Autumn Moon's third chapter has arrived...

Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets

Chapter Three

“New Friends”

Aunt Astrid was often called away “on business” she would say. It was all very clandestine and hush-hush. My pre-teen mind didn’t know what to think, and truthfully gave it little thought. What I knew was that I was left alone in the big old house and that to occupy myself I had to do something, right? The truth of Aunt Astrid’s departures would eventually prove to be of great import, but in those first few months they were opportunities for me to explore.

I suppose I was an overly nosey kid and took great delight in pouring over the contents of Aunt Astrid’s sprawling Victorian. It was as crammed full of antiques and bric-a-brac as one could imagine. And the dust… well, an army of servants would have been hard pressed to stay on top of a house so cluttered. It was like a forgotten museum of macabre and interesting things. Severe House was just the sort of place for an adventurous mind, such as my own, to roam.
I dreamed up stories about obscure trinkets, and I devoured the dusty old books in the library. Authors like Burroughs and Howard and Lovecraft and Poe, esoteric manuals and bestiaries and rare editions of Hawthorne, Dumas, and Wells… It was all very surreal and for all my loneliness there was much to keep my attention, drawing me from my melancholy and giving me much to occupy my mind.

In all the house there were but two places to which I could not pass: my Aunt’s bedroom and the attic. Both were locked tight and I was never able to discern where a key might be hid. And I searched for one to be sure. What might lie beyond those two doors was a constant thought in mind. What secrets lay beyond the locked portals of century old oak?

It was these thoughts I pondered one lazy afternoon as I sat outside by the manmade lake called Mississinewa. Lost in thought I almost didn’t notice the sound of a young girl’s laughter, but I was lulled from my pensiveness and sought out the din of mirth. That is how I met my dear friend Cassandra Morrison.

Cassie was skipping stones across the still water of the Mississinewa. Three skips. Four skips. She practically did a back flip when she scored a fifth skip with the flat limestone she sent skimming across the water’s surface. This was a girl who knew what fun was, who knew that one could shake depression simply by being willing to scrape a knee or set sail a kite on a windy day. Simple pleasures. She sought them out and filled her heart with them and whenever she was around, her joy overflowed and entered my heart and gave me something to smile about.
Cassie knew about loss. Her father was a workaholic and she rarely saw him, save for certain holidays, and then only for the briefest of periods. Her mother had run off to be a hippy in San Francisco with her newfound girlfriend and the task of child rearing fell to Cassie’s older sister Tamara Lynn, who was far more interested in the backseats of the local boys’ cars than any type of mothering. It was good that we found each other. Cassie taught me how to have fun and I taught her that it was all right to cry. We were a perfect pair, flip sides of a bright and shiny coin that the fates would flip and determine fate with.

And Cassie would lead me to another friend, a young boy who would join us to form a triumvirate. Though he would not join us at Oak Hill Junior High come the fall (being home schooled by a doting housekeeper), Sebastian Cairnwood would be a constant companion over the course of our teen years. With Sebastian, Cassie and I would learn of love and stolen kisses underneath moonlight, of camping and survival in the woodlands that surrounded us, but most of all he was our friend and protector. Wise beyond his years, Sebastian was a bastion of strength and hope and we both owed him our lives more than once.

Strange that years later that he would be the one of us most lost and troubled and that his true love would be Cassie’s own daughter. But such are the ways of life, particularly when the paths you choose lead down sinister roads wrought with peril and the unexpected. When the agents of misfortune conspire against you, it was Cassie who lead into the dark with a smile and Sebastian with a snarl, and me… well, I was the steady one, the one who held tightly to the mysteries we would unlock and unfold, the one who would harness the power of the elementals and unleash their might upon the preternatural night.

That road to which I have been bound all these long years truthfully began that dark day when Sebastian bore to us a present. It came in a tiny box, much like an exquisite piece of jewelry might come in.

“What is it?” I asked.

Sebastian smiled.

“Open it,” he said.

I flipped the clasp and peeked inside. It was a silver chain and its charm was a key, a skeleton key, to be exact. Long and slender, it was decorated with a stylized “S” at one end.

“This will unlock the mysteries of Severe House, Autumn,” he said, staring to the ground. “If that’s what you want,” he added for punctuation.

“Where did you get it?” I asked. He wouldn’t meet my eye and I could tell that the key had come to him with a price.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. ”Do what you have to do and know that no matter what, I’m here for you both.”

I was thrilled… a key to unlock the last of Severe House’s mysteries. The question was, which room to tackle first? It really wasn’t a question at all. It spoke to me late at night when I tried to sleep. It whispered my name when I passed along the stair. It was my name that echoed across the back lawn calling me to it. Begging me to cross the portal and discover what lay behind its door.

No, there was really no question at all.

Gothic Romance

goth·ic - Pronunciation: 'gä-thik
Date: 1591: (often not capitalized) of or relating to a style of fiction characterized by the use of desolate or remote settings and macabre, mysterious, or violent incidents

ro·mance - Pronunciation: rO-'man(t)s
Date: 14th century(1) : a medieval tale based on legend, chivalric love and adventure, or the supernatural (2) : a prose narrative treating imaginary characters involved in events remote in time or place and usually heroic, adventurous, or mysterious (3) : a love story b : a class of such literature

When cornered and asked to describe the type of literature I write, feeling the term “horror” to be far too broad, I proclaim proudly “Gothic Romance with testosterone”. This is usually followed with a scoffing noise or some other off-putting remark from the questioner.
I’ve never understood the disdain most people feel for the Gothic Romance sub-genre. It has been the redheaded stepchild of horror since before I was born. Truth be told, some of the greatest horror novels I’ve ever read fall under the Gothic Romance umbrella… The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson is a prime example. The Gothic Romance flourished in the late 18th and early 19th century in Great Britain. Focusing on mysteries that often involved the supernatural, the Gothic Romance was heavily tinged with horror, and they were usually set against dark backgrounds of medieval ruins and haunted castles.

The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole was the forerunner of the type, which included the works of Ann Radcliffe, Matthew Gregory Lewis, and Charles R. Maturin, not to mention the novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. These works usually concerned themselves with spirited young women, either governesses or new brides, who go to live in large gloomy mansions populated by peculiar servants and precocious children and presided over by darkly handsome men with mysterious pasts, but look to Bram Stoker’s Dracula and its decidedly gothic overtones on how the themes could be explored with even more vigor… Dan Curtis explored the genre in the late-sixties and seventies, and was quite successful with it, in television. Dark Shadows and his masterful retelling of Dracula, with the spectacular Jack Palance as the cursed Prince Vlad, were cornerstones of what Gothic Romance could be.

So if you happen to ask me what type of literature I write, do not sneer when I tell you the truth… a wealth of beautiful prose and horrifying verse have been penned within this proud genre, and I intend on doing my part to restore its good name among horror aficionados.

~Bob Freeman

Autumn Moon reviewed...

Here is Louise Bohmer's review of Autumn Moon thus far, her live journal can be accessed here: http://www.livejournal.com/%7Elouise_bohmer/ and you can check out her website here: www.louisebohmer.com

Impromptu Reviews – Online Story Review

Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets
Author: Bob Freeman

I first encountered Mr. Freeman’s writing in the “CWW Killer Kritique Contest,” which I judge along with Tom Moran, Billie Moran, Brian Yount, and some other CWW moderators. Bob had my attention from the first paragraph with his entries, and I soon became a fan of this author’s work. Bob creates gothic atmosphere straight out of a gloomy old Hammer film, complete with towering, forgotten manors, and old family secrets. Read a Bob Freeman story and you will get chills, and an old familiar smile will spread across your face, as you journey into dark, brooding atmospheric territory.

“Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets,” is no exception. Bob is posting this tale, as a Yule present to his fans, on his blog. I’ve only read the first two chapters so far (new chapters posted every Wednesday), and already I am hooked.

The story opens with a young girl, just on the cusp of adolescence, dealing with the loss of her mother. Her father is emotionally unavailable to her at this desperate, confusing time, and the poor child is shipped off to live with relatives, abandoned by her remaining parent.

Aunt Astrid is a kindly, if somewhat eccentric woman, who takes the poor orphan in. Right away, as we arrive at Severe House, we can feel old ghosts stirring in this dusty, gothic mansion. Oil paintings line the wall of the stairwell, and they whisper chilling possibilities to this reader!

I can’t wait for installment three of “Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets.” If you love old Hammer films, Romantic poets (Byron, in particular), and sinister gothic atmosphere, you must check out this tale!

Read “Autumn Moon …” today at:http://www.cairnwood.blogspot.com/

the story continues...

Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets
by Bob Freeman


Chapter Two

“Somerset”

Aunt Astrid was three years younger than my mother. She had premature gray streaks running through her otherwise straight black hair that she allowed to grow to waist length, though no further she would say with a scowl. She avoided make-up, but didn’t really need it anyway. She was pretty, in an ‘old world’ sort of way, with a perchance for wearing plain black gowns that billowed about her, masking the shape of her body. Not that she had anything to hide. But I think she liked to discourage men from making advances toward her. My mother had told me that Astrid had been in love once with a boy from Mount Vernon but he died one night in a diving accident at a place called simply ‘the Cliffs’. It was a loss she never really recovered from.

The house was a nineteenth century Victorian that had fallen into disrepair shortly after the second World War and had been in a slow decline ever since. Its dark green paint was chipped and fading and the majority of the black shudders that framed the windows hung awkwardly. The grass was tall and unkempt with an ancient willow taking up the majority of the side yard.

I stepped out of the yellow cab and paid the driver with an envelope that my father had given me. Our parting was amicable, if emotionless. He told me he loved me and assured me that he would visit, but he needed time to adjust to mother’s passing. It was the single most selfish act I had ever witnessed. To this day, even though I have come to understand his motives, I harbor ill will toward the man I called my father. When I needed him the most he abandoned me. Admittedly it was into the loving arms of my dear Aunt, but it was abandonment just the same.

A stiff breeze, cooled by the nearby River, helped to add to the chill I felt when I first looked upon Severe House. My home in New Castle had been a modern Ranch-style smack dab in the middle of Hoosier Suburbia. This looked like something straight out of the Addam’s Family. I slipped through the crack of the broken wrought iron gate and walked slowly across the uneven sidewalk stopping before the steps up to the wide porch. A sign overhead hung by a single remaining piece of chain read, “Merry Meet, Merry Part, and Merry Meet Again.”

My aunt was busily sweeping with what looked to be a homemade broom, its handle all a twist and the bristles brown and stiff. A thick layer of dust formed a one inch border on the hem of her black dress. She looked up through her tussled hair and gave me a big smile and an even bigger hug.

“Oh, dear child, it is so good to have you here with us,” she said with a flourish. “Come, come, child, let me take your bag and I’ll show you to your room. I hope you like cats, I’ve quite a few, I’m afraid.”

We passed through the front door, which opened with a creak loud enough to wake the most restful dead. It was a combination of fingernails on a chalkboard and a cat with its tail caught under a rocking chair. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.

The foyer was dark and smelled of wet cat and stale smoke. A chandelier hung overhead with but a single bulb lit of a possible twelve. Aunt Astrid led me up a wide stairway, past tall oil paintings of men and women dressed in antique clothing. I paused before one near the top of the stair. I reached my hand out and brushed aside the dust that had masked a brass nameplate set into the frame. It read: Miss Pamela Angelica Severe. Age Twelve. Nineteen Hundred and Forty-Two. It was my mother.

She was dressed in a white gown, with a hood that sat atop pretty red curls. Her green eyes stared out from the painting with a thoughtfulness that belied her age. Her eyes were far older than her face, which was all rosy cheeks and crooked smile.

“She was real doll, wasn’t she,” Aunt Astrid said, placing her hand on my shoulder.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, choking back the welling tears.

“As are you child. As are you. Now come, you’ll have plenty of time to look upon these old paintings, not to mention the rest of the bric-a-brac in this house. I want you to see your new room.” Aunt Astrid moved the rest of the way up the stairs and down the long hall. “Come, come. Let’s not dawdle.”

I followed her across the worn hall runner with its twisting serpent or dragon or whatever until she stopped before a door at the end of the hall. She opened the door and it swung mercifully inward without a sound. The room had three narrow floor to ceiling windows along the north wall that allowed plentiful amounts of light to spill in onto a monstrous canopy bed. The bed was all white lace and linen, with frilly pillows and a stuffed panda bear acting as a sentry.

A dark wood vanity stood along the west wall, complete with a wide, circular mirror and a bench stool. The tabletop was overflowing with antique perfume bottles and other odds and ends of various make-up tools and applications. There was a heart drawn in red lipstick on the mirror with the initials PS+DM inside its border.

The east wall held a closet door, ajar and empty save for some boxes on a high shelf. Tucked into the northeast corner was a high backed reading chair, well worn with dark wood armrests and a velvet-like green upholstery, and a small octagonal end table with a much read hardcover edition of Alice through the Looking Glass upon it.

The windows were framed by long white shears, tied back with pink ribbon. The view overlooked the backyard of Severe House. It was as overgrown as the front and side yard had appeared, but with a worn path that led toward a small copse of towering pine trees and then to the river that cut lazily through the Somerset Valley. I could see Cairnwood Manor on the hilltop on the opposite bank of the Mississinewa, the graveyard spreading out beneath it and toward the river. It was comforting to think that my mother was so close.

“This room was Pamela’s and is just as she left it when she turned eighteen and ran off with your father. Our parents didn’t have the heart to change a thing,” Aunt Astrid said as she settled in next to me, staring across the Valley toward Cairnwood. “I think they’d be happy to know you would be staying in her room.”

“I’m sorry I never met them.”

“Well, you were a wee little thing when they passed on, but I know in my heart of hearts that they and your mother are watching you now and that they love you very much, as do I.”

I smiled up at my aunt and I took her hand. I was not happy about being sent away. I was not sure what lie ahead. I was in a strange house, in a strange town, and sent to live with an aunt who I barely knew. I was taken away from my home, from my father, my school, and my friends. All I had was memories of a mother who had loved me with all her heart and all I could think was that she had loved me too much.

And so it begins...

Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets
by Bob Freeman



Chapter One

“Not Dead, but Sleepeth”

The words of the Minister still haunt me. “In John, chapter eleven, verses twenty-five and six, Jesus tells us, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. / And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” And again in Luke, chapter eight, verse fifty-two, he commands, “Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth.””

“Not dead, but sleepeth,” he had said. If only that were true.

I was twelve the year my mother passed away. The doctors told us it was a heart attack, but she had been so young. I remember doing the math from the dates on her headstone. Thirty-three years. As a twelve year old that seemed like a lifetime, but now, I see it for what it truly is: the brief flicker of a candle snuffed out too soon.

I remember so vividly standing there in the lightly falling rain. My Aunt Astrid tried to keep me under her umbrella, but I didn’t want to be dry. It helped to mask the tears. It was like the heavens had opened up and decided to cry for my mother too.

Father had been no comfort. He paced about like a caged animal. His hair was disheveled and his clothes rumpled. He tugged at his tie and took long drags from his cigarette. How he kept it lit in the rain had always been a mystery to me. All I knew was that every time his eyes met mine he was quick to look away, like he was afraid that I might see something lurking behind his furtive glances.

He hadn’t been the only one to cast glances toward me as I stood before the gaping maw in the earth that would soon be home to my mother. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to collapse, or to at least go into hysterics. But I was of tough stuff, even as a young girl teetering on the edge of womanhood. I didn’t really know anyone here: Aunts, Uncles, mother’s old friends from school…and the Cairnwoods.

The Cairnwoods huddled in a group a short distance away from the funeral service, within range to hear the preacher’s flowery prose, but apart from the gathered mourners. I had been introduced to them when we first arrived at Cairnwood Manor. There was Vincent and his pregnant wife Lenore. He was tall and proud, constantly touching his wife’s belly and smiling. She on the other hand looked so unhappy. I wondered if she might have known my mother and was so moved by her grief over her passing, but no, something darker was settled over this mother-to-be. Within a month she would have murdered her handsome husband and fled with her unborn child, but that is another tale for another time.

Leland Cairnwood was the head of the household and he scared me like no other. He was old, with deep lines seemingly carved into his face, and his wrinkled hands resting upon a wolf-headed cane. He stood with his housekeeper, Mrs. Harkness, and the two whispered between themselves throughout the service. Leland’s eyes would settle on me, then he would turn and say something to the housekeeper and she in turn would look toward me and Aunt Astrid before responding. This continued throughout the service and I could tell that as nervous as it made me feel, it made Aunt Astrid twice as uncomfortable. For as long as I live I will never forget those eyes. If the eyes truly are the window to the soul, then I never wanted to enter the dark place that Leland Cairnwood occupied.

In addition to the adults was a young boy my age named Sebastian. He was almost too pretty to be a boy, with long, dark curls and piercing blue eyes. Any doubts as to his gender were squelched by his grass-stained dress pants, scraped knuckles, and the tell-tale remnants of leaves and twigs stuck in his beautiful locks. Despite the horrors of the day and the deep sadness I felt, Sebastian was a bright spot in a dreary day. While others glanced toward me with mournful looks of compassion and interest, I caught Sebastian’s eyes staring with something else all together. And I must admit that it felt good. If nothing else, that boy was a real charmer and he had my heart at first sight. It would be years before I regretted that first meeting, but again, that is a tale for another time.

The cemetery that sprawled across the lawn beneath the gaze of Cairnwood Manor seemed to be older than time itself. Tombstones worn illegible by the passing of time filled the section of the cemetery that my mother would occupy. The Severe Family Plot consisted of thirteen headstones. I overheard Aunt Astrid say that my mother’s ancestors had been buried here for more than a hundred and fifty years. The Severe’s were an old, respected family from the Northeast who had come to the wild lands of the Indiana Territory in the early eighteen hundreds. The Severe men had fought alongside the native tribes during the War of 1812 and settled along the Mississenewa River in its aftermath. The Cairnwoods and the Severes had a bond that was forged all those long years ago, and it still held true to this day.

My mother would be laid to rest along side her ancestors, just as she had wished. It was a sore subject with my father. He seemed ill at ease with the Cairnwoods. And they in turn did not seem overly fond of him. Aunt Astrid feared that there might be a scene, but in the end, with the Minister’s proclamation of “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” my mother was lowered into the ground.

I stepped to the edge and dropped a flower into the hole that would serve as my mother’s final resting place. The lily fell in slow motion, toppling end over end until it came to rest atop the mahogany coffin. My tears merged with the falling rain to join the lily. I remember being pulled away from the edge by my Aunt and led to an awaiting car. Inside, out of the rain, I pressed my face and hands against the passenger side window staring toward my mother’s new home as the car pulled away.

“I love you, mom,” I whispered. I really had no idea what lie ahead for me. My father was a wreck and emotionally detached from me. And I really had no other family than Aunt Astrid, whom I barely knew. When it was decided that I would stay in Somerset and live with her instead of returning to New Castle with my father I had no idea how fateful the grown-ups' decision would prove to be.

to be continued next week

STARTS TOMORROW!

What's on the Horizon?

With Shadows over Somerset's release looming I wanted to give everyone a heads up. I'm going to coordinate three contests to promote the first book in the Cairnwood Manor series. One over at Shocklines, one at Empire of the Cat, and another at Spirits of the Damned. All you'll have to do is answer a few simple questions related to the book and those who answer correctly will be eligible to win some cool prizes...

Something else I'm excited about, and I hope you will be too, is my early Yule present to all of you. That's right... starting this week, on Wednesday, I will be posting the first chapter of an original story, Autumn Moon and the Book of Secrets. Check in each Wednesday for the next six weeks to get the whole story...

I hope you enjoy it as much as enjoyed writing it.

See you Wednesday.

With tremblings hands I dare to read...

http://www.classichorrorstories.com/stories.html

Some of the finest horror tales ever written, free for your perusal. Poe, Blackwood, Hawthorne, Bierce, Stoker, Wells... no slouches here.

Classic, timeless horror from masters of the genre.

Enjoy... but please accept this public service announcememnt:

Read them with a light on. You'll be glad you did.

Thoughts on a cold November day...

My good friend Brian left a message on my answering machine the other night... in closing he said, "Life is not perfect, but there are perfect moments."

Life for me has been a quest. I've always concerned myself with the big questions. The "why are we here" type questions. Sometimes though it's the little things that matter most. A wink. A smile. A sunset. A gentle rain...

The old saying, "You can't see the forest because of all the trees" has a flip side to it. Sometimes we don't see the trees because the forest gets in the way.

Let's not forget, while on our spiritual journey, the little things in life. They're what make the world go 'round.

And my final thought for the day, "Why are leaves the only things that look better dying than when they're most alive?"

To walk along with perfect love, you need also perfect trust.

~Bob

The Source

As many of you know, I'm a huge fan of Highlander. All right, let me clarify that. I loved the first film and rank it highly in my list of favorite films of all time. The next two films were awful and unnecessary IMO... but the television series was phenomenal. So I was intrigued by the thought of Highlander: Endgame which was to bridge the series and movie franchise and, as I had already bought into the new continuity that the series presented, was excited to see Connor and Duncan together on screen. Endgame was a disappointment. Muddled and disjointed, it was a disaster. So here we go again...

Now filming in Lithuania is Highlander: the Source, a mid-budget continuation of the Highlander saga starring Adrian Paul, with Peter Wingfield (Methos) and Jim Byrnes (Joe Dawson) along for the ride. So again, my hopes are up and, with luck, the producers, writers and director will finally do something that only the series has done rightly thus far: create a fitting companion to Highlander, one of the greatest sword-wielding epics of all time.

Read Adrian Paul's Set Diary Blog HERE.

Allow me to recommend:

Rose's Kiss: The Legacy of Rhoslefain, Abbey Chronicles I

Ruffian Bardougne just spent the last six months fighting for King Edward II. Though mortally wounded, by a twist of fate, he was brought back. All he wants is to resume his old life, and to win the hand of the girl he left behind. But what he returns to is anything but familiar.

Tessa MacLure has grown into an independent woman. And it seems the very foundation of Sedgemoor is being rocked by forces unseen, but foretold, by those who inhabited the land 100 years before. What happened to the settlers who built Rhoslefain Abbey? No traces exist except the stone chapel, which was left unfinished.

Ageless faith battles ancient superstition in the Realm of Dundrennan, in the year 1309. Join two families as they uncover their connection to each other, the land, and to the elusive brotherhood of the 33 Messengers.

About the Author: Joy Harber makes her home in rural Indiana with her husband Roger, and children, Patrick and Shelby. She is the author of 23 published poetic works. She is a public library director whose main interests are writing and genealogy. This is her first novel. You may contact her at theendofthebook@yahoo.com


Paperback: 176 pages
Publisher: Writers Club Press (March, 2003)
Language: English
ISBN: 0595274250
Price: $12.95

Buy this Book...

An afterlife for Tara

Amber Benson, once a lesbian icon on ‘Buffy,’ finds a new calling as co-author of horror series
By NEIL JAMES

Friday, November 04, 2005

It’s 1838 and women in the slums of London are giving birth to toads. Men are transforming into deadly frog monsters and it’s up to magical siblings Tamara and William Swift (and a trio of historic ghosts) to protect their Mother England from the impending doom.

Thus the stage is set in “Ghosts of Albion: Accursed,” the first full-length novel in a new series from Christopher Golden (“The Shadow Saga” and “Wildwood Road”). Sounds like your typical horror fodder, sure, but the book is bound to attract the attention of at least a few fanboys (and grrls) thanks to its co-author, Amber Benson. For three seasons, Benson played lesbian enchantress Tara on “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” and quickly became a cult favorite on the cheeky spook opera.

In the book, Tamara and William are the Protectors of Albion, the magical name for England. They are descendents of a long line of mystical protectors. Offering our young wizards protection, as well as some unique perspectives on life after death, are three of England’s most famous figures, Queen Bodicea, bisexual dandy Lord Byron and the esteemed Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson.

But it’s not all ghost-busting for this brother and sister duo. This is Victorian England, mind you, and these protectors stink with hormone-saturated desire worthy of the Bronte Sisters.
Benson and Golden find some of their best writing while fleshing out the worldly and ethereal existences of their ghostly heroes. Lord Byron sorely misses his days of sexual debauchery. Admiral Nelson is forever the eternal officer in service of England and Queen Bodicea is simply fierce. She’s a six-foot, spear-throwing Celtic warrior queen who battles evils completely nude and smeared head to toe in war paint. You go girl!

The fiction, while at first as stifling as one of Tamara’s bound corsets, becomes easier to navigate as the story progresses. Attention to architecture and period costuming are nicely emphasized throughout the novel. The authors take their subject seriously, but still manage to lace it with a dark sense of humor.

“Ghosts of Albion: Accursed” is a surprisingly fun read for fans of Victorian horror. Benson will easily find a built in audience in the form of her frothing “Taraholics.” As the title evolves into a series of novels (and perhaps a television series? I’m talking to you, Joss Whedon), the afterlife looks very good for at least one member of the former Scooby Gang.

celluloid fantasies

I've always said that you should live your life like its a movie and you're the star. Any movie worth its salt relies on more than star power... you need a great supporting cast, a good budget, and plenty of special effects. There are some days when I feel like I'm the star of a low budget horror film being shot by college students for a class project. Other days I'm on a Ridley Scott set. Such is life...

So the question is, if your life were made into a movie, what type of movie would it be?

Romantic comedy?

A Summer Blockbuster Action Flick?

Maybe a quaint little indie film that delves into the psychology of loneliness?

Fact is it's your movie, you can make it be whatever you want it to be.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you don't like your life then change it.

Me? I'm living the dream baby! All red carpets and bright lights for me. Now excuse me... I have some autographs to sign :)