Blue GhostGhost's Blog, page 18

It’s sunday and I got a lava lamp for my blanket fort (yeah life...

It’s sunday and I got a lava lamp for my blanket fort (yeah life choices) 

sneakidy peekidy

I’ve been kicking around the idea of doing a story that centers around Oakland in 2007/2008 but I’ve been struggling with finding my MCs voice. Here is very much a test draft sorta thing and I’d love your thoughts, pretty please.

“Uh can I help you?” It was the spring semester of 2007 and I was in the library of Laney Community College, studying for a chemistry exam, when this dude sat his ass down across from me and just started staring. Never one to take too much shit from a person lacking social skills, I stared back.  

“It’s Miles right?” he asked me casually.

“Yeah.” I gave him further examination, trying to place his face. He was probably in his late twenties, kinda good looking with broad shoulders and a medium dark complexion. The guy had the intentional scruffy thing going on, a five o'clock shadow on its way to a beard, contrasting with the thick, black rimmed glasses that framed his face.

“Like Miles Davis” He nodded. “That’s pretty cool.” I didn’t answer. My dad used to play trumpet in a band back in the late 60s. It wasn’t exactly rocket science for me to figure out who my namesake was, but that didn’t leave me all that compelled to discuss the matter with some random asshole, either.

“Sure,” I said, giving an apathetic shrug. “I guess so.”  

“I was always more of a Charlie Parker man myself,” he informed me.

Oakland is not a city for friendly strangers and I have a natural distrust of them. “That’s really wonderful.” I used my best fuck-off tone of voice. “Do I, like, know you or something?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” He gave me an appraising look. “Do you?”

I met his eyes and held them. “No.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully and gave a little nod. “Good. That’s real good.”

I cleared my throat. “Well then. This has been really great and all, Charlie, but I have to study now.”

“Yeah?” He cocked his eyebrow at me. “You actually doing schoolwork there, kido, or you finishing up the spread for Superbowl Sunday?” Something in the pit of my stomach lurched and I shut my mouth tight, chewing on the inside of my cheek nervously. Sometimes clamming up is a million times better that trying to fast talk your way out of a situation. I’d learned that the hard way over the years. And this sure as shit was starting to look a lot like one of those times.

You see, me and this guy I know, Tido, went way back, all the way to kindergarten, actually. I wouldn’t call him a good friend or anything, but we’d come across a certain compatibility of skills. He hustled around Oakland as a bookie and I ran the numbers. It ends up I had a bit of flair as an oddsman, making us the go-to outfit for some of the more eclectic gamblers: high school sports, local elections, even the occasional pool tournament. Kid stuff, really, but I liked putting together the system and the money tossed my way helped with tuition. No big deal.

“What are you, some kind of cop?” I thought of a few less flattering euphemisms for the occupation, but kept them to myself.  

“Do I look like a cop?”

That annoyed me something awful. “See, in debate class we called that a dodge–that answering a question with another question and it’s a pussy ass way of conducting a conversation.”

He made a soothing gesture with his hand. “Now calm down. I’m not a cop.“ He reached into his pocket and fetched out a cigarette, letting it perch on his bottom lip as he studied me. He flicked the lighter and lit up.

Fucking alarm bell might as well have started ringing in my head. "What the hell man? You can’t smoke in here.” I was clearly dealing with someone with more ego than sense.

He took a leisurely drag, letting the smoke curl from his lips like a TV actor. “Oh I paid the kid at the front desk a hundred bucks to point you out. I doubt he’s going to take issue with it.” He gave me a slow, hot smile, the kind under an alternative scenario I’d have taken in an entirely different way. “I don’t know if you realize this, but you’re a little bit of an urban legend these days. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. “And who exactly are you?”

“Marcus Carter. I’m Tido’s replacement and you can think of this conversation as a job interview of sorts. A guy like that is a dime a dozen, a hack, but you and me we’re special. Together we could really make something, you know?”

“Excuse me?” I asked stiffly. “I’m not following.”

“Well Miles,” he looked me hard in the eye. “Tido’s dead.” I shot straight up out of my chair, practically knocking the thing over, heart thudding in my chest as a creepy crawly feeling ran over my skin. “Sit down,” he ordered, voice sharp, cutting through the buzzing in my head.

I sat down. “Saying for one second that I actually I believe you…”

“You believe me.”

“Bullshit.” I gave him the tough front, the one you build up in the neighborhood so guys don’t pick you out special to hassle. “Look, I know Tido and he’s all touchy feely and shit. He talks to people and listens to their problems, a real shoulder to cry on most of the time and a real mean son of a bitch when you cross him. What I like to think of as a people person.”

The guy looked amused. “That’s a people person to you?”

I blinked. “Yeah” When he didn’t say anything to that, I elaborated a bit. “He feels things. He’s a real passionate dude about stuff. Now me on the other hand.” I shrugged. “I’m majoring in economics. People I don’t get. I like numbers. I like facts.” My voice rose in volume. “So when some random dickhead, I’ve never seen before, walks in here to tell me my friend is dead, I’m going to call bullshit. Because honestly that sounds like bullshit.”  

“Well the good news is that we’ve got some enthusiastic finacial backers this time around.”

“We?” Did I sound shrill? “There is no we.”  

“Oh and you’re hired.”

“The fuck I am, you lunatic.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and take the weekend to consider your situation and we can start on Monday.” He handed me the morning edition of the Oakland Tribune. “Page eight of the metro section,” he said. “And that’s only because it was a dump. That’s a loser, Miles, the end of a nobody. When my ticket gets punched it’s gonna be a front headline. It’s gonna be real.”

****

“I don’t know,” I gasped into my phone, pacing along the perimeter of the parking lot. “He was some kind of Clockwork Orange motherfucker. And then this cold ass gangster hands me the Tribune and walks away. Oh shit.” I sat down pressing my fingers to my temples. “Oh shit. Tido is dead, Deszie. What am I gonna do?” my voice was barely audible, a sickening feeling rolling around in the pit of my stomach.

“Miles, calm down,” Desirae repeated for probably the hundredth time. “You’re at, like, a fucking elven right now and I need you at a four.”

I rested my forehead on my knees, muffling the sound of my voice as I still cradled the phone to my ear. “I think under the circumstances, I’m incredibly calm,” I said. “Especially considering they are going to find my body in a garbage bag. Probably sodomized and then chopped up into little pieces by a psychopath. But you know, they’ll write about it on like page ten, because I’m such a fucking loser.”

“What? Ew stop.”

I gave a frustrated huff. “You know that’s just fucking fabulous. It’s just perfect. I call my best friend with a very clear vision of what could be my totally real and untimely death and all she can say is ‘ew stop’.”

“Okay, I get that this is a major trauma,” Desirae said in her most reasonable tone. “But I’m still confused. What happened? Who is this guy and what is he coming to talk to you for?”

“I don’t know. Tido must have gotten into something crazy and it got him dead.” Tido is dead, I tell myself again, like a mantra, the reality of it leaving me blurry and numb. “I am so legitimately afraid right now. He was all talking about my face and shit and he seriously brought me that paper like a cat brings around a dead bird.”

“Do you want to call the police?”

I sat up, inspecting the nearly cloudless blue sky. “Oh fuck no,” I said adamantly. “Are you crazy? What has OPD done for you lately?”

“Okay, okay,” She said. “I get off in half an hour. Do you want me to come pick you up?”

“Yes,” I said, sounding petulant. “And then we’re going to Giant Burger.”

She scoffed. “Bitch, I thought you gave up eating meat.”

“Whatever,” I said. “If I’m about to die, we’re going to Giant Burger.”

tastefullyoffensive:(photo via gooddogisgood)

tastefullyoffensive:

(photo via gooddogisgood)

The muted satisfaction of finishing a long term project vs the immediate giddy thrill of starting...

The muted satisfaction of finishing a long term project vs the immediate giddy thrill of starting something new

notyourdaddy:TBT….2007Rya and I……one night in Cox City,...

notyourdaddy:

TBT….2007

Rya and I……one night in Cox City, Oklahoma. After a full night of drinking $2 beers at the Cox City Bar (which used to be a chicken coop, but had been converted into a “bar” with a dirt floor and every Coors light poster since 1985), Rya and I found ourselves back at this guys deer hunting cabin. We immediately ransacked the closet and forced him to take photos of us wrestling.

There is nothing I don’t like about these photos

Just posted chapter 4 of CC

(Margaret Leighton as Ariel and Ralph Richardson as Prospero, The Tempest, 1952)

Speaking of my favorite witch serving spirits, I just posted a new chapter of Cat’s Cradle

Asaf Avidan Bang Bang

Asaf Avidan

Bang Bang

Chapter 3 of Curatorial Practice is up!

I’m so so excited to actually have Frankie in the main narrative you guys. He is my favorite mess and now I actually get to do something with him.

The Other Side: A Queer Paranormal Romance Anthology!

othersideanthology:

The Other Side is a black and white comic anthology debuting in the
spring of 2016. Stories in The Other Side will be everything from
spooky to funny, sweet to melancholy, but all of them will be about
queer paranormal romance! We’re showcasing stories that explore
love, spectres, and underrepresented identities. We’ll be
soliciting proposals for stories to add to the lineup soon!

CONTENT
GUIDELINES:

We’re
looking for queer romance stories with an element of the paranormal:
ghosts, spooks, spirits, haunts, etc.  Serious,
funny, happy, sad – we want all kind of stories as long as they fit
the theme. Take it anywhere; the more creative, the better.  Stories
should be aimed at a YA audience, so please keep everything PG-13: no
explicit gore, sex, etc.

CONTENT
SUGGESTIONS: Things
we would love to see!

Stories
with unusual, surprising takes on the paranormal

Stories
with a variety of kinds of romance: Not just about “falling
in love,” but mid-relationship stories, unrequited attraction
stories, breakup stories, etc., too!

Stories
about characters who are often underrepresented in queer fiction:
people
who are trans, nonbinary, asexual, disabled, nonwhite, etc.

CONTENT
RESTRICTIONS: Things
that aren’t for us!

Stories
with stock characters or tropes from horror movies or books.

Stories
with copyrighted content that doesn’t belong to you (no
fancomics!)

Stories
that treat their queer characters in a stereotypical, offensive or
objectified way.

Stories
featuring abuse or
stories primarily about discrimination or coming out.

Creator Payment and Rights

Rates:

The
Other Side
will
pay $50/page for each story it accepts, plus a Kickstarter bonus
should the book be overfunded. Contributors are also entitled to 5
contributors copies and the ability to buy copies of the book at 50%
off the cover price for as long as it is in print.  Payment will
be made at the end of the Kickstarter, which is estimated as Spring
2016.

RIGHTS:

If
your story is accepted, you will cede The
Other Side first
exclusive worldwide rights to your story for a full calendar year
from date of publication, and non-exclusive worldwide reprint rights
in perpetuity.  Everything else—intellectual property rights
and trademarks, non-publishing licensing rights, etc.—remains with
the creators.

Get in Touch!

 Contact
us at othersideanthology@gmail.com!

Send us an
email, a tweet, or a tumblr ask if you’ve got any questions!
 Please read the entirety of this page including the FAQ
to see if your question has been answered already first!

I want to write a comic for this so very badly. Haunted City verse anyone?

Found this in my folder of old drafts

Kinky vampire/hunter fic yup yup yup 

The icy water ran over Ignacio’s head and down his neck and he jerked awake with a snort, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, the discomfort of his position. He was down to boxers and t-shirt, weapons gone, arms and legs bound to a chair, pulled too tight, making his limbs tingle. He was in the basement of a house, the poured concrete floors and bare lightbulbs offset by the addition of a washer and dryer, the neat row of pink and blue detergent and fabric softener bottles standing out in the gloom.

There was a pale face hovering near his, coming slowly into focus. He listened to its low rapid breathes, felt the ruffle of air in his bangs. “Que pasa, amigo?” His throat felt wrecked, burned raw by bile and his voice cracked when he spoke.

The creature pulled back and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a child, a skinny boy in his late teens wearing dark jeans and a black sweatshirt. His liquid chocolate eyes were rimmed in smudgy black makeup, skin as smooth and white as a china doll, crisscrossed with the scrawl of blocky tattoos. Half his head was shaved, the other half a curtain of oily black hair. Ignacio scoffed in disgust. He was looking at somebody’s carefully crafted toy, a pet assembled from young human flesh. His stomach churned at the thought.

“Are you the warm up band then?” Ignacio asked, eyebrows raising. “I’ve never seen a bloodsucker with that much metal in his face. Do the old ones give you hell about it?”

“Ignacio Chavez,” he said the name slow, like he was tasting it, his gaze moving slowly from cold, mud stained feet, up his torso to meet his eyes. “I have waited for this moment for a very long time.”

Ignacio blew the air out of his lungs in a frustrated sigh. “That’s very flattering but I haven’t been in the business that long. Look here, Skrillex, why don’t you just bring your master in here and we can cut to the chase.”

“My master is dead!” The words were hurled so violently at him he felt his muscles flinch in anticipation of their impact. “You!” He swept closer, leaning in languidly, hands moving over the knots at his wrists, toying with the raw edge where rough rope met flesh. The boy’s nails were painted silver and filed to points and he used them now to leave a trail of pink lines up Ignacio’s arms. “You took my love,” he said low, studying his reaction with the dart of his dark eyes. “I lost him and now I have nothing. You made me an orphan and all I ever think about now is making you bleed.”

Ignacio thrashed against the touch, face a mask of disgust. “Get away from me, puta del diablo.”

The kid’s eyes were cold as he regarded him, lips pursed. “I took four years of high school Spanish, you know.” He used his foot to tip the chair back. Ignacio felt the arc of his fall, that sickening weightlessness before his head connected with the floor with a painful crack, the shock radiating down his back.

He let out a grunt and tried to focus on the exposed beams of the ceiling, ignoring the tight feeling in his lungs. “Well translate this you little shit,” he ground out. “Besa mis huevos. I don’t care what you do to me.”

“Tsk now, Ignacio, you should know better than to ask for kisses from me.” He heard footsteps on the concrete as the kid moved closer. Then there was a blur of black in the corner of his eye as a weight settled over his upended lap. The kid stretched like a cat, draping himself over the pinned body beneath him, inky hair swinging loose, tickling his cheek.

Cool fingers traced Ignacio’s jawline, metallic nails biting right below his ear, leaving little stinging indentations that made his eyes flutter rapidly. “Do you suppose hunter blood tastes different?” Ignacio looked away with an involuntary shiver, horrified and helpless against whatever was about to happen. He swallowed tightly, his heart beating hard in his chest, cold sweat forming on the back of his neck. “I bet it does. Do you know what vampire blood tastes like? Have you ever had it before? You’ve certainly had ample opportunity to take a little taste from what I’ve heard.”

He grit his teeth, face going hot in impotent rage. “I am going to kill you, pendejo. I am going to rip that ridiculous hipster head from your skinny little shoulders, if I have to do it with my bare hands, if its the last thing I ever do.”

“Don’t make me laugh.” The kid caught a hand in Ignacio’s hair and yanked hard, forcing his head up, exposing the golden skin of his throat. “You make an interesting point though. I was going to say that our blood tastes like sacrifice, sweet as altars. How much death has sunk into your bones, boy-o? What has that done for your seasoning hmm? Shall I take a little peek?”

“Don’t.” It sounded too much like a plea, almost a sob to his ears and didn’t his pride ache at that? But his skin crawled to have this thing on top of him, the corpse coldness of it, this dead boy with the pretty doll face, like a puppet with a monster inside it.

Ice lips touched his skin and he jerked and swore. He had been attack before, but never like this, never held down and forced to passively accept it. “But I’ve worked so hard to find you. Don’t you want to play?” Ignacio’s breath hitched at the sharp pain, sick with the knowledge that he’d been punctured, the sensation of that cold, hungry mouth pressing into him, drawing the life to it in a lewd suck. The feeling became a deep ache, an insistent throb that ran down to the core of him. The boy’s other hand curled against his cheek, soft and relaxed. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek and tasted copper as he willed himself not to scream. Horrible, degrading, his eyes burned as tears slipped from them and rolled down the sides of his face to pool in the shell of his ear. Was it worse for him because he’d grown to trust his own strength, to believe he was the savior and not the victim?    

When the boy drew back, he flipped his hair out of his eyes and sighed. The white collar of Ignacio’s t-shirt was stained red. “Not bad,” the kid said flashing a row of pink stained teeth, tongue exploring the corner of his mouth experimentally. “You’re looking kind of green in the gills, though. I hardly took any, you big baby. Don’t tell me this was your first? Because I feel it’s only fair to inform you that I have every intention of licking your intestines clean by the time we’re done here. Better buckle up.”     

Ignacio spat. “So this papi of your’s, the one I allegedly killed. That was up in Seattle right? What was that, three years ago?”

“What?” The kid all but sputtered. “Do you mean Maurice? That idiot?”

“Well that was kind of what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to say.”

The boy slapped him hard, his nails cutting Inacio’s cheek. “My master was Jean-Philippe Dubois and you will speak of him with the proper respect.”