Even In A Crazy World Where Impossibilities Are Daily, Stories Are Important As Keepers Of Fictional Accounts Of Real Terrors

I have uncorked the creative part of me today. I am not going to say the block I had is gone, nor am I going to say all is well in creative land in other ways, but given the reality of the world today, I am pretty happy that I can lose myself for twenty or thirty minutes writing something that other people may like and distract them from the nearly apocalyptic, dystopian hell-scape we find ourselves in presently.

So, in the spirit of social distancing and yet sharing my love for a thing, I wanted to throw ideas out in the void and see if any of them stick to anything. I am not asking for feedback per se, but if you see anything that you think you might like to read, let me know and I will see what I can do. Mostly though, this is to shake the shit out of my head that has been floating around my head for a few months now and see if any of it is worth writing at all.

This morning I started on the Card, which I think will be a fun little jaunt to some unexpected places. Plus, it has been a while since I wrote something really, hardcore, in my wheelhouse and let me tell you without telling you anything, this is REALLY in my fucking wheelhouse.

I have this other thought in my head where I would just pick a song and write a story using the “plot” of the song. For example, if I were to listen to Hammer Smashed Face by Cannibal Corpse, then perhaps, well, I would write a story about that very thing. That is a little too obvious, but I think the point I was going for definitely got across. I got the idea while I was listening to Turn Around, Look At Me by the Vogues/watching Final Destination 3 where the song is used expertly as a part of the storytelling framework. I listen to a range of music and I think it might be a fun thought experiment if nothing else.

Thanks to two wonderful women, I know how and I know what I am going to write for the book like thing I am going to write. The Help is going to get a rather significant addition (Probably 25-30K words) and I will flesh out the backstory as a whole as well as specifically with the delight Edward.

I have not forgotten about the Goddess Siobhan, our Priest friends, The Authority, or even the Eight Mothers themselves, I just will, especially for the latter, have to drastically rewrite a lot of things and it will take a long time to both have the time, even during the near Shelter-In-Place we find ourselves in, and the energy to go through hundreds of thousands of words and pull the good and cull the bad.

The rest of the ideas are one-off stories that for reasons only known to the internal workings of my brain I do not particularly like to write. I am much more of an episodic writer and I think I would have made a fair living as a pulp writer back in the day, maybe I would have even penned a decent penny dreadful or two farther back.

For now, I am going to go and try and see if I can get my head to wrap around the chaos that is the world and make sure I have done all the things I need to do to keep me, mine, and My Tribe in the limited ways I can, safe from this pandemic that sweeps across the world.

That would make a really good story if it wasn’t so damn real already.

A Sad Form Of Truth

I want to write a book. Well, I suppose by all practical measurements you can say that I want to write another one. I am not ashamed of the first one by any stretch, but I want to write a thing that is pure and totally me. Little Boy was an exercise to see if I could complete the National Novel Writers Month challenge, during which you are trying to write 50,000 words in thirty days. So it is rushed and it was something I did purely for the challenge, for the ability to say that I had done the thing.

So, now what?

I have written thousands of poems that are between things that make me cry in memory a decade later and things I will not delete purely because I need to never write that piece of shit again. I love poetry, it was my passion before I truly understood what that word meant. I would write these things to my first wife that would go on and on about her chestnut hair and eyes like smokey mirrors. I would write to Naomi about the beauty of childbirth and the creation of life with a schmuck like me. War and Death and Love, Angst and Joy, Forgiveness and Hatred. I have written about her forever eyes, Valkyries as my salvation and mothers that are far away that my love will never fade for.

I have written about The Assemblage and their awkwardly moralistic power plays on a global scale. I wrote about the Eight Mothers that came from that place Cosmic Horror begins and ends. I rewrote The Inferno as best as I could. The Dark Goddess Siobhan and the glory of her power over the hearts and minds of things that go bump in the night.

Am I out of things to write? No, that will never be the case.

What I don’t have, is courage.

I am terrified of rejection. Personally, professionally, artistically, even spiritually.

That’s it see, that’s what there is no book.

What if everyone hates it? What if it is the punchline of jokes and the object of derision.

Yeah, I know I can’t control any of that.

Truth is a stupid thing when it is in your head.

With Hands So Gentle He Destroyed The World, With Bloodied Hands He Cradled A Babe At Rest

Fear. He knew the smell of it like he knew the paths of the world. He knew the ways of things that felt fear when they heard the Hunt Master was searching for prey. This was different, this was something he had never known. He walked in the soft snow of the lands surrounding the people he was to slaughter and he finally understood.

He was afraid. No, afraid was weakness compared to the overwhelming dread that hung over his mind and heart as he stalked the creatures to make sure all of them were accounted for before he set to work. Siobhan, the Dark Goddess, she had filled his mind with precisely what she would do to him if he failed her. He was shown the Darkness that Devours, he had seen It, It had seen Him, and he would never be able to escape from it. Even the fleeting memory of it made his blood run cold and his palms sweat.

Not now.

He nodded as he saw the last of the ones he was looking for. There was not going to be subtlety, there was not going to be traps and snares and the thrills of the hunt of a cunning prey. No, this time he had a different weapon that he rarely used, but it never failed him.

Cracking his neck from side to side slowly, he simply grew. Ten, then twenty, then thirty feet. Above the trees, at last, he looked down and could pinpoint each of them, their locations locked into his mind as he knew they still did not see him, for he did not want to be seen as of yet. He walked if moving aside trees could be called such until he stood in the center of the village. There was the white of the snow on the tops of the dwellings and they were surrounded by a crude fence, which he sighed in happiness about, it made his life so much easier.

He took a breath, whispering a prayer to the Dark Goddess herself that he finds success and at the moment he remembered the Darkness seeing him with Her, he appeared to them.

A giant, fifty feet tall with blood running in rivulets down his skin, the heat from his body melting the snow. No one moved, no one understood what was going on precisely, but they all knew it was going to be bad. He did not hesitate and, he bent his knees, lowering them to nearly the ground and took in a deep breath.

Looking around once more to make sure they were all there, he let it out in a shriek that was filled with neighing horses and the scream of the eagles. It was filled with the fear of the Hunt, and, most importantly, it was the heat of anger.

The fire instantly destroyed every building, tree, and every single one of the people there in an instant. A circle of destruction spread wider and wider and the Hunt Master let it grow to make sure that no one escaped. He k where the young lady was and she was in no danger at all. He had warded her earlier and placed her deep into a sleep so she would never know the sights of what needed to come next.

He opened his eyes wide, counting each charred corpse and reaching outwith long arms and plucking them from where they had fallen and placing them in a pile in front of him. He counted them, then counted them again, then even a third time and when he was satisfied he had completed the first task his Dark Goddess had set for him was complete, he sat down in the fiery waste of the village to do the part he was used to.

Cleaning the kill.

He sucked the marrow from the bones, ate the flesh off them, tore the clothing off with his teeth until he got to the skulls. Each one he carefully cleansed with a vial of a clear liquid that looked of water but ate away everything save the bone from the skulls. He polished and buffed each one, his workmanship noteworthy on a normal day, but there was so much more at stake.

Satisfied he had done this well, he stood again, the village an ashen heap beneath him. This would not do.

Again he took another deep breath and the scream that came next was clean, it was pure. It erased the village, replaced it with the trees and shrubs that had been there before. It buried their bodies and let the maggots feast and soon no one would be able to tell that there had ever been anything here other than the serenity of a wood.

He gathered the things he needed and walked in strides to where the wee lass lay against the river. Her body broken and so far past the hope of any save the one she would see next when she opened her eyes. He picked her up as delicately as an ice flower in midwinter and closed his eyes and whispered.

“Siobhan.”

Full Stop. Deep Breath. Observe. Note. Contemplate. Continue.

Have you ever just had to stop. Your thoughts, even your breathing, and catch up with yourself? I just got off the phone and that is what me writing this is, it is me catching up with myself on some areas I am woefully lagging in. Nothing bad my Gentle Readers, but things I should not be behind in in my estimation.

No, no I won’t explain that.

I am going to write about vampires instead, and faeries, maybe a werewolf if anyone is interested. See, I have all of White Wolf’s published library. All of it. The entire World of Darkness. It is nowhere near a perfect gaming system and to any of you who have played either the TTRPG, LARP or even the video games based on it, you will surely agree. However, it is a foundational thing that I want to build on without copying. A place where I want characters to live without making them mealymouthed copies of what already exists there. I have every intention of heavily borrowing on terms of structure and the like, it is my least favorite thing to write, so having that means that these will be easier to write and I can be a tad more prolific about it all. Sometimes it is about quantity until you reach a point where you can safely depend upon quality to get you to the finish line.

So that is a thing that will be very quickly rolling out. That s not to say I will be neglecting the lovely Victoria and Siobhan by any measure, hush your mouth with that nonsense talk now. I talked to Mama and she is okay being a vampire for a little while, most people would say the same thing I think.

There are a lot of planes in the air today, I know where most of them are going, but there are a few really wild flights that just took off, so I will have to take a good and hard look at those and make sure they don’t go places where I would rather them not go. I will reach out to the people I need to reach out to, I know they can help me a great deal in this. I will muddle a bit first though, I don’t want them to think I refuse to do any of the work myself.

So yeah,

RAWRZ

Vampires, Migraines and Writing. A Normal Saturday I Suppose

.Worry not, Thankfulness is not over, I just need a day or two to compile thoughts into a coherent form, until then, you get the normal inane blathering that I give you and that should slake the blood lust raising from the coiled beast within that threatens to violate the tenants of the Masquerade and bring the full force of the Camarilla as they order your final death.

Sorry, I have been reading my White Wolf library and Vampire: The Masquerade was this morning’s selection. I mean, it is pretty words I suppose but there is a certain substance to the whole thing that is missing to the thing, on the whole, however, that is a conversation for the three people in the world who may care about my feelings on that matter.

I do hope all of the Gentle Readers out there had a pleasant holiday, I am still enjoying the being able to wake up after a quarter to four thing. Although I was up before then today, then again I also went to bed at six last night because my brain was rebelling again. It is calmed somewhat, if not gone. The Excedrin Migraine certainly helps a little, even though it butchers my stomach something awful if I take it without food. Mind you, as I write this I am taking it with a large cup of coffee and no food, so just because I know I should not does not mean that I will not.

The little folk are up and ranging about, I have already written about a story about the darkness that is in Prague’s Old Town. I am drinking coffee, college football is later and, no matter what my brain tells me, it is indeed not Sunday, but instead the day before that, Saturn’s Day.

I think I will write some fictional things today. Siobhan was spoken of yesterday, but only in passing and she is not a fan of being a secondary character in anyone’s story. I will punch myself in the head and see what other goodies come out and see if they are worthy of writing down.

I guess, for now, I will go back to pretending I care what my computer looks like and clicking on links that may or may not lead to the eventual deletion of all my worldly data stores.

Rawrz