I have a new Facebook page known as the “Bearded Writers Association”. Here’s the rules:
That’s it. It doesn’t have to be a book. It doesn’t even have to be in English.
Step up, my bearded fellows! You too can be part of this epic community, standing as a proud bearded writer just as Ernest Hemingway, Walt Whitman, Herman Melville and Charles Dickens did many years ago.
Genre: Gasolinepunk Rating: 13+ for mild violence Time of Writing: May 2014 Featured image by josso363 For any other person, the sights around this place would leave a person devastated, on their knees, unknowing what to do and where to start. For him, however, it was Monday, and just like every other Monday, he needed to find something to bring home. He was walking down a street, or what was…
Genre: Gasolinepunk
Rating: 13+ for mild violence
Time of Writing: May 2014
Featured image by josso363
For any other person, the sights around this place would leave a person devastated, on their knees, unknowing what to do and where to start. For him, however, it was Monday, and just like every other Monday, he needed to find something to bring home.
He was walking down a street, or what was left of a street. The buildings were cracked, mostly crumbled and some were even only half of a building. He was aware they were probably going to fall someday, but most of those were away from his place, so he wasn’t too worried. But maybe the rubble would fall a little close? Oh, well. He was used to some rubble. That’s what brooms were for, typically, unless it was a large portion of a building. That would make for a bad day.
Continue reading “Short Story Saturday: The Morning Walk”
Note: These musings are open to debate and not necessarily set in stone, as I have yet to publish a book, although I am working towards that end. Please enjoy regardless.
Metaphors. You see them everywhere, especially in poetry. Poetry uses it as often as it does because poetry forces our mind to work outside of conventional bounds. If we are working outside of conventional bounds, why think so…
Note: These musings are open to debate and not necessarily set in stone, as I have yet to publish a book, although I am working towards that end. Please enjoy regardless.
Metaphors. You see them everywhere, especially in poetry. Poetry uses it as often as it does because poetry forces our mind to work outside of conventional bounds. If we are working outside of conventional bounds, why think so literally? So we don’t. Things represent other things or are like other things, or something along those lines. But prose uses it as well, although not always so blatantly.
I’m a prose writer. That’s just where my talent lies. I try poetry, as you’ll see occasionally on here, but rhyming and saying things are like other things is harder to me. I prefer a more subtle approach to metaphor. My old English teacher used to tell me, metaphor is the one of the most important parts of literature, but it’s more powerful in subtlety. It means that the reader can enjoy it on a literal and spiritual level. It means the reader can read it once, love it, then read it again and find new things that make them love it even more.
As for writing metaphor, I suppose it depends on the style you’re going for. If you want direct allegory, you can be as blatant as you want. For anime fans, think of “Hetalia”. There’s no question who represents what in that one. Their names are literally “America”, “France”, “Japan”, “Italy”, etc. For less direct allegory, see books like “The Hunger Games”. The Capitol represents big government as a whole, and the series warns of the dangers of such a government through that metaphor.
I’m not saying everything in your book needs to represent something else. But if you want to make your book remembered, there has to be something deeper than the plot, than the characters, than the world itself. There has to be a meaning, other than just writing a good story. Your book must become like an onion, layered, with more to be shown with each peel of the layer.
Are you ready to take that (metaphorical) step into the unknown?
So basically I found a crazy old horror short of mine, the very first one. Turns out, I had an excellent jump into the horror genre, some bits of which you will see in the novel I’m working on, Dark Soldier. In Dark Soldier, however, it’s a lot different. The antagonist is manipulative and will get inside your psyche until you want…
So basically I found a crazy old horror short of mine, the very first one. Turns out, I had an excellent jump into the horror genre, some bits of which you will see as having influenced the novel I’m working on, Dark Soldier. In Dark Soldier, however, it’s a lot different. The antagonist is manipulative and will get inside your psyche until you want to break, all the while running you through a rat maze. But this, this is very different. This is straight up good old-fashioned horror.
For any other person, the sights around this place would leave a person devastated, on their knees, unknowing what to do and where to start. For him, however, it was Monday, and just like every other Monday, he needed to find something to bring home.
He was walking down a street, or what was left of a street. The buildings were cracked, mostly crumbled and some were even only half of a building. He was aware they were probably going to fall someday, but most of those were away from his place, so he wasn’t too worried. But maybe the rubble would fall a little close? Oh, well. He was used to some rubble. That’s what brooms were for
I recently was posed with a prompt: starting off a short story, poem, or paragraph with the words, “we are not stabbing anyone”, and working with it. Friends, this is what has come of that story. I did it all in one shot, and so obviously it is not as edited as it could be, but it is something. And good heavens, if there is one story that could be an incredible NaNoWriMo topic, it is this. Take a look at the raw, unedited, short story “We Are Not Stabbing Anyone”.
**WARNING: DRUG USAGE AND VIOLENCE**
Continue reading ““We Are Not Stabbing Anyone”: A Short Story”
“We are not stabbing anyone,” her mother commanded softly.
She sat and pouted a little. Wasn’t this what being a part of an assassin family was all about? Killing people who you were supposed to kill with whatever means necessary? Her mother had always told her she was too excited about the gore to be an assassin, but it was her first job, and it was hard not to be.
Their target for today was a politician from Sweden. Apparently even the Swiss has political enemies. This always confused her. Sweden seemed to be the most peaceful country of them all, but still, a job was a job, and this one was paying a good deal of money. Not so little money as to make them refuse the job, but not so much that she couldn’t join her mother for this particular one. Her mother had thought it good that she join, so that she could see that not all assassinations involved sharp weaponry.
She was extremely excited for this, though. She could finally tell Abbe and Kade, her two cousins from Holland who were also in the hired gun business, about her first killing trip. They had been such prudes recently, making sure that all the cousins knew they were already in a job but that it was hush-hush, so that no one would know.
They were dressed to the nines as they rode through the streets in their stolen limousine. Luckily, they had an extremely realistic android chauffeur, so none of the information they spoke would fall on interested ears. “Remember,” her mother said as she tipped her sunglasses up, “this job is all about playing your part well. Do you remember your alibi?”
She paused for a moment, and then replied, “He secretly has a fancy for cocaine, and we are going to bring him his regular dose, or so he thinks.”
“Which is?”
“A snort-able poison ten times more potent than hydrocodone. He’ll be dead within the first couple seconds.”
Her mother polished her nails, looking ahead. “Good, but you hesitated.”
“I did.”
“Repeat it until we get to the checkpoint, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her mother sat in silence as she continually repeated her alibi along the obnoxiously well-paved back road to the politician’s home. There were all sorts of things that could go wrong, but that was what being an assassin was about – to write wrongs and wrong rights. Their job shaped the rise and fall of nations. Their jobs were the most important jobs in the world, her mother had told her, and to never take that lightly.
They arrived at the checkpoint, meeting with a very well dressed guard at the gate. The guard knocked on the window. Their chauffeur rolled down her window, as she became her alibi and her mother blocked the signal to the video cameras. One of the two guards looked down at her, eyes half open in the summer sun, only barely visible underneath semi-dark sunglasses. He looked between her and his clipboard.
“Name?” he asked.
“That’s classified,” she responded, spoken with both a perfect Swedish accent and pronunciation. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. That was odd. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Classified folks probably came here often.
He went back to his clipboard. “Your company, then?” This man was thorough. That was good. People always wanted a thorough person.
“That is also classified.” She did her best to appear bored and just a tad bit annoyed. “This is a special package for Mr. Persson.”
“Well, may I see it?”
She begrudgingly gave him the box while her mother watched nervously in a way only she could notice. He scanned it with a metal scanning device, and then began to open it before she stopped him.
“For his eyes only.”
He smiled. “Oh, I know what this is. He has given us permission to take a snort occasionally. It’s a very boring job back here, you know.” And before she could stop them, they opened it and took a sniff together. One turned his head to her moments before they both fell down dead.
The chauffeur rolled the window up, and her mother looked at her and smiled. “Good job. Now we know it works.”
They drove towards the house, a very happy mother and a much more worried daughter. Apparently this politician only had two security guards at the back entrance. He must have just been becoming popular.
Upon coming closer to the door, they walked out of the vehicle and came up to the door. Her mother ringed the doorbell and it opened to yet another security guard. Hopefully this one’s death would be easier to explain, she thought. Her mother gave her a knowing look as the guard spoke. His facial structure looked familiar, but she wasn’t quite sure. If this was whom she thought it was…
“Name?” he began, just before a large man appeared behind him.
He looked very excited to see them. “No worries, sir,” he said to the guard, looking avidly into the box. “This is the daily package. You’re slightly late, my friends! But no worries, I am good with a couple minutes of waiting.”
Just as he began to open the box, he dropped it, spilling all its contents on the ground. He brought his face back up, which had changed its form of smile. Earlier it had been a smile that showed life and joy. This time, it spoke of horrifying bloodlust.
“Or, I would be,” he said, “If it was the regular package that had arrived. Your loop on the video cameras was… impressive… but I have heart rate monitors on all of my guards. You meant for this batch to kill me.” He turned his back and walked inside. “Kill them.”
Suddenly the two guards took off their sunglasses, and she was truly aware of who they were. She cursed under her breath. It was Abbe and Kade, her Dutch cousins.
“Charlotte, Tante!” Abbe yelled in his typical broken English. “What you two doing in Sweden in summer?” Abbe walked toward her mother, Kade towards Charlotte.
She and her mother raised their hands in a defensive position. “I really don’t want to kill you, Abbe,” her mother pleaded.
“It’s funny, Tante,” he said with a chuckle, ejecting a baton from each sleeve. They began to spark with electricity. “I don’t really have this issue.” He rushed at her with both sticks.
It was very hard for Charlotte fight someone of the exact same caliber of fighting talent as her, but she blocked and parried Kade as best as she could. He was more interested in a mixture of Shotokan and a gun, but she knew how to block guns decently. His feet were moving incredibly fast; at a speed even she could not match.
He switched feet position quickly and lunged forward. Stupid Kade – she knew to watch the eyes. They began an all out brawl, him kicking with incredibly fast combinations as she jumped and countered right back. At one point she managed to catch a leg, but just before she could break it he launched into the air and landed a sideways kick into her face. He wasn’t expecting her to still be holding on. She landed him onto the ground, beginning to put him into an ankle lock. He shot at her face as she dodged, but it was just enough time for him to hop out of the lock and begin to pound on her face. He was faster, she would admit, but not as smart. She moved his hands just fast enough to get her hands into a neck-snapping position. She saw in his eyes that nothing would slow him down, nothing would stop him until either she was dead or he.
“Sorry, Kade.”
She muffled the snap. She looked to see that her mother had already taken down Abbe. She saw the politician had begun moving quickly after seeing his men go down as quickly as they did. She nodded towards her mother, and they began leaping towards him. His mother strapped him into a chair, and she cupped some of the killing substance into her hands, making sure her nose was plugged as she pulled her mask up.
“This won’t look like an accident,” he exclaimed. “The world will know who did this!”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Charlotte said, “But either way, you’re still dead.”
He struggled not to breath as she shoved some powder into a straw, but she punched him in the gut. He breathed out. He began to breathe back in just as she shot the powder into his nose. He stared in shock at her as he fell unconscious.
The car drive home was rather quiet, besides the few occasional angry guards who tried to ensue with their cars. It was smart to have a robot as the driver. They could do all sorts of getaway tricks without question and just on the right time. Near the end of the trip, during the flying section, her mother looked at her with solemn eyes.
“I’m sorry about Kade and Abbe. I didn’t want to do it any more than you did, trust me. They were good boys, they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Charlotte breathed out. “I know.” She sat still. “Is this a common thing?”
“No.”
They sat in silence. Her mother turned on the news. The report of the politician’s death was streaming all across the world. It had been set up just as they had intended, an overdose. With a little change to the crime scene, a little bribing by the mafia, this had all gone rather well.
“It was a good first mission,” her mother said. “I’m proud of you.”
Charlotte thought so, too. She smiled as she took a sip of Early Grey Tea. They were arriving now. It was good to be back in England.
“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.” — Maya Angelou
Making the link between anarchism and Christianity.
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Gabriel to Earth 