So… I’ve never seen any of The Twilight “Saga” movies (don’t you be calling it a saga without hulking Norsemen.) And though I did watch some of its first season, I don’t have much interest in The Walking Dead or its fairly exhausted sub-genre.
I do, however, enjoy speculation and parody, and about four years ago I sat down with an old friend from college and his wife around a kitchen table in Philly, PA and created a hybrid genre I will now call eroto-horror.
I think it’s a lucrative and yet untapped market. Combine elements of the dime-store romance novel and the gore of the zombie apocalypse, and Bob’s yer uncle. We’re just gonna crank the Twilight “aesthetic” up to eleven.
Here’s a ludicrous piece the three of us came up with over some brewskis and alot of chuckles. Strangely, I think there are some folks out there who might be turned on by this kind of thing.
You’ve been warned. It’s so bad it’s good.
I began pursuing my undergraduate degree in Studio Arts in 1994 from a well-known conservative evangelical Christian college in the midwest.
In those days of yore, a good friend and I used to write collaboratively, utilizing an early website for hypertext fiction authors called Addventure. It’s staggering to recall that we were using dial-up modems in the dorms back then, and queuing up in the computer labs to get the better connection. Heck, the internet was just in its infancy for us.
Our writing is still there after all these years. My username at the time was The Author.
Anyway. We also used to nip off to a local arcade/bowling alley/pizza joint in the early afternoon when it was virtually empty and do classwork as well as write together in the party room. After graduation, we spent a few years living around the college town and managed to write more together in that time. All up we surely had several dozen stories written, mostly focusing on the absurd, sci-fi, thriller-type scenarios set in places very similar to our quaint evangelical college town populated by characters very similar to people we had known there.
In our stories, we called this town “Bedville”.
Here is one story from that time.
STEVE TRAPPER SLOWED HIS CAR to a crawl and eased it into an empty parking space across from Bedville’s old art supply store. Christmas wreaths and red ribbon bows were hung from every streetlight and telephone pole, while a soft drift of snow obscured the brick and stone landscape. An old man clad in black perched on an old cast-iron bench, hands in pockets and white breath billowing out. Steve eyed the man cautiously as he locked his car door and strode toward a large red brick building across the street.