeePee replied.

Pimple was starting to awaken and struggling to sit up again.

“We’re gonna have us a show, baybee,” PeePee was saying, “and the stars of the show iz gonna be Freaky Froggie and the Hepfrog Frogettes!”

“Huh?” Crabby and Quoddie.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh…” SPLAT! Pimple was out again.

“The far out groovy dude’ll explain it,” PeePee said with a stupid lopsided grin. The stoner stoked and fired up the bong with a mix of doovee and powered Huht Rinds. Popping a cork on the face of the glass case, the brain fried stoner fed a stream of potent bong smoke into the case that contained the long sleeping (not dead) ultra cool ancient brain fried stoner groovy far out hepcat, Timidly Blurry. The glowing smoke curled about the sleeping stoner. And to the delight of all concerned, his eyelids suddenly fluttered. He grinned a big cheesy long asleep kind of grin, and took a deep breath.

“Far out groovy!” Blurry said.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh…” SPLAT! Pimple had passed out again, having awakened unbeknownst to her three companions.

The door of the glass sarcophagus casket coffin-like thing opened with a whoosh and a whiz, and out stepped the legendary brain friend stoner, inventor of yakachuggadooveeamide (commonly known as doovee; much easier to pronounce) and other assorted hallucinogens not to mention the children’s game, Cap’n Kid Stoner. Feeling much younger than his current 6.38 braggilid cycles of age (that would be 31,438 years for you and I), he belched, farted, and took another hit from PeePee’s bong.

“Ahhhh,” Blurry said with a sigh, “now that’s some good frog shit!”

“Speakin’ of frogs…” PeePee said expectantly, panting like a well oiled three toed ho.

Blurry caught his breath. The memory returned. His dastardly subversive cunningly devious plan so long ago formulated was now about to be realized.

“Yes yes!” Blurry blurted. “Are they still there?”

PeePee nodded excitedly.

“Far out groovy!” Blurry exclaimed. “And the stage?”

PeePee nodded excitedly again. “I built it when no one was watching!”

“Far out groovy!” Blurry exclaimed again. “Let’s get the show on the road. Get ready to rokkenrol!

“Huh?” Crabby asked.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” SPLAT! Out like a light.

Friday, January 6, 2012


Okay, when I first saw this film as a very young avid science fiction and horror fan, the little space dude really creeped me out. To this day it remains one of my favorite science fiction films.

Thursday, January 5, 2012


If you happen to stumble into this blog, and the P&E Reader’s Poll is still happening, would be nice and appreciated if you’d hop on over there and plop down a few votes for me.

I’ve been lucky enough to be nominated in four of their categories. They are horror novel (DREAMS & NIGHTMARES), fantasy novel (THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANNALS OF SLAGHEEPIAN HISTORY), horror short story (The Devil’s Whore), and fantasy short story (Blue Moons over Widdlydink).

Many thanks, ya’ll!