theGhostofElvis

They heard stories at the migrant worker camp, mostly from scruffy townsfolk who worked for a meal and left at the end of the day. The stories usually went that something—or someone had come to Hamelin and claimed he could drive the rats away. No one believed it. No one believed much at the migrant camp. "Scam," said the oldest workers, the ones with bent backs and burnt faces. They leaned on their shovels and nodded to each other. "He'll demand money right there and then he'll run." "Think so, huh?" the younger, less bitter workers would ask, and they'd look at each other and smirt. Then the oldest workers would look up at the sky,

Buried Alive Joandra missed Thanksgiving, and Joandra missed Christmas, and Joandra was about to miss New Year's when she finally quit stalling and just died. "Well," said her husband, "at least that's that and we don't have to pay for her share of turkey anymore." But then he remembered that the day before New Year's was, in fact, his anniversary, and the guilt descended upon him. So the husband went out to the jewelry store to see what he could see. "For a dead woman?" the jewelry store clerk said. "I don't think we specifically carry adornments for corpses. But I'll see what I can find. What sort of a woman was she?" The husband

Of Shotgun Weddings and Angry Brides: A Tale of Zombies Upon her death Molly Brown felt a jolt, followed by a jumping sensation, and then absolutely nothing for what felt like about fifteen seconds. This was just long enough to come to terms with the fact that she was dead, and that she would never see another sunset or feel the warm summer breeze rustling through her long brown hair or pet a warm fuzzy puppy on the head. It made Molly Brown very sad indeed. And then Molly sat up, dusting a lot of dirt off of her wedding dress, and found herself on green fresh cut grass. A good hardy breeze, slightly stale from pollution, brushed her face

Not Mike a character sketch Mike thinks he looks like the diminutive Mike Hammer from The Red Green Show, but his dog says he doesn't. His dog is pretty much a jerk, and he doesn't like Red Green, but Mike loves him anyway. If there weren't so very few places in the city where dogs could be taken with out fear of retribution, he would take the dog everywhere. Mike's girlfriend doesn't think he looks like Mike Hammer, but she is much nicer about it. "Mike," she says, "the only thing you and that Canadian stereotype share are a name and a set of sticky fingers, and your fingers wouldn't be so sticky if you weren't playing catch with a pa

If I were like Hitch I wouldn't be scared. If I were like Hitch my spine wouldn't bend like a pipe cleaner   Every time someone challenged my world view. If I were like Hitch I would be so sure of my opinions  I wouldn't be afraid to change my mind, instead    Of clinging to the past like an anxious koala. If I were like Hitch I wouldn't be afraid to stand up and say  "I disagree." And rather than kiss the butt of    Some long dead writer, I wouldn't be afraid      To stand up on my own two feet. If I were like Hitch I could say, "This is me.  Look at me! What you see is the real me."    Instead of pretending all the time

 The banner above the set was hanging crooked again, and one simply could not film a procedural police drama with a large crepe paper sign reading National Involve-Your-Writers Week floating in the corner of the frame. This, unfortunately, was not the biggest problem on the set. "We should have hired professional extras to play our writers playing extras playing the court," the director complained aloud, and since nobody but he knew what that meant, he added, "Look, you're supposed to be shocked. Just as Brina is called to the stand with intent address the court on Detective Max Harper's fragile state of health after being shot up by thug

The picture was the second from the last on the roll of film. Jill was quite proud of it. It plainly showed the fire damage and the broken windows on the second story. The sootmarks were visible in the upper right corner of the frame, and in the bottom was a transparent staring girl. Against the black computer desktop, the brightness of the ghost was striking. "Ghosts are real," she whispered in amazement, touching the photograph. "And this proves it. You can't tell me that's not convincing." Eli, hovering over her shoulder, inspected the backlighting and possible reflective surfaces. He reached out and touched the screen a few tim