Saturday, October 17, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
WRITERS AND ARTISTS
Monsters Forum will Showcase your talent!
Read terrific stories below
that Sean Hart sent us.
Just send us a comment about your project.
Read terrific stories below
that Sean Hart sent us.
Just send us a comment about your project.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Monster's Bio
I wrote my first short story when I was 12. Famous Monsters was having a short story contest and I entered my 250 word piece called Night Key. I got paid $10 - a lot of money back in 1960. For whatever reason it was never printed. Stephen King also submitted a short story called The Killers but his didn't win. I was always disappointed in that I didn't get a chance to see my name in print. But that would come later.
I was inspired at the time by classic sci fi authors like Verne, Wells and others. Also the horror, fantasy, sci fi bug hit me hard when I read Bradbury, Lovecraft. Robert Bloch, Ambrose Bierce (his Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge is a classic), et al. I wrote with a passion, story after story, I had no control over it; the stories just kept coming and I set them to paper via typewriter and longhand. By the time I entered high school I was a straight A student in English class and always, without fail, got an A/A in my compositions. My younger cousins would gather around me during this time and I would tell bone chilling tales of terror that would send shivers up and down their spines.
I probably would’ve gone on to become a full time writer had it not been for two important things in my life at that time. Number one was my parents. I credit my mom with teaching me about music and art and movies, but when she joined the Jehovah Witness cult my world ended - literally and figuratively. I had to hide everything I did for if she saw it she would destroy it - including my collection of horror magazines - as they were deemed "demonic". My piano career also ended and by age 13 they had sold my piano. So two dreams ended for me.
Secondly, when I was 15 my stepfather had a serious accident at work and wasn't able to return to his job for 18 months. In those days help was hard to find - especially in Trenton, new Jersey where I grew. Their Witness friends were no help at all, as is their practice, so at age 15 I quit school and went to work as a carpenter's apprentice with my uncle. With money coming in every week I was able to buy groceries and much needed items, and on top of all that my mom had a baby. Needless to say, four of us crammed in a one room apartment prompted me to leave home when I was 16.
I never really got back to writing full time as I was too busy making a living and the money was good. But what happened in the following years was a plus which I am eternally grateful for. They say things work out for the better. By age 18 I had moved to Asbury park, NJ - my beloved second home during summers and the second place I grew up. That's a story in itself and I won't bore you with details. Suffice to say, once I had moved I was able to buy all the magazines I wanted and keep them, write when I could, and do odd jobs before landing a job at LFO: Linoleum factory Outlet in Asbury. I was 18 then and saw an ad in the paper, applied, and got the job. It wasn't much but it turned out to be a blessing.
My first weeks were nothing more than delivery man, stockroom, and odd jobs like painting and plumbing. Within 6 weeks I was promoted to salesman, and by the end of my first 6 months I was put in charge of inventory control. No computers in those days, I had to visit each of the 7 stores, do the inventory, and return to Asbury and type up a master list. Funny how it was always up to date and accurate, unlike what happened after I left and computers came in. By year's end I was given the advertising account to handle as well and was now making more than any other person in the chain.
I did ads for the Asbury Park Press and the Newark Star Ledger. When 2001: A Space Odyssey came out in 1968 I was inspired to do a simple black and white ad: CARPET ON THE MOON. It won an award for its simplicity and content and many shoppers brought the ad in with them. It basically recalled old sci fi films and the new 2001 movie and in the end something like "If we ever do have a base on the moon, LFO will be there to supply the carpet." Silly, sure, but it worked.
I ended up back in Trenton circa 1972 and took a job as cook at Trenton State College. In the two years I was there I befriended many students as I was close to their age, and many of them came to me for help writing papers, compositions, etc. One guy I'll never forget - Sal - got an A twice from his professor. His first assignment was to write a brief outline of a Hitchcock-style story that could be turned into a movie. I think I wrote that in 15 minutes. The other was "to do a report on two writers; one obscure, the other famous".
I chose Edgar Allan Poe and Fitz-James O'Brien and again Sal got an A. While there I painted a huge mural on the wall of the second floor of "The Towers" dorm measuring 8feet high by 14 feet wide. From what I heard it was there for years.
Time passes and I have a new interest in Famous Monsters and Forry Ackerman, the editor. He was the world's greatest collector and authority in all things horror, fantasy and sci fi. One day I wrote him a letter and asked if he needed an assistant. As luck would have it, he did, and he called to tell me so. My wife and I moved to Hollywood and stayed at his home for 6 weeks and when the new issue of FM came out there was my name - Ronald Norman Waite - credited as Assistant Editor. It was a dream comes true! Never did I imagine this would happen to me. I still have trouble believing it really did happen. My greatest thrill -and there were many - was the day Ray Bradbury paid a visit and I showed him my name in the latest issue. He looked at it, smiled and said, "That's what it's all about!" Thanks to my time there I befriended the likes of John Landis, Vincent Price, Robert Bloch, Bradbury and many, many more.
Time passes again and I find myself writing articles for a new magazine my aunt and uncle started back in Pennsylvania. I wrote latest news from Hollywood columns, new movie reviews, classic cars and more. After that, little by little, the writing slowed and stopped. These days I can't even come up with an original idea let alone write it. But I keep my hands in the field by doing pieces on my favorite films, writers, and so on. During my time at FM I used many pen names. Sometimes I used my entire name, other time just Ron Waite, and a list of names that only I and a select few friends knew the real meaning of. Names like Miller McNoff, Spuds Spalding, Larry Larson, Norman Aldron (that was Forry's idea) and more. And what an age we live in! Put in any of those names on a Google search and you will find me everywhere, including my pen names. I was even on Forry's People He Wished He Never Met List along with the likes of Harlan Ellison and others he had a run-in with.
Today I am writing my memoirs - memories that go back to 1948 - and have been at it for 5 years now. One day I will gather all my notes and finally put it to paper - or more accurately, to disk. I also have detailed outlines of several unwritten stories that are screaming at me from my files to be written. Once I get around to it I think some people will be amazed. I've changed a lot over the years and my stories reflect that. So hang on and Monster, as my friends and relatives call me, will surprise you!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Pack by Sean Hart 2009©
I stare off into the distance. The cold, glistening distance. The white, frozen water has fallen, allowing me to cover my entire being as I slowly walk through my territory in the forest where the white circle is above. The opening I venture forth into has something of great need to me: a small hare. I duck my head, feeling the frozen blanket brush up against my neck. The hare is soon joined, one by one, with its kin, as am I with my brothers and sisters. As the smell of food entices me, I begin to grow anxious, licking my lips as I taste the air. I look to my right, noticing a brother whining softly with impatience. I growl lowly and he soon calms himself. Another growl, and my siblings, more obvious then I, begin to traverse along the opening, creating a wall decorated by different shades of gray, showing off both power and grace as they block escape. When our positions are taken, one hare raises its ears, turning them and twitching its nose as it notices something is amiss. I bark, and the attack ensues. Barking and growling commences, and soon my brethren collide with our prey, as do I. The hares scramble, screaming and dashing about, but none are able to escape as they are slowly picked off one by one. When the attack has finished, blood has stained the tundra. I hold the final hare in my jaws, and quickly break its back, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I place the prey on the ground; dip my muzzle into the white water, emerging clean as I shake off my white fur. I raise my head in a howl of victory, my pack joining me. When the call is finished, we take the meal in our mouths and travel back to our pack to feast.
The moon shines delicately, accompanied by the stars’ glow. The cicadas are out, singing their harsh song as their short lives are lived to their fullest ability. A bull frog croaks, echoing along the distance as its call reaches my every corner, my every edge. Lights along the hill to my side began to dissipate one by one, soon joined by more and more along my perimeter. Vehicles traverse my boundaries, parking at their homes for the night. The bull frog and the cicadas soon stop for a moment, and for once there is complete silence… until a sound breaks the barrier of peace. A motor rumbles on my wall, making its way slowly to the center of my face, Ripples on my surface have enticed one man to catch his next meal. He casts. Nothing. He casts once again. Nothing. Hours upon hours of casting, rippling, jerking, and nothing fruitful appears from my depths. Then, with a stroke of luck and a gust of wind on his side, the perfect cast produces a smash on my surface. The glass is broken with jumps, leaps, dives and swerves until a monster is stolen from my care. But that is life. Humans need to eat as well, and my vast options keep them here, swimming, fishing, and hoping for the next big fish to appear again.
I stare off into the distance. The cold, glistening distance. The white, frozen water has fallen, allowing me to cover my entire being as I slowly walk through my territory in the forest where the white circle is above. The opening I venture forth into has something of great need to me: a small hare. I duck my head, feeling the frozen blanket brush up against my neck. The hare is soon joined, one by one, with its kin, as am I with my brothers and sisters. As the smell of food entices me, I begin to grow anxious, licking my lips as I taste the air. I look to my right, noticing a brother whining softly with impatience. I growl lowly and he soon calms himself. Another growl, and my siblings, more obvious then I, begin to traverse along the opening, creating a wall decorated by different shades of gray, showing off both power and grace as they block escape. When our positions are taken, one hare raises its ears, turning them and twitching its nose as it notices something is amiss. I bark, and the attack ensues. Barking and growling commences, and soon my brethren collide with our prey, as do I. The hares scramble, screaming and dashing about, but none are able to escape as they are slowly picked off one by one. When the attack has finished, blood has stained the tundra. I hold the final hare in my jaws, and quickly break its back, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I place the prey on the ground; dip my muzzle into the white water, emerging clean as I shake off my white fur. I raise my head in a howl of victory, my pack joining me. When the call is finished, we take the meal in our mouths and travel back to our pack to feast.
The moon shines delicately, accompanied by the stars’ glow. The cicadas are out, singing their harsh song as their short lives are lived to their fullest ability. A bull frog croaks, echoing along the distance as its call reaches my every corner, my every edge. Lights along the hill to my side began to dissipate one by one, soon joined by more and more along my perimeter. Vehicles traverse my boundaries, parking at their homes for the night. The bull frog and the cicadas soon stop for a moment, and for once there is complete silence… until a sound breaks the barrier of peace. A motor rumbles on my wall, making its way slowly to the center of my face, Ripples on my surface have enticed one man to catch his next meal. He casts. Nothing. He casts once again. Nothing. Hours upon hours of casting, rippling, jerking, and nothing fruitful appears from my depths. Then, with a stroke of luck and a gust of wind on his side, the perfect cast produces a smash on my surface. The glass is broken with jumps, leaps, dives and swerves until a monster is stolen from my care. But that is life. Humans need to eat as well, and my vast options keep them here, swimming, fishing, and hoping for the next big fish to appear again.
SOUNDS OF SILENCE by Sean Hart 2009©
Times Square, the city that never sleeps. People running about to stores all around the premises as lights shine all around near midnight. A child was groveling to her mother to go to the “American Girl” department store to waste hundreds of dollars on a single doll. Flashes from cameras were blinding smiling people everywhere, bringing life to area while the largest screen in the city was flashing news and advertisements. Below that, the message board was slowly scrolling more information, only to vanish and show the local weather in unison to the massive screen. A soft sigh pierced the moist and dank night air as cries of joy slowly dissipated into the chaos of nothing. It was gone. No… not gone. It was never there. No stores or camera clicks. No children screaming and pleading. No ads or weather reports. Just silence. Silence and a lone figure holding a photo of his first trip to the big apple.The figure sat down on a rundown car. Examining the picture closely, he noticed his best friend was busy stuffing his face with hot dogs loaded with relish in the background. It wasn’t an eating contest, just sheer joy of good food entering the mouth. A soft and hoarse chuckle sounded out. Then the sound of a throat being cleared, followed by another sigh. Looking up, the figure wanted to forget this was reality. A dark, lifeless reality. Papers and useless dross littered the concrete, and many windows were broken. As he looked about, the screen had been cracked from the top to the bottom, and a pigeon that had landed on its massive frame had managed to loosen it enough to fall. A loud crash sounded. Debris flew everywhere as the sound echoed around the entire city. A barking started and a single car alarm sounded off from the other end of the metropolis from the shock wave. The figure wasn’t surprised. He looked at the destruction, shrugged, and decided to explore the surrounding area. A single store still had electricity, and to the figure’s relief, that was the grocery store. That meant fresh food. He stood up and began to walk towards his destination: nutrition.The figure was a boy no older than 17, walking with a slight limp in his left leg. This boy was wearing a blue employee’s shirt with the name ripped off. He had to sew a patch of a red shirt he found laying around. Jeans weren’t his style, but he wore them anyway, just to keep the cold autumn night air away. With straight brown hair, he wore glasses with one of the sides cracked; squinting to see what was going on around him, if anything. The glasses weren’t the right lens types, but he dealt with them. Pale white skin almost showed no signs of life in his body at all, but the truly strange feature was on his back. A massive pair of wings jetted outward from his back, spread out in a black shade from the rising sun. It burnt his eyes badly with these glasses, and his wings were the perfect things to keep the light away. Finally reaching the grocery store, he made his way in and turned off the lights to ease his eyes a bit. Smiling, he looked around at the best food in town, and his makeshift room in the smaller corner of the store: customer services. With it having a counter, electrical sockets, and plenty of floor space, he had made cozy little living arrangements around the area. A chuckle and he noticed his best friend was busy sleeping on a mattress he placed on the floor beside a dimly lit lamp. This little creature wasn’t like any others. He liked to call it an imp. It was a small, black ball of short fur, with bat-like wings curled around it as it slept, purring softly like a kitten, mouth and eyes closed. The boy walked over to it slowly, tapping it on the head as he reached it, smiling widely. The imp awoke lazily, looking around, then up at the boy. Its eyes opened widely, shining blood red, and it opened its mouth, chirping out a strange sound. “Nya!” Came out, almost like a cat’s meow. The boy extended his hand, and it hopped up onto the boy’s shoulder, and began to rub against his cheek in a friendly and inviting manner, as if to say, “Welcome home!” The boy took it this way, and scratched the center of imp’s head, getting a loud purr of satisfaction back. Another chuckle, and a sentence. “How was your day, Demon?” the boy asked softly. His voice sounded soothing, yet commanding. His accent was unique: British mixed with slight Australian. He was proud of it. Demon the imp answered back. “Great!” Demon sang out in a childish voice, like a small girl’s voice mixed with a slight hint of a cat’s voice. It was also very unique. “Well aren’t we happy! Why don’t we get some food?” the boy smiled. Standing up, Demon still on his shoulder, he made his way past the counter and into the aisles, passing by a multitude of food products. After finding the right ingredients for his not-so-famous spaghetti, he walked back to the “room” and turned on a stove he had lugged inside. Smiling slightly, the cooking began.
Times Square, the city that never sleeps. People running about to stores all around the premises as lights shine all around near midnight. A child was groveling to her mother to go to the “American Girl” department store to waste hundreds of dollars on a single doll. Flashes from cameras were blinding smiling people everywhere, bringing life to area while the largest screen in the city was flashing news and advertisements. Below that, the message board was slowly scrolling more information, only to vanish and show the local weather in unison to the massive screen. A soft sigh pierced the moist and dank night air as cries of joy slowly dissipated into the chaos of nothing. It was gone. No… not gone. It was never there. No stores or camera clicks. No children screaming and pleading. No ads or weather reports. Just silence. Silence and a lone figure holding a photo of his first trip to the big apple.The figure sat down on a rundown car. Examining the picture closely, he noticed his best friend was busy stuffing his face with hot dogs loaded with relish in the background. It wasn’t an eating contest, just sheer joy of good food entering the mouth. A soft and hoarse chuckle sounded out. Then the sound of a throat being cleared, followed by another sigh. Looking up, the figure wanted to forget this was reality. A dark, lifeless reality. Papers and useless dross littered the concrete, and many windows were broken. As he looked about, the screen had been cracked from the top to the bottom, and a pigeon that had landed on its massive frame had managed to loosen it enough to fall. A loud crash sounded. Debris flew everywhere as the sound echoed around the entire city. A barking started and a single car alarm sounded off from the other end of the metropolis from the shock wave. The figure wasn’t surprised. He looked at the destruction, shrugged, and decided to explore the surrounding area. A single store still had electricity, and to the figure’s relief, that was the grocery store. That meant fresh food. He stood up and began to walk towards his destination: nutrition.The figure was a boy no older than 17, walking with a slight limp in his left leg. This boy was wearing a blue employee’s shirt with the name ripped off. He had to sew a patch of a red shirt he found laying around. Jeans weren’t his style, but he wore them anyway, just to keep the cold autumn night air away. With straight brown hair, he wore glasses with one of the sides cracked; squinting to see what was going on around him, if anything. The glasses weren’t the right lens types, but he dealt with them. Pale white skin almost showed no signs of life in his body at all, but the truly strange feature was on his back. A massive pair of wings jetted outward from his back, spread out in a black shade from the rising sun. It burnt his eyes badly with these glasses, and his wings were the perfect things to keep the light away. Finally reaching the grocery store, he made his way in and turned off the lights to ease his eyes a bit. Smiling, he looked around at the best food in town, and his makeshift room in the smaller corner of the store: customer services. With it having a counter, electrical sockets, and plenty of floor space, he had made cozy little living arrangements around the area. A chuckle and he noticed his best friend was busy sleeping on a mattress he placed on the floor beside a dimly lit lamp. This little creature wasn’t like any others. He liked to call it an imp. It was a small, black ball of short fur, with bat-like wings curled around it as it slept, purring softly like a kitten, mouth and eyes closed. The boy walked over to it slowly, tapping it on the head as he reached it, smiling widely. The imp awoke lazily, looking around, then up at the boy. Its eyes opened widely, shining blood red, and it opened its mouth, chirping out a strange sound. “Nya!” Came out, almost like a cat’s meow. The boy extended his hand, and it hopped up onto the boy’s shoulder, and began to rub against his cheek in a friendly and inviting manner, as if to say, “Welcome home!” The boy took it this way, and scratched the center of imp’s head, getting a loud purr of satisfaction back. Another chuckle, and a sentence. “How was your day, Demon?” the boy asked softly. His voice sounded soothing, yet commanding. His accent was unique: British mixed with slight Australian. He was proud of it. Demon the imp answered back. “Great!” Demon sang out in a childish voice, like a small girl’s voice mixed with a slight hint of a cat’s voice. It was also very unique. “Well aren’t we happy! Why don’t we get some food?” the boy smiled. Standing up, Demon still on his shoulder, he made his way past the counter and into the aisles, passing by a multitude of food products. After finding the right ingredients for his not-so-famous spaghetti, he walked back to the “room” and turned on a stove he had lugged inside. Smiling slightly, the cooking began.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
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