Thursday, May 30, 2013

The Bard: Track 3 (Preview)

Behold, the third chapter in the five part preview for The Bard!



Track 3: The Hallowed Halls
The doorway has been breached
His scared ground
His foremost fears
Bleeding out from underneath the door

“Why’s everyone waiting around?” Edison beckoned the mob.

The crowed ignored the officer’s inquiry, too caught up in their own anxiety to acknowledge his existence. Chills spread to each of Ed’s vertebra as his skin paled and became bumpy. Fear frosted the blood in blonde man’s veins, and his heart clamored wildly in an attempt to defrost the sanguine stagnation. The darkness emanating from the apartment complex felt so palpable, Edison could practically see drops of pure evil condensing on the front door.


The cop fired his handgun up at arctic sky, triggering a chorus of scattered screams. Once the initial panic dissipated, the crowd was all ears.
“Now that I have your attention, someone tell me what the HELL is going on,” Ed commanded.

“All the doors are locked,” wailed a stubby old lady. “My little puppykins Mr. Feffernoose needs his mumsy-wumsy. I’m sure the poor dear is crying his sweet eyes out right now.”

“We can’t get a hold of anyone inside,” explained tearful woman with auburn curls. “I’m worried about my husband. His office called me. This m-morning he… never showed.”

“I’ll bust that door down, myself,” offered a gangly student. “Somebody steals my laptop and I’m legit done. I’ve got eighteen hours to finish my research paper and I—”

The policeman heard enough. He approached the ominous barrier and cocked his gun.

“NYPD, OPEN UP,” Ed roared as he ferociously knocked on the locked door. Not a single sound could be heard. Even the crowd didn’t make a noise.

“This is your LAST warning,” the detective shouted, pointing his gun at the slab of rusty steel barring him passage. “You have five seconds to open this door or I WILL bust it down.”
The man’s request remained denied by ghostly silence.


The tenants pulled back and covered their ears. One shot from Ed’s Double Action SIG Sauer P226 sent the uppermost hinge flying. After two more shots and a kick from Locard’s boot the steel door came down. Immediately, the vile fragrance of freshly spilt blood slithered up Ed’s nostrils, causing him to gag.

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Writing Recipes #2: Meaty Characters

Make your characters... 'moo-ving.'

Last time, we baked a confectionery delight-- a lovely Protagonist Pie. This time we're going to make a meal that is quite different. For our needs, cooking is required... killing even. Sugar is replaced with salt for rubbing in wounds. The presentation is lost, charred or even bloody. This may be the most antagonizing meal you'll ever make. Careful, you might burn yourself in the process.


This is a choice cut, a dinner that should not sit well upon being digested. Vegetarians and humanitarians look no further.

STEP ONE: Kill innocence 
Much like a baby calf, our villain must kill something of innocence. That might be something internal or external-- taken in a literal sense. No cut of meat is born a villain... its soul must be butchered-- carved and contorted into a bloody piece of veal. Greed, lust... these are motivators, but weak ones. A great villain is disturbed, changed in some way. Show the eater of your veal the death of its innocence. Horrify them.

STEP TWO: Determine Color
You must decide how dark your want your meat-- or how red. Prior to any seasoning and prepping, choose whether you want a rare veal willing to draw blood or be lethally under-cooked. Is the soul charred beyond recognition? Is it medium? In between and seemingly good, putting on a persona and keeping its nose clean by manipulating others?

STEP THREE: Cook the Grenade
Once the color is decided, throw the veal in the oven. As you cook, give the proper heat and motives. Allow the eater to understand why the meat tastes the way it does. Allow them to detect subtle hints of how it was cooked while still maintaining an air of foreboding mysteriousness. Be sure to burn in grilling marks, scars, external evidence to the pink evil inside the Villainous Veal. Be sure to check on your meat occasionally to see the progress of its development-- the hardening of its character. It is not uncommon to burn the veal to a crisp by the time the story ends.

STEP FOUR: Add Seasoning
A villain has its quirks too-- its idiosyncrasies. What grass does did it graze upon as a young calf? What does it revel in now? How about what it hates? Hate. Hate and a perversion of love are your greatest seasonings. Dark ambition is almost required. Make it strong tasting, perhaps even chilling. Make it so bad that the eater won't be able get the taste from their tongue, or so devilishly good they can't stop eating it up. The right dressing can amaze... but it can sicken... nauseate... or kill if poisoned. 

STEP FIVE: Support with Sides
Optionally, (yet highly suggested) you may support your dark dish with some sides that will compliment your Villianous Veal and play off its sinister flavor. Perhaps a kind pawn, like a healthy yet doomed veggie. Maybe an equally mashed potato-- made evil by the meat's gravy. Tasteless and useless garnish goes a long way, like a henchman used only to fodder the villain's presentation. A lonely villain can be extremely effective, but one surrounded by sides is a force to be reckoned with.

FINAL STEP: Use your own Darkness
The cook needs to always cook a bit of itself into its creations, even the culinary disasters. Seek into the darkest recesses of your mind to find an ingredient you've chosen to hide from others. Putting your own evil into the veal--regardless of how small or repressed it is--makes the taste explode on the plate.

Now your cooking with hate, making a tragic masterpiece. Your veal may not sit well with many, but it won't   be forgotten. After all, we always remember the meals that made us sick. Food poisoning can be deadly, but it remains a constant fear in our minds.

- B

Friday, May 24, 2013

The Bard: Track 2 (PREVIEW)

Author note:
First read the introductory chapter: The Bard: Track 1 (Preview)
I will be posting 5 chapters out of the 27 total. This chapter takes place two years before the first one-- the only flashback in the book, two chapters long. Enjoy.

Track 2: The Human Fly
Wall fly, buzzing about the business of the wicked
Pricking like a thorny thicket
Agitating bites on their skin
By means of rage and annoyance, he exposed sin

“No way.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Oh yeah.”
“No, I totally agree. One hundred percent.”

So what did I just say then?” asked a high-pitched female voice out of the speaker.

“Something about a licensing issue,” Detective Locard guessed. “No? Okay, you got me, Christie. While I may have only been half listening, I do know that it’s bad and work related. That has to count for something… right?”
“Not really, but it’s whatever. My story was kinda boring! I can tell it’s because your mind’s caught up in a case. Can’t hate you for saving the world, now can I?”
“No, that you cannot,” Ed smirked.


A short yet steely Japanese policewoman shoved her way through the huddled mass of Asian-Americans crammed into the shoe-closet sized apartment. 

“Aims, would you mind lowering your voice a smidge?” Ed asked sweetly. “I’m on the phone with my wife here.

“Would you mind doing your JOB?” the policewoman barked back, hissing like an enraged alley cat. 

“Locard, you’ll address me as Captain Takahashi and nothing else. Don’t assume I won’t write you the hell up because we’re friends outside of work. My precinct, my rules. The rule you’re currently breaking is NO PERSONAL CALLS AT A CRIME SCENE.”

“Ed, do I hear Ami Takahashi?” Christie Locard asked.

“I’d say all of Chinatown hears Ami Takahashi,” Edison replied, smirking in the direction of the irate captain of the NYPD’s 4th precinct.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013



This is the first entry in my new flash fiction series called MUSIC PROMPT FICTION.
Most prompted fiction begins with a picture or a small scene, but my mind finds creative inspiration through music. I take a song and craft a scene out of it, capturing the mood and building upon its vibes. I suppose this is strange, but it's an excellent exercise nonetheless-- an enhancement to my writing. When I compose fiction I am constantly listening to music. I will shift songs or genres depending on the mood, backdrop or intensity I require for the piece. It must work because I never stumble into writer's block, and the effect is noticeable on the feel I get from read-backs.    

I've decided to harness this ability--or strange habit-- into material for my blog for your enjoyment. For each entry of Music Prompt Fiction I will loop a random song from my library--or one new to me entirely-- then write for an hour or so and post the results. Sounds fun, right? Here is the first result:


Röyksopp - Poor Leno

Keith Eldrick is to be the first time traveler. A man with no face. No being. No persona. This is to be his destiny. His mark. To venture into obsolete nothingness. To not return. Time is a one way trip, regardless of the direction you go in. That's why Keith was chosen. Unremarkable. Undesirable. Mute. Sullen. Uninspired. Human society is a cultured existence of absolute evolution. The the self-made modifications to mankind have bred out blandness. Keith was an anomaly. A man miraculously born by accident. An unexpected relic of a more 'human' humanity. The traveler felt it only proper to leave his time for another, for he'd never truly believed it to be his own time at all.

"Keith, you are aware of your only mission, correct?" a cold, robotic voice asked within his mind.

With a loud churn, the white pill-shaped capsule in the center of the vacant room momentarily expelled steam. The invisible nano-machines in the air immediately removed the vapor from sight. They emitted silencer waves to cancel out the time machine's unpleasant sounds.

Keith made no reply. He stood still and silent, just as he had done his entire life. Nano-machinery, sentient robotics and micro-computers performed all the menial tasks and physical labor in society. Mankind existed only to entertain itself and increase its understanding. Genius and excellence in ability were all but assured-- the norm. Unlike most children, Keith had be born without the aid of optimized genetics. Rather than a growth pod, his embryo developed in a human uterus. Being born regular made Keith useless. Impractical. A stranger in society.    

Part of humanity's prenatal genetic coding included sterilization, ensuring sexual intercourse remained for pleasure purposes only. Only the poorest and most reviled sects of the species still gave birth in such a barbaric way. In fact, his trip down to Earth to make the jump into the past marked the first occasion in which Keith had ever seen someone else with imperfections. While the bulk of humanity resided in the massive habitation districts orbiting Earth and Mars, the genetically normal, irregular and retarded were exiled to the desolate wastelands of the Martian and Earthen surfaces. The only reason Keith hadn't been sent below was because his birth coincided with the Quantum Continuum Manipulation Project or QCMP on District 87-B-K-9775, "HAWKE." 

QCMP's were commonplace.While various other districts were experimenting with altering local time fields to pause and speed productivity, the HAWKE team's time manipulation research served solely as a novelty. HAWKE-QCMP's own creator fully acknowledged that reversed human time travel was a pointless endeavor that did nothing to further society. The individual undergoing reverse time travel would have no means of return-- essentially committing suicide. Worse yet, there would be no way to live, being restrained to the archaic technology of the past-- nor communicate. 

The primitive ancestors did not have access to the telepathic thought transmitter chip technology. Historical data indicated that touch and voice input had been the primary means of operating the old technology. Worse yet, the technology had no self-awareness and required constant human control to operate. To the majority of humanity, the past truly was an unpleasant place-- filled with discomfort, physical work, immorality and mortality. Even the ape-like surface dwellers lived better lives than those of the past.  

"We will now begin the cleanse. To avoid paradoxes, your organic material will be the only part of you making this journey."

The nanomachines erased Keith's clothing and removed all the technology integrated in his brain and body. Keith feel to his knees and gasped. He felt pain, and he felt vulnerable. He'd already received lifelong training to move and speak without the aid of machinery, but actually being forced to do so was another thing entirely. With his anxiety inhibitor removed, Keith began to feel apprehensive.


 "Ahh, ehh? Oooo?"

Keith played around with sounds, trying to form words.

"Afff... Affirmative."


The young man staggered awkwardly. Without their enhancements, his muscled ached-- straining to support movement. The white capsule enclosed around Keith, submerging him in absolute darkness.



Sunday, May 19, 2013

Taking it to The Next Level

So it seems like I've finally gotten the hang of this whole blogging thing. Since I'm writing four books at once, working a part-time job and freelance writing to pay the bills, it's just unrealistic to promise you daily posts. However, I will promise you updates every other day to every two days. The content is going to shift to a more fiction and poetry focus rather than the seemingly random variety that I'd posted previously. I shall still be posting opinion pieces and bits about technology (Google Glass: Futuristic... and Freaky) and general philosophy (How to Never Read Past How to) though-- don't you worry.

Kinds of posts you can look forward to:

- More short stories
 ex: The Gunslinger's Last Stand
LABEL: Shortstory

- More serialized novella chapters
ex: "Vermilion Years - 2: Unman"
LABEL: Novella

- More insight on creative writing
ex: Writing Recipes: Protagonist Pie

- Tons more 'quality' poetry :P
ex: "When Life Finally Finds Me"
LABEL: Poetry

I have exciting new ideas for this blog, like musical writing prompts, sequential plot puzzles and much more. Creativity and out of the box thinking is my forte-- and the title of the blog. I'm unorthodox and okay with it, and hopefully you'll enjoy it too! I will be focusing on networking and drawing in a larger audience to create a bit of an interactive experience. With my writing, I want to create worlds for you to become lost in. Experiences that you will always remember and come back to. Thank you, all my regular readers. Though few, you have been a great inspiration and a source of encouragement.

- B

Saturday, May 18, 2013


We're more than just lovers
We're heroes to each other
and we'll keep on saving till we die
My nothing appealed to you
You shouldered my stress
Loving last to those who loved best

This is much less song than truth
Recorded for the ages
In case time needs proof
A trace of our intimacies
Marks of kisses never seen
Outside of our beautiful bubble

Your arrival made my survival
And your smile made my day
Creating a feeling that still lacks a word
Our silence is so unbelievable
Our conversations unforgettable
All mistakes, no longer regrettable

I've said I love you before
I've kissed other lips
Good-nights and I miss yous
I've held other hips

Yet, none, I'd contest, now still exist
I never knew so much meaning until our meeting
I never knew sorrow until, "see you tomorrow"
I always laughed
Now I sigh.

They say love is cliche
It's been done before
All the movements, orchestrated
You and I, we do it more
I write from my heart now
Yet the beauty seems contemplated

With you, dreams become certainty
With you, passion finds purity
I never want to make sense anymore
I want to make love
I want to make a life

In such a short time, our problems had a name
The game, life, suddenly felt real
The wounds started healing
The big fish came in reeling
The truth hit the ceiling
This is what they tell me is a win.

You are the wind in my locket
The sails in my pocket
The sense to my curse jar
My one true angel
And a story book ending unfolding

I don't care what anyone thinks of these words
If they say these lyrics lack merits
Judge me for meter, throw me demerits
I don't care what anyone says
What anyone thinks
Whether they question my rhymes
Or "question my existence"

As sure as your red lips and gallant green eyes
The current color of your hair and the makeup you wear
The problems we have, are no longer lonely
The lives we live, no longer phony
This is my passion in words
My love given a script
If you love it
I love it

I look forward to being thanked with your tearful kiss.

Friday, May 17, 2013

The Vermilion Years: Chapter 3

Click here to jump to a list of previous chapters!


 As I watched a pack of sand wolves gnaw the flesh off the impaled unmans, I felt a fell wind brewing. We needed to keep moving. Curiosity compelled me to dig through the cartographers' stash of supplies. A wireless telegraph machine turned on its side stood out to me. It had likely been toppled during an interrupted SOS. Rather than suffer idly through Fleurette’s incessant snoring, I decided to scour the camp for any clues that might explain what exactly occurred and who ordered them to make a map of the area.
My search turned up a relatively new carbon monoxide converter, which I stowed in my pocket. It looked to be a relatively strong CMC at that, able convert any camp into a safe haven filled with breathable air.  I’d already gathered the cartographers came from affluence due to the presence of liquor. I needed something else.

A shimmering package resting in the corner drew my eye. Luminescent fabric covered the unopened crate. The box looked to be some sort of a gift. I ginglerly tapped the colorful container with the tip of my claw. The moment my nail touched it, the container unfolded and began expelling hot steam. A projector whirred and lit up, rendering a three dimensional image of a tiny girl in an extravagantly frilly dress. A recorded message played. the lagging rather annoyingly, the audio played out of sync with the child’s lips.

Monday, May 13, 2013

The Instagram Complex

I caved. I joined the one social network that I said I'd always avoid. The e-mecca of superficiality-- the watering hole for the vainest inhabitants of the internet. As many of you may have guessed, I speak of Instagram. This is my analysis of that experience.

For those of you who are out of the loop (or have priorities) Instagram is the hot, erm, new-ish social networking site that encourages you to share your photographs with random strangers in a quest to gain likes that matter about as much as the points on Who's Line is it Anyway. You use hashtags with one word descriptions of what the image is in order to get your profile and picture noticed-- ultimately to gain followers. Essentially, it's an amalgam of Facebook's liking, Twitter's conciseness and Flikr's pictures. Kinda shallow, really... at least first glace.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

"Skin Akin"

White people have it good;
Don't get pulled over when they should

Black people have it made;
At the club they always get laid

For Asians, life's a breeze;
Can calculate complex math with ease

For Jews, life's a cinch;
Good with money living pinch by pinch

Indians got things figured out;
Surefire doctorates without a doubt

Spaniards got things hands down;
Those guys can dance the best in town

When envy has no excuses left;
We realize skin only determines SPF

Sunday, May 5, 2013

The Gunslinger's Last Stand

"Step outside."

The words hung in my mind like a lynched outlaw hanging from the rafters of an old western mission. I'd heard various two word tall orders since I posted my manifesto on Facebook... since I channeled my pain through my gun. 

Drop it.

Hands up.

Stand down.

Remain still.

I think this was the first pair of words that wasn't shouted at me. Somehow, it made his words more threatening. The grizzled Texan channeled Heston-- gritting a cigar in his mouth while he stroked his unshaven chin with his gasoline stained fingers.The mechanic wasn't a native Montanan, a fact made clear by the faded confederate flag plastered across his sweat-soaked wife beater. While I'd faced off with many a fighter on my journey to Canada, this man had a gruff aura about him-- an unbreakable confidence.