Stories, idea's, and diversions.

Fantasy Series Roundup

2012-02-06T23:31:00.000-08:00

I read a lot. I mostly read fantasy novels. No no, not that kind of fantasy. No, not the kind with talking cats either. I read things with guys and (in no small amount) girls who carry swords and do battle with evil. Sometimes there is magic. Ok, all the time there is magic but I like it when it is subdued.

Anyway, the undisputed king of fantasy in the good ol’ USA is George R. R. Martin. He claims he’s not going to die before he finishes the series he’s working on (Fire and Ice) but I don’t believe him. I turned on all my friends to his series and now we just wait around for the next book. Boring.

Well, I stumbled upon this list of “fantasy series to read while waiting for the next Martin book” at io9.com the other day and what do you know – I’ve read or am reading many of them.

1. Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrik Rothfuss: This is an ongoing series that I expect to have a couple more books. Its told in the first person through flashbacks. That was annoying at first but the story and characterization is pretty good. I’m looking forward to the next book.

2. Malazn Book of the Fallen by Steven Erikson: This is an ongoing series as well. Additionally, it is the series I’m currently reading (Book 5). It’s pretty good. God(s) verses mortals of various races seems to be the through arc. There are good fight scenes and the Brigeburners are good characters. However, there are these huge dumps of history and info that can really bog down the story if you’re not really into world building. I’m looking forward to reading the next book.

3. The Farseer Trilogy by Robin Hobb: I’ve not read this or even heard about it but I do remember the cover. It sounds like a trilogy for the younger less jaded crowd. I think I’ll skip it.

4. The Frist Law Trilogy by Joe Abercrombie: This series is great and finished to boot. Joe Abercrombie is my favorite new author and I’m eagerly waiting for his next trilogy. This is told with varied view points like GRRM and with gritty realism. This is not for the kids. World building is not overdone and the characters are freaking deep man. They always tell you to have layered characters. Villains that you can relate to and that kind of stuff. This has it. I would say the only bad thing is that you can kind of tell he was a first time author. There is a lack of polish that you find in his last book The Heroes.

5. The Way of Shadows by Brent Weeks: I’ve read this series and it’s pretty good. For all the rough language and adult themes this still read like a younger adult’s book. I liked it and would recommend it but really it is a Ninja story. It’s really good for what it is and I devoured all three books. Perfect for summer.

6. The Sundering Duology by Jacqueline Carey: This I might read as the io9 review says its from the bad guy perspective and that is something I’ve been toying with in my writing. However, the last time I read a fantasy story written by a female I spent a trilogy wading through a story about a gay hero. I just couldn’t realate.

7. The Black Company by Glen Cook: This series is pretty large and should take you a while. I’ve read all of them and I liked them at the time but in retrospect I feel like they are over hyped. They’re good action stories with likable if shallow characters. These books have like a cult following or something so there are really glowing reviews. I blew through all of them as fast as I could so I obviously liked them but now I feel like I can’t even remember them.

8. Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson: I’ve not read this one but I do remember the cover. The review sounds like it is very complicated with twists and turns. Maybe I’ll pick it up if I feel like paying attention to detail.

9. Shadowmarch by Tad Williams: I like the Dragonbone chair series so I will probably read this sometime in the future barring new books by Joe Abercrombie even though I think Tad Williams writes for a younger crowd.

10. The Earthsea Cycle by Ursula K. LeGuin: I’ve not read it. The review doesn’t make me want it. Sounds…political in nature. Maybe too much talk and not enough stabbing.

So I’ve not read four of the ten. Not bad.

I’m surprised the Demon Cycle (?) series by Petter Brett isn’t on there but then again I’m not. It’s nothing like GRRM in that it is a juvenile book that grows adult by the end of both book one and book two. However, each chapter is told from the characters view point ala GRRM. It’s a cool concept even though it falls back on the fantasy requirement of having the “chosen one” come kick everyone’s ass after a suitable training montage. The next book I think will either redeem or kill the series.

My picks for your next three non-GRRM series would be the Kingslayer Series(Rothfuss), First Law (Abercrombie), and the Demon Cycle (Brett).

Ode to Robert. Robert!!!

2012-01-24T08:14:00.000-08:00

Now that I have a daughter I find these types of videos funny or otherwise entertaining.

Get your two step on.

She now has her own t-shirts and ect. I would by one of Robert but sadly there isn't one to buy.

Justified is back.

2012-01-18T18:20:00.000-08:00

Damn this is exciting.

Justified is a guys show for sure. The characters were first created by Elmore Leonard from Get Shorty fame and they just drip with competence. Now, this thing, men on TV with competence is a pet peeve of mine. Well, to be more accurate – men on TV that lack competence is a pet peeve.
I find that men – aka manhood – is often looked down on. The sentiment of “he’s just a man what do you expect” seems prevalent in the eye rolling of commercial and sitcom wives.

It always seems like the male character needs to be taught the proper way to do something by the woman character. Or, perhaps the female character just has to sigh and accept that the male character just doesn’t get it.

Exhibit A: Everybody Loves Raymond. Raymond could do nothing that didn’t involve looking sheepish. If he was sent to the store to he couldn’t buy the right items and had to talk up what he got to make it seem like he wasn’t a failure. Cue eye roll.

Exhibit B: The yogurt commercial where the gal is talking about all the pie flavors but they guy thinks they’re pies and not yogurt so he searching frantically in the fridge. Open the door and look. Done. No frantic search needed. Not even for the best pie in the universe.

Exhibit C: NCIS. Every physical confrontation needs Ziva to save Tony’s ass in a fight. Really? Every time? Ok so she is trained. I get it. She could use her skill to take down a bigger opponent who lacks skill ,or, an equally skilled opponent who weighs about the same as her. But there is a reason professional women fighters aren’t in the UFC with men. They can’t hang. The muscle mass differential/ available strength is too great.

However, in Justified Ralyan is always on top of it. Even if someone got the drop on him he doesn’t worry. He’s got it covered with a combination of smart ass-ness and a quick hand. People call him to come help. Not the other way around.

Hell, even the woman characters on the show are competent. If Eva needs to she’ll sweet talk you or bust your nose with a frying pan if you weren’t paying attention properly. Its whatever you need.

Tune in and check the show out. It’s on Tuesday evenings. The dialog is quipy and straight to the point sometimes with a poetic turn of phrase (Especially when Walter Goggins has a line).

Master Minor

2012-01-16T22:48:00.000-08:00

I grew up in Richmond Indiana. I don’t think I was born there, maybe the next town or so over, but I grew up there.

Population: 36, 812 (2010, Wikipedia)

Now thirty-six thousand is about the same size of a small college, say like San Diego State. I didn’t know everyone there but when people talk about you they’ll talk about your family. Something like “Oh, he’s a Lankford. You know how they are.”

Culturally it is a far cry from San Diego, which happens to be the fifth largest city in the country and my current residence.

When I was growing up you weren’t racist if you called someone a nigger. You were just normal.

Then in the eighth grade I wanted to take a Kung-Fu class some of the other kids were taking. I rode my bike down on a Saturday to look at the school and the door was open so I walked in. There was an Asian man and an African-American man standing in the window talking. They had on their Kung-Fu training clothing and both turned and didn’t say a word.

Nervous I looked to the Asian and utter something to the affect of “I want to take the Kung-Fu class”. I mean he was Asian and in a Kung-Fu school. It made sense.

The African-American man spoke and told me to come back the following week at ten o’clock. I think it took me all of ten minutes of the following week to realize the instructor of the class was the African-American man.

His name was Chris Minor and over the next five years or so, until I left for boot camp, he taught me martial arts, helped my self-esteem, and was generally a father figure. He, more than anyone else during my adolescence, shaped what I was to become.

Before him I don’t remember meeting an African-American. Hell I didn’t even think on the race subject I suppose. I was only in the eighth grade after all.

But thanks to him I started to slip the cultural bonds of my community. Now looking back I can see that my time with him was the beginning to the end of cultural leanings toward racism, homophobia, bigotry, and the belief that a factory job was good enough.

So today on Martin Luther King Day I say thanks to Master Chris Minor whom taught me about equality and gave me the seed of courage needed change those things in life that have plagued so many.

Nicolas Gage - Vampire

2011-09-19T15:20:00.000-07:00

I knew it!

There is no other way to explain his success.

This photo is from the 1870s and apparently was auctioned on EBay.

If you own the original photo you will never age. This is, of course, only true as long as Nick Cage is "alive".

Pillow Affect

2011-09-09T10:15:00.001-07:00

I went camping this weekend with my family and some friends.

It was my daughter’s first camping trip and though she’s too little to know whether she likes it or not I assume everything was ok because she slept soundly in the middle of the tent – with her mother and I sleeping on either side making the perfect H.

However, my side of the H was made inexplicably more uncomfortable due to what I will now henceforth dub The Pillow Affect.

The Pillow Affect: The affect a pillow undergoes when the perfectly sized pillow is brought from your bed at home but becomes deflated and undersized upon arrival at your camping site.

I tried shoving cloths under the pillow to raise it but it wasn’t enough and I didn’t have any more clothes. Miserable.

Open Letter to George R. R. Martin

2011-09-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

Dear George,

I started reading your Ice and Fire series with the first book. I turned all my geeky friends onto your series. And we’ve bought, not downloaded, all your Ice and Fire books.

We’ve did the waiting.

We’ve did the complaining about the waiting.

We’ve giggled like school girls about the TV series.

We’ve started complaining about waiting for the TV series.

We love your work.

We will still buy your work.

But,

What is the deal with the captain’s hat?

Is it your good luck writing hat?

Did someone special give it to you as a gift?

Was that someone special Hugh Heffner?

I wonder if we bought you a new hat would you wear it.

It would do wonders for the sword and such fantasy genre to have its most successful author be interviewed without looking like a broke tug boat captain from Cutler Maine.

P.S. If you can find it in your heart to change your hat maybe we can convince Patrick Rothfuss to trim up the Yeti on his face.

Resurrected

2011-08-27T00:22:00.000-07:00

03/03/08 Was my last post. That would've been around mid-terms my senior year.

Since then. I've gotten married, welcomed a daughter, and let my writting slip.

Let this begin anew.

Once a day-probably not.

Hopefully once a week.

I actually agree with a corporate slogan. Argh.

2008-03-03T14:12:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I’m starting my search for companies to apply to when I graduate with my BS in Mechanical Engineering in May. I would like to work in sporting goods design for some type of outdoor recreation outfitter.

While there are many companies that fit the bill there are, of course, only 3-4 that I really want to work for. As I was looking at Gerber Knives for possible employment I came across their new slogan: Fend for yourself. I couldn’t agree more with the bit of prose located on that one page. Furthermore, in their ad archive there is this ad:

Isn’t that the freakin truth?

p.s. For all two of you who read this: I know it has been a while since I posted. I apologize. I'm over busy with my last year of college.

A picture instead of 1000 words.

2007-07-31T13:44:00.000-07:00

This is a pic of me about two weeks ago on a short hiking trip. It's a little blurry but I like the effect. Notice the bottle...what is it filled with?

Script Frenzy Winner

2007-06-28T11:46:00.000-07:00

I did National Novel Writers Month back in November of last year and I had a great time so I did their version of a screen play challenge.

The challenge is to write a 20,000 word screen play in one month.

Well, I completed that challenge today and I'm pretty happy about it. I found out that I am not really a screen play writer. I like the ability for inner dialogue that short story and novel writing allow.

My screenplay is a zombie film. That pretty much says it all. I wanted to do something different than the standard zombie film but it ended up more like Dawn of the Dead than I would have hoped.

Anyway, I completed the challenge and here are the icons to prove it (the other one is at the top).

Categorically

2007-06-19T14:50:00.000-07:00

You know what I find pretty lame? I mean, besides the Chargers getting beat by New England last year.

It’s pretty lame when you go to a party with new people and you meet some guy/girl, we’ll name him/her Kelly, and it goes something like this:

“Hey.” I say (I say hey a lot).

“Hey, my name is Kelly.”

“I’m Adrian, how are you doing?”

“Pretty good, the dip is tasty.” Kelly says scooping a large load of chip and guacamole into his/her mouth.

“Yeah.” I say because I am, generally, a complementary type of fella’.

“So,” Pause a beat to shovel more dip into his/her mouth. “What do you do?”

“As little as I have to.” I respond already irritated at the question (who really cares what I do? I don’t even care). However, since I am normally polite I return with (while being irritated at myself for asking it) “What about you.”

“I’m an engineer /writer /school teacher /librarian / whatever-they-do-to-pay-the-bills” says Kelly.

“Oh look! Whiskey!” I say and walk a way to get just a little more lubed.

Now, this thing of saying “I am a …” is lame. I mean how many people are an engineer /writer /school teacher /librarian / whatever-they-do-to-pay-the-bills? Is it really who you are? Is the thing that defines your soul your job?

If it is, that is great! There are people out there who fit their job so perfectly that they really are whatever they do to pay the bills. That is fan-freaking-tastic. Really, I wish everyone could have that, but most of the time it just isn’t so.

Most of us can’t be summed up with just one thing. We are husbands/fathers/pipe layers/sissies/tough guys all in one.

Just because I write doesn’t mean I’m a writer and just because I surf doesn’t mean I’m a surfer.

People like to put themselves in category. It lets them know where they fit in to the larger picture. This is because, many times, to define yourself you must define the differences between yourself and those around you.

I am not an American I am an African-hyphen-American….Asian-hyphen-American…and on and so forth.

I think the more and more narrowly people define themselves is a mistake. It sets you apart from the whole. Again, it sets you apart from the whole. To set yourself apart from the whole is isolationism. Want to know what an isolationist nation looks like? North Korea. You ever see anything about their world beliefs? They are pretty narrow.

To set yourself apart from the whole is to give yourself a narrow view of things. You have only the view of the categories you put your self in.

This can be seen when people go on international trips. People since the dawn of time have been astounded at the things they see when they leave their own land and see other lands. People have sent their children off for generations to let their minds open by making them a world traveler, indeed, a world citizen.

It’s the broadening of one’s own category that is the path to greater knowledge and personal growth. It’s also by broadening your own category that you are a more interesting and well-rounded person. No one wants a computer that only plays solitary and no one wants to get to know person who defines themselves by a single thing.

So the next time you are at a party and you are meeting a new person try something different. Try something they’re not going to expect. This is how it goes if I think to get to it first:

“Hey.” I say (Again, I say hey a lot).

“Hey, my name is Kelly.”

“I’m Adrian, how are you doing?”

“Pretty good, the dip is tasty.” Kelly says scooping a large load of chip and guacamole into his/her mouth.

“Yeah.” I say because I am, generally, a complementary type of fella’. “So what do you like to do for fun?”

(I would like to add at this point that, many times, people look at me funny. It’s a question you ask a 12 year old and yet it stumps full grown adults.)

“I like to watch movies.” They may say

“Sweet. Me too. Have you seen Way of the Gun?” I’ll say reaching for a bottle. “Want some whiskey?”

This method allows us to both not be categorized by something and to get to know each other in a truer and more open way. Also, it won’t bore the holy crap out of every person you meet.

You won’t be an engineer /writer /school teacher /librarian / whatever-they-do-to-pay-the-bills any longer, you will simply be you.

I loves me some trans fat

2007-05-31T23:39:00.001-07:00

You know…when I want fried chicken I don’t really care if the fat it’s cooked in is healthy or not. Its fried chicken for Pete’s sake, it’s not suppose to be healthy for you in anyway shape or form.

Same thing with my French Fries.

Ditto for my potato chips.

Don’t even try to give me low-fat or healthy chocolate cake. What’s the use?

The black on my steak and chicken has carcinogens? I DO NOT CARE!!!

When I eat those foods I do it because I want either the comfort of the food or the taste of the food and that means fat. Fat is good. Ever had bacon? I just drooled on the keyboard. Seriously.

If I want to be healthy I eat a banana not banana nut cake.

I can do this because I don’t eat friend chicken every day. So when I do have some for dinner I want it to be the full fat, full calorie, full flavored version.

My buddy said to me once, and I’m sure he got it from someone else: Everything in moderation, including moderation.

If your worry is the kind of fat you’re eating then maybe you should just lay off the fat for a while. Otherwise, enjoy your fat and eat it too. (Get it, I plagiarized what that French Queen said about cake…hahaha…man I’m good)

On motivation and heart

2007-04-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

I’ve just started running again after several years of sloth and low level self loathing. I had a back injury and misaligned pelvis issue that caused me some pain when trying to exercise. I got therapy and aligned the pelvis and started doing exercises to fix my back. Still, I sat around a bit because starting up a new exercise routine is more difficult than keeping one going.

Then when my girlfriend went out of state for work I started running again. I didn’t run far and I only went two times a week. Then when she came back I told her I wanted to keep my motivation up with running and that I was going to do the Carlsbad 5000. A 5 kilometer race here in San Diego that I had did several times, years ago, when I was running routinely.

I realized, due to my experience with NaNoWriMo, that I need some sort of goal, artificial or otherwise, to motivate myself to action. I put my money where my mouth was.

On the day of the race I ran faster than my expected pace and even though it wasn’t my personal best I felt good. My girlfriend’s heat was an hour after mine and I cheered her on at the starting line and then ran to the finish line to be there when she came across.

Just as I got to the finish line Eric Galvez was taking his final steps over the line. Eric was a co-worker of my girlfriend for years before he got a brain tumor. Eric had been a physical therapist and was training for triathlons and other races before the surgery to remove the tumor. To say he was physically fit would be putting it mildly.

After the surgery Eric’s body was not the same. It’s difficult for him to walk without aid and he gets fatigued easily but there he was crossing the finish line. A 5K is a little over 3 miles. He crossed it in a little over 2 hours to the cheers of the crowd. I can’t imagine what it was like for him to struggle so far. I must have been like me trying to run a marathon.

Motivation and heart. Eric is a lesson in motivation and heart. I hear excuses from people about not being able to walk around because of a minor knee injury or because their back hurts (i.e. me a while ago) and after seeing Eric I wonder. What are you complaining about? Eric has a hard time standing sometimes but he is out there in life pushing himself.

It is such a blessing to be able to move through space under your own power. People like Eric prove that. When you are disabled the ability to get up and go to the fridge is as sweet as chocolate, or so I would assume.

While Eric’s body may betray his will he is still strong in mind. Cruise over to his blog, They Call Me Galvez, and read about him. He has a book that just came out and he is traveling around giving speeches. He is working harder than many people in good health and with the full resources, such as driving, that come with good health.

Here is the youtube.com video showing Eric finish the race.

The next time you feel unmotivated and you don’t want to go outside and work in the garden, or do a set of pushups, or walk around the local park, think about the video of Eric and get out there and do it anyway. You’ll miss the option more than water or breathe if it ever goes away.

On living a full life

2007-03-01T23:41:00.000-08:00

I started running again lately. I was an avid runner for a long time and fell out of step with it at some point.

Anyway, I was running and thinking, as people often do, and amongst all the jumbled thoughts and flitting images I happened onto some thoughts that aren’t necessarily new to me but I thought would be useful to write about.

I was thinking about: if I had a kid, would I enroll them in Karate class or some such thing, because the martial arts had really helped me when I was a boy. Anyway, I was thinking about the type of things you hear about programs of all sorts. Many times the program lists one of its strong points as “go at your own pace.”

Now, this go at your own pace philosophy is total crap. You will get nothing out of the program, school, or event if you are just going to go at your own pace. However, this does not necessitate competition with others. On the contrary, it implies that you merely need to challenge yourself.

“That which makes life interesting to human beings are the contrasts, the conflicts encountered. That which makes life challenging to human beings are the problems to be solved…Remove the contrast and conflicts, remove the problems – indeed, remove the struggles - and you remove the sources of life’s interest, challenge, and joy.” Daniel L. Dustin, The Wilderness Within

The above quote was from a book I read for a class over summer. A class that I thought was a little silly going into it but found a real use for as the summer moved on. We had to write journals and reflect on things. In the end it helped me to develop a better sense of some of the idea’s I had floating around in my head for several years. Overall it was a fantastic class, if you attend SDSU I strongly urge you to take Wilderness and the Liesure Experience (Rec 305) with Professor Larry Beck. I digress.

It has been shown, through surveys and investigations, that people have their best times, the highlights of their lives, when they go beyond their skill level to achieve something. Now to bring it back to running: if you run, say, a 10 minute mile day-in and day-out and then you do a race where you run your PR (personal record) and it is at a 9 minute mile. You will be elated; you will even call it your personal best. This is not because you went at your own pace, a 10 min mile, but beyond your own pace.

So, you know what I’m going to say. For you to live a full life – a life full of happiness, a life full of joy, a life full of zest and wonder – you will have to do things that are uncomfortable. You will have to push through what you normally do and reach for the thing that frightens you.

Here is my hope for you: If you’re shy ask someone to dance, if you think you are unintelligent start a class in something you’ve always wanted to do, if you sit at home and watch prime time TV every night go out and watch the sunset with your mate, and if you are in any way not feeling like your life is going the way you want it to then do something about it, anything. It’s through action and pushing your limits that you will finally feel alive and whole.

Blue Dog

2007-02-10T11:18:00.000-08:00

Blue Dog stood up still bent over at the waist and jumped in the air kicking his legs in front of him. His back and the chair attached to it crashed into the ground without breaking. The blood dripping from his nose colored his face a grisly red and his ragged breath reverberated off the concrete walls.

With a grunt he rolled to his knees and stood again and ran at the wall. He ran up it and then launched himself with his strong legs away from the wall soaring through the air to land on his back again. The chair broke in shards and when he stood a large splinter stuck out of his side sticky with blood.

He touched it lightly with a finger and decided to leave it in. It would be better to clog the hole and not bleed out, besides if he didn’t get out of the warehouse soon enough he would be dead anyway.

He walked to the door, twisted the knob, and finding it locked pressed his ear against it listening for anything while swearing for the hundredth time that he was never going to work for the Hibatsu corporation ever again.

The Hibatsu corporation kept hiring him for easy jobs with high pay that turned out to be much to dangerous. He had became a P.I. because he wanted to follow people around and take pictures of people cheating on their spouses from the comfort of his own car. This shit about gathering intel on opposing small business’ was troublesome and now he had gone and pissed off the mob. Mom and Pop restaurant my ass he was thinking as keys were shoved into the lock to the room acting as his cell.

"Hey Blue Dog, wake up, yu’z got a visitor." A baritone voice said as the knob turned. Fleeting images of a rhino with a uni-brow flashed in Blue’s mind.

The baritone’s shoulders came through the doorway first, and between the time it took him to see the shards of old office chair and for Blue to lash out with a wicked kick to the knee from behind the door, Blue could see why he thought of a rhino. The man was huge when standing but with his leg broke he was just contemptible detritus.

Blue pulled open the door and standing there was a small man with a suitcase and fear in his eyes.

"Get in here, shithead!" Blue said quietly and closed the door behind him.

Grabbing the man rolling on the ground Blue searched his waist band for weapons and found none. Standing he touched the wood shard in his side again, winced, and turned an eye on the small man under the lone light bulb in the room.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Arnold Goldstein."

"Well, that’s nice Arnold but why are you here to visit me?"

"I..." Arnold began with a gulp, "I am an interrogator of sorts."

"That so? What were you supposed to ask me Mr. Interrogator?" Blue said and glanced over his shoulder at the uni-brow rhino on the floor. He had stopped rolling around and was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and holding his leg. "You stay there big guy with your mouth shut or I’ll break your other leg.

The big man on the floor looked up with a tight jaw but said nothing as Blue turned back to the interrogator. "Well?"

"I was to find out who you worked for, what you were doing snooping around the Bistro." The little scared man said with a down turned head and a gulp.

"If I wasn’t going to tell that big pollooka as he was pounding my face what makes you think I was going to tell you?" Blue asked keeping one eye on the man on the floor.

"Well, sir, I have many methods." he said with a small barely hidden grin.

Blue tightened his jaw and looked at the small man with steel eyes. He flexed his shoulders and then the man was falling limply to the ground as Blue rubbed at his knuckles.
Turning back to the man on the floor Blue touched at the shard sticking from his side. All the movement kept the wound wet with blood, much of which had leaked down his side and soaked his trouser leg

"Ok big guy, It’s time for me to get out of here, where are we and how do I get out of here?"

Outside the room Blue Dog approached door leading outside, dusts moats twirling in the air behind him in the dying light of day. His side and pant leg was a darker and larger red and he began to favor the side with the shard sticking out his side.

"Outside and to the right." He whispered to himself, a reminder of where the outside guard was sitting. Then the blue rusted Impala left by the large sack back in the interrogation room. He could feel the car keys in his pocket.

He opened the door and twisted at the waist swinging the iron bar he picked up off the floor, the wound in his side opening again. He grunted with the pain and fell to his knees as the guard fell to the ground, his face a broken mess. Just beyond the fallen guard the Impala sat rusting away like a great oxidized chariot of freedom waiting for him to rise from his knees.

I wrote this story because I was reading Gale’s Blog and there was a thing about what your particular rock star and movie star names would be. There was also what your detective name would be: Take your favorite color and your favorite animal and there you have it. So Blue Dog was born.

Feeling a little pink.

2007-02-06T08:53:00.000-08:00

So if you don't know, I surf Gale's blog frequently. I lurk a lot but I interact every now and then.

Anyway, she has had these two girls-only-blogthings on her site resently. I did both just for shits and giggles.

But, now I'm feeling the need to wear pink socks so I went and took a more manly test...Which of the X-Men Are You?

You Are Wolverine

Small but fierce, you're a great fighter.
Watch out! You are often you're own greatest enemy.
Powers: Adamantium claws, keen senses, the ability to heal quickly

Which of the X-Men Are You?

NaNoWriMo Winner.

2007-01-16T12:28:00.000-08:00

In case anyone still looks at this blog after two months of no entries - and only one entry per month normally - I completed the National Noval writing month challenge.

To prove it here are the icons I downloaded from the winners page. Oh, and no the novel will never be published. It was utter crap but it was fun to do. A big shout out to Gale for all of her support as I was doing it. Thanks Gale. After all it was your idea.

Chainsaw Night

2006-10-31T10:44:00.000-08:00

Strobe. Hands have my shoulders.

Strobe. Doors surround me. White molding with gaping mouths of black hold doorknobs that don’t turn.

Darkness. Strobe. A robe floats to my left and the hands tug. I trudge forward and check a door. No go. Fake. The robe floats away. I check another door. Fake. Painted plywood. The strobe is confusing. Why is everyone clutching me? It’s a haunted house not a house that is haunted. Get some backbone.

My date holds my hand as we walk blindly down the dark hall after the room with all the fake doors. Wailing echoes blare from the sound system over head. In the front of the group you hear and see everything first. I think its fun. She’s clinging to my arm with others holding my jacket. She smells like vanilla.

Enter the cabin setting. A fireplace is burning with fake cloth flames. Simple table and chairs hold plastic fruit and empty glasses. An Arrowhead water bottle is on the mantle, the actors between scare refreshment. The actors are at the other end of the set. A man and woman, talking like they are part of a previous group. His hair is wild and the beard scratching at his chin is unkempt. The woman walks away and when he steps over the railing and into the set I see the chainsaw; the only thing in the haunted house that gives me the willies.

He pulls the cord and it screams, it roars, it frightens the shit out of me and I step back through the hands on my shoulders and blend in with the frightened. My date looks over her shoulder at me and laughs. She beautiful and when he comes at her she stands her ground until the end.

The chainsaw bites into her neck and blood and bone spray over the crowd. She chokes and falls. People are screaming. A few are laughing and thinking it part of the show. I know it’s not so I back peddle. The door behind us is closed; keeping us from running into the group behind us. He’s now mangled the laughing ones. Blood is everywhere. Bone sticks in my hair. Death rattles fall against the basement walls. At the far end is stairs to the street but he’s controlling the exit. A few of us remain now. To scared to formulate a plan. I leap the railing and step into the scene. Why am I the only one to think of leaving the isle designed to keep us single file. He see’s me but when he turns his head others try to push past him and draw his attention away from me.

I burst onto the street and into the line for the next group. I’m blood spattered. I’m part of the show. Help, help. Don’t laugh, please help. Behind me the screams and the roar of the chainsaw stop. I run again, he’ll be coming up the stairs.

To anyone who has been looking for a post: I'm sorry I haven't posted sooner. This is actually a real fear of mine. Going to a haunted house and having the chainsaw guy be an actual killer who has been letting the groups in front of me go by untill the time is right to pull out the kill'n chainsaw and not the one with the chain removed.

National Novel Writing Month Participant

2006-10-31T10:18:00.000-08:00

So, I'm going to give the National Novel Writing Month a try.

The Goal: to write a 50,000 word novel in one month.

Wish me luck.

You can check out my progress here: www.nanowrimo.org

You can also use the link in the links sidebar.

Simply follow the link and then click on Authors and type in my name to check out my individual progress.

How the Terrorists are winning the war

2006-09-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

On the way to school today I was promptly reminded that it is the anniversary of the attacks on 11 September 2001. I don’t think I need to recap what happened because, contrary to many popular country songs, everyone still remembers.

After the attacks I was talking to a good friend of mine, Fiasal, from Bangladesh. We were talking about how, in his opinion, the attacks had a direct correlation with the Palestinian/ Israeli conflict. Summary: Muslims like Osama are pissed off at America because of the support given to the Israelis against their Muslim brothers the Palestinians. Pissed off + Motivated = Bad for New York city and America.

What does this have to do with Muslims winning “The war on Terrorism”? Well, it like this see: Now we all know about “those” damn “radical” Muslims and all the problems in the Middle East. By “we” I mean the average Joe and Mary in bum-fucked Idaho. Before then no one other than people who made a living at knowing about that crap gave a flying so and so. That’s one way the terrorist are winning. We now know of their cause, if at least to know only that it, and they, exists outside of a Chuck Norris movie.

See, the terrorist and their supporters don’t see themselves as terrorist. They’re freedom fighters like George Washington or Che Guevara. They have a cause and even if I don’t know what it truly is, the people they are trying to recruit do. It’s like preaching to the choir and Osama Bin Laden is freaking Jerry Falwell. By fighting the Americans they are giving themselves credibility. Another check in the win box. They could be fighting the French but really who couldn’t?

Finally, if they really were “terrorist” and their goal was to spread terror then they’ve succeeded terrifically. All you have to do is try to board a plane with a bottle of water to feel the weight of their terror. You can’t bring water onto a plane? Ridiculous. The only people that particular measure is going to stop from bringing banned items on the plane are the ones not wanting to get away with anything. I mean, come on. Drug mules have been smuggling dope filled condoms that they swallow onto planes for years. It doesn’t take any imagination what so ever to figure out how to get around the “no water” rule. There are other examples but really it would be a waste of time to go on. I’m sure you have your own examples of ludicrous rules imposed in your neck of the woods that are suppose to stop terrorism but only stops the honest hard working folk. Once again they’ve made us aware on a daily basis. We’re forced to take notice.

Their lives aren’t being affected. War in the Middle East has been going on forever. Another war on their doorstep is nothing to them. To us, it’s heartbreak every time a soldier comes home in a bag or missing a leg. There, it’s almost a badge of honor for fighting the evil Americans.

As far as body count goes the American military is kicking ass. However, support at home is waning while in the Middle East it seems to grow by the day. It doesn’t take a poly-sci major to figure out how things will work out in the long run. I don’t have the answers. I don’t have many questions for that matter. I just have this desire for change of some sort. Staying the course is only good if the course doesn’t sink you on the rocks of a distant shore.

Two entries in two days I think is a first for me. I got motivated this morning. We’ll never forget 9/11/01 like we’ll never forget Pearl Harbor but we can at some point befriend our enemies and grow together. Last thought, if you don’t vote you shouldn’t complain. Voting is the prime time for showing your community and country what you believe or don’t believe in.

Potty Mouth

2006-09-10T02:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve been accused of having a potty mouth.

It’s completely justified.

For five years of my life I was a Navy Seabee. Seabees are the Navy’s version of the Army Corps of Engineers, only better. So I was a sailor (who had never been on a ship) and a construction worker. I have a vile mouth at times, go figure.

I’ve been known to curse in front of children, the elderly, and in front of my mom. At times it’s embarrassing. Other times, they can all just kiss my ass. The world is too “PC” as it is.

I’ve been known to say, “Hey, get your dick-skinners of that!” if someone is attempting to lift a beer from the cooler.

I’ve also threatened to punch someone in the cocksucker more times than I can count (mostly the threats go unspoken as I’m kind of a chicken-shit, mostly).

However, at times, I am impressed by my restraint even if no one else is. I’ve yet to drop the F-bomb in front of children I’m related to. Also, I can keep the expletives down to a few damns, hells, and shits in the presence of parents and grandparents.

The reason I bring this up at all is: Recently I was at a dinner with my girlfriend and some cousins of hers whom I’d never meet before. They had a kid. I cursed. As Homer Simpson would say, D’oh!

So I questioned whether I should renew and revaluate the level in which I censor my self. I don’t have kids, but if I did would I want someone cursing around them?

Then today a teaser for the evening news comes on. Someone is saying the Starbucks logo is too racy for public consumption.

Has the whole world gone sensitive silly?

With my potty mouth I’m use to getting stares and looks from people around me. At times I even revel in the shocked offended looks that suburban mothers give me.

Frankly, the looks are deserved after dropping a F-bomb on the entirety of my local Einstein Bros. Beagle shop, but the Starbucks logo? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Look at it.

I’ve seen raunchier things on Desperate Housewives commercials.

Like I said, the world is too PC to begin with, do we really need more silly shit to be upset with?

Cursing is the release valve on all bullshit flowing into your life every day. If you curse, all the pressure that all the bullshit in the world puts on you will be lessened. Still upset? Curse more.

This is my thought of the day: If cursing allows you to get through your day and be happy with your self then go bananas with it, and do it in front of my future children no less, but please don’t -under any circumstance- cause my local news channel to run one more fucking story about a Tellatubbie being gay because he’s purple and there is a rainbow in the background. I’d take my kids learning how to curse over them learning how to be stupid any day of the week.

So I wrote this originally without the mention of Starbucks. Then I heard the teaser and finally I had an ending to a ranting incoherent essay about nothing. On a side not I learned that there are different versions of the logo. Essentially slimmed down version. Full bare breasted mermaid --> mermaid with breast covered by hair and showing belly button --> mermaid with breast covered, no belly button and no tail. By the way, this marks my first attempt to put a picture in a post (thanks to Gale for the motivation and inspiration).

Sila (Part 1)

2006-08-16T19:19:00.000-07:00

Sila lay supine, eyes closed, on a thick mound of grass, steam rising from her nude body. The rays of first morning fell over her hairless body making soft round shadows around her small breast and narrow hips. Her relaxed face, pale as if steeping from a cave for the first time, lacked the rosy cheeks of the living; it lacked the eyebrows and hair given a newborn. From a distance no one would be able to tell if she was a boy or girl.

As the shadow of her nose stretched across her cheek, and the rays of second morning brushed the tip of her nose, she sat bolt upright. Coughing she spat out a mass of mucus filled with nanobots. With her thumb and forefinger she forced her lids open and plucked out the composite ocular shielding. Blinking tears away she scanned her surroundings.

Toward the rising sun a forest of black trunks and purple leaves with gold flecks spread as far as she could see. The mound she sat on sloped away from the forest toward a creek of amber liquid glistening in the light from the systems binary stars. A small quadruped scurried under a fallen log.

Shoving a slender finger into her nostril she pulled out a capsule and broke it between her fingers before tossing it into the air. The rush of the rarified air from the small explosion ruffled the peach fuzz now growing above her eyes and on her head. Into her lap floated her field dress, a pair of multipurpose trousers and a shock resistant pullover.

Slipping the shirt over her head she rubbed at her eyebrows and head feeling the fuzz there before sliding her hand between her legs.

“Baah, Yezi must’ve been on duty.” she said in the low whisper of the cautious.

Rocking back she pulled her pants on two legs at a time and arched her behind off the grass as they slid over her hips. Rising to her feet she reached her arms above her head and stood on her tiptoes stretching out the sluggishness. When she settled her heels back down she wiggled her toes and gripped at the grass.

“It’s good to be alive, even if it’s as hairless as a schoolgirl. I guess it’s time to get my boots.” she said with a low sigh and reached a finger toward her nose.

* * *

Sila sank down into a crouch and poked her left forefinger into a mound of scat. Days old, the scat spoke to her. The fur and bits of bone mixed in the scat told her there were predators in the forest, and the size of the scat reported she was looking for something large. Removing her forefinger from the mound she noticed her pinky nail blinking a dull pink.

“Go ahead Yezi.” She said into the micro-receiver hid under her pinky nail.

“Ha ha, knew it was me huh?” Yezi asked seeming bored; his voice sounded rough and wary, like an old prizefighter talking with rocks bubbling in his throat.

“Yeah Yez, I knew it was you. You’re the only one who has me complete the re-genesis at pre-puberty.”

“That so? I’ll have to speak to the others about their lack of humor.”

Sela stood and backed herself against a tree and watched the rays of sunlight cutting through the canopy above. Dust motes floated in the rays and she closed her eyes and let out a breath. “Let’s cut the chatter. What are you bothering my peace and quite for?”

“A flash came down from above to remind all scouts that this is a recon mission only.”

“Why the reminder? The psi-tech’s implanted everything we need to know for the mission.”

“Granted, but we lost contact with Alpha Romeo during his last report before blackout.”
“Really? How were his med signs?”

“Not good. He had reported spotting a large unknown species moving slowly and grazing on the meadow grasses in his sector. When he stopped broadcast we checked his stats and his bio’s fell to coma levels. That was right before second sun down and complete blackout.”

Sila tilted her head back against the tree trunk and rubbed her face. If Alpha expired during blackout there would be no spirit retrieval available. His conciseness would die within his genesis body, and shortly thereafter his body onboard ship would have to be taken off life support.

“You still there, Sila?”

“Yep, I’m here.” She said bringing her thoughts back to the moment. Her iris shields lifted as first sun set fell. The breeze of the day grew still and a silence followed made awkward by the suddenness of it. Her head swiveled taking in the surroundings, her senses alert. The birds, or what passed as birds, fell mute in single voiceless agreement. The ground vibrated beneath underfoot.

“Yez, alert three. Significant change in climate. How long until second sun down and blackout?”

“You have fifteen minutes Sila. Stay on your toes, doll. You know these EMP blackouts follow the nighttime like a rolling tide. We’ll loose contact in fifteen, but you just stay frosty through the night. In the morning we’ll do a spirit retrieval and your intel will help in decided whether this planet is to be colonized. No pressure though.”

“Right, no pressure.” Sila said hearing Yezi chuckle through their com link. She listened as he took a drag off his cigar, the sizzle loud in her ear. She thought briefly of when she had came aboard ship. Yezi had taken her in, and showed her the ropes. She liked having him as her operator, even if he did leave hairless on re-genesis.

“Thanks for chatting me up Yez, but I have to get back to business. There’s some local rhythmic seismic action. I’m going to investigate. Mark last location”

“Mark location, now. Good luck sweet-pants.”

* * *

Three quadrupeds the size of large deer leapt from a nearby bush filled with turquoise leaves and yellow berries. Sila leapt over their heads to grab a tree branch and flip to a crouch atop it. Her engineered muscles hardly noted the effort.

Watching the animals flee her night optics increased the available light of the moonless night and let her see them as if it where midday. All three had fur stripped turquoise and yellow, how did she not notice them before? She needed to get a hold of herself.

For hours now she had stalked from bush to tree and always down wind from the vibration source. At first the oscillations were slight, barely felt while standing still. As she moved through the night sniffing the air she started to hear thumping low and steady with the beat. It grew as she started to increase her pace and leave stealth behind in an effort to reach the source. That’s when the animals bolted from the bush and she fled atop a tree branch.

She eased out of the crouch and let her feet dangle off the branch. With her engineered body not needing a resupply of water or nutrients the only thing she needed to take a break for was to think, but she needed that plenty. The vibrations had increased to feel like when one of the big class five retrieval vessels landed to pick up a platoon. At times it fell silent but would start anew from a direction and distance that seemed impossible to travel during the time interval. Even engineered the way she was, Sila had to strive to catch back up. The vibrations weren’t the hitch in her getup though, or at least she didn’t think so.

It was the noise and smell, but mostly the noise. She noticed it about three hours earlier, when she had stopped to log her directions and bearings more thoroughly. The vibrations had stopped so she took the time to look at the stars and distant mountains thoroughly and with the proper prospective for triangulation and ranging during the colonization process. It would all be recorded in her memory and available for download after spirit retrieval.

Then the ground begun to shake and finally a noise went with it. A great booming followed intermitted by the shattering of wood, like a forest being hit by a meteor. The wind carried the smell of the soil and musk. She had raced through the night toward the noise leaping brooks and hardly noticing the stinging leaves as they brushed her face. She was close. The booming was reverberating in her chest and then a howling whine, high pitched but guttural, echoed around her. She stopped running and squatted next to a boulder to listen. Animals burst through the bushes running in the opposite way and winged creatures fluttered above.

The rumbling stopped but the high-pitched howling intensified and was followed by bleats of pain. The thrashing was great and horrible. She heard tree’s breaking and could feel the struggle under her feet. Finally a great cacophony of howling grew and coalesced on the bleating. She knew it was a pack of predators hunting what ever it was that was causing the rhythmic vibrations that had first alerted her. They had brought down their prey and were now feeding. She could hear their festival but couldn’t see them through the trees. Her engineered eye’s strained as she set next to the rock but could pick up nothing. In minutes it was done and when she had eased forward toward the scene, with the smell of blood and meat, there was nothing left but a bone twice her height with bits of fur and blood splattered against forest around her.

As she sat in the tree remembering she shivered. The howling was terrifying her, a veteran of the action on Helenous Prime, and she wasn’t use to it. The howling grew in her memory to be evil and loathsome like puppies being tortured with a stick in a bag but only if the puppies where feral. She took a breath and exhaled and then counting to four did it again. Calm and centered she was going to make her next move.

The vibrations she had been following when she alighted into the tree had stopped during her reverie. First light should be up shortly and she was going to get to a high ridge and call for retrieval and get the hell off the planet.

I am posting this half finished because I’ve been having a hard time finishing this story. I know if it’s posted on here then I will be motivated to finish the story. The problem I’m having is setting a spooky/ scary tone. I’m working on it though. Suggestions would be appreciated. Once it’s done – and if it’s good enough for rework- I’ll post the reworked version in full. If you need more to read check out my other blog at: http://xenopuswars.blogspot.com

A Poem,or, Poem A

2006-07-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

In the water the sun dipped golden and your smile seared my heart
I love you

In the morning your perky nipples silhouetted against the dawn roused my desire
I love you

In the evening, cooking dinner, my hand finds your behind and I’m domesticated
I love you

In all of our life together your kindness, sweetness, and faithfulness has soothed my soul
I love you
Always

I’ve never written a poem on my own accord before. I’ve had to write one or two for a creative writing class I took. Both times it was a miserable experience. This time I wrote one because I’m horribly in love with my girlfriend. Granted, a shitty poem (if this actually is a poem) isn’t a very good way to express one’s love (a good poem would, however, be a good way) but I thought I would give it a go anyway

Wednesday Morning

2006-06-07T17:33:00.000-07:00

This morning when I woke, and said “Shit, shit, shit” to the different alarms beeping and singing country songs my cat was waiting by the bed. His purr, louder than both the alarms, made me feel glad someone was happy I was living, even if it was just because he needed fed.

As my feet hit the cold deck I closed one eye and blinked the other and said, “Hey fat ass” to the cat. Both of us need a diet.

Making my way to the bathroom he wound his way through my legs attempting to kill me with some wild version of cat judo. I bent down, picked him up, and cupped his head with one hand kissing him on the crown of his little head. Then I stroked and scratched his ears and chin. His purring stopped and he pushed away from me, sinking his claws into my bare chest. He hates being picked up. I make it safely to the bathroom.

Standing there pissing in the toilet the cat is back and he rubs the back of my legs with his tail. In the mirror to the left is a naked man who eats too many Polish sausages with sauerkraut and he’s pissing with one eye closed. Behind him is an orange and white cat rubbing and bumping his legs.

The man in the mirror says, “Ok little buddy, in a minute” and I think the man is lucky. The man is lucky because no one is here to see him baby that damn stupid cat. He’s lucky because with the all the bravado a man needs to survive against his friends, his coworkers, his enemies, the compassion given to his cat could be the chink in the armor of his soul. It could be the window to his truer being in which a person could see his compassion, his love for others, his fear that his country is falling to shit. It could show so much of what he doesn’t want others to know. He’s lucky because he can love something and it can love him back, if only for other reasons.

The man in the mirror finishes with his piss and says to the cat, “Come on shit head,” and heads for the kitchen. I watch the man in the mirror as he leaves the bathroom and I look down at my cat as he trots ahead.

I say, “Who’s my big fluffy boy?” as he rounds the corner of the hallway in front of me. I hope no one is looking in my windows.

I wrote this just because I felt like writing something. By the way, he's not really my cat. He's my girlfriend's cat. However, I'm the one currently taking care of his poop so I claim him as mine.

Blind Luck, all of it bad.

2006-05-31T20:23:00.000-07:00

Water lapped at Hegal’s elbows and waist. His breath came fast and harsh, in the near distance boat bells clanged as they rolled with the incoming tide while at their moorings. A hand thrust out of the water clawing at his face and he squeezed tighter. Hegal’s arms and shoulders burned from the struggle. Under the surface his hands gripped a man’s throat. He knew this man only had one hand to claw with because he had broken the other.

An hour earlier Hegal and the man were drinking ale. The man had named himself Sfin when he sat down and complemented Hegal on his guitar playing. Hegal could tell the man was rough from his grip when they shook. He had big firm hands coarse with calluses peppering his palms and knuckles.

“Sfin, you work down at the docks?” Hegal asked without needing to.

“Yeah. What gave it away, the smell?”

“Nope, the shake. Everyone in a port town smells like fish to a blind man. The calluses on your palms let me know you haul rope at the docks.”

“That so? Well, let me get you a drink for playing “Isabelle’s Landing”. It reminded me of my sister.”

An hour later, Sfin ceased to struggle and Hegal floundered and flopped out onto the shore. Face up he caught the night air in his lungs and let it out slowly. Standing up water dripped from his hair and when he felt around he found he was missing a shirtsleeve and his dagger. In the struggle he had lost his bearings but to his right he could hear the foghorn sounding dully off the northern point so he started a fast walk toward the south. The room he rented shouldn’t be more than a mile or so away. If he could just get someone to tell him what road he was on he would be all right.

I sat down to try and write a scene or story from a blind persons point of view. That is, no visual descriptors. It didn't come out so well as evident from the crap above. I did find out a few things though. Most of my stories are written without visual descriptions and that, for me, the hard part is writing a scene using colors and lighting (ect.) as descriptors.

Ranch Wars

2006-04-30T23:28:00.000-07:00

Dust from a thousand horses swirled over the horizon blotting out the setting sun. Daniel lay on his back watching the dust mix with the coming dusk with his dieing horse pinning his left leg to the ground. Brown grass was crushed all around him and blood trails lead toward the river. He swallowed and his throat seized against the dryness. In the distance the stampeding horses thunder faded away. Finally he knew he could move.

Pulling his belt knife out he began to hack at the ground around his leg. Loose chunks of high desert came up easily. Clawing the soil away he worked his leg free and dragged himself from under his horse. He flexed his leg slowly just to see if it still worked.

“Well, at least I didn’t loose my leg.” He said to no one alive. Nearby a Mexican and Indian raider lay dead. The Mexican was shot in the head and Daniel knew this because he was the one to do it. The Indian’s jaw hung limply off the side of his face and this was the work of Daniel’s dying horse.

“Damn, I’m going to miss that horse.” He said squinting his left eye.

Rolling onto his side Daniel rose to his knees and then stood up one shaky leg at a time. He spotted his wide brimmed hat caught against a bush, the evening wind threatening to blow it away. He gathered his hat then found his pistol and replaced it in his hostler. The Winchester his father gave him recoiled against his shoulder as he gave mercy to his horse and then he went about gathering what he could for the long walk ahead. Night was now setting and the coyotes would be sniffing around the dead before long. Daniel wanted to be gone before then.

* * *

Sally poked at the fire with a bit of ironwood. Above him the night slipped by without cloud or moon. A large knife glowed a dull cherry red in the coals, in a few minutes it would be time.

“Ok, you need to start getting your self straight with god.” He said to a man laying curled on his side on a horse blanket.

Blood spread out on the blanket surrounding him and his breath was labored. He looked up at Sally with a pinched face and said nothing. The firelight rippled around the two of them and a twig broke in the night air. Sally sunk low and pulled his revolver and struggled to see into the night. The fire created a light halo around them and Sally couldn’t see beyond it. He crept forward sliding on his belly under a bush.

“Sally, no need to get jumpy. It’s me, Daniel.” He said stepping from behind a large stone.

“Shit Danny, I heard you a mile away. You’re lucky I didn’t put one between your eyes.” Sally said stepping back to tend the coals.
“Sal, I broke that twig on purpose so I wouldn’t startle you and have you end up putting one between my eyes.”

Daniel squatted beside the man curled on the horse blanket and looked him over. The man had been shot in the side. The wound entered the back and came out the front. He put down his saddlebags and sat on his behind straddling the man’s head. Reaching down he grabbed the man’s wrists looked up at Sally with the glowing knife in his hand and nodded.

“This is going to piss him off a might.”

“Yeah? Well only if he lives through the night.”

Sally pressed the blade against the man’s flesh. The man yelled out and fought Daniel’s grip. Daniel wasn’t sure what smelled worse, the burning flesh or the Tequila stench from the man’s mouth. Daniel pulled the man over on his back and Sally fought his legs down. Again, the knife fell and the man roared before passing out. Daniel let the man’s arms fall and set back against a saddle.

“Got him drunk enough didn’t ya?”

“ I didn’t think anyone else was gong to be around to help.” Sally replied and started to kick out the fire.

“I take it we weren’t too hard to find with the fire going like it was. Got any food?”

”Nope Sal, no food.”

Sal and Daniel sat in the dark beside the dying embers of the fire and took long pulls from Sally’s canteen. In the distance coyotes yelped and howled at the night. Sally settled back and let his head rest against a rock. The last words they spoke were to set the watch. Daniel would wake Sally when he couldn’t stay awake any longer and then Sally would do the same.

* * *
Daniel kept his breathing study and slowly opened one eye. Sally was opposite him taking off the boots of the man on the bloody horse blanket. The sky behind his silhouette lightened with the first rays of the morning.

“Sal, what’s going on?”

Sally dropped the man’s legs and they thudded limply on the ground. Throwing the boots over by his other gear Sally stood and nodded at the man below him.

“He died sometime last night. His boots and belongings I’ll take and sale when I can. His bible I’ll try and take back to his family.”

Daniel got up and brushed the back of his trousers without responding. He picked up his saddlebags and the dead man’s canteen. To the west rough stone cliffs rose red and dusty in the morning sunlight. If he went back to where he came from in the north, across the flat brush filled mesa, he would only find the dead.

“Sal, I’m heading east toward the Indigo River. Once I hit it I’m going to go south toward Springfield. It should take about two days walking. I’m pretty sure the Lincoln’s were behind the raid. I killed an Indian and a Mexican and both their horses had the Lincoln brand. You know if they find any of us they’re sure as hell not going to let us alone. You coming?”

“Yeah, I’m coming. You know if we can make it back and tell what happened it’ll mean war between the ranches. You sure you want to go all the way back?”
“I’m sure. Get your stuff and lets get some distance before the sun is all the way up.”

I wrote this because the new writers web site I joined has a western area for posting stories and I thought about never having written anything like a western before. Hell, I've never even read a western before. It just sounded like a fun exercise. Yeah, this is unfinished. I didn't really have any place for the story to go. I had just sat down and wrote out the first scene and then the desire to finish a western just flew right out the horse-hide covered window.

Southbound

2006-03-21T10:08:00.000-08:00

Rain pelted Howard's windshield as he drove southbound on the I-15 to San Diego. He flicked the windshield wipers on high and struggled to see the line in the road. It doesn't often rain hard in southern California but Howard thought it was just his kind of luck to be stuck in, what seemed to be, the worst storm in California history.

"Fucking California drivers! Fucking six hours in traffic! Fucking fuck!" Howard yelled at the dashboard. The rain and traffic put him six hours behind in getting into San Diego and now at four in the morning he was red-eyed and fueled by anger and caffeine.

Just when he was about to explode in another round of curses the line on the side of the road ran out and a bumper began. Howard jerked the car left and listened to the crunching of metal as the side of his car sliced off the mirror and handle of the other car then slide to a stop on the shoulder of the highway.

Stepping out of his car the rain soaked into his t-shirt and his hair fell brown and wet down the front of his face. The rain was too heavy to be able to see the car he hit sticking out of the shoulder of the highway.

"Hey, you all right?" He yelled opening his trunk and pulling out his emergency flash light. When he put light on the car the shadows flicked and bounced around in the rain. Behind him his car sat on the shoulder of the road with the trunk and door ajar.

"Anyone, hurt?" he yelled approaching the car. The rusted green Ford Ltd with a flat tire refused to respond.

Howard carefully walked along the green Ford shining his light and surveying the damage. Missing mirror, quarter panels dented and scraped, but no one was hurt. In fact, no one was around, the car was empty. In the rain and wind the Ford's green trunk clanged up and down.

"Assholes! Left the damn thing almost in the middle of the road. Screw them and the note I'm suppose to leave. Serves them right, I could've been killed."

Going back to his car Howard threw the flashlight in the trunk and slammed it down. Back in the driver’s seat and already moving on to San Diego he wiped his face dry with napkins from a Hamburger joint in Temecula and turned on the radio. He started following the line on the side of the road again when he heard his back tire thumping.

"What now? This is the worse fucking day ever." he said pulling over to the shoulder again.

Stepping into the night he wished he hadn't already dried his face with his only napkin and walked back to the trunk to pull out the spare. The tire thumped again and Howard jumped away. The thump came again and he knew it wasn't from the tire. Again the thump came, this time from the trunk. Howard kept his distance and moved around to the back of the car.

Hairs rose on his wet neck and he shivered as the trunk thumped again and again. His voice was lost with all its curses and hostilities. The trunk bounced up with every thump and he inched his feet closer against his will and common sense.

Howard’s mouth went dry and his throat cinched tight so even though he wanted to yell it came out as a harsh breath. He thought about not opening the trunk, he knew he shouldn't but he couldn't help it. It was fascinating and surreal and Howard didn't want it to stop, his adrenaline coursed through his body giving him courage. With the key in the trunk lock there was only one more thing to do.

The lock clicked when he turned the key and just then did the thumping stop. The trunk lid was open an inch and Howard had expected something to come bounding out but there was only silence. In a quick thrust Howard threw open the lid and the smell hit his nose before he could see what lay within. A wet dog lay on its belly with its ears laid back waiting for an abuse Howard was unable to give. When he laughed the dog shrank back into the corner, cowering.

"It's all right, come on out." Howard said like he was speaking to a scared child. He pushed his hand in the trunk and let the dog sniff him out. Minutes later, southbound and smelling like wet dog Howard was on his way to San Diego again. In his lap lay the head of a grateful mutt and in his heart, laid to rest, was his anger from earlier in the evening, and to a greater or lesser extent the anger from earlier in his life.

I wrote this because it sounded like a fun prompt from Writer’s Digest online. The prompt went: You're traveling in a rental car when you hear the thumping of a flat tire. You pull over and discover the thumping is not coming from a flat, after all, but from the trunk. What—or who—is making the noise? So, I thought it would be a good challenge to write about the prompt. I was trying to make the middle part seem a little spooky but who knows if it worked. The online writing group I belonged to is no more so I have no one to tell me how bad this sucks, or not.

Indiana Summer

2006-01-31T00:17:00.000-08:00

Wind blows in hot and sticky through the front window of my mom’s robin-egg-blue mustang-hatchback but none of it gets to me. I’m curled behind the back seat under the glass with sweat beading everywhere. I feel like an ant under a magnifying glass but in the back of my mind I keep calm. I’m lying on beach towels and every now and then I stick my head up against the burning glass to see where we are. The cornfields of central Indiana go whizzing by and then its Williamsburg and I put my head down again. Almost there.

I’m under the hatch not by choice. Today my cousins and Aunt are riding with us and they are taking the choice seats by force. Even the little hateful one backed by her brethren has physically hijacked my little spot of sticky vinyl. But in a little bit I won’t care.

I doze off and when my head starts to bounce I wake up and press my head over the seat. Through the tunnel of heads I look out the windshield and see an old Quaker farmhouse coming down the dirt road. Next to it is a big red barn, no lie, and a modern garage. A black man wearing Ray Bans too large for his eyes takes a wad of bills from my mom and freedom has never tasted so good on my tongue but I still have to wait for the hatch to be opened.

The air washes over me and I burst out of the hatch. Everyone is standing around like they’ve been waiting for me. I don’t want to let them down so I grab a towel and head for the other side of the barn. I’m called back twice to help carry things before I can get ten feet. In a way it hurts more now, being held back. I’m all wide eyed and bushy tailed and the sun beats down on us all.

Finally the red barn is to our back and in front stretching out to the next cornfield is Clark’s Pond. It’s dark green waters glint with light and someone dives off the high-dive on the pontoon floating in the middle. We pick our way through the other people across the hot dredge sand and thanks to it being the 1970’s I race off without suntan lotion or an attending lifeguard and plunge into the swim area.

Now you can swim in the entire pond but only this little roped section has sand poured along the muddy bottom. The rest of the pond sports diving boards and slides. At the far end is the rope swings. They scare me most of all but that’s where I’m heading first.

In a blessed turn of events there is no line and I focus on the second swing. It’s been my nemesis all summer. The two swings sit side by side along the edge of the lake. Usually there is one line for both swings. The path leading to the second swing crosses the first swings trajectory and as I pass in front of the step platform I smile. It’s only fifteen steps high but usually when I climb up there, sit on the swing, and kick my feet out I can barely hold on. It feels like the force of the swing is going to rip the rope from my fist and I’m going to bounce my head and behind down the steps and onto the ground below. The launch out into the water gets you ten feet of air but the thrill is taking the leap of faith off the steps in the first place.

I’ve walked the second swing to the top of it’s steps many times but just before I kick out my feet I give into the fear of not being able to hold on and climb back down with my cousins laughter in my ear. Not today though. I’ve been hanging from the tree in the back yard to get my hands strong. Today, I’m going to the top of those twenty steps and I’m going to swing out over the lake and it’ll be a new beginning. A brave new beginning for a brave new me.

At the top of the stairs I place the seat under my but and take a deep breath. My knuckles are white and then my feet are free. Behind my eyelids I can imagine how cool I look but when I hit the bottom of the swing and start to come up I feel my fingers slip and now my heart is racing in the Kentucky derby. It’s at the end, I can feel it, soaring into the air I let out a whoop and splash bodily into the water. It washes away the fear and all I can feel is excitement.

In the summer air I come running out of the lake and past the swings hollering for my mom and aunt to come look. With out waiting I turn and sprint back towards the swings. I can see the second swing still swaying back and forth from my flight. I’m almost to it when I’m on my back looking up. The first swing is swinging widely over me. I forgot to look for someone swinging on the first swing. There is an older girl laying on her side half out of the water holding her head.

“I’m sorry!” I stammer getting to my feet.

“I’m sorry.” I say again but she’s still holding her head.

When I turn and head back toward my family I see my aunt running for me. It’s funny to see her run; I’ve never seen that before. I try to smile but I can’t think how to do it. I’m trying to get my feet to stop walking me sideways. Then the world spins like I’m at the carnival.

“Give him room, let him breath!” The black man with the Ray Bans is saying. I like him I think before I open my eyes; he let me play Frogger for free once.

My aunt is there and she’s hugging me close. It’s funny also, she’s did two things today she’s never did before.

“I’m ok.” I pronounce ineffectually. Over my Aunt’s brown hair my mom makes herself seen and I’m traded up a sister. The crowd goes away when I manage to keep my feet underneath my knees and I’m escort with an arm around my shoulder back to the towels. I’ve never been overly brave but with my cousins around I’ve had to be hard to hurt plenty.

In the end I remember that day not for the breakthrough in character I had by conquering the second swing but for the instance of love I felt from my aunt. Many years later after she gets a tumor the size of a Golf ball removed from her head I remember this day with her but never mention how I felt the day she held me dearly. Because in the end I’m still not all that brave.

I wrote this because a friend of mine said my writing is dark. I thought this was a little lighter than some things I’ve put out there. And yes this is a true story, only embellished a little bit. More like a whole bunch of times at the lake rolled into one.

Of motorcyles and High-heels

2005-10-26T22:56:00.000-07:00

“A woman in high heels is like a man on a motor cycle.”

“What?” I said and spit a mass of snot and blood into the potted plant next to our table.

“I said a woman in high heels is like a man on a motor cycle.”

“I heard what you said, but I don’t know what the hell you mean by it.” I said and took a shot of whiskey and looked around the restaurant.

At seven o’clock on a Friday evening the restaurant was crowded. But a crowd is subjective I suppose. Only a few of us remained. The restaurant was an old house, which had been converted into a respectable eating establishment. It wasn’t so respectable that a tie was expected but just respectable enough to have cloth napkins and quite dark corners.

“Pour me another shot.” I said.

I’d do anything to hold the pain back. My cracked sinuses oozed more blood down the back of my throat and dripped off my nose. Around me people who had no more blood to loose lay still on the floor. My waitress lay still as a corpse but every now and then she would open one frightened eye and then close it against her nightmares.

An open hand slap woke me from my daydream. In it my waitress, beautiful and young, showed her cleavage every time she brought more bread. Before me the Jack Daniels bottle ran dry and the man across from me took the last swallow.

“Do you want to listen? Or, do you want to die?”

“I’ll listen.” A nipple slipped from my waitresses blouse and in it a ring with a small chain held my house key and she said, “You’re loosing it, wake up and pay attention.”

“A woman in high heels is like a man on a motor cycle because in the end that’s what every man wants. I mean, on all those television show’s about how hard it is to be a woman, the women have such a hard time with life because they can never find the right guy. In one episode they’ll meet a nice doctor, who on the weekends, does pro-bono work with the elderly. They’ll have a grand dinner and go out for drinks afterwards. At the bar, the doctor goes off to the bathroom and the handsome bartender slips the woman a wink and his number… Hey! Hey! No one moves!” He said and squeezed off two rounds at the Mexican busboy who had been crawling toward the kitchen.

“Anyway, where was I?”

“About, to give me a shot of tequila then tell me about the bartender and the woman in the sitcom.” I thought: God, if I can only keep him talking long enough I might pull through this. I once read somewhere that the average time for a police response to a shooting is 30 minutes. It seemed like days had passed but just about now America’s Finest should be tearing ass in this direction guns blazing. Boy do I need to pay attention.

“You do have a set off balls on you, don’t you? Drink up and listen. Me and you will be to the end of this in a minute.”

“Ok, so, like four episodes later this tart on the TV is still dating both guys and bitching about how she doesn’t know what to do. Oh, she knows what she should do. Marry the doctor and raise fat pasty children who play video games too much. But what she wants to do is be wild and ride off with the bartender on his Harley. Have the wind blow through her hair and feel the bike belch and spit fire between her legs. The dream is the guy on the motorcycle, no one ever dreams about being married to a guy who comes home on time every night.”

“Right, and this is like a woman in high heels because we want to be the ones to spit fire between her legs?” I said and laughed out the side of my mouth at my own stupid joke. Droplets of blood sprayed the back of my hand.

Where he shot me in the stomach made soft sucking sounds and shot pain like lightning bolts as I chuckled, so I stopped. The real joke was that I was sitting in a restaurant which looked like a battlefield talking to a psychotic killer and all I could do was think about my waitress’s exquisitely round and perky eighteen year old breast.

“No dipshit. It’s like a woman in high heels because that’s our dream. The sensible girl wearing the flats with the career and penchant for saying no every time you want to stick it in her ass just doesn’t cut it. We want the woman who, even though she’s going to be on her feet all fucking day long, will wear those High-heels to attract a man. In pain and through discomfort all she wants is to make her man happy. She’s wild and slutty and will be all yours.”

“I never thought of it that way. What’s that have to do with me?” I heard myself say. The world went blurry around the edges and I blissfully thought the end was coming. Then another open hand slap brought me back home.

“Well hero, for getting in my way here, after I kill you, I’m going to find your wife and take her for a little ride. Only she won’t be going home with the bartender because, I am the guy on the motorcycle. While, you, poor dead you, will be pushing up daisies.”

When I tell this story at parties, years and years later, I tell people I replied “My Harley’s out back” and that’s when I saw the red dot on his forehead. But really, my mouth was mush and maybe nothing came out at all. I was half falling into the mixed blood on the floor when the red dot lit his brow. On my side I watched his head snap back and when his body pitched to the ground next to me one eye flitted open, dulling, as black boots worn by SWAT officers filled my view.

I wrote this in a fast blast of bad writting. As you can tell if you read this. It's a little dark. I wasn't in a mood or anything. I was just having a conversation about High-heels and motorcycles with my self and the idea bloomed. Or rather, blew up.

John,Sally, and Jerry

2005-07-13T18:18:00.000-07:00

“I love you!” said Sally of the golden hair and rose colored lips.

“No, I love you more!” said John of the chiseled chin and rock hard abs.

“No, I love her the most!”

“Who are you?” asked John taken aback by the stranger in his living room.

“I’m Jerry from Accounting.” Said Jerry of the oily glands and fetid breath.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” shouted John standing and brandishing a well-groomed forefinger at Jerry.

“I’m here to take Sally home with me, she’s mine.”

“I’m what?” asked Sally perplexed because she was, at the moment, wondering why Jimmy from Accounting was in Johns house.

“Listen pal, you need to get the hell outt’a here if you know what’s good for you.”

“No you listen!” Jerry said with his dander up. “I bought sally on E-bay fair and square!”

“You bought what? Who?” Asked John as Sally exclaimed “Oh, my!”

“Well, that’s not exactly right.” Said a stranger coming in from the kitchen.

“Huh? Who the hell are you?” John said with heat in his cheeks.

“Daddy!”

“Daddy?”

“That’s right pumpkin, Daddy.” Said Sally’s father of the Argyle sweater and tweed jacket. “Jeffy here didn’t quite buy you. He bought the first time rights to marry you.”

“Oh Daddy how could you?” Sally said throwing her hands to her face.

“You knew John was saving the money for that” she said through her hands and tears.

“Well pumpkin, you’ll thank me for this latter. After all what kind of life would you be living with John? He’s just a writer for god’s sake. Do you want the government to raise your undernourished children?”

“But Daddy!” Sally pleaded.

“There’ll be no buts about it, unless it’s the door hitting your but on the way out of this rat hole. We’re leaving now. Jesse, grab your fiancé by the hand and let’s get down to Justus of the Peace, we have a wedding to get to.”

“Goodbye John!” sobbed Sally of the unrequited love and loss of hope.

“Goodbye Sally!” called John of the broken heart and shattered dream.

I just wanted to write a story where every line started with dialoge. No reason why. Just because really. Also, I just had a bug stuck in my craw.

In the forest.

2005-04-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

Willam signaled his mount to stop with just a touch of his knee. Four paces away a dead wolf lay rotting in the dappled forest sunlight. Out of the wolf’s side the feathers of a brood of vultures sprouted like a feathered mole. Willam sniffed the air along with his horse and, agian along with his horse, stifled the urge to bolt headlong into the ravine. The rot of dead flesh drifted downwind to him and was tinged with a suspicious hint of sulfur.

"Well, you boys have had your fun. It's time to let that old wolf lie."

Willam dismounted and plucked a rock from the ground and heaved it into the brood. The shattering screeches as the vultures took flight made William step back a pace just as they flew at his head. Talons meant for rending meat from bones tore at his face and sank into his shoulders.

Under the onslaught of the vultures Willam sought to keep his wits and his sight. When he would strike one down another would take its place. He would grasp one by it's ankles and swing it down, bashing it's head on the ground, and then be assaulted anew by it's comrades. He was unable to keep them off so he fled into the woods. Running through the middle of bushes and under low hanging branches he managed to knock a few birds off their perch and it let him deal with one or two birds at a time. He ran head long in this way until he found himself suddenly without passengers or pursuers.

After looking about for a moment he set out for a brook bubbling happily off to the east. The cold mountain water cooled the burning slashes on his face and hands but did little to staunch the blood flowing into his eyes. He cut off a piece of cloth from the waist of his tunic and bound it about his head to keep the blood from his eyes. When his mount nickered to his left he was unsurprised, the steed had been a well trained gift from his uncle, and the baron was known for his generosity with gifts.

"Well, I guess you couldn't have did much against a flock of vultures, but the next time we're outnumbered twelve to one by footmen you have to take them on yourself." he said to the horse who snorted and tossed his head reproachfully at the bargain.

William remounted and let the horse carry him back to the wolf's corpse. The day had lengthened but there was still enough light when he dismounted again to let him inspect the corpse. It lay on its side with its tongue lolling out to the side. The vultures had been picking at it feverishly and most of the belly and torso had been ripped to shreds. Willam however was looking for something else.

On the hind leg was savage a wound to which no credit could be given to vultures. The bite had hamstringed the wolf and it still reeked of sulfur. Willam took his dagger out and severed the leg at the hip and ripped it from the socket. When he approached the horse it shivered and cantered away a few yards.

"Whoa big fella." Willam said softly. "It's ok, it's just a bit of bog stink. The bog creatures don't usually come into the mountains but you need to get use to the stench anyway."

Willam advanced on the horse slowly, and though it's eyes widened it held it's place. Grasping the reigns in one hand he brought the leg of the wolf to the horse's nostrils. The horse recoiled and shook again then snorted the stink out.

"That’s good, get it out but remember it. If the bog creatures are this high in the mountains something is driving them here. I don't have an idea if its hunger or something more sinister but we need to take this to the kings huntsmen and let them decided what beast it is first."

Willam stowed the leg and remounted. Riding down the mountain side he let go of the reigns and rubbed the drying streaks of blood off his face. A few deer came leaping out of a thicket and startled him, in their wake blew a light breeze with just the hint of sulfur.

On this I just started with the idea of a man on a horse and began to write. It seems really hard to write a good fantasy short story. By fantasy I mean the sword and sorcery type, not the cat who can talk type. This is 700+ words and it's not even really a story. Just a scene. I need to think of a fantasy short story about 1500 words long. But of course it should be a good one, so wish me luck.

Jeb's sweat revenge.

2005-02-13T22:54:00.000-08:00

In August everything is sticky. When the wind blows you never feel refreshed, you just feel the hundreds of wind born particles now stuck to your face. The sweat can never dry because the humidity makes you feel like you’re swimming through the air. This is how you go about your days, sticky, sweaty and utterly tired. Anything other than drinking an ice-cold Pop on your cousins back porch is a chore.

So here you are on the back of your cousins porch, drinking his last ice-cold Pop. He’s pulling up the driveway with your lady sitting next to him in the pick up truck. She’s sitting in the middle of the seat straddling the gearbox and you think she’s your lady and she should be straddling you. But, lets face it, she doesn’t know she’s your lady. She still calls you champ because of the time your little league won the championship.

When they pull to a stop you wave and tilt your head back to take a long pull on the Pop and sweat runs down your brow. Your cousin, the one who still calls you champ but only in front of his girlfriend, says to you. “Hey cuz, been keeping cool?”

“Yeah, as cool as I can. Hey, Brit!” you call out and she waves and smiles and you just melt, and for once it’s not because of the heat.

“Jeb!” Your cousin yells from the kitchen. “Did you drink the last Pop?”

Then, since you’re such a funny guy you say, “Do you see anymore?”

His reply, since he’s such a funny guy, is to come out and give you one fierce slap to the back of the head.

To which, because you heard someone say it on the TV before, you reply, “Your violence betrays your lack of wit!”

To which he retorts with another slap and then slumps his sweaty rear-end down on the swing with Brit.

“Watch your self Jeb. Nobody likes a smart ass.”

The last swallow of Pop is the best because it’s still ice-cold. Your throat burns with the carbonation. Thoughtfully you look at the glass bottle in your hand. “Classic’s Collectors Edition” it says. Pop in a glass bottle is working its way back into vogue. Your cousin has started making out with Brit on the porch.

The bottle flies from your hand and the side of your cousin’s head runs red, the bottle clangs on the wooden planks of the porch and you say. “Payback is a bitch Dave. Payback is a bitch.”

Dave scrambles after you but as his mom would say, “Too little, too late.” You’re already running into the cornfield and the leaves are stinging your face. Now the stickiness isn’t just sweat, little trickles of blood on your cheeks run crimson. Still, you can’t help to think it was worth it. After all, to paraphrase, revenge is best served with an ice-cold Pop.

I wasn’t going anywhere with this. Just sat down to write. I noticed I have lots of things that start out with it being cool or cold. So I started this with hot but I just couldn’t get away from the cold thing. By the way, for those who don’t know what Pop is. It’s the second half of Soda-Pop. In the Midwest you ask for a Pop, not a Soda.

The battle of the Squirrels, Part 3

2005-02-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

The following morning dawned bright and early. A cool fog a crept amongst the creek bed and surrounding forest. Sleeping creatures had not yet stirred, while the nocturnal animals were just settling down. The forests stillness was shattered by a crashing a thrashing about. Birds leapt from branches with the fear of the suddenness. Hares hopped madly away and in the center of it came a wild haired boy.

Powlo and Peter awoken by the fright of their neighbors clamored onto the highest branches, to get a view, without even rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"Hey Powlo, what's all the ruckus about. I can't see over there. If it's that ol' dog again just stay in the tree. He's not a climber."

Powlo scanned the forest and saw the boy striding through bush and glen. "Well, it's one of those boys with the pink skin. I've not seen him before. What do you suppose he's doing this early in the day?"

"Who cares? He looks a little worse for wear." Just then the boy had gotten close enough for Peter to see him. "Boy, he looks a mite angry."

"Shut the hell up." The boy yelled looking in Peters direction. "Damn chattering squirrels. How can anyone think with you chattering."

Pacing the length of the bridge the boy kept kicking at sticks and anything else unlucky enough to be on the bridge. His eyes and cheeks were red. His mouth worked constantly, mumbling under his breath.

"What do you suppose he saying?" asked Powlo as he moved to the lower branches. He was trying to get a better look at the boy and what he was holding. "What's in his hand? Peter! Get a little lower and see what he's doing."

"No chance! Those other boys throw rocks. I'm not interested in what he's doing if I'm going to get hit with a rock."

"What did I say? Shut the hell up!"

A rock came sailing by Peter but hit nothing but leaves. "Damn squirrels! Everyone is against me. Even the squirrels. Tell me I can't use the bridge. Why don't they like me? I could've helped build this thing. It's not even that sturdy. They don't own it. If I can't use it, neither can they."

Powlo watched the boy as he bellowed and pulled at the contraption in his hand. It roared to life and scared the remaining critters into the depths of the forest. Powlo didn't move. He sat on his branch watching in awe as the boy used the chainsaw to savagely slash at the bridge. He gouged at the surface in anger, scaring the face and sides. His tears dropped on the bridge as the chainsaw drowned out his screaming.

In just a little bit he was standing knee deep in the water, it's coolness seeping in his shoes. He brought the chainsaw down, cutting at the cross members. One side of the bridge hung limply, it's timber dangling toward the creek. Standing upstream of the bridge he made his final cut and the bridge halves dropped into the creek. It was done. The chainsaw switched off and the forest was left still again. One half of the bridge was already being slowly pulled from the shore.

Powlo watched as the boy stood in the middle of the creek. The morning was sliding towards afternoon and the boy still stood, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Peter showed his face again but resigned from saying anything. When the sun was at it's highest the boy finely moved on. Powlo slowly climbed down the tree trunk and went to the banks of the creek to look at destroyed bridge.

"Be carefully Powlo, he may come back."

"Oh don't worry. I don't think he will return today. What should we do now? We won't be able to cross the river again."

"Well, we have a problem there don't we. Because I'm not so sure I would want to cross."

"What's that? I was thinking the same." Powlo said ascending the branches of the chestnut. "After all, you are welcome to that old oak. As anyone, who has stayed in a chestnut for a night would know, a chestnut tree makes the best home. It's branches are study and the dappled shadows are refreshing on hot days."

"What! Are you kidding. Ask anyone who cares to remember and they'll tell you that a hollow oak is the best. It's interior is dry and it's bark is pleasant to scratch your back against."

Well this is the end of the story. I hope, for anyone who reads this, you enjoyed it. Sorry it took so long to finish. I don't think it's going to get published without some rewriting but I liked the idea. How 'bout you? I really do need to learn how to write more descriptively. Any idea's or methods on how to do this? No? Me either.

The battle of the Squirrels, Part 2

2005-02-08T10:01:00.000-08:00

After a few days of staring at the bridge and debating the merits of it's load bearing abilities Peter got an idea. "Hey Powlo! What do you say to coming across that contraption and seeing what a real home looks like."

Not being one to be thought of the cowardly sort Powlo immediately replied, "Why, that's a grand idea. But I think you should, at the same time, come over here and check out the envy of the forest." Which Peter also thought was a great idea.

Peter climbed down from his chestnut, and Powlo from his oak. Crossing the bridge for the first time their squirrel curiosity got a hold of them and they spent a while sniffing and investigating each other. For this was also a first, they had never been this close to one another. The creek had been their for much too long.

"Well, it is very nice to meet you Peter! I must say you are better looking close up than you are from my side of the world."

"Well thank you. I am better looking close up and personal like. You're not half bad either. Let's get on with this. I'm already missing my tree."

To which Powlo could only reply "Agreed!"

Peter and Powlo wasted no time and got to checking every branch and nook of the others prized home. Peter was enjoying the experience more than he wanted to admit and had just stuck his head into Powlo's stash of nuts inside of the oak when he heard Powlo hollering for him. It came to him muffled and confusing. Sticking his head out a hole he shouted out to his counterpart. "What is it? I was going to go through your nuts and see what kind of crop you brought in this year."

"Well, I was just thinking. Maybe, we should stay the evening in each others abode so we can gain a better understanding. I've just found where you rest your head and would like to try it myself. What do you say?"

"That's a hell of an idea Powlo. Let's do it. Just don't rearrange anything, I just got things the way I wanted them."

"I would like to ask the same. See you on the marrow"

"Yeah, good night"

So, with the good evenings said the squirrels explored the last areas of the evenings accommodations and then settled in for the night. Their last thoughts were about how the others home was better than previously thought, and about how one could get use to living in such a manner.

Ok, so this is part two. I was hoping to finish this but it seems to be a longer story than I thought. Plus, I grew tired of writting this because I'm tired. Go figure. I'm not going to write anything more today. Now, I'm going to go on the www.eastoftheweb.com/uncut and read some short stories by some other struggling writers. Check it out if you want. I've not published anything on their yet but I will in a couple weeks. It's a forum like setting to publish works to be critiqued by others. Later.

The battle of the Squirrels, Part 1

2004-11-30T22:00:00.000-08:00

In the low rolling hills of Indiana a creek ran this way and that. There wasn't a name for the creek on any map but the children who played in it called it, appropriately enough, The Creek. Its water was neither blue nor brown.

In one particular bend of The Creek sat a huge rock. It protruded out of the bank into water and caused it to be deep around its base. The rock was so big not all of it could be seen. It was also named appropriately, it was only known as Big Rock. One would think the children were dotards and slack wits unable to think of a more creative name, this was not the case. Their ample imaginations were engaged in creating mock wars and hiking the rambling innards of the woodland surrounding The Creek and Big Rock. This is not really about them, but their role was, to say the least, critical.

During one especially sweaty summer while cooling their heels in The Creek the children decided to build a bridge across it. After all, jumping the stones across in the fall and winter could take a turn for the worse. Spending the night camping with one wet shoe didn't appeal to anyone.

One boy stole his dad's chainsaw, one stole his pa's hammer, and one stole the nails from the hardware store. It took them two days for boys can work hard when their hearts are in it. After the bridge was done they jumped to test its capacity and proclaimed it fit for man or beast. In the evening they went home to eat pork chops and taters and thought little of their words of prophecy.

For years the creek had been wide enough and capable enough to separate two sides of the same forest. It had also separated two eccentric squirrels. One was brown with red spots while the other was red with brown spots.

The squirrels sat in the branches year by year and would chatter their names at one another. They also loudly debated each others living arrangement. The brown one, who called himself Powlo, claimed a hollowed oak made a better home, while Peter would only ever live in a chestnut. Therefore, before the bridge both had looked at the other through the green leaves in the highest of trees and thought the other nuts.

I’m not sure if I had a plan when I sat down to write this time but this was what came out. I had to stop because I was getting tired and I realized I would have a lot more to do. I have some idea where I want this to go so don’t forget to come back to read the ending. I know I need to describe the setting more in all my writing but I find it hard. Any suggestions?

Toto

2004-10-15T08:59:00.000-07:00

Crisp. Cold. Cold and crisp. It wasn't just the motto for Jim's favorite beer. This morning it was the air. When he stepped in the puddle he cursed again. Had you been listening to a censored version of his language he would've sounded like a looped test of the emergency broadcast system.

In the earliest hours of morning Jim woke with grass in his mouth and drunk off his ass. Or so he felt. After spitting the grass out he noticed the cold. His head was still stuck in his hands and the pounding in his head made it hard to think so when he finally looked up and noticed all the trees he almost passed out again. The sun was weakly visible through a layer of grey clouds and all the trees were barren, their leaves had been lost two seasons ago. "Man, where the hell am I?"

Two hours later Jim stepped in a puddle, cursed and sputtered. The sun was coming to its apex and the little warmth didn't do much for his mood. Other times in his life he had woke and not known where he was but, as he observed, this time was just plain re-god-damn-diculous. He was in a t-shirt and pants but lacked shoes and a jacket. This might not be problem in Miami Florida, where he was the last time he remembered, but here he was having a dilemma.

After a few hours, his feet bloody and swollen, he came into a clearing and in the distance he could see hope. The outlying buildings of a small town were sitting on a bump too small to be called a hill. Jim thanked god even though he wasn't religious and made a slow beeline for apparent salvation. The only upside to this day so far was whoever had taken his shoes had left him with a pack of cigarettes and three matches.

When the sun was creeping on the horizon and the chill was returning Jim wondered whether he should've used the last match to light a fire. The sight of the town was lost behind another grove of trees and he was only hoping he was walking straight. "If one more stick jams itself under my toenail I'm going to loose it, I'm just going to fucking loose it." Another stick found lodging where it should not have and in loosing it he got a bit turned around. So it came as a surprise when he stepped through a bramble of thorn bushes, shortly after sun down, and not fifteen feet away was a road. A quick look-see around and he could see the heart of the town a quarter mile down the road.

"So I found fucking Mayberry." Jim said after seeing the dozen or so building which no streetlamp light had ever touched. He walked to the first house that had lights on and was hoping to catch a cab or shuttle or whatever passed for transportation. When he took the first step on the porch he heard a growl and from around the back of the house came a dog so ugly and mean he forgot all about getting out of town. He needed out of the damn yard but the dog proved too fast for a man who just walked for eight hours on bloody feet. Jim never made it off the front porch.

The dog, ugly, mean, and only two feet away had Jim pinned against the wall. Growling from the hounds of hell would've been less intimidating. When the front door was opening Jim briefly thought about hoping over the railing but a quick gnashing of the mutts jaws relieved the notion. A man stepped out in overalls and held a shotgun in one meaty hand but made no move to back off the dog.

"Hey man, I wasn't trying to steal anything, honest. I just need some help."

"That so?" The farmer replied but looked Jim over and decide it must be true. The boy truly did look like shit. "Where you coming from son?"

"I don't know. I woke up in a ditch this morning and this was the first place I could find help. Could you get the dog to back off?"

"Sure, down Toto!"

"Toto? Where the hell am I, Oz?" Jim asked with a snort and not a little sarcasm.

"Yes you are. Welcome to Oz, Ohio. Now, let's get you cleaned up."

Um...now this isn't great or even good writing but maybe I can take this kind of idea for a ride later and see where it leads me. I think I need a little more practice in describing settings and writing from the godlike viewpoint. Omni-something view point that is. I know all see all kind of thing.

I challenge you...

2004-09-24T00:04:00.000-07:00

Once, months ago, I went to pick up some Thai food for my girlfriend and I. It's this place in the Pacific Beach area where we live and is satisfactory even though it's not the best. So after waiting for ten minutes or so I finally get to order. About half way through the order I asked "What is in the jungle stir fry?"
To which the old asian lady taking my order replied "You want that spicy?"
"Umm...I was wanting to know what was in the jungle stir fry?"
Again. "How spicy? 1 thru 10?"
"I don't want that. Could I just get the Pad Thai. Oh, and does the curry come with rice or do I need to order that separate?"
"You want that to go or for here?"
"To go. Does the curry come with rice or do I need to order it?"
"You pay with cash or card?"
Beaten I said, "Card. How long will it be?"
To which she replied by turning her back and walking into the kitchen. Twice beaten I accepted my defeat and sat quietly in the corner until my order was brought to me by a sullen asian boy who had a hair-do he could have only got from DragonBall Z.

Ok so here's the challenge. Go through the whole day only answering questions with questions. It's harder than you think and not very funny to the person you're doing it to. Although, you might get a laugh or two out of it when you look them in the face and see they're about to loose it. Hell, they may even be turning red with anger and the vein popping out of their head may explode but it will be a funny story to tell your friends later.

All cold on the eastern front.

2004-09-21T13:42:00.000-07:00

A writer from the west once said the coldest winter he ever felt was a summer in the Yewlands. It was summer in the Yewlands and it had been light for two hours. In another three hours dusk would herald the crushing cold of nightfall.

Liam stuck his finger against the side of his nostril and blew out a glob of snot. It would have smacked the earth with a dull thud had it not frozen first. The new grass of summer crackled under his feet as he crossed over to the fence line. He could see riders in the distance. Of the three riders two of them looked to be dressed as officials and the third seemed to be armed to the teeth. He hoped more men weren't flanking him.

"Tims, get the women into the barn and post Mellow in the loft with the rifle then meet me at the gate."

He would have about twenty minutes before the riders made it to the first barriers but he got the idea they weren't the types to stop at a sign just because it said so. Tims had started fires over the earth where they needed to dig the post holes and he didn't want the fuel to have been wasted on nothing so he placed the last two posts in hopes the day wouldn't be for nothing. After, he drank a swallow of warm scotch Allia had sent him out with and met Tims at the gate. By now the riders were close enough he could see their mounts breath cloud the air.

"Hold it right there." Liam warned when they reached the gate but it was Tims who put a hand to his pistol hilt. The guard matched his motion.

"Now, gentlemen we didn't come here to fight." Liam would've guessed him as the leader of the bunch even had he not noticed his unscuffed boots. Women around here would've been jealous at how sweet he smelled.

"Then why did you come?"

"Well, sir, we're here to purchase the product of your flock."

"My flock? They're not quite ready to molt yet, and why would I sell them to you when the Powell's in Haggerstown have already offered me above market value?"

"We're here by leave of the great Emperor to buy them all sight unseen, for three silver a head more than any offer you have received. It is said you have the finest down in the entire kingdom."

"I do. Come back when they're ready to molt and I've had a chance to let someone else beat your offer. Say, in three months we'll talk."

"Sir, you do realize this is an honor. You will be providing winter clothing for the Imperial army and helping the Empire in its war with the Saltkings."

"I've helped the Empire in its wars before. As for honor, I can do with out the Emperor's honor bestowed upon me again. Now, daylight is burning and we have a flock to attend. See you in three months."

"Sir, an offer from the Emperor is not to be taken so lightly. We can just take your flock if need be, this is just a courtesy visit."

"Is it now? And this is my courtesy to you. Get off my land before my man here looses his patience and don't come back until you find your manners." From the corner of Liams eye he could see Tims poised to shoot the guard first.

"Wait! No need for this now. We'll come back to discuss this matter in more detail later. Sergeant, if you'll give them the papers for intended purchase of the down they can look it over on their own time, we will meet you on the road out."

Bringing his horse between the officials and Tims the sergeant reached into his saddlebag and withdrew the purchase agreement without ever taking his attention off the two men in front of him. His armor made faint rubbing sounds has he threw the parchments to Liam. “Next time I suggest you have the boy in the loft stay back from the window, that is, if he doesn’t want his position to be given a way.”

“And I would say Sergeant, that if you don’t want your sniper on the east ridge to be shot in the head by my boy, you should have him pulled back by the time you reach the edge of my property.”

“You play a dangerous game goose herder. The next contingent to journey to this edge of the earth may not be as forgiving of your attitude.”

“Well, just so we’re clear, I’m retired Captain Liam Goosard of the Emperors Onyx guard and the next words from your mouth had better be have good day sir.”

“Have a good day sir.” said the more than slightly aghast sergeant who wheeled his horse about and speed off. It was a few moments more when he reached the retreating officials. Liam watched as they spoke and when the lead official began to turn his mount the sergeant grabbed the reins from the man’s hands and lead him off.

“Tims, have Mellow get the gals indoors and then we need to meet in the barn and figure what we want to do. In three months we’ll have some choices to make.”

I was writting this then for some reason it all got earased befor I saved it. So, I rewrote it but I don't think I got my flow back. This isn't a part of a bigger story or anything, I just wanted to write something that wasn't from the first person perspective.

From the journal of Faith. The lords mighty general.

2004-09-15T15:55:00.000-07:00

The sky grew dark and the fog drifted into my mind. I had been sitting on the great red cliff by the sea for three years and at times hallucinations troubled me. The forth day of spring in the third year of our lords departure was not one of them. I knew evil spirits were attempting to break my mind but I would not let them enter. One more day and I would be free of their torment for the war would be over.

I am my lords greatest General but sadly I lack an army to help me in the battles waged in the name of the almighty father. At the cusp of all realities I've set, unsheltered and alone, through storms and hunger to blockade any who would jump from their universe into ours. The cusp is held within my mind by force of will. Tomorrow I will complete my last block and reinforcements will never be able to make it through again. The wall I've built these years, solid and unbreakable, will be the final action for the prophesy to be fulfilled. The great lord will then be able to sweep his enemy's under his wing and forgive them their sins and peace will reign.

Today the evil is battering at my mind with more force than ever before; they know the end is neigh. My dearly loved wife is walking across the water beckoning me to come with her from this place of power but I can see the demon's touch on her tormented soul and know it is another trick. I wish her away and she flees hurt, maybe they were going to reward her with pleasures if she was to budge me. I don't know. Tomorrow will be the end and finally her captured soul will rest. She will not be the last to tempt me today but I will not falter or we are, all of us, lost.

I'm not sure if this is anything whatsoever but I sat down to write and this is what came out. Maybe he can be a secondary character or something. Just writing to practice writing really. By the way, to any who don't know me, I'm not an overly religious type of fella so don't worry about this being some type of soap box.

It's a begining

2004-09-14T15:09:00.000-07:00

So, this is my first time blogging. Hell, is saying blogging even correct? Well, the answer is who care's. I do feel the need to say something important, motivating, or at least witty but I can't think of anything really. Except maybe this.

I was sitting on the john and thinking about what I should write and I remember the book The Catcher in the Rye. At least I think that's what I remember. Anyway, in it there is a caracter who expounds on how he see's the word fuck graffited on walls everywhere. I was sitting there and it wasn't on the wall but maybe it should've been (I was at work).

In bathrooms everywhere it seems either the word fuck or something about fucking is on the walls. Another oddity is how often the word fart or something about farting is on the walls. I was wondering why both of these things are on the walls when it dawned on me that both of these things are enjoyable (in their own way of course). Also, both are a bit of a release (ha ha, literally) or at least a relief.

The moral of the story is this: while both fucking and farting are fun and worth doing you should never, under most normal and polite circumstances, do them both at the same time.