Short Story: Puppet Show

20/09/2014 at 2:01 pm (Horror) (, , , )


puppet showKamil decided to go to the park despite his mum telling him he’d be wasting his time. The puppet show would’ve been finished by the time he’d strolled in to town after the shopping trip.

Car after car jammed solidly in the Saturday afternoon traffic, making Kamil think that each vehicle’s occupant was doing their damnedest to ensure he’d miss the show. If that was their intention, they’d succeeded.

“You’re a bit old for puppet shows now though, aren’t you, Love?” his mum chided. He couldn’t be bothered to argue the point, just for her to miss it entirely. He loved puppetry. He enjoyed everything from the setting up of staging to the building of puppets and props. He could make his own cast and put on his own show. The way the story would be performed and how it looked would be down to him and him alone.

It clearly was too late when he reached the spot where the puppet theatre had been set up. There was a large, green tarpaulin laid out in front of the small booth, which was decorated in striking black and red swirls. The front of the booth read ‘Mr Fallowmoor’s World Of Adventure’, with a selection of what were presumably characters from the show. There was a frog, a witch, the devil, a ghost, a bear and a rabbit. They looked oddly put together. On the rabbit, one eye was lower than the other. The Witch had one large ear and one small.

The scene was somewhat desolate as it appeared that everyone had gone home. The puppeteer was also nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d gone for a drink somewhere? The feeling was exacerbated by the chill that whisked through the air, the darkening clouds shrouded the sunlight. The world had taken on a greyish hue.

Kamil trod across the tarpaulin as it crumpled under his steps. Its edges rustled slightly, picked at by the wind. He reached the booth and peered over the small stage. All he saw was darkness. An incredibly deep darkness, considering the booth was only tall enough to accommodate one person.

Thud.

The sound came from inside the booth.

“Huh-hello?” Kamil spoke nervously into the blackness below.

There came another sound, like a kind of animal scrabbling amongst paper. Kamil tried to peer deeper into the dark, straining his eyes for shapes or sign of movement, but there was nothing.

Pulling back from the booth, he walked round to the back of it. The same twisting, curving black and red design followed all around the box and over the curtain at its rear. He couldn’t decide if they were supposed to be tails or flames, or maybe exotic tendrils from a distant jungle. The colours seemed more vibrant than before, scarlet arcs emblazoned on a deep, black patina.

He pulled back the curtain, only to expose more of this black nothingness. Logically, the light coming through from the stage should be coming through there too, but there was only the dark. The unreal situation enflamed his sense of curiosity.

“Weird.” It was the only word that came to mind. Somehow acknowledging the bizarre situation out loud offered some comfort. He crouched a little as he stepped tentatively through the curtain, hoping his eyes would focus on even the merest detail.

“Hello?” A small voice, as timid as his own trickled through the dark.

“Hi,” said Kamil. “Is someone there?” As soon as he said it he felt stupid at asking after such an obvious fact.

“Hello?” the voice repeated. Kamil couldn’t quite make out if it was a male or female voice. It was child-like, but croaky. “Can you get here? Can you?”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Kamil asked. It was hard to tell how far into the dark the voice was coming from. He began to walk further into the booth, although it became clear it was no mere puppet theatre.

“Please, please come here. Please.” The pathetic, emploring voice spurred him further.

He felt the sensation that he was walking downwards, as though on a ramp. With a shudder he took another step, then another. Kamil felt as though he’d left his mind at the threshold of this impossible booth. Again, he continued to step forward, downward. The walls, which offered no detail or texture narrowed. The cotton of his hoody brushed against them.

“Where are you?” Kamil called. He was aware of the shakiness of his own speech. He was not only nervous of his claustrophobic surroundings, but of what he might find when he reached whoever it was calling out to him.

He found himself having to turn slightly as the space around him closed. He stepped to one side, crab-like, his head bumping a little against the featureless wall behind him.

He stopped. “What the hell am I doing?” he spoked through ragged breath. He stretched his left arm out into the direction he was heading. He could feel the wall narrow even more. He suppressed the panic that was beginning to push its way into his throat, preparing to manifest itself as a scream. He breathed slowly. The way he’d been taught. The way Mr Garvey had shown him when he’d panicked on the trip to Bath.

Breathe in.

Breath out.

He could smell the scent of varnish mixed with old paper and mildew. His stomach churned slightly. ‘Don’t be sick, don’t be sick,’ he told himself.

“I can’t go further,” he called out to the voice. “It’s too narrow.”

“Just a little further, please.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I should get help. I’ll get a fireman. They do this stuff.” He looked upwards, back to where he’d originally started. There was nothing but blackness now.

“Please, you’re here, you can do this. Come here, please.”

He pushed on, through the narrowing gap, his arm outstretched. His fingers could feel the ends of the walls. Encouraged, he pressed on. Despite the uncomfortably tight quarter he found himself in, he was sure he could make it through the space. The only thing was he wasn’t sure he should. Would he be able to get back through again?

Again, the voice gave a plaintive call to Kamil. If someone was hurt he’d feel horrible about leaving them.

With a final push he squeezed his body through the gap.

Expecting to find a floor level to meet the sloping ground he’d been walking down, Kamil was shocked to feel himself falling.

The fall only lasted for a moment as he was met with a soft landing of a bundle of cotton, rags and old paper. The smell was stronger here, which made Kamil repeat his mantra of ‘don’t be sick, don’t be sick.’  He hadn’t hurt himself, but he was feeling very uneasy as he pulled himself up from the debris underneath him.

There seemed to be at least some light streaming through the room he’d found himself in. He looked around the boxy room, which he guessed to be around about twelve feet square. He stood, but because of the height of the room he had to bend his back slightly.

Small blades of yellowish light poked their way into the room at odd angles, picking out details here and there. Dust motes and airborne fibres lifted and fell, illuminated in the sickly coloured beams.

Kamil gathered his senses, breathing through his mouth to abate the smell as best he could. “Hello? Are you down here?”

The was a furtive rustle, followed by a movement that was caught briefly in the light. It was small, like an animal. He stared at the dark corner that was hiding the  thing, whatever it was.

“Hello?” he called again.

Kamil watched something rising up into a beam of light. A rabbit? No, a glove puppet of a rabbit. That meant that someone was sat there, unseen, in the dark with him. He shivered as he swallowed down his nervousness.

“Hi. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

The rabbit glove puppet turned from side to side, replicating a shake of the head. “No, not hurt,” spoke the small, husky voice. “I do need your help. Yes, I do need your help. And I can help you.”

“Who are you?” Kamil stared into the dark. He could make out a human figure, perhaps in a dark suit, sat hunched in the corner.

“Pipsy,” the voice replied.

“Pip-Pipsy,” An incongruous smile played across Kamil’s lips. As fearful as the situation was, the ludicrousness of it was somehow funny. “I’m Kamil. What do you want?”

The human figure shifted a little, moving into the light. Kamil could quite clearly see a pair of wide eyes. The yellow light also picked out a map of furrowed brow lines, which knotted in tension.

“A new friend.” The glove puppet’s finger arms moved slowly as the words were said with a chuckle. “We can be friends, can’t we?”

Kamil’s heartbeat raced. He realised he had to get out as soon as he could. In his mind he berated himself for his curiosity and stupidity. This guy was clearly mental.

“Sure… sure, w-we can.”

Kamil pushed himself against the wall, as far from the man as he could get.

“So, how do I, um, we get out of here?”

“You don’t want to leave do you? You’ve only just got here.” The voice was deliriously singsongy.

“It’s probably for the best. I have to get back.”

“You want to know about the puppet show, though, don’t you? I could teach you. I’m a good teacher. Would you like to learn?”

“I-I was thinking more of a college course, or…”

That chuckle again. It froze Kamil to the spot. He felt the bile rise to his gullet.

“Please, I just need to go.” He couldn’t help the whimper that tainted his voice.

He watched the scruffy, threadbare rabbit as its body was animated by the person operating it. Kamil realised he’d been addressing the puppet instead of the operator and felt ridiculous again. He looked across to the intensity of the eyes almost protruding from the furrowed brow, deciding it was better to appeal to the actual human than Pipsy the rabbit.

“Look, I don’t know what this is about. I’m sure you’re really good at teaching puppetry and stuff and I want to learn, honest. But I can’t, we can’t be here. You have to see that, right? Let me go.”

“Don’t bother talking to him.” Kamil’s attention was drawn back to the puppet. “He can’t even speak.”

With a lurch, the man pushed himself closer to Kamil. The boy gasped as light painted across the rest of his face. Beneath the bulbous eyes and high cheekbones was nothing. That is, nothing that resembled a nose or a mouth. In the place of those features were five columns of skin that connected the middle of his face to his chin where his nose and mouth should’ve been. Behind them lay the same pitch blackness that hung about them. No teeth, no bone, no tissue.

Kamil’s vision was blurring from the tears springing up in is eyes, the only reaction his body allowed him as he shut down in fear.

“You don’t want to be scared of Mr Fallowmoor.” It was no trick of ventriloquism. Kamil realised it was the puppet who was speaking through its own unmoving mouth. No sound issued from the man at all.

Through kaleidoscopic, tearful vision, Kamil watched Mr Fallowmoor begin to stand, supporting himself with his left hand. The puppet remained held up by his right.

“Mr Fallowmoor is tired now. He’s done. You will be Mr Fallowmoor. You will be loved.” Mr Fallowmoor had now brought Pipsy to within inches of Kamil’s face.

“No, no…” Kamil said in desperation, pushing himself against the wall as hard as he could, half hoping it would break away behind him, leading him to escape.

Kamil cried out as Mr Fallowmoor grabbed his right wrist, pulling his hand up before both their faces.

“Now, the lesson begins,” said Pipsy.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Kamil was panic stricken, completely rooted to the spot in fear. He watched with terror as the puppet lifted from Mr Fallowmoor’s hand without the need of being pulled. Independently, the ragged, plush rabbit wrenched itself free with a grotesque squelch. It left no hand behind. Instead, there was only a raw stump that stopped at the wrist.

Kamil could no longer even speak. His mind was shouting at him to fight. Punch. Kick. Run. Do something. Do anything.

Stop this.

He didn’t move at all. The boy watched dumbly as the rabbit puppet hauled its body by its pathetic, stumpy arms from Mr Fallowmoor’s sleeve, across his hunched shoulders and along his left arm. Along to the hand holding Kamil’s in an unbreakable grip.

“My new home,” Pipsy giggled as Kamil felt the plush of the rabbit’s finger-arms touch his hand.

Kamil screamed as he felt the searing pain shoot from his wrist.

Then there was no light at all.

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The Magic Of Classic Horror

01/07/2012 at 8:56 pm (Horror, Movies)


Zazzle Posters
Poster from Zazzle

It’d be worrying to think that your only knowledge of the horror genre stops at the slasher movie, the documentary style ghost story and zombie action films. I’m not saying that each of these areas of horror don’t have their own merits, but there’s so much else out there!

I remember, as a child, stealing the chance to try and watch horror movies with my brother. We had a small, portable black and white TV (which weighed more than your average flatscreen), and we would stare into this flickering blue glow, daring it to frighten us.

These were the days when you could watch some truly classic horror movies, which would appear on BBC2. There was something really magical about this, about seeing these tales unfold from long ago. My brother in particular was a fan of werewolves, so every werewolf movie on TV we would have to watch. For me, they were the most terrifying of the monsters, but I would have to keep viewing.

I remember with complete crystal clarity the night that we first watched Curse of the Werewolf starring Oliver Reed. The mad eyes darting back and forth was already enough to set my heart racing. I’m not sure I was more than 11 years old. And still I kept watching.

There really is something about these old horror movies. It’s the storytelling, the atmosphere and often the unsettling way they are shot that gives them the intrigue. And while many of these films are floating around on DVD, I often wondered how they would be on the big screen. It’s almost as if these movies are as ancient and long gone as the evils they explore.

Fortunately, that’s not the case. There are many events and festivals that celebrate the classic horror genre. Some of these events include the Frighten Brighton Classic Horror Film Festival, which shows many classic horror movies of past eras.

On August 11th, from 12pm, the next festival of films is under the heading Horror By The Sea, and features such notable films as:

Mad Love

Cat People

Them! (a personal favourite – “Shoot the antenna!”)

Plague of the Zombies

Phantasm

You can order tickets for these horror movie screenings right now.

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The Blogs What I Wrote: 2010 in review

03/01/2011 at 1:20 pm (Gay, Gay Pride, Horror, Social Media)


The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 4,600 times in 2010. That’s about 11 full 747s.

 

In 2010, there were 43 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 48 posts. There were 106 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 10mb. That’s about 2 pictures per week.

The busiest day of the year was July 5th with 443 views. The most popular post that day was London Pride – It’s here, it’s queer, it’s not named after the beer.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were twitter.com, towleroad.com, facebook.com, stumbleupon.com, and hootsuite.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for mood chart, colour mood chart, b&q colour chart, colour mood, and horror colours.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

London Pride – It’s here, it’s queer, it’s not named after the beer July 2010
19 comments

2

The Horror Colour Mood Chart January 2010
2 comments

3

Coming Out: Becoming The Man I Am October 2010
7 comments and 1 Like on WordPress.com,

4

About peacockpete December 2009

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A Short Story For Halloween: The Final Painting Of Milton Mackenzie

29/10/2010 at 7:00 pm (Horror)


This is a long post, well it’s a short story, and I invite you to set yourself a little bit of time to absorb it.  For your delectation over the Halloween weekend, I present, The Final Painting Of Milton Mackenzie.

The thick daubs of paint smeared the white canvas. A single deep, scarlet line broke the purity of the white vista. He never worked from sketches. No pencil strokes navigated his brush.

The images were like flashes in his mind; the only way to pull these snapshots from his waking thoughts were to commit them to corporeality. Painting the view from his mind’s eye meant he could rest, until new pictures emerged into his conscious thoughts, and the process would start again.

The painting began to take shape. Almost within a blink, the outline of a figure was rendered. A body, a person, a man… no. Something else. Manlike, but at the same time, formless. Incomplete. He dreaded these paintings. He was left exhausted when they were finished.

Sometimes these creatures could take weeks to complete, even months. Sometimes just a few hours. The ones that were completed quickly shattered him, leaving him unable to leave his tiny studio apartment. While he would recover and return to health, over time this had become exponentially worse.  The last piece he completed left him unable to leave the apartment for almost a week.  His limbs felt unresponsive, and even his ability to eat was affected. He would joke to himself that if this is how artists felt it was no wonder they all went mad.

He could only joke to himself, there was no one else. No one else beside Julia. They used to work together, years ago. She was the one thing in life that was a connection to the outside world. They met in a warehouse stuffing clear, cellophane envelopes with catalogues filled with tartan blankets, label making equipment and devices for catching spiders. It was so long ago that he complimented her on her fold-and-stuff technique, causing them to both collapse with laughter and talk about the pointlessness of their jobs.

Neither of them had met anyone else to form a long lasting or stable relationship, nor had they expressed an interest in each other romantically. They were friends, great friends, but he often felt as though he was holding her back somehow. The girl who threw her head back as she laughed was gone, replaced by sad smiles and hugs. He knew it was his fault, and although the change in both of them was gradual, it was also very visible.

Over the 12 years they had known each other they had noticed how things had changed. They used to have regular people they would both see. A good group of mutual friends would be there to go to the movies with, or the pub, or just hang out. Of course, it was perfectly normal that people change and move on. No one can stay like that forever.

The thick acrylic was now sculpting sinew and flesh, tissue and muscle. Within seconds the eyes were formed from a number of quick flicks of his fine sable brush. A sickly, pale yellow hue filled the narrow almond shapes, punctuated by slitted pupils. Instinct made him turn his brush to paint a mouth.

He stopped. It had no mouth. He should not paint one.

In the brief pause of reason, he was aware of his mobile phone groaning on his bedside table, vibrating with urgency. It would be Julia. Occasionally it could be his agent to point him in the direction of the next art show to take his wares to. But not today.

He was able to make enough money to support himself, and give a percentage to Mr Fenley. Other than that, he wanted no contact with him or his family, despite invitations to dinner. He wanted to keep it separate, although from what he was uncertain, having very little in the way of a social life.

He grabbed the phone, and took a couple of seconds to focus on the buttons to push the right one, easing himself down onto his bed.

“Jules, hey!” He was surprised at how upbeat he sounded, but one of the side affects of these intense painting sessions was the adrenaline that coursed through him.

“Hi, Milt!” She seemed as surprised as he was, sounding for a second confused. Her upward inflection could have been a question to find out where the real Milton Mackenzie was. “Were you busy? Don’t mean to disturb, just wanted to talk to you about something.”

Talking about “something” was always bad. Every human knows that. Already a dozen scenarios ranging from terminal illness to, oh God, meeting the man of her dreams and running off had picked at his mind. “Sounds ominous,” he half chuckled.

“Oh, it’s nothing bad, not really. I’ve got a new job!”

“That’s amazing! Nice one!” he knew she had been frustrated with her job at FocussingFuture, a rather small scale software development company, for a while. He smiled as he enjoyed a feeling of happiness on behalf of his friend. “What are you doing?”

A pause.

He opened his mouth to check she was still on the line. Before he could talk, she cut into the silence. “It’s really unexpected, really something. You know we brought out a run of really popular games lately?” He didn’t have a clue, but not wanting to hurt her feelings, uttered a positive noise. “Tactical Warpigs even made it on the news! It’s the one with the beach party massacre level.”  He smirked. She giggled. “I know, it’s horrendous, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s just gone crazy, and they’re opening a new office.”

“You’re moving away?” He couldn’t hide his disappointment. Of course the western edges of the Thames Valley weren’t exactly the central hub of cosmopolitan life. If she moved further out, perhaps to London, maybe even as far afield as Birmingham it wouldn’t be so bad. He hadn’t driven in years, and was pretty much used to taking trains to odd places for shows. He was even quite adept at it, taking his book of artwork to grab the interest of shops, hotels and restaurants.

Again a pause. With a slight crack in her voice, she confessed, “I have to go to Chicago.”

“That’s America! Bollocks!” He couldn’t help it. It just burst through him, angry, frustrated, raging. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds. Jules kept quiet too. Breaking the habit of a lifetime, she waited for him to say something first. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ll really miss you.” His voice cracked too, as tears began to distort his vision.

“I know, I just have to. It’s a brilliant opportunity. But I don’t, really don’t…” The sentence held still for a moment. With a puff of air, she continued, “I don’t want to leave you.”

In an effort to keep focussed, to keep it positive, Milt resolved himself to be calm. “What’s the job? What’re you doing?”

“Don’t laugh…”

“Not much chance of that.” He winced at his own callousness. “Sorry. I’m good, just being a twat. Come on, what is it?”

“They want me to be ‘the face of FocussedFutures’. Have you ever heard anything that crazy? It’s ad campaigns, interviews. Just… mental!”

“You’ll be on TV?” In spite of himself, he was excited for her. “Yeah, I’ll let you off. You’re going to be famous! I can’t blame them though, you scrub up alright.”

“Yeah, thanks…” The giggle again. It was so good to hear her happy.

“Just don’t get pissed at some big society do,” he said authoritatively, switching on his over-protective brother voice. “I don’t want to see you in the papers with your head down the loo.”

“Piss off! No, I’ll be proper ladylike. Or as near as I can manage.”

“Seriously, I am happy for you, I am. You’ll be really great, Jules. Still don’t want you to go though.”

“I know, I know. It’s okay, hon. This doesn’t mean I’m not going to see you again. Just a bit of a distance away. You’ve got a computer, use it for something other than porn!”

They laughed hard, reminding him again that they had lost something over the intervening years. And now with his best friend – his only friend – leaving, those old feelings were coming back. The sparkle between them was growing, and now she was being taken away by America.

They chatted and laughed for another 40 minutes. It was getting dark outside, and they said their goodbyes. Milt couldn’t quite shake off his feeling of resentment. Resentment aimed at himself by letting his painting take over. Not that there was anything he could do about it. It was just something that happened.

He didn’t feel like painting for the rest of the evening. He didn’t even feel like looking at his current project. Julia had kept his attention away from the piece the whole time they were chatting. Because of the tiny space and the light, it was better to have the canvas pointed towards the kitchenette, its window angled towards the sinking sun. Prising himself from his bed, he stepped across his quarters to make a cup of coffee.

He never completed his task. He stood frozen as he glimpsed the painting. He turned and stared at his work, shock climbing his body. The being he had painted was human. The face pained and contorted. The jaw was extended, but where he had not painted a mouth, the skin was stretched across the gap where it should be.  The outline of teeth was pressed against the taut membrane, locked in a silent scream.

He had created the image just over an hour earlier, and was barely cognitive of the result. Without realising, Milton Mackenzie had painted a self portrait. It was his eyes that were fixed with anger and loneliness. It was his sealed, skin-covered mouth that was muted with frustration. Like a premonition that the world was leaving him behind, that his one link to everything else was severed, he had painted his own horrific destiny.

He felt dizzy, nauseous. The thumping of the blood in his ears was so loud… a remorseless drumming, beating faster, faster, faster… He felt lightheaded, and his legs buckled under him. This was worse than any of the episodes he’d experienced before. This was an attack.

The lino floor was cold against his cheek. Through blurring vision he could make out the kitchen cupboards – white panels becoming grey, then darker still. Then blackness.

Light. Distortion. A jumble of images, but no detail. Skin cloying and unnatural. A smell… the acrid, chemical smell of acrylic paint. A hundred bells, roars and screams filled his head. His senses, such as they were, misfired. It was a final burst of life from the man that was Milton Mackenzie.

He awoke, but felt a numbness, silence.  His return to consciousness was different this time.  He was in his apartment… standing?

He looked down and saw his own broken body. From behind a silent scream.

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What Not To Scare: Essential advice for Halloween fancy dress

03/10/2010 at 5:57 pm (Horror, Nightlife) (, , , )


It’s October, and Halloween’s almost here – my favourite festival of the year – and it’s time to think about fancy dress.

There’s a lot of choice when it comes to fancy dress.  Horror is the obvious one, and for many, that’s what Halloween’s about.  It is, after all, based on folklore surrounding the worlds of the living and the dead converging. But why dress up? In the original Celtic legends it was advisable to dress as something fearful,  or preferably someone that was already dead.  The spirits of the long-deceased would therefore believe that there was no one living around to possess.

In this day and age, undoubtedly due to the American influence, anything goes.  It’s pretty much an excuse to dress crazy and party. And here’s the tricky part, it’s not so much, “what do I dress as?” but, “how do I wear it?”

I have a few rules about fancy dress, although these are pretty flexible when making the right impression.

Don’t dress too impractically:

Yes, your cardboard Optimus Prime outfit looks amazing! It won’t look quite as amazing by the time you’ve scrambled out of the car.  Most costumes will be hot or a little uncomfortable.  Think about what you can deal with. Remember that while no one expects you to keep a mask on all night, you’ll want to keep up the look for as long as possible.  You also need to be ready to get your costume together fairly quickly for photos.  Make up and wigs can get itchy too, and be careful where you leave traces.  It was a little embarrassing in photos after I dressed as Paul Stanley from KISS how many people ended up with white faces.

Mobility in mind:

Chances are you’ll want to stand up, move around AND sit down during the course of the evening.  Hey, Spongebob, you won’t be getting out of that beanbag anytime soon! Dancing and heading to the bar may also be necessary.  Fairy wings have been known to really aggravate other patrons, particularly when flapping someone in the face at close quarters. That includes batwings too, people.

You gonna drink, you gotta pee:

Never over estimate your bodily functions.  Always assume, if you’re going to drink alcohol, basic motor functions will be challenged.  After four servings of punch and your eighth can of bathtub beer, things are going to get confusing.  Jumpsuits and armour may cause a problem, as do unusually placed buckles and fastenings. You don’t always have time to plan your escape.

Those are my basic guidelines for enjoying fancy dress, but everyone has a different view.  The most important thing is to enjoy it, and never take yourself too seriously.  Cost is also another thing to consider.  No matter how accurate your costume might be, chances are very few other people will notice.  I totally understand the need for authenticity, but it can take over.

Never forget, this is for one night – maybe two, you party animal – so think about budget.  Look fantastic, of course, but you may never wear that stuff another time.  No matter how great the costume looks, your friends will take notice.  “Austin Powers AGAIN is it?”

My last piece of advice is to go out, have fun and let your hair down.  This is your chance to really play another character.  Not too much though – plastic machetes only please.

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The Horror Colour Mood Chart

30/01/2010 at 12:03 am (Art, Horror, Movies)


This little entry was inspired by a particularly random series of texts with my pal Rick over at http://cyberschizoid.blogspot.com.  We were talking about the various colours that are prevalent in certain horror movies.  Being the worthwhile and useful member of society that I am, I bring you – the horror movie fan – a selection of vivid shades to improve your decor…

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