Rather groggy, I rose from the warmth of my quilt-covered bed and shuffled over to the slightly opened window and drew in the fresh,
Cool Air. The window, chipping of age-yellowed paint and covered with a parade of
Old Bugs, overlooked the
The Shunned House across the street, in which
He lived. Down
The Street to the left was
The Temple where
The Festival was taking place in the crowded lot.
The Crawling Chaos reminded me of
The Dunwich Horror that happened years ago. Over to the right was the
Dagon fishing dock and
The Tree where
The Cats of Ulthar congregated daily in hopes of being fed some tasty morsels of fish by the sailors as they disembarked
The White Ship. I have to say, it’s quite dispiriting living in
The Nameless City.
After a time, I meandered back to my bed, and grabbed
The Little Glass Bottle from my hand-carved wooden nightstand as I ritually did every morning. Inside was the hideous-tasting blue liquid medicine I was assured would rid me of
The Lurking Fear from which I often suffered. The resident
Alchemist had referred me to
The Terrible Old Man who lived in
The Secret Cave by the shipyard where he secretly made this medicine from ingredients found in
The Moon-Bog.
Heading toward the drawing room with
The Hound at my feet, I retrieved
The Silver Key I kept hidden behind
The Picture in the House. Not just any picture mind you, but the one in fact,
The Evil Clergyman found
At the Mountains of Madness. Yes, that’s the one. With the key, I unlocked the
The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, my great uncle who left it in my trust, and carefully removed
The Book titled,
The Unnamable.
Reading from the chapter containing
The Statement of Randolph Carter, I suddenly noticed hellacious scratching noises coming
From Beyond, perhaps the next room. I realized a moment later, it must have been
The Rats In The Walls, for they often scurried haphazardly in an attempt to avoid
The Trap I set. If
Memory serves, that trap was set the day I witnessed
The Shadow Over Innsmouth—A remarkable coincidence, no? In an attempt to drown out the grating noise, I turned up the volume on my phonograph— a
Pickman’s Model of course—in which
The Music of Erich Zann was soothingly being played. To further calm my jagged nerves, I decided to open one of the
Two Black Bottles of brandy given to me by my dear friend Howard who I’ve known since my forsaken youth. He brought them back from his three-month voyage on
The Mysterious Ship called
The Outsider.
Hours later, feeling languorous from the brandy and my disconcerting day, it barely registered that my doorbell had rung. It wasn’t until the second or third ring that it finally made its way through my numbed brain. I’d hoped it wasn’t
The Man of Stone again trying to sell me another magazine subscription. He’s relentless that guy. To my surprise, it was my good friend and colleague,
Herbert West: Reanimator. “Well, well, well. Looky
What the Moon Brings!” I said.
“Spare me the trivialities.”
Admiring his attire, my eyes drifted from the top of his black felt derby down to his highly polished wingtip shoes. “What’s that my good friend?” I asked.
“What?”
“
The Thing on the Doorstep.”
“Oh that. That’s just a pile of
Ashes. It was probably left by
The Very Old Folk I passed on my way here. They seem to be leaving them on everyone’s doorstep for some reason or other.”
“Oh, I see. Well, do come in. Come in!”
We made ourselves comfortable on the viridian velvet couch and I poured us both some brandy. “So, what brings you by, my friend?”
“Well, I was over in
The Tomb, doing some research on
The Mystery of the Grave-Yard, when like
The Shadow Out of Time I got the most brilliant idea I’d like to run past you. I was thinking of investigating
The Horror in the Museum that happened last month and was wondering if you’d like to help since you have a penchant for the bizarre. Surely, I could use all the help I could muster. I must warn you, however, it would involve spending much time
In The Vault and I know how you feel about tight spaces. Perhaps you’d like to take a stroll with me down the street to
The Festival and discuss it?”
“Well, I have been having a hard time relaxing around here today so perhaps a nice stroll would do me some good. I’m not sure how I could help but I’m willing to hear you out.” Just as I was crossing the room to get my shoes and coat, the telephone rang. “That must be
The Call of Cthulhu I’ve been waiting for. Please excuse me my friend, I must take this call.”
A few moments later, flabbergasted, I languidly placed the telephone back in its cradle, staring into space.
“What is it my friend? You look like someone died.”
“Someone did... Cthulhu’s brother,
Azathoth. He took a sudden turn for the worse. I can't believe this happened... I just can't believe he's dead."
"Well, my friend... not if I can help it!"
Well, tomorrow marks day one of Script Frenzy. And what the heck is Script Frenzy you may be asking? Well, it's basically a race against the clock to see if you can write a 100-page script in the 30 days of April. Exciting, no? But here's the kicker... There is no one hanging over you cracking the whip, you are not competing against other writers, and there are no prizes. So why do it? Because it's FUN... in a frenzy sort of way. My initial idea was to write a melodramatic, heartwarming screenplay. Two days ago, I trashed that idea for an even better one: a fantasy comedy with a hint of horror. Better, no? Well then, tomorrow morning, bright and early, I'll be off to the races! Wish me luck.
sonant (or consonant cluster), move it to the end of the word, and add an “ay” such as in Ig-pay Atin-lay. In the case where the word starts with a vowel, you leave the word as is and add a “way,” “ay,” “yay,” or “hay” to the end, depending on the word, as in apple-yay or apple-ay. Simple as iepay!
he trouble, especially if you’re a terrible speller. You can just say, “Hey, [fill in grumpy husband’s name here], don’t forget: you promised to take Fido to the arkpay after you mow the lawn! And don’t forget to stop at the pet store to pick up more ookiecays!” See? Easier said than spelled!
Rather groggy, I rose from the warmth of my quilt-covered bed and shuffled over to the slightly opened window and drew in the fresh, Cool Air. The window, chipping of age-yellowed paint and covered with a parade of Old Bugs, overlooked the The Shunned House across the street, in which He lived. Down The Street to the left was The Temple where The Festival was taking place in the crowded lot. The Crawling Chaos reminded me of The Dunwich Horror that happened years ago. Over to the right was the Dagon fishing dock and The Tree where The Cats of Ulthar congregated daily in hopes of being fed some tasty morsels of fish by the sailors as they disembarked The White Ship. I have to say, it’s quite dispiriting living in The Nameless City.
COME ON! It's not that I have anything against zombies... they're cool in a creepy sort of way... it's just that they have no rhythm! You know what I'm sayin'?
oesn't it seem redundant for zombies to want to totally transform their bodies? I mean, haven't they done that already? What is left to transform into? Hence the redundancy. Perhaps a shower and deodorant would be more productive.
