Formatting Note and Shivers from Shillings
If you're going to write stuff, do it in notepad or just as a draft on blogger. Otherwise using quotes and various characters will not transfer well into the java script or hypertext markup language from a word processor (i.e. Microsoft Word or (God forbid, ha) Microsoft Works. Note: That Microsoft Works comment was just a geeky technical joke. Fo show. And here's something to amuse you. First official post. Crit me yo.
Shivers from Shillings: The Sneeze
Alexander Catchings
Bizarre happenings seem to enjoy frequenting the folks in Shillings. I don’t exactly see why, but they do. You'll probably hear all kinds of Weekly World News worthy tidbits about our town, and I can't say not to take most of them to heart. Probably the most recent headliner was about Miss Kathie Ray Fawn. Seems she dragged a bunch of souls to hell with her death, and it was in a church.
Now, there was a group of non-denomination Christians worshipping, praying, begging and what have you in a small church. It was a hole-in-the-wall church with folding chairs for pews and cranberry juice for blood. It came to exist a year earlier when the preacher and a small group of Jesus-freaks found a nice pub with a sinful aftertaste. They decided to wash the tart from its tongue away with some lovin' from God.
From what Clarisse Tellmark, one of the fifteen or so members present at Kathie's unfortunate passing recalled to media sources before her own death, it was a rainy day. Thunder sounded like a shelf of hammers come a-loose in a garage. Rain splotched through cracks in the 'chub', as locals liked to call Reverend Barlow's church slash pub. People were unsettled as nature's wet globs spotted their open bibles after maneuvering through cracked ceilings. Rev Barlow still hadn't put a protective plastic covering up an electrical outlet right behind Clarisse.
Bill Lanes, the town sheriff says that the spot that outlet was located at was where the jukebox once was when people really got tanked and wanted to stumble around to a little Bob Dylan. The head deputy of the sheriff, Lance Porter, was trying to arrest a woman for looking too fine a year and some change back when he collided with a table, spilling his scotch on the outlet and calling for an electrician that happened to be nearby to take a look at the damage done behind the jukebox. Unfortunately, the pub went bankrupt shortly after, the electrician was only sober enough to remove the fuse plate, and worst of all the people never got to hear Dylan from that jukebox again because it shorted out.
Anyhow, Kathie Ray, a nice young red head of about twenty-nine was silently praying. Her hands were clasped for Jesus and her nostrils open for the aroma of salvation. She'd just lost her job at a popular teen clothing store because she wasn't trendy enough to pull off the tight tops and low cut denim anymore, so she was left with no income, a low self-esteem, and reverberations of horrible top forty pop tunes from the music in the store. She was praying for money for a collagen injection and a breast augmentation. It was her first time in church since she'd moved out of her parents' house, so it had been roughly three months, give or take.
Unrenowned by Rev Barlow, the outlet still wasn't fixed up yet. Rain began coming down like democratic spirits when Jeb Bush became president, and a considerably large drop managed to make its way behind Kathie right on to that live electrical outlet. Concurrently, a large spark jolted out as the pastor preached about God's encompassing love. The spark died before it hit the ground, but smoke was beginning to perforate Kathie's small area in putrid satanic metaphor. She began coughing, and then inhaled wrong. Rev Barlow and the rest of the congregation were aware of the situation, and Rev was comforting everyone, saying God had planned this so he'd be aware of the handyman work he'd be doing after service. Kathie stood up and everyone turned away. She didn't seem to be suffering; she'd just curled her face a little in preparation for a sneeze. In a matter of seconds the people were back into his lecture of worship and Kathie sneezed. She sneezed, but people were so into God nobody took the time to say, "Bless you." Her heart stopped. Kathie died that Sunday morning. The congregation members thought she was just really feeling the Holy Spirit from the preacher's electrifying sermon, but after a minute they realized she was not conscious. It was too late when they reached a hospital.
Kathie Ray's funeral was held the following Sunday, among many tears and lots of food. Between glutting and crying her memory was definitely well preserved.
Within two months the fourteen remaining church members had rented a bus for a religious mission in Vegas. On their way through the small Nevadan town Elko the wind began to carousel dust around the bus on what had been a perfectly sunny day. The sand and fine grains blindly danced through open windows and the men and women began sneezing frenziedly. As everyone prayed to God for help they disregarded the courtesy and love for their fellow man to say, "Bless you," again. The bus swerved into oncoming traffic and all parties involved did not make it through. The local man closest to insanity but not yet committed who also doubles as the most successful wino in California, Barry Lankins, claims that during a euphoric drunken epiphany he trekked through hell and saw all of the church people slaving away with Dust Devils in Satan's living room. As a matter of fact, he named off virtually every person he had known or known of that could've possibly gone to hell doing meager tasks for the Big Red Fallen Angel. He didn't see Kathie there. Then again, he made no mention of Hitler either.*
Alexander Catchings
Bizarre happenings seem to enjoy frequenting the folks in Shillings. I don’t exactly see why, but they do. You'll probably hear all kinds of Weekly World News worthy tidbits about our town, and I can't say not to take most of them to heart. Probably the most recent headliner was about Miss Kathie Ray Fawn. Seems she dragged a bunch of souls to hell with her death, and it was in a church.
Now, there was a group of non-denomination Christians worshipping, praying, begging and what have you in a small church. It was a hole-in-the-wall church with folding chairs for pews and cranberry juice for blood. It came to exist a year earlier when the preacher and a small group of Jesus-freaks found a nice pub with a sinful aftertaste. They decided to wash the tart from its tongue away with some lovin' from God.
From what Clarisse Tellmark, one of the fifteen or so members present at Kathie's unfortunate passing recalled to media sources before her own death, it was a rainy day. Thunder sounded like a shelf of hammers come a-loose in a garage. Rain splotched through cracks in the 'chub', as locals liked to call Reverend Barlow's church slash pub. People were unsettled as nature's wet globs spotted their open bibles after maneuvering through cracked ceilings. Rev Barlow still hadn't put a protective plastic covering up an electrical outlet right behind Clarisse.
Bill Lanes, the town sheriff says that the spot that outlet was located at was where the jukebox once was when people really got tanked and wanted to stumble around to a little Bob Dylan. The head deputy of the sheriff, Lance Porter, was trying to arrest a woman for looking too fine a year and some change back when he collided with a table, spilling his scotch on the outlet and calling for an electrician that happened to be nearby to take a look at the damage done behind the jukebox. Unfortunately, the pub went bankrupt shortly after, the electrician was only sober enough to remove the fuse plate, and worst of all the people never got to hear Dylan from that jukebox again because it shorted out.
Anyhow, Kathie Ray, a nice young red head of about twenty-nine was silently praying. Her hands were clasped for Jesus and her nostrils open for the aroma of salvation. She'd just lost her job at a popular teen clothing store because she wasn't trendy enough to pull off the tight tops and low cut denim anymore, so she was left with no income, a low self-esteem, and reverberations of horrible top forty pop tunes from the music in the store. She was praying for money for a collagen injection and a breast augmentation. It was her first time in church since she'd moved out of her parents' house, so it had been roughly three months, give or take.
Unrenowned by Rev Barlow, the outlet still wasn't fixed up yet. Rain began coming down like democratic spirits when Jeb Bush became president, and a considerably large drop managed to make its way behind Kathie right on to that live electrical outlet. Concurrently, a large spark jolted out as the pastor preached about God's encompassing love. The spark died before it hit the ground, but smoke was beginning to perforate Kathie's small area in putrid satanic metaphor. She began coughing, and then inhaled wrong. Rev Barlow and the rest of the congregation were aware of the situation, and Rev was comforting everyone, saying God had planned this so he'd be aware of the handyman work he'd be doing after service. Kathie stood up and everyone turned away. She didn't seem to be suffering; she'd just curled her face a little in preparation for a sneeze. In a matter of seconds the people were back into his lecture of worship and Kathie sneezed. She sneezed, but people were so into God nobody took the time to say, "Bless you." Her heart stopped. Kathie died that Sunday morning. The congregation members thought she was just really feeling the Holy Spirit from the preacher's electrifying sermon, but after a minute they realized she was not conscious. It was too late when they reached a hospital.
Kathie Ray's funeral was held the following Sunday, among many tears and lots of food. Between glutting and crying her memory was definitely well preserved.
Within two months the fourteen remaining church members had rented a bus for a religious mission in Vegas. On their way through the small Nevadan town Elko the wind began to carousel dust around the bus on what had been a perfectly sunny day. The sand and fine grains blindly danced through open windows and the men and women began sneezing frenziedly. As everyone prayed to God for help they disregarded the courtesy and love for their fellow man to say, "Bless you," again. The bus swerved into oncoming traffic and all parties involved did not make it through. The local man closest to insanity but not yet committed who also doubles as the most successful wino in California, Barry Lankins, claims that during a euphoric drunken epiphany he trekked through hell and saw all of the church people slaving away with Dust Devils in Satan's living room. As a matter of fact, he named off virtually every person he had known or known of that could've possibly gone to hell doing meager tasks for the Big Red Fallen Angel. He didn't see Kathie there. Then again, he made no mention of Hitler either.*
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