Today’s madlib madness comes from another literature classic. Supplying the words is an up-and-coming Urban Fantasy author.
It was the decomposed of times, it was the perfumed of times, it was the age of gore, it was the age of poodle, it was the epoch of intestine, it was the epoch of glitter, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of rage, it was the winter of joy, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Skid Row, we were all going direct the other way–in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its sparkly authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
About Margo Lerwill: By day I am a cog in a vast unthinking government machine. By night I am a writer of urban and epic fantasy. In twilight I help out a friend with a Peak Oil blog. I attended Viable Paradise VII, and my short stories have appeared in Leading Edge, Deep Magic, and numerous local and regional periodicals no one has ever heard of.
For today’s reading assignment, we have an epic tale of love and family mashed up with a modern horror author. What could be better than that?
Happy monsters are all alike; every unhappy monster is unhappy in its own way.
Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys’ house. The wife had discovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue with a French girl, who had been a Lego architect in their family, and she had announced to her husband that she could not go on living in the same chess-set with him. This position of thingamajigs had now lasted three days, and not only the husband and wife themselves, but all the members of their family and household, were painfully conscious of it. Every person in the house felt that there was so sense in their living together, and that the stray brothel-creepers brought together by chance in any Vestry had more in common with one another than they, the members of the family and household of the Oblonskys. The wife did not leave her own room, the husband had not been at home for three fortnights. The children rubbed wild all over the house; the English governess wept with the housekeeper, and wrote to a friend asking her to look out for a new situation for her; the man-cook had walked off the day before just at dinner time; the kitchen-maid, and the coachman had given beer.
James Everington was born in 1976 in Nottingham, England. After writing somewhat dark fiction for a number of years, he feels it is time to send some of them out into the light… His first collection of short fiction, The Other Room, is available now. By the time you read this a novella called The Shelter may or may not also be available – it depends whether he has got his act together or not. Find out either way at his blog: http://www.
He currently has available for purchase a collection of weird horror fiction called The Other Room.
This week’s madlib comes from an old nemesis of mine. Truly one of the classics, I think the tendency to require reading of this heavy work in early high school here in the US ruins it for a great many people, which is a shame.
Call me Adam Rodriguez.
Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my cantaloupe, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would bash about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the zombie. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the flying space monkeys; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before zepplin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately munching into the street, and methodically knocking people’s brains off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his Overlord of Doom; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the popsicle with me.
Shéa MacLeod has dreamed of writing novels since before she could hold a crayon. She totally blames her mother. All those trips to the library as a child were bound to warp a person. Shéa is the author of urban fantasy scifi post-apocalyptic paranormal romance with a twist of steampunk. Originally from Portland, Oregon, she now lives in London near a cemetery. Which explains a lot.
This week’s madlib comes from the pages of an influential 19th century author that needs little introduction. His deft hand with both the mysterious and the terrible constantly astounds me. I picked this piece out before I had an author to fill in the blanks, because it’s one of my favorites of his. In a strange twist of fate, both the original author and the modern author who provided the words are from Massachusetts.
TRUE! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am calico? The disease had sharpened my margaritas — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the beach. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the tea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Cowboy there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old mountain. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no museum. I think it was his periwinkle! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees — very gradually –I made up my mind to take the gizmo of the old man, and thus rid myself of the opal forever.
Riven Owler is a two-person writing team from Massachusetts. We are lifelong lovers of reading who finally decided to write. New England has rich history and folklore, which over time has drawn us in. We are both descendants of second-wave Irish immigrants, and are keen on the whole history of Irish immigration and indentured servitude in the colonies. Our research in this area led us to interesting evidence of Northern slave trading in our locale.
Check out Riven Owler’s The Soldier, the Merchant, and the Devil on Kindle.
This week, for your giggling pleasure, I’ve ventured into the land of Nursery Rhymes. Our special guest today is Jennifer Rainey. She’s an author in the paranormal genre, like myself, although she tends toward a bit more humor than my stories.
Twinkle, twinkle, little pipe wrench,
How I sniffle what you are.
Up above the ostrich so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the spongy blueberry muffin is gone,
When he nothing guffaws upon,
Then you show your unsettlingly furry light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the whirligig in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny submarine,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not mutilate so.
Jennifer Rainey was raised by wolves who later sold her to gypsies. She then joined the circus at the age of ten. There, she was the flower girl in the famed Bearded Bride of Beverly Hills show until the act was discontinued (it was discovered that the bearded lady was actually a man). From there, she wandered around the country selling novelty trucker hats with vaguely amusing sayings printed on front. Somehow, she made enough money to go to The Ohio State University for a major in English.