Suggested Audio Candy:
Alan Howarth Chariots of Pumpkins
It’s the currently the 31st of October and, therefore, the time is nigh for me to begin howling at the full moon as I do every Halloween. Coarse hair sprouting from my palms is not a good look for me and I now know how poor David Naughton must’ve felt as he reenacted Thriller in his lounge. Neil Jordan’s The Company of Wolves taught me that, should a man’s eyebrows meet in the middle, then the likeliness is that he is hairy on the inside and likely to digest your grandma before the night is out. While monobrow isn’t an affliction from which I suffer, I have been prone to cough up the odd fur ball from time to time, especially when the moon is at its fullest.
Teen Wolf lied to us all in our faces. I cannot recall its promotional tagline but would imagine it to go something like the following: “Be a werewolf, you get to surf atop camper vans and all the ladies dig the hairy chest.” Then why am I alone right now, licking a femur and scratching behind my ear with my heel as though my name’s Benji? Maybe Teen Wolf had a bigger dick? Perhaps he wasn’t such an unfashionable cross breed? The truth may never become clear although the sobering fact remains that he got laid and currently I’m sitting on my left hand just to provide the sensation that someone else is present when I get around to smacking the gibbon. It’s not all drawbacks however, as I do get to lick my own balls but, all things considered, it can prove something of a chore!
This piece is pure improvisation Keeper style. You shall find no cunning plans or story arcs within; just you, me, and the entire worldwide web chewing the fat on whatever springs to mind first. My intention here is to offer a few exclusive minutes inside my cranium and I request only that you peruse at your leisure. We’ll go wherever my prose leads us and right now one thing burns away at my cerebral cortex. I’m so filled with pride right now, the past 24 hours I have witnessed group bleeding the likes of which would have made Carrie White feel remarkably at ease. No tampons were flung and no names called either. Just a group of like-minded souls spreading goodwill and sharing their innermost feelings without any judgement whatsoever.
Our very own patrons of grue have burned the midnight oils to make it the most memorable Hallowed Eve since my primary introduction to the criminally overlooked, and deeply marvellous Halloween III: Season of the Witch back in the eighties. I have felt like a pig in swill as I have read such delectable prose from fellow bleeders, both already established and fledgling. They have collaborated beautifully and each bleed has dripped resources straight back into the Crimson Quill. Do I proceed to checkout? Hell no; that is not how things are done! Instead I keep the cycle going and remind you all that together we can make a difference. I know it sounds terribly cliché but there really is truth to that last statement. I actually find the word cliché to be somewhat cliché and flung about with gay abandon every time folk wish to come across superior. Should I hear the words “You’ve turned up for our first date clutching a bouquet of flowers. How awfully cliché” then my likely response would be “I hope the thorns lacerate your bowel as I plant these primroses rectally”. Anyhoots rant over; I find pontification dreadfully cliché. See what I did there?
As your Keeper it is my duty to lead us and lead us I shall. Right now, the Crimson Quill is at its bloodiest and that’s thanks, in no small part, to you fine people. Every one of you is developing through the belief our union provides and this is why there can be no halting this battering ram and no fortifications burly enough to keep us at bay. If I sound suspiciously like I’m selling Amway; just reel me in. Sometimes I worry that I sound like some kind of crazy cultist when, in fact, I’m as regular a Joe as you could ever meet. It’s just that I burst with so much goddamn pride witnessing the good yielded by what we sow right here in these delectable deep red waters. For the record; I don’t actually consider myself a leader but the slipper seems to fit at present and I’m just grateful to be appreciated.
I must digress momentarily as I just walked inside from the office/tool shed where the magic happens and was instantly greeted by the word labia on my Twitter feed, courtesy of a dear brother. I laughed heartily until it felt likely that I would pass a kidney through my urethra and this single word tickled me pinker than pink. Don’t ask me why; I just didn’t see that one coming. It also reaffirmed everything I say about the Grueheads. It’s like a social club of sorts but instead of playing rounds of crib and rummy, we get to marvel at words such as labia dancing up our feeds. Even that inspired me, I love the word labia but it has long since been misplaced deep within my mental archives. Now I shall wear it like an off-color ankle-bracelet and therefore my vocabulary has widened. See? It works! Perhaps my next piece of fiction will be entitled Labia and The Tramp and focus on what really happened after those Disney mutts finished their Bolognese.
Alan Howarth Chariots of Pumpkins (Reprise)
On a decidedly more somber note it is time for me to come clean. I pledged honesty from the very start and this has been gnawing away at my conscience all day so I feel it only fair to share with my beloved Grueheads. Please attempt not to judge; it was an isolated moment of madness, no more. But, like any white lie, it has spread. Like wildfire; if the monkey from Outbreak started up an Instagram account and started posting selfies of himself covered in painful looking lesions, he would likely be less contagious. Try and change topic I may, but I know only too well already that I have said way too much to consider back tracking. It has been forty minutes since my last confession father and I’m pleased to report that I haven’t defiled myself sexually more than once during that period. However, here come the Hail Marys.
It’s…..not….my…..birthday. There I said it; my words are immortalized now and I can never take them back. I cannot live with the burden of my honest mistake any longer and it’s time to fess up. I have been visited by the ghost of the future and he showed me a warm house of Grueheads all sharing sherry and liqueurs while I sat outside the window, sobbing and destitute. No glass of milk on the doorstep or welcoming reef on the door. Just solitude. I would much prefer to be inside in the warm with you guys, sharing in the Creepshow marathon, and ducking out for a 90-minute smoke when Creepshow 3 starts. That’s not an option until I come clean about my crime and do any subsequent time.
Facebook has me listed as being born on All Hallow’s Eve when, in truth, I’m a Virgo. In my sole defence, I receive precious few well wishes on my unlisted actual birthday as I chose Halloween to be more in keeping with Keeper. It just seemed like a more snug fit. I didn’t lie; I just didn’t correct someone out of not wishing to make them feel uncomfortable. But since then I’ve had message after message wishing happy returns and I dare not even log onto Facebook for fear of feeling terrible. I had to come clean before a lovingly prepared cherry gateaux turned up via FedEx. I couldn’t live with that (but would eat out of a sense of duty you understand). I’m sorry beloved sisters and brothers, I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive the unintentional indiscretion.
For all of you still here, thank you. Thank you for your forgiveness but, on a more serious note, thank you for helping guide me through a most troubled period of my life. I’ve made no secret that my affairs have been in turmoil of late but, through your love and kindness, I can step outside in the rain now and feel refreshed as opposed to frantic. I can start each day with a smile, leaving the grimacing to the naturals, and this is all because of you. My work can appear a little self-indulgent to the uninitiated and, to those people, I say only this. Stick with it; I’m no megalomaniac when you get to know me. Just a guy who happened across a Crimson Quill one day and likes to give it a workout. Happy Halloween Grueheads one and all!
Jack my Lantern
I do have a second confession to share
You see those two pumpkins perched just over there?
Notice they flicker unlike all the rest
They may appear cursed but these pumpkins are blessed
Reach inside for a moment you’ll not find a wick
Since when did a candle resemble a dick?
That’s right they’re my balls I just have to cum clean
Don’t wish to be dirty or even obscene
But these two plump lanterns have harvested well
Shave them two times a month and you never would tell
They mean you no harm and rely on their charm
So I ask you to trust me and place out your palm
Don’t open your eyes for a moment or two
Just tug the equipment I’ve handed to you
when done we can sit back to enjoy our movie
and I’ll pour you a glass of my thick pumpkin smoothie
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)