Graveyard Shift by Alex Morgan

Graveyard Shift
by Alex Morgan


Pauline wrapped her arms around her tighter in an effort to keep warm. “How long do we have to stay out here for your stupid fraternity initiation ritual?” she asked Bob. The night chilled the graveyard and the monolith they leaned against was even colder and hard. His arm over her shoulders provided little comfort.

Pauline gasped and grabbed Bob’s arm. “Over there! I saw something move.” She pointed to a large tombstone that appeared grey in the dark cemetery.

“It’s just your imagination, so relax” he replied with irritation in his voice.

She glanced back up at the granite figure of an angel carved into the stone. It reached with arms outstretched and a benevolent smile as if to welcome the dearly departed back home. However angelic it was meant to be, Pauline’s blood ran cold at the sight of it. In the light of day, it was probably very serene and comforting, but in the dark, it looked nothing of the sort.

“Just until dawn,” Bob replied as if that even was a few minutes away. Pauline checked her wristwatch in an instinctive move. It was too dark to see but she figured it was only midnight.

Great. Only six hours to go, she thought with growing unease inside her. How did I let myself get talked into this? I could be back in my room studying for Monday’s chemistry test, which I’ll probably flunk now.

“Legend has it that whoever spends the night next to this gravesite will be found the next morning, dead and lying in the arms of that angel.” Bob said, snapping her out of her thoughts. He jerked a thumb in its direction but didn’t look up as if afraid to lock eyes with it. “What a load of crap.”

Pauline responded but without much conviction. “I thought the legend only applied to children out here. The angel is said to protect them by taking them to heaven. My question is protecting them from what?”

He shrugged. “That’s why we don’t have anything to worry about.” Bob said. “We’re not children any more.” He squeezed her tighter.

“Have any of your fraternity brothers actually known anyone who died out here?” She made no effort to hide the disdain in her voice.

“I doubt it. That’s why they make this part of the initiation. To see who isn’t scared by some stupid legend. Come on, let’s make out while we’re waiting.” He leaned over to plant a kiss on her lips, but a faint noise above them stopped him. They looked up at the direction of the sound.

“What was that?” Pauline gasped.

“I don’t know,” Bob responded. “I don’t see anything.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. After a few seconds, the sound didn’t repeat. Pauline realized she was holding her breath and let out a loud sigh of relief.

“Are you scared?” Bob’s smile taunted her.

She glanced at him just long enough to give him a scowl and then looked back at the angel. “Wait a minute,” she said. “The angel’s hands have changed.”

Bob craned his neck to see. “You’re imagining things.” He tried to pull her close to him but she pushed away.

“I am not!” She pointed up. “The hands were facing up. Now they’re palms down. And it’s eyes are looking at us. Before, they were staring out into the cemetery.”

“Will you stop it?” Bob snapped. “It’s all in your mind. Just calm down.”

Pauline did not believe she was hallucinating but allowed him to pull her close to him. Angry that Bob had dismissed her concerns so leisurely, Pauline decided against saying anything more. Fury replaced her fear and gave rise to thoughts reconsidering her relationship with him. If he was so cavalier about something as mundane as this, what would he do if it were something really important?

Another sound, louder than the first, interrupted her thoughts. She looked up in surprise. The angel’s benevolent smile was replaced by a maniacal sneer. The fingers, once delicate and welcoming, were now hooked into claws as it reached down. A scream died in Pauline’s throat as it grabbed her in a cold iron grip.

Word Count: 700

Alex Morgan is a published author of Gay Erotica who is multifaceted as he's adept at writing horror and comedy, not to mention numerous articles to his credit.

You may read more by this talented author here. 

© Copyright Alex Morgan 2011. All rights reserved. 

Alex Morgan has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Stylish Blogger Award Finds Knight Chills

 Stylish Blogger Award Finds Knight Chills

I know Knight Chills is not just about horror.  Our readers may enjoy a good scary tale, a chilling poem, but they also look forward to romance and passion.  Thrilling suspense, mystery and a little Science Fiction also make an appearance on this fun blog.  

Let's face it, I do my best to entertain and when possible inform my readers.  I like to think I keep things simple.  That's why my friend and Knight Chills contributor, Carole Gill, surprised me by bestowing this award.  Perhaps in the past I used to dress in three piece suits, but now I prefer jeans and a t-shirt.  With that said, I'd like to thank Carole for thinking about Knight Chills.  As luck would have it, the award comes with strings attached.  

Here they are: 

I must write seven things about myself and I must thank the person who gave it to me. 

Also I must nominate ten bloggers to receive the award.

Thank you, Carole.  You can find her blog here and here goes:

Seven things about myself:


1. I prefer writing to doing almost anything else.


2. If you were to cut me, I'd probably bleed coffee. 


3. My dark Muse has been hit with a romantic bug. 


4. I live in the Caribbean yet I hardly spend any time on a beach. Shame on me!


5. Each Knight Chills contributor has inspired me to keep writing. 


6. I love interacting with my readers.


7. Hope sustains me, although the coffee would argue that caffeine does it. 


Now for the ten bloggers:

http://authorpoppet.wordpress.com/

http://biola-ephesus-ephesus.blogspot.com/

http://jemimavalentino.blogspot.com/

http://jezrisworld.blogspot.com/

http://mytressa.blogspot.com/


http://adriananoir.blogspot.com/

http://mpaxauthor.blogspot.com/

http://raneedillon.blogspot.com/

http://lilamunro.weebly.com/

http://authorsonshow.blogspot.com/


All right now: Go visit these great blogs and tell them Nomar sent you. ;-)


I'll see you on the dark side.


Nomar Knight

A Stranger Among Men

This is what the character saw .

A Stranger Among Men

By Nomar Knight

To be trapped within human skin is depressing.  A different breed of man walks the snow filled streets of New York in search of the ultimate vision.  Everywhere he turns the promise of adventure— less than a stone's throw from his ragged life form.  As he flies out of his body the view of rugged walkers, pouncing on packed ice, shifts to a concrete ant farm.  Busy humanoid insects scurry to and fro, all with a specific purpose.  Some with survival on their minds, but most dilly about lost in their world of problems and aspirations.  Sensing he’d get blown away with the angry wind, he pops back into his borrowed host, his skin warm as gloves cover hands, boots protect feet.  

At first he moves toward a large window.  Sea creatures displayed in barrels, waiting for the humans to consume them, reminds him of the natural law of life.  The weak succumb to the strongest.  Stuck in the land of earthlings with nothing but a fragile host to maintain him, he sloshes across the icy walkway, wondering the significance of his journey.  

“Get out of the way!”  

A miniature female with hunched back and a walking stick shoves him aside.  Before he could inquire as to her pressing manner, she sneers at him and utters, “Damn slow foreigners.” 

He continues along the narrow shoveled path, dancing off patches of ice as if hitting the ground will be the end of him.  He stops in front of another large display window.  The red sign above it reads 99 ¢.  He enters the store and is immediately greeted by a smiling gentleman with narrow eyes.  In the land he’s in, he notices many humans have the same features.  In addition to the eyes, they appear smaller than he in size.  Soft black hair covers their scalp.  Most of them wear hats, others hoods.  He wears a black hat covered by a skull hood sweater.  

“Can I help you?”  

A soft voice gets his attention.  A woman with shiny black hair and narrow eyes grins.  

Sound.  He needs to generate sound out of his mouth like the rest of them.  “Just observing.”  He rubs a gloved finger against his throat. 

He spots a pale green box.  Upon opening it, he discovers two brass balls.  He thinks about eating one, but decides against it.  Just then, he hears voices booming by the front of the store.  

“I ain’t paying for nothing.” A thin, dark skinned male waves dismissively at the older gentleman. 
 

“You pay or I call police!”

The young brute flattens the old man with one kick.  The lady, who moments earlier offered hospitality, screams obscenities at the violent offender.    

Out of sheer instinct, the observer decides the two balls are not for nourishment.  He flings one of them at the disturber of peace and strikes him on his right temple.  The kicker of old men drops as if his life is plucked away by an angry god.  

The observer pockets the other ball and leaves the worried patrons as he rushes back into the cold street.  While he stumbles along China Town and makes his way to a section called Little Italy, filled with places for humans to dine, he surmises that the concrete jungle is not designed to withhold all this snow.  

-          552 words

These were a few observations I made on my journey through New York’s China Town.  Real life isn’t so bad.  The real villains weren’t the people, but the dreaded snow packed ice, slush, and slick streets of the concrete jungle.   

After all the holiday eating, I welcomed the opportunity to lose a few pounds.  

Don’t worry, I didn’t harm anyone.  I think. 

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2010. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills presentation.

Charmed: Interview with Biola Olatunde, Author of Blood Contract

The gifted Biola Olatunde

Hello Knight Chills readers.  

My name is Biola Olatunde

I have been writing since the seventies, I have about 300 or more plays produced for television and about the same for radio. Went into the broadcasting business in 78 and have been writing since then.

I wrote a couple of television series (104 for radio and television) for United Nations population Fund (UNFPA) on sex education, parent/child communication strategies and it was aired on all television stations in my country Nigeria on local, regional as well as National television and radio network. In its second year the Canadian International Development Agency CIDA partnered with UNFPA to sponsor the series for a second year. I also have produced radio plays on democracy and maternal health for USAID within the south west of my country. I am actually always writing plays, novels, poems for people as well. It is a spontaneous thing. I just write. I have always been involved with social drama series that I use as an instrument to hope for change. You might call me a quiet activist for change in the human being. I have self published a collection of poetry, 3 volumes in fact and then decided if I could in any way see what the outside world thinks of my poetry and if it is worth publishing. I submitted some collections to Xoxo publishing and was gratified when they accepted it and had it published. I also have a novel, BLOOD CONTRACT, by another publishing house too on amazon.com

1.       Tell us about your latest book. 

     Hmm.. my latest book will be my collection of poems “MEMORIES OF A FORGOTTEN SLUMBER”

2.       How did you get started as a writer?

You would laugh… I was bored as I grew up some kind of a loner. I never felt lonely, just kind of liked being with myself more and will stare at people and weave stories around them. My head of programmes one day asked out of curiosity what I was writing and I showed it to her. She had it produced and I got paid. I was puzzled and became interested in writing. I thought I was just having fun with poetry. My career as a writer took off from there.

3.       What’s a typical day like for you?

A typical day would be me trying to put them [most of the stories or poems] in my head. Sometimes I see a person and a poem about the person jumps into my head and I write it down sometimes, if I could, while I am doing other chores.

4.       What do you like most about reading and writing?

The opportunity to learn something. The opportunity to peep into another creativity and be immersed in another world. The wonder of a world I dream of and my willingness to learn from another perspective and see my reaction to it. Perfection is the union of so many elements and I wish to experience that.

5.       Which author influenced you the most? 

It will be the English writer Somerset Maugham. There is a calmness and hidden sarcasm to what he writes. He became my role model at a very early age, and for a woman it is Bessie Head; a South African writer who fired me to identify my soul.

6.       Tell us 3 interesting things about you.

Well wouldn’t know if they could be called interesting. 

1.       I like music, all types of beautiful music and it transports me making me write my best pieces I think.

2.       I like nature and live in the country here in Nigeria.

3.       Friends tend to say, I am humorous, can crack a joke and rarely lose my temper but when I do I could be awful they say. 

7.       Would you say you write specifically for one genre and if not, what’s your favorite genre to write?

Well for one I am not really keen on horror! But I did write some horror plays and productions before as I had been one of the followers of Stephen King and Dennis Wheately. As I got older and saw that there was enough horror in the way we treat ourselves, and intolerance had gotten to horrific levels, I did not wish to inflict that also on the collective human soul as I felt we have more than enough already. However I am not good at romance either, generally human interest issues, injustice, and the realities of human existence, spirituality gets me so I write about those. Don’t know a thing about science but I write social commentaries. My latest novel a fictional crime/adventure genre is actually a social commentary on the Niger Delta of my country.

8.       Best and worst part of being a writer?

Best part of being a writer? Wow, I could get lost in a world devoid of politicians, and see the possibility to persuade Man to see himself in a better world. The worst part? The reading culture is practically dead in my country and writers here get little recognition. We have all gone materialistic, yes we need to eat but where do we leave the quality of life?

9.       Advice to writers?

A writer is a dreamer; he must learn to be on close terms with the lonely crag of his dreams. He must accept that the validity of his visions can only be underwritten with the practicality of his surroundings. He must dream dreams but he must weave with the pragmatic wool of a knowledge of his tool and the people. He must be willing to challenge the reader to dare to look himself in the mirror and find himself. He must paint utopia but also show that real people live there too. The myth is tempting that writers become rich, failure too is non performance of a responsibility. If you are writer, it is a long lonely road sometimes to a nod of recognition but the Muse is a hard taskmaster and you are only as good as your last. You should strive to be better. Writers live forever and immortality therefore is a very potent addictive drug.

10.   Interesting story about writing

I could share one small anecdote. When I was writing the teenage series for UNFPA, the director of photography assumed I was the mother of one of the young actors and gave me stories of how he planned on taking the writer of the series out on a date. He regaled me with all the antics that cameramen get up to and asked me the name of the actor who was my child. Then the producer came in and smiled saying he was pleased that the director was getting acquainted with me. He smiled and asked when he could get to know the writer saying she would be an exciting young lady since she wrote in the language of young persons and he hinted he was looking forward to an association, He almost fell over in a faint when the producer pointed at me as the writer. A writer’s mind can be young or interesting and had nothing to do with age. He could not get over his shock for a long time. Before the first quarter was over, he was seeking advice from me about his two daughters.

Love the book cover!

Wow! Now all our Knight Chills readers can see why I've been mesmerized by this charming, master poet.  Thanks for taking the time to answer these questions for Knight Chills.  Biola, I wish you continued success in everything you do. 

Nomar Knight 

© Copyright Biola Olatunde 2011. All rights reserved. 

Biola Olatunde has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

 

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2011. All rights reserved. 

A Knight Chills author interview.

Edge of Madness

Edge of Madness

By Nomar Knight

So close to the edge of madness

Afraid of losing myself in your soul

Mustn't give in to sadness

Have to keep hiding this hole

Wore the mask for so long

Not sure who I am anymore

The line between right and wrong

Obscured by the one I adore

Like a thief you stole my heart

Exposed what I was lackin’

Said we needed a fresh start

And my walls began a crackin'

Gasping for one last breath

To hold a steady pace

But I'm on the verge of death

Afraid of what I must face

I'm near the edge of madness

Looking for any excuse

A myth this thing called gladness

Was it all just a terrible ruse?

Reflecting on my mistakes

The answers hurt so much

And this withered heart aches

I’m in isolation’s deep clutch

I need to be saved

By your loving breath

But the walls never caved

Cause I'm scared to death

Without you nearby I'm left

Unprotected from passion's grip

I stand a victim of theft

A naked passing ship

Those magnificent eyes

Send shivers down my spine

They seal our loving ties

Say you’ll always be mine

There's magic in your touch

Oh it feels so right

Forever in your clutch

The fear is lost to light

Close to the edge is crazy

Somehow I can’t recall

Why I was afraid

For with you I stand tall

Hold me, show me how

Falling won’t kill me

Leap over the edge now

Breathe and set us free

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2010. All rights reserved. 

A Knight Chills presentation.

 

For One Stop Poetry: here 

Catch the Journey: Review of Biola Olatunde’s Memory of a Forgotten Slumber

Catch the Journey: Review of Biola Olatunde’s Memory of a Forgotten Slumber

By Nomar Knight

Memories are scenes which unfolded in our past, full of love and misery.  It is a road that should lead to a path of self-discovery.  For some it is a welcomed journey, where time travel is made possible.  An honest look into the past may allow us to grow, giving us something to look forward to in the future.  I believe by examining the past, we can avoid pitfalls in our present, or at the very least, learn how to react to what unfolds around us.  

To reminisce in poetic form is an art that’s been around for centuries.  I find poetry a refreshing form of literature which allows writers to pour the contents of their hearts into the printed page.  Some may say it’s the process of cutting a vein and bleeding verses on the page.  Either way, a poem should reveal something about its author whether it is bits and pieces of a life that resides in a cloud of memory, or an existence of how things used to be.  A poem should strike an accord with its reader, stirring up a kinship of sorts between souls that may never meet except in the presence of the piece created.  

In my dear friend Biola Olantunde’s latest poetic effort, Memories of a Forgotten Slumber, raw emotion helps the reader look into the author’s memory cloud and through dazzling poetry do we get to peak into a world that would have remained forever lost to us.  Biola’s poetic mastery literally forms links which chain two different worlds together, regardless of any cultural boundaries that may exist. Her unique view of a past etched with painful events makes this reader realize that for all the differences we may be conditioned to believe exists between people, we all want the same things—to enjoy life and leave a positive mark—before we go off into the stars. Through a series of poems, Biola Olatunde teaches us through what she terms “sublime lessons” that the truth about life is out there if we care to look deep enough.  

In retrospect, I took away from this book that life is a major learning process and through our interactions with others, we learn much about ourselves.  

I for one am happy to have purchased this book for I have a feeling I will be constantly reading the various poems, especially when something in life triggers a memory shared with the lovely and talented, Biola Olatunde.  

Knight Chills rates Memories of a Forgotten Slumber: 5 poetic stars out of 5. 

Click on the cover to visit Biola's website for more information about her and book ordering.

© Copyright Biola Olatunde 2010. All rights reserved. 

Biola Olatunde has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2010. All rights reserved. 

A Knight Chills book review.

A Sneak Peak at Poppet's Exploits

Yesterday you got an inside look at an exciting new author, Poppet.  Well, as promised here's a small taste of her Chapter 14 of Exploits.  


'Exploits' defines the difference between a relationship and a dictatorship. A psychological journey from naive to liberation, until she finally has the greatest love of all. Stefanie has played by the rules - now things are changing. Follow Stef's exploits from good girl to willing slave. She chucks the court shoes for stilettos. Wears hold up stockings, push up bras, and grows her hair long enough to tickle. How did this good girl get so bad? By meeting Gary - the moulder of clay. The condensed version of a dysfunctional relationship, and how it turned a good girl into a spineless victim of love. Gary has rules. Rules of 'engagement'. Isn't love supposed to be a battlefield? "You are drawn into Stefanie's predicament from the outset. The central premise of a woman being emotionally and, in some ways, physically abused by her partner is interesting and holds the reader's attention" - Harper Collins UK. 

For two blissful weeks I was rebellious. The crowd at work ranged from eighteen to twenty-three and they were all thankfully normal and in normal relationships.

Between Dianne, Julie, Selene and James, we had every ladies night plotted and planned. We knew up to what hour ladies could get in free, with a free drink to boot. We were booked every night of the week. I laughed, I flirted, I thrived like algae in sludge. My self-confidence just flourished, and I now knew without a doubt that I am not the ugliest girl in the room.

Unfortunately, the side effect of bonding with colleagues, is they find out why you’re suddenly single. Even some of the guys at work seemed ambitious about getting to know me. I was one of the crowd, these were my people. We worked together; we played together; on Friday nights after work, we drank together at the work bar.

But – I can’t stress this enough – one thing I knew I would never do again, is dress the way Selene dresses. We looked like wannabe prostitutes that night, and I did not like the way men just assumed that they could examine the merchandise. You know what I’m saying?

So, I’m happy. I honestly am. I still love Gary but we’re over. He phones me every day at work and every day I hang up on him. He crossed a line and I wasn’t that hard up that I needed to stay with a guy who not only made me feel like a cheap harlot, then stuffs around with other women behind my back. I could not have tried any harder to please him. And my best obviously wasn’t enough. I wasn’t going to waste another day of my glorious life following the leader of the pack down the dry dusty road to hell.

Right, so I’ve been flirting up a storm the last two weeks. I’m hurt. I’m seriously not ready for a new Mr Right, but, flirting makes you feel so delicious. It validates that you’re not half bad. So on Thursday morning, when flowers arrive at work for me without a card, I have no idea who they’re from. Seriously.

All of the girls at work, ‘Ooh’ and ‘Aaah’. “Who are those from?”

I stare at the two dozen red roses making my desk look like a telephone table and shrug. “I have no idea!”

This day goes down in office history. I pick them up, move my trash can, and dump the whole lot into the bin underneath my desk.
In unison the ladies all exhale, “Gaaaaasp”

“You can’t do that!”

I smile at Frank, “Oh, yes I can!”

His girlfriend also works with me, and from across the office I hear Julie, “If you don’t want them, I’ll take them.”

I look at Frank for confirmation that this is in order. He nods and smiles, retorting back across the office, “Don’t say I never buy you flowers. I just organised for you!”

Julie literally skips to my desk, as I remove the flowers from my trash can and hand them to her. She even kisses me, “Thanks.”
She flounces to Frank and kisses him, “Hmmm, you are the best. I expect this every week from now on.”

The office is smiling when my phone rings. It’s the internal ring.

“Hello?”

“Stefanie, please come to reception.”

I’m suspicious, “Why?”

“You have more flowers.”

I roll my eyes, “Coming.”

I stalk off to reception and pick up pink Amaranths. No card. Just flippin great. Now I’m psychic too, have you noticed? I doubt the same guy sent both bouquets. Men! (To quote Mishi.)

I walk back to our open plan office and announce from the doorway, “Who would like these?”

Five chorus ‘Me!’ I place them down on the sign in table, “First one here gets them then.”

The entire office is laughing as the girls bolt for the flowers like a bunch of singles catching the bridal bouquet. Selene gets there first. I giggle as I walk back to my desk. She follows me and asks the question on everyone’s mind, “Who are they from?”

“God only knows! There’s no card!”

(I wonder if tarot cards work? A tall dark stranger will send you flowers …)

My boss raises her eyebrows. I suppose it doesn’t look that good to get flowers and not know who they’re from. Whatever.

My phone rings and I lunge, “Stefanie speaking, how may I help you?”

“Hello, gorgeous.”

Um … “Hello.”

I have no idea who I’m speaking to.

“Did you get my flowers?”

Um … crikey. I have no idea what to say here. I wing it. “Yes, they just arrived.” So I dig, “Why didn’t you send a card with it?”

“I did.”

Oh crap.

“Oh!” (Trying to sound surprised and flirty.) “I guess it fell off somewhere.”

He laughs. Oooh he does sound nice. I wonder who he is?

****

If you want to read the rest of the chapter click here 

Thanks for sharing this little teaser with us Poppet. 

I suggest to anyone reading this to click on the link and purchase the book.  You won't be disappointed.  

© Copyright Poppet 2010. All rights reserved. 

Poppet has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2010. All rights reserved. 

A Knight Chills presentation.