The Wordslinger - Shooting straight from the wrist

On and Off, now a rant

2007-12-17T12:29:00.000-08:00

It's good to be back

Fear is the name of game, afraid you won't be able to write anything. Afraid that if you do write anything it won't be any good. Afraid if it is any good you wont be able to maintain it, either in volume or in quantity.

You can't really say people give a shit about slice of life pieces anymore, everybody and everything is on the internet, and everybody has time to detail their life in, well, detail, on webcam, on blogs. Need to find about your friend, read his xanga, or his livejournal, check his myspace, or his facebook. Some people want to be anonymous, and they can. Other people jump into the spotlight that can be the internet and flaunt all of them.

Those people have time to write, but its not very good, or its promising and they could honestly give a fuck less. It's all about stardom. There are delusional people everywhere, writers, internet stars alike. It's a global village, more like a global neighborhood, everybody's kids come out and play, neighbors come out. Everyone's out, everyone's connected. In some form or another, there are those connected less than others, either through incompetence or general lack of need.

Some people don't need to, they honestly have no need, the neighborhood might be nice to walk by or hear about, but as for actual need there is none. Hell, most of the time its a destraction, like a lot of things in life.

One could group it that way too, destractions. Every bloody thing is a distraction, distractions from life, from death, from a boring life. Some people want to forget their life and live someone elses. Hell, everyone has that feeling, from a homeless bum to donald trump. There isnt a point in someones life were they weren't like "Man I wish I was that person"

You can work on that all the time or not, make your own life memorable. A humourous idea that just came into my head was a planet, 98% filled with people who want live someone elses life and the remaining percentage actually living life. But in unreality (in this scenario) its not the way these voyeaurs would live it. So they arent actually living someone elses life.

People need to wake up, but people never wake up. Never ever ever. And even when they do the impossible and wake up, they do it when they want to do it, not when you want them too. People, I've decided, don't take advice too well, life advice that is.

"extremis malis extrema remedia"

2007-11-03T18:14:00.000-07:00

Franck finally felt something besides hot, fear. He had been wandering in the desert for what must've been days but felt like months. He hoped he was in the part of the desert the rippers did not live in. The humming sound from beneath the ground told him no such luck.

There was nothing for miles in all directions. Nothing for him to stand on, run towards, nothing to offer him shelter. Random blacti, black twisted version of cactus from Old Earth where the only features on the otherwise featureless landscape. Climbing up on one of those would only yield nasty barbs in his skin, the blacti barbs could easily tear through even the toughest clothes. Ultimately, it might give a moment or two of life until the rippers burst out through the sand, stunned him with bolts of electricity they used to disable and pacify their prey, then devour him whole, slowly digesting him and getting every drop of moisture they could out of his body. An efficient killer, sharks of the desert if their every were sharks on this blasted planet.

The only thing Franck Palatee could do was fly. Only he couldn't, that's crazy. Although he might be a bit crazy after wandering through the desert this long with no water, no real shelter. At one point he thought he was flying, floating over the desert, the off with a "whoosh!". Skimming the tops of the dunes, leaving little trails, little wakes in the sand.

Now, now this was reality though. He could no more fly than he could chunk off the blacti and eat it. A wise man from Old Earth once said, "desperate times call for desperate measures".

3rd post also meant for yesterday

2007-11-03T01:35:00.000-07:00

WRITER'S NOTE: This post was also meant for yesterday, so let's cheat and get back to the future, or the past in this case, like Doc Brown.

He passed that bar, "The Wild Horse Saloon", probably one of many in a franchise. It didn't used to be the Wild Horse, but then again, it's good bet it's not filled blood anymore. He knows what was in that bar, it's dirty little secret. On his way out West maybe it was fate, blind dumb luck, or the only decent road through this stretch of forsaken desert.

Years ago Chris sat at that bar, just he had done at many bars before that. He pulled out a beat up pack of Marlboro reds, pulled out a "cancer stick" he had vowed to quit more than once. Lit it up, satisfied and his resolve to stay so addicted. One hand with a cigarette, the other holding a double shot of whiskey in a glass that really benefitted from the cleaning power of straight rotgut whiskey.

This left no hands for his pen, or pencil, or even a recorder. Journalist by trade, smoker and drinker by habit, Chris lately was doing a lot of the later 2 of those hobbie, and not much of that first hobby/excuse for a job.

He fit right in with this biker crowd, big burly guy Chris was. A worn leather jacket on his back. And a face that had a weathered look only attainable through hard times. Hard times is what Chris had a lot of, but he was eternally optimistic his luck would change as long as he was inebriated. Luck had decided to bite him in the ass, and chose this night to do that biting.

It didn't feel like an ass biting night to Chris, therefore no hairs stood up on the back of his neck, no sixth sense could tell him he should get out of that wretched place while the going was good.

Being the keep reporter/journalist he was, Chris realized trouble was brewing right about the time a large group of soliders busted into the bar.

Day 2 or The Second Day or Dos Day: Dos harder

2007-11-01T15:15:00.000-07:00

He felt the night breeze on his face, it was a good breeze. A good night altogether really. A strapping young lad like himself. On a rooftop. In tights.

     Yes tights, you needed tights when you were superhero. Although he wasn't sure about the cape, he'd watched "The Incredibles" like millions of other people, but he didnt know if he had
the butt to pull off the 'no-cape' thing.

     There was another question, would he have to work out with his new powers? His butt wasn't perfect, but then, why was he worried about his butt? The ladies, yes the ladies would go crazy for the studly new superhero. Or would they? Maybe they'd call him Captain No-Tusch, or Mr. Flat Buns.

     The new superhero gig was hard, Tim, the...well he hadn't really thought up a name yet. Most of the good ones were taken. Hell all the good ones were taken. Yet another frustrating aspect of the hero game. Need a name, need a gimmick, need to save people, need to have a cute butt, need to look stylish in tights. Why weren't there "for dummies" books for this. Or easy reference manual, at least a bloody webpage, something!

     'No time to be exasperated!' he thought as he looked out over the city, his city. 'Yeah, my city. I like that, mine!' Somewhere there was injustice being done and he needed to punish the...injust...for lack of a better word. 'Time for Rover to come out' Tim smirked and called his chum, his compadre, what he knew as "A big invisible hand"

     Yes, summoning a giant invisble hand was Tim's super power, his gift to the world. How did he know it was hand since it's invisible you ask? Well because it felt like a hand. One of those giant cartoon hands with the funny glove on it. So far it was just one hand, but maybe he'd be able to make 2 someday. But now, now was the time for justice!

     Rover scooped him up and they flew over the city. The hand was moderately comfortable, but somewhat disconcerting as it was completely invisible. Maybe he'd get a quilt for it, or a giant, cool looking glove. Gloves with flames on them sounded like a good idea. But what to call himself? Tim came back from thought long enough to steer around pigeons in his way.

     "The catcher" was right out, don't even want to think of those implications. "Mitts" sounded dumb, so did "The Handiman". What to do, what to do.

     "Slow it down, Rover" Tim said, sounding mildly annoyed, eventhough he was completely in charge of the hand.

First post, lols

2007-10-31T15:07:00.000-07:00

The page mocks me. I can't go back, I won't go back. That part of my life is closed now. Literally blood on the page. I've turned those pages, and closed that book.

     But still, it haunts me. She haunts me. Can loved ones haunt you. Her and little one, the future. The future is gone, dead inside a tome, a tomb. I look back as only the grizzled and old can, with an ironic wistfulness. I was the future, I would change the writing world, shake it to its very foundations.

     So cliched, so empty, so hollow, how fitting that those words, those blasted adjectives explain my very existance now. But it wasn't that long ago that the future was in my grasp, and inside of letting it slip away, it became alive, and ate me, swallowed me whole.

     My name is Tom Collins, and I used to be a writer. Now, now I'm murderer set free. Set loose by the court system to wonder in my house, in my graveyard.

     As cliched as memory can be, I remember that day, etched in blood, to be dramatic, in my thoughts. I sat at my desk, an ancient and giant oak desk with ghastly gargoyles for the edges. I sat writing, putting the finishing touches on my great horror novel.

     Terrible not because of its writing, but because of the subject matter. A demon invasion of earth, part Lovecraft and King, part Clancy with its special ops hero driving the forces of evil back. It was the third in my series, an ending to the trilogy.

WRITER'S NOTE: This post was for yesterday, just didn't get around to posting it