In Vicki Ableson's second 30 Day Writing Challenge, we are supposed to write about what scares us. This is going to be an interesting 30 days. Dr. Kay is back on speed-dial.
Day 6 of Vicki's WC2...
What scares me?
I love to scare myself with a nice horror flick… Psycho, Disturbia, The Hitcher, Nosferatu, Night of The Living Dead, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (okay, I only watch that one for Winona Ryder *wink*) and The Shining come to mind. And, I confess a certain guilty pleasure in watching such schlock as Army of Darkness and Evil Dead (not the recent remake... that one sucks like a Dyson!) as well.
When it comes to horror, ‘high-brow’ and ‘low-brow’ don’t come into the mix. I will watch, as my lovely and cinematically-sophisticated wife so eloquently puts it, “… sheer crap! Really, Roni… that stuff will rot your brain!”
I do however, draw the line at Scream and it’s dozen or so ‘puke-quels’, I Know What You Did Last Summer and the completely forgettable I STILL Know What You Did Last Summer. And all the other ‘teen-squealers’ of similar ilk.
Cheesy horror, with its bad acting and dreadful ‘special effects’ is one thing… I will watch that. I recognize it for what it is… mindless, low-budget entertainment. And if I have to sleep with a night light - who am I kidding, "if"? - and I am wrapped around my inamorata tighter than a hooker's mini-skirt... well, that is a price I am willing to pay.
What I can’t take though is blatant stupidity. Premise this…
Scene – upper middle-class home. Six murders in the last two weeks and mummy and daddy leave little Tiffany (can you say ‘future porn-star' in the making?) all alone in that big old house while a murderer roams the countryside. A storm brews outside. The lights flicker. Telephone rings.
“I’m going to kill you, Sydney!”
“What? Who is this? Is that you, Phoebe?”
“I’m going to slice you up and eat your guts, Sydney… just like all those other sluts! I’m at the door, Sydney… let me in!”
At this point, Tiffany is having a total meltdown… the girl is freaked to the max. So scared, she just wet her panties. So scared, she completely misses that the killer is calling her Sydney. Oh, and did I mention, while all this is going on, poor little Tiffany is running around the house in only her bra and panty… something that looks like it came from Frederick’s of Hollywood, not the Junior Miss section at H & M.
But, I digress…
The doorbell rings. What does poor little freaked out Tiffany/Sydney do? She goes and hides behind the curtains over the sliding glass door that leads out to the patio, where… lo and behold… our crazed murderer makes his appearance… with a great big kitchen knife… with blood and sinew dripping from its razor-sharp blade.
Oh my, whatever shall Tiffany do? Wait… there’s the phone again.
Really, honey? Why are you not calling 911? Oh, because then the killer wouldn't be able to call back?
“It’s me, Sydney. I’m in the house... I'm gonna gut you, you bitch!!”
Tiffany screams… drops the phone... shreds a couple of nails trying to get the sliding glass door open… and runs right into the killer’s arms.
The killer, caught by surprise, falls to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Tiffany runs back in the house, leaving the slider open.
What the fu…?, you say? Why, so the killer can chase Tiffany through the house for ten minutes before slicing her throat, where the spray of blood coats the walls of three rooms and the hall before Tiffany falls to the floor one last time.
You know what? The bitch deserved to die! Stupidity such as that displayed by these over-sexed teens cannot be allowed to breed. I mean, come on... give me a f....
Yes, I do seem to have gotten off point here.
What were we talking about?
Things that scare me, right?
That frickin’ little monkey with the cymbals in the toy store! Is that supposed to be a grin stitched on his stuffed little face? Looks more like he is ready to eat some tender little, dark-haired girl.
“Mama… I want to go now!”
Whoa… talk about a flashback!
Okay… all this writing has made me hungry. I think I will walk over to River’s Edge Deli and get a roast beef sandwich… perfectly cooked… bright pink center… little pool of red on the plate… yum!
Oh! Was that the phone?
I should probably get that…..
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
15 April 2013
(Writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)