“It would be nice to take it all back, don’t you think?” she mused at the stone figure of a woman in a slip-on dress. “I mean—I didn’t quite mean for it to go so far.”
She swiveled her head toward a man with his face in a perpetual scream.
“And, you, I really did not mean for you to die. I was trying to be careful.” Continue reading
So, when writing became my job, I had to ask: “then what’s my hobby?” Well, though I am a big fan of Hearthstone and I obviously read a ton and watch many shows—when I have time to do so—if I had to pick something I consider a hobby, it would be cooking.
To not die of hunger, I must cook food anyway—or eat out at restaurants all the time, but, if that were only the case, I would not make it as complex as I do. If I was only doing it for the sake of not being a withered husk of hunger, I would not put the level of thought and effort into the foods I make. Continue reading
I can’t handle the smell.
“Would you please put that thing out?” I asked.
“Wish I could,” he responded, taking another puff of his cigarette. The noxious white fumes floated around in the room and had nowhere to go. I coughed, and my lungs burned.
“You can,” I said. I held out an overused ashtray. “You just stop.”
“That’s not how addiction works,” he said, and softly shook his head. “I figured with how much coffee you suck down you’d get that.” Continue reading
To tell you the truth, I never meant to be a horror writer. Everyone knew me as the sci-fi guy; that’s where I began. But, somewhere, along the way, this became the artistic avenue I connected to the most.
I say, whenever possible, “I am a horror writer.” Because I want that to stick. I want people to get what that means, even if I am not sure, myself, what I mean.
I’ve talked, at length, about my want for and to create dark stories. I do not fully understand my proclivity, but I know it has affected me. At some point, after I’d spent a good deal of time trying to come up with horror concepts, and studying other instances of it, it became clinical. Continue reading
That was the seventh cigarette in the last ten minutes. Yung counted. Something in him was humming, just watching Howard go through them. Yung worried somewhat—but he knew so many people that smoked, and, for some baffling reason, most of them seemed perfectly fine so far.
“Look,” Howard said, tapping away some ash, “I was just the same.”
“Yeah?” Yung asked, tilting his head. “You dealt with this too?” Continue reading
I have bad days, sometimes. We all do. And, when I do, I try to—I don’t know—channel it toward something, at the very least. Turn sadness into anger, turn frustration into motion, somehow. It helps I walk a lot, it gives me an outlet (you really can outrun certain problems, believe it or not) but, ultimately, what makes me happy is making other people happy.
An inspiring speech, oddly, works wonders for the sake of my own morale. So, well, let’s go do such a thing, even if I’m distracted and riled up from a day that did not go as I planned. Continue reading
Along the rim, they walked, and Charles became worried about his stability. His feet were not working well, and not landing well, and not going in the exact way he would have wanted them to do so.
Sasha walked alongside him and did not seem to notice his little stutters of motion. She simply handed him another drink, something she brought with her, and he took a sip of it. It wasn’t alcohol; it tasted like water. Continue reading
I’m guessing some would recommend I don’t write about this, but, well, you all know I’m eccentric as it is—so, fuck it. Writers already have the stigma of being a weird bunch, but you’ve heard, likely, all the usual shenanigans—so, I’m doing you one better.
Not just researching murder methods, talking to people who they make up, or being totally willing to do dangerous/stupid things for the sake of a story: nah, I’ve got a set of much more unique quirks.
And it involves words and language. Continue reading
It takes long.
Longer than it seems,
To achieve those dreams.
Plant the seeds instead,
Of expecting the future. Continue reading
Somehow, I always forget I have hay fever. I’m not sure how it slips my mind because it fucking sucks, but, recently I went outside and then sneezed—then sneezed again. And again. That was when I remembered. Ain’t allergy season fun? Continue reading
On the beat and the beer, they danced. Women and men, high on their own hormones and the feeling of youth, kept bouncing and singing.
The D.J. spun a new beat and then pulled the microphone toward him.
“Everyone put their hands up!” Continue reading
I like to automate. When I hit a problem with timing or effort, the question becomes: “Can I automate that? Can I make technology do that for me?” I am a transhumanist: it’s not odd I think that way, but what is funny is how often the answer is a resounding YES to those questions.
I guess the world is catching up to the proposed futures of the past. Smart plugs make my light turn on by my schedule. My scale records my weight for me. If I can make something give alerts or similar when events occur, then I am all for it.
Now, you might call me lazy. You might call me spoiled. You’re right on the first one, possibly right on the second. After all, I am a white male, cis-gendered, heterosexual living in America (also a little left-leaning, if you could not tell from that tongue twister), so I get access to some of the best stuff in the world—and I can get it delivered to my door.
And that’s spoiled.
That’s lazy. Continue reading
“Now honey, please don’t stay up late.” Margaret patted her son on the shoulder and gave him a little smile. “You need to take care of yourself, okay? That’s not a small fever, so don’t push it.”
“Okay, mom. I just want to finish up this round.” Billy clicked on the screen, making game cards move. The resulting graphics assured him that his latest move was a good one.
“Okay. I just want you to feel better.”
“Don’t worry—I will,” Billy said. Continue reading
Imposter syndrome, fear of criticism, and creative blocks. Some more legitimate than others, but all real. I would know, I’ve had them. But, despite being a nervous, introverted, lessening-so-but-still-shy person, I’ve done a good enough job of being out there with my artistic work.
Those issues I listed come down to a little voice telling us we are failures, that we are about to get shanked by the world at large for our lack of talent. And, while I don’t know how to make myself able to tell a speech to a crowd, I have advice for how to slay this beast of a voice. Continue reading
“Deep down there, in the deep, what did they find? What could make them sleep? On what do they feed, and what is seen by their endless eyes?”
“The tales they tell of what they have is not one for the foolish—only the dead.”
“No, please. This is going to hurt us. You are wrong.” Continue reading