Detour, 1945, feature film, USA, directed by Edgar Ulmer, starring Ann Savage as Vera, and Tom Neal as Al Roberts
Savage Detours: The Life and Work of Ann Savage, 2009, a biography and filmography by Kent Adamson and Lisa Morton, McFarland, with a Foreword by Guy Maddin
The most fun role for actors is always the bad or twisted character, the weirder the better. Often villains in film are Continue reading Savage Detours, Film Noir, and the American Nightmare by Matt Dukes Jordan
When Jack Laretto made two million on the sales of his novel ‘No Mercy’, he took his wife Viola to the Caribbean, fulfilling a lifetime dream.
They spent two weeks in the sun, made love every night by moonlight and he returned ready for the sequel. He was going to write the next great Southern novel. He considered the path that had led him to overnight fame.
His first breakthrough came with the ‘Mustard Man’, a gruesome if realistic account of a split personality serial killer. That was how the reviewers interpreted the story. Jack’s readers felt it was an account of two characters, seeing the Mustard Man as a separate entity to Norm.
People been going off edge of these cliffs sixty years, and probably sixty years afore that. Forever, probably. When the wind’s up, and it’s howling, these cliffs ain’t a place to be. There’s one, two a month, go over sometimes. They put a railing up couple years back. And a sign. But it don’t help none.
There were two of them. She was washing the dishes when they came. She couldn’t see them. The strangers were two shadows with the sun behind their backs. One of them said, ‘Open up, ma’am. Police.’ She glanced at the clock and sighed. They were not her husband.
She left the security door locked. She said, ‘What can I do for you?’ ‘Do you mind if we come in? It’s about your husband. We need to speak to you about your husband.’ ‘It’s a scorcher out here,’ the other one said. He pushed his badge against the metal mesh of the door. With his other hand he wiped his forehead. ‘We won’t be long.’
Once upon a time, there was a young lady named Emily. After a long day in the house, Emily decided to take her Schwinn for a spin, a long spin.
Emily lived in her house like most people live in their skin. Today, Emily’s house wouldn’t hold her for very long. Continue reading Three Clowns – A Twisted Fairy Tale by Gina Marie Slade
Tracy placed two frosted Mugs of beer in the Freezer. She was expecting her boyfriend at any minute.
She glanced in the mirror and touched up her make-up. He called at around ten o’clock to tell her he wasn’t feeling well and needed to cancel.
Tracy was tired anyway, so she chalked it up to bad timing.
She reached into the freezer to pull out the mugs but to her surprise they were no longer sitting there on top of her Lean Cuisine dinners. “That’s odd,” she said out loud. She looked in the refrigerator. They weren’t there either. Now she was starting to get really spooked. They weren’t on the counter. They weren’t even in the dishwasher. She felt uneasy but decided to let her fears go because she was tired and had a busy day tomorrow cooking for out-of-town guests. She walked into her bedroom and unbuttoned her blouse, pulling a comfy t-shirt Continue reading The Wild Beast by Melanie Browne
Jonathan Sideboard trudged up the garden path, through the snow, to the front door of his house. The funeral had gone well. Well enough, it had to be said. His late father, Ernest Sideboard, eighty-four, was six foot below ground. Six whole feet separating him from the surface of the earth. From Jonathan. And a funeral couldn’t go Continue reading Cold By Ian Ayris
I trace the outline of Elena’s face, running my fingertip down her delicate nose and along her slim jaw line. She is young and the texture of her skin flawless, like a pebble on the beach made smooth by the sea. She has not a single line or a scar or blemish, except for the pretty freckles speckling her cheeks. She is the colour of coffee and cream. Her sleeping head with its auburn hair cascading like a waterfall on the pillow next to me; she is truly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I like watching Elena as she sleeps. Sometimes when I can’t sleep I lie listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing; attuning my own with hers, until I begin to drift off.
“You don’t want to sit here!” said the chair, brusquely, as I sat down on it.
Startled, I leapt to my feet.
“Ouch!” cried the carpet, “That bloody well hurt! I’m sick and tired of being trampled on all the frigging time.”
“You think you’ve got it bad,” called the wok from the kitchen, “You should try being me!”
Back when Syd Barrett led Pink Floyd , the band recorded its first album at Abbey Road Studios at the same time as The Beatles recorded Sergeant Pepper’s there and The Pretty Things were recording S F Sorrow. They called it, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.
Flash forward to this century and a habit I picked up in Amsterdam and can’t seem to shake. The habit is listening to the World Service on the radio all night. It’s the CBC All Night Radio here, the BBC World Service there (I think). A lot of countries contribute reports to the World Service. I don’t really understand how it works but there’s nothing quite like laying snug in your bed, free to fall asleep or listen to Holland, Sweden, Korea or Poland talk about their news. For instance, the other night there was a report from somewhere near Alice Springs, Australia about a race they held between honey bees and homing pigeons. The bees won.
Continue reading PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN CONSIDERED by Steve Wheeler
PULP METAL MAGAZINE 