Wow, it's been a long time since we have posted anything.  I think it's time to blow off some dust and revamp this gory corner of the internet.  First, how about some formality:  How are you all doing?

Okay, now it's time to kick start the brain and think of something to write about.


Should I finish this story?

Hi, Splattercore.I wrote a quick chapter, more like half a chapter, today and pulled it out of my head. No plot. No research. No working through characters first. I just wrote it because it was in my brain and held me captive for most of last night. I'd love to know what you guys think of it...

The darkness enveloped her entire being as she trembled through the cold and lonely cemetery, clutching her goose-bumped arms to her chest. The moon was full, but still didn’t provide enough light for her to see, and to make matters worse, her flashlight batteries had died several tombstones ago.
    The crisp fall leaves crunched under her sneakers as she walked through rows and rows of the dead who had met their fates mostly over a hundred years ago. Vaulhurtz Cemetery didn’t take new additions. It was over a century old and the newest grave there was over sixty years old. It had filled up rather quickly when it opened up to the elite and after The Great Depression, it was completely full.
    Most of the stones, she noticed, were upright and had gargoyles and other creepy monstrosities on top of them, as if a grim tombstone would make death a bit easier on the families or something to that nature. Nonetheless, she combed through every single one of them and would continue to do so until she found the right one.
    The stone she was looking for would have the name Margaret Anne Thatcher on it, and it would be one of the oldest ones in the place. The grave, of course, would be completely empty-or so Sarah hoped.
    The story that her grandmother had told her that night, right before she took her last breath, was a very disturbing, if not sweet one.
    Margaret was her grandmother’s grandmother. Right before the turn of the century, Margaret married a plantation owner in South Carolina to ensure that her family’s financial status stayed put. Unfortunately, poor Margaret got more than she bargained for. The plantation owner, William Thatcher was an old, crotchety, cranky, mean, cantankerous and abusive piss-pot of an old man. When slavery was abolished, he kept his plantation running by whatever means necessary, and he worked his new, young bride to the brink of near insanity.
    Finally, as the thoughts of the grizzly story her grandmother had just told her replayed in her head for the umpteenth time, Sarah found a stone marked “William Thatcher.” That meant that his wife’s stone would be close by.
    Feeling sick from thinking of the cruel punishment that Margaret had received all those many years ago, Sarah spat on William Thatcher’s grave, and as she passed, she found Margaret’s stone sticking out of the ground next to it, below a grand oak tree.
    Her stone read “Margaret Thatcher, wife and mother. RIP.” That was it. No dates. Nothing else at all.
    A chill swept over Sarah’s shoulders and she pulled her shovel from her side and began digging as quickly and efficiently as she could without getting caught. Then again, on a night like that with the darkness sweeping through the entire cemetery, no one was likely to be about.
    When she plunked the shovel into hard ground the first time, she barely made a dent in the earth.
    “Shit.” She cursed, resting her shovel against the tombstone for a minute to tie her long dark curls back in a quick ponytail. Then, as quickly as she could, she resumed, pushing the shovel into the ground a bit deeper.
    She didn’t have time to wait on a court order to have the grave exhume, and as long as that body had been dead, if it was even in there, she had no reason to exhume it anyhow. Not from a legal stand point, that is.
    Personally, she had a very big reason to dig her up. Her grave would contain her destiny, according to her grandmother.
What better way to spend the night of your beloved grandmother’s death and your own eighteenth birthday then to go grave robbing? Her thoughts roamed towards sarcasm, but she shrugged it off.
    Margaret, according to the stories, had left strict instructions after she faked her death with the help of a few friends, that only the ninth Thatcher woman born could open that grave. Only the ninth would know what to do with the contents, and only the ninth could make things right again. Then, after leaving her daughter with relatives in Virginia, well hidden from William Thatcher, Margaret had disappeared to England, never to be heard from again.
    Sarah Thatcher was the ninth born daughter after all those years. Most Thatchers were males, though they were all powerful enough in their own as warlocks. It was known that the witches held the most mystique. This, according to Margaret, was why it had to be a daughter, and not a son.
    She pushed the shovel back into the dirt again, after making just a small hole in the earth, and pulled up a gigantic chunk of earth this time. Proudly, she heaved the dirt over her shoulder and kept at it, wondering what on earth was in that grave that was so darned important.
    Whatever it was, she wanted it. It could be money. It could be deeds. It could be jewels that Margaret had stored away. And then again, it could be completely empty. Who really knew...
    Three hours later, she hit the top of a very old black onyx casket wrapped in heavy silver chains with a silver name plate on top that had Margaret’s name on it and a number nine. It took her all of twenty minutes to uncover the rest of it, retrieve the set of bolt cutters from her bag, and tear into the heavy silver chains. She hacked at them longer than she thought it would take to get decrepit metal to break, but once they fell to the sides of the casket and she unlatched it, she felt she was ready to proceed.
    With one heavy, deep breath, she pushed the top of the casket open, and to her shock and horror, there was a very fresh body inside. A male body, dressed in turn of the century garb and a gothic top hat. He didn’t look over a hundred years old at all.
    On the contrary, the corpse looked brand new and not a day over thirty, albeit he was a bit dusty.
    Sarah gasped and stood back, waiting for a stench to hit her, but it never did. Just mold and musk. Her heart jumped into her throat.
    Silver-blond locks of shoulder-length hair was draped over the dead guy’s shoulders. White lashes covered the closed eyelids of the corpse’s sleeping face. If it weren’t for the fact that the dead man wasn’t breathing, she would half expect him to jump up and start talking to her.
    Frustrated, Sarah turned around and peered up at the moon and the star-sprinkled night sky. Holding her hands up in the air, she muttered, “Some destiny this is!” Then, she tossed the shovel on the ground and turned around again to face the corpse.
    “Dude, I don’t know who you are or why the hell you’re in my great great great great, a million times great grandmother’s grave, but you are not what I expected, here!”
    She closed her eyes and stood on her knees at the side of the grave. There had to be something in there besides a dead guy!
    Bravely gathering her wits about her, she slid one hand into the side of the casket, past the corps’s chest and into the lining, checking to see if there was a letter or a document in there. Perhaps a key to some kind of other buried treasure with a map?
    She slid her hand down further, closer to the corps’s arm and closed her eyes as she felt around the rock-hard, chilling-cold body.
    She moved her hand to the other side of the body and slid her fingers into the lining of the other side of the casket, right above his chest again, still keeping her eyelids tightly closed.
    Then, she felt cold fingers wrap tightly around her arm and heard a low growl from below her.
    Her knees wobbled around in the fresh dirt that she was sitting in, and snapped her eyelids open.
    With more force and strength than she’d ever felt in her entire life, the corpse animated and pulled her inside, right on top of him. His eyes were a fierce red, his face stone cold, chiseled, and angry.
    There were no words to describe the horror that she felt inching down her spine, nor the cold of death that the corpse spread over her skin when he touched her. Nothing could describe the pain that spread through her neck, either, when he bit into it with a force stronger than death itself. Warmth spread over her neck and into her chin and chest when the fresh blood from her new wound seeped all over her and down her shoulder.
    She couldn’t even scream. It came out of her throat in a gurgling, but no coherant words escaped.
    He held her as tightly as a lover, but gave her not pleasure, but pain and suffering instead. It lasted only a minute or so, but to Sarah, the splintering, dull bite felt as though it was an hour before he finally released her, pushed her off of him and out of the grave, violently, and let himself out to stand next to her.
    “You’re Margaret Thatcher’s granddaughter?” His voice was low and raspy, but he spoke with a brilliant English accent and wiped her blood from his lips with the sleeve of his earth-worn shirt.
    Her head was spinning and she felt weak, but managed to nod in his direction with utter hate in her eyes. “Yes,” She whispered towards him as she pushed herself up from the mound of fresh dirt that she’d shoveled earlier.
    “You’re a witch?” He asked her.
    “Apparently so. That’s what they tell me.” She sassed him, but knew that it was true. She was a witch, but not a very good one. She got her spells mixed up and always managed to ruin them in one way or another. Either that or they simply backfired on her.
    Wiping a bit of blood from her shoulder, she gathered her bag and her shovel. “Well, it’s been horrible meeting you, and I hope I never have the pleasure again! Had I expected a vampire to greet me, I would have left this grave alone.”
    “Ever met a vampire before?” He asked, straightening his clothes, staring at her.
    “No, but there’s always a first time for everything, and hopefully a last!” With that, she spat blood from her mouth and realized that her lip had somehow been busted when he’d thrown her from the casket. “I’m leaving now. Good luck with the whole bloodsucker thing.”
    A sly grin crossed his lips. “You’ll be seeing me again, Sarah Thatcher.”
    “In hell, maybe.” She mumbled, feeling beaten and misinformed as she walked back out of the cemetery, searching for the iron gates she’d climbed over to get in a few hours ago. 

Let me know what you think through comments here. If it sucks, please tell me so. You won't be doing me any favors by telling me that the beginning of this story is great when it's really not. Go ahead. Take your best shot. I'm a big girl. I can deal with some criticism. :)

~Rhiannon Mills 


Man is His Own Worst Enemy

Sometimes, the worst of the gore comes from real life. Well, at least what could be real life, or could have been. Through movies and story, we are forced to accept the atrocities of man in various form. His violence. His anger. His hatred. His self-loathing. His frustration. All of these things walk out of the shell of what we deem sane and swim in the sea of insane.

These are nothing more than the truth of man. Maybe his desire. Hidden. Or not. Some reflect history, some symbolize it. But make no mistake, when it comes to gore, man is the greatest inventor of dastardly ways to make a presentation.

So today, we explore man on his journey. Where has he been? Where did he come from? Where will he go? If history has taught us anything, the answers are to the pits of hell, from the pits of hell and to the pits of hell respectively.

Ex#1: A Gun Isn't Enough.

It amazes me how often man uses weapons as a psychological means to something more grizzly. So often we see or hear a story about how someone pulled a gun on someone to get them to do something that ended up with their death, not related to the gun, irregardless of what they thought would be the outcome. And in these cases, I think I'd choose the bullet to the torture.

I can't think of a worse way to die. You think that if you just do what the crazy man says, he will let you go- then BAM! Your jaw cracks like a lobster claw at the hands of a high-dollar patron at some fancy seafood restaurant. What manner of man could even do such a thing? How does he sleep at night? This is probably the most vulgar of examples I can provide- and oddly the least graphic.

Ex#2 Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned:

It is often said that a woman provoked wreaks Hell upon her antagonist. This ancient Greek play by Euripides is perhaps one of the best examples. In the short version of the story, Medea and Jason fall in love and have kids. Jason later obtains an offer to take the King's daughter as a prize or a bride.... Well Jason, Medea didn't like that too much so she:

Now, I first learned of this play taking a drama class in college. The version I watched showed Medea coming to greet Jason outside her home with blood all over her- which was later revealed to be from her having murdered her kids. I think that is a bit PG rated compared to the version I linked above. In one instance, the older son expedites the death process of the younger son- then goes on to expedite his own death... How sad.

Ex#3: Are You a Faggot? Bullshit!:

Eventually, the cruel nature of man can get to you. Your once happy thoughts, innocent and carefree in nature, turn into bitter lemons of vindication and dramatics. You seek to let the shitty world know just what they can do with themselves and the following is the result:

Well, to be honest, those assholes had it coming to them. The military, in this story, should have done a better job of filtering people out who clearly would not mesh with their hostile ways. And that drill sergeant was a prick.

Ex#4: They're All Going to Laugh at You....

The hell they are! Put pigs blood on me and I am going to decimate you like one of those comic books... you know like Jean from X-Men, when she discovers her phoenix thing. Yeah, screw you, you adamant little self-righteous bastards!

Before there was Columbine, there was telekinesis. Just like above, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...

Look, the point is that mankind is mean and violent to mankind. All of the above are stories that are fiction. But as almost anyone in fiction writing or anthropology will tell you, almost all stories are based on some kind of fact. In fact, some gruesome stories are buried in our history books even if, likeLizzy Borden (OJ anyone?) they were never proven.

So before you go out to strange neighborhoods, or join the Marines, or send your religiously dysfunctional reared child off to school, or decide to screw over your kids' part of the will, you'd better make certain they aren't some crazy ax-wielding, telekinetic psychopath waiting for their fifteen minutes of infamy... AT YOUR EXPENSE!

Aaaahhh! What the heck was that?

I don't know why I put this here. It has nothing to do with this post...but I just really like it and I'm allowed to do erratic things when I've just seen a ghost.
So, today, I have another real live ghost story for ya. 

I was minding my own damned business at my computer, working on some emails that need to be read and returned, and the dryer stopped in the laundry room. 


So, I get up out of my comfy chair and push it under my desk, hot foot it to the laundry room, open the dryer, grab an arm load of clean, dry, hot laundry and begin to carry it through the bedroom and into the kitchen so I can fold it on the kitchen table. 

Only, I never made it to the kitchen. Hell, I didn't even make it out of the bedroom. I got to the first step between the laundry room and master bedroom, seen the most horrible thing I've ever seen in my history of ghostie sightings, dropped the clean, dry, hot laundry on my bare feet, and lost my breath completely and stood frozen in that doorway for about five minutes.

So, what is it that I saw today, do you ask? 

Again, it was the most horrible thing I've ever seen and I've seen a lot of dead folks. Or, their spirits. However you wanna put it.

I saw the graying, nearly rotten, standing straight upward corpse (only she was completely animated) of a lady standing straight up next to my bed. She was covered in blood, though I'm not sure it was hers and its really hard to see details when you're looking at ghosts because their forms are sort of shadowy and graying. 

Yes, I know that was a run-on sentence. Sue me.

She looked to be a bit older than me, though not much. She had long-ish dark hair and wore a long dress with full-ish skirts. In  one of her hands she held out the severed head of another woman. Or it could have been a very long haired man. I don't know. I couldn't tell because it was so damned grizzly. 

And in my bedroom. In. My. BEDROOM!

It's one thing to see a perfectly harmless ghost, one that doesn't wish to hurt you. But, when you see one like this who is clutching someone's head by the roots of their hair, it's a different ballgame altogether. Wanna know how I know she didn't like me?

It could probably be because she was practically growling, though there was no sound. I could just see her doing it with her mouth and facial expressions. 

And this all happened after my husband left for work and the kids were outside playing with the neighbor's kids and I was in here all by myself. 

I had to share this with Splattercore because I'm still pretty damn shaken up by it. And in case you're wondering, I folded the laundry and put it away, rather than leaving it in my apparently haunted bedroom.



Roadside Crosses

Something about spring in Indiana really brings the roadside crosses to bloom. I mean that in the most respectful way possible.

Perhaps my having grown up in Dallas, the large and widely distributed city it was, made me unaware of the number of people getting their number pulled on the road each day. Maybe people in Dallas just don't make a big deal about it. Or maybe it's because everyone drives like an asshole with the beer shits, hastily en route to the nearest toilet, such that everyone is accustomed to dealing with the Pandora's Box of the highway with more skillful tact.

There is one roadside cross I will never forget.

I had to give up my car last year because finances simply could not keep up with the burden. This put me in the interesting situation of having to walk about three miles one way to the nearest bus stop. Considering the circumstances, paired with the reality that the nearest store of any variety was a mile away, I had to rely on friends and my roommate for the occasional beer run, McDonald's binge or grocery shopping.

Well this was one of those days. I bribed Andrew with the promise he could share the spoils if he would be so kind as to take me up to the store to grab some tasty domestic piss beer. It was a drinking kind of day. He agreed and so we proceeded to head out.

View Larger Map

That map was where we lived. And as you can probably tell, I could see all the way down to the intersection of the main road (Stop 18) pretty easily.

So as we got in the car, we noticed that there were several cars lined up leading to the exit. Considering there wasn't really ever any traffic on the road, we were both a bit curious as to what exactly was going on. Little did we know that our timing would bring us to a situation of helplessness and morbid imagery.

As you may have figured out, there was an accident. It just so happens that this accident involved a Ford Focus making a left turn and a helmet-less motorcyclist meeting the side of the Focus.

We pulled around the commotion and saw a body on the ground. People crying, some frantic on cell phones, several hunched over the body or on the ground trying to determine what they could do to help. We figured we had some obligation to make sure we did whatever we could to assist (mainly to make sure 911 had been dialed).

This guy was not dead. His face had taken a harsh beating and he was not moving a muscle. "He is barely breathing," announced one of the people. His head was drenched in blood, profuse bleeding continued through his nose. I will never forget that image- the blood was pulsing out of his nose and onto the gray pavement. The color was like a bucket of bright red paint, lightened by a bit of white- almost as if it were fake. Maybe it was fake? Maybe I was dreaming?

I was helpless. What the hell could I possibly do to help? I questioned the nearby people to make sure 911 had been called. Moments later I heard a siren, which I'd have thought would have happened sooner since we lived about one mile from the fire station.

It was then that I told Andrew we should move on. We had nothing to offer and would only be in the way. So, we did. And I felt guilty.

I was captive to my sympathies. From that moment on, I was trying to figure out if there was anything I could to help this guy. Was he even still alive? Could he pay his rent? Maybe I could help keep him from not having a home when he got out of the hospital? (I automatically assume everyone is broke like me and couldn't cover a day of rent without a job) I didn't even know him, how would I even find out? I had to do something.

I tried to call the nearby hospitals. I got one reply that was very vague, as expected. It seemed that he was in stable condition and that was all they would tell me, understandably.

Not a day went by that I didn't think about that guy. As it so happens, I had to pass this intersection every day to get to my bus. Not like someone in a car who can speed along to their destination. And not like most of the residents, who had no idea the event had occurred- they probably barely noticed the odd patch of crusty blond and dark-colored sand that the fire department used to clean up the scene.

I had to. I had no choice. I tried to play it out in my mind like some kind of detective. How in the hell did that guy manage to find himself in that dire of a situation on a quarter-mile road with clear visibility to the intersection?

And then I saw it. The start to the trail of doom. Narrow black streaks dug deep into the pores of the concrete, starting about four-hundred feet from the collision. He must have been speeding. But how fast could a motorcycle go in such a short notice? More importantly, why?

Answers I would never know. Questions I would never stop asking, as two times a day I had to pass this intersection on foot. Staring at blood-caked sand and broken bits of glass and metal- that over the next couple of weeks would all disappear- leaving a tiny black stain on the ground that would eventually itself blend back into the color of pavement.

About two weeks later, a cross. No name. No message. Just a white cross with a white flower planted on the corner.

My friend, being the internet guru that he is, eventually found the obituary. I had scoured the internet for several days and couldn't find anything. Small town Indiana, eh?

As it turns out, our victim had just gotten his crotch rocket that day, and in a testicular show to his friends, he whipped his bike down that road at the speed of light (about 70 mph), only to find that in the few seconds it took him to see the focus turning left, he did not have enough time to stop. The driver of the Focus must have been making her turn right as he came into view. She didn't have time to get out of the way.

I still feel bad for that guy. But I don't have much respect for crotch rocket operators. They have no idea how easy it is to fuck up their life. And someone else's. I am sure that girl that was driving the Focus will never forget that day and never stop asking herself what she could have done different.

But in all fairness, I don't think she could have done anything.





Since I decided to finish my degree in English (creative writing focus), I realize that I have to deal with poetry. And I have made many attempts to write vague poetry. It is supposed to be about raw emotion and things you can relate to experience. One of my to-be instructors has said that if I cannot openly share my experiences, for better or for worse, what's the point of sharing them? We are who we are, having been where we have gone. So here goes:

It all started with a spark
as it always did.
A passion in the heart
like a snare drum echoing emotion.

Red was the color of his eyes
as fire ignited his intensity.
Not paying attention to the band
he made them follow his own beat.

Red was the color of his face
as exhaustion soon set in.
So overcome with sweat and heat
nearly passing out but strong
with determination.

Red was the color of his blood
as his aggression carried on.
Breaking the stick that empowered him
and punctured skin.
He no longer knew the song.
But traded old stick for new
and carried on.

Red was the color of his blindness
shifting the passion to his feet.
The double bass reverberated
unwilling, with protest,
but unable to escape.

Red was the color of the welts
left upon black bruised indentations of the head
of that snare drum that he beat on
and beat on and beat on
until there was no more red.

Red is the color of the memory
from all who attended that show.
They will never forget the passion in him
that day.
As in him red
was the only color they'd ever known.

(This is not about a drummer. But I use it because I love music and relate to a drummer's passion.)

Please note that if you get the symbolism, I am not asking for emotional charity. Just writing as a writer is supposed to do.


Real Ghost Stories

There is something about me that not many people know. The reason not many people know is that I'm always afraid they'll think I'm just plain bat-shit crazy. I'm not crazy, not really, but I do have a few senses that most people don't have. There are others like me and others similar, but I still feel weird about it. So, I'm going to share it with Splattercore. You might think I'm crazy, but most of you are probably as nuts as I am. 

Firstly, I see ghosts. Sometimes.

The first time I ever remember seeing a ghost was when I was only about three years old. My parents and I lived in a little house in Saxapahaw, North Carolina, and it was Easter morning. It was raining cats and dogs, and I desperately wanted to hunt eggs outside. My mom and dad told me no, and that no one was hunting eggs outside in the rain. I wasn't the only one inside. 

Boy, were they ever wrong. When I looked out their bedroom window, there was about twenty kids following behind one adult, in a perfect line, walking up to the top of the hill where the old textile mill was. In my mind, I just knew that they were hunting eggs without me!

The ruins of a late 1800's mill in Saxapahaw, picture taken present day :)
So, I pointed out the window, and made both of my parents come see all those kids out there, going up the hill to hunt eggs.

They didn't see a damn thing. 

"But, b-b-b-b-but they're right there!" I screamed at my parents for nearly ten minutes, pointing at all those kids. They were going to get my eggs, dammit! 

Again, my mom and dad gave me a weird look and assured me there were no kids out there. 

I saw other things, too, but I don't remember many of them until I was in high school. My mom had just moved into the house that her father's father built from the ground up. She was excited with the move and loved the idea of being close to my grandma (who lived just a hop, skip, and a jump away), and she loved that she found old newspaper clippings in the walls when we moved in. 

I loved the history of that house, too. My great-grandfather was a moonshiner. During prohibition, many men (and women sometimes) made homemade hooch in stills they kept hidden from the law. My grandpappy was one of those hooch runners. Southern Appalachia was full of them, but it was a good way to get your alcohol and a good way to make money during the Great Depression some years later, too. On the mountain that he lived on, he was the only living soul there that had a vehicle during the depression. Oh, and he had horses and livestock that he didn't have to slaughter to survive-although, I know they did slaughter their own meat. They just didn't have to.

Well, my grandfather made his living moonshining for quite some time, and he married my Cherokee grandma, Betty. Betty was quite a looker. Tall, long dark Cherokee hair that hung down to her hips (like my moms and mine), beautiful big brown eyes, and really nice arms. My mom takes after my grandma Betty. They look exactly alike! 

Betty and my grandfather raised a small family in their little house up in the mountains. They had a young daughter and my grandfather and my grandfather's brothers. Well, when my grandfather was little, he was put in charge of watching my auntie (who was his little sister) while his parents were working outside. My grandfather was very little himself. Maybe seven or so...

Anyhow, he grabbed a rifle from his daddy's dresser and accidentally shot his baby sister. The bullet went through her and into a dresser behind her, bursting much of the wood from the end of the dresser. My great grandfather kept that damn dresser and my grandpa had to look at it every day until he left for overseas during WW2. 

Years later, when I was just fifteen, I saw my great auntie. I was watching a movie in the living room, and turned off the tv and vcr, then settled down to sleep on the loveseat. Before I got to sleep, the tv turned back on, then the vcr started making a noise. I looked up, and just beyond the tv stand, in the bathroom doorway, was my little auntie-but, I didn't even know she existed until a few days later. She was pretty. She had her hair in pigtail braids, very long and dark Cherokee hair. She had freckles on her face like my mama, and she was holding a kitten. She didn't speak, didn't smile, just stared at me. Later, my grandmother told me about her, and it gave me chills and I remember crying for about an hour over her death. My grandfather struggled with that for his entire life.

A few weeks later, I was sleeping in my bedroom, but heard a noise and thought I'd heard my mama calling for me. I looked into the doorway and there was a woman that looked like my mom, but wasn't her. She had long hair, braided to one side, dark Cherokee eyes, and I thought I was going to shit myself. Luckily, I didn't. It was my great grandma, Betty. 

I see ghosts from time to time, at the oddest times. I've seen miners walking home from the mine, carrying their axes and mining lights across the train tracks below my house. I've seen young, old, and in between. I'm sort of used to it now, but every time I see one, my heart leaps into my butt and I get chills.

I googled Saxpahaw, North Carolina a few days ago, though, and found out that the kids I saw were probably the children of Mill workers from the early 1900's. They went to school in the town and also worked in the Mill some, too. They were probably on their way up to the Mill when I saw them. I even found a picture. 

They took all my damn Easter eggs!


My Very Own Zombie

A good friend of mine is creating a new zombie image every day for the entire month of May. A few days ago, he made one just for me-a Clarke Gable Zombie (cause I love Gone With the Wind).

I wanted to share this zombie with you guys because I've never had my own zombie before!

The artist, David Naughton-Shires, even put my name in the poster...How about that? 

Anyhow, it got me thinking about what a zombie outbreak would really be like and if I could really have my own zombie version of Clarke Gable. What would I do with him? 
Here's one good idea: I'd tie him up in a shed in my backyard and feed people to him that I don't particularly care for. I'd take pictures with him and have him properly trained to fetch the paper. Then, I'd write a book about how to train your zombie. 

And I guarantee that if I had my own zombie around here, I wouldn't have much of a problem with neighborhood dogs scaring the shit out of me and keeping me pretty much locked up in my own house. 


Into the Bloodied Maw We Stare

(Blog inspired by Rhiannon, colored by Nat Geo, and not-so-much Nat Geo)

So you finally graduated high school and decided to pursue your scholarly ambitions. Or maybe not. Perhaps you decided to revive old dreams of being in the circus and putting up an exhibition of amazing feats for all of childlike society to adore. Whatever your motivation, you ended up taking the world by storm and brought to our table (as it seems most of us eat dinner watching TV anymore) a new feat of strength sure to prove the girth of your testosterone cannon.

Well, if you make it out alive that is.

I am not sure what it is about humans, but we never cease to amaze and be amazed. We look at nature with her violent, scorned-woman beauty and say to each other "I can control that." Then we set out to take nature by the horns, so to speak, and she never fails to remind us who is boss.

We even have TV shows dedicated to the ferocity of nature in animal form; time and again we look into the abyss lacking fear only to discover the abyss looks back. Not only does it look back, but it displays all its aggression and prowess with adornments so vivid that no imagination can recreate. But despite the warnings, we advance in what can only be reasonably dubbed our own courtship routine.

Often, we find ourselves staring at her in exquisite form and she flaunts. She adores the attention. Surely she appreciates being the subject of our educational programming, folklore, religion and canvas. She poses, inquisitive as to what we will have learned through time, but knowing that in reality we've learned nothing. Time and again we prove this human shortcoming; yet time and again she tries to give us the benefit of the doubt.

And so we take advantage of her seeming innocence and naivety. We sit in the distance watching for when the moment is right. Stealthily we creep in attempting to get closer. With our tranquilizer loaded we reach the range of attack. With a subtle movement of muscle we wage war on her body- watching her fall helplessly to the ground; once majestic and almost godly, now just a slumbering beast helpless to the devices of our rapacious innovation and cages. We then try to tame her. Dress her. Personify her- perhaps the most dangerous of our conquests.

And she plays along. For a while. But then she puts us right back in our place reminding us that we are the ones who should be alert to the lurking danger within the tall grass of the Serengeti.

WARNING: This video is graphic and quite disturbing. Watch at your own risk. Splattercore neither finds this entertaining nor do we advocate the harming of animals- especially ones doing animal things despite our best efforts to conquer them. Video supplied for the purposes of better illustrating (a) our stupidity as people and (b) the unfortunate consequence of anything dealing with mankind in regards to "the cost of doing business" with mankind.

Sadly, as we do with each other, when nature reveals the provoked chaos beneath the beauty, we are quick to claim "foul" and seek out the hired hand of vindication to make right that which we so often forget we made wrong. However, despite our best efforts nature always wins.

For she knows our beginning and she knows- nay, she is- the mistress of our demise.


Choose Your Adventure!!! (HEY- pick one, not every page!!! Cheater.)

Evil children
Our love of blood
Crazed maniacal teddy bears with one eye
Lunatic figures of bloody history
Video game blood
Crazy teens fascinated with death
Half bleached dancers/musicians with epic videos....

This is a portion of where we have been in a few weeks. And I must admit, I am impressed with what this group is creating. Now, it is your turn to take the director's chair. Pretend like it's one of those awesome "choose your adventure books"- you know, the ones you had so many fingers in but eventually ran out and had to accept the literary death you created from bad choices (upon bad choices, upon bad choices)?

Maybe there is a great movie we need to watch and spread the word about. Or maybe a book. Or perhaps a crazy topic we've not yet covered. Whatever it is, post your blood thirst here and I am sure we will think of something to share with the rest of the Splattercore zombies.

Okay, unoriginal, I know. So propose some ideas for what you would like our following to be called.

Either way- give us some ideas. Or bring us a shrubbery. Either will be dandy and well and burns nicely in Hell.