Edward Lorn's Blog, page 122

“Popping” in for a minute…

Microwaving Pop Tarts

Okay. I fully admit that I am late to the party quite often, and miss very obvious stuff on a regular basis. But I just stumbled upon the microwave instructions for Pop Tarts.

3 seconds on high, in case you’re wondering.

Now, that might not astound a great deal of you, but let me tell you why it fucked with me.

Who the hell doesn’t have two minutes and thirty-seven seconds (just toasted a Pop Tart in my toaster to test said time frame) to spare in their day? Is that what we’ve become as a society? There are those of us that can’t spare less than three minutes for a motherfucking pastry break? Are you kidding me?

Why is this even a thing? Who was sitting around Kellogg’s HQ wondering: “How THE FUCK do we please people with only a fraction of an instant left in their lives to enjoy our jelly filled wonders of modern science?”

Do yourself a favor. If you’re out there microwaving Pop Tarts…reevaluate your current situation, because you’re missing some really cool shit. Slow down.

I’m all for nixing “Stop and smell the roses”, for the more modern-friendly “Stop and TOAST your Pop Tart.”

And if you see someone microwaving a fucking Pop Tart; give’em a hug. They sure as hell need one.

E.

Taking A Break…

Hello all you wonderful, internet-type people!

In case you don’t follow me on Facebook and Twitter, let me inform you of the birth of my son, Christopher Martin. He weighed in at 7lbs, 14oz and measured 19 inches long.

Funny side note: The man who Christopher is named after (my best friend of 15+ years) was born on April 3rd, as well. So not only does Christopher share his name, but he also shares his birthday.

To everyone that sent their thoughts and prayers and well wishes, my wife and I are truly grateful. All of you possess a certain level of Rockitude that I could only hope to aspire toward.

As you would expect, I’m taking a break from all things web related. I may not even write during this time. So if your upset that there will not be a Ruminating On for a while, all I can say is: Oh-fucking-well. You’ll live

Love yo faces!

E.

Daily Rumination: Day 5 – BDSM

Daily Rumination: Day 5 – BDSM

Do you know how fucking hard it is to find a BDSM image that doesn’t have some cum-drenched woman with a ball-gag in her mouth. Whatever happened to good old fashion bondage without ejaculate as the end result? How do you like your pain? Mixed with pleasure, maybe? If so, tell me why. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s just sex.

Well, kinda…

E.

Daily Ruminations: Day 4 – Guns

Daily Ruminations:  Day 4 – Guns

How do you feel about firearms, kids? I have my own viewpoints on them, but I would love to hear yours. Go in depth, dig deep, and tell me your honest opinion on what situations justify gun violence. Zombie apocalypse, aside, do you ever have the right to blow someone’s head off?

Fire away!

E.

Daily Ruminations: Day 3 – Pyrokinesis

*She’s a bad bitch.

Daily Ruminations: Day 3 – Pyrokinesis

It’s Monday, and I feel like burning some shit! I believe that autistic dude would have been happy to light your ass on fire for calling him retarded, Mike. And I’m apt to laugh about it while you spin around doing your best impersonation of a fucking sparkler. Sorry, you guys probably don’t know Mike. I wish I didn’t either. You’ll find out about Mikey in Friday’s Ruminating On.

But until then, on with the days question: Who/what/where would you take out given the off chance you could burn that shit down with your mind.

Comment below.

See you tomorrow!

Purdy fire…

E.

Scare E. Contest

Well, what the fuck do you know, I’m running a contest.

I’m going to try and make this as simple as possible. You write a story, scaring the shit out of me in the process, and I’ll give you a $50 Amazon Gift Card. If you win, of course.

You can enter one of two ways:

#1. If you are a current member of Writing.com, submit your story to the contest’s forum linked below.

#2. Submit your story to edwardlorn@gmail.com. You can attach a .doc file (Microsoft Word) of your story, formatted however you wish. Or just place your story in the body of the email.

Contest Forum

Rules and Regulations:

1. I will take ANY horror story you have. I don’t care how old or new it is. Has it won awards somewhere else? I don’t give a fuck. Has it been published? Still couldn’t care less. Just get it to me. You got it? Good.

2. You will be judged on the following criteria. In order of importance, they are: Scare Factor, Originality, Spelling, Grammar, and Punctuation. You can’t win if you can’t convey your scare. Polish that motherfucker up!

3. You have 10,000 words in which to scare the shit out of me. No minimum required, but your submission MUST be a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end. Please do not send me a verbose, lengthy description of a scary old house wherein nothing fucking happens.

4.  Make it as brutal or surreal as you would like. Everything from Torture Porn to Subtle Ghost Stories will be accepted. But remember: Gore does not always a scary story make. And spirits in sheets piss me off.  I want to be scared. I’m looking for stories that will keep me up at night. Tales to be read while dining on a cuticle. Twists and turns and devilish surprises are a definite plus.

5. Let your friends and family read it. Email it to your writing group members, or, if you have this option, send it to your editor. Make sure your final product is as tight as it possibly can be. 

The contest will run from April 1st, 2012 until May 1st, 2012. The winner will be announced on May 15th, 2012 at 11:59pm. At the stroke of midnight, the winner will receive a $50 AmazonGift Card good for their region.

Regions I am allowed to gift:

Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.es, Amazon.it, and Amazon.fr. If you cannot purchase from any of the sites mentioned above, please do not enter.

Have at it, you scary bastards.

E.

He Who Laughs Last

This is how the world ends. Not with a whimper. But a chuckle…

My buddy, Chandler, is sitting next to me when the news starts pouring in. Sixty-five dead at the release of the new Judd Apatow movie. Roman’s Chinese Theater burns in the background. A reporter stands across the street, fire light making her hair orange. She’s says something, but gets interrupted by a guy off camera.

Someone’s yelling, “Wanna hear a joke?”

“This is Kyla Briggs, live for KTLA, signing-”

The ax comes swinging into view, catching Kyla across the bridge of the nose.

“Funny shit, huh?” the man’s voice asks before the station cuts back to a very stunned looking anchor man.

Chandler puts the bong down, Pineapple Kush still glowing in the pipe.

“Did I just see that, Joe?” he asks me. Pot smoke wafts from his mouth in one thick cloud. He coughs, wipes the side of his face, and looks at me for answers.

I have none. I saw it just like he did. And I know just as much.

“Fuck,” is all I can say. I’m standing now, my hands drying themselves on the front of my jeans. My weed baked brain tries to make sense of everything. Why the hell we were watching the news in the first place? Fucked up thing to be thinking after seeing someone’s melon split.

“How I Met Your Mother was just on. Now it’s the news.” I’m telling myself this even as I’m thinking it. We were watching that sitcom – Neal Patrick Harris is funny as shit in it – and it went off. News came on next. Mystery solved.

“Think she’s dead?” Chandler slaps himself in the forehead. If he hadn’t, I would’ve. Fucking idiot.

The guy in the bad suit is telling us about how reports are coming in from all over the country. Chucklers – they’re calling them Chucklers? – are committing atrocities while in fits of laughter. Bad Suit tells us that they have another reporter in the field and I’m hoping this one doesn’t have an ax resting in their kisser.

The station cuts and I feel like I’m watching that one movie, Cloverfield. Or maybe, The Blair Witch Project.

The camera’s bouncing and I can’t see shit but shoes and pavement. Over the microphone comes sounds of elation and happiness. I’m all kinds of screwed up when the screaming starts.

PAP!

I’m still wondering what that sound is when the camera man hits the ground. The camera skitters away down the sidewalk and rolls over. Chandler and I, both, tilt our heads like morons trying to compensate for the flipped view.

I see Chandler reach for the bong. I guess he feels like he needs to get higher and forget all this crazy shit.

On the TV, a severed hand falls into view, bouncing on the concrete.

Chandler has a mouthful of weed smoke when a female voice titters, “Lend me a hand, asshole.”

I’m shocked stupid but Chandler finds it too fucking funny. He coughs out the toke he’s got in his lungs, erupting into laughter.

He doesn’t stop.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

His lips are pulled back so far I think they’re going to split at the corners. His teeth clench and saliva bubbles burst through the small spaces between his canines.

“Heeeeee, heeeeee, heeeeee.” He’s laughing. I know he is. But his eyes aren’t.

I jump when he breaks the mouth piece off the bong. It shatters on the coffee table. Shards of tie-dye glass fly everywhere.

He’s up and coming at me.

In junior high school, we did West Side Story, me and him. He’s reliving that scene where the hood is tossing his knife back and forth from hand to hand while he sings and dances.

Chandler is Goofy on repeat. ”Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck.”

He’s closer now and I don’t know where to go. The recliner is behind me. The couch is to my left. Only thing to my right is the corner of my living room. Chandler’s blocking my only way out.

I wonder if my mouth is dry because of the fear or the dope.

Chandler stabs the bong at me, almost guts me with the jagged edge, but I sway to the side just in time. I try to punch him. The shot glances off his cheek and slides across his sweaty face. His oily perspiration feels fever-hot on my knuckles. Hell hot.

Chandler cackles, “You just gotta laugh, Joe! Ya gotta!”

He raises the broken bong over his head.

I bring my knee up and kick him as hard as I can in the sternum. He’s sailing backward. Up over the coffee table he goes.

Chandler lands in the pile of bong-glass shards. The noises coming out of him are still gleeful, horrible sounds. He’s getting up, but I’m already moving past him.

“Hee… hee, hee… heeeeeeee,” he whines. He can’t get off his knees. I see him struggling, but he can’t seem to get the strength. Chandler slaps at the back of his neck. Finally, he snags something. His hand comes back holding a three inch piece of bong glass that he’s pulled from the back of his neck.

How it missed his spinal cord, I don’t have a clue.

“Haaaaaa… heeeeeeeeeeeee.” That last wheeze goes on for almost ten seconds before turning into a gurgling rattle.

Chandler’s on his face now. He’s not moving.

***

The Chucklers have been coming nonstop for two days now. I fended them off for as long as I could. Now I’m sitting here wondering what the fuck to do because I’m out of options.

My mother’s phoning me. She asks if I know any good “knee slappers.” In the back ground, my dad won’t stop fucking giggling. I hang up the phone when the screaming begins.

A text from Dad.

It Reads: Ur mother never saw the irony in callin u a son of a bitch. LMFAO!!!

I can’t help it.

Huh, huh huh…

Daily Ruminations: Day 2 – Felicity

*Cute, isn’t he?

Daily Ruminations: Day 2 – Felicity

April Fools Day, Motherfuckers!

Today, I want to know about true bliss, the height of happiness: Felicity. Not just simply what makes you smile or laugh, but that one thing, that single solitary thing, that can send you into pure nirvana (the state of mind, not the band, dipshit). I covet this feeling. I know where my ‘felicity‘ resides. Where’s yours? Or don’t you know? Either way, this nosy bastard wants you to tell him!

E.

Daily Ruminations: Day 1 – Death

Welcome back!

I will be posting a new Ruminating On every Friday morning. I know I have been lax in the past, but I’m trying to change that. But this post has nothing to do with that. So I digress.

I’m testing this new idea (Daily Ruminations) out for the next 7 days. The idea is simple: A daily question directed at you, the reader. If it goes over well, I’ll keep it around. If you don’t like the idea, just don’t comment. Easy enough, right?

And thus it begins…

Daily Ruminations : Day 1 - Death

A certain something comes with getting older; something that you just don’t think about when you’re below a certain age or of a certain mindset. Today, I would like your thoughts on death. Because I don’t have a religious following, I’m looking forward to your views on what happens after we pass on. This should be interesting.

See you guys tomorrow,

E.

Ruminating On: Editing, Rewriting, and Other Divine Acts

Ruminating On: Editing, Rewriting, and Other Divine Acts

“Writing requires talent. But to edit, is divine.”

On Editing: Editing one’s own work is the literary equivalent to sticking a cork up your ass during a case of explosive gastroenteritis. Nothing good is going to come out of it. When you edit your own manuscript, you run the very plausible risk of only seeing what you intended to write, and not what is actually on the page. There are a very select few that can publish and succeed without editorial services. So, I’m not saying it’s impossible, just highly fucking unlikely. Take into account, that as the writer, you are blind. You can only see what the story has shown you (If you’re doing it right, anyway. More on that in a minute) and you need an outside source to place your baby on the chopping block. Plot holes, grammar, spelling, punctuation, passive voice, unbelievable dialogue, are all things, we as authors, can easily overlook. Don’t be a pompous ass. You’re not perfection in prose. If anything, your first draft is a feral child. It has had no experience with the outside world. It’s not a lost cause either. Editing is a tough thing to accept. Especially when you initially see that sea of corrections. But once the fumes from the red Sharpie begin to fade, and your head stops spinning, you’ll see the gem that your editor’s excavation skills unearthed.

On Rewriting: This is the hardest part for me. I’m stubborn. I try not to argue with my editor, for she’s right 99.5% of the time, but there are times when I dispute whether or not a scene would benefit from a change. In the end, it usually does. I don’t see this at first, because I believe the story is what it is. I’m done with it. Just fix my typos and horrible grammar and let me go on about my business. If I had done that with ‘Bay’s End’ (ignore the content issues my editor pointed out) I would have had a thirteen-year-old kid kicking out a cop car window. Now, we all know that shit isn’t possible. I even know it’s not possible. But my inner douchebag thought it fit the flow of the story. As I said in my Ruminating On: Insanity, I have been known to be ‘fucking retarded’ at times. I ended up acquiescing to the change, fixed the problem, and the book was better for it. I will forever be in my editor’s debt for that. That one 50 word scene could have ruined the entire fucking book. But, keep an open mind: Not all editors are all-knowing, all-seeing geniuses. I just got lucky with mine. You will find some that are, themselves, ‘fucking retarded’, so keep your head about you. If your character is beating his dick before he attempts suicide, maybe he’s doing it to ease his nerves, or maybe he just wants to go out with a BANG. Either way, if your editor tells you to drop the tug-o-war session, maybe you should listen. Your decision should be based on the overall theme of the story. If it’s in the best interest of your character to whack his purple-headed-yogurt-slinger before swinging from the bar in his closet, then keep it and move on. But if that addition will lessen the emotional connection you’re trying to convey from him offing himself, cut that sumbitch like an Emo’s inner thigh. No hesitation marks, either, dipshit. Grab your razor and slash that fucker till you reach bone.

On Other Divine Acts: Talent is a motherfucker. To be told that you were born with something, or you weren’t, can deflate/inflate an ego quick as bunny rabbits fuck. To say that anyone can write is a slap in the face to every natural born storyteller out there. Sure, hard work and determination can get you a decent end product, but I guarantee you it’s not as good as Joe Blow who has to write because it’s all he’s ever done, all he’s ever known. This is where that fine line is drawn between Writing and Storytelling. Storytellers can sit around a campfire and spew out a coherent plot device with little to no problems in just minutes. Writers that plot and brainstorm, fuck up the natural process. You don’t tell the story, asshole. The story tells you. Remember that shit.

If you only take one thing with you after reading this diatribe, let it be this: Shut The Fuck Up And Write. Save the editing for the professionals. Rewrite when it deserves it. And if you want to be a writer, good on you. But for Christ’s sake, and your own, listen to that inner voice.

What? You can’t hear it? Never have? Well then… take up knitting, dearest, cause writing just isn’t for you.

E.