Of Food and Nursery Rhymes

The hunger had nagged at him all day. At work, on the commute, every little action punctuated by appetite. Now he was home. He could relax. But did he dare? A naughty little snack here and there never did hurt anybody... Jeff tugged open the fridge door.

His mouth watered at the pedicured foot.

So, I've been a bad boy and don't have any writing to show you aside from that SUPER short story I slapped together. It feels a lot like the Very Short Stories I write on Twitter. Essentially you have a character limit, and have to make a compelling story fit in there. I feel like it's helped me grow as a writer.

Apparently my subject matter is still drek, though.

No matter! The book is plugging away. I'm still getting agent refusals left and right, but I have one or two things that are looking promising. Maybe I'll entered the esteemed halls of "published writer" yet. Until then I'll keep plugging away at the second book.

Also, damn you, Kelly. You turned children's rhymes into a terrible thing.

"Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,

All dressed in black, black, black,

She had a knife, knife, knife,

Stuck in her back, back, back.

She can not breathe, breathe, breathe,

She can not cry, cry, cry,

That's why she begs, begs, begs,

She begs to die, die die.

I feel the creative juices flowing. Maybe something will come of that?

LISTEN TO ME!

The more that I write, the more I look at the writing in other things. Shows, movies, books, it doesn't matter, I'm deciphering if they're a good story, and what makes them a good story.

Veronica Mars is a damn good story.

Interesting, multi-faceted character? Check! Interesting, multi-faceted cast? Check! Great storyline? Check! Kristen Bell, who I wish would just return ONE of my phone calls? Oh, uh, check!

I'm only in the first season, but it promises to be a good one. There's an overall plot for the season that tingles my spine. It's more heavily touched on in some episodes than others, but it always has a presence. Of course that doesn't mean that there aren't other, interesting stories being told, or that this somehow negates the power of the seasonal plot. Everything feels pertinent, relevant, powerful.

Where other shows would do self-contained episodes, or introduce a "villain of the week," Veronica Mars turns that trope on its head. Everything, and everyone, is related. Slowly the story constructs a vast, interesting universe. It's not just a story. These are people, and by God, you love them and hate them as much as you would those in your life.

So watch it. For the love of God, watch it. It deserves so much more recognition than it's garnered. If you hold any respect for me, even any shred of pity, go watch this.

Please.

Trembles in the cold, forgotten and alone.

Oh, also, the book's chugging along fine. I took a break for my birthday, but I've been plugging along today. The book is at 11,000 words, and I feel like it's going to be longer than the first.

The fact that the first one wasn't a fluke is, well, exciting as hell in itself.

E & E Forever

So, I lied.

A few nights ago a friend of mine, Joe Kawano, put a gun against my head and made me write. It was terrible. There's probably emotional scarring to go along with it, to be honest.

Yet I hope my suffering can bring you all some joy.

I don't know quite what's going on here. I just started writing and it... well, worked. It's not the best, but I think it has some nice imagery and flow. The opening is especially a joy to me.

As for Johnny's second book, I'm hard at work. It's flowing nicely, and the world's getting a little broader. I hope that with each book, we'll explore a region of it, whether it's technology, races, or cultures. By the time I finish this, I want the world to be fully fleshed.

The barrel still burned bright, cherry red as a cigarette. Elizabeth laid at his feet motionless, a good chunk missing from her abdomen.

"It was the only way," he whispered, more for himself than her. Her nails still were raked red with his blood. He'd seen teeth in tiger's shorter than the talons, and neck ached with the slow, steady bleed. He needed to get out of here or he'd die.

He couldn't handle another attack. Into the alley he stumbled, slamming into trash cans and brick. The former when tumbling to the ground while the latter stood strong, a handhold for a dying man. Eustice shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.

Overhead something eclipsed the moon. A flutter of bat wings and it was gone.

Eustice picked up the pace. His legs trembled and the cannon was held limply at his side. Bit by bit he left a trail, bit by bit he grew slower. He felt cold, cold as the corpses that pursued him.

"Just a little farther," he mumbled. The alley swam and dipped, up becoming right, and down becoming something north of left. Bile choked his throat, and Eustice was sick against the wall. His shoulders shuddered and his stomach ached.

"It's time to give up."

Eustice swung around, his hand cannon brought to bear. He was tragically too slow. A casual hand swatted it to the side, the gun dancing across the asphalt. There she stood, in all her glory, empty abdomen and all. Eustice couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He had killed her once already -- he couldn't try it a second time.

 Elizabeth smiled sadly, raising a handful of razors into the air.

"This was always the only way."

Why We Write and Etc

I've started writing the second book.

I've got nothing set in stone with the first book. No deals, no assurances, just a big, fat maybe with a side of dismissals. Yet here I am, writing the sequel to a book that may never see the light of day.

Why the hell am I doing that?

The answer's simple: Because I have to. Because it keeps me sane, because it keeps me happy, because deep down inside of me, there's a story and a world that comes crashing up. I have to write because I have no other option.

Also, it is tough as hell to create another world on the fly. I'm putting a lot into this. Everything that I went for in the first book, I want to make bigger in the second. I want the violence, the relationships, the banter, and the world to feel more visceral, more in-depth. I feel like the first book was putting the parts together.

The second is making them work well.

Updates might be a little less meaty here. I'll have the occasional short story, but I think more posts will be just talking about what I'm going through. It's easier to write, and requires a lot less of my brain. That way, I'm able to push this book out one day.

Also, two of my friends got me into Warframe. That is going to consume my damned life, right there.

Assholes.

Small

I'm trying my hand at horror again. I had decided that this would center around an adult. The childhood portion would last only a paragraph or two, and then I'd move on.

The story thought differently. I think a good aspect for horror is to have it unknown. Feed the reader only enough information so that they're interested, but keep the biggest reveal secret. What's so scary about the common day? If it can be explained, it loses its power. It stops being something that creeps in the night, and becomes the commonplace.

To hell with that.

It started small.

Objects appeared where I never left them. An action figure on top of the refrigerator, a mug of chocolate milk underneath the cabinets, small things that escaped the even smaller attention span of a child. My parents would laugh about them. "Boys will be boys," Mama would say, and Daddy would chime in, nodding his head in fierce agreement. Their little boy was a hell-raiser, and an inventive one to boot. There'd be no obstacle I couldn't overcome as I grew, the answer to a parent's prayers. They were proud of me.

When did that begin to change?

As I entered the first grade, the incidents graduated with me. Cups and toys stopped their wandering ways, only for more adult considerations to appear. A knife on my Mama's pillow, a crowbar in my Daddy's chair, a popsicle mouse staring from inside the freezer, they all made the circuit through my home. Pride turned to anger, and anger turned to fear. That happy household began to crumble. My protests didn't mean much. "I didn't do it!" I'd plead, "I'm so sorry!" I'd sob. Innocence or admission, neither mattered. I'd always get the belt in the end. After all, my words held all the weight of air.

I should have never told them about the man who stood outside my vision. If I moved too quickly, if I jerked in surprise, he was gone, a phantom slinking back into shadow. But if I sat still, if I summoned the right amount of patience and courage, I could study him from the corner of my eye. He was big and tall, with a broad hat and a long coat, a spot of ink dotting my periphery. Sometimes, if I focused long enough, I would hear him whisper. He would tell me to do things.

I didn't want to listen.

Of course, these flickers in the corner of my eye, those whispers on the wind, were all symptoms of an expansive imagination. Or so the psychologist said. His words were persuasive, and where they weren't, his prescription pad certainly was. Olanzapine, quietapine, lithium, they all were prescribed in short order, special medication for a special boy. 

They didn't make me feel special. They dulled my head, and stopped my dreams, turning a world of colors into stark black and white. My childhood was already waning. The medication delivered the final blow.

Even then, it would have been all worth it if only my parents could have loved me again. 

They smiled, certainly, but the expressions were strained from rehearsal and waning hope. The pride in their eyes had long since faded, gone to that place of lost dreams and crushed ambitions. They offered sweet assurances, but they always rung hollow with hesitation. After all, even I could hear their worried whispers behind closed doors. Ginger had gone missing.

I was the prime suspect. Hadn't the family cat always hated me? She would glare at me with her mean, green eyes, hissing, swatting, and striking whenever I would reach for her. I had the scars to prove her displeasure. Sure, she had been shunned for it the first few years, facing spray bottles and smacks for her efforts, but her suffering wasn't eternal. As my star fell, her's rose. She became my parents' surrogate child, an abnormal vessel to fawn over with normal affections. Hadn't I felt the sting of loneliness? Didn't I hate the cat for taking my place like I had hers' so long ago?

I did. 

That doesn't mean I wanted her to die.

That doesn't mean I killed her. I was wandering through the woods behind our house, zig-zagging through trees and over stumps. I had long since stopped playing. Playing requires energy, spontaneity, joy, things I neither had nor felt. I was a thirty-year-old man in a ten-year-old boy's body, jaded by the world and modern medicine. As I moved through the woods, filled with mild greens and bland browns, a burst of bright red caught my eye. My pulse quickened and I started to run. I knew what had happened before I even arrived.

There was Ginger, her mean, green eyes shut forever. They were replaced by red, equal parts rust and blood on the nails poking out. They went right through her skull and into the tree, pinning her small body against the bark. The limp cat glared impotently at me, with a hate that even death couldn't kill. I shook from my head to my toes. I had never seen a dead thing before, and there it was, in all its terrible glory. 

It's no wonder that he chose that moment to appear. He stood there, watching, waiting, savoring the moment as my small form trembled. I couldn't help but imagine an ugly smile curving along his lips, shaded by the all-encompassing hat. My heart tightened.

"Why are you doing this?!" I screamed. I twisted my head, too quick.

The dark man was gone.

But he left his laughter behind. It rolled through the woods as I reached for Ginger. It snaked between the trees as I pulled desperately at the iron, dried blood and flecks of rust burying themselves under my nails. It pounded through my skull as panic set in, my hands grasping at Ginger's body, pulling, tearing, ripping her from the tree. Her skin tore and then she was in my arms, with bits of Ginger left behind on the bark. I couldn't let my parents see her like that. I couldn't let them think it was me. 

Ginger had to disappear.

I clawed at the earth, tearing chunks of grass and dirt out, inch by inch. There was no ceremony, there were no words, but there were plenty of tears. I wish even one of them had been for Ginger. That day, they were all for me. I was so scared of losing what little I had left because of that dark man. I still had a family, no matter how dysfunctional, but if they saw the cat...

I returned home covered in dirt, just a boy at play. My parents eyed me, but asked no questions. It was better that way, for all of us. I soon curled up in my bed and looked up at the ceiling. He wouldn't stop until everything was ruined. I had to stop him. I just didn't know how. I squeezed my eyes shut and watched the dark that surrounded me.

It had all started out so small.

Why did it have to change?

Thirteen Troubles

I've just recently finished the outline for the second book. I should get on top of that my next off day. Until then, I was trying to explore another section of my world. I've got Europe and even America figured out. There are other elements, though. Africa, Asia, South America, places to venture and explore.

Maybe this has the potential to be something more.

The wind howled and the heavens roared. Lightning tore the air sharper than any fangs. It was a day inhospitable for man or beast, where the bright Hour of the Rabbit was as black as that of the Rat.

And yet she dared tread. Her wooden sandals clacked with purpose against the worn wood of the bridge as the black river surged beneath. The wanderer's eyes descended to the frothing waters where the kami dwelled below, a river god driven mad by time. It raged and hungered, with no regard for who or what its target might be. The quick glance left the wanderer frowning. If she fell in, she would be lost.

She resolved to not fall in. Down she knelt in the middle of the bridge, where the old timbers crested at their highest. Before her she set her blade, its scabbard old and scarred. Behind she left to the wind, whipping her hair one way before throwing it another. The wanderer closed her eyes.

And then waited. The storm faded and the tension trickled, until she was left with Nothing. No fear, no worry, no yesterday, nor tomorrow. She didn't know if long hours had passed or mere minutes. All was Now, and there was Peace in it. She was briefly aware of wet feet smacking against the bridge, of angry growls, and twisting forms, but they were Unimportant. They were passing and transient, the briefest of flickers in grand Eternity.

That impermanence almost got her killed. Down came a claw and up leapt a sword, leaving behind red steel, realization, and a lonely stump. The wanderer's eyes were open, focused on a slimy creature of sickly green. The beast was a kappa, and its screech was ended by a simple slice of the sword. The monster's head rolled quickly across the bridge, back down to the river from where it been born. Its bare red pate and the surrounding petals resembled a lotus blossom rushing downriver. It was a beautiful sight.

If only it was the last. More kappa leapt from the water, the embodiment of the river god's rage. A dozen sorrows, some big and others small, many proud but a few shrinking, stood before her. They were terrible and pathetic to behold, with puffed chests and bent backs, the sorrows of a dozen lifetimes given grotesque form. The river would only be at peace once they were all vanquished.

"I am Fuko! My style is nameless, and my surname forgotten, but they still spell misfortune for you!" Her blade bit the air, flinging off blood in a red line. Her dark eyes dared them to cross it. "Let us see how the fury of a river god fares against that of man!" With that her sword slipped back into its sheath, held to the side as her knees bent low. She entered iaijutsu, needing every split-second the fast-draw style could grant her. With body tensed and sword ready, Fuko waited.

She didn't have to wait long. The kappa leapt and ran across the bridge, their war cries mingling with their screams. Three times did her blade leap, and three times did life leave their clumsy bodies. Kappa tumbled in halves and pieces, their fearsome eyes gone dark. But still they came. Claws rent her hakama, others tore at her arms, and yet her sword still sang. The scent of the storm slowly faded, only to be replaced by that of meat and blood.

When it was all over, Fuko slumped against the bridge's railing. Sweat and blood ran rivers along her body, staining her already ruined clothing. She paid it no mind. Clothing could be replaced. Victory could not. The wanderer had won another battle in a long, unending line. It was a pattern she couldn't keep up. Perhaps the next would be her last, or perhaps it would be far down her winding road. The timing didn't matter, honestly.

A woman who fought monsters was destined to die. Fuko opened her eyes just in time to see lightning flash across the sky. The storm hadn't ended. The battle wasn't won. There had been twelve troubles on the bridge, but a thirteenth lurked just below. Fuko twisted. Her iaijutsu had been fast, but now her movements were far too slow. Claws wrapped around her chest and pulled her through the brittle railing.

As resolved as she was, Fuko fell in.

Success

For two years I've wrote. Holidays, weekends, any day that I didn't feel exhausted from the daily grind. I've gotten good. Hell, I'll say I've gotten great. I've gone from barely legible squibbles on the screen to sentences that I even find beautiful. I've done it for the love of the craft, certainly. I don't think I could be a complete person if I didn't write. Some part of me aches, hell, screams, to put words to paper. Of course there were other considerations to this breakneck pace.

I wanted success.

Money, wealth, the pass from the day-to-day monotony of the 9-5. Then I wouldn't have to wake up for a job I dreaded. Then I wouldn't have to perform my passion as a hobby, cobbling together stories in any spare time I could graft together. I could be a professional storyteller, and damn the rest of the world. The finish line was publication, and then I would be free.

Except it isn't, and I won't. The publishing world's a good deal more complicated than I ever thought, with some lucky ticket items getting fortunes while most get the equivalent of pocket change. Even if I get published, that isn't a ticket to a better life. It's only one more step on a long road. You can imagine my reaction, the traditional five stages of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression. You spend two years with tunnel vision, and you're bound to feel a little pain when things don't come up alright.

Of course there was Acceptance somewhere in there. I may not be a success in a year. Hell, ten years might be too optimistic of a goal. I might spend my entire life at this and never get to the lofty perch of full-time writer. That's the chance I take.

In everything involving love, there's a risk.

And I love writing. If I put it down now, I put down part of myself, that creative force that twists and writhes inside of me, bubbling up when I tap the keys. It's something I can't do without.