Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 98
August 9, 2016
Slipknot X Marilyn Manson Concert
***SLIPKNOT X MARILYN MANSON CONCERT***
This coming Thursday, Slipknot and Marilyn Manson are going to do a show at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn and I have a ticket to see them. Their opening act is Of Mice and Men, but I have no idea who they are. It’s going to be a fun night of badass music and chaotic visuals. If you go to one of these shows and you’re not excited, check your pulse. One thing I would like to point out is that Corey Taylor, the lead singer of Slipknot, underwent neck surgery earlier this year and won’t be allowed to head bang or jump up and down per doctor’s orders. He’ll still be one entertaining son of a bitch. How can you not be entertained by a dude in a frightening mask screaming at the top of his raspy lungs? That whole show is going to be fucking awesome. I can’t wait!
Just like with the Rob Zombie X Korn concert back in July, this concert is going to require some downtime afterwards for rest and relaxation. That means I’ll need a brief vacation from my creative schedule, but I’ll probably be able to compete in that week’s WSS contest. Actually, that’s not a probably. That’s a definitely. Who knows? Maybe the creepy and creative visuals from the Slipknot concert will inspire another deliciously violent short story. Creative fuel comes from the strangest places and that’s how I fucking like it!
Just like with all concerts and vacations, I’ll be back in one piece with plenty of cool stuff to do afterwards. Downtime doesn’t last forever, you know, not even for hardcore introverts like me. See you soon!
***MOVIE REVIEWS***
I have to admit, I got off to a rough start when it came to writing the review for Ghostbusters. I was so exhausted that day that I wrote down a few words and I couldn’t go anymore. Never fear, because this is easily fixable. And then once I’m done with Ghostbusters, you can have a review of Lucha Mexico. Both movies will receive passing grades a.k.a. four stars.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Remember Kai Oliveira from the 2014 short story “Luna the Moon Kitty”? She’s the child wizard who along with Luna convinces her guardian Hans Metzger to listen to reason and eventually help in building a better world after the demon wars. For the reference picture, I think I’ll use one of Reina’s Halloween photos from Face Book. I have several costumes to choose from whether it’s a fairy princess or the Cheshire Cat. It should make for an awesome picture, because Reina is naturally awesome…whenever she’s not driving me nuts, of course. Hehe!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’m waiting for the day when we can burn copies of each other’s girlfriends and skip the technology, period.”
-Mac Lethal rapping “Rotten Apple Pie”-
This coming Thursday, Slipknot and Marilyn Manson are going to do a show at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn and I have a ticket to see them. Their opening act is Of Mice and Men, but I have no idea who they are. It’s going to be a fun night of badass music and chaotic visuals. If you go to one of these shows and you’re not excited, check your pulse. One thing I would like to point out is that Corey Taylor, the lead singer of Slipknot, underwent neck surgery earlier this year and won’t be allowed to head bang or jump up and down per doctor’s orders. He’ll still be one entertaining son of a bitch. How can you not be entertained by a dude in a frightening mask screaming at the top of his raspy lungs? That whole show is going to be fucking awesome. I can’t wait!
Just like with the Rob Zombie X Korn concert back in July, this concert is going to require some downtime afterwards for rest and relaxation. That means I’ll need a brief vacation from my creative schedule, but I’ll probably be able to compete in that week’s WSS contest. Actually, that’s not a probably. That’s a definitely. Who knows? Maybe the creepy and creative visuals from the Slipknot concert will inspire another deliciously violent short story. Creative fuel comes from the strangest places and that’s how I fucking like it!
Just like with all concerts and vacations, I’ll be back in one piece with plenty of cool stuff to do afterwards. Downtime doesn’t last forever, you know, not even for hardcore introverts like me. See you soon!
***MOVIE REVIEWS***
I have to admit, I got off to a rough start when it came to writing the review for Ghostbusters. I was so exhausted that day that I wrote down a few words and I couldn’t go anymore. Never fear, because this is easily fixable. And then once I’m done with Ghostbusters, you can have a review of Lucha Mexico. Both movies will receive passing grades a.k.a. four stars.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Remember Kai Oliveira from the 2014 short story “Luna the Moon Kitty”? She’s the child wizard who along with Luna convinces her guardian Hans Metzger to listen to reason and eventually help in building a better world after the demon wars. For the reference picture, I think I’ll use one of Reina’s Halloween photos from Face Book. I have several costumes to choose from whether it’s a fairy princess or the Cheshire Cat. It should make for an awesome picture, because Reina is naturally awesome…whenever she’s not driving me nuts, of course. Hehe!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’m waiting for the day when we can burn copies of each other’s girlfriends and skip the technology, period.”
-Mac Lethal rapping “Rotten Apple Pie”-
August 7, 2016
The Ophidiomancer
When Shaun Goldberg breathed fresh cool air for the first time in his life, he was nearly brought to tears. The grass underneath his bare feet felt softer than a kitten’s fur coat. The wind massaged his wounded body with every heavenly blast. For a minute, he thought he actually was in heaven. Then again, even a public bathroom would have been heaven compared to the blood-and-shit-covered cage he was locked in from childhood to his current thirty years. Bending those bars in half and running away gave him a warm fuzzy feeling inside.
With only a sheep mask and a pair of blue jeans to cover himself with, Shaun ventured out into the countryside plains looking for…god knew what. He had no idea what the hell was supposed to be out here. Would the strangers of this new land treat him just as badly as his mother had? Pushing that possibility out of his mind was like fighting with a schizophrenic ghost. The visions of his mother beating him with a belt and setting him on fire caused him to clutch his head so tightly that his ears bled. He had scars and slashes all over his chest and back because of it.
When the traumatic nightmares fought harder and harder to make Shaun’s head explode, he ran across the wheat field with no destination and a freakish cry in his lungs. He could only run for a short distance since his exhausted legs gave out on him. He crashed to his knees and bawled like a baby. He screamed like a wild beast and flailed his arms like morning stars. What good was having freedom if he had nowhere to go, no education, and nobody to talk to? Was he only delaying the inevitable? Was his thirty years on earth just one miserable hellhole?
Shaun’s traumatic voices were interrupted by religious chanting off in the distance. That baritone voice. Those Latin words. The hisses of poisonous snakes. Could he really be out here? Shaun picked his head up and stared languidly at the ritual going on before his very eyes. Yes, it was him! Reverend Carlos Pierre, the televangelist his mother used to watch on TV all the time. With such charisma in the preacher’s voice and a strong presence, surely Mr. Pierre could help Shaun find his way again.
When the masked giant approached the snakebite ceremony, he looked down on the ground to see several of Carlos’s followers rolling around and coughing up venom. The preacher smiled down at them and spoke in tongues while sprinkling some kind of dust on their bodies. With a blue Hawaiian shirt, white trousers, and sandals with black socks, Carlos looked more like a casual slob than a legitimate cleric. But what would Shaun know about fashion? For all he knew, Reverend Pierre was the real deal.
The priest gazed up at Shaun with his thousand mile stare and said, “You’ve come to the right place, my son. We were just in the middle of a ritual. You’re welcome to join us. Heck, it was probably destiny to begin with. The gods have brought you here, my friend. I know that you’re lost and you don’t know what to do. Kneel before me and all will become clear.”
Shaun was shivering with nervousness at the possibility of finding out what his true purpose in life was. He couldn’t have been a punching bag all these years. There was more to it all than that and he was sure Carlos was going to show him the way. With shivering legs, he got down on one knee like they did in the telecasts and bowed his head.
“Very good, my son. You should know by know what’s coming next,” said Carlos with his devious grin. From the crumbling stone well next to him, he pulled out a brick compartment and opened the hatch to release a hooded cobra from its resting place. He picked up the little bastard and petted it like a newborn puppy. “Hello there, little guy. Who’s my handsome little man? You are, my friend!” The Reverend kissed the cobra on the head before holding it like a whip and approaching Shaun while speaking in strange tongues.
The seven-foot tall giant lifted his head for a slight moment and leaped backwards while screaming like an infant. He remembered seeing these kinds of snakes all the time around his cage. He would cry out in the middle of the night and his mother wouldn’t help him. He got bitten and traumatized by these little hellions and his intense whiny breathing said it all: it was going to happen in adulthood.
Carlos wagged his finger at Shaun and smiled before saying in his smooth jazz voice, “Now, now, my son. You want to be healed, right? You want all of those scars on your body to fade away? You want to meet your savior and creator? You must go through with this, my friend. There is no other way to salvation. If you can’t trust this million dollar smile, what can you trust? Do me one other favor, my boy: take off that silly mask.”
“I…I…I can’t, Mister Reverend Sir. She won’t let me! That bitch won’t let me!” panicked Shaun with his hands defensively over his face.
“I’ll let that burst of foul language slide this time around, but if you do it again, you’ll find yourself in a fiery pit by the time this ritual is over. You don’t want to go there, do you? You look like that’s where you’ve been this whole time. Whoever this woman is you’re referring to, she can’t hurt you now. Nobody can hurt you now. The snakebite is all but a heavenly sting. And then the juices will release you from your worst nightmares. Now do as I say and take that mask off,” said Reverend Pierre in a firm, but polite voice.
Shaun slowly let his hands down and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Pierre. I can’t do it. You don’t want me to. I’m just going to be a sinner if I do.”
Like the animal he held in his hands, Carlos struck quickly when he yanked Shaun’s mask off. The preacher’s expression changed from polite psychosis to pants wetting fear. “Holy shit!” he whispered when he backpedaled and held his cobra out like a sword. The reptile hissed and flicked its tongue in Shaun’s direction.
Both the sheep mask and the gloves were both off. This man was not a preacher. He was a con artist not unlike a certain matriarchal parent. Shaun’s face was covered in blood and looked like a bare skull with a holy cross tattooed on his forehead. The face of a heavyweight boxer looked more pristine after one of his fights than Shaun’s did after thirty years of torture.
The savage giant stood up on both bare feet and slowly approached the frightened ophidiomancer. The cobra in Carlos’s hand would snap and hiss while the preacher himself kept chanting, “Get away from me! You’re nothing more than a foul beast! Be gone, sinner! Be gone!”
When Shaun got too close, the cobra finally struck. The little creature would have sunk its razorblade teeth into the giant’s chest if Shaun hadn’t instinctively grabbed its head and squeezed with all of his angry might. “Let him go!” shouted Carlos as he tried to pull the snake away. “He hasn’t done anything to anybody! He’s just an animal! He’s innocent! He’s the gateway to heaven!”
Carlos pulled too hard and snapped the snake’s smashed up head off. The goop, blood, and venom in Shaun’s hand was shaken off like a common stain. The preacher backed up until he was cornered against the stone well. Shaun lifted his hands offensively and smiled a devilish smile at his prey. When he reached down for his opponent’s throat, Carlos sprang back up and started punching and elbowing Shaun’s already bloodied up face. Sprays of thick red gunk splashed all over the now dead corpses of Carlos’s followers. After one too many strikes, Shaun fell backwards like a domino and snored heavily.
The ophidiomancer looked down at his victim with a wicked grin and laughed like this whole encounter was one big joke. He had life juices all over his arms as he held them to the sky and laughed like a maniac. “You see that?! I told you I was the one who was going to send you to heaven! But did you listen?! No, and that’s why you’re rotting in an eternal hell!”
Shaun sat up and glared at his attacker dead in his now frightened eyes. “No…no! How can you?! You’re just a demon! You’re a common sinner! You’re a fool!” shouted Carlos.
The giant nipped up to his feet and bull rushed Carlos back first into the stone well. While the preacher was struggling for air as Shaun held his throat, the giant said, “Truth is, Reverend, the only hell that exists for me is miles back there! If you want to know what a real fire pit looks like, I’ll be happy to show you!”
While Carlos was shouting “No!” repeatedly, Shaun reached into the well and pulled out yet another poisonous snake. With one hand firmly wrapped around the creature’s neck, he wrapped the body around Carlos’s throat and strangled him with brutal force. The preacher’s legs were dangling as he was being hoisted in the air by this ogre-like nightmare of a man. Oxygen only lasted for so long, but Shaun Goldberg’s newfound smile lasted forever.
The beauty of the afternoon passed into the chill of the night. The Goldberg family residence was little more than a beat up trailer with a shit-stained farm out back. Bursting the door open with a slab of red meat was a corpulent woman dressed in a pink bathrobe with bunny slippers. “Shaun! Rise and shine! It’s dinner time, you sack of shit! You’d better be up and awake before I bet your ass again!”
The matriarch of the Goldberg family kicked open the barn door and burst into tears at what she saw. It wasn’t her precious little boy in the bloody cage. It was her dear and beloved Reverend Carlos Pierre hanging by his own snake, lifeless as the corpses he collected that day. The mother sobbed and wailed as she waddled over to the dead body and hugged it tightly. “Oh, Reverend! I’m sorry my bastard boy did this to you! I know now that you’re in heaven!”
“Hello, mother dearest!” said a familiar gravelly monster voice. The bitchy mother slowly turned her head and saw that her “bastard boy” Shaun was standing in the doorway covered in live poisonous snakes. The mother dropped on her ass and continued to shed pathetic tears. The son? He had only one question: “What’s for dinner, momma?”
With only a sheep mask and a pair of blue jeans to cover himself with, Shaun ventured out into the countryside plains looking for…god knew what. He had no idea what the hell was supposed to be out here. Would the strangers of this new land treat him just as badly as his mother had? Pushing that possibility out of his mind was like fighting with a schizophrenic ghost. The visions of his mother beating him with a belt and setting him on fire caused him to clutch his head so tightly that his ears bled. He had scars and slashes all over his chest and back because of it.
When the traumatic nightmares fought harder and harder to make Shaun’s head explode, he ran across the wheat field with no destination and a freakish cry in his lungs. He could only run for a short distance since his exhausted legs gave out on him. He crashed to his knees and bawled like a baby. He screamed like a wild beast and flailed his arms like morning stars. What good was having freedom if he had nowhere to go, no education, and nobody to talk to? Was he only delaying the inevitable? Was his thirty years on earth just one miserable hellhole?
Shaun’s traumatic voices were interrupted by religious chanting off in the distance. That baritone voice. Those Latin words. The hisses of poisonous snakes. Could he really be out here? Shaun picked his head up and stared languidly at the ritual going on before his very eyes. Yes, it was him! Reverend Carlos Pierre, the televangelist his mother used to watch on TV all the time. With such charisma in the preacher’s voice and a strong presence, surely Mr. Pierre could help Shaun find his way again.
When the masked giant approached the snakebite ceremony, he looked down on the ground to see several of Carlos’s followers rolling around and coughing up venom. The preacher smiled down at them and spoke in tongues while sprinkling some kind of dust on their bodies. With a blue Hawaiian shirt, white trousers, and sandals with black socks, Carlos looked more like a casual slob than a legitimate cleric. But what would Shaun know about fashion? For all he knew, Reverend Pierre was the real deal.
The priest gazed up at Shaun with his thousand mile stare and said, “You’ve come to the right place, my son. We were just in the middle of a ritual. You’re welcome to join us. Heck, it was probably destiny to begin with. The gods have brought you here, my friend. I know that you’re lost and you don’t know what to do. Kneel before me and all will become clear.”
Shaun was shivering with nervousness at the possibility of finding out what his true purpose in life was. He couldn’t have been a punching bag all these years. There was more to it all than that and he was sure Carlos was going to show him the way. With shivering legs, he got down on one knee like they did in the telecasts and bowed his head.
“Very good, my son. You should know by know what’s coming next,” said Carlos with his devious grin. From the crumbling stone well next to him, he pulled out a brick compartment and opened the hatch to release a hooded cobra from its resting place. He picked up the little bastard and petted it like a newborn puppy. “Hello there, little guy. Who’s my handsome little man? You are, my friend!” The Reverend kissed the cobra on the head before holding it like a whip and approaching Shaun while speaking in strange tongues.
The seven-foot tall giant lifted his head for a slight moment and leaped backwards while screaming like an infant. He remembered seeing these kinds of snakes all the time around his cage. He would cry out in the middle of the night and his mother wouldn’t help him. He got bitten and traumatized by these little hellions and his intense whiny breathing said it all: it was going to happen in adulthood.
Carlos wagged his finger at Shaun and smiled before saying in his smooth jazz voice, “Now, now, my son. You want to be healed, right? You want all of those scars on your body to fade away? You want to meet your savior and creator? You must go through with this, my friend. There is no other way to salvation. If you can’t trust this million dollar smile, what can you trust? Do me one other favor, my boy: take off that silly mask.”
“I…I…I can’t, Mister Reverend Sir. She won’t let me! That bitch won’t let me!” panicked Shaun with his hands defensively over his face.
“I’ll let that burst of foul language slide this time around, but if you do it again, you’ll find yourself in a fiery pit by the time this ritual is over. You don’t want to go there, do you? You look like that’s where you’ve been this whole time. Whoever this woman is you’re referring to, she can’t hurt you now. Nobody can hurt you now. The snakebite is all but a heavenly sting. And then the juices will release you from your worst nightmares. Now do as I say and take that mask off,” said Reverend Pierre in a firm, but polite voice.
Shaun slowly let his hands down and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Pierre. I can’t do it. You don’t want me to. I’m just going to be a sinner if I do.”
Like the animal he held in his hands, Carlos struck quickly when he yanked Shaun’s mask off. The preacher’s expression changed from polite psychosis to pants wetting fear. “Holy shit!” he whispered when he backpedaled and held his cobra out like a sword. The reptile hissed and flicked its tongue in Shaun’s direction.
Both the sheep mask and the gloves were both off. This man was not a preacher. He was a con artist not unlike a certain matriarchal parent. Shaun’s face was covered in blood and looked like a bare skull with a holy cross tattooed on his forehead. The face of a heavyweight boxer looked more pristine after one of his fights than Shaun’s did after thirty years of torture.
The savage giant stood up on both bare feet and slowly approached the frightened ophidiomancer. The cobra in Carlos’s hand would snap and hiss while the preacher himself kept chanting, “Get away from me! You’re nothing more than a foul beast! Be gone, sinner! Be gone!”
When Shaun got too close, the cobra finally struck. The little creature would have sunk its razorblade teeth into the giant’s chest if Shaun hadn’t instinctively grabbed its head and squeezed with all of his angry might. “Let him go!” shouted Carlos as he tried to pull the snake away. “He hasn’t done anything to anybody! He’s just an animal! He’s innocent! He’s the gateway to heaven!”
Carlos pulled too hard and snapped the snake’s smashed up head off. The goop, blood, and venom in Shaun’s hand was shaken off like a common stain. The preacher backed up until he was cornered against the stone well. Shaun lifted his hands offensively and smiled a devilish smile at his prey. When he reached down for his opponent’s throat, Carlos sprang back up and started punching and elbowing Shaun’s already bloodied up face. Sprays of thick red gunk splashed all over the now dead corpses of Carlos’s followers. After one too many strikes, Shaun fell backwards like a domino and snored heavily.
The ophidiomancer looked down at his victim with a wicked grin and laughed like this whole encounter was one big joke. He had life juices all over his arms as he held them to the sky and laughed like a maniac. “You see that?! I told you I was the one who was going to send you to heaven! But did you listen?! No, and that’s why you’re rotting in an eternal hell!”
Shaun sat up and glared at his attacker dead in his now frightened eyes. “No…no! How can you?! You’re just a demon! You’re a common sinner! You’re a fool!” shouted Carlos.
The giant nipped up to his feet and bull rushed Carlos back first into the stone well. While the preacher was struggling for air as Shaun held his throat, the giant said, “Truth is, Reverend, the only hell that exists for me is miles back there! If you want to know what a real fire pit looks like, I’ll be happy to show you!”
While Carlos was shouting “No!” repeatedly, Shaun reached into the well and pulled out yet another poisonous snake. With one hand firmly wrapped around the creature’s neck, he wrapped the body around Carlos’s throat and strangled him with brutal force. The preacher’s legs were dangling as he was being hoisted in the air by this ogre-like nightmare of a man. Oxygen only lasted for so long, but Shaun Goldberg’s newfound smile lasted forever.
The beauty of the afternoon passed into the chill of the night. The Goldberg family residence was little more than a beat up trailer with a shit-stained farm out back. Bursting the door open with a slab of red meat was a corpulent woman dressed in a pink bathrobe with bunny slippers. “Shaun! Rise and shine! It’s dinner time, you sack of shit! You’d better be up and awake before I bet your ass again!”
The matriarch of the Goldberg family kicked open the barn door and burst into tears at what she saw. It wasn’t her precious little boy in the bloody cage. It was her dear and beloved Reverend Carlos Pierre hanging by his own snake, lifeless as the corpses he collected that day. The mother sobbed and wailed as she waddled over to the dead body and hugged it tightly. “Oh, Reverend! I’m sorry my bastard boy did this to you! I know now that you’re in heaven!”
“Hello, mother dearest!” said a familiar gravelly monster voice. The bitchy mother slowly turned her head and saw that her “bastard boy” Shaun was standing in the doorway covered in live poisonous snakes. The mother dropped on her ass and continued to shed pathetic tears. The son? He had only one question: “What’s for dinner, momma?”
August 4, 2016
Necrocosm
***NECROCOSM***
This will be the first of many journal entries where I come up with an idea for a setting and hopefully a short story, D&D campaign, or novel will snowball from there. What are we kicking off with? The Necrocosm, of course. People who read my poetry will remember a heavy metal song called Necrocosm which basically described the audience at WWE Fast Lane 2015. Even though there was excitement and action going on in the ring, the Tennessee audience acted bored out of their minds. Therefore, they’re living in a necrocosm, or a death world (because they’re a dead audience). It seemed like an apt description to me.
The suffix “cosm” in the Greek language means “world”. I know this because I used to spend my time surfing You Tube for Clerks videos and in one of them, Randal says to Dante, “This is a life of convenience for you and any attempt to change it would shatter the pathetic microcosm you’ve fashioned for yourself.” I looked up the word microcosm on dictionary.com and it was defined as a “little world”, micro meaning “little” and cosm meaning “world”.
So then I thought, what other Greek prefixes could we pair up with the suffix cosm? I’ve done this exercise plenty of times with the suffix “mancer” and thus we have short stories like The Aeromancer (wind wizard), The Hydromancer (water wizard), and The Cryomancer (ice wizard). Let’s see what we can do with the word “cosm”. A pyrocosm would be a world of fire and can actually be an alternative word for the sun. A cryocosm would be a world of ice and that’s basically what Pluto is. A thermocosm would be a world of heat and Mercury would qualify since it’s the closest planet to the sun.
So what could we do with a necrocosm, or a world of death? Lots of things, actually. Some would say the earth in the year 2016 would qualify as a necrocosm since a lot of mass shootings and celebrity deaths took place. Some would say heaven and hell are necrocosms since according to Christianity, that’s where dead people go. Maybe the word necrocosm could apply to graveyards, funeral homes, and morgues.
Those are all valid interpretations, but what if I took it a step further? What if there was a planet in our solar system governed by an alien race of zombies? It doesn’t even have to be a structured government. It could be anarchy with zombies rising from the dirt to feast on trespassers. Maybe it could be an autocracy with an evil necromancer governing everything so that one day he can use his minions to conquer other worlds. Maybe it’s just one big farm where souls of the dead are kept and harvested. I’ve often thought of the possibilities of entire planets being used as seals for demons and undead creatures. Once that seal is broken, all bets are off, motherfuckers. Keegan Day from “Occupy Wrestling” never thought of this shit. Or did he? Hmm.
Okay, so we’ve got this world of reanimated dead bodies. What we need now is a reason for an adventurer to go there. Surely, traveling to such a violent and savage place would be a suicide mission. There must be something or someone of value on this necrocosm that would be worth wading through an army of dead bodies. A villain to fight, a prisoner to rescue, an artifact to steal, these are all good reasons to risk life and limb for a journey to that planet. If you know how to build tension, you can pull off this storyline and be successful at it.
So how about it, ladies and gentlemen? If this became a D&D campaign, would your character have the cajones to venture onto such a planet with the lingering fear of having his flesh and organs gnawed on? Would you have the solid steel spine to read through a novel that went behind fierce enemy lines like the war zone the necrocosm is? Could I possibly fit an entire world’s worth of action and drama into one short story? So many possibilities, so little time. Hell, if somebody else wants to expand upon this idea and do something with it, I’m not against it as long as you remember where you got this juicy creative fuel from. The table of opportunity has been set, people. What are you going to do?
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a brand new week and a brand new prompt has been put into place. Apparently, this suggestion was from many years ago when a former admin named Mike Ragland first posted it in the prompt ideas forum. The theme is Crumbling Well (that definitely has Mike’s fingerprints all over it), so my story this week will be called “The Ophidiomancer” (more Greek wordplay, for sure). It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Shaun Goldberg, Sheep Mask-Wearing Giant
Carlos Pierre, Psychotic Snake Handler
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Carlos keeps his poisonous snakes in a crumbling well in the middle of the field.
SYNOPSIS: Shaun is a thirty-year-old man child who recently escaped from his abusive mother and is wandering the plains like a mindless zombie. He stumbles upon Carlos and his followers in the middle of a snakebite ritual. Carlos offers to heal Shaun’s soul with a “test of faith”, but when the snake bites the man child, he goes berserk and starts throwing the followers around. Carlos tries to get out of dodge, but he keeps stumbling and rolling.
FUN FACT: For all of you WWE fans out there (both old school and new), these two main characters are based off of actual wrestlers that worked with the company. Shaun Goldberg is likened to Erick Rowan and Carlos Pierre has similarities to Jake “The Snake” Roberts. They come from two completely different eras of wrestling and bring their own form of creepiness to the table. Since a match between Rowan and Roberts won’t actually take place due to Roberts’ old age, this short story is the next best thing.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Elizabeth Wilson has been knocked out of the park and now it’s time for someone new. That someone is Desilu McCourt, the Amazonian hammer swinger from “Occupy Wrestling”. You know the one. She’s the ogre chick who nearly snapped Debra Winter’s spine in half before Mitch McLeod came to the rescue. I’ve done a drawing of Desilu in the past, but I don’t think very highly of it, so I’m going to attempt her again. Wish me luck!
***MOVIE REVIEWS***
The last time I did a movie review, it was for Zootopia and that was many months ago. I don’t do movie reviews very often, but that’s only because I can count the number of visits to the theater I’ve made this year on one hand. I don’t plan on doing a review of Star Wars: The Force Awakens, because I’m still afraid of pissing off people who haven’t seen it yet with plot spoilers. That leaves me with two items on this short task list: the 2016 version of Ghostbusters and a little known documentary called Lucha Mexico. Ghost hunting and masked wrestling: such a delightful combination. Both movies will receive passing grades (four stars). It’s all a matter of putting the words and debating points together in a clean and crisp manner.
***BOOK REVIEW***
As most of you know, I’ve been doing some beta reading for my wonderful author friends Andy Peloquin and Marie Krepps. Their deadlines for publication are drawing near, so you can expect book reviews for them around those times. The first one to come up will be of Marie Krepps’ teen romance novel “What Money Can’t Buy”. It’s being published on August 11th, the same day as my Slipknot X Marilyn Manson concert. We both have things to be excited for!
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“School uniforms: bad theory! It’s the idea that if kids wear uniforms to school it’ll help maintain order. Don’t these schools do enough damage trying to get these kids to think alike? Now they’re going to get them to look alike too? And it’s not a new idea. I once saw it in old newsreels from the 1930’s, though it was a little hard to understand because the narration was in German!”
-George Carlin-
This will be the first of many journal entries where I come up with an idea for a setting and hopefully a short story, D&D campaign, or novel will snowball from there. What are we kicking off with? The Necrocosm, of course. People who read my poetry will remember a heavy metal song called Necrocosm which basically described the audience at WWE Fast Lane 2015. Even though there was excitement and action going on in the ring, the Tennessee audience acted bored out of their minds. Therefore, they’re living in a necrocosm, or a death world (because they’re a dead audience). It seemed like an apt description to me.
The suffix “cosm” in the Greek language means “world”. I know this because I used to spend my time surfing You Tube for Clerks videos and in one of them, Randal says to Dante, “This is a life of convenience for you and any attempt to change it would shatter the pathetic microcosm you’ve fashioned for yourself.” I looked up the word microcosm on dictionary.com and it was defined as a “little world”, micro meaning “little” and cosm meaning “world”.
So then I thought, what other Greek prefixes could we pair up with the suffix cosm? I’ve done this exercise plenty of times with the suffix “mancer” and thus we have short stories like The Aeromancer (wind wizard), The Hydromancer (water wizard), and The Cryomancer (ice wizard). Let’s see what we can do with the word “cosm”. A pyrocosm would be a world of fire and can actually be an alternative word for the sun. A cryocosm would be a world of ice and that’s basically what Pluto is. A thermocosm would be a world of heat and Mercury would qualify since it’s the closest planet to the sun.
So what could we do with a necrocosm, or a world of death? Lots of things, actually. Some would say the earth in the year 2016 would qualify as a necrocosm since a lot of mass shootings and celebrity deaths took place. Some would say heaven and hell are necrocosms since according to Christianity, that’s where dead people go. Maybe the word necrocosm could apply to graveyards, funeral homes, and morgues.
Those are all valid interpretations, but what if I took it a step further? What if there was a planet in our solar system governed by an alien race of zombies? It doesn’t even have to be a structured government. It could be anarchy with zombies rising from the dirt to feast on trespassers. Maybe it could be an autocracy with an evil necromancer governing everything so that one day he can use his minions to conquer other worlds. Maybe it’s just one big farm where souls of the dead are kept and harvested. I’ve often thought of the possibilities of entire planets being used as seals for demons and undead creatures. Once that seal is broken, all bets are off, motherfuckers. Keegan Day from “Occupy Wrestling” never thought of this shit. Or did he? Hmm.
Okay, so we’ve got this world of reanimated dead bodies. What we need now is a reason for an adventurer to go there. Surely, traveling to such a violent and savage place would be a suicide mission. There must be something or someone of value on this necrocosm that would be worth wading through an army of dead bodies. A villain to fight, a prisoner to rescue, an artifact to steal, these are all good reasons to risk life and limb for a journey to that planet. If you know how to build tension, you can pull off this storyline and be successful at it.
So how about it, ladies and gentlemen? If this became a D&D campaign, would your character have the cajones to venture onto such a planet with the lingering fear of having his flesh and organs gnawed on? Would you have the solid steel spine to read through a novel that went behind fierce enemy lines like the war zone the necrocosm is? Could I possibly fit an entire world’s worth of action and drama into one short story? So many possibilities, so little time. Hell, if somebody else wants to expand upon this idea and do something with it, I’m not against it as long as you remember where you got this juicy creative fuel from. The table of opportunity has been set, people. What are you going to do?
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a brand new week and a brand new prompt has been put into place. Apparently, this suggestion was from many years ago when a former admin named Mike Ragland first posted it in the prompt ideas forum. The theme is Crumbling Well (that definitely has Mike’s fingerprints all over it), so my story this week will be called “The Ophidiomancer” (more Greek wordplay, for sure). It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Shaun Goldberg, Sheep Mask-Wearing Giant
Carlos Pierre, Psychotic Snake Handler
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Carlos keeps his poisonous snakes in a crumbling well in the middle of the field.
SYNOPSIS: Shaun is a thirty-year-old man child who recently escaped from his abusive mother and is wandering the plains like a mindless zombie. He stumbles upon Carlos and his followers in the middle of a snakebite ritual. Carlos offers to heal Shaun’s soul with a “test of faith”, but when the snake bites the man child, he goes berserk and starts throwing the followers around. Carlos tries to get out of dodge, but he keeps stumbling and rolling.
FUN FACT: For all of you WWE fans out there (both old school and new), these two main characters are based off of actual wrestlers that worked with the company. Shaun Goldberg is likened to Erick Rowan and Carlos Pierre has similarities to Jake “The Snake” Roberts. They come from two completely different eras of wrestling and bring their own form of creepiness to the table. Since a match between Rowan and Roberts won’t actually take place due to Roberts’ old age, this short story is the next best thing.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Elizabeth Wilson has been knocked out of the park and now it’s time for someone new. That someone is Desilu McCourt, the Amazonian hammer swinger from “Occupy Wrestling”. You know the one. She’s the ogre chick who nearly snapped Debra Winter’s spine in half before Mitch McLeod came to the rescue. I’ve done a drawing of Desilu in the past, but I don’t think very highly of it, so I’m going to attempt her again. Wish me luck!
***MOVIE REVIEWS***
The last time I did a movie review, it was for Zootopia and that was many months ago. I don’t do movie reviews very often, but that’s only because I can count the number of visits to the theater I’ve made this year on one hand. I don’t plan on doing a review of Star Wars: The Force Awakens, because I’m still afraid of pissing off people who haven’t seen it yet with plot spoilers. That leaves me with two items on this short task list: the 2016 version of Ghostbusters and a little known documentary called Lucha Mexico. Ghost hunting and masked wrestling: such a delightful combination. Both movies will receive passing grades (four stars). It’s all a matter of putting the words and debating points together in a clean and crisp manner.
***BOOK REVIEW***
As most of you know, I’ve been doing some beta reading for my wonderful author friends Andy Peloquin and Marie Krepps. Their deadlines for publication are drawing near, so you can expect book reviews for them around those times. The first one to come up will be of Marie Krepps’ teen romance novel “What Money Can’t Buy”. It’s being published on August 11th, the same day as my Slipknot X Marilyn Manson concert. We both have things to be excited for!
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“School uniforms: bad theory! It’s the idea that if kids wear uniforms to school it’ll help maintain order. Don’t these schools do enough damage trying to get these kids to think alike? Now they’re going to get them to look alike too? And it’s not a new idea. I once saw it in old newsreels from the 1930’s, though it was a little hard to understand because the narration was in German!”
-George Carlin-
August 2, 2016
Dark Fantasy Rock Goddess
Autumn Smith peeked through the backstage curtain of the Dead Pegasus Orc Bar and felt like someone had just punched her in the stomach. She was used to wild and raucous crowds, but never before had she played her elven bard music in front of savage creatures such as orcs. Their drunken screams and violent shoves were reminiscent of barbarians going to war against the gods. A few of them even threw the bar’s furniture at each other. The bouncers’ hands were tied with one group of wild orcs, so much so that many of these barbaric brawls went unnoticed.
The elf guitarist swallowed a massive wad of saliva in nervousness, but that only served to further irritate her anxious and chilled stomach. And then a dark-skinned hand laid lovingly on her shoulder and put her somewhat at ease. That hand belonged to the blond Mohawk-having, red robe-wearing sorcerer known simply as Bloodshark. He said in his best smooth jazz voice, “Don’t you worry about a thing, baby girl. I’m the best mercenary money can buy. If one of these motherfuckers puts their hands on you, I’ll shove thunderbolts up their asses and fireballs down their throats. You’ve got this, sugar pie.”
Autumn breathed deeply to settle her nerves and said to Bloodshark, “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this for me. I’ve never played in front of orcs before.”
Bloodshark smiled and shook his head before saying, “Listen, honey bear, orcs are no different from any other wild and crazy crowd: they all turn to ashes after getting zapped with my magic lightning. Ashes look the same no matter what race, creed, or color they originally were. Now you go onstage and have the time of your life, cuddle muffin. You’re a dark fantasy rock goddess. You don’t sweat the small stuff.”
The elven bard smiled sweetly and said, “You’re right, Bloodshark. You’re absolutely right. I’m going to show these drunken assholes what a real rock goddess looks like. I’m supposed to be getting a huge payment for this concert, so if you want a raise, you can have it.”
“It’s show time, sweetheart,” said Bloodshark after squeezing Autumn Smith’s shoulders. “Give these suckers all you’ve got!”
The words of encouragement put an even bigger smile on the silver cloak-wearing bard’s face as she grabbed her acoustic guitar and nodded at her mercenary before taking center stage. The orcs stopped fighting amongst themselves and cheered like a bunch of battle hungry warriors. Despite being a race of sloppy eaters and uncouth manners, even they could appreciate the heavenly beauty of their rock and roll princess.
She had soft and creamy green skin, long and silky dark hair, hypnotizing purple eyes, gorgeous red lips, a sparkling gray halter top that revealed just the right amount of cleavage, fetishized high heeled boots, and tight black leather pants that accentuated her best lower body features. Autumn’s appearance alone was a main event show on its own. But when she started strumming her golden guitar, every note and every chord put the orcs in a drooling trance.
Her singing voice made every audience believe she was an angel from the most beautiful of heavens. Her erection-worthy lyrics spoke of the pleasures of love making from her partner’s perfect muscular body to the wonderful thrill of being pushed into. She even made a few orgasmic moans to simulate the gentle sex she was singing about.
The crowd of drunken orcs, who had been brawling just minutes before, were now retarded with love for this sexy elf playing music for them. They drooled, their eyes were halfway closed, they were hunched over, and many of them purposefully sat down at their tables to avoid…embarrassment.
And then one of the audience members made the mistake of reaching up on stage and grabbing Autumn by her ankle. “Ouch! Let go! You’re hurting me!” she yelled as the orc held on with a nearly crushing grip. The other orcs egged him on and showed their wildness once more with berserker screams. And then that sexually harassing orc drew back a stump when Bloodshark appeared from behind the curtain and zapped his hand.
A fountain of black orcish blood burst in the air and stained Autumn’s lovely clothing, to which she gasped in horror. The orcs laughed at their creepy brethren while Bloodshark warned them, “Anybody else want to try that shit? Go ahead! Come on! I don’t get paid by the hour, motherfuckers!”
One of the orcs pulled out a battleaxe and screamed furiously before charging at Bloodshark with a full head of steam. The mercenary sorcerer extended his fingertips and shot a cannonball-like fire volley into the warrior’s chest, sending the orc flying all the way to the back of the bar and crashing through the wall.
Autumn grabbed her bodyguard by the arm and shouted, “I’m not paying you to kill them! I just wanted some security, damn it!”
Bloodshark shoved his boss to the ground, pointed his finger at her, and said, “Let me do my job and then we’ll talk about semantics!”
While the elf bard crab-walked and cowered in the corner of the stage, more orcs descended upon Bloodshark with swords, axes, and flails drawn. That much heavy screaming pierced Autumn’s eardrums and made her feel like she was about to be ripped to shreds by this horny crowd.
And then Bloodshark threw his hands in a rapid fire machinegun motion as he tossed glacial spikes left and right into the orcs’ chests. While most of them were dropping to the ground bleeding like volcanoes, other orcs grabbed onto his arms and legs ready to tear him limb from limb. The sorcerer’s body became a conduit of electricity, sending lightning through his attacker’s bodies and turning them all to a pile of bloody ashes. And then the sorcerer threw fireballs at an assault rifle pace. And then more lightning bolts. And then more glacial spikes. Within a matter of lengthy seconds, the crowd full of horny orcs was reduced to shreds of skin, pieces of bones, and oceans of blood. Even the bouncers and bartenders weren’t spared from this deathly onslaught.
Bloodshark hunched over and clutched his knees while breathing heavily and admiring his handiwork. Autumn stopped flinching and surveyed the battlefield around her. Her bottom lip quivered, her body convulsed, and her eyes widened with horror as she pulled herself to her staggering feet. “Oh my god…what have you done? This isn’t security detail. This is murder!” Autumn banged on Bloodshark’s chest with her puny hands and yelled, “You’re a murderer! You’re a goddamn murderer!”
The sorcerer restrained the elf with his massive arms and stole a sloppy tongue kiss from her while leaning her backwards. It was long and passionate, but Autumn wasn’t buying the passion as she pushed away and crab-walked backwards again in disgust. She spit and coughed until she was certain the rotten flavor was out of her mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“No, Autumn. I think the real question is…what the hell is wrong with YOU?! How could you treat your number one fan with such disdain? Is that what you rock goddesses are really good for?” protested Bloodshark.
The elf’s breathing slowed and her mouth quivered even harder as she realized the trap she had fallen for. “No…no…this can’t be happening. You’re not a mercenary. You’re a stalker! You’re a goddamned stalker! How can you do this to me, you sick pervert?!”
“How can I do what to you? Write you the sweetest letters a fan could ever write? Send chocolates to your house that tasted like pure heaven? Send roses to your studio that smell like fresh warm Eden? I spent more of my own mercenary money on you than I did for myself. And the way you repay me for my love and affection is by ignoring me and acting disgusted with me?! I should be the one disgusted with you! But I’m not, Miss Smith. I’m in love!” said Bloodshark with the wildest eyes and the creepiest grin.
Autumn shook her head and said, “You don’t know a goddamn thing about love. You’re just a pervert. You’re the worst kind of scum a singer like me could ever meet. You’re not the first one to fall in love with me. I’ve dealt with sickos like you many times in my career. You think you’re special just because you’ve eliminated all of your orcish competition with a little bit of magic? You’re pathetic!”
Bloodshark’s eyes glowed with light blue neon as he said, “It’s not just a little bit of magic, Miss Smith. It’s what I use on a day to day basis when I fight for the affections of my sweetest crushes. You rock and roll women are all the same to me. Then again, it’s just like I said earlier…all ashes look the same! If you won’t say yes to me…then I’ll say goodbye to you!”
Autumn Smith shouted, “No! Please!” as the perverted sorcerer extended his fingertips and threw the biggest bolt of electricity his tired body could muster up. What better place to send that spear of lightning…then right through Autumn’s “cold and loveless” heart?
The elf guitarist swallowed a massive wad of saliva in nervousness, but that only served to further irritate her anxious and chilled stomach. And then a dark-skinned hand laid lovingly on her shoulder and put her somewhat at ease. That hand belonged to the blond Mohawk-having, red robe-wearing sorcerer known simply as Bloodshark. He said in his best smooth jazz voice, “Don’t you worry about a thing, baby girl. I’m the best mercenary money can buy. If one of these motherfuckers puts their hands on you, I’ll shove thunderbolts up their asses and fireballs down their throats. You’ve got this, sugar pie.”
Autumn breathed deeply to settle her nerves and said to Bloodshark, “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this for me. I’ve never played in front of orcs before.”
Bloodshark smiled and shook his head before saying, “Listen, honey bear, orcs are no different from any other wild and crazy crowd: they all turn to ashes after getting zapped with my magic lightning. Ashes look the same no matter what race, creed, or color they originally were. Now you go onstage and have the time of your life, cuddle muffin. You’re a dark fantasy rock goddess. You don’t sweat the small stuff.”
The elven bard smiled sweetly and said, “You’re right, Bloodshark. You’re absolutely right. I’m going to show these drunken assholes what a real rock goddess looks like. I’m supposed to be getting a huge payment for this concert, so if you want a raise, you can have it.”
“It’s show time, sweetheart,” said Bloodshark after squeezing Autumn Smith’s shoulders. “Give these suckers all you’ve got!”
The words of encouragement put an even bigger smile on the silver cloak-wearing bard’s face as she grabbed her acoustic guitar and nodded at her mercenary before taking center stage. The orcs stopped fighting amongst themselves and cheered like a bunch of battle hungry warriors. Despite being a race of sloppy eaters and uncouth manners, even they could appreciate the heavenly beauty of their rock and roll princess.
She had soft and creamy green skin, long and silky dark hair, hypnotizing purple eyes, gorgeous red lips, a sparkling gray halter top that revealed just the right amount of cleavage, fetishized high heeled boots, and tight black leather pants that accentuated her best lower body features. Autumn’s appearance alone was a main event show on its own. But when she started strumming her golden guitar, every note and every chord put the orcs in a drooling trance.
Her singing voice made every audience believe she was an angel from the most beautiful of heavens. Her erection-worthy lyrics spoke of the pleasures of love making from her partner’s perfect muscular body to the wonderful thrill of being pushed into. She even made a few orgasmic moans to simulate the gentle sex she was singing about.
The crowd of drunken orcs, who had been brawling just minutes before, were now retarded with love for this sexy elf playing music for them. They drooled, their eyes were halfway closed, they were hunched over, and many of them purposefully sat down at their tables to avoid…embarrassment.
And then one of the audience members made the mistake of reaching up on stage and grabbing Autumn by her ankle. “Ouch! Let go! You’re hurting me!” she yelled as the orc held on with a nearly crushing grip. The other orcs egged him on and showed their wildness once more with berserker screams. And then that sexually harassing orc drew back a stump when Bloodshark appeared from behind the curtain and zapped his hand.
A fountain of black orcish blood burst in the air and stained Autumn’s lovely clothing, to which she gasped in horror. The orcs laughed at their creepy brethren while Bloodshark warned them, “Anybody else want to try that shit? Go ahead! Come on! I don’t get paid by the hour, motherfuckers!”
One of the orcs pulled out a battleaxe and screamed furiously before charging at Bloodshark with a full head of steam. The mercenary sorcerer extended his fingertips and shot a cannonball-like fire volley into the warrior’s chest, sending the orc flying all the way to the back of the bar and crashing through the wall.
Autumn grabbed her bodyguard by the arm and shouted, “I’m not paying you to kill them! I just wanted some security, damn it!”
Bloodshark shoved his boss to the ground, pointed his finger at her, and said, “Let me do my job and then we’ll talk about semantics!”
While the elf bard crab-walked and cowered in the corner of the stage, more orcs descended upon Bloodshark with swords, axes, and flails drawn. That much heavy screaming pierced Autumn’s eardrums and made her feel like she was about to be ripped to shreds by this horny crowd.
And then Bloodshark threw his hands in a rapid fire machinegun motion as he tossed glacial spikes left and right into the orcs’ chests. While most of them were dropping to the ground bleeding like volcanoes, other orcs grabbed onto his arms and legs ready to tear him limb from limb. The sorcerer’s body became a conduit of electricity, sending lightning through his attacker’s bodies and turning them all to a pile of bloody ashes. And then the sorcerer threw fireballs at an assault rifle pace. And then more lightning bolts. And then more glacial spikes. Within a matter of lengthy seconds, the crowd full of horny orcs was reduced to shreds of skin, pieces of bones, and oceans of blood. Even the bouncers and bartenders weren’t spared from this deathly onslaught.
Bloodshark hunched over and clutched his knees while breathing heavily and admiring his handiwork. Autumn stopped flinching and surveyed the battlefield around her. Her bottom lip quivered, her body convulsed, and her eyes widened with horror as she pulled herself to her staggering feet. “Oh my god…what have you done? This isn’t security detail. This is murder!” Autumn banged on Bloodshark’s chest with her puny hands and yelled, “You’re a murderer! You’re a goddamn murderer!”
The sorcerer restrained the elf with his massive arms and stole a sloppy tongue kiss from her while leaning her backwards. It was long and passionate, but Autumn wasn’t buying the passion as she pushed away and crab-walked backwards again in disgust. She spit and coughed until she was certain the rotten flavor was out of her mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“No, Autumn. I think the real question is…what the hell is wrong with YOU?! How could you treat your number one fan with such disdain? Is that what you rock goddesses are really good for?” protested Bloodshark.
The elf’s breathing slowed and her mouth quivered even harder as she realized the trap she had fallen for. “No…no…this can’t be happening. You’re not a mercenary. You’re a stalker! You’re a goddamned stalker! How can you do this to me, you sick pervert?!”
“How can I do what to you? Write you the sweetest letters a fan could ever write? Send chocolates to your house that tasted like pure heaven? Send roses to your studio that smell like fresh warm Eden? I spent more of my own mercenary money on you than I did for myself. And the way you repay me for my love and affection is by ignoring me and acting disgusted with me?! I should be the one disgusted with you! But I’m not, Miss Smith. I’m in love!” said Bloodshark with the wildest eyes and the creepiest grin.
Autumn shook her head and said, “You don’t know a goddamn thing about love. You’re just a pervert. You’re the worst kind of scum a singer like me could ever meet. You’re not the first one to fall in love with me. I’ve dealt with sickos like you many times in my career. You think you’re special just because you’ve eliminated all of your orcish competition with a little bit of magic? You’re pathetic!”
Bloodshark’s eyes glowed with light blue neon as he said, “It’s not just a little bit of magic, Miss Smith. It’s what I use on a day to day basis when I fight for the affections of my sweetest crushes. You rock and roll women are all the same to me. Then again, it’s just like I said earlier…all ashes look the same! If you won’t say yes to me…then I’ll say goodbye to you!”
Autumn Smith shouted, “No! Please!” as the perverted sorcerer extended his fingertips and threw the biggest bolt of electricity his tired body could muster up. What better place to send that spear of lightning…then right through Autumn’s “cold and loveless” heart?
July 30, 2016
Real Life Projects
***REAL LIFE PROJECTS***
“Real life can get in the way of even the most brilliant creative projects.” I say this all the time to people online who need to take a sabbatical from the internet. Now it applies to me. Things are changing in the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household and as the family strongman I need to take part in those changes. I woke up at seven in the morning today to help my mom and Dale put together the yard sale. I went back to bed after my work was done and didn’t wake up until two in the afternoon. I also helped my parents put the yard sale stuff away and donate some of it to a local thrift store. There will be other loads of junk we donate on different days. For now, this will do. I felt so exhausted after today’s work that I don’t feel like doing anything creative at the moment.
As many of you know, I don’t handle exhaustion well. If I’m too tired, I won’t do anything creative for fear that my product will suck or that I’ll fall asleep in the middle of it. I owe a lot of this to the fact that I’m overweight. It’s easy to tell me that all I need to do is eat less and go to the gym more often. If things were that simple, I would have been a middleweight a long time ago. Fast food is addictive and car rides to the gym are not always available. I know it sounds like I’m making excuses and allowing my barriers to get the best of me, but if that’s the case, what would you rather I do: walk all the way from Port Orchard to Gig Harbor to the YMCA and then walk all the way back? It’d be a hell of a workout, but one that I would dread until that day I die.
The CPAP machine I was assigned to use by my doctor has been hit-and-miss when it comes to helping me get my energy back. Some nights I can wear the oxygen mask comfortably and wake up the next day ready to tackle anything and everything. Other nights the mask is either tight enough to leave red marks on my face or loose enough to blow oxygen into my eyes and cheeks. On those other nights, I don’t get a good night’s sleep and the whole idea of getting in bed is meaningless. I plan on emailing or calling my CPAP providers on Monday when they’re available to see if they can help me through this dilemma. I’m confident that they can. The lady who showed me how to use and clean the machine (Leah French) was friendly and supportive during the entire demonstration. She even gently told me to “Simmer down” when I was swearing at my failed attempts to unhinge the mask from its straps. Hehe!
The exhaustion isn’t going to end with today’s yard sale and thrift shop donations. For the next few months, real life will be calling my name and I’ll be there to answer that call. There are a few things going on in August that need my attention. My parents want to replace their carpeted flooring with vinyl since it’s easier to clean, so in order for that to happen, I have to help them move their living room furniture out of the way. As someone with autism, I’m more sensitive to pain and stress than everyone else, so doing all of that heavy lifting is going to take its toll. Despite this, if we’re going to keep having pets, this floor replacement needs to be done. My parents are Baby Boomers and can’t do as much as they used to in their younger years.
Dale especially can’t do much to help us with furniture shifting because he’s going to have a second surgery on his kidney in early August. Heavy lifting afterwards might rip his stitches and put him back in the hospital. Plus, he’s going to feel exhausted himself and won’t feel like doing his normal chores around the house. He’s been an awesome stepfather to me in the eleven years he’s lived with us, so it’s only right that I take over for him when he’s at his weakest. He can enjoy basketball and crime dramas in the easy chair until he recovers from his surgery.
On a more exciting, yet still exhausting note, I have two concerts that I plan on attending in August and one that I plan on attending in November. On August 11th, Slipknot and Marilyn Manson will play at the White River Amphitheater with Of Mice and Men as their opening act. Hopefully, Corey Taylor can stay healthy while he’s entertaining all of us maggots. On August 21st, the Pain in the Grass festival returns to that same venue and will be headlined by Disturbed. Other bands include, but are not limited to Breaking Benjamin, Alter Bridge, Saint Asonia, and Anthrax. And then in November I’m headed to the Tacoma Dome to see Five Finger Death Punch and Shinedown with Sixx AM and As Lions as their opening acts. How can something so tiring feel so good at the same time? Because I’m a diehard metal head, that’s why!
In addition to one-day vacations a.k.a. rock concerts, I’m also going to go on a week-long vacation to Hawaii on October 3rd. I’ve only been to Hawaii one other time in my life and it was in the fall of 2010. The weather was beautiful, the beaches were beautiful, and the brown women were even more beautiful. Hey, it’s not racist if I actually like their race. You can thank Jerry Seinfeld for that joke. Going to Hawaii will be all about rest and relaxation. We’ll probably do one major activity during each day and spend the rest of the time hanging around. Low-key vacations are the best, especially for hardcore introverts like me.
Before Dale, Mom, Aunt Ruth and I all go to Hawaii, Mom and Dale are taking a six-day vacation in September to Utah to see all of their national parks. I’m choosing to stay home and babysit the animals while they’re away since national parks aren’t my cup of tea. It’s a bunch of trees and rocks: so what? I even wrote a short story for American Darkness about this called “Trees, Rocks, and Murder” (it used to be called “Forest Dump” before Marie and I agreed that it wasn’t the best choice for a title). The trees and rocks part of the title apply to the national park vacation, but not murder, thank goodness.
Going back to August for a moment, my therapist Rachel is having a barbecue at her house on August 13th, which is exactly two days after the Slipknot X Marilyn Manson concert and eight days before the Disturbed concert, the latter of which Rachel and her husband will go to if it’s not raining that day (it’s an outdoor venue). She and I have lots in common when it comes to our love for badass heavy metal. She’s also been very helpful to me since 2003 when I first confessed to my family that I was hearing voices and feeling suicidal. Managing my schizophrenic attacks is much easier thanks to her, so seeing her at the barbecue will be lots of fun. Besides which, I never turn down an opportunity to eat a good barbecued meal.
I hope I didn’t leave any important details out when it comes to mapping out the next few months for me. There’s going to be a lot of work to be done and a lot of fun to be had. It’s the same kind of duality in life Gemini Syndrome preaches in their music. Speaking of which, I hope Gemini Syndrome will be at the Pain in the Grass festival, because that would be fucking awesome! Getting back on topic for a minute, having this many things to do may be so tiring that I will have to take a sabbatical from creative work and the internet in general. That means I might not compete every week at the WSS nor will I meet my deadlines for beta-reading Andy Peloquin and Marie Krepps’ manuscripts.
I’ll try to make this hectic schedule work, but I’m making no promises. Never fear, though, because no matter what happens in my life, I always make time to say hi and shoot the breeze with my friends and family, including my online ones. I may be gone for a little while, but never permanently. You guys have been so supportive of me and my author career over the years, so I’ll always miss you when I’m away. It’s not going to be like the Brave Little Toaster where I wait an entire generation to come back to my loved ones. In the same way that you all have been there for me, I will always be there for you. Thank you so much for listening to me.
***TELEVISION DIALOGUE FOR THE DAY***
JERRY: Hey, wait a minute; you have the Mark McEwen TV Guide.
WINONA: That’s Al Roker.
JERRY: Well, they’re both chubby weathermen. I get Dom Deluise and Paul Prudhoe mixed up too.
-Seinfeld-
“Real life can get in the way of even the most brilliant creative projects.” I say this all the time to people online who need to take a sabbatical from the internet. Now it applies to me. Things are changing in the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household and as the family strongman I need to take part in those changes. I woke up at seven in the morning today to help my mom and Dale put together the yard sale. I went back to bed after my work was done and didn’t wake up until two in the afternoon. I also helped my parents put the yard sale stuff away and donate some of it to a local thrift store. There will be other loads of junk we donate on different days. For now, this will do. I felt so exhausted after today’s work that I don’t feel like doing anything creative at the moment.
As many of you know, I don’t handle exhaustion well. If I’m too tired, I won’t do anything creative for fear that my product will suck or that I’ll fall asleep in the middle of it. I owe a lot of this to the fact that I’m overweight. It’s easy to tell me that all I need to do is eat less and go to the gym more often. If things were that simple, I would have been a middleweight a long time ago. Fast food is addictive and car rides to the gym are not always available. I know it sounds like I’m making excuses and allowing my barriers to get the best of me, but if that’s the case, what would you rather I do: walk all the way from Port Orchard to Gig Harbor to the YMCA and then walk all the way back? It’d be a hell of a workout, but one that I would dread until that day I die.
The CPAP machine I was assigned to use by my doctor has been hit-and-miss when it comes to helping me get my energy back. Some nights I can wear the oxygen mask comfortably and wake up the next day ready to tackle anything and everything. Other nights the mask is either tight enough to leave red marks on my face or loose enough to blow oxygen into my eyes and cheeks. On those other nights, I don’t get a good night’s sleep and the whole idea of getting in bed is meaningless. I plan on emailing or calling my CPAP providers on Monday when they’re available to see if they can help me through this dilemma. I’m confident that they can. The lady who showed me how to use and clean the machine (Leah French) was friendly and supportive during the entire demonstration. She even gently told me to “Simmer down” when I was swearing at my failed attempts to unhinge the mask from its straps. Hehe!
The exhaustion isn’t going to end with today’s yard sale and thrift shop donations. For the next few months, real life will be calling my name and I’ll be there to answer that call. There are a few things going on in August that need my attention. My parents want to replace their carpeted flooring with vinyl since it’s easier to clean, so in order for that to happen, I have to help them move their living room furniture out of the way. As someone with autism, I’m more sensitive to pain and stress than everyone else, so doing all of that heavy lifting is going to take its toll. Despite this, if we’re going to keep having pets, this floor replacement needs to be done. My parents are Baby Boomers and can’t do as much as they used to in their younger years.
Dale especially can’t do much to help us with furniture shifting because he’s going to have a second surgery on his kidney in early August. Heavy lifting afterwards might rip his stitches and put him back in the hospital. Plus, he’s going to feel exhausted himself and won’t feel like doing his normal chores around the house. He’s been an awesome stepfather to me in the eleven years he’s lived with us, so it’s only right that I take over for him when he’s at his weakest. He can enjoy basketball and crime dramas in the easy chair until he recovers from his surgery.
On a more exciting, yet still exhausting note, I have two concerts that I plan on attending in August and one that I plan on attending in November. On August 11th, Slipknot and Marilyn Manson will play at the White River Amphitheater with Of Mice and Men as their opening act. Hopefully, Corey Taylor can stay healthy while he’s entertaining all of us maggots. On August 21st, the Pain in the Grass festival returns to that same venue and will be headlined by Disturbed. Other bands include, but are not limited to Breaking Benjamin, Alter Bridge, Saint Asonia, and Anthrax. And then in November I’m headed to the Tacoma Dome to see Five Finger Death Punch and Shinedown with Sixx AM and As Lions as their opening acts. How can something so tiring feel so good at the same time? Because I’m a diehard metal head, that’s why!
In addition to one-day vacations a.k.a. rock concerts, I’m also going to go on a week-long vacation to Hawaii on October 3rd. I’ve only been to Hawaii one other time in my life and it was in the fall of 2010. The weather was beautiful, the beaches were beautiful, and the brown women were even more beautiful. Hey, it’s not racist if I actually like their race. You can thank Jerry Seinfeld for that joke. Going to Hawaii will be all about rest and relaxation. We’ll probably do one major activity during each day and spend the rest of the time hanging around. Low-key vacations are the best, especially for hardcore introverts like me.
Before Dale, Mom, Aunt Ruth and I all go to Hawaii, Mom and Dale are taking a six-day vacation in September to Utah to see all of their national parks. I’m choosing to stay home and babysit the animals while they’re away since national parks aren’t my cup of tea. It’s a bunch of trees and rocks: so what? I even wrote a short story for American Darkness about this called “Trees, Rocks, and Murder” (it used to be called “Forest Dump” before Marie and I agreed that it wasn’t the best choice for a title). The trees and rocks part of the title apply to the national park vacation, but not murder, thank goodness.
Going back to August for a moment, my therapist Rachel is having a barbecue at her house on August 13th, which is exactly two days after the Slipknot X Marilyn Manson concert and eight days before the Disturbed concert, the latter of which Rachel and her husband will go to if it’s not raining that day (it’s an outdoor venue). She and I have lots in common when it comes to our love for badass heavy metal. She’s also been very helpful to me since 2003 when I first confessed to my family that I was hearing voices and feeling suicidal. Managing my schizophrenic attacks is much easier thanks to her, so seeing her at the barbecue will be lots of fun. Besides which, I never turn down an opportunity to eat a good barbecued meal.
I hope I didn’t leave any important details out when it comes to mapping out the next few months for me. There’s going to be a lot of work to be done and a lot of fun to be had. It’s the same kind of duality in life Gemini Syndrome preaches in their music. Speaking of which, I hope Gemini Syndrome will be at the Pain in the Grass festival, because that would be fucking awesome! Getting back on topic for a minute, having this many things to do may be so tiring that I will have to take a sabbatical from creative work and the internet in general. That means I might not compete every week at the WSS nor will I meet my deadlines for beta-reading Andy Peloquin and Marie Krepps’ manuscripts.
I’ll try to make this hectic schedule work, but I’m making no promises. Never fear, though, because no matter what happens in my life, I always make time to say hi and shoot the breeze with my friends and family, including my online ones. I may be gone for a little while, but never permanently. You guys have been so supportive of me and my author career over the years, so I’ll always miss you when I’m away. It’s not going to be like the Brave Little Toaster where I wait an entire generation to come back to my loved ones. In the same way that you all have been there for me, I will always be there for you. Thank you so much for listening to me.
***TELEVISION DIALOGUE FOR THE DAY***
JERRY: Hey, wait a minute; you have the Mark McEwen TV Guide.
WINONA: That’s Al Roker.
JERRY: Well, they’re both chubby weathermen. I get Dom Deluise and Paul Prudhoe mixed up too.
-Seinfeld-
July 28, 2016
Mercenaries
***MERCENARIES***
Before I began my barbarian obsession in 2000 (which I owe to playing Diablo II), I had a mercenary obsession in the late 90’s (which I owe to playing Final Fantasy VII and VIII). In the seventh Final Fantasy game, the main character, Cloud Strife, did mercenary work to pay his bills. In the eighth Final Fantasy game, the entire Garden Academy trained mercenaries, which include Squall, Zell, and Selphie (I know how bad her name sounds in today’s world with camera phones, but this game was published in the 90’s; remember that).
There was something about beating people’s asses for a living that made sense to me as a pre-teen. Sure, there are other occupations in which one could do that such as boxing, wrestling, MMA, and the military. The thing about mercenaries, though, is that they could fulfill contracts on their own terms instead of having a boss breathe down their necks. Even before I started accusing my classmates, teachers, and family of trying to conform me in my sophomore year of high school, being independently-minded was fascinating to me. Then again, individuality and creativity cannot exist without each other. Granted, most of my creative projects as a kid were rudimentary at best, I still held onto those ideas even after facing ridicule. Back in those days, it made sense to combine a spear, an axe, and a claw into one weapon and call it a Spax Claw.
Enjoying the mercenary aura as a child was easy back then because I didn’t start to get political until I was 19 years old and John Kerry lost the presidency to George W. Bush. Even with rough edges, being politically minded changes everything. Bush’s presidency will always be marked by the second Iraq War, the introduction of torture as an interrogation technique, Islamophobia, but sticking with the theme of this journal, mercenaries. Independent contractors like Blackwater were hired to go overseas and complete their own missions. Mercenaries, unlike governmental soldiers, don’t have to follow the same rules as their country-bound brethren. With no oversight, mercenaries could kill and torture whoever they wanted whenever they wanted. Then again, with Bush in charge, there were already CIA agents doing that shit all the time. Suddenly the thrill of being a mercenary didn’t seem right anymore.
Realistically, if you’re writing a story and your main hero is a mercenary, making that character into a sympathetic role model is harder than you think. Fellow independent author Andy Peloquin pulls it off beautifully with his series of books involving The Hunter. Then again, The Hunter isn’t exactly a role model to anyone, but the reader still cheers for him. When good morals aren’t enough to win an audience over, the author has to rely on quirks, nuances, intelligence, and charisma to garner interest in his character. Even though he’s not a mercenary, Alex De Large from “A Clockwork Orange” is a huge example of a sympathetic character devoid of morals. Some readers choose to disagree with the antihero, though, and thus a heated debate ensues.
So while my interest in mercenaries has declined over the years, I never forget my childhood and teenaged roots. Those are the times of a human being’s life when creative growth is most important. It’s also a time in which a human being is most vulnerable to coercion and conformity. It’s easy to tell a child to “man up” and “get tough”, but it takes emotional complexity and maturity to guide that kid through the rough waters of conformity. Some people use negative opinions as motivation to do better, others succumb to the pressure and become brainwashed.
Because I care so much about my creative past, there could be a time in the future where I’m writing a novel, short story, or D&D campaign in which a mercenary is a necessary part of the narrative. The easy way would be to make that mercenary into a natural born villain. Or I could challenge myself and try to make a strong hero out of someone who lusts for money. I have a synopsis in my short story idea collection for a tale about a crime scene cleaner named Owen Edge who has a change of heart after seeing a teenaged girl being used for sex slavery. Maybe it’s a case of “Even Evil Has Standards”, but if I really want to get Owen over, I have to make his change of alignment believable. It’s a challenge I bravely welcome.
Now that I think about it, the term “mercenary” doesn’t have to always apply to fighters. It could also apply to anybody who cares more about money than he or she does about basic human decency. There are bankers and CEO’s on Wall Street who fill that role every day of their goddamn lives. We hear about it all the time in the news and in trailers for Mr. Robot. Remember George Weaver from the short story “The Balrog”? He’s a corporate mercenary in the worst sense of the word, which is why it takes a Mexican demon to drive him completely insane and render him unable to continue his work.
The concept of mercenary work proves over and over again how influential money is not just in novels and short stories, but also in the real world. Pink Floyd published a song on their Dark Side of the Moon CD called “Money” that talks about this very powerful form of currency. Then they published a song on their Momentary Lapse of Reason CD called “Dogs of War”, which more accurately describes what a mercenary truly is. The creative fuel is on the table, fellow authors. Don’t let this opportunity slip!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Coming up next in this series of drawings is Elizabeth Wilson, the aeromancer from the short story called…well…“The Aeromancer”! Those who have a fascination with either the Greek language or fantasy media already know that aeromancers are wizards who control the power of wind. No, that’s not a fart joke and those who think it is need to grow the fuck up. The only aeromancer in this world who’s capable of summoning chaotic magic with flatulence is me. It’s amazing my family doesn’t keep gas masks around the house for this very occasion. As for Elizabeth Wilson, if you piss her off, she’ll summon tornados and typhoons just to bring your ass down. As a side note, she has zero respect for authority.
***FACE BOOK MEME OF THE DAY***
The only reason Fifty Shades of Grey is romantic is because Christian Grey is rich. If he was poor and lived in a trailer, it would be an episode of Criminal Minds.
Before I began my barbarian obsession in 2000 (which I owe to playing Diablo II), I had a mercenary obsession in the late 90’s (which I owe to playing Final Fantasy VII and VIII). In the seventh Final Fantasy game, the main character, Cloud Strife, did mercenary work to pay his bills. In the eighth Final Fantasy game, the entire Garden Academy trained mercenaries, which include Squall, Zell, and Selphie (I know how bad her name sounds in today’s world with camera phones, but this game was published in the 90’s; remember that).
There was something about beating people’s asses for a living that made sense to me as a pre-teen. Sure, there are other occupations in which one could do that such as boxing, wrestling, MMA, and the military. The thing about mercenaries, though, is that they could fulfill contracts on their own terms instead of having a boss breathe down their necks. Even before I started accusing my classmates, teachers, and family of trying to conform me in my sophomore year of high school, being independently-minded was fascinating to me. Then again, individuality and creativity cannot exist without each other. Granted, most of my creative projects as a kid were rudimentary at best, I still held onto those ideas even after facing ridicule. Back in those days, it made sense to combine a spear, an axe, and a claw into one weapon and call it a Spax Claw.
Enjoying the mercenary aura as a child was easy back then because I didn’t start to get political until I was 19 years old and John Kerry lost the presidency to George W. Bush. Even with rough edges, being politically minded changes everything. Bush’s presidency will always be marked by the second Iraq War, the introduction of torture as an interrogation technique, Islamophobia, but sticking with the theme of this journal, mercenaries. Independent contractors like Blackwater were hired to go overseas and complete their own missions. Mercenaries, unlike governmental soldiers, don’t have to follow the same rules as their country-bound brethren. With no oversight, mercenaries could kill and torture whoever they wanted whenever they wanted. Then again, with Bush in charge, there were already CIA agents doing that shit all the time. Suddenly the thrill of being a mercenary didn’t seem right anymore.
Realistically, if you’re writing a story and your main hero is a mercenary, making that character into a sympathetic role model is harder than you think. Fellow independent author Andy Peloquin pulls it off beautifully with his series of books involving The Hunter. Then again, The Hunter isn’t exactly a role model to anyone, but the reader still cheers for him. When good morals aren’t enough to win an audience over, the author has to rely on quirks, nuances, intelligence, and charisma to garner interest in his character. Even though he’s not a mercenary, Alex De Large from “A Clockwork Orange” is a huge example of a sympathetic character devoid of morals. Some readers choose to disagree with the antihero, though, and thus a heated debate ensues.
So while my interest in mercenaries has declined over the years, I never forget my childhood and teenaged roots. Those are the times of a human being’s life when creative growth is most important. It’s also a time in which a human being is most vulnerable to coercion and conformity. It’s easy to tell a child to “man up” and “get tough”, but it takes emotional complexity and maturity to guide that kid through the rough waters of conformity. Some people use negative opinions as motivation to do better, others succumb to the pressure and become brainwashed.
Because I care so much about my creative past, there could be a time in the future where I’m writing a novel, short story, or D&D campaign in which a mercenary is a necessary part of the narrative. The easy way would be to make that mercenary into a natural born villain. Or I could challenge myself and try to make a strong hero out of someone who lusts for money. I have a synopsis in my short story idea collection for a tale about a crime scene cleaner named Owen Edge who has a change of heart after seeing a teenaged girl being used for sex slavery. Maybe it’s a case of “Even Evil Has Standards”, but if I really want to get Owen over, I have to make his change of alignment believable. It’s a challenge I bravely welcome.
Now that I think about it, the term “mercenary” doesn’t have to always apply to fighters. It could also apply to anybody who cares more about money than he or she does about basic human decency. There are bankers and CEO’s on Wall Street who fill that role every day of their goddamn lives. We hear about it all the time in the news and in trailers for Mr. Robot. Remember George Weaver from the short story “The Balrog”? He’s a corporate mercenary in the worst sense of the word, which is why it takes a Mexican demon to drive him completely insane and render him unable to continue his work.
The concept of mercenary work proves over and over again how influential money is not just in novels and short stories, but also in the real world. Pink Floyd published a song on their Dark Side of the Moon CD called “Money” that talks about this very powerful form of currency. Then they published a song on their Momentary Lapse of Reason CD called “Dogs of War”, which more accurately describes what a mercenary truly is. The creative fuel is on the table, fellow authors. Don’t let this opportunity slip!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Coming up next in this series of drawings is Elizabeth Wilson, the aeromancer from the short story called…well…“The Aeromancer”! Those who have a fascination with either the Greek language or fantasy media already know that aeromancers are wizards who control the power of wind. No, that’s not a fart joke and those who think it is need to grow the fuck up. The only aeromancer in this world who’s capable of summoning chaotic magic with flatulence is me. It’s amazing my family doesn’t keep gas masks around the house for this very occasion. As for Elizabeth Wilson, if you piss her off, she’ll summon tornados and typhoons just to bring your ass down. As a side note, she has zero respect for authority.
***FACE BOOK MEME OF THE DAY***
The only reason Fifty Shades of Grey is romantic is because Christian Grey is rich. If he was poor and lived in a trailer, it would be an episode of Criminal Minds.
July 26, 2016
Rob Zombie X Korn Concert
***ROB ZOMBIE X KORN CONCERT***
Tomorrow night, I’m going to the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA to see Rob Zombie and Korn in concert with In This Moment as the opening act. After all of the “crazy days” I’ve had lately, this heavy metal showdown is a welcome distraction. Lots of headbanging, lots of badassery, lots of motherfucking heavy metal! I won’t be in the mosh pit this time around, though, and that’s by design. I need a place to sit down after a long day of jumping up and down to kick-ass music. The spirit will still be the same, though.
Anybody who follows me on Face Book knows that I like to include concerts I go to under “Life Events”. I did it for the Nightwish concert in Seattle earlier this year and I’ll do it for every concert I attend this year as well. Going to a concert for me is like a one day vacation to another land. Yes, I could just as easily watch the bands on You Tube, but it’s not the same experience. Going to venues like the White River Amphitheater, the Showbox, and the Tacoma Dome are like pilgrimages to me. These heavy metal bands have a huge influence on my life and it’s only right that I get to see them up close and personal.
I’ll be rocking out for each and every one of you out there. Let’s tear shit up! And then after tomorrow night, I’ve got Slipknot, Disturbed, and Five Finger Death Punch to look forward to (on separate shows, of course).
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
The theme for this week’s contest is “Muscle Memory” and what better way to celebrate that prompt than with a story called “Dark Fantasy Rock Goddess”? I can’t think of one. Here’s how it goes:
CHARACTERS:
Bloodshark, Human Sorcerer
Autumn Smith, Elf Bard
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Playing the acoustic guitar requires muscle memory.
SYNOPSIS: Autumn travels to the medieval town of Fairhaven to play a concert in front of a drunken crowd. To save money on security detail, she hires Bloodshark as her sole protector. During the concert, the drunken fans get too touchy-feely for Autumn’s taste, so Bloodshark unleashes his deadly magic upon them in the form of fireballs, glacial spikes, and lightning bolts. When her mercenary becomes too violent, she must play him a gentle bard tune to sooth his anger before he does too much damage.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
With Tetra Engel and Jax Nightshade in the books, that means there’s only one character left from “Medicine Man” that needs to be drawn. That character is the spear-wielding gangster named Anya Kolobalos. She was originally supposed to be a part of a Final Fantasy videogame idea back in 2007, but that idea never materialized past a few chapters. So now she’s been recycled as a heartless thug who wants Jax’s maggot therapy for drug peddling purposes. With a spear that big, who is anybody to say no to her?
***MUSIC JOKE OF THE DAY***
If Jacoby Shaddix is playing Monopoly and builds a third hotel on one of his properties, is it his “last resort”?
Tomorrow night, I’m going to the White River Amphitheater in Auburn, WA to see Rob Zombie and Korn in concert with In This Moment as the opening act. After all of the “crazy days” I’ve had lately, this heavy metal showdown is a welcome distraction. Lots of headbanging, lots of badassery, lots of motherfucking heavy metal! I won’t be in the mosh pit this time around, though, and that’s by design. I need a place to sit down after a long day of jumping up and down to kick-ass music. The spirit will still be the same, though.
Anybody who follows me on Face Book knows that I like to include concerts I go to under “Life Events”. I did it for the Nightwish concert in Seattle earlier this year and I’ll do it for every concert I attend this year as well. Going to a concert for me is like a one day vacation to another land. Yes, I could just as easily watch the bands on You Tube, but it’s not the same experience. Going to venues like the White River Amphitheater, the Showbox, and the Tacoma Dome are like pilgrimages to me. These heavy metal bands have a huge influence on my life and it’s only right that I get to see them up close and personal.
I’ll be rocking out for each and every one of you out there. Let’s tear shit up! And then after tomorrow night, I’ve got Slipknot, Disturbed, and Five Finger Death Punch to look forward to (on separate shows, of course).
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
The theme for this week’s contest is “Muscle Memory” and what better way to celebrate that prompt than with a story called “Dark Fantasy Rock Goddess”? I can’t think of one. Here’s how it goes:
CHARACTERS:
Bloodshark, Human Sorcerer
Autumn Smith, Elf Bard
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Playing the acoustic guitar requires muscle memory.
SYNOPSIS: Autumn travels to the medieval town of Fairhaven to play a concert in front of a drunken crowd. To save money on security detail, she hires Bloodshark as her sole protector. During the concert, the drunken fans get too touchy-feely for Autumn’s taste, so Bloodshark unleashes his deadly magic upon them in the form of fireballs, glacial spikes, and lightning bolts. When her mercenary becomes too violent, she must play him a gentle bard tune to sooth his anger before he does too much damage.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
With Tetra Engel and Jax Nightshade in the books, that means there’s only one character left from “Medicine Man” that needs to be drawn. That character is the spear-wielding gangster named Anya Kolobalos. She was originally supposed to be a part of a Final Fantasy videogame idea back in 2007, but that idea never materialized past a few chapters. So now she’s been recycled as a heartless thug who wants Jax’s maggot therapy for drug peddling purposes. With a spear that big, who is anybody to say no to her?
***MUSIC JOKE OF THE DAY***
If Jacoby Shaddix is playing Monopoly and builds a third hotel on one of his properties, is it his “last resort”?
July 25, 2016
Fight to the Death: Mitch McLeod vs. The Hunter
Duel to the Death: Mitch McLeod
I, Garrison Kelly, challenge you, Andy Peloquin, to a duel to the death! But it is not we who will fight, but our characters…
In the black corner, weighing in at 180 pounds, standing a cool 6 feet tall, the Hunter of Voramis!
Tale of the Tape:
• Superhuman reflexes, strength, speed--think Captain America, but stronger
• Thousands of years of weapons training
• Body has accelerated healing factor--can survive a sword to the heart (can be killed by drowning, iron weapons, beheading, and suffocation)
• Cannot be killed by anything but iron
• Accursed dagger that heals him when he kills
• No magical abilities whatsoever
• No hesitation to kill if he perceives opponent as a threat/obstacle to his desires--classic anti-hero
In the red corner, from Los Angeles, California, standing 6’4” and weighing in at 268 lbs., “The Hardcore Hero” Mitch McLeod!
Tale of the Tape:
• Preferred style of fighting is professional wrestling.
• Described by commentators as a "technical brawler", meaning he is proficient in suplexes, throws, and submission holds
• Can also slug it out for as long as he wants.
• Being a professional wrestler requires mental and physical toughness, which he has in spades.
• It took an entire roster of monsters and demons just to send him to the ICU and he still delivered his story's final blow.
Two enter the ring, only one can leave alive!
How would Mitch McLeod kill the Hunter?
Since professional wrestling requires toughness and endurance, Mitch will absorb two strikes from The Hunter's sword just to deliver one massive superman punch. Once the Hunter is wounded, Mitch can pass through his defenses and perform bone-crunching wrestling moves like the piledriver, the body slam, the belly-to-belly suplex, and even a Texas Cloverleaf submission hold.
To kill Mitch McLeod: The Hunter would try to overwhelm him with his inhuman speed, strength, and skill. All he has to do is pierce him skin with Soulhunger, and the dagger will consume his soul. Not even someone with considerable magical abilities can survive Soulhunger's bite--it was created to kill demons.
Who would win?
Because he can last longer than any opponent The Hunter has ever faced. Mitch could shake the ropes Ultimate Warrior-style and find his second wind, his third wind, and every wind after that until he finally delivers a spine-jarring power-bomb and paralyzes The Hunter like he did to a seven footer named Jack Finnegan.
But not even the mighty fists of the technical brawler can put the Hunter down for long. No matter how many times McLeod takes him to the ground, the Hunter will get back up. With every taste of McLeod's blood, Soulhunger floods the Hunter with strength and healing and weakens the wrestler. Mitch McLeod may be the greatest warrior to enter the ring, but the Hunter has defeated demons.
Winner: The Hunter. In the end, Soulhunger claims all souls.
Want to find out more about this cold-blooded killer who would dare challenge the former KDW World Heavyweight Champion to the death? Click here https://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroye... to read about The Hunter.
http://andypeloquin.com/
Who do YOU think would win? Did we get the match-up right? Leave a comment below and let me know.
I, Garrison Kelly, challenge you, Andy Peloquin, to a duel to the death! But it is not we who will fight, but our characters…
In the black corner, weighing in at 180 pounds, standing a cool 6 feet tall, the Hunter of Voramis!
Tale of the Tape:
• Superhuman reflexes, strength, speed--think Captain America, but stronger
• Thousands of years of weapons training
• Body has accelerated healing factor--can survive a sword to the heart (can be killed by drowning, iron weapons, beheading, and suffocation)
• Cannot be killed by anything but iron
• Accursed dagger that heals him when he kills
• No magical abilities whatsoever
• No hesitation to kill if he perceives opponent as a threat/obstacle to his desires--classic anti-hero
In the red corner, from Los Angeles, California, standing 6’4” and weighing in at 268 lbs., “The Hardcore Hero” Mitch McLeod!
Tale of the Tape:
• Preferred style of fighting is professional wrestling.
• Described by commentators as a "technical brawler", meaning he is proficient in suplexes, throws, and submission holds
• Can also slug it out for as long as he wants.
• Being a professional wrestler requires mental and physical toughness, which he has in spades.
• It took an entire roster of monsters and demons just to send him to the ICU and he still delivered his story's final blow.
Two enter the ring, only one can leave alive!
How would Mitch McLeod kill the Hunter?
Since professional wrestling requires toughness and endurance, Mitch will absorb two strikes from The Hunter's sword just to deliver one massive superman punch. Once the Hunter is wounded, Mitch can pass through his defenses and perform bone-crunching wrestling moves like the piledriver, the body slam, the belly-to-belly suplex, and even a Texas Cloverleaf submission hold.
To kill Mitch McLeod: The Hunter would try to overwhelm him with his inhuman speed, strength, and skill. All he has to do is pierce him skin with Soulhunger, and the dagger will consume his soul. Not even someone with considerable magical abilities can survive Soulhunger's bite--it was created to kill demons.
Who would win?
Because he can last longer than any opponent The Hunter has ever faced. Mitch could shake the ropes Ultimate Warrior-style and find his second wind, his third wind, and every wind after that until he finally delivers a spine-jarring power-bomb and paralyzes The Hunter like he did to a seven footer named Jack Finnegan.
But not even the mighty fists of the technical brawler can put the Hunter down for long. No matter how many times McLeod takes him to the ground, the Hunter will get back up. With every taste of McLeod's blood, Soulhunger floods the Hunter with strength and healing and weakens the wrestler. Mitch McLeod may be the greatest warrior to enter the ring, but the Hunter has defeated demons.
Winner: The Hunter. In the end, Soulhunger claims all souls.
Want to find out more about this cold-blooded killer who would dare challenge the former KDW World Heavyweight Champion to the death? Click here https://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroye... to read about The Hunter.
http://andypeloquin.com/
Who do YOU think would win? Did we get the match-up right? Leave a comment below and let me know.
July 23, 2016
Toy Trauma
Every careful step downstairs to the kitchen sent a thunderstorm of pain across Marty Hunt’s head. He held his temples and whined “Ouch!” the entire way down. It was a slow and laborious process, but reach the bottom floor he did. Wearing only plaid pajama pants and white socks, the pain-wracked father dragged himself over to the kitchen table and sat down with a quickness.
He leaned his head all the way back and breathed a sigh of relief. No more ouches, just a nice self-head massage with sinewy fingers. The coffee pot could wait a few more minutes. Marty wanted to milk this small moment of relaxation for all it was worth. He might have even fallen asleep at the table with his head in his arms if he wanted to.
“Morning, Dad!” yelled little five-year-old Kevin. The high pitch jolted Marty awake and the thunder and lightning in his brain was going batshit crazy. The single father rubbed his temples even harder while Kevin ran around the kitchen with his favorite action figure, the beefcake barbarian Deus Shadowheart.
“I’m going to eat your soul like a bowl of cereal!” yelled Kevin in his version of a manly barbarian growl. “I shall chew your flesh like bubblegum! And I shall drink your insides like Coca-Cola!” The little son shook the Deus Shadowheart action figure in front of his father’s face and roared some more.
“Please don’t do that to me this early in the morning, Kevin. It’s been a shitty couple of months with this divorce hearing. Cut Daddy some slack today,” said Marty as he continued to massage his temples.
“I shall enslave your people and force them to make bowls of Quaker Oatmeal for the rest of their lives!” said Kevin in his warrior growl.
“Is that what this is about? You want Quaker Oatmeal? Alright, I’ll get you a bowl…”
“Silence, peasant! You shall bring me a bowl of oatmeal and put extra brown sugar in it! Raaaaaaaaaaargh!” Kevin shook the action figure in his father’s face some more, causing him to clench his eyelids as tightly as he could. No matter how many times Marty rubbed his own temples, his head would always feel like it was under Deus’ mighty fur boots. The thought of his own brain popping out sent a shiver through his body.
“What’s the matter?! Do you not like that I am king of this wasteland? Too bad! I rule with an iron fist and a big bloody battleaxe!” yelled Kevin a la Deus. In between words, Marty kept pleading with him to shut up, but the overly energetic child said, “Bow to me and my big bloody battleaxe! You cannot win, mere mortal!”
“That’s it! I’ve had it with this shit! Give me that goddamn thing!” screamed Marty as he stood up and knocked his chair over. He and his son played tug of war over the mighty toy with the little guy screaming, “No!” repeatedly at the top of his lungs. The screeching voice to Marty was like having Deus’ meat cleaver go through his skull. He felt like his brain was a hand grenade ready to go off. His heart was pumping and thumping like a barbaric war drum.
In one harsh pull, Marty yanked the toy out of his son’s hands and yelled, “I don’t like this thing! And here’s what I’m going to do with this piece of shit!” Despite Kevin’s foot stomping and repeated “No!” screams, Marty ripped Deus Shadowheart’s arms and legs off before throwing the dismantled mess across the kitchen floor.
Kevin knelt down beside his toy and cried a tearful storm over the broken remains. Marty watched on with a sorrowful guilt over what he’d done, but remained strong in the face of having to discipline his son for his ballistic behavior. The father’s defenses were knocked down a few pegs when Kevin turned his tear and snot-covered face to him and said, “I want to go live with mommy! I hate you, Dad! I hate you!”
Headache and heartache were one in the same for Marty Hunt. Every pump of blood throughout his body made him groggy with depression, yet his face maintained its angry expression as a sign of strength against such powerful words. “You can’t go back to your mother, Kevin! We had a divorce and it’s been finalized! She cheated on me with another man! She cheated on us! She’s the one who’s tearing this family apart, not me!”
Kevin stood up and rushed over to his father to pound his tiny fists into his hairy stomach. “Stop it, Kevin, you’re hurting me! Knock it off, kid!” yelled Marty. The little spitfire wouldn’t listen. He pounded harder and harder until his father’s breath was completely drained from his system.
The old man collapsed to the ground and clutched his chest in pain. His breathing was raspy and shallow as he said, “Call 9-1-1, Kevin! Hurry!” When Kevin folded his arms and refused to move, Marty let down his authoritative guard in an act of desperation. “I’m sorry!” He wheezed. “I’ll buy you a new toy! You can have any one you want!”
As Marty’s vision was fading to black, he could hear his son’s voice shout “Daddy!” as well as little footsteps scurrying across the linoleum kitchen floor. Hopefully, those footsteps were on their way to the house phone to call an ambulance. Marty didn’t even know if Kevin was physically capable of making such a call. He lost hope as his breaths grew shorter and the peace he wanted at breakfast was finally obtained. Nothing but a dull gray screen clouded his vision. No tears, no angry words, no sorrowful thoughts, just the kind of grayness one could expect from an Emergency Alert System screen.
And then the father could feel his heart beating again. Little by little, the thumping and pumping was dominating his overly sensitive ears. His heart raced a little faster with each passing second. The gray screen before him became a field of blurry shapes and lights. He had a strange plastic mask over his face and the air pressure felt overwhelming to him. Soon the blurs and lights concentrated themselves into a clear picture. He was riding in the back of an ambulance with EMT’s by his side. Even more important to him was little Kevin staring down at him with a worried look on his chubby-cheeked face.
“Kevin…Kevin, dear god. I’m so sorry about this morning. I meant what I said about the toy. Come on, little guy, just give me another chance,” said Marty, his voice weak through the plastic mask.
Little Kevin Hunt held his father’s index finger in his tiny hands and said, “I don’t care about the toy. I just want my daddy back.”
Marty’s eyes began to well up with tears and his heart rate sped up. He cursed himself mentally for being “stupid” enough to not realize it was never about toys. He made enough money at work that he could buy the entire Hasbro catalogue if he wanted to, maybe even a few collector’s items. It was love that he failed to show at breakfast time, not finances. The whole divorce proceedings with his wife were all about who loved Kevin more and in the end, Marty ended up pounding the sides of his gurney in frustration that he became the world’s biggest hypocrite.
The EMT’s tried to pin Marty’s tight arms down in an attempt to slow his skyrocketing heart rate. It was Kevin’s voice yelling, “Daddy, don’t!” that finally subdued the hypocritical father. He collapsed into the gurney bed sobbing hysterically while his son hugged him around the waist. Hugging around the chest would have been ill-advised due to Marty’s heart condition.
“Hey, Kev…” said Marty with a little more conviction. “Have I told you lately that I loved you and that you’re the best son a father could ever have?”
“Do you mean it?” asked Kevin with dewy puppy dog eyes.
“Absolutely, little guy,” said Marty. “Me? I’m just a monster…” He took a while to catch his breath before he said, “I’m the monster who’s going to have the biggest battle with Deus Shadowheart this universe has ever seen!” His throat got more hoarse and villain-like, much to Kevin’s beaming delight. “I shall unleash hordes of minions upon the barbaric wasteland and I will burn everything to ashes! Nobody is safe, not even the big badass Deus Shadowheart!”
Father and son laughed together while hugging around the waist. In all of this legal mumbo-jumbo, the one thing all three members of the Hunt family forgot to do was laugh. How such a simple gesture could change a man’s heart rate and give his burning headaches a heavenly cure. Isn’t laughing and playing what action figures and families were all about?
He leaned his head all the way back and breathed a sigh of relief. No more ouches, just a nice self-head massage with sinewy fingers. The coffee pot could wait a few more minutes. Marty wanted to milk this small moment of relaxation for all it was worth. He might have even fallen asleep at the table with his head in his arms if he wanted to.
“Morning, Dad!” yelled little five-year-old Kevin. The high pitch jolted Marty awake and the thunder and lightning in his brain was going batshit crazy. The single father rubbed his temples even harder while Kevin ran around the kitchen with his favorite action figure, the beefcake barbarian Deus Shadowheart.
“I’m going to eat your soul like a bowl of cereal!” yelled Kevin in his version of a manly barbarian growl. “I shall chew your flesh like bubblegum! And I shall drink your insides like Coca-Cola!” The little son shook the Deus Shadowheart action figure in front of his father’s face and roared some more.
“Please don’t do that to me this early in the morning, Kevin. It’s been a shitty couple of months with this divorce hearing. Cut Daddy some slack today,” said Marty as he continued to massage his temples.
“I shall enslave your people and force them to make bowls of Quaker Oatmeal for the rest of their lives!” said Kevin in his warrior growl.
“Is that what this is about? You want Quaker Oatmeal? Alright, I’ll get you a bowl…”
“Silence, peasant! You shall bring me a bowl of oatmeal and put extra brown sugar in it! Raaaaaaaaaaargh!” Kevin shook the action figure in his father’s face some more, causing him to clench his eyelids as tightly as he could. No matter how many times Marty rubbed his own temples, his head would always feel like it was under Deus’ mighty fur boots. The thought of his own brain popping out sent a shiver through his body.
“What’s the matter?! Do you not like that I am king of this wasteland? Too bad! I rule with an iron fist and a big bloody battleaxe!” yelled Kevin a la Deus. In between words, Marty kept pleading with him to shut up, but the overly energetic child said, “Bow to me and my big bloody battleaxe! You cannot win, mere mortal!”
“That’s it! I’ve had it with this shit! Give me that goddamn thing!” screamed Marty as he stood up and knocked his chair over. He and his son played tug of war over the mighty toy with the little guy screaming, “No!” repeatedly at the top of his lungs. The screeching voice to Marty was like having Deus’ meat cleaver go through his skull. He felt like his brain was a hand grenade ready to go off. His heart was pumping and thumping like a barbaric war drum.
In one harsh pull, Marty yanked the toy out of his son’s hands and yelled, “I don’t like this thing! And here’s what I’m going to do with this piece of shit!” Despite Kevin’s foot stomping and repeated “No!” screams, Marty ripped Deus Shadowheart’s arms and legs off before throwing the dismantled mess across the kitchen floor.
Kevin knelt down beside his toy and cried a tearful storm over the broken remains. Marty watched on with a sorrowful guilt over what he’d done, but remained strong in the face of having to discipline his son for his ballistic behavior. The father’s defenses were knocked down a few pegs when Kevin turned his tear and snot-covered face to him and said, “I want to go live with mommy! I hate you, Dad! I hate you!”
Headache and heartache were one in the same for Marty Hunt. Every pump of blood throughout his body made him groggy with depression, yet his face maintained its angry expression as a sign of strength against such powerful words. “You can’t go back to your mother, Kevin! We had a divorce and it’s been finalized! She cheated on me with another man! She cheated on us! She’s the one who’s tearing this family apart, not me!”
Kevin stood up and rushed over to his father to pound his tiny fists into his hairy stomach. “Stop it, Kevin, you’re hurting me! Knock it off, kid!” yelled Marty. The little spitfire wouldn’t listen. He pounded harder and harder until his father’s breath was completely drained from his system.
The old man collapsed to the ground and clutched his chest in pain. His breathing was raspy and shallow as he said, “Call 9-1-1, Kevin! Hurry!” When Kevin folded his arms and refused to move, Marty let down his authoritative guard in an act of desperation. “I’m sorry!” He wheezed. “I’ll buy you a new toy! You can have any one you want!”
As Marty’s vision was fading to black, he could hear his son’s voice shout “Daddy!” as well as little footsteps scurrying across the linoleum kitchen floor. Hopefully, those footsteps were on their way to the house phone to call an ambulance. Marty didn’t even know if Kevin was physically capable of making such a call. He lost hope as his breaths grew shorter and the peace he wanted at breakfast was finally obtained. Nothing but a dull gray screen clouded his vision. No tears, no angry words, no sorrowful thoughts, just the kind of grayness one could expect from an Emergency Alert System screen.
And then the father could feel his heart beating again. Little by little, the thumping and pumping was dominating his overly sensitive ears. His heart raced a little faster with each passing second. The gray screen before him became a field of blurry shapes and lights. He had a strange plastic mask over his face and the air pressure felt overwhelming to him. Soon the blurs and lights concentrated themselves into a clear picture. He was riding in the back of an ambulance with EMT’s by his side. Even more important to him was little Kevin staring down at him with a worried look on his chubby-cheeked face.
“Kevin…Kevin, dear god. I’m so sorry about this morning. I meant what I said about the toy. Come on, little guy, just give me another chance,” said Marty, his voice weak through the plastic mask.
Little Kevin Hunt held his father’s index finger in his tiny hands and said, “I don’t care about the toy. I just want my daddy back.”
Marty’s eyes began to well up with tears and his heart rate sped up. He cursed himself mentally for being “stupid” enough to not realize it was never about toys. He made enough money at work that he could buy the entire Hasbro catalogue if he wanted to, maybe even a few collector’s items. It was love that he failed to show at breakfast time, not finances. The whole divorce proceedings with his wife were all about who loved Kevin more and in the end, Marty ended up pounding the sides of his gurney in frustration that he became the world’s biggest hypocrite.
The EMT’s tried to pin Marty’s tight arms down in an attempt to slow his skyrocketing heart rate. It was Kevin’s voice yelling, “Daddy, don’t!” that finally subdued the hypocritical father. He collapsed into the gurney bed sobbing hysterically while his son hugged him around the waist. Hugging around the chest would have been ill-advised due to Marty’s heart condition.
“Hey, Kev…” said Marty with a little more conviction. “Have I told you lately that I loved you and that you’re the best son a father could ever have?”
“Do you mean it?” asked Kevin with dewy puppy dog eyes.
“Absolutely, little guy,” said Marty. “Me? I’m just a monster…” He took a while to catch his breath before he said, “I’m the monster who’s going to have the biggest battle with Deus Shadowheart this universe has ever seen!” His throat got more hoarse and villain-like, much to Kevin’s beaming delight. “I shall unleash hordes of minions upon the barbaric wasteland and I will burn everything to ashes! Nobody is safe, not even the big badass Deus Shadowheart!”
Father and son laughed together while hugging around the waist. In all of this legal mumbo-jumbo, the one thing all three members of the Hunt family forgot to do was laugh. How such a simple gesture could change a man’s heart rate and give his burning headaches a heavenly cure. Isn’t laughing and playing what action figures and families were all about?
July 21, 2016
Gray Days
***GRAY DAYS***
If you live in the Pacific Northwest like I do, you would have noticed the overwhelming number of gray days during the summer season. Hell, it might be happening in other parts of the country or even the world, but Pacific Northwest weather is notorious for catering to gray days. It could be sunny one minute and pouring down rain to the point of flood conditions the next.
Anybody who knows the old me knows I would have constantly complained about gray rainy weather. It’s not the best to go walking in, especially if I’m thirsty for a bubbly beverage and the convenience store is around the corner. Now that I’m 31 years old and have a more mature outlook on life, I’ve learned to love the gray days, even during the summer season. If I was that thirsty all the time, I could just make a pitcher of ice cold iced tea. Yum-yum-yum! If I was so bored that I needed to go for a walk to clear my head, there’s nothing stopping me from bumming a ride from my family to the YMCA. They have a jogging track upstairs and a shallow swimming pool on the bottom floor; how hard could that be to comprehend?
I didn’t realize until recently how wonderful gray days can be for getting creative work done. Or if I just want to be lazy that day, I could just take a nap while there’s new age music playing in the background. Smokey seems to agree with the latter ten times out of ten. The low barometric pressure during gray days can make anyone sleepy enough to want a nap because of the lack of oxygen, which is a major source of energy for the human body. If you feel sleepy, give into it. The creative work will always be there for you when you’re ready for it. If you’re in school, however, it’s probably a good idea to turn your work in on time and in tiptop condition.
And then there are people who enjoy running around in rainy weather. The cold rain definitely feels good on the skin after a long day of exercise. I remember going to a Linkin Park concert with my brother James at the Tacoma Dome in 2003. After we jumped up and down for a lot of their songs, the rain felt so good to us that we didn’t bother putting our jackets back on. That’s part of the reason why I’m not worried about rainy weather happening on the same day as my July and August concerts, which take place in an outdoor amphitheater. If Korn, Rob Zombie, and In This Moment get my cardio going for god knows how many hours, I’m going to love that sweet cold rain.
It’s true, folks: I have nothing better to write a journal about than gray days. I don’t know what else I could say about them, so I’m just going to sign off and give you all updates on my creative projects.
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
The new contest got started this past Tuesday and the prompt for the week is “Piece By Piece”. For the second week in a row, my short story is a modern day drama and will therefore be shelved under “American Darkness 2: Black State”. It’s called “Toy Trauma” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Kevin Hunt, Toy-Loving Child
Marty Hunt, Kevin’s Father
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Marty dismantles the action figure piece by piece.
SYNOPSIS: Ever since gaining custody of Kevin in a nasty divorce, Marty has been stressed out to where even the smallest incidents send him into a screaming rage. One morning during breakfast, Kevin brings his favorite action figure to the table with him and plays with it a little too loudly for his father’s tastes. After several unanswered warnings to his son, Marty grabs the action figure and snaps its arms and legs off. The toy abuse leaves Kevin in a fit of tears and even causes him to say that he hates his father. Is this enough for Marty to realize how far off the deep end he’s gone or will he always be a sourpuss?
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’m sure you all noticed the recent uploads of Rook Maxwell and Edward Glass and hopefully you’ve enjoyed them. Coming up next is a character from the villain department. He’s Jax Nightshade and he’s a dark paladin from “Medicine Man”, a short story I submitted to one of the WSS’s monthly contests. For some reason they aren’t doing monthly contests anymore. I don’t know if the admins forgot or if they’re legitimately discontinuing them due to a lack of activity. Either way, the Medicine Man himself is going to be immortalized. Be on the lookout for a dark paladin badass!
***READING TASKS***
As of today, I have three different authors to (beta) read from: Andy Peloquin (Lament of the Fallen), Marie Krepps (What Money Can’t Buy), and Zero Urrea (Rake). I have no problem with the workload, because when I have the energy, I can get anything done in record time. The past few days haven’t been kind to me in terms of energy. Sleep apnea had really been kicking my ass and making me too sluggish to get anything done. To those who rely on my help, I’m sorry. But I can safely say that I’m doing something about my lack of energy. I requested an appointment with my sleep study doctor and he’s going to teach me how to use a CPAP machine, which will give me oxygen while I’m sleeping and my windpipe is flat. I’m also going to start going to the gym more often with James. My workout will start off with thirty minutes of walking around the track and end with weightlifting. So far, it seems to be paying off. Let’s keep that shit going!
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Enzo Amore is so skinny he could hang glide with a Dorito. He already looks like a bird.”
-Jerry “The King” Lawler-
If you live in the Pacific Northwest like I do, you would have noticed the overwhelming number of gray days during the summer season. Hell, it might be happening in other parts of the country or even the world, but Pacific Northwest weather is notorious for catering to gray days. It could be sunny one minute and pouring down rain to the point of flood conditions the next.
Anybody who knows the old me knows I would have constantly complained about gray rainy weather. It’s not the best to go walking in, especially if I’m thirsty for a bubbly beverage and the convenience store is around the corner. Now that I’m 31 years old and have a more mature outlook on life, I’ve learned to love the gray days, even during the summer season. If I was that thirsty all the time, I could just make a pitcher of ice cold iced tea. Yum-yum-yum! If I was so bored that I needed to go for a walk to clear my head, there’s nothing stopping me from bumming a ride from my family to the YMCA. They have a jogging track upstairs and a shallow swimming pool on the bottom floor; how hard could that be to comprehend?
I didn’t realize until recently how wonderful gray days can be for getting creative work done. Or if I just want to be lazy that day, I could just take a nap while there’s new age music playing in the background. Smokey seems to agree with the latter ten times out of ten. The low barometric pressure during gray days can make anyone sleepy enough to want a nap because of the lack of oxygen, which is a major source of energy for the human body. If you feel sleepy, give into it. The creative work will always be there for you when you’re ready for it. If you’re in school, however, it’s probably a good idea to turn your work in on time and in tiptop condition.
And then there are people who enjoy running around in rainy weather. The cold rain definitely feels good on the skin after a long day of exercise. I remember going to a Linkin Park concert with my brother James at the Tacoma Dome in 2003. After we jumped up and down for a lot of their songs, the rain felt so good to us that we didn’t bother putting our jackets back on. That’s part of the reason why I’m not worried about rainy weather happening on the same day as my July and August concerts, which take place in an outdoor amphitheater. If Korn, Rob Zombie, and In This Moment get my cardio going for god knows how many hours, I’m going to love that sweet cold rain.
It’s true, folks: I have nothing better to write a journal about than gray days. I don’t know what else I could say about them, so I’m just going to sign off and give you all updates on my creative projects.
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
The new contest got started this past Tuesday and the prompt for the week is “Piece By Piece”. For the second week in a row, my short story is a modern day drama and will therefore be shelved under “American Darkness 2: Black State”. It’s called “Toy Trauma” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Kevin Hunt, Toy-Loving Child
Marty Hunt, Kevin’s Father
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Marty dismantles the action figure piece by piece.
SYNOPSIS: Ever since gaining custody of Kevin in a nasty divorce, Marty has been stressed out to where even the smallest incidents send him into a screaming rage. One morning during breakfast, Kevin brings his favorite action figure to the table with him and plays with it a little too loudly for his father’s tastes. After several unanswered warnings to his son, Marty grabs the action figure and snaps its arms and legs off. The toy abuse leaves Kevin in a fit of tears and even causes him to say that he hates his father. Is this enough for Marty to realize how far off the deep end he’s gone or will he always be a sourpuss?
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’m sure you all noticed the recent uploads of Rook Maxwell and Edward Glass and hopefully you’ve enjoyed them. Coming up next is a character from the villain department. He’s Jax Nightshade and he’s a dark paladin from “Medicine Man”, a short story I submitted to one of the WSS’s monthly contests. For some reason they aren’t doing monthly contests anymore. I don’t know if the admins forgot or if they’re legitimately discontinuing them due to a lack of activity. Either way, the Medicine Man himself is going to be immortalized. Be on the lookout for a dark paladin badass!
***READING TASKS***
As of today, I have three different authors to (beta) read from: Andy Peloquin (Lament of the Fallen), Marie Krepps (What Money Can’t Buy), and Zero Urrea (Rake). I have no problem with the workload, because when I have the energy, I can get anything done in record time. The past few days haven’t been kind to me in terms of energy. Sleep apnea had really been kicking my ass and making me too sluggish to get anything done. To those who rely on my help, I’m sorry. But I can safely say that I’m doing something about my lack of energy. I requested an appointment with my sleep study doctor and he’s going to teach me how to use a CPAP machine, which will give me oxygen while I’m sleeping and my windpipe is flat. I’m also going to start going to the gym more often with James. My workout will start off with thirty minutes of walking around the track and end with weightlifting. So far, it seems to be paying off. Let’s keep that shit going!
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Enzo Amore is so skinny he could hang glide with a Dorito. He already looks like a bird.”
-Jerry “The King” Lawler-
