coming in July

Origins time again!

snatchers – A long time ago I had a vague idea for a story about a couple of criminals who try to follow the course of a major hurricane, looting businesses during the chaos, confident that they’re better prepared to navigate the floodwaters than the police. (I think this idea has probably been done a couple of times—wasn’t there a Christian Slater movie like that?) I never got around to writing anything, but I realized what I liked about the idea was the suspense potential of a character preparing to pull off a miracle in a very tight time frame—and then realizing that the time frame is actually shorter and riskier than he thought, with no chance left to back out as the clock ticks… and ticks... and ticks. Tracking that level of stress, I thought, would make for a good horror tale.

Anytime I’ve read about graverobbing or seen it performed in a movie, I’ve thought, “Okay, sorry, there’s just no way.” Once for a job, I had to dig a mere two-foot hole by the shoulder of a road where a signpost was going to be inserted, and I still vividly remember how the life-saving Grape Nehi I was handed afterwards tasted, and the aches and pains I had the next day. For those of you who have had to dig up a relative you murdered in the middle of the night, is it really achievable without breaking your back…?

postmarks – Someone’s got a bit of a late-night radio obsession, don’t he? (Wasn’t there a Christian Slater movie like that?) I indulge it because I think I secretly know you do, too. My favorite part of this story is the DJ physically touching each letter and ruminating a little on its physical properties—so I got to write an ode to two different slowly fading formats in a single story. If I’d managed to also work manual car windows in there somewhere, I would have been over the moon.

I have to wonder where modern DJs actually go to do their broadcasting. Is it now basically a work-from-home job? Is it no longer like what Adrienne Barbeau does in The Fog, where you drive a jeep to a lighthouse and walk up all those stairs to the station every day?

deep – When I was about 10, I used to walk a few blocks sometimes to the house of a friend who lived on a couple acres of flat land. One day after a big rain, my parents told me to put my swim trunks on, and they took me over there to see that their back field had been flooded. I remember that somehow, this perfectly even expanse had gotten so waterlogged that I literally swam in it. To this day, I still think, Wait, how could that really be? But I tell you, I was there, and I was wet. I’ve never quite understood the science of what happens when there’s nowhere for water to go, but I geek out on stories of the earth literally exploding because it gets over-drenched--and of course, who doesn’t love a good sinkhole, which I think has something to do with moisture, but don’t quote me.

Cut to a few months ago when I was re-watching Michael Tully’s folk horror film Don’t Leave Home. There’s a shot where the main character is staring contemplatively down at a patch of ground, and it made that faux lake memory suddenly come back to me. When I was imagining what might be hiding under a field you can actually swim in, the story started to open up to secret histories and warnings to family descendants and generally began to feel like a nice TV thriller from the late seventies. I selected the music based somewhat on my memory of watching some of those on YouTube—everything from The Dark Secret of Harvest Home to The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane, Burnt Offerings to All the Kind Strangers. I can just picture a shaky crane shot moving the camera upwards and away from the property at the end of deep with the words SHOT AT CBS STUDIOS, BURBANK, CALIFORNIA popping on the screen as the piano does its thing. (I think my dream job would be to make 70s made-for-TV thrillers, complete with muddy picture and audio from aging poorly in some forgotten storage room.)

You can stop reading this post here, of course, and you'd be more productive today if you did... but peer into the darkness and you'll see that someone has just refilled the steam trays of fried shrimp, lukewarm macaroni & cheese, and raspberry Jello cubes at

In 1961, Dr. Efram Bread realized his dream of building the world’s first Museum of Candy Corn in Tallula, Illinois. Created especially for children, the museum was an interactive shrine to all that is innocent and wondrous about the tasty candy that has delighted people of all ages since its invention by Julius Caesar during the rise of the Roman empire.

Housed in a colorful three-room shed in Dr. Bread’s spacious back yard, the museum opened its doors on June 7, 1961, with free admission to all children. Smiles and laughter were evident on dozens of faces that parted the screen door on that sunny morning. Attendees were surrounded on all sides by orange, yellow, and white décor in which the happy history of candy corn was taught through fun activities, films, and the jaunty (some would even say saucy!) efforts of the Candy Corn Dancers.

However, the smiles and laughter became a torrent of screams and agony within just eighteen minutes of the very first admission. The wooden roof supports of the building had not been adhered properly, and a gust of wind lifted the entire thing, sending it end over end into Dr. Bread’s driveway, where it instantly killed eleven members of the New Zealand Candy Corn Consortium, who had driven all the way from Newmansville to be at the opening. At about that same moment, the Candy Corn Painter, a machine eight feet high and constructed to look like a treat-dispensing teddy bear, blew an O-ring and caused lava-hot food dye to spray uncontrollably in all directions, killing four reporters and an Australian shaman who had arrived to bless the museum. Just five seconds later, the Candy Corn Dancers, having failed to perform a safety check on the more than seventy allegedly dead grenades they were in the middle of juggling onstage, all met a swift explosive end when an unexpected change in barometric pressure inside the building detonated the devices all at once.

As police and first responders descended on the property, it became obvious that the museum’s first day might be its last, with its gift shop sales decimated by the chaos. Though the children were spared physically, it is believed the young witnesses suffered unquantifiable psychological damage; for example, not one ever went on to play tennis at a professional level.

Tragically, what happened on that day in 1961 was not the only time a museum of candy corn has been the site of misadventure. The second such museum to be built, in Shawmut, Arizona in 1978, collapsed during construction when a chicken walking past the site inadvertently—or some believe intentionally—tripped a horrifically misplaced demolition wire. The third potential museum was rendered useless in 2002 when rival gangs took over the space by force in order to mount dueling productions of All That Jazz. Since then, Congress has refused funding for candy corn museums on thirty-two separate occasions.

Dr. Bread himself went on to achieve minor redemption in 1984 when he invented and patented a new conjugation of twelve common verbs (#8 will shock you!). The original site of his ill-fated museum is today an emergency pull-off ramp for overweight vehicles.