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RULES OF A HORROR FILMRULES OF A (new) HORROR FILM:
1. Never say "I'll be right back." Saying so is a mark for death.
2. Whenever someone leaves, never tell them to "be careful." (an extension of #1)
3. If the killer's identity is a mystery, it is never the obvious suspect.
4. Never be alone, especially in a dark/isolated area.
5. There is at least 1 or more "Janet Leigh" characters.
6. If the killer has any dialogue, it is even more disturbing, even perverted if possible.
7. The kills are rarely instantaneous; it takes a lot for the victims to actually die. The killer may even torture their victims.
8. Just because someone is down does not mean that they are dead.
9. Any "strange noises" are usually innocent, being an animal, the wind, or another character, etcetera.
10. Victims can be hit anywhere in the body; guys will typically receive damage to the privates in some way.
11. The defeat of the killer will typically be a girl. If not a girl then it will be a team effort, being a boy and a girl, but it is
GHOSTFACE ch 3Jennifer was awakened late the next morning by the pungent odor of something burning. The bloody-orange light coming from outside suggested that it was barely sunrise. She rolled over on her back, finding that Tyler wasn't in the bed with her. She pushed the sheets off when she remembered: she didn't have any clothes on. Even though the door was still closed, she blushingly picked up one of Tyler's shirts off the floor and pulled it on, the shirt so large on her body it hung loosely almost down to her knees, then walked downstairs and into the kitchen.
There, Tyler was standing behind the counter, dressed in a white tank top and his swim trucks he wore the night before, spreading a small slab of butter on a mostly blackened piece of toast.
"Mornin'." he said with a smile as Jennifer walked in.
"Morning." she said back as she took a seat in one of the stools in front of the counter, "I thought I smelled something burning." she remarked, gesturing to the toast in his hand.
"I like my toa
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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