Jezzie Mitchell is in anguish; with her brother’s murder still on her mind, she’s noticed strange behavior among the girls in the residential treatment center where she works. Is there a connection between the contagion on Cape Cod and the deadly Bahamas vacation that changed her life?
Jezzie reaches out to former lover Lou Collins, a scholar who has chased proof of the lights for decades. Will he be able to solve the mystery of the lights in time?
Intensely competitive, reporter Bridgette Collins knows the lights are a way to secure fame in her career. And while it’ll put the final nail into the coffin of her ex-husband’s career, she vows to know the secrets of the lights. Even if it means unleashing a world-wide epidemic…
The boy knows he is lost. He is lost, and his former sense of normalcy has completely vanished. He feels abandoned. The irony, if he were old enough to understand the term, is that he is lost inside of a closet that is only six feet in length. In the dark, the closet feels cavernous, endless. The closet provides adequate space for a trauma that will remain with him throughout his adult years. His fear is nearly smothered by the heavy olfactory smog of mothballs and cedar chips, yet the fear constantly recuperates: a phoenix with dread for wings. The boy’s face feels tight from the dried traces of tears that etch his cheeks. The hot air rushes his nostrils which are clogged with mucous; the hot air is working against him, forcing him to hyperventilate. The entire house is unfamiliar to him and his eyes, in the darkness, struggle to make out the walls and ceiling of the place where he is being held captive. He is not alone.
Elaine Pascale has been writing for most of her life. She took a break from fiction in order to give birth to two children and complete a doctoral dissertation. She lives on Cape Cod, MA, with her husband, son and daughter. She teaches a variety of courses at a private university in Boston: from English Composition and Communications to a Vampire Seminar. Her writing has been published in Allegory Magazine, Dark Fire Magazine, and several anthologies. She is the author of If Nothing Else, Eve, We've Enjoyed the Fruit, and is also the author of the nonfiction book: Metamorphosis: Identity Outcomes in International Student Adaptation--A Grounded Theory Study. She enjoys a robust full moon, chocolate, and collecting cats.
The makers of Doritos claim they never intended to make the “Lady Dorito.” In the winter of 2018, a chief executive of PepsiCo let slip that women have different snacking habits than men. Women, according to the exec, don’t like to eat loudly in public. Nor do they like messy crumbs and sticky residue on their fingers. They would never, ever, ever tip a bag back and let the cheesy, salty detritus fall into their mouths. And, most importantly, they like compact snacks that can fit into a purse.
Basically, snacking should reflect the daintiness that is womanhood.
Society has some strange ideas about female hunger. Women should have small appetites regarding all types of hunger: hunger for food, hunger for power, hunger for sex. The Doritos discussion simply articulated what has always been implied: women should reign in their basic impulses. Many women, mothers especially, put their needs second to those of family, friends, and even coworkers. Sleep, food, sex, and mental health can wait if someone else needs your attention first. It is superego over id.
As a writer, I have always had an interest in highlighting the primal urges in women. The Blood Lights not only centers on food/cannibalism/female zombies, but it also examines women’s desires for power, fame, and for love (in the sense of having their needs met, as opposed to being the caretaker of another human’s needs). And if women are focused on their needs, how does that affect the family and society?
I can’t say that The Blood Lights answers that question, but it does try to imagine a world where women are no longer concerned with eating quietly and neatly. They give into their urges and compulsions: the result of which is a good old-fashioned horror story.
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