Omg! The Horror of Junk...

Well hello fellow Creepsters and a Happy New Year to ya. If you're wondering where I've been, well, besides that job thing getting in the way, I've been going through the 2nd rewrite of my first novel A Lawnly Existence, penning a few tales, working on the horror dollhouse, and trying to get a short film off the ground. Believe me, It's pretty tough doing all this by yourself. Oh yeah, even wrote a couple humor pieces too. Below is one of them. It's called The Horror of Junk and is a frightful envisioning that takes a funny turn along the way. I was going to send it to Reader's Digest, but figured what the heck and decided to post it here instead. Coincidentally, I just might be writing for Cracked.com too. Nonetheless, keep the fear folks. Just because yours truly is branching a bit, that doesn't mean that horror is on the outs. I've had a number of other genre pieces on my mind for some time now and finally took the opportunity to put then down. While horror flows through this bloody heart and always will, it's okay to laugh too and while these humor pieces may not include blood, guts and gore per se, they will always surround something frightening. Hope you enjoy and chuckle at the read.

The Horror of Junk

by Thomas Scopel

Heading out the front door, the wife looked back with a smile and asked. “Would you be a dear and clean the junk drawer?”

The words were pulverizing, sending a ripple of horror cascading down my spine. Like face cards flashing during a shuffle, images of things I’d rather do flooded my mind; leech bloodletting; doing the backstroke through a school of Amazon piranha; having a root canal. But, because I’m a man of men, willing to make my wife happy, I simply nodded.

Located in a desolate part of the kitchen much like Siberia, at the edge of the recessed lighting shadows, the trek to the virtual treasure trove of jettison junk rivaling that of the city landfill feels like the last mile.

A shaky hand clutches the knob and with a tug the drawer loosens, opening only far enough to barely fit in two fingers. Gritting teeth, knuckles scraping, the culprit is found and I wonder why locks are made of steel when all it takes is a #2 pencil.

Using some small expenditure of strength, the drawer manages to extend fully. Frightening noises come from behind as unknown items are cast into a crevice similar to those lying dormant on Everest. There will be no search party and with a sad shrug, assume all is lost forever.

My gaze falls to the pencil in hand, contemplating a three point shot to the trashcan at the far corner of the room. But, after short reflection to realize it was no fault of the pencil, compassion brings reprieve and it is spared such doom, placed on the counter instead. Exactly two seconds later, the pencil rolls, almost in slow motion, across and off the edge of the counter, hitting the floor lead end first leaving a noticeable black streak on the white tile. There will be no second chances. Nothing but trashcan!

A few envelopes, crumpled like the front end of cars at intersection traffic accidents, lie in wait on top of the heap. Minimal thought recognizes that no matter how much hand smoothing occurs, restoration is futile, and they are placed on the vast counter.

A couple of haphazardly folded sheets of paper with single line shopping lists probably written with that pencil are next. Obviously one of the six scattered fluorescent yellow Post It Note booklets weren’t handy at the time.

Peering at the tightly packed clutter, using a hand like a steam shovel to excavate crosses mind, but after a vague envisioning of a worse pile of mess requiring a 40 hour work week to clean up, the delicate process of picking through begins instead, starting with expired coupons too numerous to count.

Like belligerent blinking neon lights, three partially used scotch tape cartridges plead for attention. Two come out easy. Why they weren’t used completely before going to the next is probably the ninth wonder of the world. Gathering the third, a lonely rubber band clings desperately to the sticky underside, with a red crayon magically wrapped on the other end. Blessings are counted at being able to clear three things at once, but just as the counter edge crossing occurs, the crayon, in an attempt to escape no less, leaps away, only to plummet down the face of the cabinet, tapping and marking various spots along the way to the floor.  

Bending down, a cluster of stars fill vision, brought on by a drawer face forehead bang causing a rattle that probably measured 6.8 on the Richter scale. Certain to need a plastic surgeon, a gingerly rub of the afflicted location indicates on the contrary and with a single swift swoop, the crayon joins the pencil.

Ink pens of all shapes, sizes and colors are plucked, enough to fill a clutched fist, most of which probably no longer work, and are set beside the growing counter pile. Flattening out they linger, like logs casually floating around a sawmill pond, except for one that has other thoughts and rolls the full six inch distance to tumble and disappear into the sink. Unconcerned, reckoning to retrieve later, the task at hand is continued, unaware that the pen has tumbled directly into the drain and later will consist of playing a homeowner’s version of the operation game using a pair of needle nosed pliers.

Scratched beyond repair, the more the bottom panel comes into view the more the enigma deepens.

Is there a real reason to save so many rubber bands?

Where did this nut and bolt that could probably hold the load beam of the Empire State building come from?

How do matches get moldy?

Why are we keeping a pack of four birthday candles when no one in this household will ever be four again?

Besides flint being a hot commodity when the zombie apocalypse hits, is there another reason why we have three non-working Bic lighters?

The wife comes in the front door, sets a couple brown paper bags on the table and heads for the bathroom. A luscious familiar scent shrouds and while there is no need to look to know what it is, I simply can’t keep my head from turning. Immediately spying the lovely green polka dotted box barely hidden inside the top of one of the bags, like Niagara Falls, my mouth begins to water. Inside are Krispy Kreme doughnuts, the best invention next to the wheel, and suddenly concentration is garbled, complete control lost.

Using a hand resembling a bulldozer blade, a single precise swipe pulls the heap back into the drawer followed by a quick nestling to assure minimal force needed to cram it closed.

There’s always tomorrow.

There's still a little time left to watch the episodes online. CLICK HERE

Did you happen to watch American Horror Story Hotel? They are pushing the censor issues and this is a great thing. Personally, while I can't say I've been a fan, but Lady GaGa did impress and maybe she will become a regular.

Valentines Day will be soon upon us and with it comes the 2nd half of season 6. Watch a sneak peek here.

Remember this flick? Ever wonder what happened to the players prior to reaching the house? Well, you're in luck. Jonathan Maberry and Romero himself are editing an anthology of tales surrounding the 48 hours of the landmark film. Tentatively titled Horror of the Living Dead, these all original tales feature names like Thor, Keene, McKinney, Lansdale, Russo and more, with the Godfather of zombies himself penning too.
Read More Here

And so monsters, until next time, seek out the dark corners, play in the shadows, and stay scared!

Thomas