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"You wake up shackled to a chair and can't remember how you got there. Two voices are talking. You recognize one of them."

Source: Writer's Digest

"At a swim pool party last long weekend I found some real cool fun in the deep end..." --Little Nell

You and a friend break into your neighborhood swim club late one night to go for an after-hours dip. While splashing around in the pool, you go into shock when a dead body floats to the top. Worse yet—it's someone you know. Write this scene.

Source Writer's Digest

"Sweet dreams are made of this..."

Taken from my blog:

I am writing a character-driven novel and in order to understand my characters I want to know everything about them. One thing I never thought of is: what do my characters dream about? Do they have nightmares? Wet dreams? Dream in color? Black and white?

Write a dream sequence. (The beauty of this exercise is that it doesn't need to make ANY sense as it is a dream.) Next, grab a dream dictionary. What have you learned about your character? Just let your subconscious write this for you. Maybe you'll be surprised at what you find out.

I did this exercise for my main character--the anti-hero. I put lots of thick fog in the dream and found out that he was walking through life disoriented. Funny enough, he is! Good job, subconscious.

Let's get wild and crazy...with a writing prompt!

Fall is the most inspiring time of the year for me. It just has this certain aura of peace and relaxation which makes it easier for me to write. And when I write a lot I get even more excited about reading. I know. I sound like the poster-boy for a "reading is fundamental" campaign, but I assure you that no one is paying me to say that.

Last night I went to Borders and, after hours of wondering if I wanted Neil Gaiman's new children book, or Seanson 5, 6 and/or 7 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or this freakin kickass journal inscripted with quotes from "The Raven" by Poe, I decided on Dave Egger's new novel The Wild Things. (I shouldn't mention that I'm going back today to get the rest of the things I wanted...)

Anyway, Eggers' book just screams awesome. Although I only read the first paragraph in Chapter 1 I have such faith in it. I mean, look how awesome this cover is:

So where am I going with this since I'm not here to talk about the book? Let's do a writing prompt. I'm feeling energized this morning and ready to go.

Take a children's story or fairy tale you enjoy and reimagine it. Make it your own. I love the sty of "The Little Mermaid," so a few years ago I wrote a story loosely based on Hans Christen Anderson's infamous tale. It's not hard. In fact, you already have the plot of the story...Now, hop to it! Don't delay!

To purchase this "wild" book or it's equally, but more pricey, furry cover, click here.

Troublesome City Folk?

I'm reading House by Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker. To be honest, I bought it solely on the basis of it's cover (mostly black, with a few bits of green thrown in, with a dark, gloomy house as the central image). It's your standard "couple (or in this case, couples) get stranded in the backwoods of the American south, find a seemingly conforting inn, only to get tortured by the demented Christians that run the inn."

And honestly, I'm a little weary of reading horror stories about demented Christians living in the backwoods of the American south torturing the shit out of scared city folk.

So, Tainted Tea readers, here's your challenge: Reverse it. Write a story about nice, smart country folk who get lost in the middle of the city, get seemingly saved by liberal, athesistic city folk, with trouble ensuing later.

Until then, I'm going to finish reading House.

Ancient Energy

There is something sensual, eerie and tantalizing about a lighthouse. They exude a vintage, gothic vibe from the way their lights pulsate like they're breathing. In, out, in, out...

Dominating even! Thrived and nourished by sailors. Without the lighthouse, their ships would be lured by the Siren's song, crashing onto the rocks.

As we wrap up the summer (what, three/four weeks?), what better theme than these candles on the water?

When I think of a lighthouse, I think of them as ghost houses: a wispy-haired woman standing over the edge as the spinning light casts her weeping silhouette on the humid, soggy sky; her white, ever-flowing dress is drenched from pelting rain as she waits for her sailor-lover to reuturn. (They were to be married.)

There a many stories of haunted lighthouses from the Yaquina Bay Lighthouse in Oregon to the ghost inhabiting both the Old Baldy and Cape Hatteras lighthouses. Do you know of any haunted lighthouses? Make one up if you don't.

Are you a bad nut?

A few years ago, my family had an addition built on our house so my B-Mom and great-aunt could live with us. Having the room adjacent to the roof, my window has a nice view of distant trees and curling roof tiles.

Sometimes, when the weather’s nice, I like to sit on the roof and read, write, or just take in the air. It's nice to feel like I'm on top of the world.

Good writing material, huh?

As I look at almost everything in life as an inspiration--locking memories and visuals away in some gym locker in the back of my mind--here is where I could write about the obvious “we built the addition on an Indian burial ground,” but instead pulled out something from the locker that my great-aunt told me about two years ago:

We were sitting in the pygmy kitchen/den when she claimed to have heard big squirrels scampering about on the roof (due to my family’s paranoia I don’t tell them I frequent the roof).

What if she was right?

Maybe a bunch of squirrels got loose from Willy Wonka's chocolate factory? Yet, squirrels looking for bad nuts isn't a great premise for a horror story though, is it? So what if there were really giant, hairy creatures scurrying across our black and blue crumbling roof tiles?

Tell us about it. Here's mine:

Margaret lay in her bed, magazines strewn across the right side where a husband should have lain. They kept her comfortable, the magazines, filling a certain hole in her heart. As she thumbed through Reader’s Digest a thump came from the roof. It’s too early for Santa Claus, and not geographically correct for ninjas, she thought. She knocked the sound out of her head. It must have been a squirrel she told herself.

The news was coming to an end. “Breaking news…” but Margaret turned it off. She vowed to be asleep before Leno came on unless one of her soap stars happened to be on. Another thump shook the roof, this time echoing outside. “Damn pests.” Since she had moved from Germantown to a suburb of Philly she learned to hate squirrels. Living in the city she rarely had to deal with them. Rats, yes. But squirrels. There was something about these rodents. It could have been their bushy tails, or their black, zombie eyes. They were worse than rats because they could leap, climb, almost fly.

Almost in her late-eighties, Margaret was just waiting for the day she’d die. Those sunken, periwinkle eyes were losing all their color. Her lips were chapped; wrinkles running like map rivers which made her red lipstick bleed into her skin. Every time the wind blew, or the weather dropped below 70 her bones would ache and yell. It was time.
Shifting her pale, dead eyes to the whirring ceiling fan, she breathed heavy, shallow breaths. Her arms were dumbbells as she lifted them and placed them on her chest. As she smiled, her whole face quivered and shook. Then there was another bang. Three. Like children’s footsteps racing, pitter-patting over the crumbling roof.

“Oy! These fucking squirrels.” It might have been her mouth to blame for never being married.

Her father was in the military and –

Another bump.

Margaret hopped out of her bed, nearly dislocating her hip. The bedside lamp flickered as a whoosh of wind blew over trees. Her feet shimmied, taking her over to the window. Outside was blacker than chimney soot. She could see Carol and Steve Creed’s porch light on. An owl scooped down, or at least Margaret could hear it’s dinner squeak and then rustle in the tree. The night seemed so deadly. Two houses down smoke bellowed from the fire place. A familiar smell of burning wood circled the room putting Margaret at ease. The scratching squirrels on the roof were even louder and ferocious from the window. She put two shaking hands down on the window sill. “Shoo,” she called. Her voice came back to her. “Git outta’ here.” The scratching continued. Her heart, her small, fragile heart began to pick up speed. She could feel a little moisture form above her brow. It was almost midnight. The light flickered behind her again. Her neck hurt as she turned it towards the porcelain lamp. On the roof, where the scratching continued, she heard a faint, clicking sound. Like teeth chattering, or a 45 on a record player that was done and waiting to be turned off.


The scratches ceased. She turned her head to look back outside, hoping to see something in the void of darkness. Her cat jumped on the chair beside the window. That’s when she screamed. And that’s when the scratching continued. “You scared me, Jackie. You nearly gave mama a heart attack.” The black tabby, its copper highlights shimmering like an ocean under the moonlight, cooed and nestled against her knew. Her stocking began to roll down her leg. “What is that, Jackie? What’s the sound?” She was talking to her cat like the daughter she never had.
Taking a seat next to her cat, she pulled a tin can, a painting of Vermont in March. She used to keep cookies in there when her niece and nephew would visit. Now they were gone; careers, families, and new locations. As she cleaned the weed, she thought about Caleb. She liked him most.

The light went off. On.

He was CEO of some company she couldn’t remember the name of. Rolling the blunt she smiled.

She never would finish smoking it, but the first hit was always the best. It burned her weak lungs, but it made her head stop spinning. Her eyes closed as she held her breath for a second. Those dying eyes dilated, giving them color again.

Scratching. That damn scratching. The can sat on top of the magazines, its lid black and burnt from ash. She let the jay burn on there for a bit as she got up to look out the window. The light buzzed on and off faster this time, like a strobe light. Something else, another sound, haunted the room. It sounded like a dog at first, but as she leaned her ear closer to the window, it sounded more like a child with emphysema. A deep heaving chest. Margaret could only imagine a turtle back bellows used to make a fire grow bigger; the valve going in, out, in, out like a fishes mouth.

A warm, foul odor like rotten eggs and fecal matter came in through the window with the air as a ghost would come through a wall. The panting, the scratching, the smell, the dancing light…

Margaret was anxious. Then the lights went out. The light next door at the Creed’s, her bedside lamp, the moon, her burning weed. All out now. She stared out the window. That stench and warm, sticky smell came through the screen as she pressed her nose against it. Then a low growl, like a hungry volcano, resonated through her ears. And when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was in the face of a beast.

Its long snout, crooked, piano wired whiskers jutting out like a beet field, pressed against her pig nose. “No.” Her exasperated voice, a balloon deflating, was the last thing she’d say. Unless you count the screaming. That beast, that, that thing pawed at the screen. Claws like hairy raptors. They pierced the tiny wires, splicing them from top to bottom like gutting a fish. As the monster wriggled through the window, Margaret looked around. A bag of wire hangers were beside her. She was on the floor, against her closet now. No strength make it out the door, or even to the phone on the end table beside her bed to call for help. She could scream, but she couldn’t muster any breath just yet. She was breathing heavily like the gigantic rat beast coming through the window. The fur was steel wool and shades of brown, copper, silver and red could be seen if the lights were on. It plopped to the floor, birthed from the window, its tail, a thick, long, writhing worm stood taller the beast itself. Its buck teeth clicked against its split, snake-like tongue. At first the poor old woman thought it was smelling her out, but then another battering shook the screen. One, two, three, four more beasts came into the room. Their noses sniffed the air. They formed a V shape, then scurried to each corner of the room.

Jackie had since left the room, and now Margaret was left with these creatures. To die. To be mauled limb from limb. Like a Thanksgiving turkey. When the pain seared through her veins, crawling from her toes to her skull, that’s when she breathed from her diaphragm and began to scream. The sound was cut off quickly, as if her vocal box had been ripped out. Or maybe that’s because her vocal box had been ripped out.

"Button up your overcoat..."

In honor of the editor's pick for the "Movie of the Year" DVD release today, here is a fun-fact video of Coraline author Neil Gaiman:



Your mission is to take something ordinary, something usually unassociated with fear and induce that mad method of horrific manipulation into your writing. Try to be creative using fears such as "lachanophobia" or the fear of vegetables.

Have fun...unless you have "funophobia."

Writer's Block?

Try looking at some of Tainted Tea's favorite artists.

Dave McKean.

Monique Motil.

Edward Gorey. Unfortunately, he does not have a site, but you should Google him anyway. Or buy one of his books.

Francis Bacon. Like Edward Gorey, he does not have a Web site, but he does have an exhibit at the Met.

This just in...

On October 30, 1938, Orson Welles of The Mercury Theater on the Air presented an adaptation War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells. Welles narrated a series of news bulletins about martians taking over the world. Due to some listeners tuning in mid-broadcast they thought the invasion was real.


Now it's your turn to get those news media/tabloid consumers riled with your own script or news article of an alien invasion; There are so many possibilities such as just a regular ole 1950s invasion, or maybe an illegal alien invasion (i.e. zombies). But whatever you do, the alien should not utter: "Take me to your leader!"

Look Who's Coming to Dinner

We'd like to remind you that Tainted Tea isn't just written for horror writers and readers. Tainted Tea is for fans of all things macabre. The editors love all horror media: books, movies, television...it's not wonder they're favorite holiday is Halloween.

That said, we invite you to sit at our table--rustic candelabras set at each end with thick, spider-less webs strewn across; thin, red wine spilling from goblets made of stone and the stiff butler speaking through pursed lips ("Dinner is served.")

For those brave enough, try this writing prompt:

Pick three horror icons. Anyone related to the horror genre (alive or dead, fictional, etc.) and invite them to dinner. What goes down?

What kind of conversations do you have? Any special meal accommodations for the Creature from the Black Lagoon? You forgot to pick up a bottle of Chianti and Dr. Lecter isn't pleased. Why would you put out the silverware when you knew the Wolfman was coming? Hide the knives, Lizzie Borden just pulled up.

Set the scene and write a page or more (but no less) on the dinner. Be unique, have fun and don't scare yourself too much.

"Where do you get your ideas?"

That question makes me freeze.

I don't know where they come from, they're just these little green goblins that plunge into my cerebrum, bouncing up and down like a pool of Jell-O. Sometimes my ideas come from a piece of art that triggers something in my brain, or a story I have just read that urges me to produce something as compelling as the author's piece. Once, a few years ago, I fused and elaborated on two, hard news stories I read in the paper.

J. K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series, said that "Harry just sort of strolled into my head, on a train journey. He arrived very fully formed. It was as though I was meeting him for the first time."

But, simply, author R. L. Stine has said that he generates his ideas by asking himself "What if?"

What if?

It's that simple. And effective. I use it all the time in all of my writing be it horror or (attempted) romance. Roald Dahl, author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, must have used in it his short, horror story "Genesis and Catastrophe: A True Story."

Think of the "What if?" as a water fountain. You start with a basin (the idea), add water (paragraphs), plug it in (editing) and the outcome is exquisite: a water show extravaganza that people can't seem to take their eyes off of.

Now it's your turn. Write a story that constantly makes you answer the "What if?" factor. Refer to "The Nightmare Room Writing Program" for examples and exercise.

"Horror, for me, is the compelling
'don't want to look/must look' sense of awe
we feel under the breastbone."
~Mort Castle

(Don't look now, but writers block is following you.)

Face it. If you're a writer, you've encountered our dreaded foe Elder Writer's Block. Well, we here at Tainted Tea are here to help because, well, we're writers, too and have a forest worth of blank paper.

The Pocket Muse: ideas & inspirations for writing is a wonderful tool for all writers. The book offers, just as the title says, "ideas and inspirations for writing." One of the exercises seems extremely appropriate for a horror zine:

"Your character is being followed."

Is your character a mountain climber lost on Everest being followed by the Yeti?


Maybe he's metaphorically being followed by his past?


You know, Mary had a little lamb and everywhere that Mary went that damn lamb was sure to follow her...


So what'cha got? Share what you've written in the comments. We'd love to see what you've come up with. Now, get going! Write. Write, I say!

Inspirational Words

"So, what's the secret to hip-hop, jazz, blues, and rock?
Step one, get out a pad and kill your Writer's Block."
~MC Lars

Not exactly horror fiction, but the idea still applies. The best way to cure the dreaded Writer's Block? Write. Anything. Even if it's your name over and over again. You never know. It could be the next Great [insert your dream publishing here].

Now, go forth and write!