by Nomar Knight
Delve into the mind of a Dark Knight.
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It's difficult to find someone who thinks like I do. Join me in exploring the dark side of life. Through torture and murder we can discover what makes us tick. Are you a Knight of Darkness? Do you seek pleasure through the misery of your characters? If so; then join me on a quest to answer a series of questions about the other realm, our inner psyche, destiny, and many other topics that may rise from the recesses of oblivion.
|The dead don't play by the rules of the living; they don't play at all. - The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight
Ghosts roam the halls of the living. What you think is a shadow or a trick of light just may be a former human testing the limitations set forth by mortality. Surely, you’re not one of those people that lie awake at night because you sense you’re not alone. You hear footsteps on the wooden floors. You see movement by the closed window. My question to you is: why should this worry you?
Some people's experiences with ghostly apparitions tend to be limited because they do a wonderful job of shutting out the distractions. Sometimes they're tempted to think ghosts like playing games with us foolish mortals, but the reality may be that they have trouble communicating with the living. Let’s face facts; many people prefer to live a simple life, oblivious to other worldly possibilities. Is it really better to turn a blind eye to the existence of ghosts?
Those who have had ghostly encounters may feel that the apparitions should have been off to some magical paradise, but instead felt compelled to either enlist their assistance or tie up loose ends. Smirk all you will, we can’t see air but we know it’s there. Just because you’re not sensitive to your surroundings doesn’t mean ghosts aren’t real.
There’s another theory that explains ghosts. Some believe in alternate universes and they say when a hole hits the fabric of reality, we can see the other beings as if they were ghosts. Sounds like something entertaining to write about, but that explanation doesn’t hold water for me. Many believe we go somewhere when we die and I prefer to keep an open mind to the possibility of life after death. This is not an attempt to convince skeptics, for they will believe what they want to believe. Instead, this an attempt at starting a conversation about possibilities and perhaps help form a theory that could explain the phenomena of ghosts.
Got to go now. Oh, what's that I see? Is it a familiar face now a shadow? Perhaps a ghost is waiting for me to listen. Have fun if you care to uncover a mystery that may only get answered when we move on to another realm.
|Isolation is damning when it's not self inflicted. – Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight
Become your character.
I sit in a field of barren land, marveling at a purple sky. A brisk breeze tantalizes me to the point I realize its evil attempt at hypnosis. I suddenly notice I must rise or face impending doom. So I do it, I get up ordering my legs to run, dumbfounded when pain rifles up my calves clawing deep in my knees. Examining my legs closer, I notice nothing out of the ordinary. I wonder if my failure to launch into a sprint a sign that old age is creeping up on me.
The breeze picks up its intensity, cutting my skin with a sleek dryness like razor sharp teeth. Lines of blood reveal themselves in my half covered arms. The environment’s hostile treatment of my presence, urges me once again to run. I get ten yards before the pain knocks me to the dirt laden road. On my knees, I cry out, “What’s happening?”
Instead of an echo, silence fills the now orange sky. A sense of dread fills my heart. I speak aloud, hoping the sounds of life can convince me that my isolation is only temporary. “Where is everyone?”
In fiction something or someone would respond to the character’s pleas, but in this reality, my words hang in the thickening air only to disappear as if never spoken. My breathing becomes erratic. For the first time I begin to wonder if my predicament is my entire fault when I realize, I don’t know my name.
My open display of weakness becomes complicated when tears roll down my cheeks followed by cries of pity. I pump my fists in the air, ashamed of what I have become. The wind lifts the barren dirt in a swirl as grains of sand lash at me from all angles. I cover my eyes, for the sting of the sun adds to my misery.
“How did I get here?” I yell knowing full well no one will respond.
I weep like a child in need of a loving mother’s touch. Instead of a soft caress, Mother Nature pounds more dirt on me. A cruel reality I wish upon no man. Somehow I muster the strength to rise again and through enormous pain, sprint towards a dark shade just below the hill. I think sure the god of circumstance will show mercy and shelter me from this dreaded sandstorm. When I reach the shade I hear running water. I go through the first sign of healthy foliage and find a renewed energy as a cold mist sprays its soothing pellets on my face. A cascading waterfall crashes over rocks unto a lagoon. Without thinking I dive in the pool of life, grateful for a second chance, grateful for the thirst quenching mercy bestowed upon me.
Laughter gets my attention. Two naked women laugh as they watch me from atop a boulder. They point and giggle.
At last, loneliness has lost its grip on me and a laugh, giddy like a child tickled by angels. I try to speak but my words come out muffled. In my second attempt at communication my voice sounds as if my voice box is used for the first time in years. “Hello ladies.”
Once again they laugh. They rise, clasp their hands together and jump into the water. A large splash hits high in the air before crashing down, soaking my head. I welcome the intrusion. I bask in the flapping sounds. I stretch my arms forward, hoping they’ll reach my hands when I notice a few seconds pass before a deafening silence reawakens my senses.
In lieu of standing in a pond, mud reaches my waist. What I saw as a cascade of water was instead rocks falling from a cliff. The laughter of females becomes the cries of a flock of vultures. One of them swoops down on me and pecks a piece of skin off my wounded arm.
The sun’s rays weigh on me like never before. A heavy burden of survival presses on my back. I wonder aloud, “Am I the last of my kind?”
What I thought to be water were pebbles. I reach my aching bloody face, weary of my surroundings. I attempt to move back through the mud, but the more I press on, the deeper I sink. Quicksand. Another vulture swoops by and my quick reaction surprises me. I grab its claws as the force of his flight steers me to more solid ground, stunning me. It pecks my chest causing me to cry out. “You’re not getting me, you bastards!”
I sniff the dense air, but instead of despair, I inhale a whiff of freedom. I continue to wade through the fast disappearing shadows, allowing hope to carry me to the promise land.
When writing horror I sometimes like to end things with hope. Sometimes. Especially if the narrator is first person, then I must assume he survives somehow. Unless of course; he’s providing the details as a ghost. I wanted to write something depressing so I played with setting and made the character react to his five senses. Notice I don’t know the character’s identity. I also wanted to write something psychological and I believe this fit the bill. Can you imagine being stuck in such a predicament? I hope this little blog entry served to inspire your muse.
See you on the dark side.
|Society cultivates its monsters. With its tongue it calls for equality but with its hands it shackles aspirations, condemning itself to a world where darkness rules. – The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight
What’s in a villain? One need not look far to create a suitable bad guy. I enjoy stories where the villain is created out of necessity. Opposing forces must collide in order to wreak havoc with the protagonist’s simplicity. Conflict when created as a natural result of the action is worth digging into. Take Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. A man’s need to prolong life became warped when he decided to take the place of the Creator himself and create life from dead body parts. Man’s need to live forever cultivated the monster known as Victor Frankenstein. He in turn built a monster that has lived throughout literature.
Not all writers will be able to create such brilliant characters but if we search within society, magnificent characters await, itching for us to tell their tale. There are many things happening around us every day, some of it contributing to real horror. All we have to do is keep our eyes open and our minds receptive to uncovering the madness that sits within our reach.
Science has been advancing at an alarming rate and with its advancements come the promise of a new world. Well, imagine a new world laced with opposite characters that must naturally fight each other to succeed? Ask yourself what scares you about society. Wouldn’t you want to change how people behave? For centuries madmen delved in unique ways to control mankind only to fall short of their insane aspirations.
Search your surroundings hard enough and eventually a hero will be born. Keep searching and be amazed as the hero’s opposite will emerge, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself sympathizing with the bad guy. Villains can be magnanimous and therefore alluring. Villains can take over a story and become more powerful than the protagonist. It happened to Batman as I sat and watched the Joker become bigger than life, more important as he forced society to rethink the delicate fabric it lived by. Now that’s a villain worth meeting, but only in fiction.
|The soul that can speak through the eyes can also kiss
with a gaze. ~Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
Be happy to be alive. Show affection and it will be returned to you ten fold. I truly believe that. I know this is supposed to be Dark Musings but today I feel like the light is embracing me with its glorious splendor. So for today, let's delve on the beauty of something as simple, yet alluring as a kiss.
Ah, to kiss with a gaze is an art that not all men understand. I'll admit we men love to be physical, but to connect with another soul, that's what kissing with a gaze is, a real connection that goes beyond the physical. Such a lost art as too many of us get caught up with looks, like what type of body they have? Are they muscular, toned, or curvaceous? Do they have a spare tire or a keg? Does the nose match the face? Well, I'm one that tends to see with the soul since I automatically look into the eyes which reveal so much of what's happening in a person's life. I guess that's why I'm fixated on the eyes in my stories. One of my favorite stories which I haven't found a home for is Eyes of the Dead. It's about a boy who grows up with an ability to see everything about a person's life when that person is in his last dying moments. The boy grows up to be a real hero serial killer. Ha, perhaps this is going to be a dark entry after all. *grins*
The eyes are mysterious and alluring. I love all color eyes. Take chocolate for instance: it's dark yet enticing. Blue reminds me of tranquility, but when accompanied by a little violet, something stirs inside that person, something that disturbs the soul. Emerald green is lovely, but I'm fascinated by olive green. These people tend to have to deal with dual personalities. They're usually surrounded by loving people who don't know how to express their love. I understand the battle they fight every day. Then there is the hazel eyes. Chameleons capable of changing colors based on what they wear. They are multi-talented individuals capable of maintaining secrets. As for me, I have light brown eyes encircled in a line of blue. I too have two personalities which happen to be complicated.
So the next time you find yourself compelled to kiss with a gaze, remember: secrets may seep out so be prepared for the unexpected.
|The future is an opaque mirror. Anyone who tries to look into it sees nothing but the dim outlines of an old and worried face. ~Jim Bishop
Sometimes we spend too much time in the past or get caught up with all the troubles in the present, therefore making the future look bleak. In times such as these we need to hold on to optimism. We must hold on to it for dear life or risk falling into an abyss where sunlight is extinguished by despair. Don’t fall into a cold, lonely place designed to consume positive energy and twist it into swirls of mortifying dread.
How can we be sure not to fall into a trap set by our desire to know what will happen next? The answer: by remembering we must take corrective measures within ourselves. If you find yourself at odds with others then perhaps it would be prudent to examine why they displease you. Are you merely projecting what you dislike about yourself? Take stock of what you have, where you are, and where you want to be, and research. Look at the people that have what you want and ask yourself: what did they have to sacrifice? Then ask yourself if you are truly willing to perhaps, give up more. Not all of us live parallel lives. Many different people must travel their unique roads in order to get to their promise land.
The future is an opaque mirror so take the time to live and enjoy the moment for in the end, if it is written in the stars that you will achieve your goals; then it will be so. Take it from me; life’s too short to sweat the small stuff. Make every moment count and things will fall into place.
|Setbacks strike when we least expect them. I was on quite a roll but after getting hit with a virus, I'm finding it a challenge to write for an extended period of time. A virus transmitted by mosquito forced me to take a much unwanted vacation away from my passion--writing. I'm back again and finding it difficult to gain enough stamina to finish my work.
Of course, there's always a silver lining. Lost ten pounds in a week. This past week I lived my own real life horror, dealing with an overcrowded hospital where only one doctor tended to the masses. Insanity! Even as I type these words I wonder how soon before I must stop and go lie down.
There's a witch story inside me; one I won't be able to share if I don't regain my strength before the month is out.
I apologize to my readers for not being able to contribute to this blog and Knight Chills. I hope everyone is having a good summer. Got to rest again. Perhaps I'll be able to create something new when I return.
|Today I felt pass over me
A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
Ah, what to write today? Most writers go through periods where the blank page haunts them. They dare to dream but when they awaken; they find their adventures fluttered away, drawn in by the thief of dreams. Dry spells turn into droughts, which in turn become neurotic fuel which causes the artists to question their talents. They examine their lives to see where they went wrong. They cry out, “Surely the gods are mistaken. Please don’t abandon your favorite child. Shine your light on me and let me be whole again!”
Well, I’m here to suggest you turn insanity into something manageable. Take the wings of madness and make them yours. Think outside yourself. Convince your psyche that although the thief of dreams stole your opportunity at creating amazing prose, you will not abandon your ability to see into the world of madness. Dream awake and discover the wonder that is nirvana. Spite the gods of boredom and complacency and search for the fountain of perfect prose, regardless of what your conscience tells you. Become the rebel and soon enough you will attract a world filled with imaginary characters begging to whisper their secrets.
Of course, if all else fails, while you drink a glass of alcohol before bedtime, think about what scares you most and tell yourself you will remember the nightly visions because you welcome fear. Yell at the gods and say, “Go ahead, scare me! I dare you!”
I wish you creepy dreams and days filled with terror filled prose.
|The land mimicked the crimson sky, bleeding with the sins of man. – The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight
Oh how much fun it is to be a horror writer! Real life atrocities serve to teach us humble folk what not to mimic and what not to put up with. They also make us aware of serious deficiencies in the fabric we call society. All throughout the globe man continues to not get it. Living to feed their egotistical desires, seeing others for their differences and finding fault with anyone who doesn’t do what they do, or see things their way, all contribute to a blind form of hate.
Throughout time, history has provided many examples of hate, much of it disguised as noble causes. From the crucifixion of Christ, to the persecution of Christians, to the Inquisition and beyond; up unto our modern versions of hate, man will always remain incapable of maturing. It would seem they trap themselves in halls laden with fantasies of a Utopia. The quest for a perfect society lives even when men like Adolf Hitler were publicly chastised for unspeakable and unforgivable crimes against humanity.
I wonder when mankind will understand to appreciate our differences and stop imposing individual ideals on society as a whole. I wonder if I will live to see the day when war is concentrated against those who continue to corrode this beautiful planet. I wonder if man is capable of throwing away their fears of losing their individual identities in realizing that we really are not different at all. When are they going to realize we all belong to the human race, a race bequeathed by either nature or God with the responsibility of maintaining that all creatures be given an opportunity to live in harmony?
Man will always flex their muscles against one another and their lands, for many of them live as though their actions would be erased upon their departure to another existence. Well, our actions do have consequences. We must change how we treat others and we must improve how we treat our environment. If we don’t, we may awaken to a crimson sky hovering over barren land, filled with shadows of lost promises and the sanguine dust of mortality.
I agree with John Lennon, we should give peace a chance, but it starts within each of us.
|Vengeance is a double-edged sword which leaves the target skewered and its rider tainted forever.- The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight
Is it possible to get payback without dirtying your soul? When I’m upset about something I look for activities that would help me release the inner turmoil before it festers into something uncontrollable, something monstrous, something illegal. For instance, let’s say someone does something to get under my skin; my favorite outlet is to visit the gym. Work out harder, longer, and with more intensity. Another favorite outlet of mine is to go jogging. I guess we can assume I have mellowed in my years.
When I was a preteen, I had little command of words, whether written or vocal, but my fists, my feet and certain pieces of furniture were instruments I used to communicate. Perhaps this technique did not win me many friends, but at least the other children feared me, and making others scared had intrigued me. Over the years I transitioned to making others scared of possible situations and not frightened of me, per se. What brought about this amazing metamorphosis? My seventh grade teacher, Sister Brigitte, by demonstrating saintly patience (the list of victims— kids with bloody noses, bruises, and cries of pain grew steadily in my preteen years) and incredible strength (she caught a flying desk with one hand, propelled by my anger). Her superhuman display caught my attention. Instead of sending me to the principal’s office, she’d send me to the librarian where I began an affair with books.
So I guess my dearest Sister Brigitte set the foundation for me to be a lover of literature, a communicator with words. My weapon of choice is the pen which has changed to a computer with a word processor. Now, I’m more violent, in fact; lethal. I exact my vengeance through humiliating my foes in my stories. I don’t actually use their personalities, not always, but I do plenty of transference. Why this past Friday, I or more accurately, one of my characters got even against two types of personalities I and perhaps many in society dislike. Two more characters are dead and I’m left free to enjoy the spoils that otherwise would not exist.
What happens when you act out your aggression in real life? This brings me to the existence of real horror. Vengeance blinds one to the point disillusionment sets in. The scorned want to maim or humiliate the cause of their woes so they in turn lower themselves to a level so tasteless, so vile they become much like their target. Regardless of the level of execution whether payback is in the form of a practical joke, or a humiliating public ad, or bloodshed; the result is always the same, the angry victim becomes the unfortunate tyrant, therefore tainting their reputation, and quite possibly giving up their freedom for one brief moment of madness.
So the next time you find yourself screaming you want vengeance, make the right choice. Exact your revenge through fiction, and watch how your thirst for blood will be quenched. Not only will you benefit by getting even, but every time you read your tale you’ll be able to relive it as if it were the first time. You can’t do that if you act out your aggression in the real world. Plus, you can share your story with the rest of the world and maybe help someone else avoid falling in the trap skewering any chance they had at true happiness.
|Angels deliver Fate to our doorstep - and anywhere else it is needed. ~Jessi Lane Adams
Surely you don’t believe that everything is predetermined. The world must be governed by random chaos, just like many scientists claim. Of course, that’s it, random chaos. A woman enters a dark alley and spots an unsavory character. He swallows her with his eyes but doesn’t touch her. A few hours later she watches the news and discovers another woman got raped in that same alley just minutes after she had passed. Well, she goes to the precinct, describes the man she saw and a couple of hours later the police bring him in for questioning. When the lady takes a look at him, she positively identifies him. The rape victim also confirms his identity. A detective asks the man if he remembers the blonde, the lady he didn’t rape, and he says yes.
“Why didn’t you do anything to her?”
“Are you crazy? She had two huge dudes walking with her.”
The woman was alone. Does that mean her guardian angels protected her, only manifesting themselves to the rapist? Could it be that getting raped was not in her destiny? If you believe that to be the case, then you would agree the rape victim planned to be raped in this life. In other words, it was her fate because she wanted to experience what it was like. So perhaps we plan every detail of our lives before we’re born and God sends his angels to make sure we fulfill our destiny.
For many people, the above scenario is a perfect example of random chaos. Something caused the man to not rape the first woman, but he jumped on the second opportunity. But this is where random chaos is questionable, at least in this case because by the rapist’s own admission, he saw the first woman had protection. Was it fate or random chaos?
How about when you experience the feeling that you’ve done, or have been in a place before but in actuality, it’s your first time. Déjà vu is common and occurs at random points in our lives. I can only think of two reasons why this phenomenon occurs. The first reason is because you plan every detail before you were born. At the moment of birth we begin to forget, since the brain we use is new and therefore incapable of holding so much information. Through time we become preoccupied with learning and experiencing things that in essence are new to us, though if you subscribe to the predesigned theory, then you have seen the imagery of your actions prior to being born so, on rare instances, you can recognize what in essence you have seen in another dimension, making it appear as though you’ve experienced the same thing again. Confusing?
I hope you’re still with me. The second reason is because we have in fact been there or done that before, but here’s the catch, not in the same lifetime. Ha, we have ventured into yet another interesting category; the possibility of reincarnation. I’ll explore the question of having another shot at this earth, in a different body, at a later date.
In the end, the question of destiny or fate is one we may not be able to answer while living in this dimension. Which by the way leads to more questions like are there alternate universes or higher dimensions? I wonder from which dimension we originate from. If this is an example of the first dimension- a dot- visualized in between the parenthesis (.) and this line _____ represents the second dimension and a box the third dimension, and each one exists in the following dimension but not the previous. Then it must be plausible to suggest that all three dimensions exist in every dimension after the fourth; thereby, making it possible that we may have the capability to violate the rules of this world’s laws of physics if we originate from a higher dimension.
Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Let’s leave the concept of dimensions for a later blog as well. Now, the theory of random chaos and its counterpart, organized chaos intrigues me since scientists have found a form of the latter in quantum physics. This is all fascinating stuff, some of which led me to write books.
My current novel in progress is titled Time’s Up. I’m currently rewriting it and I pray to see it in print by the end of this year or the beginning of next. Time’s Up is based solely on the concept of destiny and how something alters it, thereby creating a need for the keepers of fate which many call, angels. The fact the blond woman had invisible guardian angels making sure she didn’t get raped, points me in the direction of what I term, supervisors of destiny. My main character is Cole Mizer and he spends the better part of the book searching for who he really was before he got stuck in a most unglamorous role. My supervisors of destiny are immortals who can’t maneuver through time and space like angels. Could it be Cole was a human who because of special circumstances was chosen by God to make sure man’s destiny did not lose shape. In essence, could it be that random chaos is messing with organized chaos? Ha, I’ll leave the answers for the scientists to argue over. I’m just a simple writer having fun.
Follow your destiny my friends and enjoy the journey.
|"You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you."-- Eric Hoffer
What scares you? Spiders crawling on your bed while you sleep with your mouth open? They inch their way up your legs but you don’t feel them because you’re too busy dreaming something you’ll hope to forget before you wake. While you run around puddles of dirt water in your vague nightmare, the spiders reach your neck. Unconsciously you bat away a couple of web crawlers, never being fully aware of the real danger that rests just inches from your chin. Unbeknownst to you, one spider remains poised to enter a chamber of snoring echoes; a chamber filled with a warm intriguing darkness—your mouth.
While you do your best in the world of dreams to avoid the ever growing puddles because you know that if you step in one, you will fall into an abyss filled with pain and misery. In fact, you’re sure a demon waits, salivating for the opportunity to strip you of all dignity. He will expose your faults and even worse, make you relive your nerve-racking fears. While you wrestle with a fantastic and seemingly never ending nightmare, in real life the spider enters your mouth. Out of sheer instinct, you shut the opening, preventing the insect from escaping. Feeling something in your mouth, you begin to chew, because in your dream, while you jump over puddles, miraculously avoiding them, you bite down on a Slim Jim and savor the salty taste. It’s only when you swallow, your eyes open to familiar surroundings. The thing still mixing with saliva in your mouth, doesn’t taste like the piece of processed meat. Instead you jump from your bed and turn on the lights. At first your eyes can’t make out the distinctive shapes, but just when you think nothing happened and that you’re mixing your dreams with reality, you spot two web crawlers. You cringe when witnessing their wide bodies crawling on the sheets, searching for their companion.
Screams fill the air. Screams of terror bounce off the objects in your room. As if your horrible reality wasn’t enough, you realize, something was in your mouth. You rush into the bathroom, turn on the lights and examine it. You gag when you spot a thin thread stuck between your teeth. No, not a thread, but a spider’s leg. Convulsions lead you to the toilet where your body forcibly dispels the monster that invaded it. A morbid thought pops into your mind. You are what you eat. “Yuck!” In addition to the exhausting act of vomiting, you spit until you can’t spit anymore. You brush your teeth, thrice, making sure to floss like never before and rinse with plenty of mouthwash.
At last you’re about to go back to bed when you realize, two more spiders are still there, but you can’t see them. They’re hiding, waiting for you to go back to sleep, back to the puddles, back to falling into the abyss.
So what scares you? Is it sneaky insects daring to explore your insides? Or perhaps, strange noises in the night that seem to prop up without any acceptable explanation? Maybe you see pronounced silhouettes of blackness prancing about in the dark? They toy with you and pull the covers off your feet just when you’re in the throes between consciousness and sleep. You ignore the shadows as best you can until you feel the bed indent. Something lies next to you. You tell yourself, how can that be? But you know, your spouse hasn’t stirred, and is in fact, snoring. Then it rises and the pressure on the mattress is released. You want to scream but don’t for fear of looking foolish.
So when you write horror, write what you know, write about what scares you the most. It’ll be like going to battle; you versus yourself. If you frighten yourself then there’s a good chance others will be terrified.
Sweet dreams and don’t let the bedbugs bite.
|"Horror is beyond the reach of psychology."-- Theodor Adorno
Meaning the science of psychology cannot undo the psychological damage that horror, either real life or fictional, inflicts. Let us examine some of the physical aspects of horror. Sweaty palms which lead to every part of the body covered in perspiration. A rapid heartbeat that makes people believe they are going to die of cardiac arrest. A sudden inability to move limbs, followed by the realization if they move, they would draw unwanted attention; perhaps leading to a dangerous hesitation that can lead to a volatile confrontation. Involuntary movement, such as knees buckling and knocking against each other; spasms shaking arms and neck, or a sudden tick developing in the face, all are telltale signs of physical fear.
The physiology behind fear is one thing, but there’s no substitute for what horror can do to the human psyche. I’m not a psychologist but if real life traumatic events wouldn’t affect the surviving victims, then why must they afterwards consult a psychologist or psychiatrist?
I agree with Theodor Adorno’s statement. Horror’s psychological ramifications, even if it’s just fictional horror, can trigger phobias that could affect a person their entire lives. Watch a movie about millions of insects roaming on people and acting out of character and you may develop a sudden awareness of the possibility of malice originating from any similar creature. And therein lays the key word: possibility.
Horror writers enjoy delving in possible outcomes, slowly feeding the mind fantastic, yet plausible scenarios until somewhere in the deep recess of the mind; the audience accepts the possibility as probable. Something like rodents attacking a household is highly unlikely but if some kind of chemical, unbeknownst to everyone, was released in the air and altered their behavior, then what was once possible becomes probable and therefore, in the audience’s mind, can in fact, be accepted as a plausible threat. Any threat considered viable may have a deep psychological impact.
There are many phobias, all of which may have profound psychological affects, all of which can be utilized by the skilled writer to wreak havoc on the reader’s psyche, even if it’s only while they immerse themselves in the fictional world.
So my friends, if you find yourself with a sudden infestation of insects. Bugs that suddenly move out in the open without fearing for their survival, then just maybe, horror has found its way into your reality.
Until next time,
|Thank yous are in order. I want to thank saraiv and Adriana Noir for their generous donations to
The last two days I took off from working on my rewrite of Time's Up hoping I'd get a fresh jump on things today. Well, as of this writing I haven't been able to do so. Between the important networking, editing a story for publication and trying to finish my story for my contest, I'm having a great deal of trouble focusing on any one thing. In other words, I still have Attention Deficit Disorder and it's in full swing.
I'm beginning to think that I should cut down on sleep. They say geniuses can't sleep, and while my IQ is near genius status, I know sleeping less than 7 hours a night will eventually bring out the cranky Nomar. Although, I've seen people live on 3 hours sleep a day and they seem to be functioning well. Of course, I have no idea what their bodies must be going through. Perhaps they feel like drug addicts and got used to depriving themselves of sleep.
I'm glad my favorite writers are once again haunting the WDC halls. I hope to see something new from them, but only when it's ready, of course. In other words don't rush a masterpiece, let it flow.
Well, I'm off to see the wizard, er, um, I mean I'm off to edit my story again; or was it to finish a story? I'm so confused!
I hope you guys are doing better than I am. Until next time... Take care.
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|A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort. ~Herm Albright,
The best way to annoy people that hate the world and everything around them is to be nice to them. They usually go out of their way to wipe the smug smile off a face, especially when that smile is directed towards them. Case in point: when I was about seven years old I was on the sidewalk, playing with my invisible friend when a slender, old, fellow stopped a few feet away from me. At first I thought he was going to quiz me about my conversation with someone he couldn’t see, but I soon discovered that he stopped because he spotted a kitty under a parked car.
The half bald man with beady eyes that didn’t seem to match the hardened face began to coax the kitty out of from under the car. He exuded a warm smile, revealing missing teeth. I wouldn’t have expected anything amiss if it weren’t for my invisible friend. He said, “Don’t take your eyes off this guy. Watch him.”
At first I was puzzled at why my invisible friend was interested in the nice old man. The pale individual with the large sacks under his eyes squatted and continued to call the kitty with a sweet, warm voice. The little feline inched closer to him, glancing at my invisible friend and me. Nevertheless, it began to trust the old guy as it got closer.
“Aw, Kitty, Kitty, come here baby.” I thought I was witnessing the nicest man alive. Someone who cared for animals, someone I could take after.
My invisible friend said, “Keep watching.”
The kitten gently banged his head against the man’s shins, begging for affection. Affection it obviously missed since it was a stray. I thought how wonderful that the kind senior citizen took time out of his busy life to show a stray some much needed love.
The old guy rose to his feet, continuing to coo the kitty, but without warning, he lifted his right leg and kicked the kitty to the other side of the street amid high pitched squeals. “Damn, rotten cats! I hate them all!"
I didn’t blink. I didn’t move, shocked at what I had just witnessed. The old brute glanced at me and said, “Cats are evil.” He stormed off and left me listening to the kitten’s cries and my invisible friend’s laughter.
Now that I’m an adult, I reflect on the past and realize, I don’t like miserable people. At first I’d fight fire with fire but now I know that all though it could be extremely challenging, it’s best to fight a miserable person with a smoldering smile.
I guess that in a sense, I do get pleasure from other people’s misery only; I particularly enjoy annoying miserable, sour pusses. I recall thinking, the old man needed to learn a lesson and I remember distinctly wishing that I was bigger so I could kick him to the other side of the street. When my invisible friend stopped laughing, his mood changed. He became worried about me and mentioned a word I wouldn’t understand for a few years to come. He said, “Don’t worry about the old man, he’ll get his soon enough. Karma’s a bitch.”
“What you do in this world, will get done to you, sooner or later.”
“Come on! Let’s go check on the kitty. Maybe it’s dead and you can open it up and see its body parts.”
“Yuck” I said, “why would I want to do that?”
“Don’t tell me you’re squeamish like a girl?”
As luck would have it, the kitty was fine and hid under another vehicle. I decided to go to the roof of my grandmother’s building with a carton of eggs and hunt for miserable people who obsessed over cleaning their new cars. I waited for hours hoping to get a shot at the old man. I never saw him again but I hoped Karma bitched slapped him to another neighborhood.
|Mazeophobia is the fear of getting lost. When I was young, I hated getting lost. There was something about being in unfamiliar territory. I despised the body's mechanism for advertising my stress. I'd wipe my sweaty palms off my jeans, all the while searching my surroundings, wide eyed. It wasn't long before probing eyes would glare in my direction, probably wondering what was wrong. Of course, I took the penetrating stares to be an invasion of my person. An attempt by aliens to abduct me and take me to an even stranger place. Then there was the fear that instead of concerned humans encircling me to lend a helping hand, that they'd be something monstrous like witches, vampires and werewolves. I'd heard the stories about children who'd go missing after getting lost. I was determined that wouldn't happen to me. No way I was going to let some monster eat me and wipe me off the face of the earth.
Some years later, I recall being in a car with someone that still had Mazeophobia. Of course, the fact that I seemed in control didn't mean I was cured; better perhaps, but not cured. Anyway, we wandered off from the desired destination and because of my refusal to ask for directions, I am a man after all, she had a fit. Curses spewed my way, loud shouts of nonsense words I automatically tuned out. I wanted to shut her up. Violent thoughts entered my mind, briefly, but then I recalled my childhood and my fear of getting lost. When the woman realized I was calmer than ever, she stopped screaming and asked, "You know where we are? You must know because you're so calm." I nodded, "Of course I know where I am." With raised eyebrows she asked, "Where are we?" I struggled to fight off a grin. Looking straight ahead in uncharted territory, I no longer saw the dangers of getting lost. I no longer worried about the boogie men who waited outside of my safe car for me to step out and become a victim; another statistic of a lost soul disappearing into an abyss of evil. I loosened my grip on the steering wheel, tilted my head towards the frightened lunatic and in a calm, soft voice said, "I know exactly where we are. We're in my car."
I expected her to attack with a barrage of punches, but instead she sat quietly, staring at the dashboard. I broke her trance with the most confident voice I could muster, "I'll find the place. I promise."
Through clenched teeth she said, "If you don't ask someone for directions, I swear I'll kill you, leave your body here in this Godforsaken place and I'll tell everyone you went missing because you got out to pee and got lost. The authorities will believe me, cause I'm a woman." Her eyes bulged from their sockets. I swear I saw a vein pulsating on the side of her head.
I spotted an elderly gentleman, lowered the window, bit the bullet, and asked him for directions. The old man threw us off further from our intended destination. Before the woman could get another panic attack, I calmly said, "I will find the place because the force is with me."
Experience has shown me that the world really is a small place.
|The nerve of some characters. I know I haven't been updating my blog like I should but I've been busy editing, rewriting stories that I want to submit for publication and writing a new book. Well, maybe a few books. Regardless, that doesn't give any of my characters permission to high jack my blog. Bad character, Quality, bad!
Let's see where I stand. Quality Jones is still frozen in time and he may well be that way for a few months more. A new character has my attention. Actually, he's an old character only now I know his name. He's Hunter Colby, a rookie FBI agent working in the anti-terrorist task force. It turns out he's gotten himself in a world of trouble. I always suspected there's more to this country than anyone has let on, you know; a secret society that's aware of things us plain folk could never fathom. Hunter finds out first hand what happens when secret agents clash with supernatural forces. A struggle for control is inevitable and Hunter's caught in the thick of things. The fact that his psychic aunt revealed to him when he was young that he was destined for greatness, has perhaps steered him in uncommon ground.
Sorry I'm being vague, it's just I'm waiting for something even more jarring to occur. I believe revelation will come either tonight or tomorrow.
As for the Countess Lorraina Sandoval, don't cry for her. She'll get her moment in the spotlight soon enough.
In the meantime, I'm rewriting two short stories, both to be entered in contests, one in WDC and the other I hope to see published in a literature site. If it wins that contest great, but anyone who knows me, knows I don't care about winning contests, just improving as a writer and hopefully entertaining my few readers.
I'm also helping my friend Taniuska with her sensational novel Wolfkin Be sure to purchase it when it comes out. Which of course, I'll review it here.
I have to keep it brief today because I hear Hunter calling me. (Licks lips) This should be fun.
Anyone who may be interested in following me on Facebook, feel free to do so. I'm the one and only
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|To Nomar Knight's readers, please forgive him for not writing in his blog. As for me, I'm miffed at him.
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Quality Jones and I'm one of Nomar's new characters. I have taken it upon myself to be a guest blogger since he's busy paying attention to two of his oldest characters. Well, not old in age but in their acquaintance. He's busy jotting down the adventures of Lieutenant Harold Woods, a clairvoyant homicide detective, and a psycho named Juan Sanchez who goes by the name Paco. It seems Mr. Knight thinks that a couple of missing children are more important than my story.
Like I mentioned before, I'm Quality Jones and I'm a time traveler. I've been jumping into wormholes, chasing after my fiance's killer. An organization I work for, who doesn't officially exist in Mr. Knight's modern era, calls my nemesis, Jack. Mr. Knight has interesting theories about the loser because he is also a time traveler. Personally, I don't care who he is, I just know I must stop him from killing more women. When last Mr. Knight probed into my life, I had just barely survived an encounter with Jack. An attractive police detective Grace Stevens, who by the way, looks like an older version of my fiance, was ready to question me about the macabre events when suddenly, time stopped.
Ha, I'm a time traveler. I feel crawling sensations in my body like a thousand spiders stabbing me with sharp needles when I'm inside one of those wormholes. There are drawbacks I have to live with like reappearing at a new location or new time, naked. Does Mr. Knight have no decency? After he puts me through the ringer and makes me jump through hurdles, not necessarily over them, I have to wait in literary oblivion until he's done examining the lives of other characters?
Well, I have more than a gripe with you Mr. freakin' attention deficit disorder Knight! I want you to hurry up and tell my story. Make me one with the universe. I don't know, but I feel that I'm not the only character you've left hanging. Hmm. Wait a second. I hear a noise outside. Let me go investigate.
Investigation done. It was just a black cat, probably another character from one of his short stories. She didn't seem too pleased to see me.
A feminine voice distracted me from my rant. When I glanced at the direction from whence it came there was no one there. I muttered, "Don't tell me a ghost is pissed at him too."
"I'm not a ghost."
I glanced in the opposite direction and came face to face with the most beautiful pair of green eyes I had ever seen. A young, pale looking female about 16 or 17 stood at a breath's pace. "Mr. Knight is not here today." I was going to volunteer information until I realized, she may be dangerous. There was something about her that didn't look quite normal.
"I can read minds you know." she grinned.
The only thing I could say was, "Huh?"
"I'm Countess Lorraina Sandoval. I'm a real vampire."
The thought process began kicking in slowly. I should have registered danger but this insane woman was gorgeous.
"I'm not insane."
I gasped, "You really can read minds!"
She flashed perfect white teeth. Was that fangs I saw?
"Who are you?" Her words sounded like soft music, her low tone lulled me.
"I'm a guest blogger."
"That's strange, Nomar doesn't strike me as someone that would allow someone else to write for him."
I must have smirked because she sneered at me. "How long have you known Mr. Knight?"
"Nomar attempted to write my first book 8 years ago. He wasn't ready then. It was all too overwhelming." She flashed a long black fingernail and gently stroked my chin.
To be honest, I thought she was going to slice my throat.
"Tempting darling, but these nights, I'm very selective who I eat."
I grimaced. Why couldn't I remember that she reads minds?
She continued, "Nomar tried to rush my story. He wanted to put it all down in one book. I visited him a couple of months ago and he promised he'd dedicate this summer to me."
"Well, I hate to break it to you sweetheart, but he lied."
Her eyes grew wide. She stared at me like a starved lioness about to jump on a fat buffalo. "Er, what I mean is, that he's putting the finishing touches on a novel and he mentioned something about summoning you before the summer is over."
She flashed a smile again and this time allowed me to see her fangs. Sharp suckers. She blew me a kiss and pointed at my screen. I couldn't believe I was dumb enough to fall for such a simple deceptive move. When I glanced back in her direction, she was gone.
New message to Mr. Knight. I suggest you get the vampire book done because something tells me your life will change drastically if you don't. I'm a new character. I can wait. Although, I'd love for you to unfreeze me and at least at your leisure, let me live, even if it's within the virtual pages of your computer.
Your new friend and protagonist,
Quality Jones, timetraveler
P.S. When are you going to get around to naming my story?
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|“Monsters are real and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” -Stephen King
There's nothing more frightening than the shaking of fundamental reality. Humans readily accept certain truths to be self evident, counting on what society believes to be tangible, scientific facts. The old saying: if you can not see it or feel it, then it does not exist; is how most of us live our lives, at least publicly. Life would be so much easier if we chose not to let the possibility of an invisible world, interfere with our notions that everything on this planet has a reasonable explanation. To be ignorant is to allow yourself to be stunned later in life. Since we can't hide the sun's rays by holding up one finger, it is also true that we can't hide the fact that things exist which we can't explain, both in our environment and within ourselves.
While I'm aware of many evils surrounding us, I want to focus on an entity so potent, most of us don't realize it exists. Man has an innate knowledge of good and evil. With the help of their parents, they learn to suppress dark desires as best they can. Although, sins trickle out into the light as natural as a nosebleed; as a result of moral instruction, they attempt to either steer clear or hide their wicked ways. All the attempts at controlling our capacity for sin is perhaps, noble. Religion was founded for the sole purpose at keeping the sinner in line and hopefully on the path to salvation.
Let's face it. We are well aware that deep inside each of us, is a monster waiting to be unleashed. We may not admit it, and as we look around there are souls who seem incapable of performing the slightest evil deed, yet it is our birthright; it is what we are inside that terrifies me.
Today, a new book begins, one that will take me on a journey of self-discovery. One that helps examine the origins of man's inherent capacity for darkness. Here's a quote: "The beast festers within, until an evil catalyst coaxes it from hiding, unleashing atrocities upon all it touches." - The Book of Tortured Souls ©2010, by Nomar Knight
There's no need to invent new monsters when there's a terrifying menace lying dormant within. All it takes is something or someone willing to commit an act of evil so defiling that the sleeping monster will rise from within the depths of darkness and bring forth a wrath filled with hate and destruction. The scary part is the mind does not need to command the body to perform its evil deed. The mind is so powerful, that by sheer will alone, it can unleash an energy all too eager to serve its master.
The monsters are indeed real. They do live inside us, but do we really want them to win?
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|As summer approaches my mind fills with so many things. Several characters from different potential novels are vying for my attention. This whole thing reminds me of Vinnie Barbarino, played by John Travolta, of Welcome Back Kotter; a seventy's sitcom. Any time he didn't know an answer he'd place his hand over his face and wail, "I'm so confused!"
Discipline is what I need. How do you turn off the voices and listen to one specific character? Lately, I have characters that haven't spoken to me in a few years telling me how to fix one of the books I wrote so they can get noticed. My goodness, is this a good problem? Soon, my daily routine will consist of a writer's full-time day. I need to organize myself, but with all these voices screaming in my head, I'm wondering if I should pretend I'm a psychiatrist and set up appointments for each character. I seem to have too many works in progress. Stories that have more depth than I was willing to give them a few months ago are turning into potential novels. Here's the thing, the last time I went to Borders, about 3 weeks ago, I was disappointed in the lack of good horror books. I was in the mood to read something from a new voice, made a choice, and so far, I'm not exactly looking forward to reopening the book. Perhaps I should leave it in the bathroom, but then again, that's where my best conversations with characters take place so the novel in question, will interfere with my progress. Of course, this problem may hinder progress. I don't know.
I stop typing, put my hand over my face and yell, "I'm so confused!"
|I take slow strides, extending my arms in front of me, allowing my fingers to wade through thick fog. A feeling of hopelessness strikes at my core when I realize there's no escaping this tunnel of death. The stench of uncertainty corrodes my nostrils to the point I feel the prickly hairs expand, making breathing a challenge. My mind races. Will I fall over a multitude of corpses? Will the fog clear and bring forth the revelation I seek most? I inch closer to possible answers. I tell myself, don't give up hope. Then, when a breeze stirs the fog just enough that a tantalizing truth could be revealed, more ominous clouds move in, adding to my frustration.
I'm sure we've all felt like this at some point in our lives. The uncertainty of who you are and where your life is headed are common to many of us. Sometimes life feels like we're stuck in a tunnel of death, uncertain of the outcome of our decisions. Nevertheless, we must not give up. We must move forward and search for our true identity. I bring this up because while many ideas are forming which can lead to a wonderful outcome, I'm still wrestling with uncertainty. While I complained when a drought occurred with my writing, I feel silly about complaining when my muse is in full swing. The problem is that ideas are coming too fast, too furious and my daytime activities are not appropriate for full-time writing. I hope to write full time for the next two months and put all that positive energy to good use, but other factors threaten to interfere. Things like a Master's Degree. So now I'm in search of a way to tie both things together. Perhaps I will major in writing. For now, all I could do is research and take small strides and hope that I don't step over any corpses, or run into something worse.
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