Ginger Snaps

Just got around to watching "Ginger Snaps," a coming of age werewolf horror story.

From the official website:

The 16 and 15 year old sisters Ginger and Brigitte are doing their best to stay outsiders. The typical stupid foolin' around cheerleaders attracting testosterone-regulated boys are really turning them off. "Out by sixteen or dead in this scene - together forever" is their morbid pact - because what classmates or their own mother consider as "becoming a woman" seems to be the same as getting dumber due to hormonal alterations. So the wicked girls prefer to fake and imitate 1001 arts of dying for their school project, including decapitations and lawnmower-splattered bodies. But nothing can stop the disaster that is about to happen... While walking through the forest at night a petrifying beast, allured as Ginger is on the rag, attacks her. Since then, infected with the obsession for meat, Brigitte's sister turns more and more into a Vamp that picks up boys at daytime and eats the dogs of their hated classmates in the night. Ginger's escalating thirst for blood begins to get out of control and even her innocent sister Brigitte isn't able to stop her... Thoroughly humorous yet deadly serious in tone, this character driven werewolf horror takes a dazzling new approach to Neil Jordan‘s menstruation anxiety of THE COMPANY OF WOLVES. Blood is running, but not from the imagined source the advice on puberty volunteering adults believe. To intensify the tension and gore to its utmost crescendo, even the supporting characters were drawn far more strikingly than we have been made used to in the genre. Above all Mimi Rogers delivers a hilariously unsuspecting, yet zealously protective mother.


It's a great little film that does much with a very small budget and an even smaller shooting schedule. Theatrically a bomb, the movie was critically acclaimed and now has a much deserved cult following.


I found it a compelling mix of serious acting and horror cliche with a smattering of black humor in all the right places, succeeding where "American Werewolf in London" failed, in my opinion. The intentional lack of CGI (insisted upon by director John Fawcett) only adds to the effectiveness of the horror gags that pop up every seven or so minutes throughout the film.


Cudos to the casting director for finding Emily Perkins and Katherine Isabelle, who shine as the sisters with a suicide pact. Interestingly, both actresses were born in the same hospital, attended the same pre-school, elementary and private schools, and are at the same agency. Perkins was twenty-two at the time and Isabelle four years younger, but it was Perkins who would be cast as the younger sister.


I had wanted to see this movie for years (it was originally released in 2000) and finally made the effort this evening. I'm a little troubled by the similarities between Ginger Snaps' plot device of teen menstruation being connected to eliciting an attack by a lycanthrope with the plot device I myself used in my short story, "Life's a bitch. A werebitch."


I swear I had no idea what the storyline was for Ginger Snaps!


Great movie. Check it out.

http://www.ginger-snaps.com/

 

Check out my two short stories, now published on Amazon Kindle:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

 

Breathless

This is a poem I wrote last year while contemplating the power of love, as well as its futility.

Under a blanket of stars

On a blanket of grass

Through lovers lips
Soul to soul, our time is now
We are Earth's children
Life is our watchword; we keep the faith

We shall not go without a fight
into the darkness that patiently awaits

We are amused at such brave true concepts
Then suddenly, you turn away
Breathless on the gusty summit
You said "When we are gone, life goes on”

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!

Vote for Cthulhu

Copyrighted photograph by Chuck Wendig

Please consider backing my eBook project on kickstarter.com (here):

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1432267097/ten-little-terrors-horror-anthology?ref=home_location

The Crooked Tree

What makes a crooked tree? Is a twisted destiny buried deep within its seed or is the seed pure in essence, reaching out wantonly into the world; its blind desire to spread far above its captive earth, oblivious? Or is the tender sapling soon defiled once leaving the comfort of the womb of loam by the bitter cold bite and searing hot gaze of a tyrannical Mother Earth? Twisted and molested by its own? Forced to live in the shadow of others of its kind? Forced to become crooked by its sheer will to survive?

     He often pondered the tree that had become part of his life. He looked upon it every morning when he arose and every eve when he retired. It had been there in the tangled wood henge for as long as he could remember. Always crooked. Always old. The tree has watched him as well through the years. He fell from the old maple and nearly died as a child of seven. It was his Mother who found him, hours later. Mother who called emergency in a drunken stupor. If it hadn’t been for the social worker making her rounds, he would’ve died then, like so many of her seeds before him.

     He didn’t fault his crooked tree. He didn’t fear her, either. They made up when he finally returned home, the sun shining bright, the comfort of the tree’s shade wrapping round him like a cool sheet. He climbed to her highest branch, overlooking the myriad of jagged stumps there. Stumps of trees that she had endured. Tyrants that had come to pass. He imagined that she had slain them, ripping them limb from limb as they pleaded for her mercy; mercy never shown the crooked tree.

     When sixteen, he built a fort in his crooked tree. The day Mother died. Her sap ran like blood from his nails. She gave in willingly to her stigmata. She gladly cradled his weight, even in pain. The weight of his body, his soul, his deeds.

      He hid there; watched as they came and went. Soon even the dedication of the social worker waned and he was alone. The house that he had called home stood empty. Condemned. Too defiled to even inhabit.  

     He scavenged for food at dusk. He thought how easy it was if you’re just willing to compromise. He scavenged for his crooked tree, as well. She’s wasn’t as strong as she once was. He would bury the food she craved at her feet, her roots feeding on the carrion; as they fed on Mother. They were safe now. No longer surrounded by foes. They had all been brought down.

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!

Isle Nine

Copyrighted photograph by Chuck Wendig

Please consider backing my eBook project on kickstarter.com (here):

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1432267097/ten-little-terrors-horror-anthology?ref=home_location

The Crooked Tree

What makes a crooked tree? Is a twisted destiny buried deep within its seed or is the seed pure in essence, reaching out wantonly into the world; its blind desire to spread far above its captive earth, oblivious? Or is the tender sapling soon defiled once leaving the comfort of the womb of loam by the bitter cold bite and searing hot gaze of a tyrannical Mother Earth? Twisted and molested by its own? Forced to live in the shadow of others of its kind? Forced to become crooked by its sheer will to survive?

     He often pondered the tree that had become part of his life. He looked upon it every morning when he arose and every eve when he retired. It had been there in the tangled wood henge for as long as he could remember. Always crooked. Always old. The tree has watched him as well through the years. He fell from the old maple and nearly died as a child of seven. It was his Mother who found him, hours later. Mother who called emergency in a drunken stupor. If it hadn’t been for the social worker making her rounds, he would’ve died then, like so many of her seeds before him.

     He didn’t fault his crooked tree. He didn’t fear her, either. They made up when he finally returned home, the sun shining bright, the comfort of the tree’s shade wrapping round him like a cool sheet. He climbed to her highest branch, overlooking the myriad of jagged stumps there. Stumps of trees that she had endured. Tyrants that had come to pass. He imagined that she had slain them, ripping them limb from limb as they pleaded for her mercy; mercy never shown the crooked tree.

     When sixteen, he built a fort in his crooked tree. The day Mother died. Her sap ran like blood from his nails. She gave in willingly to her stigmata. She gladly cradled his weight, even in pain. The weight of his body, his soul, his deeds.

      He hid there; watched as they came and went. Soon even the dedication of the social worker waned and he was alone. The house that he had called home stood empty. Condemned. Too defiled to even inhabit.  

     He scavenged for food at dusk. He thought how easy it was if you’re just willing to compromise. He scavenged for his crooked tree, as well. She’s wasn’t as strong as she once was. He would bury the food she craved at her feet, her roots feeding on the carrion; as they fed on Mother. They were safe now. No longer surrounded by foes. They had all been brought down.

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!

The Mysterious Chase Family Vault

Copyrighted photograph by Chuck Wendig

Please consider backing my eBook project on kickstarter.com (here):

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1432267097/ten-little-terrors-horror-anthology?ref=home_location

The Crooked Tree

What makes a crooked tree? Is a twisted destiny buried deep within its seed or is the seed pure in essence, reaching out wantonly into the world; its blind desire to spread far above its captive earth, oblivious? Or is the tender sapling soon defiled once leaving the comfort of the womb of loam by the bitter cold bite and searing hot gaze of a tyrannical Mother Earth? Twisted and molested by its own? Forced to live in the shadow of others of its kind? Forced to become crooked by its sheer will to survive?

     He often pondered the tree that had become part of his life. He looked upon it every morning when he arose and every eve when he retired. It had been there in the tangled wood henge for as long as he could remember. Always crooked. Always old. The tree has watched him as well through the years. He fell from the old maple and nearly died as a child of seven. It was his Mother who found him, hours later. Mother who called emergency in a drunken stupor. If it hadn’t been for the social worker making her rounds, he would’ve died then, like so many of her seeds before him.

     He didn’t fault his crooked tree. He didn’t fear her, either. They made up when he finally returned home, the sun shining bright, the comfort of the tree’s shade wrapping round him like a cool sheet. He climbed to her highest branch, overlooking the myriad of jagged stumps there. Stumps of trees that she had endured. Tyrants that had come to pass. He imagined that she had slain them, ripping them limb from limb as they pleaded for her mercy; mercy never shown the crooked tree.

     When sixteen, he built a fort in his crooked tree. The day Mother died. Her sap ran like blood from his nails. She gave in willingly to her stigmata. She gladly cradled his weight, even in pain. The weight of his body, his soul, his deeds.

      He hid there; watched as they came and went. Soon even the dedication of the social worker waned and he was alone. The house that he had called home stood empty. Condemned. Too defiled to even inhabit.  

     He scavenged for food at dusk. He thought how easy it was if you’re just willing to compromise. He scavenged for his crooked tree, as well. She’s wasn’t as strong as she once was. He would bury the food she craved at her feet, her roots feeding on the carrion; as they fed on Mother. They were safe now. No longer surrounded by foes. They had all been brought down.

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!

The Horrors of it All!

Copyrighted photograph by Chuck Wendig

Please consider backing my eBook project on kickstarter.com (here):

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1432267097/ten-little-terrors-horror-anthology?ref=home_location

The Crooked Tree

What makes a crooked tree? Is a twisted destiny buried deep within its seed or is the seed pure in essence, reaching out wantonly into the world; its blind desire to spread far above its captive earth, oblivious? Or is the tender sapling soon defiled once leaving the comfort of the womb of loam by the bitter cold bite and searing hot gaze of a tyrannical Mother Earth? Twisted and molested by its own? Forced to live in the shadow of others of its kind? Forced to become crooked by its sheer will to survive?

     He often pondered the tree that had become part of his life. He looked upon it every morning when he arose and every eve when he retired. It had been there in the tangled wood henge for as long as he could remember. Always crooked. Always old. The tree has watched him as well through the years. He fell from the old maple and nearly died as a child of seven. It was his Mother who found him, hours later. Mother who called emergency in a drunken stupor. If it hadn’t been for the social worker making her rounds, he would’ve died then, like so many of her seeds before him.

     He didn’t fault his crooked tree. He didn’t fear her, either. They made up when he finally returned home, the sun shining bright, the comfort of the tree’s shade wrapping round him like a cool sheet. He climbed to her highest branch, overlooking the myriad of jagged stumps there. Stumps of trees that she had endured. Tyrants that had come to pass. He imagined that she had slain them, ripping them limb from limb as they pleaded for her mercy; mercy never shown the crooked tree.

     When sixteen, he built a fort in his crooked tree. The day Mother died. Her sap ran like blood from his nails. She gave in willingly to her stigmata. She gladly cradled his weight, even in pain. The weight of his body, his soul, his deeds.

      He hid there; watched as they came and went. Soon even the dedication of the social worker waned and he was alone. The house that he had called home stood empty. Condemned. Too defiled to even inhabit.  

     He scavenged for food at dusk. He thought how easy it was if you’re just willing to compromise. He scavenged for his crooked tree, as well. She’s wasn’t as strong as she once was. He would bury the food she craved at her feet, her roots feeding on the carrion; as they fed on Mother. They were safe now. No longer surrounded by foes. They had all been brought down.

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!

ZOMBIE!

Copyrighted photograph by Chuck Wendig

Please consider backing my eBook project on kickstarter.com (here):

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1432267097/ten-little-terrors-horror-anthology?ref=home_location

The Crooked Tree

What makes a crooked tree? Is a twisted destiny buried deep within its seed or is the seed pure in essence, reaching out wantonly into the world; its blind desire to spread far above its captive earth, oblivious? Or is the tender sapling soon defiled once leaving the comfort of the womb of loam by the bitter cold bite and searing hot gaze of a tyrannical Mother Earth? Twisted and molested by its own? Forced to live in the shadow of others of its kind? Forced to become crooked by its sheer will to survive?

     He often pondered the tree that had become part of his life. He looked upon it every morning when he arose and every eve when he retired. It had been there in the tangled wood henge for as long as he could remember. Always crooked. Always old. The tree has watched him as well through the years. He fell from the old maple and nearly died as a child of seven. It was his Mother who found him, hours later. Mother who called emergency in a drunken stupor. If it hadn’t been for the social worker making her rounds, he would’ve died then, like so many of her seeds before him.

     He didn’t fault his crooked tree. He didn’t fear her, either. They made up when he finally returned home, the sun shining bright, the comfort of the tree’s shade wrapping round him like a cool sheet. He climbed to her highest branch, overlooking the myriad of jagged stumps there. Stumps of trees that she had endured. Tyrants that had come to pass. He imagined that she had slain them, ripping them limb from limb as they pleaded for her mercy; mercy never shown the crooked tree.

     When sixteen, he built a fort in his crooked tree. The day Mother died. Her sap ran like blood from his nails. She gave in willingly to her stigmata. She gladly cradled his weight, even in pain. The weight of his body, his soul, his deeds.

      He hid there; watched as they came and went. Soon even the dedication of the social worker waned and he was alone. The house that he had called home stood empty. Condemned. Too defiled to even inhabit.  

     He scavenged for food at dusk. He thought how easy it was if you’re just willing to compromise. He scavenged for his crooked tree, as well. She’s wasn’t as strong as she once was. He would bury the food she craved at her feet, her roots feeding on the carrion; as they fed on Mother. They were safe now. No longer surrounded by foes. They had all been brought down.

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!