I've been Published

Well, folks. It seems things are going alright for me at the moment. I've just finished writing a rough draft of my first book with the basic storyline for the sequal and the premise of the third worked out. Now I've just got to wait for a few people to get back to me with their interpretations and opinions so I can do some retooling and see about getting it published. There's bound to be some changes and a few re-writes in the works, so I'm trying not to get my hopes too high, but it's down to fine detail at this point, the story itself is already set. So it might be another month or two before I get the final manuscript ready to send out.

Of course I've got a lot of ground work to cover in the meantime. I've got to research all the different publishing houses that might be interested in this particular genre and list them all based on which ones are likely to pay me the most (I gots bills to pay, after all). Then there's the query letter to write. As it introduces the work to prospective publishers it's just as important as the book itself.

Today's been a pretty good day, all around. I got my short story, "Small Details" published at Alienskin Magazine and they just posted the new issue. Check it out.

On a similar note, I just got a letter back from one Dan Abnett. For those who haven't read his work, he's the king of military science fiction and all-around action, combining good ole-fashioned mayhem with colorful characters, incredible scenery, and some of the longest and most intriguing storylines I've ever read. He writes in a style that's both succinct and incredibly evocative, using a vocabulary that's just as expansive as that of the late, great H.P. Lovecraft with none of the bombacity. I found his blog not too long ago and was pleasantly surprised to discover that he presented an email address for fans and anyone who had questions.

I sent a hello to him to ask about his methodology, figuring that someone who had such incredibly detailed storylines (the kind that can cover a dozen different books and still stay gripping) couldn't possibly come up with it all on the fly. That was a few months ago, and I really didn't expect a reply in the first place.

Turns out his server's email was messed up and it just took him a really long time to cover the backlog of messages. It was a handwritten letter that answered a few of my questions and directed me to some more in-depth information about how he puts together his stories. I'm still a little star-struck at having received a reply and encouragement in my work from someone I idolize.

In order to keep this feeling for as long as possible I don't think I'll be getting out of bed tomorrow; something's bound to happen to even out this sense of elation. Night all.

Berserker Part 20

Millienya perched in the boughs of an ancient oak, sending feathered dart after dart into any Gnoll she could see skulking at the skirts of the path. She smiled in satisfaction at a job well done. With her sudden attack from above and the unshakable defenses on the ground, the gnolls had lost heart and had become disorganized. They argued amongst each other, growling and yipping in their tongue. Ignoring the cajoling of their peers, they retreated farther into the woods, disappearing as if they were inconsistent as fog.

“Get down here”, a familiar voice cried from the trunk of her tree. She looked down to see Lars, cleaning his sabers. They had been put to use judging by the gnolls that surrounded the tree, as always he displayed some redeeming value in putting up with his stubbornness.

“What is it?”, she asked. It had taken a while to get up the tree and she wasn’t about to abandon her perch on account of something trivial.

“Seryan’s hurt”, came the reply.

Millienya hooked her bow around a small branch and just dropped, letting the bowstring slow her decent. When she got to the ground Lars wordlessly pointed to the left flank of the wagon.

Berserker Part 14

They had slowed their pace considerably since Jarn’s warning, and the miles and miles of endless dense forest didn’t help much either, especially with no one willing to widen the trail. As they kept going, Aniston fancied the trees grew thicker and closer together, deliberately blocking out more and more sunlight, closing in around them. All he could see above were the branches and leaves of the majestic oaks that now seemed to hold extreme danger in their shadow, all he could see in any direction were their trunks.

They were just rounding a corner when the noise began. They weren’t really howls, not by the standards of any self respecting wolf. They sounded more like a dog trying to act ferocious, attempting to turn a whining yip into something that would freeze the marrow in their preys’ bones. It seemed that the ululating came from behind every damned tree and branch that could be seen. The caravan stopped immediately and the wagonmaster fought to calm the horses. Every man, woman, and child held their breath, searching for some sign of movement in the surrounding wood.

A sudden bright flash of light pulled their attention as if by a winch to a spot some hundred yards ahead of the wagon. It was a torch being held by something in ragged robes, its lone light was soon joined by three others. A dozen or so creatures like the first were now visible scurrying around small but immensely heavy looking contraptions set in the shadows of the concealing oaks.

Aniston stared at the iron contrivances, too stupefied to say or do anything. They were all poorly made metal pots which someone had made an attempt to paint a dogs mouth around the hole, they looked very deep and heavy. They had been bolted to a square metal platform with handles for carrying. They looked very familiar to Aniston but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what they were for or where he had seen them. He was so enraptured by them, he didn’t even notice when the howling stopped. One of the dirty gnolls placed its torch against a metal pot, his eyes widened as it came to him. He leapt from the wagon seat just as an eye searing flash and a deafening boom erupted. He realized that they were part of a story that his father had told him once, years ago. They were supposed to hold some sort of power, they shot huge balls of metal or stone so fast that they couldn’t be seen, completely decimating anything it hit. What had the old man called it, a can-something?

The wagon he had been sitting on a split-second before was ripped apart in an explosion of wood and metal. The driver simply disappeared in a spray of red, the poor man didn’t even have time to scream. Aniston got to his feat and ran towards the rear of the wagon train minus one. This is it, any second now the rest of those things will tear us all apart before we realize we’re dead. He continued onward, and once again hit the ground as another metal device discharged. But this time there was no death, fiery it was but no death occurred, a tree beside him was blown apart in a rain of boiling sap. It was apparent that, although powerful, they were not all that accurate or easily aimed. Well that’s two, there are two more. That’s one more than it will take to kill us. Aniston didn’t bother getting up to run, he was older than he let on and he accepted his fate.

This time there was not the same boom. A strange squealing noise occurred very quickly before a giant gout of fire leapt into the sky. Something was wrong with the device, it had been plugged and instead of shooting, it had exploded. Incinerating most of the nearby ragged gnolls and setting the oily and matted fur of the rest ablaze. There was a fourth weapon, but they were all too panicked to use it, instead they flapped their arms around like idiots and rolled about on the ground, trying to put the flames out.

Personal Update

Hey all. I just wanted to present a quick update of what's going on. You may find it turns into a rant, but I at least intended to keep it brief.

First off, I've just about completely healed from my surgery. This is good news because I may end up going under the knife again sometime in the near future. The results of my CT scan show several large masses in my pelvis surrounding my lower aorta. This is the primary vein that runs down from the heart, behind the stomach, and then splits off at the pelvis to provide blood to the legs. There aren't any major organs being affected by the masses, but the proximity to this vein is alarming for obvious reasons

The size of these masses suggests they are Choriocarcinoma in the 2nd stage. It's probably the first site the cancer had taken root, the testicular tumor being a secondary growth. They're still treatable at this point and typically respond well to radiation therapy, though I understand there's a high chance of being rendered sterile seeing as the radiation would be aimed directly at my groin. I never really wanted to have children anyway, but it's painful to be taken apart slowly... one piece after another.

I've lost so much of who I used to be to chronic illness over the years that I sometimes feel hollow, as if there's nothing left.

Anyway, I'm waiting for a phone call from a medical oncologist that I'm being referred to. I've been waiting since monday and think I'll be beating down his door sometime tomorrow. With the sheer number of other things I'm having to deal with at the moment I think I may be speaking literally.

Speaking of tomorrow, I have to go see my opthalmologist again in the morning. This is to check the progress of my treatment for my Superior Limbal Keratoconjunctivitis. For those who are not familiar with the term, it is an autoimmune disease in which my body is attempting to heal tissue on the surface of the eye, despite the fact that there's no actual damage. This buildup of aberrant scar tissue causes extreme pain and burning, making it incredibly difficult to even look at this screen for the few moments in which I am typing.

The treatment for this condition is going well, as far as I can tell, though the pain is not lessening in any way. The inflamation and redness has increased considerably over the past week. If the doctor sees no improvement I'll be heading to another specialist. If he does see improvement then I'll be asking for some kind of topical anesthetic so I can get on with my day with some degree of normalcy until the treatment is complete. It often takes up to a year to be fixed entirely.

As far as my work goes, the top secret job I was taking fell through. The company has pulled up stakes overnight and completely abandonned me, taking a full month's worth of my work and stiffing me for the $2,000 dollar bill. This organization is set up in the UK and it took me several days of checking before I was even able to come up with contact information, though no one will answer my letters of phone messages. At this point there's little I can do aside from flying to the UK and beating these dead beats to death with a cricket bat, though the thought had crossed my mind. It would be more tempting if I actually had the money to afford the trip.

What's even enraging is that their last message, which was sent around Christmas, contained a virulent Trojan virus which is called Vunbo11. This virus embeds itself in the windows system files of my computer and then replicates itself. Such system files cannot be manipulated or quarantined in any way, meaning I can't get to it, despite having one of the best virus protection software packages on the market. At the price I paid, their technical support line had better do their job.

This virus also prevents me from using my computer as anything other than a glorified typewriter. It cannot surf the web or be used for research, and the virus replicates itself all the while that the computer is running. To that effect I'm writing this from a different computer and can make no gaurantees regarding whether or not I'll be able to post tomorrow or the day after.

Having posted several stories in the past, I finally decided that some of my work is good enough for print. To that effect I have been submitting several short stories for publication to as many magazines I can find who are willing to pay for the rights to print them. It's taking some time and my chances seem slim to none given how badly the market is affecting small publications like this, but it helps me put out of my mind the fact that I spent the last month working 12 hour days for free.

If I ever find the man or woman who cheated me I will skin him alive, braid a whip from his own hide, tip it with his own shattered teeth, and beat him to death with it. I don't typically make casual threats and apologize if it comes as a shock, but by tricking me and using up my time they refuse me the right to make a living; to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. If I didn't live with my family I would be homeless by now. Writing is the one way that I can think of to try to earn a living, and the people who would cheat me might as well be making an attempt on my life. It amounts to the same. To that effect I don't see why action against them wouldn't be justified.

So, unable to work, to edit my rough draft of Sons of Odin, to work on a new Japanese ghost story I'm putting together, or submit my finished work in hopes of making a few extra bucks and bulking up my CV, I decided to take the day off until I could get some help from tech support. I sat down in front of the tv and fired up the old video game system, an XBOX 360 I got for Christmas several years ago. It quite literally fired up. Sparks flew and the smell of burning plastic filled the air.

After hurriedly pulling the plug to prevent fire I called customer service, finally managing to talk to a real flesh and blood human being after about a million automated messages and menus. Apparently this problem is common with XBOX 360s produced in the same batch as mine was, meaning Microsoft strikes again. Thankfully this problem is so common that they don't charge anything for it to be fixed, they even eat the cost of shipping. I used my folks' computer to fill out the forms online and printed up the shipping label to put on my package and took it to the UPS store. I figured I would get it back in two or three weeks, as the customer service rep said.

That would be too easy for someone as terminally cursed as I am. About an hour later a second email arrives. This one contains a full set of instructions on how to place the shipping label, specifying that it shouldn't be put on the inside of the box... Yes folks, it was that kind of customer service message.

It also included a small section explaining what other information should be included on the outside of the box aside from the shipping label. Nowhere on the customer service site or on any of the instructions was this message to be found, meaning I hadn't included said information when I had it shipped, seeing as the message wasn't sent until after I posted the box.

Now I've got to call up UPS in the morning when their service center is open in hopes that my package isn't lost for all freaking eternity.

Ladies and gentleman, it is at this point where I think awards, accolades, and above all, pity, is due. This has got to be the worst day of my life thus far. A term which I learned in my drama class in high school keeps coming back to haunt me: Theater of the Absurd. It's a story which is essentially so tragic that it can't possibly be real, making it funny by sheer exageration. To that effect I keep waiting for some alien intergalactic version of Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the ceiling in his faux trucker hat and vacant expression saying "Dude. Like, dude! You've been punked!"

Maybe then the last 15 years of my life will have made sense. Being on some sick version of camera candid may be psychologically crushing, but at least it will have entertained someone.

I'm not the type to think of harming myself, so please don't think I'm in any danger when I say this, but when I go to sleep tonight I'm really not looking forward to waking up.

Original Stories Coming Soon

Hey all. I know I usually post an original story of some kind on mondays, but my new job is making me crank out 60-70 articles a week, so anytime that I'm not working is spent asleep at this point. My days off are pretty much spent trying to help out around the house to make up for not even seeing the rest of my family on weekdays. I've got a really good idea for a story and I've already gotten each scene description worked out and written, but it's quite a bit larger than usual so I might not be able to showcase it for a month or so if I'm lucky.

In the meantime I'll still be posting self defense articles that have saved my bacon more than once. It's a pretty varied group but I find that it's best not to allow oneself the complacency of focusing on one single martial art. I've not had any formal training save boxing and wrestling, however many of the techniques which I've outlined have been very useful additions to my repertoire and kept me alive more than once. I know that there are many people out there who have had better training; military, martial arts instructors, police, etc. But since I only ever fight to defend myself and my property I'm not likely to run across anyone who's had formal training either.

I'd like to take a moment to explain the importance of the defensive mindset. Many people who find themselves accosted for one reason or other are not prepared to act, nor are they willing to admit that the other person may attempt to do them harm. As a result they keep speaking when the time for words has past. It is critical to be able to recognize the point where words give way to action. If you can do that then you will be prepared to react to an opponent's attack. My own personal style runs toward allowing an opponent to do all the work. They yell, bellow, charge, and throw a punch or kick. If you're expecting it you can move out of the way, latch onto the offending limb as it passes, and shatter the joint with minimal force. If weapons are involved or drawn one must be pro-active. You're best bet's to get out of the situation alltogether, but if that's not an option one should immediately attack, focusing on breaking the joints or collapsing the windpipe.

I live in one of the southern states which has very lax laws about what sorts of weapons may be legally carried. When I was younger I carried a bowie knife on my hip as it was a good deterrent against most people who would think I was an easy target, being 6' 6" and 250 lbs probably helped a bit too:) However once I began to study various forms of martial arts I realized how easily a large heavy knife like that can be taken away or used against me. I thought about it for a bit and decided to go with a push-dagger. They are small, easily concealed, and difficult to be removed from your possession as there's no handle to pry from my hand.

The first push dagger was a little plastic handled razor about 2 inches long from end to end that I kept on my keychain. It served it's purpose when a man tried to carjack me when I was on my way to take my graduate school exams in Orlando. I'll tell you about that one at a later date. But the knife became chipped and blunt from general purpose use over the years. When I went to look for a new one a very interesting design caught my eye. They're called Hide Away Knives and the link to their site is embedded in the title. They're incredibly sharp and good for both slashing and stabbing. Essentially it's like having a talon in the place of your thumb. The really cool part is that with the loop that you stick your fingers through the knife won't fall from your hand if you open your fist. I've worn it while I was typing and not even noticed it was there. I typically keep it in a cross draw sheath on the opposite side of my belt so I can slash at an opponent's throat as soon as it's in my hand. Of course I hope I'll never have to use it, but it's better to have one and not need it than need one and not have it. I also tend to attract crazy people for no reason, meaning I've had more than my fair share of insane encounters.

In any case my new knife just paid for itself last week in an altercation that could've gotten ugly. I was in my car, a rickety old 95 Ford Escort with better gas mileage than most other cars I could afford, and was at the intersection leaving the supermarket with a load of groceries. Across the road is a drug store with an oddly shaped parking lot through which one must pass three stop signs before you get to the main road. I was just turning left when a brand new cream colored sedan (chrysler maybe?) comes barreling through all three stop signs and turns right, directly into the lane which I was about to enter. I was already in the middle of the road. I pull up short to avoid slamming into the side of the sedan, which means I'm heading down the oncoming lane playing chicken with a Jeep Grand Cherokee. The sedan was doing me no favors, slowing down and speeding up intermittantly so I couldn't get behind him or nose ahead of him.Finally I gun my engine and blow past him right before I slam into the oncoming Jeep.

The Sedan starts honking it's horn and tailgating me for less than a quarter of a mile until we hit the next four-way stop sign which leads into my neighborhood. When I get to the stop sign the guy in the sedan behind me pops out of his car, mad as hell and cussing at me. He runs up to my open window (I've got no AC) grips the driver side door and starts screaming at me. He's raving and ranting, practically frothing at the mouth. This guy's maybe on the wrong side of 40 with jeans, sleeveless teeshirt, beer gut, but big enough that he could prove problematic. He keeps yelling things at me like "What did you think you were doing?! Do you have any idea what my car cost!?" and things along the same vein.

I realize I'm at a severe height disadvantage with how low my car sits and it wouldn't be hard for him to get the leverage to yank me out of the car. I don't know why I didn't just drive away except I was fairly certain he would've just followed me and then been a threat to my family at home too. From my last experience in Orlando when I was subject to an attempted carjacking a police officer was kind enough to inform me that my vehicle is legally treated as an extension of my home. In Florida if someone breaks into your home, you've a legal right to kill them if you wish. The same goes for one's car.

Each time this guy paused for breath between verbal assualts I said in a clear voice "Get your hands off my car". I was doing my best to remain calm and so was giving him verbal warnings not to trespass on me or my property any further. I was also taking the time to watch his eyes and thinking of what I would do if he reached in at me.

As I expected his eyes narrowed and dipped to focus on the point which he was going to attack, my chest I think. Sure enough his hands come in the side of the window as he makes a grab at the front of my shirt. I just knew my luck was bad enough that we try something, so my hands were already near my lap where they could be raised quickly. I grabbed the back of his right wrist in my left hand while reaching for the push dagger at my hip with my right. I braced both my feet against the side of my door and heaved as hard as I could toward the passenger side of the car. I caught him off guard and just about his entire body above the waist was yanked in through the window of the car.

This guy's gasping and spluttering, unable to quite come up with new insults yet, too outraged or surprised that I was ready to fight back. I took the opportunity to place the point of my nice new dagger against the soft point of his neck right over the corotid artery. He stiffened when he realized there was something cold and sharp pressing into his neck and the color drained from his skin right before my eyes.

I'm still civil to him, but use my authoritarian tone of voice which has been known to cause small children to spontaneously break into tears. "Sir. Not only did you break multiple traffic laws in an attempt to cut me off, you have the gall to blame me for your own terrible driving. You've attacked me on my own property and there's not a thing Florida law would do if I slit you open from ear to ear. I've got things to do today and I'd rather not have to give a statement or clean your blood off these seats. For that reason I'm going to let you up, you're going to back away from my car, you're going to get in your own car, and you're going to leave."

He carefully nodded his head. I reversed my hold on his wrist and shoved him back out the window, which he was only too happy to do. I would've said his eyes widened when he saw the push dagger in my fist for the first time, but they were already as big as dinnerplates. He tried to walk back to his car as if nothing had happened, but his legs were shaking so hard it looked as if he were trying to dance. I took a few extra turns on my way home to make sure he didn't try to follow me, and haven't seen him since.

I realize that my actions were harsher than many people would say was required, however the best way to avoid an actual bloody conflict is with an overwhelming show of decisive force the second your opponent begins to attack. If he had grabbed me and dragged me out of my car, he might've had time to kick in my ribs or crack my skull. I may or may not have survived, but the only way I would've gotten out of it at that point was if I had permanently and irreparably injured him. This way he gets a scare and walks away without so much as a scratch.

Jim Casters Obituary

Jim Casters, died on the 18th of April at the age of 42 just as he’d begun serving his trademark baked Alaska. It backfired…literally. Jim attended the Cordon Bleu College of culinary arts in Paris, France as a young man and worked his way up through the kitchens to become the personal chef to Mythic Entertainment’s board of directors, whom he was in the process of serving at the time of the accident. After the recent release of Mythic Entertainment’s Warhammer Online it’s believed the explosion was an attempt at divine retribution as millions across the world paid their money and were handed an utter piece of crap in return, all to the board of director’s net benefit.

The directors, being soulless wretches spawned from the flames of Hell to a man, were not even singed by the fiery conflagration. Jim was a devout Catholic and pillar of the community. He donated money to various charities and spent his free time working in soup kitchens for the homeless, bringing his world class fare to those living both high and low. This fine man was incinerated instantly.

Memorial services followed by a last supper according to the last menu Jim ever prepared will be held at the Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility Church on the corner of Wabash Road and Lake Drive this coming Sunday at noon.

The following is on a more personal note from all the friends, family, and admirers this remarkable man left behind: Cheers Jim. You’re in a better place now. You’ve angels to do the preparation and washing up. May your béarnaise never curdle and your soufflé never fall.

Dream Job

As children we’ve all had ambitions; to be firefighters, astronauts, policemen, etc. My ambition has always been that of a storyteller. It represents in its own way the power of creation. Though, as one finds out later, creation does not necessarily mean control in that if the creator has done his work skillfully, his creation takes on a life of its own. The works of Shakespeare are still being reviewed after roughly four hundred years, his characters changing and growing as time passes. In this way I have always wanted to be the creator, the writer, rather than the creation.

Having been raised within walking distance of the local library I came to know the structure and its contents better than most librarians. The concept that a book, such a small and simple object, contains worlds and vistas which explore the scope of all that is possible astonishes me to this very day. Starting out with children’s books I soon graduated to science fiction and fantasy. I had dabbled in suspense and drama of realist fiction but found it to be too cumbersome and constricting. It’s bad enough that our physical capabilities are limited by the outside world, but should our minds be as well?

Having been exposed to the diverse works of such authors as; Lovecraft, Asimov, Weiss, Pratchett, Homer, And Kerouac I learned to look around me in the wonder of existence. It seemed like looking in the mind of God and understanding His plan. I knew only that to be one of those gifted few would be the highest honor I could hope to achieve.

In my spare time I write up small stories, limericks and rhymes. I even once planned out a fantasy novel, complete with cast of characters, story arc, description of the world around them, economy, and politics of the surrounding regions. Though it has been several years since I began I have only completed half of the rough draft. I’ve found it difficult to think of the fantastical when everyone around them thinks only of the practical. But that’s just the point of the whole situation. Though the practical is what is required to live, the fantastical is what provides us with the reason to live. What is life without drama, emotion, and art? Why would mankind, as a species continue to fight for its survival every day for thousands of years if we didn’t have something greater to think of, something to inspire us, something to look forward to?

For me the written word has always been the highest form of artistic expression. I’d consider myself blessed if I should become one of those benevolent immortals whose work lives on when even his name has been forgotten.