10-05-2019, 11:42 AM
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If you asked him, the film adaptation of Stephen King's Children of the Corn flunked his test of good horror flicks. Sure, the child prophet Isaac -- oh, how he loathed that name -- proved to be an intimidating antagonist in the first half. At least until he was sacrificed by the cult he guided. Beyond one actor's performance, flaws jutted out at every corner, plot holes burning through the scenes like an unwatched film roll. He would much rather watch a different adaptation from the author, perhaps revisiting one of his favorites and taking a trip to the Overlook Hotel. But Children of the Corn was, well, corny. Pun intended. The poltergeist could remember cringing at the predictable tropes upon his first midnight viewing.
But at the moment, his mind strayed far from its course of the horror movies he sought to distract himself with. The boy slipped into a fitful sleep, whimpering as pained memories distorted into a horror movie of his own creation. Yet no sugary stage blood nor clever practical effect served as a barrier between fiction and reality in his dreams. He would toss around in his blankets, jolting awake in a frigid sweat with his rattling lungs heaving and fur bristling with static. Panic ebbed, his senses flooding with fatigue before he slumped on the ratty mattress and hid his head beneath covers once more.
Layers of fleece and quilt could not muffle the knocking at his door -- a feeble whine of protest escaped pale lips as a painfully jovial voice followed. Why now? Rubbing the allure of sleep from his dark-circled eyes, Beck shimmied out from under his wad of blankets and reared his head. A look of exasperation twisted his freckled features and his apparition flickered as he quite literally rolled from his bed and strained to stand. Limping to the door, he nudged the trusted defense against society open, leaning on the frame for support. The towering lion in his threshold obscured his view of the bog surrounding his reclusive dwelling until he pushed the door open further, allowed to gaze upon the event his front yard transformed into.
Bewilderment blindsided him first. "What... did you do... to my house." Each word fell from his trap slowly to form more of a statement than a question, like bitter molasses struggling to process the reason behind such an impudent act. Initial shock swiftly warped into vexation, his slackened jaw snapping shut as he gritted teeth. Mangy hackles rising with the telltale crackle of electricity once more, his disfigured lip curled to bare razor-sharp fangs. A distant film settled over his eyes and the injured boy whipped his head back to face Wormwood, to hiss and screech at the chaser. Yet when he glared into the heavenly creature's face, all he could see was a gouged eye, concealed by bandages just as his own socket had been. So that's what he clawed at that night. Beck drew in a punctured inhale through clenched teeth, hunching his shoulders. Selby said he needed to try and be better; he needed to let go of his anger and forgive. The wiry feline exhaled, his head dipping as he closed his eyes in thought, only for his lambent glare to snap open and pinprick pupils to lock on the lion. His voice trembled in restrained ire, "Just leave me alone, Worm. Please."
But at the moment, his mind strayed far from its course of the horror movies he sought to distract himself with. The boy slipped into a fitful sleep, whimpering as pained memories distorted into a horror movie of his own creation. Yet no sugary stage blood nor clever practical effect served as a barrier between fiction and reality in his dreams. He would toss around in his blankets, jolting awake in a frigid sweat with his rattling lungs heaving and fur bristling with static. Panic ebbed, his senses flooding with fatigue before he slumped on the ratty mattress and hid his head beneath covers once more.
Layers of fleece and quilt could not muffle the knocking at his door -- a feeble whine of protest escaped pale lips as a painfully jovial voice followed. Why now? Rubbing the allure of sleep from his dark-circled eyes, Beck shimmied out from under his wad of blankets and reared his head. A look of exasperation twisted his freckled features and his apparition flickered as he quite literally rolled from his bed and strained to stand. Limping to the door, he nudged the trusted defense against society open, leaning on the frame for support. The towering lion in his threshold obscured his view of the bog surrounding his reclusive dwelling until he pushed the door open further, allowed to gaze upon the event his front yard transformed into.
Bewilderment blindsided him first. "What... did you do... to my house." Each word fell from his trap slowly to form more of a statement than a question, like bitter molasses struggling to process the reason behind such an impudent act. Initial shock swiftly warped into vexation, his slackened jaw snapping shut as he gritted teeth. Mangy hackles rising with the telltale crackle of electricity once more, his disfigured lip curled to bare razor-sharp fangs. A distant film settled over his eyes and the injured boy whipped his head back to face Wormwood, to hiss and screech at the chaser. Yet when he glared into the heavenly creature's face, all he could see was a gouged eye, concealed by bandages just as his own socket had been. So that's what he clawed at that night. Beck drew in a punctured inhale through clenched teeth, hunching his shoulders. Selby said he needed to try and be better; he needed to let go of his anger and forgive. The wiry feline exhaled, his head dipping as he closed his eyes in thought, only for his lambent glare to snap open and pinprick pupils to lock on the lion. His voice trembled in restrained ire, "Just leave me alone, Worm. Please."