Horror Stories

[unknown]

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[Rachel Dearth]

Say what?

[Rachel Dearth]

Interesting stuff, but you have nearly perfected the gothic style, why change? 
It is unique and practially no one is writing that way anymore!

Rachel

[Zodiac]

I like the kink!  I just picture Pagan as the main character of it and it all goes down fine!   

[unknown]

Hi Rachel

I don't think, Silent Noir is a very well thought out story.. is rather thin in terms of character/motivation, and point and/or twist. I wrote in about half an hour and was curious what kind of responses it would get. I thought it would be more controversial. I may work on it... but I really am getting bad at starting stories and not finishing them.

Hi Zodiac

I think Pagan liked it, too

[Rachel Dearth]

Welllll, it ain't controversial because we have all read sexy stories before. I'm sure the guys are going to like it more than women will, as it is written from a guy's point of view.

I take it that it isn't done.  If it was really going well, wouldn't you feel like working on it more?  The best writing tends to feed on itself, like a puzzle you are putting together!  I'm sure other people will think differently about it than I do:  my opinion being, of course, that it is't bad, but I like your gothic stuff better as it sets the mood a lot more nicely.

[unknown]

Hi Rachel

About the gothic thing... I am not abandoning the gothic style, I just don't want to be stuck in one narrow corner of horror genre... and in fact, I am sort of itching to do some Sword and sorcery/heroic fantasy. But I want to finish Crooling Grange, The House of Dupree and the companion piece to the Devil's Pen first.

I think it is not controversial because it isn't being read, and you may be suprised at how many women enjoy it.

I won't argue that Silent Noir is a good story... it is not (I think the poem is quite good, although, definately in poor taste).  With what is written, so far...  the characters actions don't make any sense. The plot is so thin it is more of a scene than a story.

I did write a long prologue... but I haven't posted it.  Actually, I thought about pulling the whole story.

[unknown]

Silent Noir prologue?


She squirmed on the long slippery wooden bench, waiting for the “happy people,” to clear the hell out of the little church of St Edgar’s. All that hugging and holding hands made her uncomfortable, self-conscious. She was alone now, surrounded by people, but alone. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and by God she wasn’t going to the reception. Spend the night beating off the unwanted advances of stumbling drunks and assholes who thought they were slick. No thanks, been there done that, got the t-shirt.

Five years, five years of hell and torment since her groom had shuffled off the mortal coil. Five years of guilt and self-recrimination. She knew he was on a path of self-destruction. It wouldn’t have mattered what she’d done. She could have been the perfect little kiss-ass Stepford wife, wouldn’t have mattered, not in the least. He’d pushed so hard. But she had promised never to leave him. She’d known what he was like.

With the rest of the wedding party she made her way out of the little church on the bluff, trying to be small… and invisible, trying to escape the cheery greetings and awkward, well-meaning, but embarrassing questions.

A windstorm was gathering, the clouds rolled quickly in ever-changing hues of gray and violet. Her white cotton sundress billowed in the moonlight and she drew her shawl in tightly around her shoulders against the cold. The rusty iron-gate creaked dismally as she entered the old cemetery. There was something peaceful about a cemetery, something, somehow comforting and she needed that now, needed peace. How long had it been since she had a good nights sleep, hell, she couldn’t remember the last time.

Her feet wandered aimlessly or so she’d thought, and then she realized where she was. The grave, his grave, the grass had grown long around the tombstone and the little copper pots for flowers lay empty. She stood there for a long time in thought letting the memories flow.

First she sensed it, a presence, like a gentle caress surrounding her. She looked up and saw a face, a face open, relaxed and calm. Suddenly as if a damn had burst within her, she began to cry.

“Death is the hunter.” He said.

“What?” She asked wiping the tears away.

“Death is the hunter, he stalks us all and there is no escape. But he can be held at bay for a time and that time is all we have.”

“Who the f*** are you! What do you want?” She yelled, as a sudden gust of wind went rippling through her red-hair.


“My name… just another box, dismal as a coffin, another label for society to trap the individual in coils of definition, confining the spirit within bounds it can control and thus, feel comfortable with. Names come and go… with time and circumstance, I am son, I am brother, I am friend, I am lover and I am master. If you must have a name then pick one.”

“How about nut job! Leave me -- the f*** alone.” She said, her heart racing she bundled her fist and crouched slightly, ready for anything.

“Ha, ha, ha, my you are spirited… perfect!  Do you ever wonder about fate, my dear? What brought us together on this lonely hillside beneath the waning moon and chilly starlight? Aren’t you curious? Will you throw away this chance, believe me, fate opens its’ doors but rarely and closes them unexpectedly.”

“Well? What the f*** -- do you want?”

“Come to me… bind yourself to me. You will feel… feel the cleansing fires of pain and for a time you may forget… forget the wrongs done to you and those you have wrought. You shall come to know yourself... your womanhood and my manhood... you will know pleasure. You will not be alone.  You don’t have to answer now just take this card. If you don’t come, my stormy one, I shall be very disappointed.”

The weeks went by and still she kept the card. Every now and then she would take it out and look at it. Sometimes she would feel a presence surrounding her, a light that touched her, gentle and reassuring like in the old cemetery. Why the hell was she even contemplating this!  It was crazy, but she’d done crazier things before.

She open the trailer door, it flopped open banging against the wall. Linkin Park boomed from the doorway, “What I've done, I face myself. To cross-out what I've become. Erase myself, And let go of what I've done. What I have done.”


"Damn thing still isn’t painted," she thought slamming the trailor door; she shook her head in disgust. She struggled, dragging the reluctant trashcans to the curb. She jumped suddenly as something ran past her in the darkness, dropping the trashcans, “f*****g armadillos.” The cans clanged noisily, spilling their contents on the pavement. She began picking up the trash and shoving it angrily back into the cans, “What! And leave all this!” she shouted into the waiting night. Silent tears filled her dreamy sky-blue eyes.

***

Her heart beat in her ears as she tried to dial the number for the third time, God, she was sooo… nervous. It rang. It rang again, a third time. She was just about to flip the lid and say the hell with it, when she heard a voice, soft as a breeze, but with the hidden force of a hurricane blowing up behind it.

“Hello, my Stormy One. I have been waiting for you.”

“How did you know? How did you know it was me?”

“Calm yourself, take a deep breath. -- I assure you -- that I am not stalking you, my dear.”

“s***! I knew you were some kind of a creep!”

“Then why did you call, Stormy?”

“I don’t know, but…”

“I will tell you, because somewhere deep inside of you sensed something in me, something that you needed, you wanted and something you have never had.”

“Where did you get that line from a bubble gum wrapper?”

“The pain eats at your heart… you cannot sleep. The pain has grown inside, until you can’t imagine life without it… you fear that there is nothing left but the pain, nothing left to hold onto but it.”

“f*** you! You bastard!”

“Stormy, I can help you. For now, all I ask is that you meet with me… someplace safe, someplace with lots of people. Then if you say no, I will never darken your door again.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Your so f*****g smart you tell me!”

“Because you are afraid.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His heart chilled by the tenderness, the beauty of that soft and sultry voice, he tried to choke back the emotion. Damn... he needed her... she needed him... but it was her choice.

[Matt]

I read it, I don't think it was bad or controversial. 

You can tell at the top how many times a topic was read. Before I posted this, the tally was at 322 views, which is a lot, so people are reading it. Maybe people just don't have the time to post any thoughtful comments about it.

[unknown]

Hi Matt

Thanks for reading it... the 322 is the whole thread though... from the beginning.

[Scorpio]

I've read it, too.  I didn't see anything wrong with it.  Of course, I am not really a literary critic, so I had no comments. I didn't see anything controversial about it, though.

I tend to be a bit picky about the type of sex that I see in stories, and I think everyone has something different that excites them.  I'm not prude, but I wonder at the artistic value of placing sex in stories is anymore. I used to like that movie 9 1/2 Weeks and the Last Tango in Paris, now I see them and wonder what the excitement was over.  More often that not, the titilation tends to detract from the storytelling, rather than add to it. Just my opinion.

[unknown]

Hi Scorpio

I tend to agree, although sometimes sex is crucial to understanding the characters, and their motivations.

I guess I am more of a prude then most then, if it is not controversial... I do seem to have at least some sex in the majority of my stories... although I have tried to be tasteful about it, in most instances. In ,"The Oubliette" the sex was definately part of the horror, as well as in "Erzabette."

Silent Noir, has opened up for me in a wonderful way and I think the pain/dominance/submission is a crucial element in the story. Actually there isn't a "bonifide" sex act in the entire story and I thought some might think it corney for a woman to have the big "O" simply by being in a position of total submission.

[Trent]

Sad to say, I have to admit that you could cut out most sex stories from stories and it wouldn't really hurt them that much.

And, as someone who has read pretty much all of your stories here, Unknown, I have to admit that there was only one where the sex played an essential role in understanding the characters, was it the Horrors of Cooling Gridge that had the guy doing his sister?  That worked out pretty well, and it made you wonder what would happen next.

On a side note, in real life, sadly, it takes a lot more to bring women to the big 'O' then fiction writers say it does.   

[unknown]

Hi Trent

And if I hadn't mentioned it, nobody would have commented, about the "O."

I disagree, about the other stories, Ezrabette is essential a story that turns steorotypes on their head.
It is set in the sixities, discusses feminism, Gloria Stenheim... prehistoric battle between matriarchal and patrical societies, which we can see in the change from and essentially feminine godhead throughout the world to a male Godhead.

1. The female is stronger then the male
2. It is the man who gets raped
3. The damsel in distress is actually a villian
4. The man is the victim
5. The monster wins

For these reasons, the sex in, "Ezrabette" was essential to get the point across

[Rachel Dearth]

On a side note, in real life, sadly, it takes a lot more to bring women to the big 'O' then fiction writers say it does. 

Yep, but it depends on the woman!