BANNED!

I suppose it's my fault really. No one to blame but myself. To fully comprehend the following tragic tale of insanity, jump with me, if you will, into the wayback machine...

When my daughter was younger, she liked to sing. She appeared to know practically every song in the world and I'm not really sure how she learned them as I brought her up on a steady diet of alternative rock. But soon enough, my wife and I enrolled her into singing lessons. (Strike number one: Encouragement!)

Then I created an even bigger mistake. I introduced her to musicals. First, I showed her some of my favorites such as West Side Story. Appearing to really enjoy it, I sought out all of the musicals for her I could find.

And woe unto us for the day she discovered the musical, Rent. First, we watched it several times. Then she showed it to all of her friends. I grew so sick of watching--and especially hearing--Rent, that I considered hiding the DVD. But that didn't stop my daughter. She bought the soundtrack and sang along at the top of her voice in her bedroom and worst of all, the shower.

Her showers were always hour-long affairs, but they weren't quiet ones. Every night we listened to the same  musical selections from Rent. No choice. No escape.

"I'm going to go AOOOOOOOOOOOOut tonight!" issued from the shower over and over and over again, finally stamping all over my nightmares.

Enough was enough and I threw down the Mean Parent gauntlet. "Hey!" I said. "From this day on, I'm officially banning show tunes from being sung in this house!"

Of course the rule didn't stick. But to this day, if I even see the title Rent, I grow sweaty and fearful and nauseous. Let this tragic tale serve as a warning to parents everywhere. Ban show tunes before it's too late!

This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Agitated Father Coalition.

Speaking of teens in trouble, it doesn't get much worse for high schooler Tex McKenna. He's bullied, struggles with the principal, is discovering love for the first time, and suddenly has a target on his back from a potential serial killer. Complicating matters is he has just discovered he's a witch. Check out Tex and friends adventures and mystery in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy here!

Mom's In The Army Now...

Even as a kid, I was a tree-hugging pacifist. So when I first became aware of the draft, the possibility of my being torn from the safety of my parents' protection and thrust into battle terrified me.

So at the age of six or so, I cried, "Mommy...I don't wanna get drafted!"

My Mom hugged me and said, "Shh, shh, shh. Don't worry. If you get drafted, I'll go with you."

That worked--temporarily--to assuage my childhood fears.

But I started thinking of the larger ramifications...

"Oh great googly-moogly! My eyes have to be playing tricks on me! Either that or you knuckleheads have finally driven me around the bend! Private West! Is that your mother behind you?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"My stars and garters! Now I've seen everything! Both of you drop and give me 20!"

"Yes sir!"

Or maybe this scenario...

"Hey, West! Is your mommy gonna dig your foxholes for you?"

"You boys shut up before I come over there and scratch your eyes out!" (This was my mother's favorite terrifying threat whenever she thought her darling little boys were being mistreated.)

So I took my concerns back to my mom. "Mommy...you wouldn't really scratch the other soldiers' eyes out, would you?"

"It depends on how they treat you," she replied.

This scared me, but at the time bigger issues started to swim around in my boyish brain. "Why don't ladies get drafted?"

"Because we have babies."

"Oh." I pondered this. It made absolutely no sense and just seemed unfair overall. "Well...why don't men have babies?"

"Because they go to war," she replied without hesitation.

Which just confused me even further. Besides the very odd correlation of giving birth to war, I didn't understand the world at all. And it just got more confusing as I grew older.

Matters weren't helped when my parents rarely told me the truth about anything when I was a child. (Don't even get me going on the topic of sex.)

My takeaway from this nostalgic reexamination is this: If you get drafted, bring your mother. And always wear clean underwear because you never know when a tank might run over you.

Now that I'm being nostalgic and all about my parents, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. My protagonist's parents are based on my own (although--to my knowledge--my mom was never a witch). The fun starts here!

Pyro City, Pyro City, PYRO CITY!

You know, whenever we travel through Missouri, I'm always tickled by the gigantuous fireworks store just off the highway (conveniently located for yokels to drop in and pick 'em up 'splosives, perfect for the pyro on the go) called "Pyro City." If you've ever traveled along the highway around these parts, I'm certain you've seen it to. It's just a scooch down yonder from "Guns, Gas & Chicken" and just a holler away from "Porn Empornium."

But after I nearly burned down our house recently (twice!), I'm less hesitant to make a dumb joke about it, particularly while riding shotgun with my wife. To say she wasn't pleased is an understatement.

I blame it on the stoopid crab cakes (of course they're artificial crab cakes, I can't afford the real deal). When they go on sale at the grocery store, I snag about ten of them and freeze 'em. Ideal for microwaving, right?

WRONG!

Apparently, I had forgotten how long you microwave them from frozen. I wildly overestimated and tossed them in there for fourteen minutes. (I'd say I was having a "blonde day," but everyone knows that ain't right as I'm follicularly challenged).

I retired to the TV room awaiting the crispy, golden delicacy soon to be mine. After about seven minutes, it started smelling good. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! Another five minutes go by and I'm thinking gosharoonie, I wonder if I should check them?

When I lean back to look into the kitchen, there's a huge cloud of smoke swirling in the air.

In a panic, I race to the kitchen, dogs coughing at my heel, and whip open the microwave door. Smoke billows out like an unfolding foam  mattress, clouding the kitchen to the point where I can't see in front of me. The smoke alarm goes off. Using an oven mitt, I take the offending crab cake out of the microwave and take it outside, where it continues to smolder.

Naturally, this all happened on a day when my wife was working upstairs. She left her online meeting to race downstairs and holler, "What happened?"

Well. Crab cakes happened. The work I had to do to try to air the house out was a gargantuan task. Candles were lit, windows were opened on a chilly day, and fans were set to spinning. Constantly, I microwaved vinegar in hopes for a "ta-dahhh" resolution to no avail. If you've ever burnt popcorn in the microwave, imagine that smell multiplied 300 times.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's been so long since I've microwaved crab cakes, I forgot how long to do it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

But no manner of penance could change the horrific odor lingering in the house. For days, it reeked. My wife even threw in the towel and bought a new microwave, as I forlornly said goodbye to my old electrical appliance pal.

After about a week, the house was pretty much back to normal and all was forgiven. Or it would've been if I didn't do the exact same thing again. Hey! I cut the microwave time down to seven minutes! I was pretty sure that's how long I did them years ago!

For a while, my wife forbade me to use the microwave. Probably a good idea. Welcome to Pyro City!

Speaking of people making some incredibly bad life choices, meet Tex McKenna, teenage male witch. He makes quite a few dumb decisions, but hey! They're all in support of catching a high school serial killer, how dumb could they be? (In Tex's defense, he's excused because he's a teenager. Whereas, I'm still making poor microwaving choices.) Read about Tex's eerie, funny, socially topical escapades in the Tex, The Witch Boy trilogy available here!

Air-Conditioning the World

"We can't air condition the world," my dad would say. "Shut the door!"

Wow, my wee young brain thought, maybe air conditioning the world is a nice idea. I mean if people are starving in China (another shameful ploy my dad used to get me to eat lima beans), might not they also be hot in the summer if they can't afford air-conditioning?

So, for a while, young Stuart left the door open whenever he could get away with it, doing my part for humanity. (My liberal tendencies began from the crib onward).

Oh, sure, I felt guilty at times (particularly when my dad reached for his belt), because I knew that air conditioning the world might be a bit expensive. Yet, I thought a thousand dollars was about the biggest buncha money I'd ever heard of (next to a "Kazillion infinity"), and somehow I remember figuring that's what the bill for air conditioning the poor would ante up to, and I thought my parents could surely foot the bill. 

It was worth it.

I'd lay in bed at night thinking about how a cool wave emanated from our open door, circling the globe, and reaching the farthest countries of earth, delivering cool, sweet relief to those less fortunate and more sweaty than us. By golly, it's what Jesus would've done!

Then--after many, many punishments--I came up with a backup plan: if everyone who could afford air conditioning left their doors open, then the bill wouldn't be too bad at all.

Needless to say, my Quixotesque childhood quest to cool down mankind didn't get very far along after the first neighbor told me to get lost. (And I have absolutely no reason nor excuse for trying to leave the water faucets on and plugging the drains in the bathrooms when we'd leave for a family vacation other than I thought it'd be neat! Indoor pool! Gosh!)

But if everyone had opened their doors to cool off the world, we just might not have devastating climate change now. Hey, I never said I was a scientist.

While we're bandying about idiotic ideas, Tex McKenna--like all teenagers--is full of ideas that aren't very well thought out. His inner filter sometimes goes on the fritz when dealing with high school bullies. And his sudden newfound "witchdom" draws him straight into confrontation with a mysterious killer stalking the students at his school. But what's a teenage male witch to do? Find out the answers in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy available here!

Duel to the Death: Siri vs. Alexa!

Yep. It's come down to this. Who would win in the ultimate smack-down? Siri or Alexa?

In this frightening age of 3-D printers, smart everythings, AI everywhere you look, and phony, manufactured politician recordings, I think I'm not alone in wondering who would take the crown between those two bad-ass, all-knowing, intrusive, and ever-listening non-entities, Siri and Alexa.

First of all, let's give them physical manifestations. Now, most people choose to have the two electronic figureheads represented by a sultry female voice. I don't. I've seen how hot and sexy Siri has driven a good friend of mine crazy with unrequited desire. It's a desire turned bad. Once he told me, "I really hate that bitch."

So I've given my Siri the voice of a British/Indian man, the reasoning being I'm more apt to be immune to his charms. (However, he does have a British voice; have you ever found that British accents make everything sound more interesting? At least as a Kansan, I certainly do, otherwise, I would've never listed to a BBC radio show covering "Buttons.")

Now, seeing as how the only limited experience I've had with Alexa is when my mom briefly had it turned on, I'm probably going to envision her as the typical sultry-sounding radio DJ (who's probably not as attractive as her radio voice). Let's make her hot, maybe a brunette. 

(Side bar: My mom soon disabled her Alexa; she was worried that it was listening to her. Pretty sure she got this idea from Fox News. So my brother disabled that channel on her T.V. {Side-side bar: She may not be too wrong. Even when I'm just talking about commercial things in the vicinity of my phone, I'll sometimes soon receive ads for that very thing. Holy 1984!})

So. We've got a wiry, strong Indian man versus a sultry British Brunette woman. Who'd win in a knock-down, throw-down, duel to the death?

Is this such a hard to imagine scenario these days? Creative talent/scientists can make anything happen these days, real or not. It's a far jump from the days Ray Harryhausen entertained us with stop motion clay dinosaurs (and if stop-motion animators aren't the most patient people in the world, I don't know who would be).

Let's look at the facts. Clearly, Siri is utilized more than Alexa, with more people using "her" on a daily basis, I *think* as iPhones are more prevalent than Alexa.

Yet, a lot of "experts" prefer Alexa. While Siri offers a more "personalized" experience (i.e., tailoring ads to your tastes which I'm not so sure is a "plus"), Alexa excels at compatibility, ranging across a wide line of Amazon products.

And let's not forget a recent claim made by an Alexa commercial: "Alexa saved my life by telling me the house was on fire." Well, cool. I guess. But a fire alarm doesn't listen to you like Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. 

Really, it comes down to which giant world-eating conglomerate that's out to conquer the universe you choose: Apple or Amazon.

Me? I'd rather not see either of these two soulless mega corporations win as they're both filthy rich and powerful enough, perfectly represented by never-seen, but all intrusive electronic omnipresent presences. 

And wouldn't it be cool if all the world's violent disagreements and problems could be handled by a couple of AI images duking it out? 

I'm taking bets right now. In this cornerrrrrr, weighing in at 3 billion megawatts of artificial intelligence, we have...

Now that I've got that off my chest, let's bring things back down to earth with a nice, simple teenage witch boy. You betcha I'm talking about the murder mystery, supernatural, comical, touching and suspenseful adventures of Tex the Witch Boy (and friends and enemies). Get under his spell right HERE!

Knee Fun in 2024

My 2024 has started out with a bang. Or at least that's what it felt like to my knee. For over two months, I'd been suffering severe knee pain, completely jacking up my mobility and ability to do stuff.

It all started in mid-November. I woke up, thinking (more like mentally screaming), "Say...my knee sure does hurt."

For weeks I suffered. My wife watched me hobble around (finally busting out her antique collectible cane), shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She'd been down this path with me before.

"Do something about it," she said. "Go to the doctor."

For you see, going to the doctor is completely against everything I stand for. A) I hate it; B) it takes forever; C) things usually have a way of rectifying themselves; D) it sucks (did I say that already?); and finally, the Big E) I'm always worried about some life-threatening disease the docs may accidentally uncover. Why...I'd almost rather ask for directions when lost than go to the doctor. Almost.

At long last, one morning I woke up and it felt better! "Honey," I said, "I'm finally on the road to improvement!"

"Uh-huh," she answered.

Alas, the next day, the constant, agonizing pain had returned. With great sacrifice, I hauled myself upstairs to our bedroom and finally conceded. "Hey...I think I need to go to Urgent Care in the morning."

"Hallelujah," replied my wife.

Okay, the next morning, a Sunday, I found out when Urgent Care opened. My plan was to get there at that very moment, thus limiting the endless waiting time. Before the doors opened, I was there, banging on the doors with my cane.

The doctor saw me, a speed-talker, and gave me a quick cursory examination. "I don't think it's broken, can't say about torn ligaments, I doubt it, but we'll give you an x-ray anyway, take lots of Ibuprofen, ice it until we call you, next!" spat out Dr. Over-Caffeinated. 

Later that morning, the nurse called. "Um, yeah...Dr. Speed-Overdose says there's just some mild arthritis there. No big deal. Take Ibuprofen."

Translation: "Why are you wasting our time and resources? Stay home, you cry-baby, take some aspirin and shut up."

Yet...yet...the constant pain continued. One more month goes by. In absolute despair, I picked an orthopedist on-line and gave his office a call. After I left a message, two days later(!), a nurse calls me back.

"At this point, we're two months out from being able to get you in. You're better off getting into one of our walk-in clinics."

"Two months?" I railed. "That's worse than trying to get somebody to fix our fence. Have you ever tried to get someone to just mend your fence? I mean, it's crazy! They either want to replace the entire fence or...Hello?  Are you still there? Hello?..."

So. I gave in. It became decided. The next morning, my wife (who was working from home that day) graciously said she'd drive me to the clinic. (I actually think she likes to go with me on medical appointments because she realizes that I'm terrible with giving accurate medical background information). 

Of course, this was during the worst snow blizzard in years. Oh so carefully, my wife plowed through packed and backed up snow covered streets, the visibility less than two feet ahead of us with the wind blowing wildly. All the while, my knee screamed for relief, any relief.

Finally...finally...we made it. Not sure how. Naturally, we parked at the complete opposite end of the long-ass building we needed to go into. Limping through the blizzard, I traversed the snowy and dangerous winter lands until we landed in the right section.

After seemingly hours of electronic paperwork, I handed it back in. That's when the receptionist said, "Well, the clinic doctor isn't here yet. I hope she does make it in, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know."

"Gee...thanks."

Fortunately, it wasn't too much longer before she did make it in.

"Hmmm," the physician, not much older than the cheese I ate last night, said, "betcha what you need is a cortisone shot in the knee."

"Bring it!" Of course I'm no fan of shots, but anything to alleviate my suffering.

"It usually lasts about three months, then you'll need to come back for another one," she continued. "Does that sound like something you'd like to try?"

"Oh, HELL yes!"

After filling out some scary paperwork that absolved them of my accidental death, she brandished a hypodermic in front of me.

"Okay, when I put this in, you'll just feel a little prick."

"'A little prick?' Hah. I can handle that. Um...I don't mean I can handle a 'little prick', heh, if you know what I mean, I mean to say, AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The pain! Make it stop! How much longer is this going to go on???? AIEEEEEEEE! Oh! What happened to the 'little prick?' The pain! Boss, it is zee pain!!!!"

In the icy cold agony of the shot, I'd accidentally channeled Herve Villechaize from Fantasy Island. 

The process did seem like it'd gone on forever, like acid burning up my knee.

At long last it was over. I limped back through the storm to the car.

And by cracky, once night hit, I started to feel relief! Sweet, sweet relief! On top of the world, the next day, I actually went out and shoveled the sidewalk and driveway (of course it took me about five out-of-breath attempts, but I did it!).

Sadly, the shot's effects only lasted about two weeks and now I'm back to Ground Zero of Pain.

My wife's on me to call another orthopedist.  

"Been down that route already," I said.

"Try again."

Humph. I hardly see the point. I'm thinking of finding a nice witch doctor on-line instead.

While I'm thinking about witches, you'll find an entire coven of witches (along with other ghosts, spooks, beasties, and things that go bump in the night) in my book, Peculiar County. It's a wonderful place to visit (kinda), but trust me, you don't want to settle there.

Hazardous to pests and oafs

Sometimes I just can't help myself. Blessed (or cursed, more like) with an innate sense of curiosity, said curiosity has gotten me into a few messes during my lifetime. And yet, none quite as messy as a couple weeks ago.

I was upstairs in our office, fiddling around on my computer when I noticed a strange new item I hadn't seen before.

What's this strange, yet oddly compelling and weirdly attractive item I've never seen before, I pondered. Where did it come from? What is its purpose? I'm absolutely drawn to this mystery item with the attractive design wrapped around it, so much so that I MUST hold it.

So, curiosity drew me to it. Or I should say curiosity drew it to me. And you know what they say about that poor, damned cat, right?

I clutched the mystery obelisk around its middle and it clutched me right back. I gasped, a short intake of shock. 

What fresh hell is this? Why won't it let me go??? Am I in a Hellraiser movie???

I shook my hand, panicking, yet the stubborn object held on, much worse than my several Super Glue mishaps in the past. I jumped out of my chair, used my other hand to pull it away, yet that hand became equally ensnared around the insidious man-trap. Using my body, I pushed it up against the wall. Now my shirt was glued to the damned, damnable object from Hell.

Hopping around the room, waving my arm like a hillbilly who bit off more than he could chew (or vice versa) when he went noodling for the king of catfish, I flailed into plants and knocked over lamps.

"Help," I screamed. "Help! Help!" But it was to no avail. I was alone in the home. Unless you count my freaked out dogs who were just staring at me.

Finally, through the grace of God (and leverage, can't dismiss leverage), I managed to dislodge the hellish man-trap and flung it across the room.

My hands still sticky, I phoned my wife. Stat. "WHAT was that damned thing?"

After she was finished laughing at my trauma, she said, "A gnat trap. You're not supposed to pick it up. Duh. Now go wash your hands thoroughly."

Well. Did I feel stupid. But in my defense, there was no packaging. Packaging that might've said...oh, I dunno..."Warning! Harmful to pests, insects, and big, dumb, oafish men." Furthermore, why in the hell would the manufacturers make a pest trap so...so...damned attractive?

It's not like a pack of flies (are they "packs?") say to one another, "Hey, Charlie, check out that way-cool design on that decidedly retro-looking obelisk over yonder!"

"Wow," says Charlie, "I find myself strangely compelled to land on it to check it out further! But look out for the big, dumb oafish man sitting next to it."

Instead of a compelling design, I would rather have them imprint "WARNING! STICKY AS HELL!" all over it in big, bombastic, dreadfully dark letters. I doubt it would make much of a difference to gnats.

Speaking of guys who make some really dumb decisions, meet Tex McKenna, the protagonist of my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy (well, quartet, kinda). But unlike me, Tex is a teenager, so making bad decisions is tantamount to growing up. (There's, um, no excuse for me, however.) Tex is also a witch and embroiled in a serial killer murder mystery at his high school. It's complicated. To find out how complicated, check the books out here!

The Name Game

What's in a name? Quite a lot as I discovered this past Thanksgiving.

Ever since the holiday, when my relatives dropped some great names and stories, I've been thinking about it quite a bit.

Let's take college sports, for instance. My nephew told me that the name of the University of Oklahoma's quarterback is..."General Booty." Yep, not a typo, not a bad dream, not a military title, but more than probably parents with a sense of humor. Or they hated their son.

I mean, I can hear the game announcements already: "Looks like we've got General Booty on the field!" or "Would you look at that General Booty!" or "The ref just made a Booty call!"

Poor guy. No wonder he had to excel at sports. (Although I suppose it's better than being named "Specific Booty.")

Then here in my stomping grounds of Kansas, ripped straight from the basketball team of my alma mater, KU, comes...Gradey Dick! Now on the surface, the Jayhawk guard's name isn't that unusual. But it's become kinda a Big Deal with people on the intronets, trying to one-up each other with naughty posts on Gradey's name. It's even become part of the lexicon of the game announcers (whether they realize it or not). Things I've read or heard include: "Dick is driving it hard on the floor!' and "What we need right now is some Dick!" and "Looks like Dick is pummeling the other team!"

(But don't feel too bad for Mr. Dick. My niece told me some less than pleasant things about the guy. Clearly trying to live up to his name-sake, I suppose.)

While we leave the world of sports behind, let's turn to real-life, shall we? Over the holiday, there'd been some reminiscing about stories from many years ago in Oklahoma. I'm thinking specifically of "Egghead Dinger."

"Egghead Dinger?" I said. "Why was he called 'Egghead'? Or was that his real name?"

"Well," said the anonymous storyteller, "his head looked like an egg."

While I was busy giggling over the poor Dinger, I tried to imagine just how egg-like his head was.

Quickly, my relative added, "But he was a good-looking guy!"

Now, I really was curious to see a handsome egghead.

Perhaps feeling guilty about disparaging Egghead's head, my relative continued trying to make Eggy seem palatable. "He was so good-looking, he married Fannie Mae, who--"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! 'Fannie Mae?'"

"Yes. Fannie was the school teacher who all the guys--and the kids--were gaga over. She rented an apartment with another local teacher that overlooked the school-yard. All the kids gathered around the yard at a certain time because it became wide-spread that Fannie liked to dress with her curtains open."

Yow! Now I REALLY wanted to see a pic of Egghead and Fannie, two of the best names ever! If I wrote them into a book, all credibility would be lost. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

So I started thinking about horrible names. And why the parents of these horribly named offspring felt the need to punish them for all their lives.

I uncovered Phat Ho, Dick Swett, Mr. Perv (a grade school teacher), Chris P. Bacon (wouldn't you think he'd drop the middle initial by now?), Mike Litoris, Moe Lester, Major Dickie Head (And how is that better than "Richard?"), Dr. Wett Fartz, F. You, and so many more.

You can't tell me these poor long-suffering people were unaware of their names, even with a language translation barrier. There are plenty of bilingual bullies out there. And what kind of sadistic animals are their parents? I suppose some parents find it cute. Then again, most of my cited examples involve (intentional or unintentional) potty humor.

In my ever-diligent research (Hello, Ms. Google!), I found a recent British study of 1,772 parents, with the majority of them claiming they gave their spawn weird names to help them stand out on social media! Dayum! Since when do parents want their kids to be noticed on Tik-Tok, where the likes of "Mr. Perv" goes by the handle of "Sunshiny Unicorn" or whatever? Why, I remember the day when parents wished for their kids to have better clothes, better schooling, and an all-round better life. 

Even more startling is 94% of the respondents claim that made-up nonsense names are "in" for kids!

Huh. So if I were to have another child, I think I'd name it "Poo-Poo Platter." Because I would want my child to have nothing but the best and most visible internet presence. Ever.

While we're on the topic of bad names, my protagonist (of three novels, so far!), chooses to go by "Tex," rather than  his birth name of "Richard." Because bullies early on let him know that "Dick" was short for Richard. But you can't explain bullies' behavior. Never mind all that. Tex has just discovered he's a witch. And there's a serial killer targeting his friends at school. And a lotta other stuff. Check out Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series.

The Best Weapon For a Serial Killer

You know it takes a very peculiar couple to argue the merits of what would make a serial killer's most optimal weapon.

Go on, take me and my wife. (I dare you.)

There we were, recently lounging on our "love seat (a very peculiar name in itself because of the mayhem we view on TV while lovingly lounging on it)," and a hooded killer was going after people with a hook during one of our "stories."

"I dunno, honey," I said, while affecting a very authoritative voice while stroking my beard, "if I were a serial killer, I wouldn't think a hook would be the most effective choice."

"Au contraire," she says, with much more authority than I could muster. "With a hook you could swing down, up, stick it straight in, and give it an extra twist, thus making it the perfect serial killer weapon."

"But...but...you would have to have much power behind your upward swing, not to mention the downward motion, to be able to get the hook into the body. Remember, it's called a 'hook' for a reason. See my point?" (And yes, the pun was intended.)

"Nope. I'm sticking with a hook. You can do much more damage, especially with a finishing twist."

"But it wouldn't go in straight, I tell ya! A knife would go in straight! You could slip it right inside the rib-cage, whereas a hook would be bouncing off of bones left and right, thus rendering the would-be killer off balance!"

"It's the hook for me, all the way."

We discussed the finer points of a serial killer's arsenal into the night, with neither of us conceding to the other (you know...like modern "politics!")

By the way, it turns out that on this particular program, both of our arguments were moot, because the killer double-dipped, tipping his hook with poison, but that's besides the point.

So, what's it gonna be, folks? Chime in on the great debate! Hook or knife as your preferred serial killer weapon? Later, we can have a fun contest to see how many government watch lists we land on!

Speaking of all things "peculiar," thing don't get much more peculiar than they do in Peculiar County. My book details a young teen tomboy girl coming of age in a small Kansas town in the '60's. A young girl's life is plenty peculiar in itself, but when you factor in a ghost in a corn-field, a mysterious murderer, a slew of creepy witches, the haunted funeral home she resides in, and a mysterious creature that takes flight in the night, well, yes indeedy, things get mighty peculiar. This October, drop in on Peculiar County for some Halloween fun!

 

House Under Siege!

Loud explosions are bursting outside. Bombs land on the roof that shake the interior, hurting my teeth fillings. My house is falling apart, debris landing in the yard. Men are shouting outside, overhead, some of them yelling at me in a language I don't understand. And I sit inside my house with no electricity, cowering in fear.

Nope, I'm not in the war-torn Ukraine. Instead, war has been declared on my house, my land, in a puny little suburb of Kansas City in Nowhere, U.S.A!

Now that I've vented in my finest drama queen fashion, I suppose a few explanations are in order (although, I gotta say, it's much more fun being a drama queen).

Everything happens at once. It started with the tree in our backyard splitting off a huge branch and then crunching up our fence. I already told you about my woes with the filthy rich arborist robbing us blind, so I won't go into that again. But with all the torrential downfalls of rain we've been suffering (shut up, Global Warning deniers!), recently we discovered a leak in the house. Which lead to an inspection of our roof. Which lead to a jaw-dropping estimate to replace the roof, especially since "the last guys that put on your roof didn't do it right. They just done slapped the new roof on top of the old wooden roof. Which is illegal now."

Crikey! "Illegal?" Are the roofing police coming for us? How're we supposed to keep up with what's legal and illegal in roofs? Between shootings and Covid, these days it's hard enough trying to stay alive without worrying about roofs!

So, we decided to take the deep, ever-so-deep plunge into our credit card, and get a new roof. Because we didn't want to end up in roofing jail.

Now, of course, with a faulty roof (which insurance refused to pay for, par for the course), comes the inevitable wood rot caused by our friend, Nature. We also got an estimate for that. Once my wife managed to get me up off the floor, we decided to get that tended to as well. Ka-chinggggg!

In keeping with the unkind and nasty Fates' sense of mean-spirited humor, our refrigerator and dishwasher decided to die at the same time. Ha ha. It is to laugh! Joie de vivre!

Here's the kicker:  every stinking one of these guys decided to do it all at the same time. Either due to weather or again, the nefarious Fates giggling over their pawns in the game of Life, everything coalesced at once.

But wait! There's more! The day before Hell reigned down on our (used to be) quiet and (not quite so) humble abode, the doorbell rings.

I hold back our two dogs, "Rowdy" and "Rumpus," and finally get outside to talk to some Orange shirted city employee.

"Hey there, Mr. America," he says, "we're from the city works department and we're working on a beautification project. We're going to fix the curb at the end of your driveway starting tomorrow. Should take about a week."

"Yow!" I say. "Um, can you postpone your beautification a bit?" I listed everything happening. 

He tells me, "sure we'll start on another house down the street."

The next morning, I'm awakened by loud trucks, back-up whistles, horn honks, yelling men, screams, total chaos. Sure enough, the street crew's going to work. I toss on some jeans, run outside flailing my arms, one of the dogs hot on my heels.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up, guys! You're not going to start on the driveway today, are you?"

Dumb question because one of the eight member team is holding a jackhammer up above the street. The rest of the guys are looking at me quizzically, either because they don't speak English or I appear insane in my "Who farted?" T-shirt. You'd kinda think that both of our cars being in the driveway may've been a tip-off clue that they shouldn't start yet, or at least ring the doorbell, but no, that's not how the street crew rolls.

One guy finally speaks up. "Right. You're having tree work done later today, so we're supposed to start on your driveway."

"No, no, no, nyet, nada, nunca, noooooooo! The guy yesterday said you'd start down the street."

"Right. We're just going to cut the street apart."

Clearly, what we had here was a failure to communicate. "But...but...we need to get our cars out of the driveway later."

Blink. Blinkety-blink-blink. "Right," says Foreman Clueless. "We're just gonna cut the street."

Giving up, I go inside, keeping an eye out on what they're doing. Later when it came time for me to leave, the eight all-stars grumbled and groused because they had to move while I parked both cars in the street.

And these guys stretched out a simple one day job into nine days of miserable dislocation. Every morning, they'd work about 45 minutes before adjourning for Happy Hour. Clearly they were getting paid by the day, not by the hour.

Which made us very, very popular with the neighbors. Since we couldn't park in our driveway, that took up two street spots. Factor in a thousand large and larger street crew vehicles , a ginormous tree devouring monster truck, various delivery vehicles, multiple roofers' autos along with massive supplies being dumped into our poor abused yard, you couldn't even drive through the street, let alone park on it. As I said, our neighbors just love us!

That's just the chaos outside. Inside was just as bad. The electricity went down a couple of times. I'm kinda a modern guy. Without electricity, there's not a lotta fun to be had. I suppose I could've cut my toenails by candlelight, but that's about four minutes shot.

Also, I walk around the house in my underwear in the mornings, part of my routine. Kinda hard to do when there are people climbing all over your roof, up the side of the house, peering into windows, and knocking at the door.

Once, I was getting dressed upstairs after my shower and I see some guy knocking at the small window trying to get my attention. Quickly, I pull on pants and open the window. 

In a surreal exchange, he says, "Hi. We're here to do wood rot repair."

Huh. Honestly, I would've thought the front door may've been a better introductory point, but what do I know?

And I never thought that wood rot repair would be so noisy. Imagine a thousand dental drills amplified and held up to your ear.

Finally, the various crews wrapped up and a cease-fire was called. With the white flag of surrender waved, peace once again dropped over our abode like quiet, ever so blissfully quiet, falling snow.

Until the next calamity, natch. And don't let the old saying, "everything happens in threes" fool you. It's more like "everything happens in nines."

And, hey! While on the topic of having a very disruptive life, meet Richard "Tex" McKenna. Between bullies (peers and teachers both) and burgeoning love, he's having a hard time in high school, but when you consider he's just found out he's a witch, things really get screwy. Not to mention a mysterious serial killer who's offing various bullies. This and so much more can be found in Tex, the Witch Boy, my very first novel, recently resurrected from the dead by The Wild Rose Press. (My wife still thinks it's her favorite book of mine.)

Matthew Hopkins - The Witchfinder General by Catherine Cavendish

Extraordinary horror author and pal, Catherine Cavendish, has a fantastic new novella out, The Malan Witch. The only thing creepier than that tale is, well, Cat's guest post this week on the horrific true exploits of witchfinder general, Matthew Hopkins.

My new novella– The Malan Witch – features a particularly nasty piece of supernatural manifestation, certainly not an entity you would want to bump into on a dark and stormy night (or day, for that matter). But, as she is merely a figment of my warped imagination, you have nothing to fear from her. No, really, I promise…

But go back four hundred years and, if you were a woman (or, less commonly, a man) who knew how to fix a hearty and healing soup, or a potion to draw poison from wounds,; if you understood the various properties of the myriad of herbs to be found around and about your hovel and, especially if you were old, lived alone, possessed a few warts and had a cat named Spillykins or Grimalkin, you would need to take great care. Woe betide you if you upset a neighbour and his prize cow dropped dead. If such misfortune were to befall you, it might only be a matter of time before you heard the dreaded knock at the door from the likes of a witchfinder.

And the most notorious of those was one Matthew Hopkins – self-styled ‘Witchfinder General’.

Hopkins was born in 1620 and little is known about his early life. His most famous career lasted just a couple of years – between 1644 until his retirement in 1647, but in fourteen months of that time, he managed to be responsible for the deaths of some 300 women, mainly in the eastern counties of England. All were convicted of witchcraft on his authority. The total number of executions for witchcraft between the 15^th and 18^th centuries amounts to less than 500. Matthew Hopkins and his colleague, John Stearne, certainly contributed more than their fair share.

 Since the Lancashire witch trials of 1612 that convicted the Pendle witches, the law had been changed. It was now necessary to provide material proof that accused person had practiced witchcraft. It was the role of Hopkins and Stearne to provide evidence that the accused had entered into a pact with the devil. A confession was vital – from the human, as the devil would hardly confess.

Hopkins traveled freely throughout eastern England, although Essex was his centre of operations. His career as witchfinder began when he heard a group of women talking about meeting the devil in Manningtree in March 1644. Twenty-three women were tried at Chelmsford in 1645. Four died in prison and nineteen were convicted and hanged. Hopkins was well paid for his work and this may well have spurred him on to be even more zealous. He and Stearne traveled with a team and wherever they turned up, the local community found themselves handing over significant amounts of money. In Ipswich, this was so great, that a special local tax had to be created to fund it!

Hopkins’s methods were dubious to say the least. He would employ torture, including sleep deprivation. He would ‘cut’ the arm of a witch with a blunt knife and if, as was likely, she did not bleed, she was pronounced a witch. He was also a great fan of the ‘swimming’ test, or ducking. As witches were believed to have renounced their baptism, water would reject them. So, they were tied to a chair and thrown in the river. Those who floated were guilty. Those who drowned were innocent. You simply couldn’t win.

Hopkins also favoured the practice of ‘pricking’. This involved searching the accused’s body for any unusual blemishes or moles. A knife or needle was used to test the mark. If it bled, on being pricked, the woman was innocent. If it failed to bleed, she was guilty. It has long been alleged that many of these ‘prickers’ had a retractable point, so that the hapless prisoner would be confirmed as a witch when the mark failed to bleed. What better way for a ‘witchfinder’ to enhance his reputation than by identifying so many ‘witches’?

Hopkins and his merry band spread fear all over the countryside, but their reign was short-lived. John Gaule, vicar of Great Staughton in Cambridgeshire, preached a number of sermons denouncing him. His opposition began when he visited a woman who was being held in gaol on charges of witchcraft, until such time as Hopkins could attend to investigate her guilt or innocence. Gaule heard of a letter Hopkins had sent, where he had enquired as to whether he would be given a ‘good welcome’ in that area. A good, financially rewarding welcome no doubt. At around the same time, justices of the assizes in Norfolk questioned Hopkins and Stearne about their methods of torture (which was outlawed in England) and the extortionate fees.

The writing was clearly all over the wall. Their reign of terror was over. By the time the next court session sat, both Hopkins and Stearne had conveniently retired and the infamous Witchfinder General had put away his witch ‘pricker’ for the last time. But that was, sadly, not the end of his story.

Hopkins published a book, called The Discovery of Witches, in 1647, where he outlined his witch-hunting methods. This ensured his legacy lived on – and expanded far beyond the shores of his native England. Witch-hunting in New England began and was conducted in accordance with his methods. In 1692, some of Hopkins’s methods were once again employed. In Salem, Massachusetts.

Naught remained of their bodies to be buried, for the crows took back what was theirs.’

An idyllic coastal cottage near a sleepy village. What could be more perfect? For Robyn Crowe, borrowing her sister’s recently renovated holiday home for the summer seems just what she needs to deal with the grief of losing her beloved husband.

But behind those pretty walls lie many secrets, and legends of a malevolent sisterhood - two witches burned for their evil centuries earlier. Once, both their vile spirits were trapped there. Now, one has been released. One who is determined to find her sister. Only Robyn stands in her way.

And the crow has returned.

You can order The Malan Witch here:

Amazon

About the Author

Following a varied career in sales, advertising and career guidance, Catherine Cavendish is now the full-time author of a number of paranormal, ghostly and Gothic horror novels, novellas and short stories. Cat’s novels include The Garden of Bewitchment. The Haunting of Henderson Close, the Nemesis of the Gods trilogy - Wrath of the Ancients, Waking the Ancients and Damned by the Ancients, plus The Devil’s Serenade, The Pendle Curse and Saving Grace Devine.

In addition to The Malan Witch, her novellas include: The Darkest Veil, Linden Manor, Cold Revenge, Miss Abigail’s Room, The Demons of Cambian Street, Dark Avenging Angel, The Devil Inside Her, and The Second Wife

Her short stories have appeared in a number of anthologies including Silver Shamrock’s Midnight in the Graveyard, and her story - The Oubliette of Élie Loyd - will appear in their forthcoming Midnight in the Pentagram, to be published later this year.

She lives by the sea in Southport, England with her long-suffering husband, and a black cat called Serafina who has never forgotten that her species used to be worshipped in ancient Egypt. She sees no reason why that practice should not continue.

You can connect with Cat here:

Catherine Cavendish

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