Nightmare Fuel
Nightmare Fuel is twenty short horror fictions, plucked from the mind of the author in a wild attempt to stave off an annual influx of sleep-deprivation-inducing nightmares. From werewolves to walking statues to the question of humanity in tiny alien cephalopods, there’s fuel aplenty for your own nightmares from under the bed.
17 May 2012 / Reblogged from callmebliss with 2 notes
“70’s Child: Growing Up in the Age of Sea Monkeys” (an excerpt) by Brian D. Parker
Our family went to church three times each week: Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. Even on vacation, we went to a Nazarene church—especially when we visited grandparents. College Church was stately and elegant but all the other Nazarene churches were old and drab, like buildings near the day-old bread store.
Grandma and Grandpa Parker’s Florida church was the worst. It was a stucco hovel filled with the most wrinkled assemblage of people I had ever seen outside of a nursing home. Mrs. Neilson took us to nursing homes on Sunday School field trips. We sang songs for them; and that was fine. But then we had to go talk to them.
Old people scared me sometimes. They were fragile and shaky and used wrong words. And they were so grabby. Old people always grabbed at my hand or my neck. The wheelchair people were the most forceful. They, flat-out, would not let go! So you were stuck. Because it was impolite to wrestle your hand free from their cold, powdery grasp. Seconds would tick away like the slow, echoing steps of Godzilla. And no matter what, you still had to smile.
I wore the same rigid smile on those Sunday mornings in Florida. This was difficult to pull off because the experience of Disney World one day, then Creepy Church the next, was a shattering descent in the vacation rhythm.
I dreaded going to Sunday School with strange, unfriendly children. I remember sitting at a folding table in a dark, mildewed basement classroom. Some of the fluorescent lights were burned out and the dimness compounded my feeling of isolation. The other children ignored me as we colored our mimeographed drawings of Jesus and the sheep.
Finding comfort in my art, I focused on the grass, the sky and Jesus’ robes. The slit-eyed blond boy across the table had scribbled wildly outside the lines with a black crayon. I thought, “He made ugly black sheep and I bet he’s a black sheep.” Then the boy looked up at me like he was reading my thoughts. He looked at my drawing and I could tell he was coveting. Coveting was worse than just being jealous. And the face across from me held all the important nuances of coveting.
Looking at my own artfully crafted tableau, I swelled with pride. But the sheep looked bland with nothing but the white paper to indicate the creamy color of wool. I thought if I just lightly colored the sheep with a tan crayon, I might achieve a more accurate color. There was not a tan crayon to be found. So I took a silver crayon and applied a shining border just inside the outline of the sheep. It looked like the silver lining of a cloud. I feathered the edge giving the sheep an inwardly glowing corona. It was beautiful even if inaccurate. Satisfied, I deemed the drawing complete.
Just as I set my paper down, parents started straggling in. Grownupchurch was over! My torture was ending. Looking up, I was desperate to catch a glimpse of Mom but there were too many grown-ups blocking the doorway. Just as my panic started to rise, she stepped around the crowd. The anxiety in my face melted as she licked her lips and bent to give me a kiss. Mom’s kisses were wet and loud and comforting. Smack! Happy, I wiped my mouth. She was here now and everything was going to be okay.
I grabbed my drawing and we walked out to the car. On Mom’s lap, I showed off my artwork. With horror, I looked at the paper. It was the blond boy’s drawing. He’d switched them. “Mom! That boy stole my drawing! I didn’t do this!” I looked down at the rage of black squiggles covering the sheep. Anger and sorrow came in fast, giant swells. I looked up at Mom and, forcing back my tears, described my technique with the silver crayon and how beautiful it was. She hugged me and told me we would draw another one when we got home. But I knew it couldn’t be recreated. If I drew another one it would be empty repetition. I wanted my original.
I imagined the hateful blond boy sitting on his own mom’s lap, in a similar station wagon, passing off my drawing as his own. His parents would never believe that their sloppy, wicked, untalented imp had created such a masterpiece. His mother would smile and compliment him. But inside, she would be disappointed, even angry, admitting to herself that her offspring was turning into a spiteful, hideous art thief. In time, his family would reject him. He would be friendless; and maybe even be sent away to slave in the kitchen of some evil aunt’s house. I took vengeful pleasure in that thought. But I knew it was the only satisfaction I would ever receive. I hated vacation church.
Brian Parker is a three time Emmy Award winning art director, set designer, animator, graphic designer and writer living & working in Nashville, TN. The preceding is a selection from his forthcoming memoir 70’s Child: Growing Up in the Age of Sea Monkeys.
15 May 2012 / 2 notes
/ Biographies Memoirs Nashville The Seventies hipstamatic
the light is a lie
by Andy Torres
14 May 2012 / 1 note
/ iphoneography iphoneart mobilephotography mopho Nashville
