Avesso a entrevistas, o escritor curitibano Dalton Trevisan coleciona uma legião de fãs que cresce proporcional a sua aparente timidez. Quanto mais se recusa a aparecer, mais ansiosos por sua próxima obra crítica e público se tornam. E de fato, eles não irão se decepcionar com o inédito O Maníaco do Olho Verde (Record, R$ 28,00, 128 páginas), que chegou às livrarias na última sexta-feira, pela Record.

Para os fãs, o livro é um grato presente. Para os que ainda não são, é uma excelente iniciação à obra de um dos maiores escritores brasileiros. Em 26 contos, com uma linguagem mordaz e diálogos insólitos, o livro reúne o melhor do estilo enigmático e enxuto do autor. Vencedor do Prêmio Portugal Telecom 2003 com Pico na Veia, Dalton prova, a cada novo trabalho, porque é um dos mais renomados contistas brasileiros contemporâneos.

O Maníaco do Olho Verde é composto por textos enxutos que retratam a realidade e a condição humana, onde a miséria, o desemprego e o desespero diante da desesperança provocam humilhações, medo, amargura e exploração sexual. Pelas páginas do livro passeiam noivos pernetas, prostitutas, ladrões, assassinos, pessoas humildes, marginalizadas, sem oportunidade ou opção.

O tal maníaco , que dá nome a um dos contos e ao livro, é um homem normal a não ser por uma estranha fixação: sexo. Doença ou tara, o fato é que bastava ser mulher para atrair seus assustadores olhos verdes: “Me diga. Que culpa tenho eu? Assim fui nascido. Simples capricho do Senhor Deus. Sei lá, o mau sangue dos pais. Uma praga do capeta desgracido. Podem me condenar, babacas e bundões. O que eu faço? Tudo o que vocês gostariam. Eu sou um de vocês”.
>> REVISTA O GRITO!

Mas Gaiman tem outros talentos para além da banda desenhada. Seu “Stardust” (1998) virou filme em 2007. O autor também assina, junto com Roger Avary, o roteiro de Beowulf além de outras produções menos conhecidas.

Mas há os livros… Um monte deles! A Conrad tem lançado no Brasil a obra de Gaiman em edições impecáveis. Confira “Lugar Nenhum” (1997), “Deuses Americanos” (2001) e “Filhos de Anansi” (2005).

O mais novo lançamento é “Coisas Frágeis” (204 pp., R$ 38) que é lançado por ocasião da participação do autor na edição 2008 da Feira Literária Internacional de Paraty (FLIP). É a terceira vez que Gaiman vem ao Brasil e desta vez participa da mesa “A mão e a luva” no evento literário mais badalado do país.

“Coisas Frágeis” é um livro de contos em que o autor passeia por climas tão diversos quanto Matrix, Sherlock Holmes ou Nárnia. A “mistura” inclui puberdade, punk rock e ficção científica em “Como Conversar com Garotas nas Festas”, combina Conan Doyle com H. P. Lovecraft em “Um Estudo em Esmeralda” e visita a Matrix em “Golias” (que é inspirado no roteiro original do primeiro filme).
>> OUTRA COISA - por Eduardo Santos

O livro é composto por nove contos e mistura puberdade, punk rock e ficção científica em “Como conversar com garotas nas festas”; combina o Sherlock Holmes de sir Arthur Conan Doyle com o terror de H. P. Lovecraft em “um estudo em esmeralda”, e extrapola o mundo de Matrix em “Golias”, inspirado no roteiro original do primeiro filme.

A publicação é um tratado prático de como escrever boas histórias – histórias que, como diz a introdução do livro, “duram mais que todas as pessoas que as contaram, e algumas duram muito mais que as próprias terras onde elas foram criadas”.

Leia um trecho

A animação foi criada por Joss Whedon e contou com as vozes da maioria do elenco da série original, menos Sarah Michelle Gellar, a própria Buffy, que não aceitou participar da versão animada pois preferiu investir em sua carreira cinematográfica. Giselle Loren fez a voz de Buffy neste video e em dois games da série. As demais vozes são de Alyson Hannigan (Willow), Anthony Stewart Head (Giles) e Nicholas Brendon (Xander). Foram escritos entre seis e sete roteiros, mas apesar de terem conseguido financiamento, a produção não conseguiu um canal para ser exibida e foi cancelada.
>> TV SÉRIES - por Fernanda Furquim

A obra, um romance paranormal, vai à venda ainda em agosto com tiragem inicial de 350 mil cópias. O vídeo, que foi produzido por uma equipe de Hollywood, é de 33 segundos de duração e já suscitou comentários dos telespectadores como "eu mal posso esperar para este livro chegar em minhas mãos" e "eu estou tão ansioso pelo livro.
>> PUBLISHnEWS - por Publishers Weekly

Considerando que o roteiro estava pronto desde 1966, esse é o filme que levou 40 anos para sair do papel. Atualizado para os novos tempos, o autor do personagem Zé do Caixão acredita que “atingiu o limite da sua criatividade”, e que esse longa “é a prova de que o gênero terror no Brasil é viável”. Uma quebra de tabu – não sem antes apavorar a equipe de filmagem que assistiu durante nove semanas toda a sorte de danação possível: uma mulher saindo de dentro de um porco morto, uma figurante empolgada que pede para costurarem de verdade sua boca, um ouriço humano com quase mil agulhas cravadas pelo corpo (essa cena não entrou na versão final), suspensão de gente por ganchos cravados na pele e o cheiro horrível que tomava conta do set.
Certamente bem mais assustador que o próprio filme.

Como disse o Mojica na pré-estréia: “Que o cosmo ilumine seus passos e prestem atenção nos diálogos”!

Mojica, porque essa obsessão com o ‘filho perfeito’?
A idéia do filho perfeito é que a mente do Zé acredita em hereditariedade do sangue. Na lógica dele, ele quer alguém que pensa como ele, e crê que através de um filho ele poderá ser eterno.
Por isso ele testa e analisa as mulheres com quem quer ter um filho, para saber se são inteligentes.
Para o Zé do Caixão não importa se 300 pessoas morrem em um acidente – porque se são pessoas inferiores são um estorvo. Para ele basta salvar apenas um ser que seja superior. Porque ele precisa de mais gente para salvar o mundo. E para isso, nesse filme ele deixa sete mulheres grávidas.

Mas como salvar o mundo se ele é o Demônio?
O povo chama o Zé de demônio porque não entendem ele. O Zé é cético, não crê em nada, é ateu.

Mas ele é sádico.
Ele é frio. Como ele não ama, ele também não odeia. É como cobra – se você não passa na frente, ela não pica. No filme ele mata quem atrapalha o caminho dele.
Ele é assim pelo fato de ter sofrido quando volta da II Guerra, tendo lutado como um pracinha, e encontra sua noiva com uma autoridade da cidade. Ele não perdoa e mata os dois. Fica revoltado porque o Brasil não valoriza seus heróis.
Essa é a origem do Zé do Caixão que será lançada em HQ.

Algo a ver com o seu cinema ser considerado trash...
Consideram meu cinema ‘ trash’ aqui, mas não é trash. Conto isso na Europa e nos Estados Unidos e eles ficam revoltados. Lá eles me dão valor. O que antes era chamado de trash hoje pode ser chamado de cult.

Você se considera underground?
Não. Me considero um autodidata. Aprendi tudo sozinho. Morava no fundo de um cinema e procurei fazer uma linguagem própria, que já foi chamada de ‘marginal’, ‘primitiva’, ‘udigrudi’ – são tantos nomes que já me deram. Mas eu digo que faço ‘cinema de invenção’, porque inventei o que já estava inventado de uma maneira econômica, de baixo orçamento, economizando nos negativos por exemplo.

Você fez um terror genuinamente brasileiro.
Sim eu procuro mostrar o Brasil. Luto por isso. Por isso nos meus filmes tem macumba, misticismo, favela... É o que os europeus, americanos e asiáticos querem ver.

Você acredita em Deus?
Acredito em Deus, sou católico, mas não sou praticante. Carrego em minha casa São José, e a Virgem Maria Nossa Senhora, em que me apego e sou socorrido.

É a força do cosmo?
A gente não tem idéia para onde vai quando morre, se é um mundo paralelo, uma outra dimensão, outra galáxia. A luz do cosmo é infinita, é a maior força. Espero que lá tenha vida.

E o lançamento no dia 08/08/08?
Preciso do cinema lotado, no dia 08, 09 e 10. Não deixem de ir. Quis concorrer com as Olimpíadas. E acho que eles estão com medo.
>> TERRA MAGAZINE - por Paula Guedes

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tor, Oct 2008, $27.95

ISBN: 9780765319814

In 1704 vampire Count Saint-Germain is in Saint Petersburg, which is being built by Russian laborers under the direction of elite European specialists.  Saint-Germain directs the construction of machinery to drain the marshes so that building can commence.  He is to observe and report all that is going on in the city to the King of Poland. 

 Saint-Germain is pretending to be the missing Arpad Arco-Tolvay. Zozia, who is the real Arpad’s wife, pretends to be a married to Saint-Germain so as a couple they can fit in easier with the horde of other foreign nationals flooding the construction site. She has her own orders from Poland’s king to carry out. They are there less than a week when Saint-Germain is attacked and left for dead.  A second assault affirms what he already knew that someone wants him dead, but he has no idea as to who or why as he has not been around long enough to have made enemies.  More troubles follow when Lajos Rogoczi arrives insisting that Saint-Germain is dead and as such he owns the properties in Russia.  Saint-Germain has to prove Lajos is a lying imposter without giving away his identity.

Reading about Saint Petersburg being built on top of a swamp is fascinating as politicians and their retinue arrives allegedly as a display of diplomatic support to the Tsar, but in actuality to spy on the Russians and one another.  Saint-Germain is his usual urbane self even when he allows Zozia to order him around.  A DANGEROUS CLIMATE is Chelsea Quinn Yarbro at her outstanding best as the thirty-seven hundred years old vampire, star of a zillion novels, is caught in quite a conundrum.

Harriet Klausner

            But there were cell phones, video games and the simple New York City habit of minding your business. No one paid any mind to the man with the new black eyes, or anyone else for that matter.

            Until he grabbed the head of the old man in front of him, and pushed stiff index fingers into both eye sockets. He pushed while the old man screamed, bewildered and terrified. It took a few seconds for the crowd on the train to figure out what was happening, but they did and quickly ran to either side, away from the man who was now knuckle-deep into the old man’s skull. With a whimper, the old man died, but not before filling the hot train car with the acrid smell of urine combined with feces. His body dropped to the floor when the guy in the suit let him go.

            Holding out hands covered in blood with bits of the old man’s brains stuck under his fingernails, the guy in the suit turned to look at the others on the train. Some were crying but most were too shocked to give any sort of response. When he had their attention, the guy in the suit lifted his right foot and pounded down hard on the back of the dead old man’s skull, smashing it like a watermelon and sending blood and brains all over the train – some of which stuck to the pants of others who were close enough to catch it. Later, one witness would find some of the debris in the cuff of his pants and promptly vomit.

            Before anyone had the wherewithal to pull the emergency brake cord, the train came to the next station. The guy in the suit calmly walked out and disappeared into the crowd.

That was a question posed to the character, James Farmer, Jr. (Denzel Whitaker), in the movie "The Great Debaters", by his father, James Farmer, Sr. (Forest Whitaker). Junior's father was a pastor and was preparing a sermon when Junior walks in the door and has this question thrown at him.

So, how would you answer the question, "What is the greatest weakness of man?"

In life I have heard and experienced many answers to this question. We have all heard or thought answers such as, "Greed!", "Laziness!", "Just not thinking!", "Lust!", "The Devil!", "Simply a limited physical being!", "Death!", "Sex!", "The opposite sex!", "Money!", "The love of money!", and there are poentially a million more reasons.

Junior looked a his father in a thoughtful way, and in just a few short seconds came up with the CORRECT, Christ-centered answer, in an ironically doubtful way:

"Not believing? Doubt?"

"That's it! Thank You Jr.!", said his father, "Matt 14:31!"

 This is a Christ-centered answer because it is the point Jesus Christ kept making about humanity's fall, time and time again! Matthew 8:26, Mark 4:40, Luke 9:41, John 16:9 .

Now, don't be too discouraged if you know that you lack faith in Jesus! You could ONLY lack faith in one area of life because you have STRONG faith in another! You definitely have faith in something, even if it is in the false belief that you have no faith! :-) You also need not be discouraged because EVERY human being, except Jesus, lacks sufficient faith apart from Jesus sharing his with us! Luke 18:8!

The Encouragingly Good News is that you do not have to worry about trying to work up the faith that satisfies God! It has been given to you graciously in Jesus, Who is having faith for you, and sharing that measure of faith with you even now! Romans 12:3, Gal 2:20, Hebrews 12:2!

Can you believe and embrace that?! Yes, you can! Because, in Jesus Christ, you have been given nothing less than every spiritual blessing! Ephesians 1:3-6! "Every spiritual blessing" certainly INCLUDES Jesus' exact faith! Ephesians 2:4-10!

Here is a link to the most popular post on this site, which further emphasizes this MAJOR point! Be encouraged!

Sherrilyn Kenyon's website has the answer we seek:  "You want to know what a Dark-Hunter is? We are what the intro says. We're Mad, Bad and Immortal. We're ancient warriors with attitudes who fight rough, and play hard."

Now I ask you, if that's the author's official  summary of the Dark Hunter series, then what need is there for a scathing review? Nevertheless, if you need more insight, here's an official video to promote the 12th book in the Dark Hunter series Archeron.

Based upon what I've read, its good pulpy romantic vampire fiction, "good" being a relative term, and "pulpy" not.  Imagine an unchaste version of The Twilight Saga.  I don't what it is about the women who like to read the Dark Hunter series and these types of novels, but the underlying theme seems to be that its easier to love a man when he's dead.  These Scathing Book Reviews of Fantasy Lover think the series is best classified as "comedy" or "horror":

This odious books is one of the WORSE reads I've ever come across. I am astonished it was published, let alone, rated so highly by other readers.

...and:

All I can say is WOW!...After reading this book, all I could do was laugh (and feel my IQ evaporating).

...and:

This book is supposed to take place in 2002 and yet one finds one self being thrown right back to the 80's where we (let us just admit it) had no style, no taste, no understanding of quality what so ever.

...and:

Goofy, thinly disguised porn, but sort of fun if what you want is sex scenes. More "hot" than plot--Just don't buy it for character development.

...and:

I could have overlooked [the] ridiculous characterizations were it not for the dialogue. At one point, the 29 year old heroine admonishes the hero with this crushing setdown: "Whoa, Buster!" Or how about this gem? "Holy Guacamole!" I know one woman who says things like that--my 84 year old grandmother. No sexy, current, PhD speaks like this. I know, because I am a sexy, current PhD.

...and at least one redeeming quality:

l will tell you what was good about this book. The hero is a Spartan Warrior. Awesome! Remember Brad Pitt as Achilles in "Troy"?

...and some good points, with the inevitable bemoaning of American literary standards:

There are so many things wrong with this book, I don't even know where to start. Right away I have a problem with a sex therapist who hasn't had sex in years and has never had a satisfying sexual experience. Perhaps she should consider some other line of work?... Honestly, I can't understand the American reading public. Why is this book such a hit? Is this what passes for literature these days? Have our standards dropped so low? It is embarrassing.

-Jason

[vodpod id=ExternalVideo.655190&w=425&h=350&fv=clip_id%3D1420717%26server%3Dwww.vimeo.com%26autoplay%3D0%26fullscreen%3D1%26md5%3D%26show_portrait%3D0%26show_title%3D0%26show_byline%3D0%26context%3D%26context_id%3D]

Release Date: 7 January 2006 (Japan)
Director: Takashi Shimizu
Genre: Horror

-

Rinne (aka Reincarnation) could be classified in the recently emerged 'J-Horror' genre. By now even western audiences are familiar with this style of film's major cliche; the Japanese ghost or "Yurei" - a long-haired, white-faced malevolent spirit, often in the form of a little girl.

Although Rinne does make use of this specific cliche and other style markers of the genre, it differs from most J-Horror movies in a few key ways and in the end, goes beyond just another post Ringu Japanese horror release.

In a plot reminiscent of "The Shinning", the horrible murder of 11 hotel guests by a disturbed university professor is repeating itself 30 years after the fact. Although the film is most definitely horror, at times it appears as if it may mutate into a mystery, as we are led to wonder at the reason for the repetition of events and the motive for the original murder. This uncharacteristic mix of genres grants the film greater depth then it would otherwise have.

The movie does its mystery component justice by revealing important details gradually throughout its run time, rather than dumping a load of loose logic at end to wrap a poorly conceived plot. Only when the credits start rolling does the audience fully understand the twists and turns of Rinne's well paced and not entirely predictable plot.

Rinne further marks its self apart from some of its contemporaries by losing any over-the-top gore, and tightening coherency of a complex story while retaining a potency of horror that its Hollywood counter-parts have long since lost.

That being said, this film contains some of the most tried (or perhaps tired?) and true horror tricks of the last 30 years; creepy ghost children, psychics and an evil doll. Director Takashi Shimizu simply finds new ways to use them, somehow making the old and familiar into the strange and unpredictable.

While the lead actress, "Yuka", does a surprisingly satisfactory job in her first ever role, most of the other young actors perform amateurishly.

Although fitting securely into the Japanese Horror design, Rinne's branching into mystery/thriller territory along with its new use of old tricks, coupled with the film's overall quality, gently breaks the mold of the genre and makes it a film well worth the price of rental.

7/10

I just have this feeling that these people are going to go - when they're dead - and St Peter's going to say:

"And what did you do with your life?"

"Well I looked at things other people did and I said "That doesn't really work. It works on maybe two levels but not satisfactorily on either, and to me it wasn't as good as the thing you did before."

"I'm sorry, that's what - I gave you two legs and two arms and a soul and you did that for all your life, you told people what was wrong with the stuff they were doing?"

And you know, I think it's just a terrible waste of a life.

(From an old Room 101, if you're interested - and interesting, if a little opinionated, is something Stephen Fry has never failed to be.  I will watch anything he's had a hand in; mancrush anyone?  More like a mindcrush...)

***

Predictably enough: I fear, Mr Fry, that we disagree.

Simply put, the act of criticism isn't necessarily negative.  There are good reviews as well as bad ones, although I'll make no promises as far as which of the two turn more heads.  To criticise is simply to look at something as objectively as you're able and offer an educated opinion on its worth.  In life, there's criticism at every turn.  It mightn't always be pleasant, or indeed valuable in any real sense, but if Stephen Fry hates critics, he has to hate teachers too, and parents.  But of course he doesn't.  There's a posh latin name for what I'm doing here, but I'm going to resist temptation for once.

In all seriousness, though, unless something is so awful it leaves me outright offended or appalled, I'll tend not to review it.  Most of the reviews I've had published have been pretty positive - often there'll be mention of a token few problems, but that's the game critics play, and you can hardly change it from the outside.  And even if you could, I don't know that I would.  I appreciate that even the worst films - the trashiest novels and the most derivitave music - I appreciate that however shitty something might end up being, someone out there created it, and very probably took pride in it; loved it a little, even.  And everything about art is subjective.  I might not have enjoyed Brutal Massacre: A Comedy, but it's plainly a labour of love, a poem (however misguided) to the horror subculture, and there are people out there, I'm sure, who will enjoy it.  I wouldn't want to dissuade those people from starting something that might well give them pleasure.  There's a line somewhere that I don't feel I've any greater right to cross than anyone else.  If it's for you, fair enough.  I'm having more trouble than usual at the moment with an article about Tana French's sophomore novel - I loved In The Woods despite myself, but The Likeness is outright ridiculous at times, cheap and contrarian.  And yet, most readers are enjoying it.  I know what the average Amazon rating is, and in my mind, let me say this outright: it's wrong.  But do I want to insult all the people that have obviously enjoyed it?  Not in the slightest.

The exceptions are your Hostel Part 2s, your Prince Caspians and so on.  When I feel I've been condescended to, or treated like lowest-common-denominator trash, you're damn right I'm going to express my opinion about it, scathing or otherwise.  When you build something not to be art or even entertainment, but very deliberately to be nothing more or less than successful, I start feeling a little off-colour.  When there's nothing redemptive at all in your book or your movie, when there's nothing besides calculated crowd-pleasing, I'll put aside my usual respectfulness and tear your eyesockets clean out.  Critically speaking.

Yes, Eli Roth, I mean you.  And that fucker what thinks Shrek makes him by any stretch a filmmaker - you too.  Keep your eyesockets close, gentlemen.

/rant

     St. Peter's Square was a sea of humans, sweating in the rich afternoon sun. The forepart was cordoned off and chairs were set up therein where the VIP sat - the rich, those who had made particularly generous donations to the church, politicians and high level ecclesiastic officials. Before these was set a stage, with a small body of cardinals seated thereon, including Gonzales, O'Malley and Zuccarelli. On the stage was a podium. To the right of the stage sat the Choir of Apostle St. Paul. Carabinieri were stationed around this area, standing with legs apart, looking menacingly self important. Beyond them was the surge of humanity, made up in a large part by the sick, the cripples, the mad; those who had come with desperate hope - the hope that Christ Jesus would remove their miseries through his miracles, through the hands of his emissary, Pope Lando the Second. Blind men stood, their heads tilted back, mouths agape. Others, cripple of limb, pressed themselves forward, eyes wild with frenzied optimism. Christian youth, from all parts of Europe, waved banners, shouted and sang, happy to mix with the oppressed and the dispossessed before the eyes of God.

     As the time approached for the Pope to make his appearance, Di Quaglio grew apprehensive. He had never seen, in his life time, such a torrent of people fill St. Peter's Square. He viewed many of them, those who had come with the mad desire to have their ills cured, little better than anarchists, and was extremely worried that they would cause trouble, or that some assassin would infiltrate their ranks, and find an easy target in the Primate of Italy. 

     "There are a great many sick in the square tonight," Di Quaglio said to the Pope. "I am not sure you should go out. There are far too many. We can make an excuse. We can say that you are indisposed."

     "Tell an untruth? For what reason?"

     "The situation out front is almost riotous. There are German teenagers chanting your name while a thousand cripples pound the pavement with their crutches."

     "All the more reason to make my appearance."

     "But many, - Many expect things. The sick seem to think you can help them, - heal them."

     "And you have no such faith?"

     "No man has more faith in you than I Summus Pontifex," Di Quaglio said seriously. "I am just not sure it is the dignified thing to do - to accommodate the riffraff."

     "The riffraff, as you call them, need to be ministered to as much as any other social group."

     "But there are ministers for that, you are the Pope."

     "Yes, I am the Pope. I am Lando the Second, the first minister on earth, Servus servorum Dei, the Servant of the Servants of God."

     He strode away. Near the door that led to St. Peter's Square Marco approached him. His features were soft and sad. He looked miserable.

     "The task is taken care of?" the Pope asked.

     "Yes."

     "And you are making further preparations? You have spoken with her?"

     "Yes, we have discussed it."

     Marco had a pouting, somewhat taciturn air about him. He was obviously upset. The Pope either did not notice or did not choose to notice his cousin's pathetic state.

Instead he simply nodded his head and stepped through the door. Two Swiss guards, Betschart and Meier, stood frozen and slightly hip-shot on either side, looking like they were snatched from a painting by Giorgione in their rich uniforms. The choir, upon seeing the Pope, rose from their seats and struck up Caelius Sedulius's delightful hymn titled A Sortis Ortus Cardine, their voices angelically spilling forth praises to Iusu natus es de Virgine.

     Pope Lando the Second stalked onto the stage and up to the podium. He stood still for two minutes, with his head bowed, until the coir completed its song. Those up front, who were seated in the cordoned off area, rose and gave a very tame, well mannered ovation. Behind them, the poor and sick roared like beasts. Men shouted his name vigorously, spraying spittle on those in front of them. Many raised their hands and spread their fingers wide apart, as if they would grab the heavens. Some tried to push their way through. A few clouds sailed before the sun, their shadows gliding over St. Peter's Square.

     The Pope spoke and a hush ran through the people. He began with a formal address dealing with general matters in broad terms. Those immediately before him seemed quite satisfied with the nature of the speech. The women and the politicians smiled complacently. The ecclesiastics looked on gravely, deeply absorbed, or at least feigning to be, in every hint of the language.

     Those in the rear, the plebeians who made up the vast majority of those present, were however not content with these generalities. They began to grow restless, particularly those who had come with specific grievances which they wildly hoped to be resolved. Occasional cries began to emerge from the back and the sea of people began to stir and push forward, like slowly rising waves. 

     Pope Lando the Second noticed the unrest.

     "I see before me battalions of sinners, an army of sufferers," he said addressing the crowd. "Many of you have been excluded from the joys of life; - most of you surely fear the terrors of death. You have come here, a great number of you capering like harlots, not so much to do your souls good, as to find relief from your miseries."

     A good number in the front rows cringed at the word harlot, though a few women smiled knowingly to themselves. They did not in the least mind having a young Pope who spoke so forcefully, and found his language to be rather attractive than otherwise.

     "I see that, today, we have sick here in great numbers. They have come seeking ministration from my hands, as from the hands of God the Almighty. You want to be touched by the finger of the Lord and absolved from your heinous sins."

     The shout of: "Heal me!" could be distinctly heard shoot out from the crowd.

    Cripples, the blind, the possessed, the deaf and the dumb, all found their way to the forepart of the crowd, pressing forward in a hideous swollen mass.  The carabinieri, fresh ones appearing on the scene as the situation advanced, interlocked arms and held them back. Those in the VIP section were visibly nervous. A number of women were constantly looking over their shoulders and seemed at any moment prepared to stand up and bolt should the dam break and the flood of sick pour through. O'Malley smiled and fingered his rosary. Zuccarelli looked especially pale and grave. The sky darkened and a few of the VIP women were stripped of their hats by a sudden gust of wind.

     The Pope spoke: "Ipso Deo in illis operante. With insturmentality there is miraculum. In the book of Daniel three children were lifted from the fiery furnace; in Acts Saint Peter was delivered from his prison. The holy relics, the mantle of Elias, the body of Eliseus, the handkerchiefs of Saint Paul, are miraculous as are the places, the Temple of Jerusalem, the waters of the Jordan, the Pool of Bethsaida."

     A woman shouted out from the crowd: "Heal me! - Oh heal me precious Lando!"

     She flailed herself madly forward, with wild, untame eyes, apparently unaware of her surroundings. 

     "Let her through," the Pope cried.

     O'Malley rose from his seat, swept forward, plucked the woman from the crowd and led her to the stage. It now became manifest that she was blind. O'Malley winked at the Pope as he set the woman before him.

     "What troubles you my child?" the Pope asked solemnly.

     "I am blind," she sobbed.

     "Such is the fate of man, as it is for the mole of the hill."

     "Heal me!" she cried frantically. "I have been blind for ten years. I have spent all my money on doctors, but without it doing any good! Please heal me!"

     The Pope replied: "If you had given to the poor what you have wasted on physicians, the true physician would have cured you."

     "Oh please Holy Father," she shrieked. "Pity me; pity me! Heal me!"

     The crowd joined in. "Heal her! Heal her!" it shouted frenetically.

     The Pope raised his hand. The crowd was silent. The sky grumbled.

    "I, as the Successor to Saint Peter, have a duty to go into the whole world and preach the truth to all creation. He that believes will be saved; he that does not believe will be condemned."

     "I believe in you Sir, - I believe!"

     The Vicar of Christ Upon Earth bent forward and spat into her eyes. She swooned back and was caught in O'Malley's arms. O'Malley chuckled, his thin Irish lips pressed together in a grin. The woman trembled and then, rousing herself, found her feet. She put her hand to her forehead and blinked, rapidly bat her eyelashes.

     "I can see! I can see!" she shouted hysterically, flailing her arms in the air. "I can see the light! I can see it clearly now!"

     Zuccarelli twisted uncomfortably in his seat. He was suspicious of the proceedings but also touched by the woman's zest. He however, as a highly suppressed individual, did not care for the public display of emotions. He watched as O'Malley led a young, long haired man, impaired with crutches, onto the stage. Tears flowed over his cheeks and, in a choked voice with a heavy Sicilian accent, he told of his infirmity and begged the Pope to interfere for him - to speak to the higher powers on his behalf and beg for their kindness.

     The Pope turned towards the crowd, raised his hands in the air, and spoke in a commanding voice:

     "All holy martyrs, Saint Sylvester, Saint Gregory, Saint Ambrose, Saint Augustine, Saint Jerome, Saint Martin, Saint Nicholas; all holy bishops and confessors; all holy doctors, Saint Anthony, Saint Benedict; all holy priests and levites; all holy monks and hermits, Saint Mary Magdalen, Saint Agatha; all holy virgins and widows; all holy saints of God, intercede for us. Be merciful."

    He touched the young man and he fell back. The crutches fell away. He rose, brushing his hair from before his eyes, and began to jump up and down, wildly upon the stage like a pathetic, disturbed child.

     "I'm free!" he cried, leaping. "I am free of sin!"

     Gonzales averted his gaze in disgust. He had seen similar scenes in America and Africa and to him it stunk of fanaticism. Certainly it attracted one desperate portion of the populace, but, in general, it scared the better sort of people away. He pursed his lips together and watched O'Malley snatch another case from the crowd.

     This time it was a woman, with a nest of salt and pepper hair done up in a bun on her head, and a young man. The woman prowled up to the stage, dragging the young man behind her. He was a lumbering, oafish sort of fellow, probably around sixteen years old. His body was enormous and his neck as thick as a woman's waist. He stared around him with the wild, dumb eyes of an animal.

     "He has the devil in him!" the woman shouted. "My son has the devil in him!"

     The boy's hair was in disarray; his mouth dropped open and a thick, swollen tongue lolled out. He looked like a hunted animal: scared and dangerous. The Pope approached, and the boy, wheeling his tongue over his chin, backed off, cowering.

     "Careful now," O'Malley warned.

     The Pope nodded.

     "What is your name?" he asked.

     The boy did not answer, but merely wrinkled up his nose.

     "Tell me by some sign your name!"

     The young man sprang up on tiptoe and craned his thick neck. The veins and tendons protruded, giving it the texture of an oak trunk. His eyes were glaring with madness. "Baahhh!" he answered in brutal cry. "Bahh-Baau! Baau zophesamin anro mainyu!"

     O'Malley stepped up and cautiously hooked a microphone to the boy's shirt.

     "Baau! Baau zophesamin anro mainyu!" the boy repeated, the perfect Syriac flowing from his lips, without the absence of either sibilant or aspirate.

     Whispers ran through the crowd. "He is possessed of the devil," people said to one another. A good many shed tears. Some broke down and fell to their knees in prayer. A few old men, who stood off to one side, chuckled and nudged each other. They considered it a good show, but were pessimists at heart. The woman, the mother with her anguished face and bun of salt and pepper hair, clenched her fists and shook them in the air.

     "My son has the devil in him," she shouted. "Free him! Free him from the devil!"

     The crowd took the key, especially that overwhelming section of enthusiasts, who valued the outward show of religion far more than silent sanctity. They waved their hands in the air, danced and shouted, repeating the mother's words: "Free him! Free him from the devil!" 

     The sky was now thoroughly overcast, a rolling mass of black clouds, and though it was only three in the afternoon it felt like early evening. The scene was dramatic. The ocean of people swelled and pitched in the vast St. Peter's square. The great dome, the dome of St. Peter's Church rose up almost fiercely into the conspiring storm.

     Di Quaglio hurried up to the Pope and whispered in his ear. "Summus Pontifex," he said. "I beg you to consider your position. This is neither the time or the place to deal with this woman and her depraved son. In all probability they are both mad. You are frightening people!"

     The Pope however did not heed the sub-prefect's words. Pushing him aside he approached the boy.

     Pope Lando the Second, the Vicar of Christ Upon Earth, cried out in a powerful voice: "Almighty Father, who consigned the apostate tyrant, your other son, to the flames of hell; hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the midnight fiend this human being made in your image and likeness. Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste to your vineyard. Let my mighty hand cast him out of your servant."

     People were visibly touched; the air seemed to become suffused with a supernatural perfume; the clouds, which had been gathering overhead, rumbled. One woman, surprisingly enough the wife of the mayor, who sat in the third row, began to whine that she felt the Holy Ghost inside herself.

     Pope Lando the Second, the Successor of Saint Peter, made the sign of the cross on the brow, lips and breast of the boy.

     "We cast you out, you onslaught of the infernal adversary!" he said in a voice quivering with grave authority. "We command you, begone and fly far from the precious blood of the Divine Lamb. The bones of the martyrs command you. Give way to the holy apostolic Church!"

     He pressed his fingers rather violently to the boy's forehead and the boy began to shake as if he were working a jack hammer. He flailed his arms and neighed. Di Quaglio, fearing he might attack the Pope, summoned Betschart and Meier, the two Swiss guards, who ran onto the stage, quaintly ridiculous in their sixteenth century style outfits of black, red and yellow. The three men together, with the utmost difficulty, restrained the young man.

     The Pope continued:

     "May the trembling that afflicts this human frame, the fear that afflicts this image of God, descend on you. Make no resistance nor delay in departing from this young man. Use him no longer as your vessel. Do not think of despising my command because you know me to be a great sinner. It is God Himself who commands you. God the Father commands you; God the Holy Spirit commands you. The blood of the martyrs commands you. The continence of the confessors command you. Depart, then, transgressor. Depart seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent. I now and this moment adjure you, profligate dragon, in the name of the spotless Lamb, who has trodden down the asp and the basilisk, and overcome the lion and the dragon, to depart from this boy. Depart from the Church of God!" He made a sign to the crowd. "Tremble and flee, as we call on the name of the Lord, before whom the denizens of hell cower, to whom the heavenly Virtues, Powers and Dominations are subject, whom the Cherubim and Seraphim praise with unending cries as they sing: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth!"

     The boy lapped frantically at the air. His eyes were bloodshot. The mother, several strands of her salt and pepper hair now disengaged from the bun, clenched her fists before her eyes and moaned with savage emotion.

     The Pope's voice trembled with an oratory flourish, "It is hard for you to kick against the goad. The longer you delay, the heavier your punishment shall be; for it is not men you are condemning, but rather Him who rules the living and the dead, who is coming to judge both the living and the dead and the world by fire. Give place to the Holy Spirit, who by His blessed apostle Peter openly struck you down in the person of Simon Magus; who cursed your lies in Annas and Saphira; who smote you in King Herod because he had not given honour to God; who by his apostle Paul afflicted you with the night of blindness in the magician Elyma, and by the mouth of the same apostle bade you to go out of Pythonissa, the soothsayer."

     The boy, still shaking violently, fell to the ground where he writhed for a few moments and then threw up a sticky, brightly hued and unpleasant substance, his face pale and eyes blazing.

     "Mama," he said, tears flowing from his eyes. "Mama!"

     "It's gone, it's gone!" the woman shouted in a frenzy. "The devil is gone from my boy!"

     She grasped the arm of the massive, ape like child and helped him up. His face was white, but he smiled. He scratched himself and waved to the audience.
     A thrill ran through them.

     The entire crowd was ecstatic, those in the VIP section certainly no less so than the others. Women, well positioned in society, rose from their chairs and shouted praises to God, Lando the Second and the Church, though in varying order. They cared not if they compromised themselves by their unseemly behaviour: the Spirit was in them and they could not help but let it manifest in gyrations of their hips and untame, hyena like cries.

     The Pope, the Vicar of Christ Upon Earth, gazed gravely over his flock. He stepped forward, his finely wrought features distinct, even from a distance. A rumbling came from the darkened sky and wind swept through St. Peter's Square.

     He spoke:

     "You wanted divine mysteries, now smell their incense; you want divine union: have it! - Hear my Bull and be baptised in its blood! - Feel the Holy Ghost!"

     He flashed his hands forward, rapidly opening the fingers as if flecking the audience with water. They surged back, as if struck by a powerful wave. The first three or four rows of people fell to the ground, in a simultaneous swoon, where they quivered and shook with spasms.

     "The Holy Ghost has me! The Holy Ghost has me!" one man shouted at the top of his voice. A woman writhed wildly on the ground like a severed worm.

     "I feel His Love!" she shrieked. "He is giving me His Love!"

     At this point it began to rain; first just a few drops came down, large and scattered. People raised their hands up towards the heavens as if they were receiving a blessing. The fanatical youth turned back their heads and stretched forth their tongues, as if for the sacrament. The drops fell more briskly. The old men ran for shelter. The rain thickened, grew to a torrent and began to soak and partially disperse the crowd.

     "It is a baptism," some said in reverent voices. "It is a Holy Baptism!"

     Gonzales stalked away to his chambers, thoroughly sickened by this ostentatious display of religion. If ever there was a false prophet, he told himself, Lando the Second was it.

     "The man seems to be a specialist at mass hypnotism," the old cardinal hissed between his teeth.

     There was no question in his mind that the face of the church was changing, changing rapidly and for the worse.

     The next day, the majority of news services exaggerated rather than reported the events. One Catholic paper said that, previous to the storm, the sun had appeared to be suffused with blood, and many stars were visible in the daylight. Another boldly asserted that orange flavoured rain had fallen from the sky, while a third spoke of ‘a shower of pearly golden corpuscles.' In general, the consensus was that there had been an unexplainable atmospheric phenomena.

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 I am jotting down a few ideas as to what will be the rough story or outline with Aliens vs. Jedi.

Over the weekend, I did some research on finding the history of the Sith. Darth Bane was the one that decided to have “One Master and One Apprentice” to preserve the Sith Order. Over the years before, during and after Star Wars, the Sith were always lurking in the shadows and looking for ways to dominate and rule the Galaxy. Preventing this from happening were the Jedis.

The Sith were once Jedis and all took part of a civil war called the Great Schism. Each had there one code to follow.

The Sith Code:

Peace is a lie, there is only passion.

Through passion, I gain strength.

Through strength, I gain power.

Through power, I gain victory.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

The Force shall free me.

The Jedi Code:

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

There is no death, there is the Force.

Once the Dark Jedis were defeated, they were left alone to settle on a planet called Korriban. On this planet, the Sith were interbred with these Jedis and the Sith Empire grew. As I read on, the Sith through their history have always wanted to overthrow the Jedi Order. There is a constant ying yang effect for both orders…until now.

Set in the far, far future from the events of Return of the Jedi, a Sith Apprentice sets to overthrow his Master. This is to be expected of the Apprentice but s(he) wants more. The Apprentice was starting to cause an uprising. In order to quell this, the Apprentice was sent out on a mission where the Apprentice was not expected to come back from. During this exercise, the Apprentice finds the Alien creature. He was able to not only survive the encounter but found a way to overthrow the Jedi and now the Sith.

The beginning of the story happens with a lone Jedi waking up on a planet. The Jedi is disoriented as s(he) wakes up and finds themselves in cocoon. The Jedi sees the lightsaber on the ground and calls upon it using the Force. The saber is lit up and frees the Jedi. Still weak, the Jedi looks to see an ellipsoidal leathery object about one meter high with a four-lobed opening at the top. The Jedi looks in to see nothing in it and there is nothing around. The Jedi makes its ways out and finds his/her ship and heads back to Coruscant the home of the Jedi Temple.

As the Jedi reports to the Jedi Council the encounter it had with the Sith Apprentice. The fight between them did not last long. No idea as why or what was the goal. The Jedi complains of sore throat, slight nausea, and suddenly starts to convulse. We have seen this before but the Jedis have not. We get our first glimpse of a new Alien/Jedi hybrid. The rest of the story gets to play our like Alien and Aliens combined.

If the story continues, we will jump back to tell the backstory of the Sith Apprentice, the encounter of the Alien encounter, and the Sith being attacked.

The last past of the book will include the continuation of the losing Jedi battle with the Aliens. The climax will have whatever remaining Sith to join the remaining Jedi and fight together to overcome the Alien threat.

There were some really good stories in there and I wanted to have a go. The idea seemed custom built for flash.

By which I mean to convince you I haven't gone mad by posting the story below...here goes:

Dick and Jane go to the woods
By Neil Beynon

See Dick run. See Jane run. See Dick run after Jane. See Jane cry. See Jane run and cry. See Dick chase Jane across the field.

Spot does not run. Spot does not understand. Spot watches them from the long grass. Spot sniffs. See Spot sniff. See Spot drop low in the grass. See Spot’s fur stand on end. Spot can smell something bad. There is someone else coming from the woods. See Spot bare his teeth.

See Dick and Jane run. See Dick run. See Dick’s face. See the past, gone forever and etched in eternity in young Dick’s mind:

See Dick crawling through the forest undergrowth. See Dick behind the tree. Hear the whispering. Hear the strange sounds. Hear the voice you recognise and the words you do not.

See Dick peering round the tree. See what Dick sees: See Jane, his older sister. See the other person – so tall and so pretty. See the skin bright in the shadows. See the fingers like bone and the nails so red. See Jane’s head rolled back, see her neck stretched tight. Feel the ball in the pit of your stomach.

See her kiss Jane’s neck: apple red on sandy gold. See the crimson smear as she looks up from Jane. Is the smear lipstick? Is the smear something else? She sees you Dick.

See the smile on her lips. Hear the invitation in your head.

Hear the whimper that escapes your lips.

See Jane cover herself in shock. See Jane recognise you. See Jane push the tall lady away. See Jane pull her clothes together. See Jane run.

See the tall lady. She is no longer smiling. Run Dick run.

See Dick run. See Jane run. See the tall lady follow. See her smile at them running.

The tall lady likes it when they run. Sometimes they get away. Sometimes they do not.

Still, those are your options: run or stand.

See if you run.

Interested in learning more?

Visit the American Vampire League homepage here. And you can join the AVL's Facebook group here.

Or, maybe you want to find a vampire to date. You can do that at Lovebitten.net.

True Blood debuts on HBO September 7, starring (among others) Anna Paquin, of X-Men fame. Just remember: friends don't let friends drink friends.

In her room she is looking at the mirror, combing her hair, fawning, and kissing herself. Boring disgust is always apparent whenever I see her. Vanity in others is a virture but for her its a malicious sin. Naturally she doesn't know the difference, she smiles to me and I pity her. She turns to her closet, picking and picking foul clothes and accessories. Then to me for opinion, blessed with forked tongue I told her she looks beautiful in everything. God not another annoying giggle. The nasty shade of her eyes darkened and sparkled in glee when she chose her favorite colored dress.

She strips in front of me, making me sick by the revolting sight. Her toothy grin tells me she assumes otherwise. Back to the mirror she checks again, me nearer than before. My gloved hand picks a wandering hair and tucked it neatly into place, resting between her neck and shoulder. Goosebumps appeared on her arms and neck.

At last, her grin flashed into a beautiful gasp of pain. Her eyes wide like a infant discovering something new. I could see she was about to scream, no doubt like the banshee she is. The hand I had on her shoulder clamped over her mouth, very lightly however for she couldn't go against the knife.

She should be grateful, her dress looks much better in red.

Beating harder than ever before when hers stopped. Dumping her on the sorry bed, the covers seemingly begged not to cover her. The maneuvers I made with her seems believeable so I returned to her parents and brother in the living room.

The mom was puzzled I didn't return with her daughter. Never one to lie to the elders, I answered 'She looks so beautiful sleeping, I couldn't wake her up.' She tutted disapprovingly of her daughter's lack of priorities. Especially to a good solid man, the father agreed. A suggestion from the brother that he and I should wake her up together couldn't be denied.

He didn't hesitate to jump on the bed, bouncing for a short while. He tells me he never knew his sister could be such a deep sleeper. He resumed trying until a squelching sound was heard. A wonderful performance of estatic, puzzled, curiosity, horrified, and frozen suprised expressions. I have no doubt the other two would give a similar performance as well.

The floor seems more beautiful, newer now. Such a wonderous color dye. I noticed another new feature, a light splattering of the boy's blood covered my tattoo. Considering to just leave the merit of honor adoring the snake, the final decision is wiping it off my arm. The ransacked bed stays as it is. To the living room once again this time with my hands behind my back.

The mom remarked her astonishment and quickly jumped from her seat to assist. For her it was just opening the door that triggered the expected performance. She joined her son lovingly I thought. The faces were identical symmetry looking at eachother. By coincidence their hands were much like the iconic painting of Hand of God by Michelangelo. 

I called for the father to come to me this time. He came a-skipping! Glad to be called to duty. He smiled gratefully to me and patted my back like a father would to a son.

The scream in startled anguish rivaled the church chorus. A shame truly.

The news appeared in the usual morning schedule a week later. The returning daughter finds the house empty, searched for her family and found them murdered in her younger sister's room. The names, ages, family pictures of the happy family, and short clips of the house and the remaining wailing daughter. They have not made much discoveries, just one, the murderer was close to the family.

In the afternoon Police came by my house, gave condolences. They observed and noted the theme in the videogames, DVDs, and books were about devils & angels and mythological creatures & gods. They gently requested time for some questions. Most were identifying the relationship between me and the murdered girl, then with the family, and last my alibi.

'Where were you August 1, 2008 between 6 and 8PM?'

'In hell's church.' I said with the same sinful smile.

Today, I feel compelled to call the public's attention to the upcoming release of a screen musical titled Repo!: The Genetic Opera. Articulating an explanation as to why anyone should care about any screen musical is a daunting task, but if anyone can carry out that task, I can.

I trust that the majority of individuals who posses a reasonable familiarity with contemporary cinema have experienced the exhilarating sensation of utter astonishment induced in a film's audience when that film introduces a certain actor, song, or oblique reference in a context in which he, she, or it seems gloriously out-of-place, the sensation inspired by a young Clint Eastwood's small role in Revenge of the Creature, or by David Duchovny's voiceover work on the video game Thirteen. I project that Repo!: The Genetic Opera will embody the quintessence of this feeling. The following trailer will corroborate my assertion: 

Less than a second into the preview, we observe that this rock opera is produced by Twisted Pictures, the enterprise responsible for gore-porn franchise Saw. Repeat the end of that sentence to yourselves: "this rock opera is produced by Twisted Pictures, the enterprise responsible for gore-porn franchise 'Saw'".  Even before the girl from Spy Kids appears, I'm shitting bricks.

Astoundingly, former child star Alexa Vega is the member of this cast least likely to elicit an audible " 'the fuck?". Anthony Stewart Head of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fame attempts growling vocals and dons on a glowing helmet. Andrew Lloyd Webber's ex-wife and originator of The Phantom of the Opera's lead female role, Sarah Brightman, conceals an alabaster face with a goffik hood. Nivek Ogre of seminal industrial band Skinny Puppy, singing opposite venerable horror player Bill Moseley, has someone else's face paper-clipped to his. Though this was difficult for me to determine at first due the black wig she wears, the woman who conducts a drug deal with a man as he is ensconced within a dumpster is, in fact, Paris Hilton, whose appearance in this film nearly seems the result of some divinity's sense of humor, as I can't conceive of any reason for which anyone would involve themselves in Repo! The Genetic Opera beyond genuine interest or desperation, neither of which I imagine to be an influence on that particular wealthy heiress. Moreover, as goth as I am, I must note that David J and Daniel Ash of Bauhaus contributed to sound production.  

I suppose most would consider me remiss were I not to provide some elucidation as to this movie's plot, but I'd rather just refer my readers to more absurdity: 

Check out that overdubbing on Paris. Hopefully, that this picture is only screening in a few theatres will prevent related merchandise from being sold at Hot Topic, so that I can still love it and be cool at the same time.

-Gothicus Maximus