Post by ChrisPerridas on May 21, 2005 22:18:10 GMT -5
Hi. I'm Chris. I like classic horror and especially Lovecraft-style Mythos.
If you'd like to see a little sample of my style - here is a poem. Otherwise, you can see many of my stories FOR FREE at www.horrorlibrary.net.
Look forward to meeting all of you. I found this sight through shocklines, btw.
Creighton Chaney
Ain't it sad is when a tragic life imitates art,
When demons inside spill out into a taint,
And that internal strife eclipses the star power
Of a man, an actor.
Thus the tale of Creighton Chaney began,
When a man, another actor and a father
Achieved a horrific fame on the silent silver screen,
But denied the same to his son.
Then well practiced death scenes in the "movies"
Led to a final role, a real death, an anonymous
Burial in an unmarked Forest Lawn crypt.
So the great man died, so in 1931, the son oozed
Onto the back lot, abandoned his water heater biz;
Way back then in the jazz age, to create a saga,
A sad life of alcoholic stupor and haze – and rage.
His father, a painful act to follow, made the son
Change his name to Lon Chaney, Junior to claim
A piece of the dad's fame.
The year dawned into 1935,
and then for an unknown reason,
in that age of jive, the son, the Junior, in due season,
began to tell lies. Why? The secret unrevealed.
The venomous tales about abuse
That never happened, in preparation to use?
In a future yet to unfold: a false past to infuse
Drama and pathos for a role created. A ruse?
Perhaps that was the cause of afternoon binges
Of guzzled liquor, alcoholic haze, nightmares on the fringe.
Still, as stuntman, construction worker, more,
He worked his way to Universal notice, a rap on the studio door.
Finally, the part merged fiction with truth.
In 1941, Creighton Chaney merged, entwined,
With Lawrence Stewart Talbott, millionaire playboy,
And created Lon Chaney, Junior, wealthy Hollywood star.
The alcoholic sickness transmogrified under the rising moon's glow,
Into brawls with Broderick Crawford in a hideaway bungelow.
But on the silver screen, the silver moon created another wolf,
With a heebie jeebie furry face to make the fan's heart race.
Yak hair and beeswax by day,
whiskey chasers and skirt chasing by night,
hair of the dog in the morning,
the werewolf's heart burning,
which was true, which the screenplay?
The life led full, in a stupor of booze,
Blazed drama greater than the combustion
Greater than any fictional conflict
Between Lugosi and Chaney ever sparked.
It was a story long ago.
A life lived large, suicidal, sad,
But what shall a man sell in exchange for a soul?
What shall he forego?
Even a man who says his prayers at night,
Might,
Turn into a walking deadman in order to achieve,
A star on the walk of flame
And burn a candle flame at both ends,
Just to be bitten by the hypernatural,
And become, small in life, but on film an immortal.
If you'd like to see a little sample of my style - here is a poem. Otherwise, you can see many of my stories FOR FREE at www.horrorlibrary.net.
Look forward to meeting all of you. I found this sight through shocklines, btw.
Creighton Chaney
Ain't it sad is when a tragic life imitates art,
When demons inside spill out into a taint,
And that internal strife eclipses the star power
Of a man, an actor.
Thus the tale of Creighton Chaney began,
When a man, another actor and a father
Achieved a horrific fame on the silent silver screen,
But denied the same to his son.
Then well practiced death scenes in the "movies"
Led to a final role, a real death, an anonymous
Burial in an unmarked Forest Lawn crypt.
So the great man died, so in 1931, the son oozed
Onto the back lot, abandoned his water heater biz;
Way back then in the jazz age, to create a saga,
A sad life of alcoholic stupor and haze – and rage.
His father, a painful act to follow, made the son
Change his name to Lon Chaney, Junior to claim
A piece of the dad's fame.
The year dawned into 1935,
and then for an unknown reason,
in that age of jive, the son, the Junior, in due season,
began to tell lies. Why? The secret unrevealed.
The venomous tales about abuse
That never happened, in preparation to use?
In a future yet to unfold: a false past to infuse
Drama and pathos for a role created. A ruse?
Perhaps that was the cause of afternoon binges
Of guzzled liquor, alcoholic haze, nightmares on the fringe.
Still, as stuntman, construction worker, more,
He worked his way to Universal notice, a rap on the studio door.
Finally, the part merged fiction with truth.
In 1941, Creighton Chaney merged, entwined,
With Lawrence Stewart Talbott, millionaire playboy,
And created Lon Chaney, Junior, wealthy Hollywood star.
The alcoholic sickness transmogrified under the rising moon's glow,
Into brawls with Broderick Crawford in a hideaway bungelow.
But on the silver screen, the silver moon created another wolf,
With a heebie jeebie furry face to make the fan's heart race.
Yak hair and beeswax by day,
whiskey chasers and skirt chasing by night,
hair of the dog in the morning,
the werewolf's heart burning,
which was true, which the screenplay?
The life led full, in a stupor of booze,
Blazed drama greater than the combustion
Greater than any fictional conflict
Between Lugosi and Chaney ever sparked.
It was a story long ago.
A life lived large, suicidal, sad,
But what shall a man sell in exchange for a soul?
What shall he forego?
Even a man who says his prayers at night,
Might,
Turn into a walking deadman in order to achieve,
A star on the walk of flame
And burn a candle flame at both ends,
Just to be bitten by the hypernatural,
And become, small in life, but on film an immortal.