 Horror/Scary: November 18, 2009 Issue [#3384] |
  Horror/Scary
This week: Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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Horror Can Best Be Served Hot & Cold
Horror can be as hot as boiling anger, spilt blood, as hot as the 'chicken soup of the soul' served by a fiery demon from Hell, and being such, must be written so....
Stanley Vang sat alone in the back booth of the restaurant concentrating on his soup. He sucked soup from his spoon, then spooned up more, but never took his gaze off the contents of his bowl.
He pretended to be unaware of his surroundings, even of the limping waitress that gave him a dirty look as she passed by.
He just kept eating his soup.
Stanley was small but sinewy, in his late forties, and wore his hair closely cropped. His skin was the shade of antique parchment.
He allowed people to think that he was Chinese, but was actually a Vietnamese refugee who had fled to the States after the fall of Saigon. Rumor had it, he’d been an interrogation expert, using any tool or technique to get his prisoners to cooperate, which was probably true.
But that was then.
Now, he ran this restaurant and would not tolerate his employees to be late for work, ever.
Again the waitress hobbled by, slowing only a little to examine her small toe floating in the bowl of soup.
"The Soup"
But horror can also be served icy cold, blood freezing, calculated, and dished-up by a maniac that has never known or experienced the warmth of love in his entire life. And thus, must be written so....
I've pretended to love. But in reality, I've felt no more for people than I would a stranger encountered on the street.
As a child, when I was old enough to begin thinking about such things, I wondered if something was wrong with me, a crucial element missing from my makeup.
As I listened to myself playing the game of love, employing strategies of false affection and shameless flattery, I was amazed at how convincing others found me, for I could hear the insincerity in my voice, could feel the fraudulence in every gesture, and was acutely aware of the deceit behind my ever-loving smile.
Then one day I suddenly heard the deception in their voices, saw it in their faces, and I realized that none of them had ever experienced love for me, either.
They were all playing the game, too.
Later I came to the conclusion that each person thought they were unique, yet realized that something was missing in them, and that they must play the game well or risk being discovered. It was as if God had tried to create a world of love, had failed, and had commanded His creations to pretend to the perfection with which He had been unable to imbue them.
If you're not a pretender, you don't know how scary something like that can be. How the surety of it kind of...invades your head.
Anyway, they're all dead now. Stone-cold dead. Game over!
My mother and father, brothers and sisters, wife and children, all layed out in a nice neat row here by the dinner table. Hell, even the poisoned turkey has turned cold.
See ya' all at Christmas!
billwilcox
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The Entres
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Dead Letters
Just call me Omni 
Submitted Comment:
How cool is it to have my story published! Okay, it is in a newsletter, but it is a step in the right direction and the start of my Nano Novel I need to check out all the other stories featured here. Thanks!
 It IS cool...very cool
Josh M. Cregger
Submitted Comment:
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 Thanks Zombie. As you can see, your creative banner hangs on high.
Acme
Submitted Comment:
"Now this chili is HOT, so hot that it will make your fingernails sweat, and your belly button pop out like a meat thermometer."
Seeing as though WDC doesn't have a recipe newsletter, do you fancy sharing the wealth so I can have sweaty fingers over at Casa Acme?
 Sure, my friend. First you open a can of chili, and then empty a large bottle of 'hot sauce' into it. 
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