DIM
REALM : MATT HOLGATE
Okay,
okay, okay!!! Enough with doing laps around the neighborhood on your
broomstick! Yes, the new sweepster is plenty jazzy for the BIG DAY, but the sun’s up and two of
the neighbors have already taken shots at you with their BB guns!!! If that isn’t
reason enough to cease and desist, how about that it’s Daily
Book Giveaway
time!
If
you’re feeling a chill in the air, it’s not the seasonal temperature that’s
causing the shivers! It’s our creepaliciously talented author MATT HOLGATE. He’s giving away
THREE PRINT COPIES (yes, you read that right, Lizards!!! THREE PRINT COPIES!!!)
of DIM REALM! THE RESURRECTION
TOWER is the first in this very successful series and you know it can’t be good
when people are disappearing!!! Usually you’re the cause, but not this time!!!
It's something even worse!!! MATT also decided to get into the Halloween spirit and write a spine-tingling
short called EMPORIUM. WARNING: DO NOT READ EMPORIUM ALONE!!! Consider yourself on
notice!!!
Matt was a tough cookie
and a hard sell. First, I gave him the rah-rah, “But we’re fellow horror
writers” spiel, but he wasn’t buying any. So I tried to pin him on the ground so I could spend more time breaking down his resistance to this whole idea, but it was like wrestling a bull elephant!!! Fortunately, in my travels, I’ve
learned the art of the poison dart gun!!!! Can't tell you handy that skill comes in!!! So I aimed and blew
and damn if that dart didn’t sink into his neck! From there, I counted, “One,
two, three!” and he was down!!! Paralyzed from the nose down, he communicated
by blinking his eyes. One blink for yes, two for no!!! I taped his agreeing to
participate just in case this ended up going to court, but at the end, he just went
crazy with the blinking!!!! I didn’t know what it was, but it turned out to be a morse code
that translated into, “I’m gonna get you for this if it’s the last freakin’
thing I do!!!” I believe him, too!!! It’s why I signed up for testing ice in
Antarctica for a few years!!!
To
enter our DAILY GIVEAWAY, click on over to
the Official FB EVENT PAGE and comment in the
October 25th post “I Want to
Win” and you just might!!! And why are you reading EMPORIUM alone when I just
told you not to?!!! Well, just crawl into the closet and barricade the door to
finish!!! The nightmares you’ll be having for the next year are well worth the
feasting!!!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matt Holgate is an author who lives in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. His
favourite genre is fantasy, followed closely by horror, science-fiction, and
murder mysteries. But a good book is a good book, and a story with heart will
transcend its boundaries, regardless of its trappings.
LINKS:
@Matt_Holgate on
Twitter
DIM REALM: Book One of The Resurrection Tower
“The
book is a combination of fantasy and horror. The horror will make the hair on
the back of your neck stand up and give you the urge to look under the bed
before you go to sleep.” – Amazon Reader
When
former blacksmith Corin Drey finds himself lying on his back in the midst of
Orthin’s Wood, he cannot imagine what has happened. The last thing he remembers
is searching for Thom Blaire’s wife—one of the disappeared. As he slowly sits
up and looks around, he sees dead soldiers hanging from trees and other bodies
scattered about the burnt forest floor. Corin knows he must find his way
home—but how?
Seventeen-year-old
Kara Kinfolk has an old soul. Her small town of Arrow’s Flight is idyllic and
quiet. But when travelers and residents start to vanish, no one appears
interested in finding them. Worse yet are the nightmares, the voices that
whisper to her from the shadows, and the dark house at the center of town where
secret rituals are performed. Now the house, which possesses powers that
prevent anyone from entering or leaving town, has begun to desire Kara for
reasons she cannot comprehend. Kara knows she must flee Arrow’s Flight—but how?
As
Kara sets out on a quest to quell an ancient evil, she must rely on Corin and a
stranger to help her follow a maze of clues that she hopes will lead to an escape—before
it is too late.
MESSAGE FROM matt:
When Wendy asked me to
write a new Halloweenpalooza story, I was keen. I had a lot of fun with it last
year, and you can read last year's short story at:
But then she threw me the
curve ball. (Or maybe it was a change-up.) This year had a theme, the 'Step of
the Cat', and could we all please write something scary where a cat was central
to the theme. It was up to us how.
A cat, eh? Hmmm. Well,
here's my entry! Enjoy!
MELVIN, THE GILDED MICK,
& THE BLACK CAT EMPORIUM
& THE BLACK CAT EMPORIUM
by Matt holgate©
Melvin Shanks
approached the pawn shop on Thirteenth Avenue. Luck wasn’t his problem, but he
failed to appreciate the irony. He was focused quite intently on the sign atop
the shop’s front door, which read
BLACK CAT EMPORIUM
and
GUITARS!!! GUNS!!!
CARATS!!! & CASH!!! & CIGARS!!!
in large black letters painted on a pristine white board. One
might think the letters were tombstones in a field, assuming they were over the
irony of the street number, and they were possessed of sufficient imagination.
Imagination was not Melvin Shanks’ problem either. Quite the
contrary. Had you suggested it, he probably would have thought it a quaint
notion. Some nights, he lay awake at night, wishing that it was.
Melvin looked up at the sign for a long time. Took a deep breath.
Stopped his hands from shaking. He looked like a plain, ordinary man of about
forty, although maybe he was wearing his clothes a second day in a row, and he
was sweating as if nervous or about to get sick. He was thin and fidgety, the
kind of person who always needs one more sweater and keeps losing his keys, and
his hair was thinning admirably. And was that the hint of a comb-over?
Slowly, deliberately, the disheveled, otherwise unremarkable man
took a step towards the Black Cat Emporium. He did not step on a crack, did not
break his mother’s back. Although his mother was the least of his concerns at
the moment.
His heard skipped a beat when he thought he heard a sound
(there)
(it’s there)
behind him, but he would not look back. Wouldn’t, couldn’t,
shouldn’t. His very own Dr. Seuss rhyme.
Didn’t Seuss say ‘Don’t be sad that it’s over, be happy that it
happened’? Melvin wondered, taking another measured step.
Looking backwards was bad. Just ask Lot. But so was dashing for
the finish line.
Some animals like to play with you, let you think you’ve almost –
almost! – made it, and then claw you in at the last possible second. Hope you
enjoyed the run, the animal thinks.
Animals… and monsters.
Don’t be sad that it’s over, the monster would say of your near
escape. Be happy that it happened.
The laugh that Melvin gave was abrupt, a watery thing left soaking
for too long. He quickly put it away. It didn’t belong outside. When people
heard it, it seemed to unsettle them.
He finally reached the door of the pawnshop, and
(…there…)
(…it’s there…)
(…it is you KNOW it is…)
a bell rang as he opened the door, interrupting his thoughts,
announcing his presence to the world. It was shrill and he didn’t like it. Not
one bit, not one spit.
Nevertheless, Melvin did like what he found inside the Black Cat
Emporium.
It was a long low room, not unlike a solitary bowling lane, filled
with rows of shelves, some patiently gathering their dust, others more recently
scavenged. A hardware store for the nearly broken, a museum for the utmost
forgotten, some with hearts that ached for a train to come crashing through
this tunnel. But alas, they were safe here, precious junk like movie stars of a
departed era, waiting for adoption at the orphanage, knowing there were younger,
pretty starlets out there.
Swords hung on the walls only slightly askew, like a straight
painting of a crooked house, while others were locked in scabbards on shelves
that promised their blades weren’t rusted, even if they wouldn’t give you a
peek at the show for a penny. Velvety oil paintings of pink ladies who did not
or would not realize their days of royalty were bygone and faded to near
alabaster. Old stereo parts sat with open mouths and rusty dials, plastic hats
with lightning-shaped cracks where they sat protectively over turntables, wires
hanging gamely over the sides, ready
(let us play!)
for another go. Sewing machines stared up from white cases or deep
within wood tables, their wrought iron legs spindly, sometimes bent, sometimes
missing entirely, only made to stand level by folding cards of discarded
birthdays slipped underneath. Glass goblets the size of monster heads were
filled with matchbooks of long closed restaurants from now-smokeless towns that
wondered where the passion went. Wooden radios with faces like voodoo masks and
tubes that might not light waited to give raspy voice
(let us play!)
(let us feel!)
to the crackle before the silky smooth crept in and the dial
stopped, winded and breathless and so thankful for the music of Elvis Presley
and the steady march of troubadours since. All hail the king.
Telescopes craned with creaks in their necks to look at stars no
more, except for the dusty brass or blue globes that tilted downwards nearby,
abandoned by gravity and the spin of the universe. No more lonely journeys
through the endless black, but you could dream. Copper plates all for the
hanging, etched with loons, foxes and wolves, northland wonders locked neatly
in step, blackened on their edges where wizened old hands had pressed their
shapes in. Spoons lay in coffins, neat in a row, tucked into bed, and lamp
posts carved like totem poles of tribes that never existed guarded their
slumber. Plastic owls that had never gone hunting with dogs howling and guns
blazing kept the peace, while magazines that would as soon start a fire than
tell secrets from a score of years ago teetered distrustfully. Maybe today was
the day that they’d fall.
And books! So many books! Piles of them, mostly paperbacks, or
hardcovers with jackets bent and faded, but never dusty. No, never that.
Romances a quiver with page ends tinted purple or pink, many yellowed by use,
or stained from being dropped in the tub one night, daren’t ask any questions.
Hardboiled detectives named Harvey, Frank or Mike, leaning for support against
adventurers named Dirk and his kin. Rough and tumble, ready to rumble. Pulp
science fiction covers of planets that were almost ready to discover disco,
found in ships that looked more like modern sex toys than transportation, yet
they were wondrous and perfect, so perfect. Fantasy books where the women wore
almost nothing except the sword that would cleave you in two, unless their
loincloth lover was carrying them against the oncoming horde, ready to die in
her name. And the horror books? They just watched. Waited from the shadows.
Black books with hints of color, making you remember the glow of the eyes of
monsters in the cellar.
Oh yes, most especially books. The paperback novels you would pick
up unexpectedly on a lazy summer day and become mesmerized by. Melvin liked to
see that, although it made him run his fingers under his collar, hoping the
sweat wasn’t showing through yet.
So many things. Please adopt us, take us home, let us show you we
still care. Each one proud, yet each one wept. The nearly discarded. The almost
wanted.
Like me, thought Melvin, itching to be free yet hoping never to
leave. Like me...
He wished he could see them better, but the light wasn’t what he
thought it would be. Repeated from the outside, was
GUITARS!!! GUNS!!!
CARATS!!! & CASH!!! & CIGARS!!!
only now it wasn’t silent like a graveyard, but hissing. These
were neon tubes bright red in the dusty darkness, but they did little to
diminish the shadows of the pawn shop. They were selfish that way, calling
attention only to themselves, and buzzed like insects you wanted to swat but
couldn’t quite see. This low room really was like a train tunnel, an endless
corridor, and if you wanted real light, you either had to back away slowly, or
make it to the end, hoping that some carnival clown didn’t drag you into the
depths at the last moment, caressing you fondly but smelling of stale sweat.
And all around him, Melvin Shanks could hear the objects of the
Black Cat Emporium sing:
Let us play!
Let us feel!
You know in your secret heart that you want us to…
This was their home, after all.
Waiting at the back desk was Mick Anders. The ‘Gilded Mick’ was
the moniker he was known by, and if you didn’t know that already, yet another
fluorescent sign – this one the green of new money and cheap plastic Christmas
trees – would remind you from behind him. He wore a crisp new black t-shirt
with 80s silver lettering that proudly proclaimed ‘The Hoodoo That You Do’ and
wondered if anyone got the joke. Mick was a fat man with thick grey hair pulled
back in a ponytail, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
A 50s era kid’s Coke delivery truck sat with its trailer parked in
a permanent state of jackknife beside an old school cash register (bing!) while
guitars were strung along the wall behind him strategically around his namesake
sign, from plush cherry red axes to old spruce box-tops. To the side hung a
brassy old saxophone gone copper at the edges, like a lonely ole’ Mac the Knife
crescent moon waiting to make his introduction, stepping onstage with flare,
with style, with pizzazz, taking his spot in the limelight. A stack of old
records lay beneath, the top of which was a King Crimson face that could only
be meant to scare out what little bejesus you had left in you. All hail a new
kind of king!
Mick smiled at Melvin as he stepped up, like a rookie coming to
the plate for his first at-bat, and the Gilded Mick was the pitcher. Sealed
cigars below the glass countertop didn’t dare deign to give him the time of
day. Cubans made the best cigars and the best baseball players. Just ask any
Cuban. They might be right, though.
“Welcome to the Black Cat,” said the Gilded Mick charismatically,
eyeing his latest mark.
Mick had seen Melvin lurking around before. This wasn’t the first
time he’d passed by. Oh, no sir, the cat came back the very next day. And the
next. And the next. However, this was the first time he’d worked up the courage
to come inside. Courage… or maybe desperation?
Mick knew Melvin’s type. Someone who didn’t want to sell, but had
to nonetheless.
And I don’t really care why, thought the Gilded Mick. Others of
his profession had more scruples (so they said) than he did. Morons. Losers
all.
You couldn’t care, not in this business. Still, you had to listen
to the stories, let them tell you, on and on, so that you could get what they
had. It was the price you paid in this line of work. And sometimes you were
rewarded not only with good merchandise to sell, but a good story to use later.
By God, they came in all shapes and sizes, and just when you thought you’d
heard ’em all, in came another, somehow more grandiose and romantic than the
last.
It’s not like they can’t come back and reclaim their treasure
before it’s sold. I hold them true to my word. Yet they almost never do. And
don’t tell me it’s because none of them can ever come up with the cash.
“My name’s Melvin,” said the prospective customer. He had that
shine of clammy perspiration. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”
“If the sign’s lyin’, I’m dyin’,” said Mick with his big ole’
gilded smile. Truth to tell, he was a rather happy guy. He didn’t have to force
it.
Surprisingly, Mick saw the other man grow paler, if that was
somehow possible. The days of humidity were long over for the season, but not
to look at Melvin.
“Christ, man, it’s just an expression! Do you have something for
me to sell, or are you buying? We’ve got loads of good stuff here in the Back
Cat. What’re you into, Mel? Saw you looking at the books. Lots of good ones in
the pile if you want to dig. And digging’s the fun, am I right?”
“Melvin.”
“Pardon?”
“You called me Mel. It’s not Mel. It’s Melvin.” He sounded neither
proper nor angry so much as unable to let a small inconsistency go. Like it was
a tick. One of many, probably. A bed full of the critters.
“Okay, Melvin,” Mick said, hands up like he was held hostage, in
that practiced way he had that didn’t make him sound condescending when that’s
exactly what he was. “You like what you see?”
“I do. I hear them.”
Melvin saw that he had to explain, since saying nothing or saying
too much might get him kicked out of the Black Cat altogether.
“I feel the nostalgia. I’ve always heard the voices of old things
cast aside.”
“Me, too,” the Gilded Mick said, relaxing slightly, figuring that
maybe this Melvin guy wasn’t so bad – just weird, not crazy. Time would tell if
he was right or wrong about that.
“I heard them even as a little boy,” Melvin continued. In a
surprising way, it felt good to admit at least a little of it. “Sometimes, it
was like they were voices from around the corner. Until I learned how to think
around those corners. And there was no going back.”
Melvin paused, mumbling something like ‘There was no banishing
them,’ but said no more about it.
“Well, okay, if you’ve got something you want to buy or trade,
now’s the time,” said Mick, who suddenly wasn’t completely sold on not being
creeped out, even if he’d almost been lulled. One way or another, he wanted to
conclude this transaction.
“I have something for you,” Melvin said …
… and then did nothing. Just a pause growing ever more pregnant.
Like he was considering some alien fact. Something he wasn’t ready to look at
yet. Steeling himself, maybe.
Maybe hearing one of those voices, Mick wanted to laugh, but it
landed with a thud, where it promptly curled up and died.
“And that is…?” Mick eventually prodded. Jesus liftin’, he thought
solemnly, as if truly believing the Bible had ever said that.
Finally, this Melvin character reached into his jacket, and slowly
produced what looked like an old, leather-bound journal. He placed it down
carefully on the glass countertop, and held his fingertips atop it like he was
a druid communing with its inner nature, stroking the leather cover like it was
a pet, until slowly pulling his hands away, all his fingers at once, an
orchestra heeding its conductor. He then promptly stuck his hands in his
pockets like he didn’t know what to do with him … or was afraid he would snatch
the old book right back up. Like it had told him
(let me play, Melvin…)
(let me…)
(...feel)
not to. Mustn’t. Daren’t. You bad little boy.
“I can’t read it anymore,” Melvin gave by way of explanation. He
wouldn’t even look at the journal now. Just at Mick. “It won’t let me. And so I
want to know if it interests you, Gilded Mick. This shop, this Black Cat, might
be the perfect place. Will you accept it into your home?”
And he just kept staring at Mick. And staring.
But Mick Anders barely noticed Melvin’s odd attention. He was
staring intently at the old leather book. It was … strange. The leather, for
one, was a peculiar pale color. Creased like old driving gloves that couldn’t
take one more winter and wanted to cry as the blood bled out the cracks and
crevices. It wasn’t flat either, as if the pages inside had fallen in a tub
like those paperbacks up front and had bloated – the fate of many an ill-held
novel – or as if the pages inside were made of a similar material as the cover.
Leathery. Crinkly. And there wasn’t any traditional binding on the book’s
bumpy, raggedy spine, nor was there glue. Instead, it was a haphazard
configuration of reddish twine and some thin curling material, twisting around
and around like some morbid school-day workbook, as if it was a literal spine.
Made of skin and bone.
That’s just stupid… Mick thought, licking dry lips.
The configuration holding the book together was like something had
leapt from point to point, following a path that made complete sense to it, but
would only make sense to others later. How could you understand the journey
without the destination? And besides, the book had no title. It was all about
the journey.
“Where are you going?” Mick mumbled distractedly, enchanted, and
when something fell from a shelf in his suddenly eerily quiet shop, only then
did he realize he’d been reaching for the book.
Mick laughed, only partially forced. Can’t afford another heart
attack! Three times would probably be the charm!
“Interesting looking book,” he finally said, regaining some
composure. “Sure to get some attention, at least. Maybe I could even find it a
prime shelf up front, if sunlight through the window won’t degrade it. Very
interesting, its appearance. Very interesting. Reminds me of a Halloween gag my
mom played on me.”
At the same time, Mick opened up the journal to a random page, a
page that was indeed the same sort of material as the cover, not unlike
papyrus. Or skin, yeah, he had to admit that.
Written on the page was
…reminds me of a Halloween gag my mom played on me…
in thick red letters.
It felt surreal to see that, and in a sudden panic, Mick flipped
back to another page,
(…if the sign’s lyin’, I’m dyin’…)
and then another,
(…it was like they were voices from around the corner…)
reading things
(…I want to know if it interests you…)
he was sure had just been said in this room. But that was
impossible!
Mick realized that, for some reason, he couldn’t stop touching the
book. He wasn’t even sure when he’d started! There was no more patented ‘Gilded
Mick smile’ on his face, no matter what the sign behind him might say. And it
felt like all the merchandise in the Black Cat Emporium was starting at him!
Faces hidden in the debris. Eyes in the darkness pleading to shine. In the
shadows under wan evil moons and the faded stars of long ago. They sat
patiently while waiting for something momentous to happen. Something monstrous.
“You have to keep her for now,” Melvin told him solemnly, “unless
you can find her a new home. I don’t think you’ll have the time… or the desire.
I’m not sure she likes you, but she hasn’t quite made up her mind. And she’s
very particular.”
“She?”
At the same time, Mick looked down at a once blank page, and he
saw in progress a passage being written by an elegant, invisible hand…
…and Mick realized that the leather of the book was cat skin, had
to be, and the words were written in blood by the same manner of feline bone
that wound through her sinewy spine, and even though he was scared, deep down
he fancied himself a pharaoh, the same type who long ago had wanted to take his
kindred spirit with him into the next world, even if he knew the blood of the writings
wasn’t feline, that it was his…
…which was actually what Mick Anders was thinking at that exact
time!
It was remarkable! He could actually see the words being written!
And they were true!
Melvin Shanks, hovering like a ghost, removed his hands from his
pocket, and backed away slowly. He was crying. Mostly happy tears, but they
were also sad, too. Forlorn and wistful.
Said Melvin as he faded back towards the door, “I’m not doing this
willingly. You have to know that.”
“Gotta live with it. Could still be here if you come back with
cash,” Mick mumbled, not even sure what he was saying, just wanting the other
man to go away.
“When I come back, you’re going to be surprised.”
He sounded melancholy, but Mick knew why. Only the dreamers came
back, and this Melvin guy was no dreamer. In a sense, that was his problem. He
had nothing else.
And now I have everything!
“I don’t deal in dead wood, so it eases my troubled heart,” Mick
said by way of explanation, knowing the poor mark wouldn’t understand, since it
was romantic, but right now, he hardly cared a whit for Melvin Shanks, even if,
in retrospect, they hadn’t sounded much like his words at all.
The book actually flipped on its own to a new blank page, and the
Gilded Mick marveled, even as he held his breath, felt a nausea born of
excitement and fear, rising and falling like time and tide. New words were
written, darker and larger than before, almost dripping he would swear, and
they made Mick want to both giggle and scream:
I’M NOT DOING THIS WILLINGLY.
GOTTA LIVE WITH IT. COULD STILL BE HERE IF YOU COME BACK WITH
CASH.
WHEN I COME BACK, YOU’RE GOING TO BE SURPRISED.
I DON’T DEAL IN DEAD WOOD, SO IT EASES MY TROUBLED HEART.
Melvin had departed, and Mick could barely contain his excitement.
Even if it was just his imagination, brought on by the perfect sales pitch, if
he could pull the same trick on the rubes that came in, why–
The Gilded Mick suddenly yipped. Something had clawed his hand! In
the green fluorescent light, he saw a number of long black scratches down his
hand, and knew it was the red of blood he was seeing.
When he looked back down at the book, a long series of scratches
had torn up the most recent page, and only a few of the words remained:
I… WILL…
…LIVE… HERE…
WHEN… YOU’RE…
...DEAD…
“What in the…” Mick mumbled. There was a look of confusion on his
face.
The page flipped again, and he read new words by that same
invisible hand, horrified:
…he would die with that look of confusion on his face…
And then Mick Anders, the Gilded Mick, knew what he had missed. It
was simple, really. Someone who knew his shop as well as he did – every nook,
cranny and sound – it should have been obvious to. Unless they had learned to
tune it all out. Unless they didn’t deserve all of the Emporium’s precious,
hidden treasures anymore.
Unless they had been distracted. On the sly, as it were.
He realized he’d never heard the door’s bell ring.
Melvin had never left, and from behind the distracted pawnshop
owner, he emerged from the shadows and struck him down with a baseball bat.
Mick fell instantly dead in a pool of his own blood, completely out of sight of
anyone who might enter the store today.
“Sorry,” Melvin answered, pushing back what stringy remaining hair
he had left away from his sweaty brow, “but she said it was you or me. And
she’s very particular.”
Slowly, reverently, Melvin picked up the leathery book, standing
over Mick’s dead body like he was the new pawnshop owner. Which, as far as he
was concerned, he was. He had to be. He was crying at their good fortune,
especially for the mistress he held in his hands. It was the body and soul of
an ancient being, deserving of worship, and he had seen in Mick Anders’ eyes
that he’d understood, at the end. As much as poor mortals like them could ever
possibly understand.
“I hope this is a good home for you. I tried to find the best one.
So much history, a place you’ll be comfortable in. Where you’ll meet new
people.”
Melvin knew she would have to stretch, circle her new bed, but he
was pretty sure they were home. It felt like a homecoming. And as for the rest?
She’ll take care of it. She’ll tell me how.
This was only her second life.
Melvin took another deep breath, filled his lungs with antique air
and the smells of pooling blood like bursts of copper. Too quick and the deed
had been done, but that was the truth of things. Don’t be sad that it’s over,
be happy that it happened. They had a new home.
Sometimes you choose your pet. Sometimes your pet chooses you.
And sometimes there’s no difference at all.
Happy Halloween!!
Matt Holgate
Author of “The Dim Realm, Volumes I & II” and “Unforgotten,
Volume I”
Unforgotten, Volume II, comes out early in 2015! Read a sample
chapter at:
@Matt_Holgate (Twitter)
The Dim Realm, Volume I -
Book One of The Resurrection Tower by Matt Holgate
The Dim Realm, Volume II -
Book Two of The Resurrection Tower by Matt Holgate
Unforgotten, Volume I -
Book Three of The Resurrection Tower by Matt Holgate
CONTEST CLOSED -- WINNERS POSTED ON FB EVENT PAGE!!!
TO ENTER
TO ENTER
1. Simply click on link below (HALLOWEENPALOOZA PIC)
2. Comment "I Want to Win" on the October 25th Daily Giveaway post
3. That's it! All names will be put into Random.org at 8 PM this evening. Winners will be posted on FB!
GOOD LUCK!!!
"Sometimes you choose your pet. Sometimes your pet chooses you." Matt Holgate
ReplyDelete" Melvin, The Gilded Mick, & The Black Cat Emporium"...next time you're on 13th St. look it up...at your own risk...Bwahahahaha. Spine-tingling read.
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