“I am a writer” I say as I’m staring at the blank piece of paper for hours.
“I love writing” I say, grinding my teeth and breaking my pencil in half.
“Writing keeps me sane” I say, laughing like a maniac and spinning my head around 360 degrees while climbing up the wall.
(Source: james-baechanan-barnes, via lettheleavesfall)
I wanted to double check that “The Cherry on Top” was a short novel or novella and I found this on uphillwriting.org. I think it’s very informative and hopefully you guys will find it useful!
(Source: uphillwriting.org, via guernica322)
I invented a word
pock- an annoying piece of shit; a general douchebag
synonyms: asshole, jerk, fucker, shitlord, ect.
Undeath is… occasionally inconvenient.
Sure, being a lich is incredible - I mean, cast some eldritch black ritual and be transformed into a fearsome sorcerous entity beyond the reach of the grave whose power and skill delves far past that which mortals were ever meant to know, yeah, that’s totally amazing…
…but there’s the small annoyances they don’t mention to you beforehand, like how you can’t enjoy “pleasures of the flesh” like good food or intimate contact anymore, since you’re just bones… or how aggravating it is to break the habit of thinking you still need sleep…
Not to mention the constant worry that one day, you’ll be in the middle of a rousing speech to your witless minions, or are enjoying a gloating mockery of the hero’s weaknesses… and bits of you might fall off and need to be wired back on. Totally kills the mood.
(#00907-B176)
You know the saying “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak”? It’s true. Flesh is very, very weak.
In the grand scheme of world domination, it only lasts eighty years. Two hundred or so if you choose to mummify. But it’s brittle and tends to flake off, so why bother?
And as for bones… well… they last, it’s true. Nothing like a good coat of varnish to keep the decay out of bones. But choose the right wire. Iron and steel rust. Copper corrodes. Bauxite, though flexible, is weak and prone to tear.
Say what you like about tin, but bronze has lasting power.
It’s been a few thousand years since I last needed a wire change. The last time was embarrassing. The shiny hero got me monologuing and my jaw fell off.
Fell right off. Then and there. Right when I was about to tell all about my diabolical plan.
It’s hard to be taken seriously when one has to move one’s lower jaw with one’s hand like some carnival puppet.
Take it from someone who’s been there. Brass is best.
And it makes some pretty cool armour. I’ve even been able to fool heroes into thinking I still have fleshy parts to my mortal remains. That’s always good for a laugh.
And then there’s days like today. When the minions are particularly dense and the heroes are just too… bland… and I start to miss what the flesh once enjoyed.
Warmth. Taste. The smell of daisies. Dreams.
I can’t remember why I gave those up. Not today. Today, I envy the hero the kiss of his… bedmate. The warmth of their embraces. I watch him as he sleeps and wonder what his dreams are like.
Was the world worth it? Why was I working to rule this globe of sorrows?
But I can’t let those echoes of feeling ruin me.
I made a promise. And I intend to keep it.
I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Call for beta-readers
I need readers, soon, for my finished alpha draft of Kung Fu Zombies.
It has to pass through Beloved’s hands first. Of course.
After that, I will need people who can get back to me in a relatively fast time [if you can devour a book in a day - great! If you can retain info from that, then better] and especially people with a sense of humour.
My idea of funny generally sails over other peoples’ heads. So I need to know when funny can happen in the narrative and how I can do that. Especially if there’s an opportunity for puns.
It’s supposed to be a parody. That means I need jokes. But jokes that don’t kill the book. Or are politically incorrect.
If you think you can do that, send me a message with your email address and I WILL get back to you as soon as KFZ is ready for you.
Writing Contest: Beyond Time
Gentle reminder that I have stories in here. Find me and vote for me. Leave positive reviews.
Tell your friends.
Challenge #00890-B159: Absolute Power…
Nam et ipsa scientia potestas est - Knowledge itself is power
Knowledge is power. The knowledge of physics allows many species access to space travel.
Power corrupts. Those with the power to conquer worlds will do so.
Those with the knowledge of how to fight back… sometimes fail to apply it. They have better ways.
“This system is now ours,” boomed the bird before them. “You will serve us in all things you do.”
“As you will,” said the Chief Librarian. She wore a simple, tweed robe and a cotton wimple. “Do you wish to read, view, or experience?”
And at that point, Ju’riix the Conquerer verbally signed his own death warrant. “I wish to burn that which is heretical to the teachings of Bo’bobo'bo!“
“That,” said Chief Librarian Volx, in the same quiet and level tones, “is forbidden.”
“HA! You are weak and puny squishy things! You are soft! You have no power over me!”
“On the contrary. You came into this system with what looks to be a plasma propulsion drive. Those are rather vulnerable to EMP attacks. We’ve had one of the more sophisticated EMP cannons aimed at your vessels since you passed the asteroid belt. Surrender your outrageous notion or suffer the consequences.”
“You have not the power!“
“On this planet, no. But a station in the belt has had a lock on you for hours.” She tapped idly at a display. A flash of light carried through the large windows. “That was one of your minor attack vessels. Do you want us to aim at your flagship?”
“Lies! Trickery!”
Volx sighed and brought up a screen. On it, showed multiple views of the explosion. And the rest of Ju’riix the Conquerer’s fleet. “You have underestimated the balance of power in this encounter. Please don’t embarrass yourself further.“
Ju’riix the Conqueror seized the Chief Librarian in what he thought was a threatening grip. Volx did not resist.
“All I have to do is snap your wing-bones,” snarled Ju’riix, despite clear evidence that Volx did not have wings. “Your people will be without a leader!”
“All I have to do is nod,” murmured Volx, and did so.
Flashes of light in the sky soon paired with explosions on the screen, and it became very hard for Ju’riix the Conquerer to breathe… Light dimmed… The power in his muscles faded.
The next thing he knew, he was in a comfortable environment with three solid walls and one clear one.
There was food. There were ablution facilities adapted for his body. There were comfortable furnishings and a console through which he could access information.
There was also a bracelet around each wrist and ankle.
And the Chief Librarian on the other side of the clear wall.
And no visible means of egress.
“You are now being studied for the education of others,” murmured Volx. “You will be provided food, comfort, cleanliness, clothing, and company until the end of your days. Please don’t try to escape. It will only result in further embarrassment.”
His immediate response was to try and destroy his environment from the inside.
Volx sighed and shook her head. Invading captains never made good subjects. At least, not during the initial Standard Year.
The Acolyte Glin’yss was busy taking notes. “This is an excellent display of the use of power. May I ask a question, ma’am?”
“Questions are always welcome, though answers may not exist.”
“Um. They say knowledge is power,” she began. “And power corrupts. Are we not being corrupt in our use of knowledge?”
“We are sworn to share knowledge with those who seek it in peace. Those who wish to destroy knowledge are our enemy. You may rest assured, Acolyte Glin’yss, that while absolute power corrupts absolutely… there is no such thing as absolute knowledge.”
“That’s…. not an answer…”
“Corruption disadvantages the powerless by making them more so. We only render those powerless who would threaten us and our vows.” Volx watched Ju’riix discover that there was nothing solid that he could bash his walls with. “We seek knowledge to share knowledge. We ask, and we never take. We give without demand. I do not believe that we are corrupt. And I am willing to learn otherwise and amend my behaviour accordingly. This… individual,” she waved at the cell that contained Ju’riix, “mistook calm control for weakness. He thought he could obliterate that which stood against his beliefs. And it is your job, Acolyte, to find out why they were that important in the first place. For our records.”
“For the records,” Glin’yss bobbed and took her station.
It was a learning opportunity. For very obvious reasons, it was incredibly rare that anyone would ever attack the Archivaas.
[Muse food remaining: 18. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Thievery can net you the most interesting trinkets sometimes…
“What, this li'l thing? Oh, you know how pickpocketing goes; a bit of clothing lint or spare change here, a rare jewel or costly necklace there, the pulsing locus of an esoteric magical ritual over there. Luck of the draw, really.”
(#00884-B153)
Still dunno everything this one does… I twiddled with the locket around my neck. When it’s open, it glows enough and shows up all the genuine tosh. Gives it that little extra sparkle. Gives me an edge.
Don’t really want to take it off. Even though I can’t.
Most o’ them nobs, they have fakes for wear and tear. The special stuff, the real stuff? That, they hide away. This little light of mine has them shining through the hidies. Just for me.
Gave me a leg-up it did. You’d be shocked how much tosh turns out to be tarnies under it’s lovely little glow. Flog the rubbish to the less discerning and sell the real tosh to the right people… hire the right people with the Glim… Built me an empire.
Could do without the dreams, though.
This locket. It’s the only thing I killed for. Turns out the last touch who held it had to kill to own it, too. Gotta shed blood for the right to wear it.
And every night… every damn night… I dream their deaths. Starting with the moment it was made.
You got any idea what it’s like to dream thousands and thousands of deaths?
There’s this one bloke who died of natural causes. Got buried with it. At least it’s a few hours’ darkness until the next touch robs that poor bastards’ grave.
There’s some other power, too. Another right bastard. Longevity.
Yeah, I know. You’re young. You reckon living forever with a magic locket’s gotta be a doddle.
Say that after you’ve watched your grandchildren grow old and die.
And you don’t keep your youth, either. You age. Just… slower.
Imagine being sixty for twenty years. That ain’t anybody’s idea of fun.
Well, I’m dying. It’s taking ages, of course. Worse than painful. I’ve had enough.
You? You still have your youth. Reckon you’d have a century or so to enjoy it.
You can have the bloody thing. Pass me that bottle off the top shelf. Yeah. The one with the skull on the label. Cheers.
It tastes sweet. I knew it would. One last series of death dreams before I sigh into my own.
And then I meet all the others who died for possession of this little gem. And discover yet another downside to wearing it. No eternal rest.
I want to tell you to chuck it into a volcano. Sear it with dragon fire. Anything… anything but wear it. But all I can show you is my own death. Among all the many others.
For centuries to come…
[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
A call home from college…
((Inspired by this rather strange image: http://i.imgur.com/wq1qvY4.jpg ))
“…um… and one more thing. Daddy, I’m dating… a black man.”
“Well, that’s no problem. I’m no racist; I’m not gonna be upset if my baby girl thinks her old man should have a future son-in-law with brown skin.”
“Daddy, we’re not even thinking about marriage yet! But anyway… no, Daddy, I didn’t mean a colored person. I said black. He’s literally black. My boyfriend absorbs light. I’m dating a living void from beyond the edge of space.”
“… well… that kinda distance’s gonna make travel for holiday visits tricky.”
(#00871-B140)
[AN: I think I might know what happened with that pic. Once upon a dime, before digital imagery, I took a photo with my best friend at the time, pre-prom. The people at the photo processing place “corrected” my deathly pallor into a healthy tan and my friend, who was already a healthy tan, into really dark. Even if this pic is digital in origin…. The image is further proof that engineers really need a wider scope when photographing brown people.]
He arrived in a perpetual shadow and a subtle chorus from an eldritch origin. His otherwise normal street clothes delineating his form.
“Thank you for inviting me into your home,” he said in a voice that sounded like honey at midnight where the jar had been wrapped in black velvet.
“Yeah, I hear it’s quite a haul from where you live.”
“I am an exchange student. And I am seeking to immigrate. You have an interesting civilisation.”
“Thank you, we do work at it.”
“You are at a crux point. I wish to observe the conflict at a much closer range.”
“Oh… kay…” Steve cleared his throat. “And -ah- your intentions with my Donna?”
“I was not aware that you owned her.”
“Uh….” he cleared his throat again. “Well… Um…” the awkwardness of this Thanksgiving was only going to get worse.
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]