The recording was done in a few takes. I don't know how right it or the writing felt.
I have a feeling no matter the times I worked on either, they wouldn't feel right.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21ZWphSWYzOEZrdEE/view?usp=sharing
Imagination protects us.
It shields us against chaotic sights and dissonant sounds, bits of hard reality we can't face. We become courageous against the frightful, righteous before the wicked. It's not because of any intrinsic element that we change, no greatness or boldness attached to our person. It's the mere belief that we can be, that we have to be, the transformative capacity of disassociation that proves so powerful.
Dad was hitting Mom again. The reason didn't really matter. When he was drunk, any reason worked. Maybe she had gone out shopping too long without telling him. Maybe some money had gone missing, whether by his hand or her's. The reason wasn't so important as the fact that he had one.
I had suffered that before, a perceived slight outside my control. I couldn't remember what I had made on my spelling test. That's why I pulled down my pants and he raised up the belt. "What did you make?!" he would scream, and I would shakingly murmur the same sad defense.
"I don't know!" It wasn't enough. The closer his belt loomed, the more scrambled my thoughts became. My chubby body strained and my little fingers shook, trying desperately to find the answer he wanted so badly. It didn't even occur to me to lie. Lying would have been easier. It would have given me a letter grade, a number, something to appease my father and that strap of leather in his hand. I was struggling so hard because I wanted to give my father the truth.
But then, the truth didn't matter, either. Facts were never really that important to my father. He only wanted the answer he was looking for and nothing else would do. It was only with seconds to spare that I remembered the result, relief flooding my little body. I told him him the grade. He listened quietly. Down went the belt. Up went my pants. The situation was resolved.
It wasn't so easy here.
Dad screamed and Mom sobbed, her back to the closet door, her front to his bearded face. There was barely an inch between them, so close they could have kissed. They never kissed anymore. Instead bits of his spittle mixed with the tears running down her face, the only intimacy they still shared. She plead with him, but her words had limited effect. His temper kept flaring, building, building, like a thundercloud. We had already heard the thunder. Now we waited to see the tornado.
It didn't take long. His hands started to work their way up her shoulders, mean squeezes that translated into sharp shakes. The wood of the closet door rocked with the motion of her body, small hands moving to shield herself. She knew it was no use. He had beaten her so many times before that she knew hands couldn't help. I watched it all from the doorway with big, curious eyes. Perhaps I should have cared more.
But I didn't. Not really. I felt nothing beyond a removed interest, taking in the site of another scene. I didn't fear for my mother, nor did I cower before my father. Why would I? I was a child weaned in a failed marriage, raised around shouting and striking. It only took a few years for such sights to become normal to me. I had faced them, my mother had faced them, and we would face them again. It was like rain falling from the sky or wind whipping through the air. They were forces of nature that simply couldn't be controlled. Why sob at a rain cloud? Why weep at the wind?
And yet, I moved to stop it all. I took a step forward and stood inside the door frame. My hands tightened and nostrils flared. I would save my mother. But it wasn't nobility that prompted me to act.
It was mass marketing. In my chubby arm was a box of cereal, gold and blue, the image of a brown bear smiling lazily from it. Sugar Bear cut a heroic figure, a cereal mascot who was constantly under threat. Alligators, boa constrictors and the occasional grandma always sought to take what was his, the cereal that bore his image. Any bear would have been hard pressed to defeat such an extensive list of enemies.
Thankfully, he wasn't alone. With a few bites of his syrupy sweet Golden Crisp, Sugar Bear could defeat any foe. After all, it had essential, if unspecified number of, vitamins and minerals that prepared him for punishment. At that age, I didn't know much, but of one thing I was sure:
If the cereal could help a cartoon bear, it sure as hell could help me. So I dug my hand into the box and shoved a handful of the kernels into my mouth, chewing away. The change was almost instantaneous. I could feel the power surging up my arms, through my shoulders, granting a kindergartener the power of a bear.
"I'm coming to save you!" I chirped as I charged.
I didn't.
All it took was a swat of my father's hand and I hit the floor. The cereal spilled. I sprawled. I let out harsh, broken sobs. My parent's attention went from the violence and to me. My father fumed while my mother rushed over to me. For at least a few moments, the fight was forgotten. But none of it really mattered.
I was so certain that I would save the day. I knew that I would be her champion. Hard reality settled over me me as I lay on the floor in my mother's arms. I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even a bear. I was just a little boy in a bad situation, shattered of his illusions. I cried harder, burying my face into my mother's arms, a poor hiding spot from the truth.
Imagination protects us.
That is, until we learn better.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Longing
Voice: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21NVlhWGxROGFJc3c/view?usp=sharing
Again another quicky on the voice recording. There are sections I'd love to go back on, but I think it turned out rather solidly for the time I put into it (maybe seven minutes). Hopefully I'm improving at this.
This kind of poked into my head. Love is always sad, and longing is even worse. Perhaps this is a part of me peeking out, leaving me more exposed than I'd care to admit. Old hurts, right?
"Do you remember the first time we came here?"
He did. It was a sunny sky over a bright field, the embodiment of light in one location. The environment seemed to scream cheer, of happy days that would never end.
Of course, he now knew better. Where green growth once spread, now only infection remained. Gray grass and skeleton trees spread before his eyes, the cadaver of better days. He felt her fingers slide along his arm. He leaned into the touch.
"That was a long time ago."
"Not so long ago. Not long enough that it can never be again." She was right. All it took was a wave of her finger and a bit of color arose. Yellow pierced grey, stretching, rising, a single spot in a blighted landscape. She had always loved daffodils, and that graceful flower made its appearance here.
"Where one arose, so can a hundred. A thousand. Flowers without name or number, guided by my will." She squeezed his arm now, urging, aching. "You know all you need do to make it happen."
"I can't." He wasn't so sure of the words. He shouldn't, but he certainly could. He wanted to. Everything in him yearned to see her again. Her hair, as warm as the summer sun, her smile, as comforting as a hearth fire. She was light and love, and to see that again might stoke the flames inside himself.
"Can't or won't?" she whispered. He could feel her breath at his ear, a gentle tickle, a faint caress, the whisper of intimacy. Her fingers dug into his skin, kneading, needing, a slow rub that made him tremble. He began to ache, to long, to miss the feel of her wrapped inside of his arms. Those shining blue eyes, that bright pink smile, the total adoration she reserved just for him.
"Both."
The gentle knead grew sharp, nails biting rather than nipping. She laughed, but there was no light in it. That had gone out with her eyes. The longing in her lips turned to a low purr, a bedroom noise, coaxing, convincing, a smug superiority that asked for obedience but wanted worship.
"Do it. Do it and you'll have home, you'll have peace, you'll have me. How many years has it been since we held? Kissed? Fucked? How many years has it been since I was in your arms and you were happy?"
"Too many," he said, voice and body trembling as one. Her nails pulled at his skin, scraped, leaving little cuts along the way, tears that turned into rivers, lines of blood mixing and intermingling on their slow process down his back.
"Pull me up. Put me together. My arms from the East, my legs from the West, my head from the North, and my heart to the South. Make me whole again, my love, and I'll do the same for you." Her breath blew against his skin, icy, frigid, the stink of camphor, frankincense and the grave going with it. He reached up to the woman at his ear, brushing at the skin that chipped and flaked, at the cheek that crumbled with a single stroke.
"No."
Her reply wasn't nearly so sweet. It was a holler, a howl, a rejection of his own. The air whipped at his front as her hands ripped at his back, the circling fury of a cyclone. He squeezed his eyes and clenched his jaw, able to block out the sights, to bear the buffets, but never cease the sounds.
"I gave you everything! My love, my lust, my life, a sacrifice! I gave you the cord that hung above my mother's door, I handed you the box locked tight under the floor. I told you whispers of dreams no man had seen! I gave you everything and what did I receive?"
"A fate that I will always grieve," he intoned sadly. Slowly the wind died down. Slowly her nails pulled away. Soon he was left alone but for scars and flowers, some seen and others hidden. A cold wind blew against the bright daffodil at his feet, making it dance, having it sway. It and memories were all he had left.
He slammed down the shovel and wept.
Again another quicky on the voice recording. There are sections I'd love to go back on, but I think it turned out rather solidly for the time I put into it (maybe seven minutes). Hopefully I'm improving at this.
This kind of poked into my head. Love is always sad, and longing is even worse. Perhaps this is a part of me peeking out, leaving me more exposed than I'd care to admit. Old hurts, right?
"Do you remember the first time we came here?"
He did. It was a sunny sky over a bright field, the embodiment of light in one location. The environment seemed to scream cheer, of happy days that would never end.
Of course, he now knew better. Where green growth once spread, now only infection remained. Gray grass and skeleton trees spread before his eyes, the cadaver of better days. He felt her fingers slide along his arm. He leaned into the touch.
"That was a long time ago."
"Not so long ago. Not long enough that it can never be again." She was right. All it took was a wave of her finger and a bit of color arose. Yellow pierced grey, stretching, rising, a single spot in a blighted landscape. She had always loved daffodils, and that graceful flower made its appearance here.
"Where one arose, so can a hundred. A thousand. Flowers without name or number, guided by my will." She squeezed his arm now, urging, aching. "You know all you need do to make it happen."
"I can't." He wasn't so sure of the words. He shouldn't, but he certainly could. He wanted to. Everything in him yearned to see her again. Her hair, as warm as the summer sun, her smile, as comforting as a hearth fire. She was light and love, and to see that again might stoke the flames inside himself.
"Can't or won't?" she whispered. He could feel her breath at his ear, a gentle tickle, a faint caress, the whisper of intimacy. Her fingers dug into his skin, kneading, needing, a slow rub that made him tremble. He began to ache, to long, to miss the feel of her wrapped inside of his arms. Those shining blue eyes, that bright pink smile, the total adoration she reserved just for him.
"Both."
The gentle knead grew sharp, nails biting rather than nipping. She laughed, but there was no light in it. That had gone out with her eyes. The longing in her lips turned to a low purr, a bedroom noise, coaxing, convincing, a smug superiority that asked for obedience but wanted worship.
"Do it. Do it and you'll have home, you'll have peace, you'll have me. How many years has it been since we held? Kissed? Fucked? How many years has it been since I was in your arms and you were happy?"
"Too many," he said, voice and body trembling as one. Her nails pulled at his skin, scraped, leaving little cuts along the way, tears that turned into rivers, lines of blood mixing and intermingling on their slow process down his back.
"Pull me up. Put me together. My arms from the East, my legs from the West, my head from the North, and my heart to the South. Make me whole again, my love, and I'll do the same for you." Her breath blew against his skin, icy, frigid, the stink of camphor, frankincense and the grave going with it. He reached up to the woman at his ear, brushing at the skin that chipped and flaked, at the cheek that crumbled with a single stroke.
"No."
Her reply wasn't nearly so sweet. It was a holler, a howl, a rejection of his own. The air whipped at his front as her hands ripped at his back, the circling fury of a cyclone. He squeezed his eyes and clenched his jaw, able to block out the sights, to bear the buffets, but never cease the sounds.
"I gave you everything! My love, my lust, my life, a sacrifice! I gave you the cord that hung above my mother's door, I handed you the box locked tight under the floor. I told you whispers of dreams no man had seen! I gave you everything and what did I receive?"
"A fate that I will always grieve," he intoned sadly. Slowly the wind died down. Slowly her nails pulled away. Soon he was left alone but for scars and flowers, some seen and others hidden. A cold wind blew against the bright daffodil at his feet, making it dance, having it sway. It and memories were all he had left.
He slammed down the shovel and wept.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Ball-Peen
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21U3hpTGlVNDJaRzg/view?usp=sharing
It was a simple ball-peen hammer. A metal head, a wooden grip, manufactured on the cheap in China for the price conscious in America. The hammer was lined with scrapes here and dents there, some from missed chisels, others from strikes right on the mark, successes and failures, all. It was a whole lot of experience in one little tool. Really, it was good that Fatima was holding something that had its mettle tested by time.
It was all she had, after all.
The Thing shifted in the shop. Slowly it stalked, along the cabinets, around the generator, an awful silhouette in front of the blazing work light. Its form was dark, its shape was slithering, a creature that went bump in the night if any ever had. Of course, Boogie Men never did such damage.
Steven could attest to that. His blood still hadn't run cold, keeping its slow, sticky spread across the concrete floor. He had been a giant in body and heart, big, bearded, more a bear than a man. Steven seemed vital, essential, key to whatever god's grand plan. His chuckle shook houses and his grin grew the hearts of all who saw it. He was larger than life.
He died without a sound. All it had taken was a single swipe of its serrated tail and he had hit the floor, never to laugh again. There would be no more bear hugs from the big man. There would be no goodbyes.
It was a fate that Fatima would share if It found her. Her hand tightened around the tool. The Thing wasn't moving anymore. No, It had better things to do. Its head was sweeping, searching, looking for something -- possibly the one that got away. It surely had seen her, heard her -- Fatima's scream had probably been heard clear to Tulsa, though no help had been forthcoming.
In this neighborhood, help never did come. Which left her alone with It. The creature slowly arced its neck, raising its long snout into the air. Its jaws parted and its nostrils flared, once, twice, a hollow rasp following each time. The sound shook Fatima.
The footfalls terrified her. She hadn't had time to cry, but the emotion was there, if still undefined. Grand, flowing, a great swell held together by a dam composed of silly string and a prayer. Panic combined with that raw emotion, that fresh hurt, swirling and mixing, developing into something more. Fatima didn't have time to be sad. But anger?
Anger she could handle.
The Thing poked its head around the corner.
Consequently, so did her hammer.
It's been a while since I did a recording. I tried to be quick with it -- about three or four takes. The quality isn't what I usually expect, but I'm trying to build up my speed on it.
Here's hoping you enjoy it.
Also, Jesus Christ, it's been forever since I updated this thing. Depression, you silken whore!
It was a simple ball-peen hammer. A metal head, a wooden grip, manufactured on the cheap in China for the price conscious in America. The hammer was lined with scrapes here and dents there, some from missed chisels, others from strikes right on the mark, successes and failures, all. It was a whole lot of experience in one little tool. Really, it was good that Fatima was holding something that had its mettle tested by time.
It was all she had, after all.
The Thing shifted in the shop. Slowly it stalked, along the cabinets, around the generator, an awful silhouette in front of the blazing work light. Its form was dark, its shape was slithering, a creature that went bump in the night if any ever had. Of course, Boogie Men never did such damage.
Steven could attest to that. His blood still hadn't run cold, keeping its slow, sticky spread across the concrete floor. He had been a giant in body and heart, big, bearded, more a bear than a man. Steven seemed vital, essential, key to whatever god's grand plan. His chuckle shook houses and his grin grew the hearts of all who saw it. He was larger than life.
He died without a sound. All it had taken was a single swipe of its serrated tail and he had hit the floor, never to laugh again. There would be no more bear hugs from the big man. There would be no goodbyes.
It was a fate that Fatima would share if It found her. Her hand tightened around the tool. The Thing wasn't moving anymore. No, It had better things to do. Its head was sweeping, searching, looking for something -- possibly the one that got away. It surely had seen her, heard her -- Fatima's scream had probably been heard clear to Tulsa, though no help had been forthcoming.
In this neighborhood, help never did come. Which left her alone with It. The creature slowly arced its neck, raising its long snout into the air. Its jaws parted and its nostrils flared, once, twice, a hollow rasp following each time. The sound shook Fatima.
The footfalls terrified her. She hadn't had time to cry, but the emotion was there, if still undefined. Grand, flowing, a great swell held together by a dam composed of silly string and a prayer. Panic combined with that raw emotion, that fresh hurt, swirling and mixing, developing into something more. Fatima didn't have time to be sad. But anger?
Anger she could handle.
The Thing poked its head around the corner.
Consequently, so did her hammer.
It's been a while since I did a recording. I tried to be quick with it -- about three or four takes. The quality isn't what I usually expect, but I'm trying to build up my speed on it.
Here's hoping you enjoy it.
Also, Jesus Christ, it's been forever since I updated this thing. Depression, you silken whore!
Monday, March 9, 2015
Argonne
Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21Z0RQblkxMHFYdzQ/view?usp=sharing
They call it shell shock. There had to be some sorta term for it. You see your buddy ripped to ribbons by a Kraut machine gun and you tend to develop a sort of psychological notion, something more than a tiny twitch. You get bombarded by bombs for up to a week at a time, and you're stuck with a case of insomnia that's gonna last you a little longer than the war. It's a fear of enemy fire, a bit of panic when it comes to pressure, a "shock" to "shells" that fits the bill.
'Cept unlike actual shock, you never really recover. The experience sinks its claws into you, marking up your face, stealing the light from your eyes. There are lines a twenty year old shouldn't have, scars deeper than skin, changing young to old, man to monster. You can laugh and smile, of course, make the same old jokes and tell tired stories, but it's just not the same. They've ultimately lost their luster. They're just lines, rote recitation to pass for something resembling normal. You're just so happy to be home that you figure everything'll be copacetic in the long run.
But you never really left the Continent. Hell, you never made it of Argonne. You're angry and sad, and you hate the world. You wake in a cold sweat by the pop of a muffler in the middle of the night, you dream of ghosts who blame you for not being fast enough, smart enough, good enough, and the authorities have the goddamn temerity to call it shell shock.
Fuck them for that.
Fuck them for sending us there.
Thanks to Katie for helping me out. She read to a few prototypes of this that didn't sound nearly as good. Hopefully with her sound advice, I'll grow as a narrator.
Get it? Sound advice?
Oh, fuck you.
They call it shell shock. There had to be some sorta term for it. You see your buddy ripped to ribbons by a Kraut machine gun and you tend to develop a sort of psychological notion, something more than a tiny twitch. You get bombarded by bombs for up to a week at a time, and you're stuck with a case of insomnia that's gonna last you a little longer than the war. It's a fear of enemy fire, a bit of panic when it comes to pressure, a "shock" to "shells" that fits the bill.
'Cept unlike actual shock, you never really recover. The experience sinks its claws into you, marking up your face, stealing the light from your eyes. There are lines a twenty year old shouldn't have, scars deeper than skin, changing young to old, man to monster. You can laugh and smile, of course, make the same old jokes and tell tired stories, but it's just not the same. They've ultimately lost their luster. They're just lines, rote recitation to pass for something resembling normal. You're just so happy to be home that you figure everything'll be copacetic in the long run.
But you never really left the Continent. Hell, you never made it of Argonne. You're angry and sad, and you hate the world. You wake in a cold sweat by the pop of a muffler in the middle of the night, you dream of ghosts who blame you for not being fast enough, smart enough, good enough, and the authorities have the goddamn temerity to call it shell shock.
Fuck them for that.
Fuck them for sending us there.
Thanks to Katie for helping me out. She read to a few prototypes of this that didn't sound nearly as good. Hopefully with her sound advice, I'll grow as a narrator.
Get it? Sound advice?
Oh, fuck you.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Of Fear and Fire
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21VnpwT0xMTjZrYkU/view?usp=sharing
I'll admit that I'm scared.
For years I've cobbled together books. Some have been good, most have been terrible, but all have been crafted in the pursuit of something more. I want a better life, a brighter future and something profound offered by each written page. Progress is a sort of promise; an assurance that I can get where I need to be. The more I write, the closer I am to my goal.
I never realized how far away I truly am. Replies have passed before my eyes in what seems to be a swirl. Most of it's positive, really, praising the writing, complimenting the author, but... There's always a but, the big B-U-T, intended to follow the good with the bad. It's one simple word, three little letters, and yet they can make heaven into hell, twisting guts into knots, and turning sweet words sour. But it's simply too dark. But the main character's unlikable. But the story's just not for them. There are so many buts that interrupt hope, that introduce fear, that stop exhilaration before it can truly take off. Ultimately the replies are easy to bear because there are other editors, other opportunities, other chances to succeed.
But my chances are dwindling. A field of potential players has turned into a handful, with each new rejection putting me just a little closer to failure. Sometimes I want to scream, others I want to cry; ever knowing that my chances are limited and that my prospects are almost exhausted. I'm going up against the gatekeepers, and their doors are slowly closing. A piece of my heart, hell, a part of my soul is being denied, and I don't know exactly how to save either.
Even so, I do know how to start over. I know how to put words on the page, one after another, and sometimes even have them make sense. I know how to build back up the word count that I lost, a single sentence at a time, replacing the story that was rejected with something more. I've done it before and I don't doubt I'll have to do it again. Ultimately, it's because writers have a little bit of the phoenix in them. They're creatures of birth, death, and consequently, rebirth. We burn brightly before finally going dim, only to rise back up again, far more brilliant than before. Defeat isn't final, rejection isn't the end, refusal isn't ultimate -- they're only an opportunity to rekindle that burning fire, to stoke it higher than ever imagined and come back better.
I'm scared. I'm honestly terrified, but fear simply doesn't last. It gives way to a need to thrive, to grow, heading toward those goals that originally set us down the path. We all want something better, brighter, a bit of profound in the superficial. We don't want to hurt, we don't want to weep, we don't want to worry -- we all want success without the hurt along the way. But as we grow, we learn they're all part of the process, a little pain for a lot of gain.
Starting over will always be scary, but everything worthwhile begins with a little fear.
I'll admit that I'm scared.
For years I've cobbled together books. Some have been good, most have been terrible, but all have been crafted in the pursuit of something more. I want a better life, a brighter future and something profound offered by each written page. Progress is a sort of promise; an assurance that I can get where I need to be. The more I write, the closer I am to my goal.
I never realized how far away I truly am. Replies have passed before my eyes in what seems to be a swirl. Most of it's positive, really, praising the writing, complimenting the author, but... There's always a but, the big B-U-T, intended to follow the good with the bad. It's one simple word, three little letters, and yet they can make heaven into hell, twisting guts into knots, and turning sweet words sour. But it's simply too dark. But the main character's unlikable. But the story's just not for them. There are so many buts that interrupt hope, that introduce fear, that stop exhilaration before it can truly take off. Ultimately the replies are easy to bear because there are other editors, other opportunities, other chances to succeed.
But my chances are dwindling. A field of potential players has turned into a handful, with each new rejection putting me just a little closer to failure. Sometimes I want to scream, others I want to cry; ever knowing that my chances are limited and that my prospects are almost exhausted. I'm going up against the gatekeepers, and their doors are slowly closing. A piece of my heart, hell, a part of my soul is being denied, and I don't know exactly how to save either.
Even so, I do know how to start over. I know how to put words on the page, one after another, and sometimes even have them make sense. I know how to build back up the word count that I lost, a single sentence at a time, replacing the story that was rejected with something more. I've done it before and I don't doubt I'll have to do it again. Ultimately, it's because writers have a little bit of the phoenix in them. They're creatures of birth, death, and consequently, rebirth. We burn brightly before finally going dim, only to rise back up again, far more brilliant than before. Defeat isn't final, rejection isn't the end, refusal isn't ultimate -- they're only an opportunity to rekindle that burning fire, to stoke it higher than ever imagined and come back better.
I'm scared. I'm honestly terrified, but fear simply doesn't last. It gives way to a need to thrive, to grow, heading toward those goals that originally set us down the path. We all want something better, brighter, a bit of profound in the superficial. We don't want to hurt, we don't want to weep, we don't want to worry -- we all want success without the hurt along the way. But as we grow, we learn they're all part of the process, a little pain for a lot of gain.
Starting over will always be scary, but everything worthwhile begins with a little fear.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Girl Friday
Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21bDJxdmlueGt3UlU/view?usp=sharing
I don't want to die.
It's not because my life is so sweet that it should continue. I'm not nearly that conceited. I've not got some grand goal I have to accomplish either, nothing big outside some simple revenge. It's not even the fact I've got somebody to live for, though she certainly does exist -- short, surly, keeping me from stepping too far outta line. No, I don't want to die like this for one simple fact that I certainly can't escape:
It'd be too fuckin' embarrassing.
I'm tied to a chair, which isn't anything new. The Tomte with a crowbar, however, certainly is. She's four feet of fury, yellow eyes narrowed, small teeth clenched, an inconsequential little thing until you're brought down to her level. Then she's hell on heels. She's currently working on a problem, and its name happens to be Johnny Sinclaire.
It's a problem I'd rather remain unfixed.
"Where's the money, Sinclaire?" she asks. Me, I could tell her the truth. Where it's set, stored, make life a little easier for myself.
'Course, where would the fun be in that?
"Why's a pretty 'lil dame like you worryin' 'bout money?" That's at least worth a rap on the knuckles -- she gives me two. I jerk forward, teeth clenched and feet stampin', ready to come up out of the chair and give the bitch a taste of her own medicine. Sadly the ropes hold and so do I, easing back down.
"Where's. The. Money?"
"Where's yer husband? I'll be happy to tell the man of the house." I probably deserve the crowbar to the teeth. She knocks my smile crooked and certainly makes it a sight redder. My fingers flex against the wood of the chair, a solid sort of cypress. There's no way in hell I'll be tearing through the wood, especially with an abused set of digits.
"What are you? Retarded? Dumb? Or do you just like pain? If so, I can give you a lot more where that came from." One thing I gotta respect about this broad is that she does exactly what she says. The Tomte winds back like a batter, steel slung over her shoulder. It's an admirable sort of stance, worthy of the Babe himself. What ain't so admirable is when the crowbar comes down, taking me right in the breadbasket. She shatters something deep inside, bringing black blood bubbling up on my lips and running down my white shirt.
I really liked that shirt.
"Yer gonna talk, human, one way or another. Why not save yerself the pain and me the effort?"
"What if I said I'm a conversationalist?"
"What if I said you were insane?"
"You probably wouldn't be too far off the mark." I flash a grin, my eyes glancing up to the shifting shadows. "Listen, you want somethin' and so do I. I spill the beans 'n what use do you got for me? At best, I get left here to rot away. At worst, you finish the job you already started. What's the fuckin' benefit for me? You gotta incentivize this shit." That seems to get her gears grinding, a frown lining her thin little face. Me, I've got no problem waiting. Every second passed brings the end a little closer.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
"What if you've got my guarantee? You tell me and I let you go, no harm, no foul. You leave me alone and I do the same to you, you of course forgetting about this 'lil money situation. That way we're not looking behind our backs, waiting for someone to jump us." She's lying, of course. It's all in her expression, an earnest face, but dishonest eyes. She'll get what she wants and then I'm fucked. No, I've got another plan.
"That's actually a problem for me." Her eyes slit.
"And what part of that's exactly a problem?" she asks in dangerous tones, lifting that crowbar up from her side. I ease up a finger, pointing at her. Or rather, behind her.
"I might have somebody here t'jump you." The Tomte freezes. Turns.
Me, I've got a reason for living. She's short, surly, and keeps me from stepping too far outta line. If I do manage to go too far, then she pulls me right back in. I say too much, she shuts me up. Ethel's a good gal.
She's also throws a mean sucker punch.
The story was decent, but I wasn't so pleased with the audio. I recognize in certain points I could have emphasized more, or brought more panache to it. We'll just chalk this down as a learning experience. Else I'm going to do twenty more takes on this damned thing, and slowly slip into madness.
Ia, ia, Cthulhu fhtagn!
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Sorry
Audio Version:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21ZDFVeDB3MHVwcjQ/view?usp=sharing
I put in my deposit.
I guess you never thought I would.
I suppose it's because I threatened to for months without much else. I'd leave, I said, if you didn't get your act together. I'd put in my deposit if you didn't change. Then I'd hang around, hopeful, waiting for my words to spur your actions. And really, I knew it could work! I was so proud of you when you stopped smoking. Two hundred dollars a month was a hit to our finances, two packs a day was a hit to your health, and you ultimately overcame it for me. It touched me, moved me, made me feel like you loved me.
Of course, you never really did quit.
You lied. You lied about the smoking, just like you did about everything else. Finances, actions, motivations, they all were lies, long kept, but always exposed. The smell of Febreeze was overwhelming when I entered your room. The loan notices were found easily enough in the mail. The repossession of the cars was obvious to everyone with eyes. You lied, and you lied, and when you couldn't lie anymore, you got angry.
God, you were always angry. Screaming, yelling, insulting, telling me things no mother should tell her son. I was a bitch, a bastard, a monster, the son of my father that I always feared. I was your regret, your sorrow, a chain around your neck, the reason you couldn't socialize despite my pleading, the source of your misery despite my attempts to help.
I got tired, so very tired. Tired of fighting, and arguing, and screaming. Tired of crying, and hoping, and begging. When I tried to leave, you said nobody would take me. When I attempted to go, you said I would never be able to make it on my own. Who could love me, who could understand me, who would tolerate me? You called me immature and awful, angry and cruel, without ever realizing the irony that if I was all of those things, it was because of you.
You landed a million little hurts that drove me away.
I wanted to save you. From your demons, your past, the specter of my father, and the memories of your mother. I wanted to save you from years of hurt and decades of pain, and their ever-expanding march into the future. I wanted to save you from the worst enemy you had: yourself.
Ultimately, I chose to save myself. I put in my deposit, then I'll pay my rent. I'll pack and I'll leave. What we had will disappear, a bad memory from worse days. I'll grow and I'll expand, and I'll make you proud, and maybe I'll even save you. But not here, and not now.
I put in my deposit, and I left you behind.
I'm so sorry.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21ZDFVeDB3MHVwcjQ/view?usp=sharing
I put in my deposit.
I guess you never thought I would.
I suppose it's because I threatened to for months without much else. I'd leave, I said, if you didn't get your act together. I'd put in my deposit if you didn't change. Then I'd hang around, hopeful, waiting for my words to spur your actions. And really, I knew it could work! I was so proud of you when you stopped smoking. Two hundred dollars a month was a hit to our finances, two packs a day was a hit to your health, and you ultimately overcame it for me. It touched me, moved me, made me feel like you loved me.
Of course, you never really did quit.
You lied. You lied about the smoking, just like you did about everything else. Finances, actions, motivations, they all were lies, long kept, but always exposed. The smell of Febreeze was overwhelming when I entered your room. The loan notices were found easily enough in the mail. The repossession of the cars was obvious to everyone with eyes. You lied, and you lied, and when you couldn't lie anymore, you got angry.
God, you were always angry. Screaming, yelling, insulting, telling me things no mother should tell her son. I was a bitch, a bastard, a monster, the son of my father that I always feared. I was your regret, your sorrow, a chain around your neck, the reason you couldn't socialize despite my pleading, the source of your misery despite my attempts to help.
I got tired, so very tired. Tired of fighting, and arguing, and screaming. Tired of crying, and hoping, and begging. When I tried to leave, you said nobody would take me. When I attempted to go, you said I would never be able to make it on my own. Who could love me, who could understand me, who would tolerate me? You called me immature and awful, angry and cruel, without ever realizing the irony that if I was all of those things, it was because of you.
You landed a million little hurts that drove me away.
I wanted to save you. From your demons, your past, the specter of my father, and the memories of your mother. I wanted to save you from years of hurt and decades of pain, and their ever-expanding march into the future. I wanted to save you from the worst enemy you had: yourself.
Ultimately, I chose to save myself. I put in my deposit, then I'll pay my rent. I'll pack and I'll leave. What we had will disappear, a bad memory from worse days. I'll grow and I'll expand, and I'll make you proud, and maybe I'll even save you. But not here, and not now.
I put in my deposit, and I left you behind.
I'm so sorry.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Audio
Just a small update here.
A friend of mine gave me a powerful and compelling reading of an author's work. I decided to try it myself. I've always been proud of my voice, and I ultimately want to do something with it.
Why not use it to read my own stuff? I experimented a bit with this last week (20 takes, maybe) and this was the result. A bit thanks to Katie for listening to it and giving me her critique. There's a reason it's called Old Man Katie, after all!
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21Wnk2N3NyYUVuTHc/view?usp=sharing
A friend of mine gave me a powerful and compelling reading of an author's work. I decided to try it myself. I've always been proud of my voice, and I ultimately want to do something with it.
Why not use it to read my own stuff? I experimented a bit with this last week (20 takes, maybe) and this was the result. A bit thanks to Katie for listening to it and giving me her critique. There's a reason it's called Old Man Katie, after all!
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21Wnk2N3NyYUVuTHc/view?usp=sharing
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Old Man
He greeted me with a joke.
The fact that it wasn't funny didn't really matter. It was inconsequential, really. What was important was that he started off on the right foot, trying to make a good impression to someone he didn't know and had no reason to sway.
It was the fact that he cared.
He was old but alive, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, despite a body that slowly, but surely, held him back. When he and his wife sat at my desk, he introduced her as the love of his life. Fifty years total, if they included the courtship. Even longer than that if their first-grade acquaintance could be counted.
They looked into each other's eyes and smiled.
I asked how he had been doing. His answer was surprising. It wasn't the usual bullshit. Usually it's "fine" or "I could complain, but who would listen?" with a weak laugh. Instead, he was upfront and honest. "I've been better." He spoke of kidney failure and neuropathy, the slow shutdown that lead to intense pain. Every moment was agony, he admitted, and a replacement wasn't in sight. He was approaching seventy, and wasn't exactly a priority when it came to the ever-finite pool of organ donation. Life was for the young, and he had left youth behind a long time ago.
He was afraid of what would follow.
He asked me about what I was doing with myself. I told him of completed a teaching degree, a failed teaching career, and a newborn novel. I told him of hopes and dreams, and my impatience for the future. I told him all of these things, and he listened.
He said I was a talented man.
It was touching. It's always so easy to hear compliments without registering them. Either people mean them, or you don't care that they do. The older you get, the rarer actual praise is from someone you admire, whether there's less praise overall or simply less people worth admiration. But the old man meant them, and that meant the world to me.
Then he asked me if I knew Jesus.
I lied. In the South, you have to lie about that particular question. To be an apostate, an atheist, is tantamount to inhumanity. You're worse than white trash, worse than a Muslim, the scary Other that people whisper about, but rarely face. So I lied, and he smiled. He spoke of Timothy and Paul. How Paul had put Timothy in charge of his ministry. It was a big regret for the old man.
He hadn't had the pleasure of meeting his Timothy.
But perhaps that's why he had met me. A hope, a prayer, a seed for the future. The old man, an electrical engineer my profession and a preacher by trade, wanted a successor. Perhaps I could look into ministry, possibly give him my thoughts on a few Bible studies. I smiled. I agreed. I would look.
But I knew I couldn't give him anymore than that.
The old man came in aching, dying, looking for a successor to his legacy, some continuation of the work he had put into the world. He feared death and so he sought life, not eternal, but temporal, not spiritual, but actual. He sought those things in me, the very foundation of which was faith.
Something I didn't have.
Something I'll never have.
But maybe, just maybe the old man will love on. Not his Jesus, nor his Timothy, but his memory. A kind old man who wanted more, and may have gotten just that in a writer, no matter how fledgling he may be. I'll remember his kindness and goodness, those twin sparks that he aimed at me, despite having no reason to.
I'll carry you always, old man.
I hope that's good enough.
The fact that it wasn't funny didn't really matter. It was inconsequential, really. What was important was that he started off on the right foot, trying to make a good impression to someone he didn't know and had no reason to sway.
It was the fact that he cared.
He was old but alive, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, despite a body that slowly, but surely, held him back. When he and his wife sat at my desk, he introduced her as the love of his life. Fifty years total, if they included the courtship. Even longer than that if their first-grade acquaintance could be counted.
They looked into each other's eyes and smiled.
I asked how he had been doing. His answer was surprising. It wasn't the usual bullshit. Usually it's "fine" or "I could complain, but who would listen?" with a weak laugh. Instead, he was upfront and honest. "I've been better." He spoke of kidney failure and neuropathy, the slow shutdown that lead to intense pain. Every moment was agony, he admitted, and a replacement wasn't in sight. He was approaching seventy, and wasn't exactly a priority when it came to the ever-finite pool of organ donation. Life was for the young, and he had left youth behind a long time ago.
He was afraid of what would follow.
He asked me about what I was doing with myself. I told him of completed a teaching degree, a failed teaching career, and a newborn novel. I told him of hopes and dreams, and my impatience for the future. I told him all of these things, and he listened.
He said I was a talented man.
It was touching. It's always so easy to hear compliments without registering them. Either people mean them, or you don't care that they do. The older you get, the rarer actual praise is from someone you admire, whether there's less praise overall or simply less people worth admiration. But the old man meant them, and that meant the world to me.
Then he asked me if I knew Jesus.
I lied. In the South, you have to lie about that particular question. To be an apostate, an atheist, is tantamount to inhumanity. You're worse than white trash, worse than a Muslim, the scary Other that people whisper about, but rarely face. So I lied, and he smiled. He spoke of Timothy and Paul. How Paul had put Timothy in charge of his ministry. It was a big regret for the old man.
He hadn't had the pleasure of meeting his Timothy.
But perhaps that's why he had met me. A hope, a prayer, a seed for the future. The old man, an electrical engineer my profession and a preacher by trade, wanted a successor. Perhaps I could look into ministry, possibly give him my thoughts on a few Bible studies. I smiled. I agreed. I would look.
But I knew I couldn't give him anymore than that.
The old man came in aching, dying, looking for a successor to his legacy, some continuation of the work he had put into the world. He feared death and so he sought life, not eternal, but temporal, not spiritual, but actual. He sought those things in me, the very foundation of which was faith.
Something I didn't have.
Something I'll never have.
But maybe, just maybe the old man will love on. Not his Jesus, nor his Timothy, but his memory. A kind old man who wanted more, and may have gotten just that in a writer, no matter how fledgling he may be. I'll remember his kindness and goodness, those twin sparks that he aimed at me, despite having no reason to.
I'll carry you always, old man.
I hope that's good enough.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Merry Christmas
The bottle of Scotch was a gift to him, from him.
Merry Christmas.
They used to be warmer. Full of cheer and light, sweet voices and happy times, even the occasional carol or two. Now it was the alcohol that warmed him instead, pumping through his veins, making cheeks ruddy and eyes twinkle.
He was a regular Kris Kringle.
The tumbler sparkled in his hand. He shouldn't be drinking. Drinking poked holes in his head, making old memories start to tumble out. A smiling woman and a happy home, a white picket fence and 2.5 kids, the American dream, complete with apple pie. It was best to leave those memories packed away.
Because, really, all they really were was a dream. It was a world built on cotton candy clouds, destined to crumble, but for a short time, held up by hope.
Oh, how they had hoped.
He had loved her, and as far as he figured, she had loved him, too. They kissed and they cuddled, sharing pieces of themselves. She spoke of happy summers at the shore, bright days that were never-ending. She whispered of angry boyfriends with heavy hands. He listened, and gave up little parts of himself, too, secrets he hadn't told anyone else. She was the first, the only, woman he had ever loved.
But then, love hadn't been enough. Secrets they spoke, but they started to creep in as well, nasty little things hiding in the corners, dark spots in their bright lives. They were easy enough to ignore at first.
The Past Due notices weren't, however. He had asked her to pay the electric bill. Dutifully, she took it out of the account, the exact amount, as always. Except the money never seemed to make it from Point A to Point B. The numbers stood out, insistently red. He approached her, confused, and she bowed her head.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I spent it." The words tumbled out. It had all been for him, really. Didn't he remember? A nice little gift, a pair of tickets to the White Sox game, front row and center. He'd been able to see hometown heroes Lefty Williams and Happy Felsch, stunning swings and sizzling strikes. Of course there was a price to pay for something he loved. There always was. Hadn't he realized that? Hadn't he liked the game?
"Yes," he admitted quietly. "But we can't do this again. I love you, and I appreciate you, but... Right now, we have to scramble to pay the lights. We've got to put the basics before ourselves." She agreed, apologizing profusely. She would never do it again.
Except she did. The next time it was the car payment, mysteriously missing. Again the perplexed husband went to his beautiful bride, and again she looked down. A simple explanation and a heartfelt apology followed.
She would never do it again.
The next time it was the house note, exchanged for a radio.
The next time it was the water bill, spent on a sweater.
The next time it was groceries, a down payment for acting lessons.
Each time he confronted her a little less patiently, and each time her apologies were a little less sincere. He'd get angry. Then so would she. Heartfelt talks turned into screaming matches.
Neither ever seemed to win.
"Stop," he had asked her.
"Please," he had begged her.
"Fucking stop!" he had screamed.
He had even hit her once.
That hadn't worked, either. She grew resentful and he adopted loathing, a His and Hers matching set of heartache. The white picket fence started to splinter, while the idea of children started to fade. There were more fights and fewer apologies. She stopped smiling, and he stopped laughing.
But now it was Christmas, a time for change, for cheer, a new beginning for a long hurt. Maybe, just maybe, they could forget all that happened. Maybe, just maybe, they could love one another again. He needed her to love him again. And how he had worked on a change. There was a roaring fire, a glowing tree, the house filled with the sights and scents of the holiday season. Of course, there was one other thing he had managed to get:
An empty home.
That last one hadn't been in his plans. He didn't even know it would happen until she was already gone, a note left on the coffee table. When he picked it up, the piece of parchment was short and to the point.
"Gone to Mom's."
And with that, his revival was repulsed.
He reached for the bottle, filling the glass. The Scotch swam over the ice, driving it to tink off the edges of the glass, a lazy motion on a special day. Down came the bottle and up came his hand, wrapping around his other Christmas present to himself. It was a reassuring weight in his hand, the sort of heft that Smith & Wesson were eager to offer.
All it took was a flick of the wrist to open the barrel of the gun. Six empty chambers stared up at him hungrily. It was a scant Christmas dinner that he offered up, one bullet for every year of heartbreak. Another flick of the wrist, and the revolver clacked shut. Back he leaned and started to play a Christmas game.
Which would empty first, the bottle or the barrel.
Had this sad little bit on my mind after a fight with somebody. You get tired of constant confrontation, and no more than on Christmas, I'm sure.
I originally thought this was going to be Johnny, but it just didn't quite fit. Perhaps another sad soul, somewhere in his world.
Merry Christmas.
They used to be warmer. Full of cheer and light, sweet voices and happy times, even the occasional carol or two. Now it was the alcohol that warmed him instead, pumping through his veins, making cheeks ruddy and eyes twinkle.
He was a regular Kris Kringle.
The tumbler sparkled in his hand. He shouldn't be drinking. Drinking poked holes in his head, making old memories start to tumble out. A smiling woman and a happy home, a white picket fence and 2.5 kids, the American dream, complete with apple pie. It was best to leave those memories packed away.
Because, really, all they really were was a dream. It was a world built on cotton candy clouds, destined to crumble, but for a short time, held up by hope.
Oh, how they had hoped.
He had loved her, and as far as he figured, she had loved him, too. They kissed and they cuddled, sharing pieces of themselves. She spoke of happy summers at the shore, bright days that were never-ending. She whispered of angry boyfriends with heavy hands. He listened, and gave up little parts of himself, too, secrets he hadn't told anyone else. She was the first, the only, woman he had ever loved.
But then, love hadn't been enough. Secrets they spoke, but they started to creep in as well, nasty little things hiding in the corners, dark spots in their bright lives. They were easy enough to ignore at first.
The Past Due notices weren't, however. He had asked her to pay the electric bill. Dutifully, she took it out of the account, the exact amount, as always. Except the money never seemed to make it from Point A to Point B. The numbers stood out, insistently red. He approached her, confused, and she bowed her head.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I spent it." The words tumbled out. It had all been for him, really. Didn't he remember? A nice little gift, a pair of tickets to the White Sox game, front row and center. He'd been able to see hometown heroes Lefty Williams and Happy Felsch, stunning swings and sizzling strikes. Of course there was a price to pay for something he loved. There always was. Hadn't he realized that? Hadn't he liked the game?
"Yes," he admitted quietly. "But we can't do this again. I love you, and I appreciate you, but... Right now, we have to scramble to pay the lights. We've got to put the basics before ourselves." She agreed, apologizing profusely. She would never do it again.
Except she did. The next time it was the car payment, mysteriously missing. Again the perplexed husband went to his beautiful bride, and again she looked down. A simple explanation and a heartfelt apology followed.
She would never do it again.
The next time it was the house note, exchanged for a radio.
The next time it was the water bill, spent on a sweater.
The next time it was groceries, a down payment for acting lessons.
Each time he confronted her a little less patiently, and each time her apologies were a little less sincere. He'd get angry. Then so would she. Heartfelt talks turned into screaming matches.
Neither ever seemed to win.
"Stop," he had asked her.
"Please," he had begged her.
"Fucking stop!" he had screamed.
He had even hit her once.
That hadn't worked, either. She grew resentful and he adopted loathing, a His and Hers matching set of heartache. The white picket fence started to splinter, while the idea of children started to fade. There were more fights and fewer apologies. She stopped smiling, and he stopped laughing.
But now it was Christmas, a time for change, for cheer, a new beginning for a long hurt. Maybe, just maybe, they could forget all that happened. Maybe, just maybe, they could love one another again. He needed her to love him again. And how he had worked on a change. There was a roaring fire, a glowing tree, the house filled with the sights and scents of the holiday season. Of course, there was one other thing he had managed to get:
An empty home.
That last one hadn't been in his plans. He didn't even know it would happen until she was already gone, a note left on the coffee table. When he picked it up, the piece of parchment was short and to the point.
"Gone to Mom's."
And with that, his revival was repulsed.
He reached for the bottle, filling the glass. The Scotch swam over the ice, driving it to tink off the edges of the glass, a lazy motion on a special day. Down came the bottle and up came his hand, wrapping around his other Christmas present to himself. It was a reassuring weight in his hand, the sort of heft that Smith & Wesson were eager to offer.
All it took was a flick of the wrist to open the barrel of the gun. Six empty chambers stared up at him hungrily. It was a scant Christmas dinner that he offered up, one bullet for every year of heartbreak. Another flick of the wrist, and the revolver clacked shut. Back he leaned and started to play a Christmas game.
Which would empty first, the bottle or the barrel.
Had this sad little bit on my mind after a fight with somebody. You get tired of constant confrontation, and no more than on Christmas, I'm sure.
I originally thought this was going to be Johnny, but it just didn't quite fit. Perhaps another sad soul, somewhere in his world.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Homecoming
"You shouldn't have come back."
Brian knew that. He had fled into the night years ago, trying to forget this house, trying to forget this man. Time had passed, but the memory always remained. It stalked him, haunted him, filled his waking hours with anxiety and his sleeping with horror. He tried to forget. He honestly had. Brian went to counselors, made friends, even dated a girl or two, all the sort of things a man does when he tries to heal.
But he simply, couldn't, forget. That's why he was back, ready to confront his demons. His Demon. The old man sat with his back to Brian, fingers gripping the armchair, form distorted by the flicker of the television. He was as terrible as the man remembered, a Bogeyman of boyhood days. The old man would always sit there, illuminated by the screen's light, black and white playing across his features, the shine of the screen making his glasses glow. It was his habit to make the boy wait, standing behind, watching the play of shadows, dreading the beating that invariably came. He would watch, and the boy would wait. Brian couldn't lift his legs to walk, to run, to escape those horrible days.
He could, however, lift the knife to confront them.
"I know, Dad. But here I am."
The novel is progressing better than expected. I expected it to suck, to be honest. Maybe all writers think that, especially when they're trying to tackle an ambitious project. But here I am, feeling positive, like this can work. The characters are likable, interesting, different. I can spot a thing or two already that I'll need to change, but we'll worry about that in revisions.
For now, I'll just enjoy the experience.
The story's origin comes from the most recent Castlevania games (Lord of Shadows). There's something so very epic about a son coming home to confront the father. There's something primal in that. It worked for Shakespeare, and I suppose it works for me, too.
Brian knew that. He had fled into the night years ago, trying to forget this house, trying to forget this man. Time had passed, but the memory always remained. It stalked him, haunted him, filled his waking hours with anxiety and his sleeping with horror. He tried to forget. He honestly had. Brian went to counselors, made friends, even dated a girl or two, all the sort of things a man does when he tries to heal.
But he simply, couldn't, forget. That's why he was back, ready to confront his demons. His Demon. The old man sat with his back to Brian, fingers gripping the armchair, form distorted by the flicker of the television. He was as terrible as the man remembered, a Bogeyman of boyhood days. The old man would always sit there, illuminated by the screen's light, black and white playing across his features, the shine of the screen making his glasses glow. It was his habit to make the boy wait, standing behind, watching the play of shadows, dreading the beating that invariably came. He would watch, and the boy would wait. Brian couldn't lift his legs to walk, to run, to escape those horrible days.
He could, however, lift the knife to confront them.
"I know, Dad. But here I am."
The novel is progressing better than expected. I expected it to suck, to be honest. Maybe all writers think that, especially when they're trying to tackle an ambitious project. But here I am, feeling positive, like this can work. The characters are likable, interesting, different. I can spot a thing or two already that I'll need to change, but we'll worry about that in revisions.
For now, I'll just enjoy the experience.
The story's origin comes from the most recent Castlevania games (Lord of Shadows). There's something so very epic about a son coming home to confront the father. There's something primal in that. It worked for Shakespeare, and I suppose it works for me, too.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Agents
So.
I don't know what I would do without my agent.
They're big, bold words, sure. Most writers aspire to an agent. They're the gatekeeper, the status symbol, that banner that shows we've made it. We're above the humdrum, above the day-to-day, having fought tooth and nail to get out from the bottom.
But they actually have a use outside of our ego.
These people, at least the right ones, are our champions. They cheer on our successes, mourn with our failures, care about us as clients, sure, but also as human beings. They want to see us grow, for business, but also for ourselves. They're busy people, and they can't be there all the time, but goddammit, when they are, it's wonderful.
There's more, though. They just aren't champions -- they pull a motherfucking twist, turn that noun into a verb, and champion us. They push us to editors, publishers, these big ivory tower sorts who we probably have never heard of, and who certainly haven't heard of our unwashed masses. They bring their enthusiasm everyday, speaking excitedly about a project they've read in and out, edited until their eyes bleed. They talk up our material in ways we can't see, and what we sometimes don't deserve. Again, it's business, but they also believe.
These motherfuckers looked through hundreds of other submissions. They literally had their pick of hundreds, if not thousands, of other desperate voices, wanting to do this mad thing we call "writing." The agents slapped them aside for weak queries, poor grammar, uninteresting plotline, but you... you were different. They swatted away all the other contenders, pointed to you, and said, "Let's boogie on the dance floor."
They believe this shit they're saying. They believe that you're good, capable, and people will love your shit. Sure, some of them are soulless husks, operating on what might turn a quick dime. But the good ones, the quality ones, want to grow your career, and grow with you.
I know self-publishing is big. I know it's great. But goddammit, somewhere in your career, get an agent. Get someone who will be your champion, who will champion you, who will be there on the good days, but also the bad. Someone who will do their best to see your art grow, and also see you grow.
If your experience is half what mine has been with Jennifer Azantian, I don't think you'll come away unhappy.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Laziness
The skin sloughed off Amir's arm. One layer and then another, slipping to the floor in fleshy tangles. He gave an exasperated sigh, pulled at the bits that clung erratically, refusing to budge without a fight.
So Amir fought before turning his attention to his other arm, tugging here, twisting there, layers of skin occupying the space around his ankle. He then worked up, peeling his chest, pulling at his pectorals, the same motion for the same result. There he laid on the ground, a doppelganger of discarded flesh. Only one piece was missing, but it was an important distinction.
"I hate shedding," muttered Amir.
Then he reached for his face.
I've been busy with the holidays and writing, dammit, so here's a quick 'lil somethin'. I didn't ever proofread it. I'll probably be goddamned ashamed later.
Right now I'm pretty good, though.
I'm about to go back over the outline of the cyberpunk book. Strengthen some character arcs, give it a little more strength. Hopefully that'll make the writing a little easier.
So Amir fought before turning his attention to his other arm, tugging here, twisting there, layers of skin occupying the space around his ankle. He then worked up, peeling his chest, pulling at his pectorals, the same motion for the same result. There he laid on the ground, a doppelganger of discarded flesh. Only one piece was missing, but it was an important distinction.
"I hate shedding," muttered Amir.
Then he reached for his face.
I've been busy with the holidays and writing, dammit, so here's a quick 'lil somethin'. I didn't ever proofread it. I'll probably be goddamned ashamed later.
Right now I'm pretty good, though.
I'm about to go back over the outline of the cyberpunk book. Strengthen some character arcs, give it a little more strength. Hopefully that'll make the writing a little easier.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Cassandra
The worst thing about humanity is that we're all-too-human.
We laugh, we cry, we love and we hate. Oh, how we hate. Different religions and races, sects and classes, political parties and football teams. The Green Bay Packers hate the Chicago Bears for a game that happened nearly a century ago, while the Bears despise the Packers for their dogged push to victory. Of course the North hates the inbred and ignorant South, while the South hates the highfalutin North with the white-hot intensity only a civil war could only inspire. 'Round and 'round hate goes, stopping for a span of what amounts to seconds in a very ancient world.
Even our neighbors aren't exempt from our ire.
So how did Cassandra even have a chance?
She was a small girl, smaller than most, slight of limb, and short of leg. Her grin was lop-sided, her eyes slightly askew, a child that most people might call slow. "She missed her milestones," her mother would say sadly, much to her shame and the secret excitement of parents whose children were on track. The child was not loved, but pitied, a glass doll who might be precious and protected, but certainly was never cradled. Yet her eyes sparkled, full of that bit of magic always so rare in humanity:
Compassion.
She started with her parents, gentle words and sweet assurances, a doting nature that seemed to empathize with their disappointment. They would cry, and she would soothe, the little mother to towering children. Her soft hands would smooth away their worries, one by one. Slowly they forgot the disappointment of her birth.
Her life more than made up for it. Next came the neighborhood children, full of taunts and jeers, laughter over the slightest of differences. They slung stones and words, the former drawing blood, but the latter making the real wounds. And yet she would still approach them, offering her crooked smile, an opening salvo of sweet words.
"Go away!" Henry would scream, the biggest of the children, and their leader for that very reason. Cassandra never listened, enduring the stones that would shortly follow.
"What happened to you?" her mother would ask, dabbing at cuts, gently doting bruises. Cassandra would simply scratch at the scabs, her brown eyes shining.
"I was jes' playin'," she would reply.
The children were playing on that day, too. Hop-scotch in the street, crudely erected lines on an asphalt backdrop. How they would jump, one foot, two, and back to one again, testing the balance that they were just starting to discover.
As always Cassandra sat on the sidelines, watching, but not participating, an unwelcome, but persistent, presence. Nearly everyone watched the board, the newest player dancing their way across the asphalt for their delight. Only Cassandra watched the street, filled with the instinct more common in mother hens than children of her age.
She was the first to see the car.
It swerved around the corner, a squeal of rubber on the road. It jerked to one side before falling back flat to the street, the sharp turn doing little to stop its speed. The children laughed, and then gasped, as the car approached faster and faster. They couldn't see the brown package in the driver's hand, nor the dull look in her eyes. All they could see was the half-ton of Detroit steel hurtling towards them. They screamed and scattered, leaving the jumper, the previous apple of their eye, to the street.
Henry turned. If he had been older, he would claim he knew the taste of fear then. The tickling of bile at the back of his throat, the stale taste of breath between his teeth. Yet he was a child, and he thought as one. Terror surged through his head. His legs locked and, for the first time in his life, being big did absolutely nothing for him. It was simply him and the car, and things were working in the car's favor.
Then Henry felt a pair of slight arms wrap around his torso, squeezing, shoving. "Go!" shouted a voice. It was so sweet, so insistent that the boy could only obey. His knees bent, his feet surged forward, and he was free. Away from the car, away from the road, occupying the safety of the sidewalk.
That's when he heard the crunch. A small body disappeared underneath the car. The vehicle didn't stop. It didn't even slow. It simply ran its course and then it was gone, another squeal around another corner. Cassandra had been the only one who wasn't playing in the street.
Now she was the only one left in it, a happy little smile lining her face.
I've been reading a lot of Neil Gaiman. Say what you will, but he has some ability when it comes to short stories. I wanted to try something more than my usual fare. I think that this is lacking, somehow. Perhaps I just don't have what it takes to write contemporary. Maybe my works just need the element of strange and unusual to give them some sort of strength.
Still, I think the above was a noble attempt if nothing else.
I need to get to proofreading my book, again. I've learned an excellent method in doing it: read to yourself. It takes more time, but you more easily find poor sentence construction, stilted flow, misspellings, and ideas that simply don't work. I shouldn't have dismissed the suggestion in the first place.
Well, my ignorance is my regret.
We laugh, we cry, we love and we hate. Oh, how we hate. Different religions and races, sects and classes, political parties and football teams. The Green Bay Packers hate the Chicago Bears for a game that happened nearly a century ago, while the Bears despise the Packers for their dogged push to victory. Of course the North hates the inbred and ignorant South, while the South hates the highfalutin North with the white-hot intensity only a civil war could only inspire. 'Round and 'round hate goes, stopping for a span of what amounts to seconds in a very ancient world.
Even our neighbors aren't exempt from our ire.
So how did Cassandra even have a chance?
She was a small girl, smaller than most, slight of limb, and short of leg. Her grin was lop-sided, her eyes slightly askew, a child that most people might call slow. "She missed her milestones," her mother would say sadly, much to her shame and the secret excitement of parents whose children were on track. The child was not loved, but pitied, a glass doll who might be precious and protected, but certainly was never cradled. Yet her eyes sparkled, full of that bit of magic always so rare in humanity:
Compassion.
She started with her parents, gentle words and sweet assurances, a doting nature that seemed to empathize with their disappointment. They would cry, and she would soothe, the little mother to towering children. Her soft hands would smooth away their worries, one by one. Slowly they forgot the disappointment of her birth.
Her life more than made up for it. Next came the neighborhood children, full of taunts and jeers, laughter over the slightest of differences. They slung stones and words, the former drawing blood, but the latter making the real wounds. And yet she would still approach them, offering her crooked smile, an opening salvo of sweet words.
"Go away!" Henry would scream, the biggest of the children, and their leader for that very reason. Cassandra never listened, enduring the stones that would shortly follow.
"What happened to you?" her mother would ask, dabbing at cuts, gently doting bruises. Cassandra would simply scratch at the scabs, her brown eyes shining.
"I was jes' playin'," she would reply.
The children were playing on that day, too. Hop-scotch in the street, crudely erected lines on an asphalt backdrop. How they would jump, one foot, two, and back to one again, testing the balance that they were just starting to discover.
As always Cassandra sat on the sidelines, watching, but not participating, an unwelcome, but persistent, presence. Nearly everyone watched the board, the newest player dancing their way across the asphalt for their delight. Only Cassandra watched the street, filled with the instinct more common in mother hens than children of her age.
She was the first to see the car.
It swerved around the corner, a squeal of rubber on the road. It jerked to one side before falling back flat to the street, the sharp turn doing little to stop its speed. The children laughed, and then gasped, as the car approached faster and faster. They couldn't see the brown package in the driver's hand, nor the dull look in her eyes. All they could see was the half-ton of Detroit steel hurtling towards them. They screamed and scattered, leaving the jumper, the previous apple of their eye, to the street.
Henry turned. If he had been older, he would claim he knew the taste of fear then. The tickling of bile at the back of his throat, the stale taste of breath between his teeth. Yet he was a child, and he thought as one. Terror surged through his head. His legs locked and, for the first time in his life, being big did absolutely nothing for him. It was simply him and the car, and things were working in the car's favor.
Then Henry felt a pair of slight arms wrap around his torso, squeezing, shoving. "Go!" shouted a voice. It was so sweet, so insistent that the boy could only obey. His knees bent, his feet surged forward, and he was free. Away from the car, away from the road, occupying the safety of the sidewalk.
That's when he heard the crunch. A small body disappeared underneath the car. The vehicle didn't stop. It didn't even slow. It simply ran its course and then it was gone, another squeal around another corner. Cassandra had been the only one who wasn't playing in the street.
Now she was the only one left in it, a happy little smile lining her face.
I've been reading a lot of Neil Gaiman. Say what you will, but he has some ability when it comes to short stories. I wanted to try something more than my usual fare. I think that this is lacking, somehow. Perhaps I just don't have what it takes to write contemporary. Maybe my works just need the element of strange and unusual to give them some sort of strength.
Still, I think the above was a noble attempt if nothing else.
I need to get to proofreading my book, again. I've learned an excellent method in doing it: read to yourself. It takes more time, but you more easily find poor sentence construction, stilted flow, misspellings, and ideas that simply don't work. I shouldn't have dismissed the suggestion in the first place.
Well, my ignorance is my regret.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Chuck
When did it begin?
Some might say it was the public education system. Chaotic and cruel, it was a struggling beast without the funds or heart for rehabilitation. Others would look to homes, broken as they had come to be, offering no respite from a big, mean world. These would claim the gun lobby, others the lack of personal responsibility, a back and forth that never saw an end.
A select few might say that it was simply because of a world cruel enough to produce lead.
Whatever the reasons, wherever the start, Chuck had a gun.
That was bad for everyone. It was a beautiful piece, long and silver, shining like a star when held to the sun. He kissed it once, twice, trying to impart a heavy heart on such a slim barrel. The bullets would carry his hurt. His hurt and a little more, anyway, powered by a little extra umph courtesy of gunpowder.
Chuck stopped in front of the door. Just beyond it was all the hurt and pain, a childhood of torment, an adolescence of screams. It was a homecoming long delayed. He took one deep breath, two just to be sure. It was time to make his entrance. He knew just the way.
Chuck raised the gun to the sky.
I liked the beat of that. So much I'm not going to edit it. It might be positively awful afterwards, but goddammit, I like the movement too much to ruin the afterglow. Seriously, to be finished with it like this is simply heaven.
Have you noticed I put guns in a lot of my short stories? I don't care for the damned things, but they've got a power in imagery, I must admit. There's just something about someone with a lost cause, and a gun to back it up.
Shit.
I probably incriminated myself, right there.
Some might say it was the public education system. Chaotic and cruel, it was a struggling beast without the funds or heart for rehabilitation. Others would look to homes, broken as they had come to be, offering no respite from a big, mean world. These would claim the gun lobby, others the lack of personal responsibility, a back and forth that never saw an end.
A select few might say that it was simply because of a world cruel enough to produce lead.
Whatever the reasons, wherever the start, Chuck had a gun.
That was bad for everyone. It was a beautiful piece, long and silver, shining like a star when held to the sun. He kissed it once, twice, trying to impart a heavy heart on such a slim barrel. The bullets would carry his hurt. His hurt and a little more, anyway, powered by a little extra umph courtesy of gunpowder.
Chuck stopped in front of the door. Just beyond it was all the hurt and pain, a childhood of torment, an adolescence of screams. It was a homecoming long delayed. He took one deep breath, two just to be sure. It was time to make his entrance. He knew just the way.
Chuck raised the gun to the sky.
I liked the beat of that. So much I'm not going to edit it. It might be positively awful afterwards, but goddammit, I like the movement too much to ruin the afterglow. Seriously, to be finished with it like this is simply heaven.
Have you noticed I put guns in a lot of my short stories? I don't care for the damned things, but they've got a power in imagery, I must admit. There's just something about someone with a lost cause, and a gun to back it up.
Shit.
I probably incriminated myself, right there.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Dead Girl
It was happening again.
I could hear the strange laughter, disembodied, dancing, echoing through the warehouse. Shadows moved and shifted, darting here and sliding there, giving up no sight other than black. It was happening again, and I was as powerless as the first time. My hands trembled.
I started to cry hot tears. They did little to relieve the chill of the warehouse. Slowly the shadows wrapped around the room, an ever-tightening noose meant just for me. Slowly the circle shrank until only I was left.
Slowly I watched death approach. I couldn't let it end like this. I wouldn't let it end like this. I had escaped the darkness once before. I could do it again. I just had to be brave.
I put the gun to my head and closed my eyes.
Just one more time.
A brief little something for Halloween. I actually rather like the idea. Salvation through death. We'll see if this ever goes anywhere, guys.
Also, two rejections with the manuscript. UGH. All I need is the one "yes," though. Friends (including the lovely Jami Nord) are currently looking over my second book, and I'm writing up my cyberpunk universe.
Keep several irons in the fire, as V.E. Schwab said. It's not bad advice, I have to admit.
I could hear the strange laughter, disembodied, dancing, echoing through the warehouse. Shadows moved and shifted, darting here and sliding there, giving up no sight other than black. It was happening again, and I was as powerless as the first time. My hands trembled.
I started to cry hot tears. They did little to relieve the chill of the warehouse. Slowly the shadows wrapped around the room, an ever-tightening noose meant just for me. Slowly the circle shrank until only I was left.
Slowly I watched death approach. I couldn't let it end like this. I wouldn't let it end like this. I had escaped the darkness once before. I could do it again. I just had to be brave.
I put the gun to my head and closed my eyes.
Just one more time.
A brief little something for Halloween. I actually rather like the idea. Salvation through death. We'll see if this ever goes anywhere, guys.
Also, two rejections with the manuscript. UGH. All I need is the one "yes," though. Friends (including the lovely Jami Nord) are currently looking over my second book, and I'm writing up my cyberpunk universe.
Keep several irons in the fire, as V.E. Schwab said. It's not bad advice, I have to admit.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Dad
The first time I ever saw a man die, I was seventeen.
That man was my father.
He had fallen the previous day. Really, it was nothing unusual. Charles Earl Stewart was given to accidents. The many strokes had left his body weak, his mind weaker, and a moment's confusion was by all means normal. He had once climbed on the roof and been unable to get down. In the scheme of things, a little fall was nothing to be concerned about.
Except it was. There was no moving on from this. He had fallen to the floor, and simply couldn't get back up. As much as his muscles my strain, try as his mind might will, he couldn't rise. It took the combined efforts of my mother, brother, and I to drag him back to the bed. There he laid, as weak as a newborn. He could barely move, six feet of fragility.
It was obvious Dad couldn't take care of himself. Mom debated whether she would be able to work anymore. There was no way we could afford a caregiver. There was no way we could afford to give up her job, either. The future was so terribly uncertain.
We all fell into a fitful sleep.
It didn't take long for it to be interrupted. "Wake up! Your dad's dying!" screamed Mom. It only had to be said once. We flew from our beds and into his bedroom, frantic feet for what we had long feared. We had expected this moment for years, but never knew how it would come.
I never expected that my father's face would be blue. Not a white or light grey, but an actual blue, the color of frozen skin. His eyes were wide, his hand was shaking. He seemed to reach out to me, to someone, wanting help or just someone to hold him as he passed. I took his hand. It was the only thing I could really do. Tears ran down my face as blood poured out his mouth. He tried to speak, but there were no last words for my father. No heartfelt advice or well wishes. No moment of clarity before the end. Not even a shout of disapproval.
The blood choked down everything.
It's the first thing that popped up in my mind, so I wrote it. A ten year old memory, for the readers. Maybe that'll immortalize my dad. Give him an added bit of life that he lost over a decade ago.
I'm near completion with the second draft of the novel. Then it goes out to alpha readers, and we've got this motherfucker on the road.
Looking forward to that.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Mika
It had been twelve years since Alice had seen Mika.
She never would again. Not encased behind that closed casket affair, three inches of steel that separated sweet Mika from the rest of the wide world. She had been beautiful in life, a fiery determination that glowed in her eyes and wove along her features. Every glare was hell-fire, every smile fireworks.
They had stolen it all with a well-applied blowtorch. Eyes, lips, nose, all burnt away, sending a message for the world to see.
Alice got the message loud and clear. The cosmeticians couldn't recreate Mika's face, "too little to work with" they said, so they did the next best thing. They shoved her into a steel box. Alice's fingers stroked along the cold metal, wishing for one last look, no matter how different the reality was from her memories.
They'd been fast friends, occasional lovers, and even that hadn't been enough to keep them together. They drifted apart casually like the continents, one easing that way, another this, slowly and inexorably. Mika was happy to stay a Delivery Woman, fast days and dangerous nights, filled with the flow of stims and the hail of bullets. For Alice, it was only the means to an end. Make a lot of money and break free, forgetting the dangers she left at her back. She went legit, grabbing a degree, opening a law firm, and making a name for herself somewhere other than the slums.
It'd been years since she held a spar amplifier. The metal felt awkward in her hand, heavier than it used to, the days when she was on the streets rather than in the courtroom. But she'd adapt. If nothing else, rage had a way of helping the process along. With one hand, she'd hold them at gunpoint. With the other, she'd sculpt their faces with fire. It was justice.
But Alice would never see Mika again.
Not even revenge could take the sting off of that.
So. This post was a little long in coming. I miiiiight have forgotten I needed to update this thing. Hahahahaohcrap.
Things are going well, though. I am NEARING the end of this second draft of my second book. Once I have that done, I'm throwing myself full force into my cyberpunk novel. I've got some great ideas that seem to meet general approval. All I need is a plot.
Jesus Christ, I need a plot!
Still, I feel like I'm becoming a real writer. That things are melding, molding, and forming something greater than what I was. That my craft is growing. Perhaps that's the best feeling to have.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Strange
There were gods once, long ago.
They were strange, but it was the sort man should expect from the divine. Their eyes were large and their ears pointed, their limbs stretched long, and their heads held tall. With a wave of their hand, thunder would rumble over the horizon. With a stamp of their foot, wheat would stretch its neck from the soil. They were grand gods, and much beloved.
But they were not omnipotent. Some might point to zoimantry as their killer, others could suggest nationalism, but the truth was so much simpler. It was an intrinsic part of their nature, often overlooked by the masses, and certainly ignored by themselves. Hrefna was as guilty as any of her sisters.
For all their strangeness, they were as fallible as any man,
Jokum Ostergaard - Pa Blight og Dens Efterspil
Well, Jennifer has sent out the manuscript to a few publishing agencies. The pitch will be going out to others Tuesday. It's exciting, and wonderful, and it's my very future happening in front of me. Justin Stewart's Dead Man Walking. Justin Stewart's! It only makes me want to work that much harder for the future. I want this so bad that I can taste it.
But I need to prepare for the waiting game. If I thought that waiting with agents was rough, then I'll be in for a hell of an experience with the publishers. Still, it's something I welcome. Once I get the first book through, hopefully the second, third, and twentieth will be shoe-ins.
I'm blessed to have so many people who love and support me. They keep me going when I doubt myself (which seems more often than it should be). I'd like to thank them in general. Honestly, if I was to list names, I'd be here all night.
Chances are, if you're here, then I'm thankful for you.
They were strange, but it was the sort man should expect from the divine. Their eyes were large and their ears pointed, their limbs stretched long, and their heads held tall. With a wave of their hand, thunder would rumble over the horizon. With a stamp of their foot, wheat would stretch its neck from the soil. They were grand gods, and much beloved.
But they were not omnipotent. Some might point to zoimantry as their killer, others could suggest nationalism, but the truth was so much simpler. It was an intrinsic part of their nature, often overlooked by the masses, and certainly ignored by themselves. Hrefna was as guilty as any of her sisters.
For all their strangeness, they were as fallible as any man,
Jokum Ostergaard - Pa Blight og Dens Efterspil
Well, Jennifer has sent out the manuscript to a few publishing agencies. The pitch will be going out to others Tuesday. It's exciting, and wonderful, and it's my very future happening in front of me. Justin Stewart's Dead Man Walking. Justin Stewart's! It only makes me want to work that much harder for the future. I want this so bad that I can taste it.
But I need to prepare for the waiting game. If I thought that waiting with agents was rough, then I'll be in for a hell of an experience with the publishers. Still, it's something I welcome. Once I get the first book through, hopefully the second, third, and twentieth will be shoe-ins.
I'm blessed to have so many people who love and support me. They keep me going when I doubt myself (which seems more often than it should be). I'd like to thank them in general. Honestly, if I was to list names, I'd be here all night.
Chances are, if you're here, then I'm thankful for you.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Used and Abused
I looked into the mirror.
I didn't like what was looking back at me. Namely about twenty extra pounds around the middle, a spare tire if I'd ever seen one. I reached down, giving the fat a little squeeze. It was nothing that some discipline and a few thousand crunches couldn't take care of. If I set my mind to it, it'd fade in a few weeks.
But then, I was never very disciplined to begin with. I longed for the days where all it'd take was a snip job, expensive, but effortless. I'd go under the gas a fat man, and wake up as skinny as my heart's desire. But then, cosmetics cost money.
Money and I weren't on speaking terms. I eased my fingers up to my face, tracing the lines along it. Really, the scars were thinner than a piece of dental floss, invisible to the casual and even concerted observer. It was the best sort of surgery money could buy, pencil-tip lasers, small incision implants, and a bunch of other industry jargon that leaked out my ear. And it had been invested in me. Elevated cheekbones, jutting jaw, the full package in a single specimen. My waistline might go to pot, but the rest of me would make a pretty corpse.
Maybe death would be preferable to where I was. Washed up, done in, used. Fifteen years with Chen, fifteen of my finest years, only for everything to end because of one mistake. I closed my eyes. I couldn't stand the sight of me. I was once one of the best, but once was a long time ago.
Sadly, regret didn't pay the bills.
I slipped on a shirt, easing it on a couple of buttons at a time, the faux-silk soft against my skin. The jacket followed of course, a red sort with a serpent coiling around my heart. Age might have made me slow, but the symbolism certainly wasn't lost on me. Neither were really important, though, not when there remained the piece de resistance. A pair of black Aviators awaited me, into my fingers, over my ears, anointing me with the Brand I'd cultivated for so many years. It felt good, right, like I was the person I was supposed to be, no matter what bumps popped up in the road.
A blip flashed across one of the lenses, a string of ugly green text, made uglier by the implication in it.
"Used carsalesmen rnt xactly in BIG demand!!! This is ur last chance, jumper!!! U comin'???"
I looked back into the mirror. I took a breath.
"Yeah. I'm coming."
Just an idea for the cyberpunk world I'm cooking up. I don't know if it'll retain this noir style, this character, or anything of the sort. I like writing noir, but I don't want to be a one-trick pony, you know? I have to say, though, that the character is certainly likable. I love Johnny to death, but he's a bit of a bastard.
There's something more fragile about this fella. I wonder what his name is?
The book is coming along well, by the way. Hopefully we've got the last edit done for the first (at least for a while). I still need to hop in and tackle the second book as it's on first draft. And of course I'm making this cyberpunk universe. I know it's not clear in the text above, but "Used Car Salesmen" is a bit of slang.
Our hero didn't sell cars, true, but he was just as sleazy with his methods.
I didn't like what was looking back at me. Namely about twenty extra pounds around the middle, a spare tire if I'd ever seen one. I reached down, giving the fat a little squeeze. It was nothing that some discipline and a few thousand crunches couldn't take care of. If I set my mind to it, it'd fade in a few weeks.
But then, I was never very disciplined to begin with. I longed for the days where all it'd take was a snip job, expensive, but effortless. I'd go under the gas a fat man, and wake up as skinny as my heart's desire. But then, cosmetics cost money.
Money and I weren't on speaking terms. I eased my fingers up to my face, tracing the lines along it. Really, the scars were thinner than a piece of dental floss, invisible to the casual and even concerted observer. It was the best sort of surgery money could buy, pencil-tip lasers, small incision implants, and a bunch of other industry jargon that leaked out my ear. And it had been invested in me. Elevated cheekbones, jutting jaw, the full package in a single specimen. My waistline might go to pot, but the rest of me would make a pretty corpse.
Maybe death would be preferable to where I was. Washed up, done in, used. Fifteen years with Chen, fifteen of my finest years, only for everything to end because of one mistake. I closed my eyes. I couldn't stand the sight of me. I was once one of the best, but once was a long time ago.
Sadly, regret didn't pay the bills.
I slipped on a shirt, easing it on a couple of buttons at a time, the faux-silk soft against my skin. The jacket followed of course, a red sort with a serpent coiling around my heart. Age might have made me slow, but the symbolism certainly wasn't lost on me. Neither were really important, though, not when there remained the piece de resistance. A pair of black Aviators awaited me, into my fingers, over my ears, anointing me with the Brand I'd cultivated for so many years. It felt good, right, like I was the person I was supposed to be, no matter what bumps popped up in the road.
A blip flashed across one of the lenses, a string of ugly green text, made uglier by the implication in it.
"Used carsalesmen rnt xactly in BIG demand!!! This is ur last chance, jumper!!! U comin'???"
I looked back into the mirror. I took a breath.
"Yeah. I'm coming."
Just an idea for the cyberpunk world I'm cooking up. I don't know if it'll retain this noir style, this character, or anything of the sort. I like writing noir, but I don't want to be a one-trick pony, you know? I have to say, though, that the character is certainly likable. I love Johnny to death, but he's a bit of a bastard.
There's something more fragile about this fella. I wonder what his name is?
The book is coming along well, by the way. Hopefully we've got the last edit done for the first (at least for a while). I still need to hop in and tackle the second book as it's on first draft. And of course I'm making this cyberpunk universe. I know it's not clear in the text above, but "Used Car Salesmen" is a bit of slang.
Our hero didn't sell cars, true, but he was just as sleazy with his methods.
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