November, 2011

TAEM interview with author Brian Moreland

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Author Brian Moreland

TAEM- Writers are one of the mainstays for The Arts and Entertainment Magazine, and their work is also a great inspiration to film and television alike. One of the newest writers is Brian Moreland whose creations are right up our alley. Brian, we learned that in your youth you loved scary movies, and they were the basis of your desire to write. Who among the writers that you followed inspired you the most?

BM-Like most horror writers I’ve met, I was first influenced by Stephen King, because his books dominated the horror market when I was growing up and they were popularized even more by the movies based on King’s fiction. One of the first fiction books I read just for fun was Stephen King’s Night Shift. I devoured every one of those short stories and discovered that reading fiction can be even more fun than watching movies. Stephen King taught me how to create a sense of dread in a scene. He would focus on the details of something that spooked him until he had you spooked too. That’s important in horror fiction. Sometimes you need to slow the tempo down and focus on the darkness until the reader is so curious about what’s lurking beyond that curtain of blackness that they can’t stand it any longer. The two other authors who had the greatest impact were Dean Koontz and Robert McCammon. I discovered their books while in college and learning to write my own fiction. Both were masters at creating loveable characters, scary monsters, complex plots, and high-octane action that propelled you to keep turning the pages. I badly wanted to write like them. I wanted readers of my novels to feel the same adrenaline that you feel when you read Dean Koontz or Robert McCammon. I studied their novels like they were textbooks on how to write fiction. I dissected their books chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph, analyzing exactly how they structured a scene to give me the rush of feelings I was feeling. I also studied their prose, the words they used and added to my arsenal of descriptive words. I emulated both their styles in my early writing until I finally developed my own writing voice. Other notable influences were H.P. Lovecraft, Richard Laymon, and Clive Barker. Now, I study every horror author I write. I’m always learning and honing my craft. (more…)

TAEM interview with child actor Michael S. Thomas

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Child Actor Michael Thomas

TAEM- One of the great things that The Arts and Entertainment Magazine does, is to introduce new talent to our readership. Actors get their start in various ways. Some by accident, others by desire, and some from a very early age. Actor Michael S. Thomas is one such personality who fits in the later category. Michael at what age did you first begin your acting career, and how old are you now.

MST- Hi! I started acting shortly after I turned 4 years old. I am 8 and ½ years old now.

TAEM- We learned that your first step in your career was in the film shorts: ‘TheNew World’ and ‘Chekhov’s Children’. How exciting was this for you. 

MST- Well, actually my very first film and my first speaking role was in the movie Holey Balls. But due to some technical difficulties during editing it has not been released yet. But the director said she hopes to have it out before I turn 18.

The New World (my second film) and Chekhov’s Children were both fun sets to work on. I made a lot of new friends on both sets and have worked with some of the actors again on other film projects. (more…)

TAEM interview with author Deirdre Marie Capone

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

TAEM- History has a lot to say in writing a story and it is a big part in every author’s work. Deirdre Marie Capone is one such author, and the history around her novel is not only well known, but personal. It is about Al Capone.

Deidre, tell us about your early life and about your family relationship to this historic figure.

DMC-I am a Capone. My grandfather was Ralph Capone, listed in 1930 as Public Enemy #3 by the Chicago Crime Commission. That makes me the grand niece of his partner and younger brother, Public Enemy #1: Al Capone.

For much of my life, this was not information that I readily volunteered. In fact, I made every effort to hide the fact that I was a Capone, a name that had brought endless heartache to so many members of my family. In 1972, when I was in my early thirties, I leftChicagoand my family history far behind me, reinventing myself inMinnesotaand making sure that no one in my life other than my husband Bob knew my ancestry. I succeeded—even with our four children.

But the truth about who I was hovered at the edges of the reality I had created, and I was terrified of it—terrified of revisiting the shy, wounded girl who grew up friendless, shunned by classmates, forbidden to play with a mobster’s child; terrified of once again hearing those dreaded words, “You’re fired,” and seeing another employer’s doors close to me because of my name; terrified of reawakening the grief of losing both my father and brother to suicide, collateral damage of the Capone legacy; and, above all, terrified that if my children learned they had “gangster blood” running through their veins, they’d be exposed to the same pain I had experienced. (more…)

Travel Time with Roger Tweed: Wyoming and Montana

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Travel Time with Roger Tweed

Subject: Wyoming and Montana Travelogue

Last September, I managed to visitGrand Teton, andYellowstoneNational Parks, camp and hike inGlacierNational Park, and visit Little Big Horn National Monument all in one trip.  Over the course of seven days, my friends and I drove over2,000 miles, hiked over25 miles, saw waterfalls, glaciers, geysers, peaks and lakes of incredible beauty, and marveled at bison, elk, big horn sheep and mountain goats.  It all started the day after Labor Day.

I flew out of Reagan National (DCA), and changed planes in Detroiton the way to Denver. The flight from DCA to Detroitwas only about half full, so the empty seats made even the old war horse DC-9 (an MD-90) we flew feel comfortable.  It was the first (and only) non-full flight I took that summer. We were a few minutes late arriving, and I had to run from gate A23 to gate A74 where my flight to Denverwas taking off in 20 minutes. The Delta (former Northwest) concourse at Detroitis huge! The plane (an A320) was full, so they checked my bag at the gate.  I arrived at Denverabout 20 minutes early, and my friend Bob met me as I was wandering around the baggage area.  And then we were heading off on I-25 to Wyoming. (more…)

‘Date and Time Agreed’ (Part 2) by Guest Author Alex Knight

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011
Guest Author Alex Knight

Guest Author Alex Knight

The killer was certain there was no one with the victim. Only one car was in the parking lot, a baby blue Cadillac De Ville with the vanity plate SUMFUN. The Killer sneered, accountants and their sense of humor, who else would think number crunching was fun? 

After parking in front of the building the emergency flashers were activated and the hood popped up. Pretending to be looking under the hood, the killer scanned the area once again for potential witnesses. So far the coast was clear. Now the cell phone came out, a ploy to make it look good in case the victim was watching. An oath was uttered and a fist crashed down on the roof of the car. The cell phone was angrily tossed in through the driver’s side open window. The killer knocked on the storefront door; the victim cautiously opened it.

“Excuse me but my car’s dead and so is my cell phone. Can I use your phone to call the motor league?”

A quick look up and down the street indicated the stranded motorist was alone, and the victim opened the door wider.

“Sure, c’mon in,” those were the last words Bob the embezzling accountant uttered.  (more…)

‘Norseman on the Threshold’ by Guest Author Glenn James

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011
Author Glenn James

Author Glenn James

(This serial was inspired by the History, Hauntings, and legends of Worcester Cathedral in England:  It was written originally as the inaugural serial of  the “42 Genre-Specific Open-Mic-Night,” in Worcestershire. It is affectionately dedicated to the late Leonard Amesbury by his friend, the author.)

“Norseman on the Threshold”

By Glenn James

Part One: “Lupus Rex”

Worcester Cathedral sleeps calmly on the banks of the River Severn, quiet in its golden stone, and basking in the rise and fall of centuries.  Little happens nowadays to disturb its contented sleep, as the warlike days when armies laid siege to its demure skirts, and the peaceful river ran red with vanquished causes, are long since past.

In these godless times, it is merely a timeless symbol of the city, striding through the centuries almost absentmindedly, so much a part of the landscape it’s hardly even registered properly by most people looking right at it locally.

But deep inside it’s wall’s and fabric, in between its foundations, crypts, and long forgotten chambers, deeds done with less than a valiant heart fester resentfully still in secret.  The dark cloisters at night, when the last tourists and choristers have gone home are not “unpopulated”.  They are far from empty in any conventional sense, and their paths are walked in silence by those who would not be seen. (more…)

‘I Wish You To Death’ by Guest Author David Rhodes

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011
Guest Author David Rhodes

Guest Author David Rhodes

The sun beat down viciously the day of the funeral, and most assuredly would have caused much discomfort for those in attendance, had it not been for the large green awning the funeral home had provided for Billy’s funeral.

Marty stood next to mostly family members he had never met, or perhaps had met only once or twice, he being the next door neighbor that was always invited over for barbecues by Billy’s father, Sam Schafer.

Now he stood staring at the coffin, saddened that Sam and Beth could not be there – they both had already died quite some time ago. They had called Billy’s death a brain hemorrhage, but Marty knew better. It had been suicide.

He thought back to sixteen years before, to the day Billy had been born. At the time, Marty didn’t think anything had been amiss, even though a nurse had died in the birthing room minutes after Billy had emerged into the world. She had suffered a massive stroke, and simply died on the floor next to the crying newborn. It had been a strange day, indeed… (more…)

‘Three Hours to Barrow’ by Guest Author William Fripp

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011
Guest Author William Fripp

Guest Author William Fripp

Charlie Blevins knew the moment he boarded the plane that something was wrong.

It wasn’t anything readily identifiable, nothing like a weird noise or a vibration or even something about the other passengers, it was just a feeling, a premonition, if you will, and the little voice we all hear in the back of our heads that we more often than not ignore was screaming at Charlie to climb back down the little stairway and run. But, of course, he didn’t listen.

The props on the Piper Chieftain were already turning when Charlie boarded. He was the last passenger out of roughly a dozen on the little turboprop headed to Barrow, Alaska and so he got the seat all the way aft on the port side, pushing sideways down the narrow aisle, holding his black calf’s leather briefcase over the heads of the other passengers, fielding icy looks as he shuffled past, late as usual and holding up the whole affair. They had waited for Charlie for about fifteen minutes and everyone, including the pilots, was less than pleased. Screw them, he thought as he finally reached his seat. I paid just as much for my ticket as they did.

His seatmate was an older gentleman, at least in his early sixties, silver haired and sloppily dressed in an ill-fitting Sears and Roebuck business suit, the wrinkles in his shirt and sport coat augmenting the lines etched in his tired and drooping face. He smelled of Aqua-Velva and cigarettes and wheezed like an old hand organ with each labored breath. Charlie wondered if the old man would survive the three hours to Barrow. Or if I will for that matter. As he stowed his briefcase and settled into his seat on the aisle the old man shifted in his seat to accommodate him, breathing his Marlboro breath in Charlie’s face and smiling as they greeted one another, showing a set of yellow dentures which moved in his mouth as spoke. (more…)

‘For Love of the Paperboy’ by Guest Author Bobbi Carducci

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011
Bobbi Carducci

Author Bobbi Carducci

Margaret clapped her hands with delight. Every day for a week she had gone to the dining room window in hopes of seeing the first snowflakes of the Christmas season.  With only two days left before the big day she had begun to worry that this year would be one of the dry seasons where snow didn’t appear until late January.  As far as Margaret was concerned a winter without snow on the ground from October to May had no business calling itself winter at all.

“It’s here Jim, and from the look of it it’s going to be a real white Christmas, “she said, eying the large fluffy flakes that were falling faster as she watched. Already the sidewalk in front of her house was beginning to disappear and the upper limbs of the large pine tree in the front yard across the street were being flocked in white as if a fairy godmother had waved her wand in answer to a wish.

Humming a jaunty rendition of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause she maneuvered her walker past the baby grand piano and around the ragged edge of the hideous Oriental carpet, a wedding gift from her mother-in-law over 60 years ago, to the side table that held her favorite photograph of him. Next to it was one of her taken around the same time.   (more…)

‘Bonzai, the Dragon Slayer’ by Guest Author Paul DeThroe

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Guest Author Paul DeThroe

            Bonzai was a twelve year old boy with an active, some would say, wild imagination.  Where others saw only the typical, he saw the fantastic.  He had no friends to speak of, no siblings and he was a latchkey kid, meaning his parents were always at work when he got home from school.  Even worse for him, his parents usually worked late, so Bonzai was alone most of the time.  He lived in a house that was remotely hidden in the woods.  It was a beautiful house that sat at the end of a long driveway, far away from neighbors and hence, any other children.  He spent most of his time playing games by himself in his imaginary world.

            His father, who was a businessman, would often tell Bonzai that he should put his imagination to good use by being artistic; creating music or writing.  Bonzai would just laugh at his dad and go back into his own little world.  His only ambition had always been to become a dragon slayer.  The problem with that was that dragons had been extinct for many centuries.  But he wouldn’t let that stop him; he would just create his own dragons.

            He felt most at home amongst the trees that surrounded his house and his world.  Pine trees were castles to Bonzai, especially the ones that had huge limbs that drooped all the way to the ground and could easily hide him from his enemies and his parents.  Willow trees were his fortresses, for the same reason.  Oak trees would play the role of evil dragons.  They were the biggest, strongest trees in his yard and therefore presented the biggest challenge for him.  Fallen limbs from the “dragon” oak trees would serve as his swords.  They were strong enough to handle the constant abuse that he put upon them by bashing them into the dragon trees without splintering like the easily broken pine limbs or the too limber willow branches.  (more…)

‘The Games’ by Guest Poet Angela James

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Guest Poet Angela James

You stand once again at the starting line

Waiting for the games to commence

You’ve been here many times before

Yet you must race again and again

 

Every step is planned, each opponent weighed

Before the starting pistol is fired

You’re not afraid to give it all you’ve got

To be the one who is admired (more…)

‘The Belly of The Beast’ by Guest Author Arthur Davis

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Guest Author Arthur Davis

I’d walked past Scully’s Bookstore every day on my way to work since moving to the South Side of Chicago a year ago.  My job was adequate, nothing special, just as I perceived myself to be.  I was adequate.   It was adequate.  My life was adequate.       Nothing much happened to me as I imagined to everybody else.  However, at twenty-six, I had little proof of the existence of such adventures and shadowy, threatening intricacies.  And, with few friends to count and lacking the social grace to evolve beyond the fiber of my Catholic upbringing, I kept my fantasies and disappointment to myself.

            I usually glanced in at Scully’s then raced across the street to catch the Q32 bus which would snake its way along the outskirts of the famous Chicago Loop and spew me out a block away from the firm of Murphy & MacArtle, one of the less notable accounting firms the city had to offer the business community.  Anticipating a flood of new clients from the surrounding commercial growth after the end of the Second World War, I was one of three junior accountants who had been hired to give credibility to a staff that was twice the size it was only a year ago.  It was easy, straightforward work.  I was good, or rather adequate in my own eyes and, as far as I could tell, acceptable to the two partners, both of whom were over twice my green, unassuming years.

            So, why I turned to reflect that brisk December morning upon the still darkened bookstore in spite of the fact that my bus was approaching the stop and, if I paused I would have to wait another twenty minutes for another, I do not know.  However, I did and in that moment in the frigid winter of 1949, I altered my course forever. (more…)

‘Sharma Lon’ by Guest Poet Candice James

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

I dreamed of a mystical land in lost sea.

As I walked the shoreline of eternity,

Waves danced with sand beneath my bare feet.

The aroma of palm trees drifting to meet me

As I took my leave to Sharma Lon. (more…)

‘Homeward Bound’ by Jesse Langley

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Guest Author Jesse Langley

It was a cold and slushy early March evening when I finally got my battered suitcase packed.  I had passed the winter days writing, studying and working on my online MBA.  Not having to trundle out into the winter to class every day was nice and my apartment was warm.  But I’d endured three solid months of gray skies, dirty gray slush and gray granite buildings.  I could not handle another day of gray.

And then yesterday it hit me; I didn’t have to stay here.  Everything I was doing here could be done with my laptop and a broadband connection.  I could literally go anywhere and still pursue my education.  Gray clouds scudded low towards the east as I stuffed my suitcase and laptop into the small front trunk of my old red 1973 Porsche 914 and headed south. Sitting in the cracked vinyl driver’s seat, I looked at my map to find the farthest point south I could get to.

Key West, Florida looked the most likely.  I re-counted the money I had stashed away in an old tube sock.  $400.  It was enough to last for a while if I avoided impulse spending and encountered no problems with the Porsche.  I fired up the car and eased out through the frozen mud and slush and into the street.  Ice chunks bumped against the underbelly of the car as I drove carefully toward the interstate and pointed the car south.  (more…)

‘A Season of Drake’ by Guest Author David Rhodes

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011
Guest Author David Rhodes

Guest Author David Rhodes

Part 1

 That particular summer brought not only a natural change of seasons, but a hurried season of unlikely events that left the people of the small and cozy neighborhood bewildered, and taking a second look at the normal facade of the world around them they had so often taken for granted.

Though all the homes alongCrystal Avenuewere old (most were built in the forties and fifties), most were well kept enough to be homey, a satisfying abode for retirement, or someone escaping the seemingly inescapable problems of living in an apartment. The lawns and grounds along the street were well trimmed, products of an age in which weed eaters ruled. They buzzed and chewed like angry wasps, and it was often difficult for one to sleep in on a Sunday, as the air would be filled with their insect buzzing, along with the monotonous drone of two or three lawnmowers at any given time.

Thad could not remember the last time he’d been toSaltLake, except the years when he and his family had lived there in the early years, when his father had been alive. After Thomas Wendt had died of heart failure and laid to rest in the small but lovelyTaylorCemetery, with a large, beautiful headstone that only missed one thing – Abby Wendt’s date of death. After Thomas had died, the family had fallen to pieces, became dysfunctional, or maybe it had already been that way. Only Thad (his mother Abby still had insisted on calling him Thaddeus – it carried with it an air of influence, she had claimed) and his mother had managed to hold things together, at least between themselves, while Thad’s two older brothers, Markus and Samuel, had selfish dreams and goals that held no room for meaningless family affairs. (more…)