Apr. 2nd, 2020

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It's Thursday, the day we dedicate to Simon's absolute best boy, Sparky the Hellhound.

This week, check out this golden Cerberus by BemusedBehemoth:

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April is here and Easter will soon be upon us. Traditionally a time for bunnies, in Eerie they probably have the Easter Jackalope bringing their chocolate eggs. To celebrate, I'll be posting a different Jackalope-themed bit of merch every day in April.

Today, I'd like to share this adorable Jackalope drawing by Tom Sparke:

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So I was talking with [personal profile] evilinsanemonkey (who's now recording the amazing podfic for "The Roller Rink on the Edge of Forever") about how I've been keeping a playlist for "Roller Rink" comprised of songs directly mentioned in the text--at least the ones that exist in our universe--and some the author was listening to at the time of creation, and we decided I should share it.

So here it is, in all its cheesy '70s and '80s retro glory:

Spotify version

YouTube version (with official music videos where I could find them)

I'm not sure how much accompanying music should be considered a spoiler (and maybe that depends on the song), but this is everything for the published part of the fic through Chapter 19. I'll keep updating these along with the story itself.
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I've mentioned before that hot chocolate is pretty much my go-to comfort food, and right now I need a pick-me-up more than ever. With that in mind, I bring you Thirty Days of Hot Chocolate!

Blueberry cheesecake white hot chocolate by Whittards. Mug by Rae Dunn.

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They were deep into the forest, and the rain falling on the leaves sounded like distant applause. Janet Donner heaved one last shovelful of clinging mud into the newly-occupied grave and wiped the sleeve of her already-ruined shirt across her forehead.

She turned, dappled light turning streaks of slime and scales to gold where it touched her face, moving shadows making the dried blood look almost black.

"Is it over?" she asked the squirming, squamous thing she'd carried there in a clear plastic bag filled with lake water.

It's thousand eyes were sad as it stared at her, signing "no".

Ongoing Verse: Janet

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Ongoing Verse: The Children

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Marshall slid the security bolt back into place with his foot, his arms being too full of Cantonese takeout from the Black Dragon to be able to spare a hand. A Rawhead wearing a Cone of Shame the size of a Buick gave him a considering look, but the gigantic plastic collar removed most of the terror inherent in being stared at by a towering mass of bloody bone and torn meet, so Marshall shrugged it off.

"Hey," said Simon, pushing open the back door of Happy Brothers Veterinary and Taxidermists (under new management these last five years, although he still hadn't gotten around the changing the name). "Come on in."

Marshall followed him up the short set of stairs and into the file room, which doubled as a staff canteen since Simon was the only staff member who needed to eat. Sheila waved as he passed the open door to the waiting room, and he returned it awkwardly, the waxed white cartons he was holding shifting alarmingly in his grasp.

"Hey," he said. "What happened to the ravens? I think this is the first time I've come by where they didn't dive-bomb me the second they smelled chow mien."

Simon scowled.

"I told them to leave," he said. "Sheila caught them bullying one of the chupacabra, right there on the back steps."

"Huh," said Marshall. "I didn't know that was a thing. Cryptid-on-cryptid bullying." He considered, then corrected himself. "Weird-animal-on-cryptid bullying, I guess, since nobody disputes the existence of ravens."

"Well, they're not existing out by my parking space until they stop acting like a bunch of bully-ostriches."

Marshall blinked.

"A what?"

"A bully-ostrich," said Sheila, drifting in with a stack of paperwork. "We have a client who has an ostrich. It's a bully."

"The phrase stuck," Simon explained.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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The ground floor of the Mark Twain Boarding House was a single open space, littered with easy chairs and end tables arranged in conspiratorial huddles in all the shadowed corners. The check-in desk stood against the far wall, dark wood gleaming and a huge brass bell shaped like a screaming human face sat centre-stage.

Marshall stepped inside, smelling polish and pine resin and the faint remnants of tobacco smoke. The walls were covered in paintings, and each painting was of the room where he now stood, seen from strange angles that warped familiar concepts like "lamp" and "floor" into something that made his head swim and his stomach churn.

Worse than the images of the furniture were the human figures, captured in motion so that they seemed to be struggling against a sticky web of pigment keeping them pinned to the canvass. One of the figures had too-long brown hair that caught in the collar of a khaki-green coat, and a very familiar pair of brand-name sneakers that were already falling apart.

The bell on the counter dinged loudly, though nobody was near it, and a door marked "employees only" began to swing open. Marshall Teller turned, and walked away.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Billy Millions stared out of the clubhouse window at the tarmac'd parking lot below, and shook his head.

"What are they doing?" he asked, of no-one in particular.

Gnomey sighed and took a long pull of his beer.

"I think they're trying to intimidate us because you told the Eerie Enquirer that the only biker gangs in town were us and those elementary schoolers who ride tricycles and wear weird little felt caps."

"Well, we are," said Billy.

Gnomey looked at the riding mowers currently circling outside.

"I guess the men of our local Home-Owners Association disagree," he said, shrugging.

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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The spirit she'd captured in the brandy bottle was singing sea shanties again.

Marisea was almost certain it hadn't lived a life on the open waves before it wound up haunting a grandfather clock in a junk store run by leprechauns, but that hadn't stopped it manifesting in a blue and white striped shirt, a red neckerchief and a costume shop-level "Sea Captain Hat" the moment she'd brought it home.

"It wasn't even a rum bottle," she complained over the noise. "At least then it would be thematically appropriate!"

"Threaten to beat it with the cat-o-nine-tails," suggested Andrea. "Keel-hauling. Scurvy?"

Ongoing Verse: Andrea/Marisea

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Ongoing Verse: Leprechaun

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