Well, I just received another acceptance for Retention. Cast of Wonders hosts an audio webzine which will be podcasting my story in the near future. The audio part is pretty cool, as is the fact that they are paying me 5 British pounds for my efforts. I have now officially been paid to write, which eliminates my favorite excuse to not do it.
My wife will be spending the next two weeks wandering the wilds of Spain, which should mostly consist of partying by night and sightseeing by day. This leaves me in charge of the homestead, a tragic turn of events for the cats. They now have to seek me out in my rare off-time to beg for attention. I think they're starting to get the point that when I'm at my computer I am too busy to pet them. Cats are smarter than they look. One of them even figured out how to twist the knobs in the bathtub enough to be able to drink from the faucet. Super unsettling. I'm going to lock up the knives.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge #2
This week's challenge is to take a classic fairy tale, fable or nursery rhyme and bring it out of the past. It can be set in this century or beyond, which left me with a lot of setting potential to chomp on. It took me a bit to settle on a story but I decided that the Pied Piper needed a modern retelling.
Chuck's blog is here - http://terribleminds.com/ramble/
Take on me...take me on...
His eyes narrowed at it, a sneer on the corner of his lip. That song was like an obsession to people these days. You couldn't even go an hour without hearing that shrill refrain. Piper crossed to the door of the shop and swung the sign to read 'Closed'. Across the street he could see the brick facade of the Hamelin Arms projects. He watched the children milling about the sidewalk, acid washed jeans and leather jackets and boom boxes. As he made his way back to the stock room he paused to snatch a baseball bat from one of the shelves. The tag, which read 'Piper's Pawn - $2.50', peeled away from the chipped surface.
Chuck's blog is here - http://terribleminds.com/ramble/
The Price Gets Higher
"I call it Sweet Melody," Piper said as he dangled the plastic baggie over the counter. "You can smoke it, inject it or snort it. You won't find a smoother high." The boy reached out and Piper let the baggie drop into his hand, crystals bouncing around inside. The kid ran a finger over the sticker on the back side, a small gold flute on a blue background.
"How much?" he asked, straightening up and setting his face in a somber stare. Piper smiled, noticing again how talk of money always made kids try to act older. This one couldn't be but 13 but he was trying to project a businessman's aspect.
"The first bag is free. Call it a sample. Don't worry, though. It's the cheapest drug out there." Piper replied, rising from his chair and walking around the counter with his usual bouncing step. The boy looked uneasy, glancing through the shop window and back to the baggie. Piper laid a hand on his shoulder, urging him towards the door. "Go on. Tell your friends." As the boy pushed the door open and stepped out onto the street, Piper heard music from a passing car.
Take on me...take me on...
His eyes narrowed at it, a sneer on the corner of his lip. That song was like an obsession to people these days. You couldn't even go an hour without hearing that shrill refrain. Piper crossed to the door of the shop and swung the sign to read 'Closed'. Across the street he could see the brick facade of the Hamelin Arms projects. He watched the children milling about the sidewalk, acid washed jeans and leather jackets and boom boxes. As he made his way back to the stock room he paused to snatch a baseball bat from one of the shelves. The tag, which read 'Piper's Pawn - $2.50', peeled away from the chipped surface.
The door swung inwards and the dim glow of an overhead light illuminated the figure in the center of the room. The man was heavy set under workman's overalls, but the chain that bound him to the metal chair was the most prominent feature. Piper let the door swing shut behind him, stepping over and kneeling next to the man.
"You know, Marcus, I find that this decade doesn't sit well with me. The music, for one. So lacking in any true effort," Piper said. Marcus looked up, one eye swollen shut from a previous beating. "Despite that, I do admire how easily this generation's children are taken in by a quick fix for their unfortunate situations."
"Fuck you." Marcus spat, blood on his lips, though the words came out slurred. Piper frowned, his lips narrowing to a line, and he stepped back a bit as he tested the weight of the bat in his hands.
"You did, my friend. You and all the other parents in the Hamelin Arms." Piper paused long enough to slip the tri-colored denim jacket from off his shoulders and toss it onto the desk. Blood stains were always tricky to get out of denim. "We had a very simple arrangement. One that you and your people initiated." Leaning back, Piper brought the bat in a sideways swing. Marcus' knee snapped violently at the impact, followed by a howl of pain.
"Stop...please...we didn't..." Marcus begged, his muscles tightening against the chain.
"You didn't what?!" Piper shouted, dropping low to bring his eyes in line with his captive's. "Expect me to survive?" He jabbed at Marcus' chest with the bat. "You made me an offer. Twenty-five grand to get rid of the dealers that were hooking your kids. What did you call them? Rats...vermin...scum?"
"You don't understand." Marcus interjected, but a quick right hook split his upper lip and choked him with the words.
"I fucking understand! I killed a dozen men for you. A dozen deserving men, but that blood doesn't just wash away. I did my part and you screwed me." Leaping back, Piper swung the bat high and sent Marcus' head to the side with a hollow 'thump'. A moment later the anger was gone and Piper was smoothing out the wrinkles in his grey Polo. "That's alright, though. I have a new price and you have no choice but to pay it."
"I fucking understand! I killed a dozen men for you. A dozen deserving men, but that blood doesn't just wash away. I did my part and you screwed me." Leaping back, Piper swung the bat high and sent Marcus' head to the side with a hollow 'thump'. A moment later the anger was gone and Piper was smoothing out the wrinkles in his grey Polo. "That's alright, though. I have a new price and you have no choice but to pay it."
"No...you can't..." Marcus said, his good eye wet with tears.
"I already have. Sweet Melody is on the streets now. Your kids will come to me one by one begging for more. They will come with their minds clouded and their bodies screaming for a fix. And when they do? When they do, I will take them. Do you have any idea what kind of money I can charge for a relatively healthy child? Factories, drug dens, whorehouses...they will all pay." Piper drew in a slow breath, resting the bat on his shoulder. "But don't you worry, Marcus. You're one of the lucky ones. You won't be around to see it."
The bat did its work, accompanied by screaming, and the heavy brick and mortar of the building swallowed the noise. It was the kind of music that Piper could really appreciate.
Friday, July 6, 2012
My Name Up In Lights
So, I'm published now. Bleeding Ink Anthology - A Collection of Dark Tales went up on SmashWords as an e-book on the 3rd. It contains a short piece of mine called Retention about a bullied boy's paranormal experience at the local retention pond.
I've always loved to write but I've also always had a small voice in the back of my mind that told me there was no future in it. That I wasn't good enough to keep people interested. Now that I'm published I can't really use that excuse because somebody somewhere was interested enough in what I write to include me in their collection. Now, when I skip writing to get a few more levels in Skyrim I am really going to feel crappy about it.
I guess I owe you all some excerpts. Here, feast your greedy eye-mouths on these.
In less than an hour I had to go eat a ghost.
-----
The sign outside my door swung as it caught those breezes, chain creaking at the motion. R.L. Hawkins, Spiritualist & Accountant. I’d tried paranormal investigator before but people look at you funny if you don’t show up with a cart full of gear. They expect the light show and the evp and all that. It seemed to be more acceptable for a spiritualist to rely solely on the powers of the mind, which cut down seriously on my expenses.
---
“Happiness is as sure a killer as sadness,” I said. “It makes you soft. You get content and then sadness hits and you’ve forgotten how to cope with it.”
I've always loved to write but I've also always had a small voice in the back of my mind that told me there was no future in it. That I wasn't good enough to keep people interested. Now that I'm published I can't really use that excuse because somebody somewhere was interested enough in what I write to include me in their collection. Now, when I skip writing to get a few more levels in Skyrim I am really going to feel crappy about it.
I guess I owe you all some excerpts. Here, feast your greedy eye-mouths on these.
In less than an hour I had to go eat a ghost.
-----
The sign outside my door swung as it caught those breezes, chain creaking at the motion. R.L. Hawkins, Spiritualist & Accountant. I’d tried paranormal investigator before but people look at you funny if you don’t show up with a cart full of gear. They expect the light show and the evp and all that. It seemed to be more acceptable for a spiritualist to rely solely on the powers of the mind, which cut down seriously on my expenses.
---
“Happiness is as sure a killer as sadness,” I said. “It makes you soft. You get content and then sadness hits and you’ve forgotten how to cope with it.”
Friday, June 29, 2012
Doing Things and Stuff
First, let me extend my gratitude to the masses who have answered my call and pledged funds to the Clarion Write-a-Thon. It means a lot to me to be able to support the foundation and I will not disappoint my sponsors. You guys rock. Expect many excerpts in the coming weeks.
So, I've been watching Breakout Kings recently and its a pretty decent show. One episode in particular got me thinking. The plot revolved around the team's efforts to catch an escaped child rapist. At one point they interview another child molester who knew the fugitive and I found this character to be particularly interesting for a bit part.
He was deeply troubled and admittedly guilty of his previous crimes but he presented himself as 'on the mend'. That's an old term for 'getting better'. He spoke about the efforts he had to make to avoid succumbing to his compulsions and that got me thinking. First about how horrible it must be to live with a mental disorder that forces you to do something that you know is abhorrent. The lengths you would have to go to justify the behavior each time you succumbed, and people with these problems inevitably falter before they seek out help, would be exhausting. Secondly, I wondered the whole time if it is possible to present a pedophile as a story's protagonist.
Not a statutory rape style sex offender. A genuine pedophile with deep-seeded psychological trauma that manifests in an irrepressible sexual attraction to children. I know that Tim Dorsey has had success portraying a mentally unbalanced murderer as the 'anti-hero' in his books, and the success of Dexter is evidence that people can overlook a lot when connecting with a protagonist, but I am skeptical about whether people would be willing to follow the exploits of someone who abused children even if they were actively working against their disorder. We can accept murderers as the vehicle for a story's progression but not child molesters. On that note, would a murderer of children be less acceptable than a murderer of adults?
Thoughts?
So, I've been watching Breakout Kings recently and its a pretty decent show. One episode in particular got me thinking. The plot revolved around the team's efforts to catch an escaped child rapist. At one point they interview another child molester who knew the fugitive and I found this character to be particularly interesting for a bit part.
He was deeply troubled and admittedly guilty of his previous crimes but he presented himself as 'on the mend'. That's an old term for 'getting better'. He spoke about the efforts he had to make to avoid succumbing to his compulsions and that got me thinking. First about how horrible it must be to live with a mental disorder that forces you to do something that you know is abhorrent. The lengths you would have to go to justify the behavior each time you succumbed, and people with these problems inevitably falter before they seek out help, would be exhausting. Secondly, I wondered the whole time if it is possible to present a pedophile as a story's protagonist.
Not a statutory rape style sex offender. A genuine pedophile with deep-seeded psychological trauma that manifests in an irrepressible sexual attraction to children. I know that Tim Dorsey has had success portraying a mentally unbalanced murderer as the 'anti-hero' in his books, and the success of Dexter is evidence that people can overlook a lot when connecting with a protagonist, but I am skeptical about whether people would be willing to follow the exploits of someone who abused children even if they were actively working against their disorder. We can accept murderers as the vehicle for a story's progression but not child molesters. On that note, would a murderer of children be less acceptable than a murderer of adults?
Thoughts?
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The Clarion Write-a-Thon
As you should know by now, I am always looking for ways to improve my odds of actually doing some writing everyday. This blog is one example which, as of late, has been sadly inefficient. The truth is my work schedule has taken a drastic turn in terms of my time investment and I come home from my 12 hour days pretty beat. As far as excuses go that one is pretty legitimate but I still hate waking up without having put some words down the day before.
You probably don't know about the Clarion Writer's Workshop unless you happen to be into writing yourself. It is a six-week retreat where selected writers lock themselves away on a college campus and write until their eyes bleed. There have been some notable attendees in the past, both on the teaching and learning side, and I hope to apply for it when it comes around next year. This post isn't really about that, though.
Alongside the workshop, the Clarion foundation also holds a write-a-thon. They apply the pledged money to funding the workshop and providing assistance to the lucky few who opt to give up six weeks of their lives in pursuit of their passion. I am committing to the write-a-thon this year, which runs from June 24 to August Somethingorother, whatever makes it six weeks. I'm shooting for 30,000 words during that period. 10,000 will be devoted to short works that I can refine for my application to the workshop next year, the remainder being used for my current projects (a 10k word story for an anthology of the sword and sorcery genre and a novel that's currently in the early planning stages).
So, if you have money to spare and would like to support the efforts of budding writers I would ask that you check out the link below and consider sponsoring me or one of the many writers on the list. Additionally, if you are interested in writing, they are still in need of 17 writers (as of this posting) to participate.
Link here: http://clarionwriteathon.org/
You probably don't know about the Clarion Writer's Workshop unless you happen to be into writing yourself. It is a six-week retreat where selected writers lock themselves away on a college campus and write until their eyes bleed. There have been some notable attendees in the past, both on the teaching and learning side, and I hope to apply for it when it comes around next year. This post isn't really about that, though.
Alongside the workshop, the Clarion foundation also holds a write-a-thon. They apply the pledged money to funding the workshop and providing assistance to the lucky few who opt to give up six weeks of their lives in pursuit of their passion. I am committing to the write-a-thon this year, which runs from June 24 to August Somethingorother, whatever makes it six weeks. I'm shooting for 30,000 words during that period. 10,000 will be devoted to short works that I can refine for my application to the workshop next year, the remainder being used for my current projects (a 10k word story for an anthology of the sword and sorcery genre and a novel that's currently in the early planning stages).
So, if you have money to spare and would like to support the efforts of budding writers I would ask that you check out the link below and consider sponsoring me or one of the many writers on the list. Additionally, if you are interested in writing, they are still in need of 17 writers (as of this posting) to participate.
Link here: http://clarionwriteathon.org/
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge: A Tree Far From Home
I've titled this post with every intention of creating more of these. We'll see how that pans out. Chuck Wendig is a writer who I became familiar with years ago for his work on Hunter: the Reckoning, a White Wolf tabletop RPG that ranks to this day as my "all-time #1, run-at-the-drop-of-a-hat" system. He has a blog (link at the end) through which he hands out all kind of free awesome for people interested in telling stories. Every Friday he puts up some kind of flash fiction challenge to keep the creative juices overflowing and I thought I'd start participating because a) I love writing flash fiction and b) I need something to keep this blog moving while I struggle with my own writing issues.
Chuck's blog is here - http://terribleminds.com/ramble/
Chuck's blog is here - http://terribleminds.com/ramble/
A Tree Far From Home
"Charles Donovan Pierce, you put your respirator on this instant!"
The voice was shrill through the amplification speakers. Charlie pulled the clear plastic cone off his belt and slid the straps over his head, tugging it through straw blond hair until he heard the soft hiss of a seal being made. The smell of ozone faded as the device did its work, filtering out the elements that might be troublesome. The taste lingered, though, like sucking on a penny that had been electrified moments before.
"Sorry, Ma." he said, his own speaker amplifying the volume. Tearing his eyes away to look at her was so difficult, so unwanted.
"Damn right, you are. We haven't been here a week and already you're traipsing around like you're on the back forty." Vivian said, her frown visible but twisted unnaturally by the plastic of her mask. She crunched through the grass, her suit slick with moisture.
"It's just..." Charlie began, his mind struggling for the words as he turned back to the tree, it's bent form swaying so soothingly in the soft argon fog. "It's so like home, ya know. The grass, the trees...well, most of them." His mother reached his side and motioned upwards with a sweep of her hand.
"What color is that sun, boy?" Charlie didn't have to shift his eyes to know the answer. He'd stared up at it for hours when they first arrived, amazed at shimmering light it created.
"Blue, ma'am." he replied, reaching out towards the twisted branches of the tree in front of them. His mother's hand was on his wrist in an instant, pulling it back.
"Right, because this isn't Earth. You don't know what is out here. How dangerous it could be." she said, her fingers tightening.
"But, Ma, the scientists said it was ok to breathe here for an hour." he said, his eyes locked to the thin green foliage on the spidery boughs. A quick tug pulled his attention back to his mother's face.
"I don't care what no scientist's say. You don't leave the tent unless your father or I give you permission." she said, her voice tight with anger. Charlie's eyes seemed to focus at that, pupils constricting as fear of his father's anger flooded his body with hormones. "Are we clear?"
"Yeah...yes, ma'am. I understand." he managed between deep gulps of air. Her hand slid loose of his wrist and she set it on his shoulder instead, the rubberized plastic of his suit rippling at her touch.
"We just don't want anything to happen to you, Charlie. This isn't home. We have to be more careful here." A slow push turned him around and he spared a glance towards the tree as they started back. It was strange...he couldn't see now why he'd found it so fascinating. He smiled to his mother as she continued. "We have a few more holes to dig before he can plant the supports for our habitat but once that's done I thought we might break out the ice-cream your father freeze-dried before the trip."
The tree watched them go. It slowed the swaying of its branches and let the mist dampen them again. The chemicals in its leaves ceased to mingle, breaking rapidly down into their respective components. It was a missed opportunity, to be sure. The boy had been so close, so deeply entranced by the pheromones. A minute longer would have been all it would need to finally see what these new creatures tasted like.
The tree sighed, though it only appeared to shudder in the wind from the outside. It had been new to this place once, too. Fresh from across the blackness of space when it was but a child, eager to plant roots and entice prey. The setback was of little consequence. They would be back, poking the ground with their strange devices and it would be there waiting for them. So eager to explore, these beings were.
It would sleep until then. Sleep despite the gnawing in its roots, the pangs of undernourishment. Hunger did not sit well with its kind, and it had waited so very long for a meal.
The voice was shrill through the amplification speakers. Charlie pulled the clear plastic cone off his belt and slid the straps over his head, tugging it through straw blond hair until he heard the soft hiss of a seal being made. The smell of ozone faded as the device did its work, filtering out the elements that might be troublesome. The taste lingered, though, like sucking on a penny that had been electrified moments before.
"Sorry, Ma." he said, his own speaker amplifying the volume. Tearing his eyes away to look at her was so difficult, so unwanted.
"Damn right, you are. We haven't been here a week and already you're traipsing around like you're on the back forty." Vivian said, her frown visible but twisted unnaturally by the plastic of her mask. She crunched through the grass, her suit slick with moisture.
"It's just..." Charlie began, his mind struggling for the words as he turned back to the tree, it's bent form swaying so soothingly in the soft argon fog. "It's so like home, ya know. The grass, the trees...well, most of them." His mother reached his side and motioned upwards with a sweep of her hand.
"What color is that sun, boy?" Charlie didn't have to shift his eyes to know the answer. He'd stared up at it for hours when they first arrived, amazed at shimmering light it created.
"Blue, ma'am." he replied, reaching out towards the twisted branches of the tree in front of them. His mother's hand was on his wrist in an instant, pulling it back.
"Right, because this isn't Earth. You don't know what is out here. How dangerous it could be." she said, her fingers tightening.
"But, Ma, the scientists said it was ok to breathe here for an hour." he said, his eyes locked to the thin green foliage on the spidery boughs. A quick tug pulled his attention back to his mother's face.
"I don't care what no scientist's say. You don't leave the tent unless your father or I give you permission." she said, her voice tight with anger. Charlie's eyes seemed to focus at that, pupils constricting as fear of his father's anger flooded his body with hormones. "Are we clear?"
"Yeah...yes, ma'am. I understand." he managed between deep gulps of air. Her hand slid loose of his wrist and she set it on his shoulder instead, the rubberized plastic of his suit rippling at her touch.
"We just don't want anything to happen to you, Charlie. This isn't home. We have to be more careful here." A slow push turned him around and he spared a glance towards the tree as they started back. It was strange...he couldn't see now why he'd found it so fascinating. He smiled to his mother as she continued. "We have a few more holes to dig before he can plant the supports for our habitat but once that's done I thought we might break out the ice-cream your father freeze-dried before the trip."
The tree watched them go. It slowed the swaying of its branches and let the mist dampen them again. The chemicals in its leaves ceased to mingle, breaking rapidly down into their respective components. It was a missed opportunity, to be sure. The boy had been so close, so deeply entranced by the pheromones. A minute longer would have been all it would need to finally see what these new creatures tasted like.
The tree sighed, though it only appeared to shudder in the wind from the outside. It had been new to this place once, too. Fresh from across the blackness of space when it was but a child, eager to plant roots and entice prey. The setback was of little consequence. They would be back, poking the ground with their strange devices and it would be there waiting for them. So eager to explore, these beings were.
It would sleep until then. Sleep despite the gnawing in its roots, the pangs of undernourishment. Hunger did not sit well with its kind, and it had waited so very long for a meal.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Not So Much About Writing
Not much to say on the writing front. Still doing it. Elder Scrolls Online has been announced. That's cool, right? Sure, I can see the issues with it but it's headed up by the guy who drove Dark Age of Camelot and that game was amazing. What else...Diablo 3 comes out next week. Dragon's Dogma drops the week after that. So those will be fun.
Friday's suck. I generally work on Fridays and there is usually a game in the evening so trying to get a post in there is a hassle. For that reason, and my constant need to come up with ideas that are not directly related to my current project, I would like to start devoting Fridays to a serial pulp adventure yarn. I can write it over the week alongside the novel and have it all prepared before Friday arrives, leaving me to simply post it up instead of working up an entry. I envision it will play out in short weekly installments, between 750 and 1,000 words each.
It may begin this week but I'm not going to commit to that completely. Next week I begin a new job which means fewer hours for writing. Actually, it means the same number of hours for writing and fewer hours to screw around on video games and crap. Shouldn't impede my progress if I can stick to my weekly word goals.
So, maybe a fun little tale of thrilling heroics and dastardly deeds this week. Maybe not until next week. We'll see how it goes.
Friday's suck. I generally work on Fridays and there is usually a game in the evening so trying to get a post in there is a hassle. For that reason, and my constant need to come up with ideas that are not directly related to my current project, I would like to start devoting Fridays to a serial pulp adventure yarn. I can write it over the week alongside the novel and have it all prepared before Friday arrives, leaving me to simply post it up instead of working up an entry. I envision it will play out in short weekly installments, between 750 and 1,000 words each.
It may begin this week but I'm not going to commit to that completely. Next week I begin a new job which means fewer hours for writing. Actually, it means the same number of hours for writing and fewer hours to screw around on video games and crap. Shouldn't impede my progress if I can stick to my weekly word goals.
So, maybe a fun little tale of thrilling heroics and dastardly deeds this week. Maybe not until next week. We'll see how it goes.
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