  Horror/Scary
This week: Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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On the outside, people can look pretty normal. I mean, what goes on behind closed doors is none of our business, right? We all wear a mask of some kind, a costume donned to hide our real motivations, our secret desires. So how do we know that good ol' neighbor Sam isn't really a raving lunatic--that his mind isn't filled with incredibly horrible thoughts? What if behind his friendly smile, he feels as if he is filled with clouds of frenzied moths swarming within him, seeking a light that can't be found? Now that can be as disturbing as finding shards of glass in a cake, homebaked, and given to you as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood present.
-billwilcox |
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Sometimes Newsletters can be so boring, or worst yet, stale and unentertaining. I NEVER want one of my newsletters to come off as stale or boring. Hell, I'd just as soon step down as editor before I'd let that happen.
Yet, here I am, unable to come up with an awe-inspiring article to write about. My thought is that if I keep writing, perhaps something will surface that is worth your time and mine.
But alas...so far, I've got nothing.
I'd really like to do something new and fresh, something that's never been covered by this, or any other newsletter before. But, as they say, the highway to 'newsletter writing' is paved with good intentions.
Sometimes I wish I could just put you inside my head, show you all the disturbing ideas I have for novels and stories--let you see the real W.D.Wilcox. 
*shudders*
Whoa, now that's scary!
On second thought, get the hell outta my head; I've got WAY too many people in there already. 
I know...let me tell you about what I've been working on--let you see how I put my story ideas together. Maybe it will help you in some way that I can not foresee--give you an idea you can use.
To me, the scariest thing in the world is the people who live right next door: the haters and rapers, the wife beaters and child abusers, the pedophiles and murderers.
How WELL do we really know our neighbors?
So, that got me to thinking. I began to sketch out an idea about this guy, just an average schmuck: let's say he works for Zacky Farms, or something, chopping and banging away at dead chickens all day with a huge meat cleaver. A nice enough fella really, hard working, living the American Dream. Somebody you'd invite over for a weekend barbeque with you and the kids. Someone you'd never suspect of doing anything out of the ordinary. Someone who is (unbeknowst to us) plagued with reoccurring nightmares about his job. Terrible dreams of quartering thousands of chickens as they come down a conveyer belt, still alive and squawking, and then, horribly, the dream worsens, and the chickens turn into people--people he knows--people in his neighborhood...and they're screaming.
He awakens, looks out his window and sees way too many houses, too many cars, and too many people. He believes there’s something he can do about it--feels a responsibility, no, a duty to remedy the world of a lot of dead weight.
So, he quits his job and begins to formulate a plan, gathering all the things he will need to accomplish his task: guns, ammo, explosives, and of course, his handy-dandy meat cleaver. Then, calmly, on a moonless night, he straps on all his gear and steps out of his front door overlooking serene suburbia and goes to work.
He clears his block first, going door to door--whack-whack-whack--killing men, women, and children while they sleep in their warm comfortable beds, people who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Whack-whack-whack--he deals out death and mutalation without ever a thought of guilt or remorse, compares it to cutting up dead meat. Besides, it’s just a job, like hacking away at chickens. He doesn't hear their cries for help, or their pleas for mercy. He doesn't think about the splattered blood and gore he leaves in his wake. He is oblivious to it all. To him, it's just a job, just something that has to be done. And it's a lot of work--there are an awful lot of people in the world that need to be quartered and sectioned.
Whack-whack-whack.
After his first night of grisly work, he becomes the biggest mass murderer the world has ever seen. But it's not enough. In the weeks to come, he destroys several large prison complexes, poisons numerous water reservoirs, and continues his nightly slaughter of unsuspecting neighborhoods wherever he finds them. It makes him feel better knowing he has a real purpose in the world.
He is thorough and careful, almost invisible, leaves no clues as to his identity or where he will strike next. The police never suspect him because he's just an average guy, and there are never any witnesses left behind.
The crazy part is that he doesn't consider himself crazy. He's not one of those drug-mad weirdos, or religious fanatics with a agenda to rid the earth of people that don't think or act as he does. In fact, he's not angry or mad at all, and has no burning desire to get even with anyone. He's just someone doing his job and who is tired of the traffic jams, the over-stocked prisons, and the people living in houses built shoulder-to-shoulder. This is just his way of trying to help make Earth a better place to live; you know, like one of those environmentalists—just trying to help out the planet by eliminating excess polluters in the best way that he knows how.
How do you deal with somebody like this? How do you protect yourself and your family? How do you know the guy that lives right next door isn't really a raving lunatic?
God help us, the world is a dangerous place, and people are scary.
Until next time,
billwilcox
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TALES OF TERROR
I tried not to look as the sound of breaking bones and savage grunts filled the room. I wanted to go outside until it was over. Not because of the hideous scene being played out before me; I have accepted what we are and what we do to maintain our way of life, but to keep from seeing the repugnant look of elation on their faces. A look I, myself, have donned many times. A feeling I fought to suppress.
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He spoke softly, “Come on. You know you had a good time, too. You ran. I chased you. If you had eventually given in, I wouldn’t have to be so - persuasive. You bring out the passionate side of me. I don’t blame you for not talking to me. I guess I was a bit of a jerk. Once I take care of this, everything is going to be ok. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of you.”
He gave this friend a hard look. Gus wanted to say, "What the hell are you talking about?" but did not. How had a man who once gave others terror, become so consumed by a fear that was so ludicrous?
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Brad neared the odd statue, which stood out of line from the rest. It was much thinner, and had noticeably different features. The thing that had caught Brad's eye, however, was the color. While all the other statues were dark brown or black, this one was a very light tan. Its garments were out of style as well. It appeared to be wearing pants and a multi-pocketed coat, whereas the others were dressed in a tribal fashion. It suddenly dawned on Brad, and he called out to Amy in excitement.
“Hey, I think I found the archeologist!” He turned around to wave her over, but she was gone. “Amy, where did you go?”
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He closed his eyes tight, forcing a breath of cold, fetid air into his lungs. *It’s not real. It’s a dream, and dreams can’t hurt you, they can’t break your mind, they can’t drag you into the cold nothingness and eat you like the monsters from your childhood fears. It’s just a dream, just a...
Blood jettisoned from the head of the pipe, covering Mike's face in its mire. He closed his mouth tight against the onslaught. A chunk of brain hit his cheek with a wet smack, and then fell to his lap. The liquid soaked through the cloth of his overalls and he could feel the clamminess on his skin. In his repulsion, he looked down and tried to concentrate on shaking his leg. He had to get this piece of death off him before it could contaminate him and bring him to the same conclusion. Something pinged off his forehead; just the eyeball, his mind told him.
| | Possession (18+)
In an asylum for the criminally insane, a young orderly discovers true possession...
#1028269 by W.D.Wilcox |
Something rolled busily across the floor—heavy and made of metal. Tony caught his breath, his eyes burning with the strain of staring into the dark. In the midst of his terror, he heard footsteps softly pad across the floor. “Who’s there?” The steps rushed down the hall like a barefoot child playing hide-and-seek. “Ray, is that you?" There was a pause filled with silence. "Anybody?”
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COLD, CLAMMY, AND CADAVEROUS FEEDBACK
A thinker never sleeps 
Submitted Comment:
Great newsletter about metaphor. Especially impressed you mentioned the `Use metaphors with Care' as in some pieces of fiction too many metaphors or badly written metaphors can be used which can diminish the effect. I guess as always its about balance and about the best means of writing that particular story.
Erik Stark
Submitted Comment:
Bill, thanks for the plug(s) to metaphor madness and simile sensation! Great article! I don't imagine there's much else to be said on the subject of metaphors, you covered it all concisely and interestingly. Thanks for a great educational read!
Erik
writeone
Submitted Comment:
Great newsletter! Another thing metaphor does is set the mood. AND, you can twist them. Any parent knows the birth of their child is actually heralded by angels, but looking back, the metaphor of a storm is probably more appropriate. An interesting thing it is to have unexpected metaphors. Done well, they force your reader to pause mentally and validate the probability of the metaphor. Often, entire stories can be metaphors, but you are right: don't force it.
likenion
Submitted Comment:
Wow! I never knew that metaphors came in so many different sizes and shapes. It is all very overwhelming, but interesting in the mean. I myself always try and use the weirdest and most contrast word pairs that i can think of, I claim to get better with every single try. But i never know when to stop. How do you know whne to stop?
Is there a way other than having an expert writing instict?
zwisis
Submitted Comment:
Mr Wilcox, thank you for this excellent reminder of just how useful and important a metaphor can be. Especially in horror writing. Great newsletter - as usual!!!
scarl
Submitted Comment:
The horror newsletter issue with W.D. Wilcox writing on using metaphors, was wondrful for me to read. It felt like the newsletter was meant for me as metaphors are one of my favorite things to try and write.
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Horror/Scary: May 30, 2007 Issue [#1682]
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