Sunday, September 25, 2016

Are You ParAware?


I just wanted to take a moment to introduce you to a very awesome project! It's called ParAwareness. It's a chance to raise awareness for today's issues that are important to you AND it helps raise money for charity! You can rock out with a high quality, hand-made para-cord bracelet or key-chain either pre-made or with the colors and style of your choice, have those funds donated to charity, and raise awareness when people inevitably ask you about them! SO much better than some boring ribbons! Plus, there are a multitude of things you can do with them! Just take a look at the pics below for some ideas!
Click on any pic for full screen detail!

Kenzi absolutely LOVES her new collar! They will be rolling out leashes as well!

Accentuate any do!

Link two or more together, or ask for an extra long one, and you have a fabulous choker!

This key-chain is called "Born This Way", an LGBT awareness item representing sexuality embedded in a strand of DNA

Request a custom made bracelet or key-chain from a variety of colors and braiding techniques!





They have about 11' of usable 550lb 6mm paracord and 6' of 180lb 3mm nylon cord, so just like any other para-cord item out there, they can be un-braided and used for a variety of emergency uses!  The charities listed so far are Susan G Komen, ASPCA, and the Dallas Police Association, among many others. Right now they are set at a 10% donation, but they are striving towards 50% by the end of the year. Feel free to check them out at the link below!

http://www.ebay.com/sch/parawareness/m.html?_nkw=&_armrs=1&_ipg=&_from=

Strumming the tune of awareness one cord at a time! ^_^

Monday, February 15, 2016

"Retirement Home"

My first story based on actual, creepy-as-hell, events! Click here!



Retirement Home

Retirement is not what you think at all. “Oh, you're retired! It must be so nice to have all that free time!” is the usual reaction when people learn of our situation. I want to slap them in their ignorant mouth every time. Here's the deal; retirement isn't fun in the slightest. Sure, the first few months are fine. Catching up with hobbies, friends, family, and upkeep on the house. After that, though, you are constantly preoccupied with the unrelenting task of trying to fill the rest of your free time. It gets maddening. If it wasn't for my wife, Mitsu, I'd be in the loony bin after the first year. “Now now, Frank”, she'd whisper and take my wrinkled hand in hers, “No need to get so worked up.” She knew I wanted to smack the taste out of people's mouths that gave the smiling, polite reactions indicating that they couldn't possibly fathom to understand, yet. They will. One day.

I should be considering myself lucky. I have a loving wife of forty years, a house that's been paid off for the past twenty years, and a brand-spanking-new van that I bought outright as a retirement present to myself for various hardware store excursions. Even though I was no longer a foreman, I still found the need to fiddle here and there with various home improvements. After her own retirement from a large software company, Mitsu keeps tinkering with computers, gadgets, and other things that are just way too over my head to grasp. Old habits die hard. So do we, apparently.

It was in the third year of our retirement that the visits started happening. I guess someone heard my wish for a little excitement in our mundane day-to-day. The first knock at our door perplexed both of us. “Are you expecting someone?” Mitsu asked with a confounded expression. “Hell no”, I huffed, struggling out of my recliner to confront the interruption. I was ready to tell whoever it was to peddle their wares or  Jesus elsewhere, but when I opened the door, I was greeted with red hair and a smile from a small, almost waifish, young girl. “Yes?”, I half-barked. “Uh, hi! I don't know how to say this...”, she peered behind me where Mitsu was poking her head out of the kitchen. “My phone. I have a tracker that says it's here...”, seemingly losing her confidence, she peered down at a mobile phone displaying a map, then shoved the device in my face. “See? That's your house. You wouldn't happen to have my phone... would you?” I brushed her hand to the side, “Now, look here. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but the only phone that we have is bolted to the wall. Does that sound like your phone to you?!” “N-no,” she cowered, “I'm s-sorry.” She turned, tail tucked, and left. Mitsu couldn't control her laughter. “You're so mean!”, she teased as I closed the door. Later that night as we were watching crime show reruns, a commercial boomed, “Find your lost phone with the 'Where My Phone At?!' app!” Mitsu shot me a grinning, knowing look. I scoffed, smiled, and shook my head.

After that, the visits became a daily part of our lives. A barrage of different people, either alone, with friends, or even the police, all looking for a cell phone at our home that some tracking application pegged as the last location of their beloved device. Some were understanding, knowing that technology wasn't perfect and that it must be a glitch; others, not fooled by our “elderly couple cover”, were worked up into an angry froth and demanded that we return their stolen property. The local law enforcement soon caught on to the case of wrongful accusations and tried their best to quell the easily excitable masses. “Look, I get it” I told one officer, “People put too much reliability into technology, and when it fucks up, they don't want to admit their own damn stupidity. I just worry about the safety of my wife and my house. I don't need one of these dumb-asses getting drunk, riled up, and coming to my home with their redneck mob.” "I know where you're coming from, Mr. Simms", he nodded, "I assure you that if it should ever come to that, call me directly and I'll be over as soon as I can." It seemed to be about the only assistance that we could get from them. That, and the bullshit explanation as to why this was happening in the first place. Something about GPS, triangulation, wireless towers, and WiFi. In other words, things that Mitsu would have to explain to me repeatedly.

On a particularly cloudy day, we received our regular knock at the door. Ready to blow off yet another lost soul, wandering without purpose since the loss of their electronic life, I whipped the door open. “Where is she?!” was hurled violently at me from the mouth of a black leather clad biker type, “Where is my sister?!” I was taken aback by the sudden change of question. Phones, I could deal with. I had experience with those. Missing girls, not so much. “Where is she?! I know she was here!” he belted once again, holding up a tattered photograph of red hair and grinning teeth. The very same face that I had turned away weeks ago when this all began. “Look...” I tried to explain as I saw three police officers approach behind the large man, “I don't know what you're getting at, but there's no one here. Just my wife and me. No cell phones and definitely no girls.” He seemed confused by my answer, but pressed on, “I know she's here.” He motioned to the cops, “And they're gonna find her.”

The police officers presented us with a warrant and then escorted Mitsu and myself out to the front lawn. They explained to us that since this was a person and not a phone, they had to take this situation a little more seriously. Her last location, according to her phone and her mother's phone that she used to track it, was our house. She never made it home. We were the last people to see her alive. The situation with the tracking glitch was explained to her brother, but he still insisted on searching. “Feel free to do whatever you need to do”, I told the officers and the burly gentleman, “I'm sorry about your sister, so if it helps to search our home, please... We have nothing to hide and want to assist in any way that we can.” His face softened a bit as he came to the realization that a retiree and his little, elderly wife couldn't possibly have anything to do with the disappearance of his sister.  “I'm sorry”, he resigned, “I just don't know what else to do. This was my last resort.” “It's okay”, Mitsu took his hand gently, “You'll see her again. I promise!” That was all it took to drop the guy to his knees in a stream of blubbering tears. I smirked at the display of tenderness from my wife and the fact that this tiny Asian woman just took out a six-foot-plus giant.

An hour later, the police left our house a bit disorganized, but thankfully not destroyed. “I'm sorry, sir, but there doesn't seem to be anything here”, one of the cops informed the missing girl's brother, “I wish we could be of more assistance, but this seems to be the same tracking error.” After the police left, the biker thanked us and apologized again for the trouble. “Come in for tea”, Mitsu begged him, “Tell us about her.” He obliged as she served him a cup of hot herbs and honey at the dinning room table. They talked for a bit about the red haired girl. How she was the first one to come to our door looking for her phone. About how I scared her away. About how my wife ran back outside and asked her to join us inside for a cup of tea. He looked up and inquired, “What kind of tea... is this...?” “The same that I give all my guests! A special Japanese blend that I make myself!”, Mitsu beamed. “I... I don't...”, I watched in silence as he tried to stand up, but failed miserably and fell to the floor with a thunderous thud. Mitsu giggled and clapped gleefully.

Dragging the biker's unconscious body down the stairs to the basement was more daunting than I thought it would be. I was afraid that he would come to with every stair that his head hit. “How does a petite girl have such a beast of a brother?!”, Mitsu grunted. Upon landing at the bottom, I went over to the hand-built shelves lining the far left wall and clicked the flawlessly hidden switch that swung it open to reveal the walls of a small room lined with cinder blocks and thick metal links. I dragged the biker inside as Mitsu clanked a pair of wall shackles on him. She exited just in time to see him struggle against the grogginess in his head and the chains on his wrists. He turned his head to the right allowing his eyes to take in the full horror of  decomposing corpses all around him including that of his sister. “No! No!!!Why?! I'll kill you! I swear to god, I'll kill you!”, he screamed, shaking his restraints. “See?”, Mitsu smiled, “I promised you'd see her, again!” The screams became a string of vulgarities to which I responded with closing the shelves and latching it shut, returning the basement to silence once more. “You built that so well! I can't hear him at all!”, Mitsu exclaimed with sheer delight. I hugged her close and kissed her forehead. I don't know how I'd survive retirement without her.

Mitsu pushed away from my chest and shuffled over to her computer in the far corner. She turned off the wireless jamming device, turned the WiFi back on, and continued coding the latest patches for her “Where My Phone At?!” app.


Tuesday, January 26, 2016

"Basic House" is a "Basic Laugh"


I'm not sure if this is to be taken seriously or if it's some sort of new hipster art. 

Hilarious. Admirable, but hilarious.

This photo-shoot doesn't really do it justice, either. 




Especially with this photo.

It forces people, like myself, to do awful things like this...

Look what you made me do.

Then there's the video which already makes it seem like a parody of itself.

So, what, are you supposed to seriously live in a superhero's cape that is perpetually blowing in the wind? Eat, defecate, and then roll around with it like the world's most disgusting tumbleweed? How would bringing a date home work? After dinner, you head to an alley, whip out your house, then romantically toss them in on your ground-bed? "Hey baby, why don't we ruffle these walls from the inside out? Watch out for that rolling turd."

What are your thoughts?

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Horror: An Endangered Species

What the ever-loving monkey-flung dung happened to classic, maniac slasher, frightening phantom, and utter mind-fuck horror?!  You know, the actual good and entertaining kind?  Horror these days has been twisted into such esoteric drivel in a mission to find something "fresh" and "new" that I don't even recognize it anymore.  Like a hideously botched facelift on an aging golden era that hardly resembles the origin from which it was born.  There was no need to "fix it".  It was fine.  It was reliable and recognizable.

"Horror" films, such as "Babadook", "It Follows", and "Honeymoon" have been getting a lot of buzz from members in the film industry and a few sheep-people that graze in their Hollywood bleached assholes, but when it comes to us, the real fans, we are let down and abandoned by an institution many of us called home.  These kinds of highly praised instalments of horror are so obtuse, obscure, convoluted, and shoved so far up its own ass that it loses sight of the fundamental goal: to scare the audience.

I want something actually tangible to be afraid of.  Something real.  I'm tired of this whole "she's running from the killer, but the killer is actually a representation of society's unobtainable standards of beauty and her own emotional conflict".  Bitch, if I wanted emotional conflict, I'd watch "Steel Magnolias".  I want HORROR!  Something that shouldn't require a bachelor's degree in film studies to decipher what the hell is really going on!

I want to turn off everything except my raw exposed nerves of fear, and I want the film to cut them out and play with them!  I want sheer, unbridled terror that latches on to my soul's very loins in a vice grip that won't let me sleep because of the things that go bump in the night.  I want to feel so violated and vulnerable that my only hope of survival depends on staying under the covers and praying for the light of day!  This is NOT too much to ask, but it quickly seems to be headed that way.

This doesn't even require gore!  You can have a great scary movie without a single drop of crimson in the entire thing!  As for the direct to DVD movies that amass in bargain bins, bless their hearts for trying.  Some actually do try to recapture the truest essence of a fright flick, but lack the funding for substantial actors, writers, and special effects.  They get an 'E' for effort, the poor things, but sometimes they leave me feeling even more so that this genre is seriously in danger of being wiped out.

This is why I have started to write my own stories.  I'm not ever saying that my talent is on par with some of the greats (and even not-so-greats), but that's the self-flagellating author in me that will always see room for improvement within my own creations.  I just want to try and fan the flame of fear out of concern of it being extinguished completely.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Ellipsis: A Collection of Short Horror

Here it is; the big reveal!  A new short horror project that started on this site and will eventually evolve into a nifty little paperback anthology.  The theme and title of the collection will stem from the fact that all of the stories will end with an ellipsis, leaving the reader to the mercy of their own dark, riled up imagination, or to pause and give the reader a moment to soak the story in.  Sure, I could force you to see my exact vision for each of the tales, but I have found it far more terrifying when there was no spoon feeding and I had to fill in the blanks myself.  Also, what may be scary or creepy to one person may not have the same effect on another, yet we have all experienced our own form of hellish nightmares from scaring ourselves silly.  The human mind is a macabre and bizarre little creature that just loves to jump to the absolute worst scenario.

The collection is listed on the right side of this site in a drop-down box where you can choose a story.  As always, I would LOVE to hear feedback, good and not-so-good, from anyone and everyone!


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

"Chime"

 Darci violently erupted from her thrashing slumber.  She gasped as she took in the quickly fleeting images of horror that plagued her rest, the sound that wrenched her from its clutches, and the strange room that she was now in.  The most prevalent matter was the random musical notes emanating from behind the bolted window.  A queer tone that perplexed her with every jaunty vibration.  As the visions from the night terror slipped from her mind, the realization of where she was took its place.  She was sitting upright on her queen size mattress, glistening with the combination of soft moonlight and fresh perspiration that pooled in her cleavage.  She paused and took in the moment of rampant clarity.  Darci was in the bedroom of her new home.

 Although still foreign to her, she felt a warm rush of comfort after identifying the darkened boudoir.  The odd tune demanded her attention, again.  Her eyes darted to the window as if the sound was her own name being sung.  Wind chimes.  The very same large pipe wind chimes that she strung up two days ago after moving in to her new one-bedroom house.  She sighed, relieved to be free of both the forgotten nightmare and the ignorance of her own location.  She glanced at the clock which beamed at her with a hard blue, almost snide, “3:46am”.

 “Oh, you've gotta be fuckin' kidding me”, Darci hissed through a glaze of sticky night saliva.  She reached out to the time and clicked the alarm button.  It was set to go off forty-four minutes later.  She relinquished an audible breath, afoul with resignation, and turned the alarm off.  “I might as well get up”, she begrudgingly admitted to herself.  “I need a shower, anyway”, she tugged at the thin, soaked top that was clinging to her breasts, exposing her nipples with a transparent wetness.  The wind chimes seemed to agree with her as it belted out another rendition of its childlike made-up song.

 In one swift motion, Darci flung the floral print sheet off her damp body, swiveled her legs over the side of the bed, and hopped down to a chilled hardwood floor beneath.  Her bare feet momentarily protested the harsh cold and then adjusted accordingly to the temperature.  She considered turning on a light, but instead opted to avoid the pain associated with forcing her eyes to focus anew on a drastic change of contrast.  The chimes continued their score of the events.

 Darci shambled out of the dim bedroom through its open door and into the black hallway that led to the kitchen.  She used her limited memory of the terrain and her open palms to map the straightforward route.  The stove-light lit area on the other side was beckoning her encouragingly with the promise of fresh coffee.  She began to hurry her shuffle with delicious thoughts of the day's first mug of murky brew.  The twinkling tune in the background narrated every quickened step.  As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she felt the force of a hundred hammers down on her littlest right toe, stubbing it against the beige drywall.  She immediately dropped to the floor and tightly clutched her whole foot in her hands.

 “AHHHH, gah, mother, faaahhh!  Shit shit shiiiiit!!!”, Darci wailed and rocked in place, controlling the pain with a sea of expletives.  From her bedroom, the chimes seemed to swell exponentially, almost mocking her, with deep clangs and high-pitched tings.  She clenched her jaw and relinquished what little power over the pain she thought she had.  As she moved her hand, she first made sure that the toe was still attached.  It was there, silently glaring at her for her betrayal.  She then made sure it wasn't seriously damaged by gently wiggling it around with her fingertip.  It didn't seem broken, but the immense amount of pain should have justified a pool of blood, or at the very least some sort of immediate bruising.  She was almost disappointed that there were no such visible signs of physical trauma.  Darci let a whimper escape as she stood up and continued towards the coffeepot.  She grabbed the carafe, stepped to the sink, placed the pot in the basin, and turned the cold water valve.  She stood motionless as the wind chimes belted their rhapsody over the sound of the running tap.

 Darci glanced up and stared out of the tiny window that overlooked her small backyard where she had planted three new saplings.  Even though technically morning, it was particularly dark and calm.  She took in her new view and reflected on the fact that she would never have to deal with another roommate ever again.  Stranger after stranger, taking advantage of her and her goodwill.  She was beyond ecstatic to finally live all by herself.  The wind chimes piped up again as if to say, “Hey!  Don't forget about me!”

 The song shook her from thought as her eyes focused on one of the saplings.  It was standing so still and vulnerable out in the inky openness.  She thought about building a little fence to surround each of the baby trees to barricade them from certain premature death at the hands of an overzealous yard worker.  Darci broke from the mental home improvement session and peered out into the night once more.  Time stopped as she had a horrible realization; the saplings were still.

  With a labored breath, she rushed her eyes around the scenery; the bushes, the full-grown trees, the bird bath water, the tacky rainbow-colored pinwheel.  They were all motionless.  No signs of disturbance from even the slightest of air currents.  The night was dead.  She felt a billiard ball form in the middle of her throat that would not vacate despite her valiant efforts.  Her heart was galloping laps around in her chest.  The water was overflowing from the coffee pot and noisily evacuating down the drain.  The wind chimes were having a ferocious musical tantrum against the bedroom window.  Darci slowly turned her head to face the opening of the hallway.  She parted her dry lips just enough to sharply inhale sufficient air to speak, but before she could utter a word, she heard the bedroom window shatter and the wind chimes abruptly halt.

  She instantly froze in a panicked state, unable to unbolt her quivering legs from the kitchen tile.  Terror and disbelief ravaged her mind, rendering it absent of logical actions and thought.  A clumsy thump hit the bedroom floor followed by the sickening sound of broken glass grinding under a heavy boot...

Friday, July 10, 2015

The Blood Shed Anthology

I recently submitted the short horror stories that I have been dabbling in lately to one of my favorite horror sites, The Blood Shed, in hopes of getting added to the anthology that they will publish soon.  This has been a dream of mine; not only to get published again, but to be a part of my favorite genre that has always been number one on my list since I was a twisted little single digit age!  Last night, I logged on to see that they picked one of them and posted it on their site!!!
I can hardly contain my excitement!  Have a look!!!


I still have a few more ideas bouncing around in my noggin.  Here's hoping to more stories, soon!  I may even collect them in my very own anthology!  ^_^

Thursday, June 11, 2015

MAR Comics Collection

Okay, now that I am writing again, I have gotten off my fat, lazy ass and updated the site after the whole Razzi incident where they lost all the pictures that I was hosting there, and then vanished off the face of the gawdamn planet.  Some unimportant blogs have been deleted, some had the blank space where a picture used to be removed, and then I re-hosted the MAR comics, hence this entry.
This is all of the issues that I have made to date.  Maybe I'll continue these some day.

When I first made them, they were at an accounting job where I got bored often, so I crudely drew them on the back of the Missing Account Reports, or M.A.R.  That's where the title originated, but then evolved to be the names of the three characters; Max, Art, and Rae.
(if you need to see them larger, right click and 'open image in new tab/window')

After these initial comics, I decided to drop the 's', start over at '01',
and move from pen & paper to a digital medium.

This is where it get really fun!  "MAR presents True Telemarketer Tales" was a sort of spin-off from MAR, and by far my favorite.  I made these while working at a call-center.  These were funnier because all of the comics were based off of real incidents and real names.