This story started out with the title The Amulet. After writing it the way I did, with dialog only, I retitled it to emphasize the zaniness and blackness of the humor. I had this idea when I was a teenager but I couldn’t find a way to execute to make it interesting. It was written in a letter form but to keep up with the times I rewrote it as messages found in an abandoned mobile. Now, it is a horror story within a horror story that is connected by a thin thread of familiarity.
The Fur Brooch by Dulcie Gray served as one of the inspirations for this tale. I read it in The 12th Pan Book of Horror Stories and later watched it on Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. This piece was performed live by Joe & Tina at my book launch at the 2016 GTLF which of course, they made it even more tantalizing.


I was deluged with the fabulousness and cheesiness of disco in my impressionable years. Yes, Disco. It was the time when Funky Town hit number one on both sides of the Atlantic. It was the time of discotheques, bell bottoms, afro hairdo, doing the hustle, the bump, the funky chicken and to experience the freedom of expression. Just when everything was getting into full swing the world suddenly wanted disco dead. Here are links to a few disco documentaries that can bring light from the disco ball of truth the evolution and revolution of disco.

This story is also inspired by the Dancing Plague of 1518 where about 400 people were caught up in a dancing mania that lasted about a month. Some died of stroke, heart attack or simply exhaustion.

This Disco is not a place you want to go to unless it wants you to. It appears every now and then in the middle of the crossroads. If you are meant to go in there, you will see it. And ahh, what memories you will recall.


Cemeteries have always been a great place for friends to hangout, lovers to express their undying love, Pokemon hunters to meet their quota, and people who need to be close to the dead to understand the living.

This story is inspired by one of my night hikes during my scouting days. One of the things we had to do was to retrieve a cryptic message posted on the far end of the cemetery on a full-sized cross. Although we laughed about it none of us wanted to go in when we reached the entrance to the memorial. There was a bit of an argument as to who should be the hero to trespass on the dead until someone sacrificed himself for the good of the patrol. Everyone survived.

This scenario sets the mood of the beginning at the story and the rest are cooked up in my cauldron of cataclysmic darkness.

Kiara’s home

Posted: February 10, 2017 in Fiddle
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Image  —  Posted: February 8, 2017 in Fiddle
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I have always loved creepy crawlies of all kinds. One of my life goals, when I was a kid, was to become an entomologist but I was told I wasn’t smart enough to be one. Back then, we believed anything people said so I became an entomophile instead.

My fascination with insects, spiders, and other creepy-crawlies was not shared by anyone that I knew. I could spend an entire day watching spiders weaving their webs, snails laying eggs, feeding tadpoles and observing the times and lives of a common housefly.

When I found a Facebook entomology group (many many years later) I was more than delighted to become a part of the family. It felt good to know that there are people out there who are pretty much like me and loving the things that I love. One of the members shared the history of scaphism aka the boats and I knew it would be in one of my horror stories for my next collection.

I saw a documentary once where the narrator said only insects will survive when all other life forms perish in a holocaust. I’ve never forgotten that statement. Being a film buff of creature features I’ve always wondered what it would be like if insects do decide one day it was time to eradicate the real pests of the earth.

This tale is a prologue of what could be a very long novel that may be developed someday if the stars align or the insects don’t get us first.


I saw this scene in my mind’s eye long before I developed it into this story. If I remember right, I witnessed a mudslide that engulfed an entire school that killed every student trapped in it but I forgot if it was a dream or my mind writing a story triggered by an incident. It’s hard to imagine the horror the children had to endure and what their families had to go through to accept the tragedy. As much as we like to blame Mother Nature for all natural disasters we sometimes forget how much we contribute to such catastrophes.

With this idea and the constant questioning about the reason of our being and the role we play here on earth, I weaved together a tale of a man in search of his purpose in life and found the lost spirits of the jungle. It’s about wanting to feel belonged. It’s about identifying our own tribe. It’s about feeling connected with the people who understand us like how we understand them. When we find this family we would eventually find our home.