At the Eyeball we have a soft spot for Doctor Who, even though the increasingly convoluted plots and two Doctors on a perpetual sugar rush have led to more of a 'dipping in' strategy when it came to actually watching it.
However, once we heard that a certain horror icon was guest starring, we tuned in this time. We won't spoil who that was here, as the whole internet can tell you what happened - or watch it on the BBC iPlayer if you can.
We were all saddened to hear that Ray Harryhausen had passed away last week, and here on the Eyeball we’d like to pay homage to some of his most famous monsters, created with the painstaking technique of stop-motion. Using real life sculpted models. Animators and monster fans, we have lost a great artist in film-making and the Eyeball would like to dedicate this Monster Monday entirely to him.
Cabal was written in what could be termed the original ‘heyday’ of Clive Barker’s horror reign. Clive Barker is best known for the tricksy Cenobites and the ruthless Candyman, but Cabal presented a brilliantly realised clutch of monsters who were actually the victims and living as refugees from the harsh prejudices of the modern world. With their numbers depleted, the monsters took shelter underground, in the appropriately named graveyard of Midian, in an effort to avoid further destruction from frightened humans.
First of all, thank you to Mike at the Lovecraft ezine for sending this to my inbox. Thanks for sleepless nights. Really.
The Lord of Tears is coming soon, a 'low budget horror' directed by Lawrie Brewster, also involving David Schofield, a veteran genre actor and craggy faced genre favourite from American Werewolf In London among many, many others.
Funded by…
Glad to have a chance to work on Fictioneering this week, with inspiration care of Lora Mitchell’s intriguing photograph. This began as a straightforward take on the idea, then it mutated into a piece of a story which I now want to develop into something longer. Hmm, maybe if I write fast…
Thank you to Rochelle Wissoff-Fields for hosting the challenge, and don’t forget to check out the rest of the stories, or as many as you can, via the little blue frog!
Lilies by Lora Mitchell
Evidence
I showed Victoria’s mother the video. The camera slid tastefully from frozen cityscape and exuberant lilies to the frantic slewing of innocence on the bed. After watching Vicky with all four men, her fingers clenched and nails drew blood, she said, “Tell me where they are.”
“In return for the Heart. Lady Devere”
She bared her fangs.
“How dare you.” She was a tremble away from tearing me apart.
“Remember who I work for.”
Her eyes shone red. “Very well, Rat. It’s yours. Now tell.”
I nearly felt sympathy for Victoria’s lovers. But they didn’t have my Heart.
Too bad.
Friday Fictioneers
Friday Fictioneer challenge
Though it’s been a while since my last Fictioneering, I’ve missed the discipline and mental exercise, and flat out fun of connecting to other writers with the same goal. It’s also moved, since the last time I did this, to here , at a colourful blog owned by Rochelle Wissoff-Fields.
And I’ve wondered, what can’t you write about a dilapidated old shack? Lots of ideas surged! I’ve missed this. In fact, I’ve missed it so much I’ve done three entries this time. Hope you like them, thank you for reading 
comments welcome, I’ll aim to get to yours before the weekend is over!
THREE STORIES
Slashed Out
Jack o’lanterns flicker inside the old shack. Five teenagers are giggling, necking and drinking piss-weak beer, and clouds of pot smoke wafts from the slashed shed wall, giving me unwanted buzz. They’re so absorbed in each other they have no idea I’m waiting outside. Not long now. My axe is sharp and ready. One girl’s bladder gives up and she saunters from the pumpkin’s glow. She’s small, blonde and determined looking. I attack, axe swinging. Before I hit her, I’m surrounded by the teenagers. They’re brandishing guns and sharp sticks, even the blonde wields an axe. This isn’t bloody fai…
Castle?
I’m going to keep watching that broken down old wreck of a building. No, don’t try and stop me. I’ll stay here as long as it takes. Because five days ago, under the full moon – and yes I’d had a few beers – but I swear on my children’s lives, that I saw it turn into a goddamn castle. Golden flags, gleaming white towers, the works. Fine, laugh at me and canter on by. I don’t need you to believe me. But how else do you explain the trumpets on a cold night, or the crown in the street that time?
Meat and Poetry
The madwoman lived alone in the shack, and everyone mocked her. She didn’t care. She bought milk and meat in town, while muttering glorious poetry, until cruel children threw stones that struck her head. After that no one in town saw her for a good few days. Then a vast parade of purposeful cats filed up to her hovel. Curious folk that followed were amazed when the cats bore the madwoman’s corpse from the shack and out to the dark woods. When they saw her again in town, buying meat, singing poetry, not one stone was thrown.
A sinister image for this week’s prompt. It conjured up connotations of death camps, suffering and gruesome horror movies. And I totally went with that! Bit of a post-apocalyptic spin, I feel, too. Open to interpretation anway.
Madison Wood’s response to her photo can be found over here.
Barbed Wire by Madison Woods
Wire Pilgrimage
The Monster’s Martyrs are bound into a single, agonised unit of pain and forced to walk ten miles together for the annual sacrifice. This year they used razor wire. I recognise my poor brother staggering amongst them. A few pray, some sob; my brother curses, lifts his head to swear at the sky so wounds pour again. Dried blood has patterned obscenely on his flayed skin. Their suffering makes His mouth water, I’m told. Shuddering, I hide in the shallow grave I dug by His rusted tower, clutching the grenade tight, awaiting His appearance. This will not happen again.
