Snow Falls: A Poem

November 30, 2015 at 7:50 pm (Life, Nature, Poetry) (, , )

Snow Falls: A Poem

Snow falls
hailing a crisp new dawn
The icicles nature’s musical instruments
playing silent melodies of joy in the breeze

-A poem written by Christopher
Monday November 30th

Permalink 36 Comments

Renfield’s New Image

November 29, 2015 at 8:23 pm (Commentary, Culture, Vampire novel) (, , , , , )

Renfield’s New Image

“What are you smiling about?” Amadeus asked Renfield.

“A woman from an oatmeal cereal company is coming by to visit me,” Renfield grinned, “they may use me as their poster boy for ads and TV commercials promoting a wholesome family friendly image to sell their oatmeal cereal products.”

Amadeus choked on the 3-foot deli submarine sandwich he was eating, “You’re about as wholesome and family friendly as that obscene porno version of The Cat In The Hat I watched on The Family Channel on satellite TV from North America last night- the one I had to switch to another channel after watching 5 minutes of it.”

“I’m afraid the Americans are light years ahead of the British in acknowledging the depths of human depravity that they feel young minds are capable of absorbing,” Renfield explained, “this fact was explained in an interview right after that news documentary I watched that was trying to explain why America’s prisons and psychiatric hospitals seem to be bursting at the seams. They never were able to find an answer to that question. One of the experts who appeared in that documentary later appeared on the interview show that was on afterwards where he talked about how Elm Street’s Freddy Krueger was in fact a healthy role model for young children.”

“And so now you’ll do for British youth what Freddy Krueger did for American,” Amadeus was starting to lose his appetite which was a rare thing.

“Hey I can be as wholesome and family friendly as Beatrix Potter or the author of The Wind and The Willows,” Renfield harrumphed.

Renfield was perturbed by the fact Amadeus was lying on the rug overcome by a huge fit of laughter the likes of which he had never seen before.

“When Miss Claresholm from the British Oatmeal Co. gets here, tell her I’ll be in the study,” Renfield went upstairs to the study and closed the door.

He went on to his computer.

Renfield owned a small porno film company in Southern California and was working on a promotional trailer for one of the new films being produced.

Renfield turned on the camera and spoke into the computer,

“Star Dick… orgy date 3233.4321 … I’m Captain James E. Quirk. These are the voyages of the Starship Perverterprise… its 5 year mission… to explore strange new positions… to seek out new forms of sexual deviation… to boldly go where no man has gone before…”

Renfield heard a loud feminine gasp behind him.

He turned and standing there was the British Oatmeal Company’s Miss Claresholm alongside Amadeus.

“Amadeus,” Renfield raged, “don’t you ever knock before entering a room?”.

Miss Claresholm turned and ran down the stairs.

“Wait Miss Claresholm,” Renfield ran down the stairs, “I can be wholesome and genuinely family friendly. Would you like to hear my impersonation of Linus reciting Chapter 2 of The Gospel of Luke from A Charlie Brown Christmas?”.

Renfield tripped and fell down the stairs knocking himself out in the process.

In his unconscious dream, a short leather skirted and black silk nylons and red spiked stiletto Sherrielock Holmes gave him a well- deserved spanking.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Tuesday November 10th

Permalink 25 Comments

A Private Eye’s Late Autumn Evening

November 28, 2015 at 8:54 pm (Detective story, Life, Poetry) (, , , , )

A Private Eye’s Late Autumn Evening

Silhouettes cast shadow on the wall
The light on the desk the sole light in the room
The open bottle of bourbon remains untouched
The ice in the empty glass melted hours earlier
All that bourbon in the bottle
in which was reflected the image of Carson Albion Private Eye
Would it really ease the pain of painful memories?
If it passed his lips
Those lips so often kissed by bourbon
yet rarely kissed by a woman he truly cared about
He discovered many women didn’t really care about guys who had been knocked down
by the school of hard knocks in life
They most often fell for the guys who had climbed their way to the top
no matter how many people they had stepped on and crushed to get there
And so they ended up as trophy wives
drinking from bottles themselves to cure their loneliness
since once caught, they were looked at and paid attention to as much as those animal head trophies that lined the walls of their respective mansions

Carson put the top on the bottle and put it away back in his desk
He sipped the liquid left from the melted ice in the glass
Another birthday spent alone
Five years in a row
A birthday spent alone
Was it part of some 5 year plan planned by a Politburo of cruel Fates
Whose threads formed a tapestry of Stalinesque style mercilessness?

Carson got up from his desk and walked out into the night
Lyrics from Simon and Garfunkel went through his mind
In the corner stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down and cut him
until he cried out in his anger and his shame
I am leaving, I am leaving
And so Carson left.

But did the fighter still remain?
Carson stood at the street corner
How much fight did he have left in him?
He headed home.
Tomorrow was always another day.

-A private eye poem
written by Christopher
Saturday November 28th

Permalink 36 Comments

Day In The Life of Dr. Cadbury Rocher

November 27, 2015 at 9:34 pm (The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

Day In The Life of Dr. Cadbury Rocher

The brilliant scientist Dr. Cadbury Rocher (who some called “mad”, others called “insane” and the politically correct called “sanity challenged”) sat in his office overlooking the laboratory of Set Enterprises.

He looked down at the laboratory and noticed Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster sleeping peacefully in his lobster tank.

Which was a good thing.

The lobster tank had mysteriously exploded on 7 different occasions the past few weeks.

And the higher-ups on the Board of Directors of Set Enterprises were starting to take notice.

Especially the billionaire ancient Egyptian vampire Set’s new personal chartered accountant Ayn Rand Nosferatu.

A strange woman. Not quite human. Not quite vampire.

And different from both in that x-rays showed that she had within her chest an ancient Chinese abacus in the place where her heart should have been.

Her office was quite intimidating.

She had a statue of the Titan Atlas shrugging and casting the world down at the feet of a raven that had on its head a marble bust of Adam Smith.

The face of Atlas bore a striking resemblance to Donald Trump and the inscription below the statue read, “Do not give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, your wretched refuse or your homeless.”

On the wall was an oil painting of a sour looking Ebenezer Scrooge.

The painting was titled Portrait of Ebenezer Scrooge Prior To His Visit By The Communist Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future.

Ayn Rand Nosferatu told Dr. Rocher in no uncertain terms that the company would not be buying any more lobster tanks.

Dr. Cadbury Rocher then turned to thoughts of his great grandmother.

It was embarrassing.

His great grandmother was 161 years old, still alive and didn’t look a day over 30.

And to top it off, Renfield R. Renfield had recently hired his (Rocher’s) great grandmother as his personal dominatrix.

Dr. Cadbury Rocher stood up as memories of his own childhood came back to mind.

He subconsciously rubbed his buttocks.

His great grandmother was certainly a woman who knew how to spank.

His great grandmother Sherrielock Holmes (Sherlock Holmes’ twin sister) who kept her maiden name had managed to achieve immortality by eating a Linghzi Supernatural Mushroom that had been specially treated by his great grandfather Dr. Louis Rocher (who was also a great scientific genius) to offset the possible harmful side effect of turning to stone once the mushroom was eaten.

Dr. Louis Rocher had decided not to eat the Supernatural Mushroom right away himself.

He would wait to eat it.

That was a mistake on his part.

As a fighter pilot for the RAF, Louis Rocher ended up dying after being shot down by the Red Baron Manfred Von Richtofen on April 20th 1918 (just a day prior to the Red Baron’s own demise on April 21st 1918).

So the end result was that his great grandmother was immortal without the love of her love Louis by her side.

As Cadbury Rocher looked down at the laboratory, he began to wonder if there was any correlation between Michelangelo’s lobster tanks exploding and nude drawings, sketches and paintings of his great grandmother Sherrielock Holmes being found in the laboratory.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Friday November 27th

Permalink 31 Comments

Haunting Visions and The Black Hand In The Garden

November 26, 2015 at 8:15 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, Horror, News, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

Haunting Visions and The Black Hand In The Garden

The retired elderly priest sat at his desk reading a copy of Saint Augustine’s major work The City of God.

Feeling a bit drowsy, he took off his glasses and put them on his desk.

He went over to his arm chair to rest.

He fell asleep.

He dreamed he was standing in Saint Peter’s Square amongst a group of religious pilgrims.

They were waiting for the Pope to appear at the Vatican window to give his blessing.

Suddenly black darkened skies appeared over the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica.

Huge raindrops the colour of blood fell from the sky.

The blood red rain drops fell on to the square turning it into a flowing river of blood.

People screamed and started to run.

The rain suddenly stopped and a peculiar rainbow that continued to drip blood appeared over the dome of the Basilica.

People turned into pillars of salt as they stood and gazed at the rainbow.

The retired elderly priest was knocked to the ground by a Middle Eastern looking man who shouted “Allah Akbar!”.

Loud speakers in the square suddenly started playing the voice of Barack Obama saying, “The United States strongly condemns these attacks. However we also strongly say that none of this would have happened had the world strongly listened to what the United States government dictated which is that Syrian President Bashar al-Assad must go in any and all circumstances without any discussion or questioning of U.S. State Department communiques and my own Executive Orders. The Syrian people and the Syrian people alone should decide who their leaders should be. And bearing that in mind, we say and we insist that Bashar Assad should go without any more questioning or discussion and he has no more part to play whatsoever in Syria’s future. So our Imperial wisdom hath decreed.”

An earthquake suddenly shook the City of Rome and the Basilica was destroyed.

The retired elderly priest suddenly awoke with a start.

He suddenly heard a tapping at his door.

He got up from his armchair and went over to the door to answer it.

He opened the door and looked around.

No one there.

He was about to shut the door when suddenly he noticed a severed charcoal burnt Black Hand crawling through the garden.

Grabbing his Breviary and his rosary, the retired elderly priest walked out to the garden and said the Saint Michael Prayer as well as a prayer of Exorcism.

He looked around.

The Black Hand was gone.

Still the elderly priest could not shake off the feeling that the Black Hand would be back bringing war and death in its wake.

Making the Sign of the Cross, the retired elderly priest – Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI- left the grounds of the Vatican Garden and returned to his living quarters and shut the door.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday November 26th

Permalink 72 Comments

Five Fingers of Death: The Black Hand and Writing On The Wall

November 25, 2015 at 9:07 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, Horror, International Intrigue, News, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Five Fingers of Death: The Black Hand and Writing On The Wall

“The moving finger writes and having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a Word of it.”

-The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

. . .

The Turkish diplomat walked the streets of Moscow.

He wrapped his scarf around his face as much to hide himself as to keep out the Russian cold.

It had been a hectic couple of days ever since Turkey had shot down a Russian plane.

The diplomat was struggling to ensure that the incident didn’t lead to the outbreak of war.

He stood looking at the view of the Kremlin from his vantage point.

The diplomat suddenly felt a tapping on his shoe.

He looked down and saw a severed charcoal burnt Black Hand.

The Black Hand crawled up his pants and then up his jacket and then proceeded to strangle him with his scarf.

The diplomat fell to the ground quite dead.

The Black Hand then grabbed a Samsung Galaxy 6 Smart Phone from a shocked tourist (who ran away after the phone was grabbed not wanting to argue with a moving severed hand) and took a photo of the dead Turkish diplomat on the ground with the walls of the Kremlin as a backdrop.

It then posted the photo on Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s Facebook page with the inscription written in both Turkish and Russian, “Go fuck yourself, you syphilis infested running dog of Turkey.”

And then signed it,
“Yours respectfully,
Vladimir Putin.”

The Black Hand then pulled down the Turkish diplomat’s pants and undershorts.

The hand then interrupted a mugging on a nearby Moscow street corner to grab the mugger’s large butcher knife.

Both would-be mugger and would-be victim fled at the sight of the severed charcoal burnt Black Hand carrying the knife down the street.

The Black Hand then returned to the slain Turkish diplomat and cut off his penis.

It then stuck the penis in the Turkish diplomat’s mouth and once again took another photo with the Samsung Galaxy 6 Smart Phone.

It then posted the photo to Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s Twitter account with the message, “Chew on this for awhile you mongrelized motherfucker” adding the hash tag

The hand then grabbed the penis and crawled into a nearby Moscow post office.

It helped itself to some postage stamps, an envelope and some string.

It put the diplomat’s penis in the envelope, grabbed some glue, sealed the envelope, attached the appropriate postage and then grabbed a pen and addressed the envelope to

Recep Tayyip Erdogan
Chief Eunuch
Turkish Presidential Palace
Ankara, Turkey

And then wrote a notation on the back of the envelope in Turkish:

Attention Erdogan:
Now you have one.

It then dropped the appropriately addressed and proper postage stamped envelope into a nearby mail box.

All in all a good day’s work for the severed charcoal burnt Black Hand who had been causing trouble throughout the world ever since the Battle of Kosovo in 1389.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday November 25th

Permalink 26 Comments

Magog Rhys Petley: The Last Werewolf

November 24, 2015 at 8:15 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, Vampire novel) (, , , , , )

Magog Rhys Petley: The Last Werewolf

Welsh werewolf British Labour MP Magog Rhys Petley sat in a pub drinking a strong whiskey soda.

He usually drank buttermilk as there was an antidote in buttermilk that counteracted the peculiar form of lycanthropy gene he had received ever since he was bitten more than 4 years ago by Rahu the demon responsible for lunar and solar eclipses in Hindu religious tradition.

As a result of that bite, he could occasionally turn into a werewolf even if there wasn’t a full moon.

But today Magog didn’t really care whether he turned into a werewolf or not.

Although he really should be happy.

He had spent most of his life as a backbench MP- whether Labour was the government or whether Labour was the opposition.

Being a far far Left MP and an out and out Marxist-Leninist had confined him to the back benches of the Labour Party particularly when Tony Blair was in power.

Now that fellow far Leftist Jeremy Corbyn was the new leader of the Labour Party, he was now the Party’s Foreign Affairs critic and sat on the Opposition front benches.

But Magog decided that he had been far happier sitting on the back benches.

Sitting on the front benches was much ado about nothing.

Besides nobody noticed when you ran out to the washroom when you sat on the back benches.

And recent Marxists elected to power were turning out to be a huge disappointment Magog thought to himself as he used his pub table candle to burn his personally autographed photo of Greek Prime Minister Alexis Tsipras.

Then over a week ago, his favourite cafe in Paris had been shot up by ISIS terrorists.

He was pretty sure that bullet holes in the windows would take away from the ambience of the place he loved so well.

And now Turkey had shot down a Russian war plane.

There was talk of world war in the corridors of Westminster.

Coincidentally, a Russian submarine had been spotted off the coast of Scotland a few days ago.

And swear words in Russian had recently appeared on the Twitter accounts of Russian naval sailors after they had discovered what were the ingredients in the Scottish haggis they had been eating all week.

The world was going to Hell in a hand basket, Magog thought to himself.

Turning into a werewolf really wouldn’t make much of a difference.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Tuesday November 24th

Permalink 19 Comments

Sherrielock Holmes

November 23, 2015 at 8:30 pm (History, Mystery, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

Sherrielock Holmes

It was the autumn of 1893.

And London dominatrix Sherrielock Holmes (the virtually unknown twin sister of Sherlock Holmes whose existence was vigourously denied by the Holmes family) had been entertaining a client in her London apartments.

“Well,” said her client, “it’s good thing I’m giving a speech in the House of Commons this afternoon. That means I’ll be standing. I don’t think I’ll be able to sit today.”

Her client exited the apartment and she could hear her client’s London bobby bodyguard say, “The street seems to be clear of any reporters, Mr. Prime Minister. I think it’s safe to enter your carriage.”

Sherrielock returned to her own thoughts as she put away the cane and wooden paddle.

She was thinking of a young man she had met in Paris that summer.


A promising young physics and chemistry student at the Sorbonne.

The man was a genius.

He claimed to have in his possession the notebooks of the legendary Faust- the Renaissance alchemist whose tale and exploits had been made famous by England’s Christopher Marlowe and Germany’s Goethe.

He was also studying the work of the monk geneticist Gregor Johann Mendel.

He also had hopes of discovering the secret of immortality..

How Sherrielock longed to be immortal.

And to be immortal without being confined to the nocturnal existence of vampires and vampiresses.

. . .

Sherrielock Holmes walked through London’s Chinatown taking in the vibrant sights and unique aromas.

She wondered to herself if she went into one of the district’s nefarious opium dens if she’d spot her twin brother there- partaking of that strange vaporous dragon because he hadn’t any interesting cases lately.

She noticed a vendor with a stall and sign that said Ling Po’s Marvelous Mushrooms.

“So, Mr. Ling Po,” she smiled at the vendor, “what’s your most wonderful mushroom?”.

“That would be the Lingzhi Supernatural Mushroom, Missy,” the old vendor replied with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, a supernatural mushroom,” Sherrie smiled as she threw back her long dark hair.

“Yes, it’s said to eat it under certain conditions that it will grant one immortality,” Ling Po smiled.

“Oh well, then I shall buy some and eat it,” Sherrielock opened her purse.

“Wait, Missy,” Ling Po held up his hand.

“What is it?” Sherrie asked.

“The form of immortality the Lingzhi Supernatural Mushroom will give you may not be the immortality you desire,” warned Ling Po.

“No?” Sherrie looked quizzical.

“The warriors of the first Chinese Emperor Qin Shi Huang were promised immortality by the Chinese sorceress Wu Xian should they eat the Lingzhi Supernatural Mushroom boiled with a thousand year old egg,” Ling Po stated, “and in a sense they were granted immortality after they ate this strange brew. They turned to stone.”

“Turned to stone?” Sherrie struggled to get her coiled snake hairpin out of her hair.

“Yes, they became terracotta sculptures who were buried as funerary art when the Emperor Qin Shi Huang was buried circa 210-209 BC,” Ling Po explained, “and whether the request of the Emperor’s No. 1 wife was followed and Qin was buried face downwards so “he could see where he’s going” (his No. 1 wife’s words), I’m not sure. Nevertheless the Emperor’s stoned Terracotta Army was buried with him.”

“And has this tomb ever been found?” Sherrie asked as she raided her hair desperately searching for her hairpin.

“No,” Ling Po shook his head sadly, “There are rumours that the tomb is located in the Lintong District of Shaanxi Province in China but so far it has not been found.”

“I see,” Sherrie finally found her coiled snake hairpin, “nevertheless I’ll take the Linghzi Supernatural Mushroom. But I promise I won’t eat it boiled with a thousand year old egg.”

. . .

Sherrie walked through the streets of London vigourously clutching her bag of Linghzi Supernatural Mushrooms.

She was certain her handsome young French physicist chemist boyfriend could find a scientific way by which the Linghzi Supernatural Mushroom could be consumed that would grant one immortality without turning one to stone.

Her Louis.

Her handsome brave intelligent young Louis.

When she visited Paris the next time, she should really convince Louis to return with her to London to live.

Her Louis.



Scientific prodigy.

Genius extraordinaire.

Her Louis.

Monsieur Louis Rocher.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday November 21st

Permalink 22 Comments

Part XVII The Giant Rat of Sumatra

November 19, 2015 at 8:22 pm (Detective story, Horror, Mystery, Mystery/horror, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Part XVII The Giant Rat of Sumatra

The Steinenfrank Circus had been closed down by Lincolnshire County authorities for knowingly bringing rodents into county boundaries.

And there was no way for them to deny it with the body of the Giant Rat of Sumatra on the premises.

It was evening and Dr. Faustus aka Hemlock the Magician was loading his belongings into his caravan wagon.

He was returning to Germany along with Vittoria Donna Gina.

Vittoria stood there in a lovely black evening dress and Sherlock Holmes kissed her elegantly black leather glove clad hand.

“England shall miss you, Miss Vittoria,” Holmes said as he gazed into her eyes.

“And you, Mr.Holmes, shall you miss me?” Her deep dark jet black eyes gazed into the detective’s soul.

“I shall indeed, Miss Vittoria,” Holmes spoke softly.

Vittoria grabbed the man from 221B Baker Street and kissed him passionately on the lips.

“Oh God, the game is more than afoot,” Holmes whispered after the kiss.

“I feel it to be so,” Vittoria sighed in ecstasy as she held Holmes in a passionate embrace.

“It’s time to be going, Miss Vittoria,” Faust’s voice showed more than a hint of anger and jealousy.

“Good-bye, Mr. Holmes,” Vittoria smiled at the deerstalker cap clad gentleman.

“Au revoir, ma cherie d’amour,” Holmes reluctantly let go of the enchanting Vittoria Donna Gina.

She lifted her dress to walk up the steps of the caravan trailer.

Holmes dropped his pipe on the ground so he could look up as his hands fiddled around on the ground to find the pipe.

“I did not know the world’s greatest detective was also the world’s greatest pervert,” Faust remarked dryly.

“As Abraham Lincoln shrewdly observed, a man without vices is inevitably also a man without virtues,” was Holmes’ reply.

Faust harrumphed.

“So will you now experiment with rats over in Germany?” Holmes inquired.

In his mind’s eye, Holmes pictured Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II on a giant glass slide under a giant microscope.

“I shall continue my work in Mendel’s new science of genetics,” was Faust’s reply, “I’m thinking of working with the Bavarian Forest’s rich supply of magic mushrooms to create new pharmaceuticals and perhaps someday in the field of human genetics I shall create an ├╝bermensch.”

“I imagine Nietzsche would approve,” Holmes lit his pipe.

. . .

Sherlock Holmes rode the train from Stamford to London with veterinarian Fred Clegg.

“So you have some business to attend to in London, Mr. Clegg?” Holmes asked the veterinarian as he gazed out at the English countryside.

“Some brief business, yes, Mr. Holmes,” Clegg gazed at the detective.

“And then back to your veterinary practice and livery stable business?” Holmes asked.

“Indeed, Mr. Holmes,” Clegg smiled.

“Ever consider any other plans in your future besides running a horse drawn omnibus service in the seaside resort of Morecambe?” Holmes asked.

“Well, I’ve sometimes thought of going out to Canada,” Clegg answered.

“Canada, eh?” Holmes felt a sudden craving for beer and back bacon.

“Yes, the Northwest Territories,” Clegg nodded, “possibly the Alberta Territory. They say there’s lots of good potential ranch land and farmland in and around the area of the Red Deer River Badlands.”

“That was the area where the geologist Tyrrell discovered 10 years ago bones belonging to one of those giant creatures we call dinosaurs?” Holmes asked.

“That was the area all right,” Clegg smiled.

“I wonder if any such creatures are around today,” Holmes mused aloud.

“Only in the House of Lords,” Clegg winked.

Holmes laughed.

“What about you, Mr. Holmes?” Clegg asked, “Returning to your old haunts in London?”.

“Eventually, Mr. Clegg,” Holmes looked pained as he talked, “I have some family business to attend to in Paris.”

“Oh really?” Clegg seemed surprised.

“Yes, it’s my twin sister Sherrielock Holmes,” Holmes frowned, “she’s done something of potential embarrassment to the family.”

“I didn’t even know you had a twin sister,” Clegg seemed genuinely shocked, “Dr. Watson has only mentioned an older brother Mycroft in his articles about you.”

“Dr. Watson doesn’t know about Sherrielock,” Holmes lit a pipe, “she’s the black sheep of the family.”

“Oh,” Clegg nodded sympathetically.

“I can only deduce what she does for a living,” Holmes looked out the window again, “in her room, she has all sorts of whips and riding crops and wooden paddles and sinister looking hairbrushes. In her closet, all sorts of leather corsets and black velvet skirts. And her clientele is mainly made up of members of the British Cabinet and the House of Lords.”

“And she’s now in Paris?” Fred Clegg asked.

“Yes, it’s come to my attention that she has appeared in several nude drawings and paintings done by that notorious Montmartre artist Toulouse-Lautrec,” Holmes’ face turned red, “such exposure the Holmes family doesn’t really need.”

“You have my sympathy, Mr. Holmes,” Fred Clegg extended his hand.

“Thank you, Clegg,” the detective shook the veterinarian’s hand.

“And will you be telling Dr. Watson of our adventure with the Giant Rat of Sumatra?” Clegg asked.

“No,” Holmes shook his head, “I don’t want every vampire hunter in the world pursuing the lovely Miss Vittoria Donna Gina. So if the matter of the Matilda Briggs and the Giant Rat of Sumatra should ever come up, I’ll just tell Dr. Watson that it’s a story for which the world is not yet prepared.”

-A Sherlock Holmes novella chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday November 12th


Permalink 26 Comments

Casablanca: A Poem As Film Review

November 18, 2015 at 8:08 pm (Film, Movies, Poetry) (, , , , , , )

Casablanca: A Poem As Film Review

Casablanca the film
set in early 1940s Casablanca the place
A microcosm of the world
when evil reigns
The characters in this film and place
reflect those varying examples of humanity
that populate the world in such perilous times
Ugarte (Peter Lorre) the scoundrel who trades and makes his money off people’s misery
who’s willing to sell people hope… for a huge price.
Signor Ferrari (Sydney Greenstreet) a crook but one not totally devoid of humanity
He makes his living off catering to people’s vices
but somehow is willing to let people’s souls remain their own
Major Strasser (Conrad Veight) the Nazi and representative of all who are evil for evil’s sake
who wish to control human souls and human minds and break human wills and crush human hearts so that all will succumb and bend to their own Evil Heartless Will To Power.
Captain Louis Renault (Claude Rains) a man not really good but then again not really evil
a man who’s willing to straddle the fence and see which way the wind is blowing
a man who’s quite simply willing to just go along
(when confronted with such a man, I can imagine in my mind, an old Southern Gospel choir singing, “Isn’t he a lot like you and me?”).
Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid) a true hero… a noble soul… an extremely rare individual in today’s world
And like most noble and heroic souls is inspired by Truth and Love (in Laszlo’s case, the love and support of a beautiful and truly good woman Ilsa)
Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart) a noble and heroic soul but like many noble and heroic souls who have hit their head too many times against a brick wall (either of human evil or far more prevalent human indifference)
have retreated into a seemingly impenetrable hard shell of cynicism
For most souls like Rick’s the breaking point was a rejected love… a time of happiness and then inexplicably their love just simply vanished from their lives
Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman) a good and beautiful woman… a gentle soul… a woman without malice… a woman who truly and absolutely through no fault of her own… finds herself in love with two men
Other people populate this microcosm of Casablanca that reflects our larger world…
Sam (Dooley Wilson) the entertainer whose mission in life is to bring laughter and song and music and above all hope into people’s lives, to, in various forms, tell “the same old story A fight for love and glory”
Yvonne (Madeleine LeBeau) a fallen woman who, one would think had forever turned her back on the nobler things in life, but when in an act of heroism, Victor Laszlo leads the band in singing La Marseillaise in the cafe to drown out Major Strasser and his Nazis singing a German militaristic song, Yvonne joins in singing La Marseillaise inspired by Laszlo’s example of true heroic courage
Annina (Joy Page) the young refugee woman who finds herself in evil times and an impossible place who must be willing to make compromises and sacrifices in order to save herself and the one she loves… even if that sacrifice means sacrificing her virtue
Jan (Helmut Dantine) who is Anna’s husband – a naive idealist who thinks somehow that luck on its own will come his way and is blind to the operations of evil and corruption in the society all around him

And so all of them are thrown together into this cocktail of good and evil, love and hate, heroism and indifference, honour and betrayal that is Casablanca
Such was the world in 1942.
And such is our world fast becoming today.
But the sad part for today’s world is that there are too many Major Strassers and too many Ugartes and far far far too many Captain Renaults
and nary a Victor Laszlo, Rick or Ilsa to be found.

-A poem written by Christopher
Monday November 9th 2015.

Permalink 24 Comments

Next page »