LORE – Surely I’m getting a little too old for ghost stories


Despite loving gritty and gruesome tales, I am quite easily spooked. My partner seems baffled as to why I put myself through it. Many are the nights that lie awake, on edge after a terrifying podcast. LORE tends not to be one of the ones that freak me out, the factual ambiguity and historical research style of Aaron Mahnke’s narration allows me to maintain some semblance of rationality. Until tonight, when a very silly long forgotten childhood fear came flooding back … and I suddenly remembered being ridiculously, inconsolably terrified of the Gremlin from The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror. Just thinking about it now gives me the heebie jeebies.
I think I was about 10, no longer scared of monsters under the bed, vampires at the window and ghosts in the hallway, but frantically scanning the exterior of the car for signs of small, evil, little creatures, trying to sabotage the family vehicle.
… sigh…
No more episodes on gremlins, please and thank you

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Limetown – Creepy Podcast is Creepy

You have to love a podcast that has a character called Lenore who talks like a 1950s fem fatale. But aside from the noir detour in the most recent episode, this is a welcome addition to the horror/scifi/docudrama podcast genre, a la TANIS, the Message and The Black tapes.
And yes there is much that is comparable with The Black Tapes, but aside from the assertive, vulnerable and determined young female detective journalist as the protagonist, it doesn’t mantain its potentially derivative set up. Limetown follows a more Radio drama line of narrative, this is not a criticism, just an observation.
Its certainly worth a listen, and it has enough creepy moments to keep you looking over your shoulder.
I love what  podcasts are doing with the docudrama genre, there is a tremendous scope for creativity within the parameters of the fictional interpretation of the genre, and Limetown is a good example of what can be done using familiar parts to create an original and suspenseful narrative.

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Smegging ants
Ruining my sitting spot.
The grass in the shade of the tree looks so inviting. A tall strong lucious tree, with rippling bark and contorted limbs. Delicate leafy stems branch out one after the other creating the most marvelous shade. Its the type  of tree you might find Elizabeth Bennet, or Jo from little women, pausing to slump under, in a way that only the slightly rough or humble heroine can. But she is not there, neither of them are, I suspect they heard about the ants.

The Mystery Show

First things first, this shit is adorable. I’m a died in the wool  fan of grim mystery fiction. Super grim, like alcoholic detectives, corruption, murder scene descriptions, really messed up perpetrators, you know the usually stock of crime fiction and non fiction. But this podcast drew me in. It’s just a wall to wall love fest. Nancy drew meets karmic realignment . Every one touched my the girlish, delightful, intelligent and curious narrator, Starlee’s investigation seems to come away enriched somehow.
Her first case is a disappearing video store and I won’t give anything away but the conclusion is satisfyingly gorgeous. Listen to this podcast… it’ll make a refreshing change from the harrowing Black Tapes, Serial, Undisclosed, Tanis, Someone Knows Something, Lore…
I’ll  try to review these more typically Morgan podcasts soon.

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The Guilty Party …. a short piece of drivel for a creative writing course

He stood up. No one else moved. The room was silent.
Looking about at the faces of those he barely knew, expectant faces, faces filled with trepidation and curiosity, he wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing here. She had made promises, vague promises, but promises none the less, they would do this together. Now here he was alone, in a room of familiar, but nonetheless alien faces.
Discomfort, hiding in plain sight, in clothes that were not his. At least two people suspected him, he knew, he could read it on their faces. His shy demeanour and hatred of confrontation left him impotent and unable to confront them. But they had seen him, just before it all went wrong, he was arguing with her. Did they see him grab her arm? Did they sense his urgency? If they didn’t then how could they possibly suspect him, it’s not like she was around to tell them. But how did the old adage go? “ It’s always the quiet ones…”.
He thought back to happier times, before this fateful evening. Days spent in quiet, unadulterated bliss. Her long gold hair draped over his chest as they lay arm in arm by the waters edge. Happier, he was so much happier then, comfortable, isolated, perfect, until the letter came and shattered the peace and simplicity he held so dear. It was never supposed to be like this. She had promised.
Could they see the guilt on his face? How much he would love to be anywhere, but in this room, with all the whispers and accusatory glances in his direction. He closed his eyes in an effort to compose himself, but her pale, motionless body lying on the hardwood floor was all he could see.
Opening his eyes looked down at the card he held in his hand, his instructions, they weighed heavily on him. And now here he was without an ally, about to proclaim his guilt. Where was she now? He had no idea.
He was suddenly aware that whilst he had been lost in thought, almost catatonic, the guests were all staring at him. He knew most of them by name, and some by reputation, little gossipy titbits and nasty secrets that she had told him. Knowing so little, and yet knowing so much meant he was unable to look any of them in the eye.
He couldn’t delay this any longer, he cleared his throat and started to read through the much loathed text. Stumbling over the last of his speech he sat down embarrassed and angry. He was so crap at this.
“This is the last time,” he thought bitterly, “I let her drag me to a murder mystery night”

Morgan Pinder

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