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.

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.

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. 

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.

Delinquent

So, I probably should have written a blog post. Probably. But I didn't. Why, might you ask?

Because writing is consuming my life.

To be a little more clear, I'm working on a second project while I'm editing my book. I'm brainstorming a cyberpunk world, trying to mesh out a culture and theme. It's coming nicely, but it's still coming. I figure rather than taking time and effort to write out a post, I'd let you get a rough glimpse of at least one section.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present...

The Stiletto Pigeon!

The Stiletto Pigeon is a flying drone normally deployed in assassination. It can carry knives, poison darts, and electrical stunners. While they don't look like pigeons, they leave shit everywhere like their namesake.

I feel pretty good about that, right there. It's evocative, if not inventive. Wait. What's that? You want more? A few sentences aren't enough? Well, goddammit, you're the reader, and the reader is always (HAHAHAHA) right!

Reform Gown - a jumpsuit worn by prisoners that can send electrical impulses into the convict's body. Guards and other personnel can control the prisoner to some degree ("Freeze!" or "March!"). Of course given the setting, there might be more abusive postures ("Kowtow!").

So that's a brief, brief snippet into my world. I hope it's interesting. If not, well, fuck you, this is my heart and soul. I should have a real post later. Thanks for bearing with me, guys.

It's easy to get tunnel vision on these things.

Regret

In 2000, I voted Republican. I was full of hope and wonder. We were bringing Christ back into the schools. We were putting terrorism in its place. We were picking up ourselves up by the bootstraps as a nation, away from an administration filled with scandal. I knew it was the right move.

We all make mistakes. Some are simply pronounced "nu-cu-lar" and others are even more pronounced. George W. Bush first taught me that sad little lesson.

The dog wrapped around my arm wanted the last word on the topic. I thought this was going to be a routine sort of job. Slip in, slip out, no muss, no fuss. The place had no big name security systems, no armed guards, nothing that spoke of glitz and glam. Just high walls, deterrents to the overweight, but few others. I should have known that if they used one old way, they'd go for another.

"Down Cujo!" I screamed.

No luck.

"Is that a squirrel?!"

No dice.

"Get the fuck off me!"

It was useless as the last. Me, I'm an animal lover. I stop at every chance to pet a dog and carry a cat. I donate to the ASPCA regularly.

What I'm trying to say is I'm a decent person.

So it was really hard to plant that tire iron into Lassie's head.


ANY POLITICAL OPINIONS RELATED IN THIS STORY ARE THE CHARACTER'S AND NOT MINE. DO NOT FLAY ME ALIVE. This is just a short little thing I wrote up with Kelly over at What Things I Have Found. She started with an idea, I jumped on it, and we kept a back and forth going. I have to admit it was a lot of fun, and she sparked a little creativity inside of me.

I'm finishing the epilogue of the second book's first draft, so that's exciting. Of course I'll start editing after that and who likes editing? Writing new scenes is always a pleasure, though, little bits that I missed the first time on my way. It's funny where they can take a story, or what great stuff they can add.

I hope you guys will like the story. It ends with a BANGHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAitsnotfunnyunlessyou'vereadit!

In the Beginning

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

It wasn't really the beginning, not from His perspective, anyway. The beginning had been much longer ago, before Anyone had thought to record. Perhaps God Himself didn't for a very special reason.

In the beginning there was God. And he was lonely.

There was Nothingness, sure, but Nothingness wasn't much of a conversationalist. God would speak. Nothingness would stay silent. God would laugh. Nothingness would consume the sound. God would travel. Nothingness would merely be. It wasn't by some master plan that God conceived Creation, as He would later claim.

It was simply desperation.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, but they were only the start. Light and darkness came next, and water and sky were divided. None were the focal point of the Lord, however. These could not feel, however, could not laugh, nor even cry. They were incidental in God's plan, created for a single, solitary purpose.

His name was Adam.

The publishing world continues to be maddeningly slow, but to have some hope. Jennifer's pitching away, and I'm terribly excited. It looks like there might be an interest or two in Dead Man, so let's keep our fingers crossed. I only hope that the actual book can follow up Jennifer's excellent presentation.

The story above is something I've suggested before. God didn't create because He was confident, or guided by some great plan. He merely succumbed to what haunts Creation:

Loneliness. It creates a more human picture of a Creator, something fallible and lonely. It certainly explains the rage sometimes inherent in the Old Testament, when God will not suffer others to follow anyone but Himself. Of course I'm crossing over to blasphemy with all of this. Still, though.

It's something I'd like to explore one day. I just don't know how well it would work as a novel. I think it would be better as a short story, or a lead up to the Creation. Adam, Eve, or something entirely new would be the focal for a story like this.

At least, that's my belief.